Producción de la identidad colectiva en una comunidad andina

CULTURAL PRODUCTION OF COLLECTIVE IDENTITY
IN AN ANDEAN COMMUNITY
A Dissertation
Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School
of Cornell University
in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirement of the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
by
Jean-Jacques Decoster
January 1994
©Jean-Jacques Decoster 1994
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CULTURAL PRODUCTION OF COLLECTIVE IDENTITY
IN AN ANDEAN COMMUNITY
Jean-Jacques Decoster, Ph.D.
Cornell University, 1994
The processes of creation and reproduction of cultural identity can be
obtained through a consideration of the relation of the collective organization to
the reflective discourse (both practice and narration.) Social organization must
be seen as a processual device that serves to transmit the collective identity of
the group, device through which change is channeled and incorporated rather
than resisted. Finally, the transmission and transformation of collective identity
is also much determined by historical factors of imposition and adoption of, or
resistance to cultural structures.
In the village of Accha in the Peruvian highlands, collective identity is
expressed relatively to the outside, and absolutely, in connection with symbolic
markers within the community. Intra-village divisions are activated in ritual
activities which effectively constitute, or index, membership in the social units
(moieties and ayllus). The identification of the group with a specific territory,
church, graveyard and storehouse, determines the membership of the
individuals in a given political entity, defines their specific responsibilities
throughout the ritual calendar, and with the fulfillment of those obligations,
warrants their position as members of their group within the overall
organization of the community.
This thesis itself is organized according to the same articulation between
absolute and relative perceptions. It brings together two perspectives on the
theoretical issue of the reproduction of social: one is synchronic, subjective and
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centered on practice; the other is diachronic and external and deals with
historical data. It will be argued that the recognition of specific historical
events, or forces, checked against contemporary processes allows for the
apprehension of complex cultural processes.
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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
Jean-Jacques Decoster received a Licence de Lettres
Modernes from the Université de Lille, and an M. A. in Anthropology
from the University of Virginia.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many more people than I can possibly name deserve to be recognized for
their support, their kindness and their companionship throughout the many
years it took to complete this work.
I must thank first and foremost Don Jorge Mariano Guzmán Sevillanos,
taytayqa, who took me in without asking any questions and was willing to
answer all of mine. ¡Yusulpayki taytay!, and to all my compadres and friends in
Accha who shared their lives with me.
My advisor and committee chair Billie Jean Isbell made this long journey
exciting and fruitful. She shared her vast knowledge of the Andes and her
critical understanding of anthropological issues. She guided me through every
stage of my thinking and writing and made it all possible. Gary Urton took me
to the field and taught me to be an ethnographer. He tirelessly read every draft
of this material, helped me reshape and rethink everything, and made sure I got
it done. I am privileged to have him as a friend, a teacher and a compadre. My
other committee members Bernd Lambert and Tom Holloway gave of their
time, insight, and advice beyond the call of duty.
The members of my thesis writing group Ann Peters, Pamela Calla, and
Francis Adams must be commended for reading the unreadable, and for being
infallibly supportive and kind.
To the memory of Victor Turner, Ed Erickson, Ed Winter, and Robert
Randall who each taught me much. I miss them.
Chris Crocker, Fred Damon, and Roy Wagner got me on my way.
I would also like to recognize the comments and critiques this work
received at various stages from Tom Abercrombie, Denise Arnold, Monica
Barnes, Brian Bauer, Beverly Bennett, David Block, Claudette Columbus, David
Fleming, Chris Franquemont, Lisa Larsen, Mercedes Lopez-Baralt, John Murra,
Debbie Poole, Gerardo Reichel-Dolmatoff, Nydia Ruiz, Carmen Salazar-Soler,
Michael Thomas, Henrique Urbano, Tom Zuidema.
For sharing legajos, incunabula, and good cheer with me, Tamara
Estupiñan de Freile, Teodoro Hampé Martinez, Bruce Greenfield, Margarita
Garrido de Payan, Anne Pérotin, Deborah Kanter, Fritz Schwaller, Javier
Gordillo Molina, Pedro Bereciartu, Chuck Walker, and the staff of the AAC,
ADC, AGN, AGI and JCB.
In Ithaca, for their support in one form or another, Anja Crickmore,
David D’Aprix, Tom Volman, David Holmberg, Kathy Chiang, Ed
Franquemont, Nancy Harm, Sally Miller, Trisha Thorme, Jerry Wilcox, Luis
Morato, Charles Wolff, Meredith Small, Jim Madden.
In Cusco, my compadre Daniel Guzmán Dueñas, Peter Frost, Julia
Carrera, Chabuca Hurtado, Gaby Martinez, Evelyne Mesclier, Max Milligan,
Susan Luerssen, Lisa Markovitz, the Reynaga family, Jane Henrici, Fernando
Villafuerte, Julia Meyerson, Jorge Flores Ochoa, Ines Callalli, Washington
LaTorre Luna, Jesus Guillen, Wendy Weeks, Juan Victor Nuñez del Prado, and
Tom Hendrickson of Andean Treks, who gave me a job when I needed one.
Padre Sergio Mazzuoli, mon compatriote, was a good friend and a good
host when I came to Accha.
The Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos Bartolomé Las Casas in
Cusco and the Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos in Lima provided
technical support.
My research was made possible by the following grants: MacArthur
Foundation Peace Studies Fellowship, Holmberg and Sharp Fellowship, John
Carter Brown Library Fellowship, Lenk Fellowship, Colgate University
Research Grant, Sigma Xi National Research Grant, Einaudi Center for
International Research Travel Grant, Cornell Graduate Travel Grant, Cornell
Graduate Fellowship, Cornell Latin American Program Fellowship.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Biographical sketch
Acknowledgments
Table of contents
List of figures
List of tables
Introduction
1. Aylluqatay: boundaries, incorporation and the
outsider’s view from within
2. Historical background of research
3. History and practice: Vision(s) of the vanquished
4. Writing about cultural identity
5. Searching for crossroads
6. Organization of the thesis
Chapter one: Accha’s physical and human environment
1. Geography and ecology
1. 1. Andean landscape: terrain and climate
1. 2. “Vertical ecology” past and present
2. Population
2. 1. Infant mortality
2. 2. Out migration
2. 3. Demography and survival
3. Relation to land: economy, ecology and religious practice
3. 1. Pasture land and animals
3. 2. Corn chakras and potato chakras
3.2.1. Potato moiety land: fondos
3.2.2. Potato community land: laymis
3. 2. 3. Corn chakras : private ownership and
saints’ chakras
3. 2. 4. Papales vs. maizales
Chapter two: Symbolic space and sacred geography
1. The sacred mountains in the local cosmology
1. 1. Apus and Pachamama
1. 1. 1. Pachamama, the earth-mother
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1. 1. 2. Apus ritual and Pachamama rituals
1. 1. 3. Apachetas as icons of the apu
1. 2. The Valley’s ritual space
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1. 2. 1. Apus as sacred markers
1. 2. 2. Accha’s local apus
1. 2. 3. Siwina: gender and mythistorical identity
1. 3. Regional apus on Accha’s sacred horizon:
Ausangate and Huanacauri
1. 3. 1. “Son hatun apus porque tienen nieve”
1. 3. 2. Huanacauri: Between Accha and Cusco
2. Itu: center and periphery
3. What’s in a name? Toponymy, mythistory and cosmology
3. 1. Siwina
3. 2. Accha
3. 3. Anchoring the past: toponyms and cultural identity
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Chapter three: Cultural identity, boundaries and center
1. The initial problem: focus, definition, and delimitation
1. 1. Traditional Andean structures of identity
1. 2. Community, center and boundaries
1. 3. The ordering of space and the creation of identity
2. Defining the boundaries
2. 1. Defining the other
2. 2. Being runa: the fragility of Quechua identity
3. Conflictual boundaries
3. 1. Communal labor and conflict over access to land
3. 2. Agrarian Reform: drawing the limits
3. 3. Tinku as generative process
4. Moving away from the village
4. 1. Landmarks in communal identity
4. 2. The roads as links with the outside
4. 3. Shared knowledge and geographical space
4. 4. Cachaspari or la despedida: separation and death
5. ...and coming back
Chapter four: The construction of social spaces and the production
of group identity
1. The ayllu and moiety structure
2. The social geography of Accha
2. 1. Civil-political hierarchies
2. 2. Duality, tripartition, and quadripartition: bases
and parcialidades
2. 3. Mode of recruitment
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3. Death doth us part: faenas and the dual structure
3. 1. Graveyards: machays and campos santos
3. 2. Maintenance of the churches
3. 3. Potatoes and the dead
4. The role of fiestas in the definition of group identity
4. 1. A wealth of Virgins
4. 2. Building the enclosures: inclusion of the excluded
5. Defining the ayllu and the moiety
Chapter five: Mythic transformations and rituals of renewal
1. Ephemeral reality and stable disequilibrium
1. 1. The myths
1. 2. Mythic elements: transformations and passage
1. 2. 1. Mythic avatars
1. 2. 2. Caves as passages
1. 4. 5. The man in the mountain, and his mother
1. 3. Myth, hagiography, and popular religion
1. 3. 1. Mama Huaco, Anahuarque, and Santa Ana
1. 3. 1. Cristóbal and Inca Siwina
1. 3. 3. Santiago and Thunder
1. 3. 4. Catholic saints and their symbolic
transformations
1. 6. Wild vs. tame: the structures of transformation
2. The myths and the astronomical calendar
3. Ritual construction of group identity and reproduction
of the ayllu
3. 1. The t’inkaska of Santa Ana: renewing the seed
3. 2. The t’inkaska of Santiago: socialization and physical
reproduction of the herd
4. Ritual and myth
Chapter six: Denial of identity: colonial destructuration and the
encomienda of Accha-Cabanilla
1. Contrasting identities and the imposition of culture
2. Of the soul of the Indians: the encomienda system
and the problem of perpetuity
2. 1. The nature of the institution
2. 2. History of the encomienda in Perú
2. 3. The debate
3. Nature of the data on the encomienda
4. The encomienda of Accha: The archival record
4. 1. Antonio de Villa vs. Antonio Vaca de Castro
(AGI Justicia 406)
4. 2. Lanzas y Arcabuces vs. Antonio Vaca de Castro et al.
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(AGI Justicia 408)
4. 2. 1. Las Compañias de Lanzas y Arcabuces
4. 2. 2. The verdict
4. 3. The Visita de Condesuyu and the Tasa de la Visita
4. 3. 1. Vaca or Quirós: which encomendero?
4. 3. 3. The tribute from Accha
5. Denial and invention of identity
Chapter seven: The making of Accha: the visita of Toledo,
reducción and doctrinas
1. Reshaping space: the urbanization of the Indies
1. 1. Blueprints and antecedents
1. 2. “policia humana”: civilizing the Indians
2. The reducción of Accha
2. 1. How the system worked: the integration of the
Cayaotambo Indians in the reducción of Accha
2. 2. Ayllus into pueblos viejos into moieties
2. 3. Duality, Incas and foreigners
2. 4. The two churches
3. Genesis: the creation of Accha and the movable churches.
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Chapter eight: Social conflicts and failed rebellions
images of class and ethnic identity
1. Destructuration and resistance
2. rebels in search of an identity: Tupac Amaru II (1780-81)
3. Tupac Amaru in Accha
3. 1. Tomás Miguel de Otazú, tupamarista priest?
3. 2. Other cases against Otazú
3. 3. Contreras vs. Otazú
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Conclusion: continuity, conflicts and compromises
1. Sendero Luminoso
1. 1. Fieldwork in a ‘zona liberada’
1. 2. Accheños and cumpas
1. 3. Victims of a foreign war
2. Padre Sergio’s questionable decisions
2. 1. The land invasion
2. 2. History of the conflict
2. 3. Church land and saints’ land
2. 4. One church or two?
3. Imagining Accha: practice and history
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Glossary
References
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LIST OF FIGURES
Figure 1. Distribution of communal potato land in Accha.
Figure 2. Accha and its apus.
Figure 3. Regional apus in relation to Accha and Siwina.
Figure 4. The two roads to Cusco.
Figure 5. The two hierarchical structures.
Figure 6. The system of social divisions in Accha.
Figure 7. Plan of Accha and its subdivisions.
Figure 8. The organization of the work-parties for the maintenance
of the cemetery walls in Hurinsaya.
Figure 9. The organization of the work-parties for the roof of the
Hurinsaya church.
Figure 10. Production and storage.
Figure 11. Enclosures for the bullfights
Figure 12. Transformations in the Accha myths
Figure 13. Reducciones, anexos and pueblos viejos.
Figure 14. Spatial organization of moieties, ayllus and anexos.
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LIST OF TABLES
Table 1. Population of Accha by sex and age (1981)
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Table 2. Popular hagiographic and mythic attributes of the characters
mentioned in the myths
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Table 3. The making of Accha
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1
INTRODUCTION
I first went to Accha in 1985, during a summer-long trip to the Andes
aimed at locating a possible fieldsite for my research. My project at the time
was ill-defined, but I knew I wanted to start from the problem of the variability
of Andean forms of social structure that I had already begun to study in a
previous project (Decoster 1984 ms). I also wanted to investigate the more
general question of social groupings and the reproduction and integration of
the various Andean organizational systems (moieties, ayllus, andanexos ).
Consequently, I headed for Cusco and set out to look for a village that
would have a functioning system of ayllus. The name of Accha came up early
on in conversations with two anthropologists, Gary Urton and Brian Bauer.
However, for reasons that I cannot quite explain, I did not immediately pursue
that lead but went on to a number of communities in the Cusco region, and as
far as Lake Titicaca, Oruro and Sorata in Bolivia. Soon I found myself with only
one week left before my round-trip plane ticket expired, and none of the
communities I had visited seemed appropriate for my research. When I finally
went to Accha, it was with a feeling of last opportunity.
Although Accha’s ayllu structure seemed to me at the time rather
schematic, the community appeared to have a very strongly defined moiety
structure. I was struck by the existence in the middle of the village square of a
ditch that separated the community into two moieties. This on-the-
2
ground differentiation was further emphasized by the presence of two churches
on either side of the square (one for Hanansaya and one for Hurinsaya) and of
two separate graveyards at either end of the village. I stayed in Accha just long
enough to attend the fiesta of Santa Rosa in Cusco ayllu, introduce myself to the
authorities and request permission to return at a later date to live and study in
Accha. I then had to rush back to Cusco to catch my plane back to the U.S., but
I felt confident that I had found my site.
I returned to Cusco in the summer of 1987, and after a few months
working as Gary Urton’s field assistant in Pacariqtambo, I went back to Accha
to start my own research. At first, I stayed, as I had in 1985, in the casa cural, the
house of the parish priest who happened to be a Frenchman like myself.
During the first few weeks, I spent a lot of time talking to the civil authorities of
the villages, explaining my project, and my desire to find a household were I
could live, and participate in the economic as well as ritual life. This request
was met with a lot of sympathy, although clearly nobody understood why I
should want to leave the relative comfort of the casa cural to live “like a
campesino.” It became clear that I needed to address the whole village and I
petitioned the presidente de comunidad to let me introduce myself and my
research at the next community assembly, and present the official documents
and letters of recommendation that I had brought along.
Gary Urton notes that one of the most important decisions in
ethnographical work is that of the household one will live in, and that,
ironically, that choice is rarely made by the ethnographer (pers. com.).
Sometime in March 1987, I was informed that the assembly I had been waiting
for was going to take place in conjunction with a laymi, and that I would be
invited to address the whole community. The term laymi serves to designate
both the rotating expanse of communal land that is planted in potatoes, and the
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formal activities such as ground-breaking and parceling of the land that it
involves. All the registered campesinos, those who vote in the village and
participate in communal work, attend to claim their plot of land.
That year, the laymi was in a small valley about an hour from the village.
Although I was at the time staying with Padre Sergio, the priest, I set out alone,
on foot. Padre Sergio would be driving later, but as he was going to address
the assembly on the question of the invasion of church land that had just taken
place (see conclusion), I thought it would be unwise to arrive on the site with
him, and appear associated with him on that issue. On the path, there was a
continuous flow of people --over three hundred faenantes showed up for the
laymi-- walking alone or in small groups. Just before reaching the laymi, an old
man who was walking ahead of me stopped and sat down on the side of the
path. I had been following him for quite a while, observing with amusement
the casual nod and grunt with which he would respond to the respectful
greeting of younger people on the path. By the way he sat on the side of the
path looking at me, I realized he had been quite aware of the fact that I was
walking behind him ever since the village. I stopped, greeted him, and sat
down, pulling out a plastic bag full of coca leaves (this he told me later had
impressed him) and a pack of cigarettes.
In lieu of greeting, pointing over his shoulder to where the laymi was to
take place, the old man said to me: “This laymi land has been resting for 12
years.” I thought to myself that an individual who volunteers information in
that way was truly an anthropologist’s dream. We chatted for a while and
chewed coca, and smoked a cigarette, while I wrote down the data he gave me
on crop rotation. And suddenly he got up and said “Vamos, padre,” and was
gone before I could tell him I was not a priest.
The assembly took place and I was given the chance to present the whole
village with my plans to live in Accha and my need for a place to stay. This
was received with applause and nods of approval, but no other immediate
response. A few days later, during one of the several processions of the Holy
Week through the streets of Accha, I was taking refuge from the heavy rain
under the eaves of a house while Padre Sergio, standing at the crossroads, read
the appropriate passages from the liturgy. A man next to me touched my arm.
I recognized him as the old man on the path, and remembered his name: Don
Mariano. Pointing across the street, he said: “This is the house”. Not knowing
for sure what he was driving at, I replied that indeed it was a good looking
house. “I can help you” said Mariano as the crowd started moving towards the
next crossroads. Nothing else was said that day, but the following day I moved
my sleeping-bag in a windowless room at the back of Don Mariano’s house and
thus started 18 months of collaboration and affectionate relationship between
the two of us.
1. Aylluqatay: boundaries, incorporation and the outsider’s view from
within
In soon discovered the importance of naming in Accha. My initial
annoyance at being called “padre” by Don Mariano was followed by many
other awkward moments when villagers seemed unable to place me within the
structure of their social environment, and therefore did not know how to
address me. After I moved in with him, Don Mariano started calling me “hijo”
or “qhari waway” (son, or male child) and did so for as long as I was part of his
household. Members of ayllu Santa Ana where I lived took to calling me
“qatay”, son-in-law. When I first heard the name, I asked my new friends why
they called me that. “Because we like you”, they said. As I became more
sensitive to the Accheños’ perception of outsiders, I realized that although qatay
might indeed have been a term of endearment, it was also a way to identify me
as an ‘insider-outsider’. I was being put in the same category as the inmarrying stranger.
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In my case, however, qatay was purely a classificatory
form of address, and I do not believe that anyone seriously expected --let alone
wished-- me to marry within the ayllu.
But what was a convenient and appropriate form of address at the level
of the ayllu would have been awkward within the household. Had Don
Mariano used the same term of address, he would have made an implicit
reference to his only surviving daughter. Thus I found myself in the interesting
situation of being at once a welcome outsider within the ayllu, and a native son
within the household.
The fact that early on in my fieldwork I established a privileged
relationship with one individual villager, a member of a specific ayllu (Santa
Ana) within a specific moiety (Hurinsaya) imposed a peculiar bias on this study
of groups and group identity. In fact, my whole data is organized through the
concentric filters of Don Mariano’s personality and Weltanschauung, his relation
to his kindred, his ayllu and moiety memberships, and finally his social position
in the village. Consequently, what follows is a necessarily skewed image of the
community where I worked, privileging information on certain relationships
and certain groups over others. In fact, most of the data --including that on
other groups-- have been obtained through members of my own moiety and
ayllu of residence, which lead to an unequal amount of information for the
various groups in the community. In particular, the discussion of the
representations of social boundaries within the community is often based on an
See Urton 1991 for a study of the incorporation of strangers in Andean
communities.
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insider’s perception of the articulation between the groups, rather than an
overarching understanding of the community.
Such situation was the result of both a conscious decision, and the
circumstances of fieldwork. My training as a fieldworker under Gary Urton
had prepared me for a committed form of participation in the life of a
household, including economic participation in the form of my own physical
labor. In turn, this form of exclusive integration in one social unit made it near
impossible to move from household to household, or even to establish working
or kinship relationships with units not connected with my household of
residence.
However, I believe that this specific slant of my research should be seen
as a strength rather than a weakness. The vision of the community presented in
this thesis is not my own. Nor is it an external, global or, even less, complete
study of a village. It is a case-study of collective identity in a specific setting
and is informed, as closely as I can represent it, by the vision of the man who
adopted me, fed me, and shared with me his knowledge of Accha, Don
Mariano Guzmán Sebillanos.
2. Historical background of research
Prior to starting fieldwork, like many students of the Andes, I had been
exposed to the major theoretical approaches in Andean research. Although I
recognize the high quality of the scholarship of the work that has been
generated over the years, I suggest that the three main directions of research
that emerged have been, to various degrees, guilty of misrepresenting one form
or another of “Andean reality”. Peasant-studies tend to deny, or objectify, the
specificities of Andean cultures, ethno-ecologists use the past as a distancing
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device, and formalist/symbolists simply negate the processual import of
history.
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The first group of studies, lumped together under the name “peasantstudies” in my tripartite classification is the most heterogeneous yet the most
difficult to dissemble. The range of theoretical positions (from developmental
to Marxist) combines with the cultural identity of the researchers (Peruvian or
foreign) to give complex political overtones to the scene. This is also the group
that is the least relevant to my topic, as the interest paid to the local collective
institutions is generally minimal -- with a few, often unfortunate, exceptions.
This approach finds its source in the indigenist inquiries that were born
in the 1920s, at the same time as the Peruvian Constitution restored the colonial
policy of defense of the collective land by giving legal status to the
comunidades indigenas (Molinie-Fioravanti 1982:13). The ‘indigenist’
movement that was thus formed was more interested in seeking the roots of the
Indian national past than in conducting in-depth studies. The utopian
inclination of the indigenists led to some misapprehension of the Andean
cultural forms. One of the authors (Galván 1959), for instance, writes of the
Inca ayllu that it is a “Peruvian reality...of both the coast and the sierra...so
strong, so subconscious” that neither Colonial institutions nor contemporary
exploration can suppress it. Such an idealistic attitude that denies the obvious
crushing impact of colonial history has been described as a “charter for the
perpetuation of colonial reducción policy” and the exploitation of the Indians
(Webster 1970).
It should be made clear that, as in other classifications, this division in
theoretical trends and the labels assigned to the various schools are an
oversimplification, which invites overlaps and grey areas.
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However, the major figure of this movement, José Carlos Mariátegui is
widely considered one of the main representatives of modern Peruvian social
thought. His Siete ensayos de interpretacion de la realidad Peruana (1965) adds
a political dimension to the indigenist idealism and phrases the Peruvian
problematic in Marxist terms, i.e., the economic and political oppression of the
Indian, in addition to cultural repression. It was also Mariátegui who brought
the quest for a cultural identity to the national political scene with the founding
of his Peruvian Socialist Party (Partido Socialista.).
The next wave of peasant-focused studies saw the appearance of the first
contingent of US anthropologists and culminated with the fiasco of the CornellVicos project, and related studies of “controlled acculturation and integration”
that aimed at speeding up the process of incorporation of the marginal Indian
cultures into the national economy (Dobyns, Monge and Vázquez 1962,
Doughty 1965, Holmberg 1960). This trend has now lost some of its impetus
and contrasting forms of “development” projects are currently underway,
which sometimes involve the participation of symbolic anthropologists in
national projects that are reassessing traditional agricultural techniques (e.g.
Erickson 1989).
Concurrently with the controlled developmental school, an
anthropology of social contestation that corresponded to the apparition of
radical movements throughout Latin America emerged in the 1950s and 1960s.
The Marxist school of anthropology set itself in opposition to the U.S. form of
applied anthropology although it too, in its own way, suffered from the same
denial of the specificities of indigenous history. This Marxist rural sociology is
responsible for large scale regional studies (Matos Mar ed. 1958) or the studies
of political unrest in the face of hacienda industrialization (Cotler 1968).
Today’s Marxist studies are informed by European theory rather than Latin
American ideology. Recent cases include works on household productivity
(Guillet 1978, 1980), patterns of production and circulation of goods (Lehman,
ed. 1982), and articulation with the market economy (Bradby 1982).
In my view, the turning point in Andean anthropology in the U.S. is
marked by the beginning of ethnohistorical studies with John Rowe and
especially John Murra and Tom Zuidema. It is interesting to note that the two
main currents of cultural Andean anthropology in this country today regard
ethnohistorians as their founding figures.
John Murra is responsible for an excellent study of Inca economic
organization (1980) and the rationalization of Troll’s notion of verticality (1968).
His school, that I have called ethno-ecologists, postulates that Andean social
organization, both pre- and post-Conquest, is a product of its environment.
The model developed by Murra is one of control of resources through access to
a variety of ecological levels (1975). In Murra’s model the social group,
regardless of size, is principally a redistributive organ. Thus the population
range of an ayllu or an ethnic group is only as large as will allow the resources
of the lands it controls (1975). The final demise of the Inca state was caused by
its inability to dispose of the surplus that was being created through the
sophisticated use of labor resources (1980).
This pattern is believed to function independently from historical
circumstances or social change, and to have no relation to the religious and
cultural system that parallel the political and economic structure. Murra’s
already limited model is reduced even more so by enthusiastic, but careless,
applications. Skar (1982), for instance, ignoring the implication of economic
constraints, states that verticality is used by Andean communities in order to
vary their diet. Others leave out the key element of direct control (MolinieFioravanti 1975) or turn verticality into a slanted form of crop diversification
(Brush 1973). There are, however, other studies that integrate a historical
approach into the vertical model (Harris 1982, Platt 1982a and 1982b) and Golte
(1980) even offer models that combines Murra’s theory with a temporal and a
cultural system.
Zuidema, trained in the Dutch structuralist tradition, contributed a
whole new dimension to Andean studies. His major work is a comprehensive
study of Inca social institutions (1964). Working from chronicles and other
documents he elaborated several models (based on dualism, tripartion and
quadripartition) of the social organization of Incaic Cusco and offered the first
clear interpretation of the nature of the Incaic ayllu. Zuidema’s latest works
have served to refine these models and to stress his belief in persistent Andean
structures (1967, 1977a, 1978, 1989a, 1989c, 1990b). In an analysis of a dream of
a contemporary Quechua woman, for instance, he claims that the structure of
the dream reproduces the structure of Incaic descent pattern and cosmological
model (1989c). His students’ works on the irrigation systems (Sherbondy 1979,
1982, 1986,1992) ethno-astronomy (Urton 1978, 1980, 1981a, 1981b), religious
and ritual calendar (Poole 1984) among others, seem to share the same
premises. Isbell’s monograph (1985) is probably the most thorough community
study to date in the Andes, as well as a landmark in the study of ritual
structure. Nevertheless, as she remarked in the reevaluation of her approach,
her “symbolic structural and interpretive framework” had prevented her from
being able to adequately place Chuschi--the community where she worked-within the larger world system (1985: XIV).
Indeed, most of the recent studies, whether they originate in the
economic deterministic tradition of Murra or follow the structuralist approach
of Zuidema have one thing in common. According to Salomon (1982) they all
share the same belief in basic structures. Thus the famous drawing by
Pachacuti Yupanqui, has been made to fit such varied domains as
belief, behavior,...social structural norms (descent and alliance rules),
diachronicity (the successive “worlds” of Andean cosmology), and
ecology (the multitiered landscape of the mountainside). Calendrical
cycles and mythic series of events are often included (Salomon 1982: 94).
As they attain the convincing status of consensual representations, there
is some danger of such models becoming reified ideas rather than the dataorganizing suggestions originally warranted. However, recent works have
started to emerge that seem to answer to Isbell’s plea that anthropologists
should begin to “share moments of history with the people they study”
(1985:XIV).
The present day attempts to interpret Andean forms in those terms must
be traced to converging theoretical trends that have recently emerged and have
signaled in the 1970s and 1980s a re-evaluation of anthropological theory and
practice (Bourdieu 1977; de Certeau 1984; Sahlins 1981, Fabian 1983). This in
turn has led, for instance, to the recognition of the multivocality of the cultural
context, of the necessarily dialogical interrelation between “objective” and
“subjective” discourses, and of the dialectical processes involved in the
elaboration of cultural theories, as well as cultural institutions.
3. History and practice: Vision(s) of the vanquished
The recognition of the several historical processes pertaining to an
Andean identity or identities --from the Inca and the Spanish conquests to the
opening up of the region to the modern market economy, and the subsequent
situation of economic and political dependence-- has led to the reassessment of
anthropological work in the Andes. In the 1970s, there was a commendable
12
emphasis on ‘plural society’ that intended to reflect the complexity of class and
ethnic relations in Peru (Van den Berghe ed. 1974; Van den Berghe and Primov
1977, Zuidema 1973.) More recent studies focus on the existence of several
levels of discourse and concentrate on the processes of interaction that
determine the historical production of cultural identity in Andean populations
(e.g. Allen 1988; Decoster 1993; Dover et al eds. 1992; Harrison 1989; Isbell
1984ms, 1985; Rasnake 1988; Salomon 1981, 1982; Stern 1987; Urton 1984, 1986,
1992).
Poole (1984) offers a study of Paruro based on the practice of ritual and
calendrics. And Urton (1988) has studied how the public architecture imposed
by the Spaniards in Pacariqtambo has become integrated in the community’s
social practice. He has also proved that one could bring together the history,
the myths and the social practices of a community in a most positive and
productive way (Urton 1990).
4. Writing about cultural identity
This work is about the cultural production of collective identity in Accha.
In it, I strive to stay away from the concept of ‘ethnicity’ which in my view is
the result of two impositions: first that of the colonial powers who for practical
reasons needed to identify the populations they encountered as others in
relation to themselves; second, that of the contemporary intellectual discourse
which, under the pretense of safeguarding indigenous cultures, defines them
again in contrast to its own dominant culture, and by framing them alienates
them (see De Certeau et al, 1970).
3
Only in one context do I refer to ethnicity, and it is precisely when I discuss
the relations of race created by colonial policies (chapter 8).
3
13
I prefer to refer to the object of this work as ‘cultural identity’ expressed
and produced through social practice, and also shaped and determined by the
social history of the group. The notion of pre-existing ideal Andean forms -glorified as lo andino in the 1970s-- will only surface in the following chapters
inasmuch as it is part of the Accheño discourse, either in the form of mythic
narrative, or of reflexion on the daily reality. But generally I limit my focus to
how an Accheño acquires membership at the various levels of embedded
groups (i. e. ayllu to moiety to community) and how this membership is both
expressed and produced through ritual practice.
5. Searching for crossroads
At some stage during my fieldwork, when the grant I had ran out long
before I felt that my research was completed, I was given the opportunity to
earn some money leading treks on the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. As I shared
the beauty of the old Inca city and of the Inca road that leads to it with groups
of European and American tourists, I would comment on the fact that Machu
Picchu hadn’t been ‘discovered’ by the dominant culture until the beginning of
this century, although the Indians who led Hiram Bingham to Machu Picchu
had never ‘lost’ it. I used to point out that the Inca highways, like the one we
were following ran along the crest of the mountains, while the Spanish
highways, because of different technological requirements--i. e. horses and carts
instead of llamas and human backs --, ran at the bottom of the valleys.
The notion of two roads running parallel for 500 years, never crossing
and often out of sight of each other struck me as a powerful metaphor for the
state of the Peruvian nation. Nevertheless, when I returned to my work in
Accha, I realized that I too had kept to a narrow path, to pursue the metaphor,
by trying to understand the organization of the ayllus and moieties solely from
within the context of contemporary Accha. Yet, there is no denying that
Spanish roads have transformed the Andean landscape, and that Spanish
colonial institutions have transformed the reality of Andean social life.
The ethnographical study of the ritual interaction between the moieties
and ayllus in Accha had provided me with an image of the reproduction of the
social structure, but still left unanswered the problem of the specific and
unusual characteristics of the moiety/ayllu system in Accha (e. g. the insitance
on the localization of the various groups). I knew at the time that Accha was an
original Toledan reducción and little more. But that in itself was a starting point
as it meant that the physical reality of the village itself was a Spanish
imposition. Over the following three years I had the opportunity to collect
documents pertaining to Accha in various archives in Cusco, Lima, the U. S.
and Spain. The material I encountered falls roughly into three categories that
follow three historical stages of the colonial impact on Peruvian communities:
the encomienda, the reducción and the rebellion of Tupac Amaru II. This material
allowed me to gain a different perspective on Accha, viewed through the
distorting distance of history and voiced in the peculiar discourse of the
dominant elite.
6. Organization of the thesis
Early on in this work, I make the claim that Accheños define their
collective identity in two different but not irreconcilable ways. One definition
is centered on what are perceived as foci or icons of identity within the group
itself; the other definition is expressed in relation or opposition to other,
external entities or groups. Those two perspectives I call respectively relative
and absolute definitions of identity . The former is based on a symbolic yet
4
empirical relation to space, while the latter is fundamentally derived from
hierarchical (i. e. power) relations. I will show that both expressions necessarily
coexist and that they merge in ritual practice.
The following chapters are organized according to the same two
principles. The first, ethnographical, centers on Accheño physical, social and
ritual space, and on the activities that serve to express and maintain that
specific reality (chapters 1 through 5.) The second, historical, part deals with
the dynamic and conflictual forces that have contributed to the shaping of that
reality (chapters 6 through 8.) Finally in the last chapter, I consider some of the
political and historical factors that were effectively at play in Accha at the time I
was conducting my ethnographical work and were directly involved in the
transformation of collective practice.
Jean-Pierre Jacob (1986) uses similar categories which he calls ‘relational’ and
‘essential’ identity, but rejects the latter as an anthropological construct that
denies the socio-economic bases of collective identity.
4
CHAPTER ONE
ACCHA’S PHYSICAL AND HUMAN ENVIRONMENT.
1. Geography and ecology
1. 1. Andean landscape: terrain and climate.
The data for this research were collected in the village of Accha, an
Andean highland community in the Province of Paruro, Department of Cusco,
Peru. Accha is located some 52 km due south of Cusco, the one-time capital of
the Incas, in the region of the empire that was known as Cuntisuyu, more
specifically in the territory that was occupied by the indigenous kingdom of the
Chilques (Levillier 1946, Zuidema and Poole 1982).
At an altitude of 3579 meters above sea level on the plateau of
Achupampa , the village is nestled at the foot of the mountain Siwina (4250 m.)
Dominated by the abrupt south face of the mountain, Accha stretches in a halfmoon along the edge of what used to be a swampy high-altitude lake , now
5
drained. Accha is roughly equidistant (one hour each way) from the two deep
(2900 m.) river valleys that run, one at the far east end of the plateau, and the
other beyond the west side of Siwina; those are the valleys of the Apurimac
and the Velille respectively, which meet some fifty kilometers further north at a
place called Tinkoq, upriver from Pacariqtambo.
Accha ... situated in a very high and cold location with a vast marshy plain
which they call ‘la laguna’ (Raimondi 1965 [1874] vol. 1: 228).
5
17
Accha is part of what is generally referred to, in the widely accepted
classification of Andean ecological zones, as the sierra: a term that includes the
populated interandine valleys of the Southern Andes. This is the environment
that gave its name to the people and their language. It is a region characterized
6
by clearly marked dry and wet seasons. The periods of precipitation are mostly
concentrated over the months of November to May, with the main rainfall in
February to April. The annual mean temperature is generally low (between 14
and 17 degrees Celsius), with the lowest temperatures in July. However,
because of the high altitude, the solar radiation is quite intense during the day,
with a radical drop in temperature at night, often below freezing during the dry
season months. The altitude also accounts for the low atmospheric pressure ,
relative humidity,
and low oxygen.
1. 2. “Vertical ecology”: past and present
There is in the region a wide range of ecological zones, from the
temperate high altitude plateau known as suni , to the warm river valleys,
guaranteeing access to a variety of agricultural resources. Murra (1964, 1968b,
1972, 1975, 1980, 1984), following the geographer Carl Troll (1935, 1958, 1968),
was instrumental in developing an understanding of the economic and social
importance of the Andean region’s particular ‘vertical’ ecology. Through the
use of ethnohistorical sources, he suggested the existence of an Andean model
(patrón), shared by Inca, pre-Inca and non-Inca populations that were
geographically distant and distinct in terms of their economic and political
Quechua: la tierra templada o de temple caliente (temperate land or of warm
climate) Qquechhua runa : El de tierra templada (inhabitant of temperate land)
(González Holguín 1989 [1608]). See also Skar 1982.
6
18
organization, although socially integrated (1972:40). This model described the
exploitation of a series of ecological zones by the group, either directly in the
case of a population having immediate access to several zones, or indirectly
through exchange and barter with other groups, in the case of a population
geographically limited to one specific zone, typically highland puna or lowland
jungle. He coined the term “vertical archipelago” to designate the unique way
in which Andean communities deal with specific features of their environment
that associates different products with different ecological levels.
Typically, the vertical archipelago consists of a population center
situated in the ecological zone where the main subsistence crops are grown and
“islands” of colonists settled in various other zones. Murra illustrates his
model with examples taken from pre-Incaic cultures and the Inca society. He
generates the picture of an original system of direct control of climatic zones,
and of the direct exploitation of the material and human resources of the
peripheral colonies.
When the polity was small, the pastures, saltpans, maize and coca leaf
fields could be controlled only if they were [no more than] three or four
days march away from the nucleus. A kingdom with several hundred
thousand souls could utilize directly resources fifteen or twenty days
away (1973:381-382).
Needless to say, the Inca state achieved the widest reach, and could
transfer its colonist populations (mitimaes or mitmakuna) from one end of the
empire to the other (Cobo 1979:189ff). As was often the case, the Incas had
adopted a system and adapted it to their own specific needs (Regalado 1978;
Gow 1976; Murra 1980; Wachtel 1971). In addition to the control of economic
resources, the Inca colonies had to do with conquest, policing and the
harmonization of customs. Whenever the Incas would conquer a new territory,
they would remove a portion of its population (6000 or 7000 families, according
to Cobo), and relocate them throughout parts of the empire already pacified,
taking into account the ecology and climate and main economic activities of
each group. Conversely, they would gather a corresponding number of
obedient subjects of the empire and send them to the newly-conquered land to
serve as buffer and, should the need arise, as a garrison. Through these
strategies of control and interdependence the state regulated the access to
goods, as well as the labor expenditure involved in their production and
distribution. It also established an elaborate system of political domination and
social and ideological control throughout the region.
People in Accha today, as in a number of other Andean communities
(e.g. Brush 1976, Harris 1982), also have access to a wide range of ecological
levels and therefore to a wide variety of agricultural goods. Most Accheños
cultivate potato land around and above the village, and corn, vegetables and
fruit in the river valleys below. Most of those fields are within easy walking
distance --a few hours-- from the village. In addition, goods grown in the
village can be exchanged on market days for other products from the outside -e. g. coca and fruit from other communities and manufactured goods from
Cusco-- and there is also an existing bartering system involving the llama
herders from communities located at higher altitudes (see infra) which seem to
perpetuate traditional ways of access to distant ecological zones.
2. Population
The main settlement of Accha (referred to as a villa in the official census
documents) had in 1987 a population of 1,076 inhabitants for 323 households.
These population figures are taken from a house-by-house census of the village
made in 1987 in preparation for the electrification of the village. The official
census of 1981 gives for the distrito of Accha 3793 inhabitants for 953
households, and for the villa of Accha, 1114 inhabitants for 269 households . In
7
1985, I was given the figure of 1,350 inhabitants by the alcalde (mayor) of the
time. Wilfredo Ccori Castro, author of a 1978 monograph on Accha, citing for
his source the 1972 census published by the Oficina Nacional de Estadisticas y
Censos, gives for 1972 the total figure of
3, 529 for the district of Accha (Ccori 1978:20). This figure, according to Ccori,
breaks down as follows: 1,335 for the community of Accha, and for the various
anexos respectively, Pocoray (also Pfoccorhuay) 625, Parcco 742, and Oyaino
292 . I suspect that the figure of 1, 350 given me in 1985 by the mayor might
8
have been based on the 1972 census, which gives 1,335 for the community. If
one is to accept those figures, there would then have been a total population
drop of about 19% in the community over 15 years, between 1972 and 1987.
The ratio of total population to number of households gives an average
household size of 4 individuals . This rather small household size can only be
9
explained by infant mortality and a high percentage of out migration of young
villagers to Cusco and Lima.
2. 1. Infant mortality
Censos Nacionales, Depto de Cusco, VIII Poblacion., III Viviencia, 1981,
Volumen A, Tomo 1 y 2, Lima.
8 In spite of Ccori’s claim, the figures he gives for the population of the
community of Accha and for the various anexos do not add up to the total for
the district. Either a mistake was made in the reporting of the figures, or some
other settlements besides the three anexos mentioned were also taken into
account for the district total.
9 Ccori (1978) gives the figure of 322 families and an average of 4.5 family
members.
7
Of Don Mariano ‘s 12 children, only two reached adulthood. Isbell
discusses (1983ms) the dramatic implications of high infant mortality in relation
to the woman’s life cycle and reproductive cycle. Mayer (1989) gives a figure
169 deaths per thousand before the age of two for the whole of Peru. When
broken down into urban and rural mortality, there is in the rural population an
“excess mortality” of 61.4%, or a infant mortality of 213 per thousand in the
rural population vs. 132 per thousand in the urban population (Mayer1989: 4-5).
Ccori estimates that in Accha 54% of children die before reaching the age of
five. This figure seems to be extremely high, and when juxtaposed with the
figure given by Mayer (213 per 1,000, i. e. 21%), it would suggest that mortality
remains constant after the age of two and until the age of five.
The 1981 census gives a breakdown of the population for the distrito of
Accha by sex and age (table 1). There is no figure in that table for children
under five, perhaps because of the difficulty of arriving at a figure that takes
into account the rapid rate of mortality. By subtracting the figure for the
population over that age (3207) from the total figure for the distrito (3793), one
arrives at the figure of 586, slightly less than that for the next age-class: 605.
The only possible conclusion to be drawn from this set of figures is that there is
no big demographic drop after the age of five.
Table 1. Population of Accha by sex and age (1981)
total
total
males
females
3207
1658
1549
5-9
605
306
299
10-14
446
255
191
15-19
255
148
107
20-24
211
110
101
25-29
220
112
108
30-34
208
99
109
35-39
203
105
98
over 40
1059
523
536
The age of five in Accha is an important watershed, and children over
that age are called “escapaditos” --little survivors. The main causes of death are
usually dehydration as a result of diarrhea as well as pulmonary illnesses.
Although they have been intensive campaigns of vaccination in the cities, the
rural population is practically without protection against children’s diseases. In
Accha in June 1974, 60 children died in one month of scarlet fever (Padre Sergio
Mazzuolli, pers. comm.).
2. 2. Out migration
Daniel Cotlear, whose 1978-79 survey of seven highland communities
included a study of Accha, gives for this village an estimated population of 322
families of which 51% had an average of 1.17 out migrants. This total number
of families is extremely close to the 1987 figure used here --323 households--and
suggests, in spite of the emigration drain, a fairly constant number of
households. This in turn would lead us to assume a relative aging of the
population, verified in the figure of nearly 30% of the population (1059) over
the age of 40 (see table 1), a high ratio in an environment where the average life
expectancy is 45.
23
Cotlear also gives the figure of 77.5% of out migrants out of the total of
independent children (Cotlear,1984: 440.) This is to say that nearly 4 out of 5
children who left the parental house to start a household of their own, also left
Accha to do so.
A small percentage of the migrants go to the jungle of Madre de Dios or
Quillabamba to work in plantations or prospect for gold. This is perceived as
temporary migration, but may actually cover a period of one season to several
years of absence from the village. For Accheños, as for many peasants in the
region, the two main targets of migration are Cusco and Lima. Many young
men and women move to the city in hope of finding employment. There,
migrants from the same community tend to settle in the city in the same area,
geographically oriented in relation to the community of origin.
There are in Lima 400 families of Accheños, more than there are in Accha
itself. Typically, migrants to Lima settle in the pueblos jovenes, the invasion
settlements that fan out on the outskirts of the capital replicating the spatial
orientation of provinces and villages of origin. That is to say that neighboring
barrios there are likely to correspond to neighboring communities in the
province of origin (Lobo 1982; Isbell 1985; also Abercrombie 1991 ms. for a
similar pattern in Potosi).
This also recalls the settlement pattern that was carefully maintained in
Incaic Cusco, where the representatives of the conquered provinces and the
provincial caciques residing in the capital would be assigned housing in the
various parts of the city in “such order and concert that, simply by looking at
those neighborhoods and the houses of so many diverse nations that lived
there, one could see and understand the totality of the whole Empire, as in a
24
mirror or a cosmographic painting.” (Garcilaso 1966 vol. 3:28) According to
10
Santiago Arturo Calvo, the distribution of new settlements in Cusco reproduce
quite exactly in size and shape the settlement pattern of Incaic Cusco (quoted in
Tamayo 1978:304). Accheños in Cusco tend to live in Belén, San Pedro and San
Jeronimo. This spatial orientation of residence in the new settlements is related
to ways of communication to the community of origin, as well as traditional
geo-social structures. The modern parishes and barrios of Belén and San Pedro
in Cusco are located in what was the Cuntisuyu quarter in the division of the
Inca city (Sherbondy 1982, Pérez Rodríguez 1966) and Accha belongs in what in
Inca times was the Cuntisuyu quarter of the empire; San Pedro and San
Jeronimo are respectively the place of departure and one of the major truck
stops on the way to Accha.
Both in Cusco and in Lima there exist strong communities of Accheños
regrouped around a social club often centered around a soccer team. The
migrants tend to remain involved in the economic and ritual matters of their
village of origin. Adult children working in the city often take a vacation at the
time of harvest, the single largest agricultural task in terms of labor
expenditure, to come and help their aging parents. When the need arises,
transplanted Accheños will form a committee and hire a lawyer to petition
funds from the state for the construction of a road or other public works in
Accha. There is a constant exchange of foodstuff and goods or money between
Accha and Cusco, and near-strangers seen boarding the truck or the truck
driver himself are often entrusted with messages, money, or food for relatives.
With the constant rise in cost of cargos (appointed sponsorships of ritual
...por tal orden y concierto, que, bien mirados aquellos barrios y las casas de tantas y
tan diversas naciones como en ellas vivían, se veía y comprehendía todo el Imperio
junto, como en el espejo o en una pintura de cosmografía.
10
obligations) and the impoverishment of villagers, cargos are often sponsored by
city-dwellers either in their own name or in the name of a village relative.
There is little in-migration to Accha. I estimate that less than ten percent
of the population is not originally from Accha. Most of those forasteros
(strangers) are in-marrying villagers from the anexos (hamlets) or neighboring
communities. There are also a significant number of mestizos from outside of
the community who came to Accha as teachers or guardias , married, and
11
settled in the village. There is also quite a high level of return migration of
Accheños who served a number of years in the military before being discharged
or lived for a year or more in the city or another community before coming
back to their community of origin. Cotlear’s study show that 45 heads of family
(i. e. close to 20%) fit that category. Most of the Accheños settled in Cusco and
Lima that I have been able to interview entertain the hope that they or their
children will someday return to the village.
2. 3. Demography and survival
It is difficult to assess the immediate impact on the community of the
two demographic factors outlined above --infant mortality and out migration-which translate in actuality as both an overall diminution and an aging of the
Accheño population. However, it is certain that neither is a recent
phenomenon, and that demographic decline has been a factor in the life of
Accha (see chapter 6) and in other highland communities (Cook 1982) since
early historical times. The preceding data on out migration, and particularly on
the strength of the ties that unite the migrants to their community of origin,
The guardia civil is the military body that operates as police in the rural
areas. The mayor of Accha during my stay there was a retired guardia civil who
had been posted to Accha and married the owner of the important hacienda of
Chamina.
11
might be an indication of a strategy of maintenance based on a modern
‘archipelago’ whose present day ‘islands’ are situated either on the periphery or
even in the mainstream of the national market economy in Lima and in Cusco,
but whose nexus remains Accha, the village of origin. The goods, services and
ritual prestations that travel between those centers reinforce the necessary
interdependence of transplanted Accheños and the village, and insure the
material survival of their kin and the ritual reproduction of social relations. In
this way, the identity of Accheños is centered in, but not circumscribed by the
physical limits of the village, as will be further developed in chapters 2 and 3.
3. Relations to the land: economy, ecology and ritual practice
The total land area of the district of Accha is roughly 18,000 hectares.
About one third of that is privately owned by the comuneros. Another third is
communal land, either owned communally by the whole village in the case of
pasture land, or in the case of arable land, worked jointly by the various groups
that constitute the totality of the community. The rest is owned by the mestizos
and hacendados, the shopkeepers and landowners of mixed or Spanish descent
(vecinos) who do not actively belong to the moiety and ayllu system. The
cultivated lands range in altitude from the river valleys of the Apurimac and
the Velille (2900 m.) to the slopes of the surrounding mountains up to 4000 m.
In terms of total cultivated area, the major part of land is made up of communal
potato land and pasture land.
3. 1. Pasture land and animals
Until the Agrarian Reform of the 1960s, there was an hacienda Siwina
owned by the family of Carlos Olivera. The whole mountain of Siwina was
part of the hacienda land. The hacendado would charge a fee per animal per
year for the right to graze there. The hacienda was taken over by the community
and is now communal land, and is still exclusively used as pasture.
Another gain in communal land was effected in the early 80s when the
marshy laguna was drained for sanitary reasons. The regained land was made
12
into communal pasture land, simply known as la pampa, whose location
between the two arms of the community, betrays the fact that it was once a
body of water on the shores of which the village was built. It is easy to realize
that before the drainage of the laguna, and before the Agrarian Reform, pasture
land was scarce. Before that time, what pasture land there was had been
divided between the moieties. Individuals from one moiety were not allowed
to graze their animals on the pastures of the other moiety. The pasture land
gained by the expropriation of the Olivera hacienda and the draining of the lake
was made into village communal land, and to my knowledge there is today no
saya pasture land: all pasture land is available to the whole village.
On any one day, the pampa teems with small herds of goats and sheep,
and with horses, brought there in the morning to graze freely for the day until a
member of the household comes to collect them in the evening. Animal
husbandry in Accha is by and large limited to small herds of sheep and goats,
usually cared for by the woman and young children of each household. Horses
are kept for transportation. Cattle in small numbers provide the milk for the
fresh cheese for which Accha is renowned as far as Cusco and teams of oxen for
plowing. In addition, each household usually keeps one sow, a few chickens,
and the ubiquitous guinea pigs (cuwis) who have the run of the kitchens. All
The same development project that drained the laguna built a new school
complex for elementary as well as secondary education that employs 28
teachers (1988 figure), all of them foreigners to the village, although cases of
marriages with Accheños are frequent.
12
those are an integral part of Accheños economic, but also social and ritual
space, as will be made clear in the following chapters.
3. 2. corn chakras and potato chakras
Accha’s most important crops by total yield are, in descending order, 1)
corn, 2) potatoes, ulluco (Ullucus tuberosus) and other tubers, 3) wheat, beans,
tarwi (Lupinus mutabilis) and quinoa (Chenpodium quinoa) and 4) barley
(Abelardo Fernandez Vaca pers. com.) .
13
Unlike many communities in the region, Accha has no contract for its
barley with the Cusqueña brewery in Cusco, which holds a virtual monopoly
on the marketing and, indirectly, on the production of the grain. By providing
seeds and buying the whole harvest from their contractual growers, the
brewery virtually dictates the market value of barley.
14
In Accha, barley is
cultivated in rather small quantity either for household consumption (mostly in
the form of soup) or for the annual direct trading with llama herders.
Every year, around the date of the fiesta of Carmen (July 16th), llameros
from the area of Omacha bring several hundred animals to Accha in order to
trade llama meat for barley, corn, and beans. This is the only example I have
observed of large scale organized barter in Accha. The llamas usually arrive as
one large herd several hundred head strong, and remain in Accha for several
weeks, typically grazing at the edge of the pampa, away from the village’s sheep
and goats. Yet, this large herd is not a proper “collective” (i.e., communal)
The estimated figures given for Accha in 1976 by Ccori are as follow: corn:
375,960 kg; potatoes: 83,200 kg; wheat: 35, 520 kg; barley: 22,080.
13
This creates a total dependency not just on the outside market economy, but
rather on the brewery as the whole arable land of the village is likely to be
devoted to barley as the 33only cash crop. The peasants are then obliged to
accept the prices offered by the brewery for their harvest and to use that cash to
buy everything they need at market prices (see Meyerson 1990, Allen 1988).
14
29
herd, rather it is a herd made up of several private herds, in the care of one or
two herders. I was told that the way to tell individual herds from collective
herds --beside the size of the herd-- is that private herds are obligated under
penalty of a fine to have bells, whereas communal herds do not wear bells,
because the conflicting sounds of unknown bells would confuse the individual
animals. Only a portion of the herd is traded and butchered: the rest is for
carrying the traded goods back to the high puna villages.
These transactions are conducted through the intermediary of ritual
kinsmen. The llameros typically maintain ties with a small number of
individuals in the community with whom they stay on these yearly visits, and
who serve as brokers for the rest of the community. This brokerage too is
effected through family and compadrazgo ties. The Accheño host does not
himself have enough stored grain to satisfy the need of the llameros and must
call on his relatives and compadres, who deal with the llameros through him. It is
conceivable of course that the herder in charge of the transaction changes every
year, that the llameros have different ritual relatives with whom they trade, or
even that herders from different localities have contacts in different parts of the
community. In 1987, the senior herder stayed with Benjamin Ocón, of
Hanansaya. By the following fiesta, Benjamin Ocón had died, apparently
murdered, and I do not know with whom the llameros traded.
Corn, squash, and fruit (prickly pears, peaches, and limes) grow in
mixed chakras (fields) in the two river valleys, up to an altitude of about 3200
m.: squash is planted with the corn, fruit trees often grow in the middle of the
field, and prickly pears form a hedge around it. Wheat, barley, and beans are
grown around the main village. Potatoes and other tubers are grown in the
folds of Siwina and the other surrounding mountains, and on the fertile plain of
30
Achupampa, which stretches between the village of Accha and the sheer drop
to Pilpinto and the Apurimac Valley.
In Accha, potatoes and corn differ in more than just the location of the
fields. There are marked differences between the two crops in how they are
integrated in the social and ritual structure of the community (see chapters 4
and 5), as well as in their relation to the wider economic structure. Potatoes are
the stuff of life and are eaten in various forms on a daily basis. Corn, although
an important part of the daily diet --principally as boiled kernels (muti or
mote) -- is also a prestigious and ritual food (see also e. g. Murra 1968, and
15
Azócar and Martínez 1987) and is an integral part of all seasonal and life-cycle
celebrations, mostly in the form of corn beer (chicha.)
Potatoes are rarely ever sold and are perceived as strictly for domestic
consumption, although they are sometimes given away or bartered. In
contrast, a certain amount of corn is grown for sale in Cusco. Ccori (1978:66)
offers the figure of just 1% of the total production of corn in Accha being sold in
Cusco. I have no comparable figure for 12 years later, but I believe that the
decline of barter at the weekly market during that period translated as an
increase in sales outside of the village. Yet there is also a direct relation
between the amount of cash crop produced and the state of the regional and
national market. During my stay in 1987-89, many Accheños said that they
would not be planting for sale, as the cost of transportation to the city would
have canceled the potential profit from the sale.
Potato land and corn land also differ in modes of ownership and
cultivation. The labor needed for the cultivation of corn is minimal and can
muti is consumed as an accompaniment for the main meals of the day, but
also as a snack, and is always offered to visitors and passers-by. It is the sign of
a good housewife to have fresh muti ready at the proper time. I have heard a
lazy housekeeper denigrated as “chirimuti”, cold muti.
15
usually be met by the household. In contrast, time and labor demands for
potatoes are large. The cultivation of potatoes necessitates the coordination of
several households and the activation of ritual ties and usually, as we will see
below, requires the communal involvement of Accha’s various corporate
groups .
16
3. 2. 1. Potato moiety-land: fondos
The cultivation of potatoes involves the articulation of a system of
groups, which have been mentioned in the introductory section and will be
discussed at length in chapter 4. Those are the two moieties (sayas), Hanansaya
and Hurinsaya, the two ayllus within Hurinsaya, Ccosco ayllu and Santa Ana,
and the peripheral hamlets (anexos) which maintain administrative economic
and ritual ties with Accha. Ritual and communal-labor operate the
differentiation and/or merging of these various groups. The cultivation of
potatoes activates two distinct levels of grouping. One , the most inclusive,
brings the whole system together, while the other functions at the level of the
saya and includes the ayllus but excludes the anexos.
All arable communal land is potato land (papales.) All communal papales
are either laymi or fondo. The laymi is the communal land for the whole village,
including its anexos. The fondos are for the two moieties or sayas, Hanansaya
and Hurinsaya. Therefore, there are potentially at all times three communal
Ackerman, who worked in the Apurimac region, also found differences -although apparently reversed from those in Accha-- in the way social relations
were involved in the cultivation of the crops: “Unlike the cultivation of any other
crop, the social unit of production in the case of maize is not based upon the extended
family tie. It is based upon the structure of alliance with non-relatives --ritual kin and
ayni” (1985:291.)
16
potato fields, one for Hanansaya, one for Hurinsaya, and one for the whole
community.
The fondos are worked in faenas, that is to say, members of the respective
moieties work jointly through all the successive operations. The seed-potatoes
are stored by the saya, and the harvest is also the joint property of the group.
Some of the harvest may be redistributed immediately to the saya members as
an emergency measure in case of poor harvests --either individual or laymi .
But the bulk of the fondo harvest is kept in a communal storehouse to provide
food for fiestas or other faenas. In 1988, the decision was made in Hurinsaya to
sell the whole fondo harvest, including the seed-potatoes, because the quality of
the potatoes was found to be inadequate. Some of the proceeds of the sale went
to repay a debt of about $100 to PRODERM, the European non-governmental
organization (NGO) working in the region. The loan had been taken to buy
seed and fertilizer. The rest of the money from the sale went towards buying
alcohol (trago) for faenas, and wood and equipment for saya-based projects.
3. 2. 2. Potato community land: laymis
In contrast to the fondo, the laymi is not moiety-based but involves the
whole community. Anybody in Accha who is empadronizado--registered for
communal labor and voting--has access to a plot of laymi land.
For 1988, the libros de empadronimiento give the names of 340 individuals
who participate in communal work. This figure is notably higher than the
number of households in the village (323), in spite of the fact that not all
villagers are registered. In fact the number of participants for the laymi include
people from the anexos, markedly from the anexo of Oyaino, a hamlet in the
Velille Valley which had no other access to potato land.
The word empadronimiento comes from the Spanish padrón , meaning
“list”, or “register.” The libros de empadronimiento are the modern version of
padroncillos, listings of tribute payers in Indian reducciones instituted by the
Spaniards at the beginning of the colonial period (see for instance Salomon
1986; Powers 1990). For each community, moiety or ayllu a written list of all
the people registered to vote for the officers is carefully kept by the secretary.
Only those comuneros whose names are on the register can take part in the
laymi. Registration is not compulsory, and 20% to 30% of the villagers choose
not to be registered.
17
Every two years, there are elections for the village
authorities, and at that time the villagers must renew their registration
(reactulizarse) and their commitment to participating in the communal activities.
The regular allotment of laymi land for each individual is half a topo
which is known in Accha as one ch’eqta.
18
I believe that the topo, and the
19
ch’eqta are very flexible units of measure, and vary with the quality of the land
and the nature of the crop.
20
In land transactions, the exact area of the chakra
often does not seem to be relevant, as even the worth of the field is evaluated in
yield, which is also expressed in ch’eqtas, which, as units of weight equal 1/4
fanega, or 30 kilos.
This figure was given me by Abelardo Fernandez Vaca.
Checcta allpoachacra in Holguín. Checcta refers to something that is split or
divided. Checctaruna for instance is a person with a harelip --literally a split
man (Holguín). To split wood, would be checctany (Lira ch’ekkta and
Cusihuaman ch’eqta).
19 The term ‘topo’ itself was explained to me in various ways: It corresponds to
about one fourth of an hectare (Don Mariano Guzmán), it is about 3000 m2
(Abelardo Fernandez Vaca). A topo ‘legitimo’ is 44 x 88m (Don Mariano
Guzmán). Ford (1962) gives the very precise equivalent of 0.86 acres (1986:62)
and Brisseau (1981: 565) that of 3252 m2, or 1/3 hectare.
20 Rostworowski goes even further and states that a topo can be a measure of
time, area and volume. She suggests that the best way to understand topo is as
a measure of expended energy (Rostworowski 1960, 1964).
17
18
The word ch’eqta clearly implies the notion of division especially in two-ch’eqtan is half, for instance (Cusihuaman 1976). This notion is nicely supported
by the Inca meaning for topo, which was a measure of the necessary and
sufficient amount of land to support a married couple. Thus the ch’eqta , half a
topo, would be the measure sufficient for one individual, i.e. one half of a
couple. Butch’eqta also seems to contain the idea of an exact number of shares
of a whole, perhaps not unlike other comparable concepts like ceque and ch’uta
(see Zuidema 1964 and 1992, Urton 1984).
In addition, ch’eqta in present day Accha is not only a measure of area
and of weight, but also time and labor corresponding to the amount of land 3
teams (masas ) of 3 foot plows (chakitaqllas ) and 3 clod-turners (rapachus ) --or a
total of 12 individuals--can plow in one day. This kind of work is often turned
into a competition, with the three teams racing each other (chakrapi qatinakuy).
Brisseau (1981:565) also gives a list of equivalencies of land measures
used in the Cusco region. She establishes that one topo = 1 yunta = 2 mazas = 4
shillkus = 4 solares = 2 poqchas = 2 ch’ eqtas. Besides topo and ch’eqta, the other
two terms that are used in Accha correspond there to units of labor rather than
area: yunta is a team of bulls, and masa, as we just saw, a team of plowmen. It
should be noted, however, that the equation proposed by Brisseau does not
match the one suggested by the correspondence made in Accha of one ch’ eqta
to 3 masas, which would equate one topo to 6 masas rather than 2. This
discrepancy rather supports my argument that both the topo and the ch’ eqta are
variable units, that are not solely measures of area, but are also related to labor
expenditure and yield.
The laymi that took place in Kachaqkalla in the spring of 1988 (see
introduction) started with an asemblea, or general meeting of the political
authorities and all of the participants, during which several items of business
35
were raised, including the question of the invasion of church land (see
conclusion) and my own formal meeting with the whole community. When
the assembly was over, the signal of the chakra rakyi, the distribution of land,
was given by the president of the community, and the several hundred
participants rushed to their hoes or foot plows (chakitaqlla) and spread out in all
directions.
For a few minutes of feverish work, each person proceeded to delimit the
plot he intended to plant by drawing a furrow (wachu) around its periphery.
Some worked by themselves, some in groups of relatives, and some delimited
several plots for absent relatives. Soon several conflicts broke out. People
started to argue about the location and size of plots, with a lot of shoving and
pushing and threatening gestures. The little valley echoed with yells and
insults of feuding women, and the good-humored shouted commentaries of
onlookers. Rapidly, though, the noise died down as the protagonists settled to
work out compromises. Soon all the plots had been delimited, and people
started to walk home: the wachu was enough of a claim, and people were free
to plow their plots at any time after that.
While the people involved in the laymi were from both sayas, and also
from some of the anexos, there seemed to be no clear pattern of the division into
plots according to the group affiliation of the individuals, and no moiety
division of any kind in the location of the plots. The only factor in the
distribution of laymi land that I was able to notice was the fact that the people
from the anexos tended to be working on the less desirable plots high on the
slopes. Yet, the overall emphasis seemed to be less on distinctions between
groups than on the equal right of all to a share of the common land.
In the laymi, people harvest what they plant. But once the plot is
claimed, they can do what they want with it. Should they run out of seeds or
36
time, their plot might remain fallow: there is no compulsion to plant. The plot
is theirs for two years and they may choose to plant the first year but not the
second, or plant potatoes one year and another crop the second. Others, who
may not have access to other land, may decide to plant and harvest their full
two years and even plant a third year of wheat or barley before letting the land
go fallow again.
Fondo and laymi function according to two totally different principles,
both of which belong to a centuries-old Andean tradition. The fondo is based
on the faena system, that is to say on the group members working for the
benefit of the group as a whole. The laymi on the other hand is a system that
ensures the individual member’s right and access to common property and
guarantees his rightful share. However, these two distinct systems are linked:
the rights and the duties of the individual are incumbent on his being
empadronizado., and on his commitment as a community member.
Those who are not registered, mostly the mestizos and people who are
registered in another community, own or rent potato land higher up above the
21
village on the mountains Kangal and Itunku. However, in some cases, people
who are not registered, or not even members of the community, may work in
the laymi “por amistad”--out of friendship. If a registered individual has
enough land elsewhere or for some other reason does not want to take part in
the laymi , he can pass on his derecho , his right, to a friend, a compadre, or a
relative. This act of “friendship” often translates as an obligation, as it is a favor
that can be banked and cashed in through a constant system of reciprocity.
I was told that before the presidency of Alan García, people could be
registered in more than one community. Ann Peters confirms that such a law
was indeed passed during García’s tenure of office (pers. comm.).
21
Abelardo Fernandez Vaca, although he is registered in Hurinsaya and is
a powerful member of his saya, does not bother to participate in laymis. He
claims it is too much work for just two years on the same plot of land. Instead
he rents land up on Kangal, where he plants every year using chemical
fertilizer. This method of cultivation saves him from having to plow and hoe a
new plot every year. He also says that leaving the land fallow has not been
such a good idea since the introduction of a type of grass he calls grama in
Spanish or kikullu in Quechua.
22
This type of grass grows fast with strong roots
when the land is fallow, making the next ploughing very difficult.
The decision of the location of the next laymi is taken by the community
president after consultation with other senior members of the community.
People maintain that in a given year the laymi could be “anywhere,” and that
there is no fixed pattern of rotation. Rather the decision is made every time,
taking into consideration the state of the soil, weather conditions and other
circumstances. The sites identified by Don Mariano for a five year period are as
follows: Asnacpuquio (1987), Kachaqkalla/Apique (1988), Tocre (1989), Ancara
(1990), Intiruyoc (1991), and Siwina (1992).
This information was given me by Don Mariano in 1992 in a letter. It
would have been impossible for him to predict in 1988 where the next four
laymis would take place. He had then guessed that the 1989 laymi would be
either in Siwina or Ancara. It should also be noted that some of the names that
he mentions in the 1992 list are different from the ones I collected from him in
This grass was apparently introduced during the first term of President
Belaúnde. The seed was dropped from airplanes in small white envelopes.
People still recall with amusement that everybody thought the envelopes
contained money and they would rush to catch them before they even hit the
ground. Chris Franquemont (pers. com.) identifies the grass as Pennisetum
clandestinum, introduced for forage from Africa in what she says was a botched
attempt at agricultural development.
22
1988. Most notably, he gives the name Apique for the site of the 1988 laymi,
which took place in what I had then been told was Kachaqkalla.
Fig. 1: Distribution of communal potato land in Accha:
1= Siwina, 2= Tocre, 3= Intiruyoq, 4= Sumbreruyoq,
5= Achupampa, 6= Asnacpuquio, 7= Ayawayco, 8=Ancara, 9=Qochapampa,
10= Kachaqkalla (Apique) (Adapted from Ccori 1978).
Figure 1 identifies ten laymi sites, but there is no agreement on that
number, nor on their names or exact locations. The list collected by Ccori in
Accha in 1976 differs significantly from the one given here: Interruyocc,
Sumbreruyocc, Acchupampa, Toccopujio, Ayahuaicco, Jachaccalla,
Ccochapama, Ccacharccalla, K’uchicancha, Huanchocc Sihuina. It is possible
23
that there are in fact a greater number of potential sites, and that not all of them
are necessarily used with the same frequency, which would account for some of
the discrepancies in the recollection of past sites. It is also possible that several
sites might be known by different names; or indeed that only a few sites
(Siwina and Achupampa, for example) have permanent names recognized by
the whole community. Other sites like K’uchicancha (pigsty, enclosure for
pigs,) are likely to be temporary or even personal toponyms for a site.
Some of the sites are also used for moiety potato land in between cycles:
there had been a fondo for Hurinsaya in Kachaqkalla just a few years before the
laymi took place there in 1988; and in 1989, the fondos for both sayas were in
Achupampa, on the Hanansaya side of the community. The existence of
Ccori seems to have recorded the same toponym twice: once as Jachaccalla
and once as Ccacharcalla. This is Kachaqcalla in my list.
23
multiple sites and the necessity to accommodate both laymis and fondos test the
flexibility of the rotation cycle.
3. 2. 3. Corn chakras : private ownership and saints’ chakras
If potato land is relatively abundant, (“papales are free, they are
everywhere,”) such is not the case of corn land. In Accha, maizales (corn fields)
are permanent, non-rotating, privately owned, and scarce, because of their
location at the bottom of the river valley. Most of the intrigues, disputes,
inheritance plots, formations of ritual kinship ties or marriages have in one way
or another to do with access to corn land.
There are only three ways to obtain a maizal: it can be inherited, bought,
or rented. The selling price of land is based on the cash equivalent of the yield
for 10 years. It is usually accepted that a topo yields 450 kg more or less of corn
per year. The average amount of corn land per household is about two topos.
The value of the land varies with the presence of water. An irrigated maizal is
worth three times as much as one that doesn’t have access to water. The rent is
1/4 of the yearly yield. Rent, however, cannot be paid in produce but only in
cash and labor.
Ownership of corn land can make the difference between bare survival
and comparative wealth. Don Mariano Guzmán, as a widower, had more
maizales than he could possibly use or even work. Because of that, and because
he is an old man with no children living in the village, people are always ready
to do him favors in the faint hope of inheritance, or on the vague promise on his
part to consider letting them buy or rent some of his land.
The following narrative of events shows how this system of promises
and expectations can lead to an exchange of goods and prestations over a
number of years. This story was told to me by Don Mariano, at the time when
the latter set of events in the narration were taking place.
It was nine years ago that Don Mariano Nolasco Sebillanos Espinosa,
brother of my mother, died. Luis Vargas, the catechist for Hurinsaya,
rushed to the wake with a coffin that he gave to my brother and me.
Now, had anybody asked him for anything? No. What was going on is
that he wanted to buy one of the maizales belonging to our dead uncle.
Perhaps he thought that my brother and I could not afford a coffin, I told
him. But in the end, well, we took it, and our uncle was buried in
Vargas’s coffin.
Now, last night Luis Vargas’s mother died and he came to the house
asking for help. I said, ‘Fine, I’ll take care of it, but I keep the maizal;
you can forget about it.’ So this morning I went to the house of Gavino
Gutierrez [a neighbor] who I knew had a coffin. I went with a bottle of
trago and he let me borrow his coffin, but only for a week. So I went to
see Abelardo Fernandez Vaca, my hierno who had been renting that
chakra from me. I asked him, ‘Do you want to buy it?’ ‘With pleasure,’
he said, so we arranged that he would go to Cusco this week to buy a
coffin, and that will be his first payment on the chakra. The coffin I will
give to Don Gavino in return for the one I borrowed from him to give to
Luis Vargas.
24
Obligations go on at least until the final payment is made, and it is not in
the interest of the seller to close the sale too soon. Nine years after Luis Vargas
had made what was recognized as a down payment --or at least an option-- on
the maizal he wanted to buy, Don Mariano still owned it and was renting it to
Don Abelardo. A year after Don Abelardo made his down payment of one
coffin, I was sent by Don Mariano to ask Don Abelardo to lend us as a favor
five horses needed for the potato harvest. I asked Don Abelardo, who had in
the meantime become my compadre, what payment he expected for the loan of
This Spanish term is often used interchangeably with the Quechua qatay,
male affine (see introduction). In the narrow sense, hierno translates as ‘son-inlaw’. But its meaning in Accha and elswhere among Quechua speakers is much
broader and covers a whole class of in-marrying males. Abelardo Fernandez
Vaca was married to the daughter of one of Don Mariano’s cousins.
24
the horses. He replied: “Do not worry about that. We are working a maizal that
belongs to your father [Don Mariano.] He has the right to ask a favor.” When I
left Accha in 1989, in spite of Don Abelardo ‘s efforts to have Don Mariano
accept a lump payment in cash, the sale still hadn’t been finalized.
An important variation of the rule of private ownership of corn land is
the existence what I will call saints’ land. Each saint whose fiesta is celebrated
in Accha has a corn field that bears his or her name (e. g. Santiago, Santa Ana,
Virgen del Carmen) and which is worked by the carguyoq (sponsor) of the fiesta
who can dispose of the harvest towards the cost of the cargo. I place in this
same category some fields which are not associated with a saint. For instance,
Vinuchakra and Aceitechakra are fields that are cultivated to provide the
church with, respectively mass wine and kerosene for the lamp of the Holy
Ghost burning over the altar. There is also for each church one chakra set aside
for the sacristan, the usufruct of which serves as his salary. However, calling
those church land would lead to confusing them with land owned by the
church (often bequeathed by parishioners in exchange for masses after their
death) and administered by the local priest. The problems raised by the
existence of this church land, and the conflicting positions of the priest (selling
saints’ land) and the villagers (invading church land) will be discussed in the
conclusion.
3. 2. 4. Papales vs. maizales
In an essay devoted to the cultural basis of the distinction between
potato and corn in Inca times, Murra shows that at the time of the Spanish
conquest, and indeed for a long time after that, potatoes and corn, besides the
technological and ecological differences of their cultivation, were related to two
initially unconnected cultural modes: that of the highland peasants, and that of
the Incas of the Cusco valley. In the highlands, potatoes were the subsistence
crop. Corn was only introduced there by the Incas, and was grown mostly for
ritual purposes, sometimes at great cost in labor and technological investment
(Murra 1968b). Elsewhere, the same author argues that when the Incas
conquered new populations, instead of levying a portion of the agricultural
production of the place to support the State, they would create arable land by
building irrigation canals and terraces. This land would be planted for corn,
and its harvest was reserved in part for the Inca and in part for the cult of the
Sun (Murra 1981).
In the literature the term chakra is generally translated as “field.” In
Accha it is nearly exclusively reserved to designate corn fields, which seems to
verify Murra’s intuition that such was also the case in Tawantinsuyu and that
the term was only applied to potato fields after the conquest (Murra: 1968b).
This can be explained by the ideal pattern that I am outlining here. Generally,
two factors intervene. Potato fields have to be rotated, or they exhaust the soil;
this is not the case for corn. Potato fields are not a scarce commodity, corn
fields are. Therefore potato fields do not have a fixed existence, only a
temporary one as they become fallow after two years, and the location and
boundaries of individual plots are negotiated with each new laymi.
Furthermore, as we have seen, the identification of the land with one or the
other social group is redefined every time and not contingent on a pattern of
geographically or socially defined sectors: in Accha, the moieties and ayllus are
localized, but this spatial division does not extend to the laymi and fondo lands,
which are distributed in a wide circle outside the village as terrain permits (fig.
1.; see also chapter 4).
In the case of corn, the fields are fixed, with known boundaries. In
contrast to the potato fields, in the corn chakras it is the people, not the land, that
rotate --either as carguyoqs who succeed each other in the saints’ chakras; or as
new owners who inherit or buy private chakras. Yet, the corn chakra may retain
its own identity. Saints’ chakras remain associated with a specific saint
regardless of the identity of the person who has temporary usufruct of it or
works it for the benefit of the saint. And today, some chakras still bear the name
of an owner long dead, or of an hacienda long gone. It is only through those
fixed physical boundaries and ownership history that chakras become
actualized. But here too, in the final instance, this actualization occurs through
human intervention and labor. One day after ploughing and planting a small
field, Don Mariano, surveying the finished work said “now it is a chakra.” A
chakra does not exist as such unless it is worked, and ultimately it is the labor
output that determines its existence.
The symbolic opposition between potatoes and corn in Accha will be
further illustrated in later chapters. Potatoes grown in communal laymi and
fondo will be shown to ensure the physical subsistence of the group and its
social reproduction (chapter 4), whereas the corn of the saints’ chakras will be
seen as “feeding” the patron saint and guaranteeing the ritual production of
group identity (chapter 5).
25
This distinction is evocative of the one outlined by Murra (see supra) for
Tawantinsuyu, between the subsistence use of potatoes, and the ritual use of
corn in the highlands.
25
CHAPTER TWO
SYMBOLIC SPACE AND SACRED GEOGRAPHY
1. The sacred mountains in the local cosmology
1. 1. Apus and Pachamama
Accha’s horizon, like that of all high valley communities, is formed by a
circle of peaks that not only limits the visible territory, but also delimits the
cosmological space of its inhabitants.
26
In that region, these mountains are
known as apus or awkis (wamamis in some other regions of the Andes.) The apus,
the mountain-lords, are chthonic deities individually named and with
recognized characteristics and qualities. The term apu applied to the mountains
is the same that is used for catholic saints (chapter 5) and was used under the
Incas and in colonial time for the kurakas , the local political chiefs.
There is a hierarchy of mountain-lords ranked according to their relative
power, based on their aggressiveness and their ability to win battles (Morissette
and Racine 1973, Earls 1971). There is thus a multitude of individual apus
which are generally, although not always, male. In
27
In another community, that of P’irqa, in the district of Pacariqtambo, as we
were discussing apus, someone rattled off a list of the names of the apus, saying
at the end: “this is the whole community of P’irqa.”
27 The few apus that in the Cusco region were given Spanish names of female
saints, like la Veronica and Mama Simona, and are consequently commonly
perceived as female, are still known by the altumisayoq ritual specialists by their
Quechua male names (J. V. Nuñez del Prado pers. comm.).
26
contrast, Pachamama, the other primal deity, is an indivisible entity, and is
female.
1. 1. 1. Pachamama, the Earth-mother
All of the natural world belongs to Pachamama. The fields are part of
her and the crops grow out of her. Pachamama is not so much linked with a
general idea of fertility as with the specific fertility derived from the cultivation
of the land (Harris 1985). In that sense, there is a necessary symbiotic relation
between the earth and the people who cultivate it.
Pachamama is a “nourisher,” not a “life-giver”
28
and life is transmitted
through her only once she is fertilized. As we have seen in chapter 1, a chakra
only comes into being when it is worked. The cultivation of the land is the
domestication or socialization of Pachamama as well as her fertilization.
29
In the three-world cosmology of the Andean people, Pachamama either
transcends the division or is associated with the concrete, actual world/earth
Kay Pacha (Albó 1982ms). The apus mediate between Ukhu Pacha, the Nether
World, and Hanan Pacha, the Upper World (Flores Ochoa 1988 ms, J. V. Nuñez
del Prado and L. Murillo 1988 ms, Urton 1981.) Apus are also the runa micheq ,
30
‘shepherds’ of the humans put on earth by Taytanchis, the creator-god (Nuñez
This power is ascribed to Wiraqochan and/or to Pachakamaq, since kamaq is
more appropriately translated as “life-giver.”
29 This concept also will be seen to apply to the ritual of socialization of the
herd in chapter 5.
30 Zuidema gives a similar function of mediator between the sky and the
underworld to the stepped pyramid-like construction called ushnu that was
found in Inca times in public places of ritual/administrative import. (1989d:
420; see also Nickel 1984ms). It was “shaped like a post and variously made of
stone, gold or silver.... The lords would sit there drinking to the Sun on those
uznos and make many sacrifices to the Sun” (Albornoz 1584 in Duviols
1984:202). This construction might also be seen, like the apacheta cairn-like
structure, as the man-made image of an apu.
28
del Prado and Murillo 1988 ms). Pachamama nurtures and punishes (Harris
1985, Nuñez del Prado 1974); the apus protect, guide, instruct, and also threaten
(Martinez 1983). She, like them, needs to be fed, and worshipped, thanked, and
placated.
1. 1. 2. Apus rituals and Pachamama rituals
Apus are connected with the sky and the air. The daily ritual of phukuy
31
involves blowing on an arrangement of three or more coca leaves (q’intu )
selected for their perfection as an offering to the apus. The person doing the
offering blows over the q’intu in the direction of the various apus and calls their
names, as an invocation and an offering. In the context of an important ritual,
or sometimes while on a journey, the q’intu may then be placed under a small
stone or buried. Usually, as a daily ritual, it is presented to someone else as a
gift of respect and chewed to start the wad of coca leaves.
The mundane ritual of phukuy must be related to the more elaborate
performance of Karpay Ayni (sharing of personal power) by the
altomisayoqkuna (ritual specialists of the apus) around Cusco. There, the phukuy
is divided into two phases: in a first time, the apus are summoned by name in
hierarchical order to bring to the officiant their purifying spirit. Then at a later
stage during the ceremony the spirit of the various apus is sent back to their
geographical location through the blowing on the coca-leaves (Frost and
Decoster 1988ms; Nuñez del Prado and Murillo 1988ms). It appears that
rituals involving coca-leaves --either the pervasive phukuy or the more
phukuy: soplar, (to blow) Cusihuaman,ppucuna: fuelles, o cañeto para soplar
(bellows, blow-tube) pucuycun huayra umactam: dar sereno (give tranquility)
Huarap ppuccuycuynin: sereno que asiente en la cabeça (calmness of the mind)
González Holguín.
31
elaborate karpay ayni are characterized by a spiritual relation between the
officiant and the apus, expressed as a physical or spatial relation.
In contrast, Pachamama has to do with fertility and is connected with
underground water and its resurgence at the water sources (ñawis) . Water is to
Pachamama as air is to the apus. For her, the equivalent practice of the
mundane phukuy is the t’inka, which consists in libations of chicha or trago:
32
These libations can be poured several times a day, and often an abridged t’inka
is performed every time chicha is drunk.
In fact the two kinds of deities are narrowly linked in the practice of
those common rituals, emphasizing the complementarity rather than the
differences between Pachamama and the apus. In Accha, in the course of the
day, the routine libation to Pachamama can be reduced to the dip of a finger in
the chicha vase. As a few drops of chicha are flicked over the rim of the vase
for Pachamama, the person doing the t’inka will often at the same time blow
over these droplets towards the apus. In a similar way, when doing a phukuy,
an exceptionally nice q’intu may be buried for the Pachamama, especially at the
time of beginning of a specific agricultural task, like planting or harvesting. A
‘natural’ q’intu, three coca leaves that are attached by the stem, will always be
buried as an offering to Pachamama. Also, a phukuy is always performed, and a
q’intu always buried, when one reaches a pass in the mountain.
1. 1. 3. Apachetas as icons of the apu.
Chicha is a beer made of ground and fermented corn, drunk during work and
during fiestas. Special kinds of chicha using different kinds of grains, or which
are flavored with the fruit of the indigenous tree called molle or with wild
strawberries, are brewed and served for different occasions and at different
times of the year. Trago is a generic term for alcohol. In some regions of Cusco
it is made from sugar cane (cañaso, from caña.). In Accha, it is made of storebought industrial or medicinal alcohol cut with water.
32
A mountain pass is the place of junction between Pachamama and the
apu, where the two become one: the traveler, who walks on Pachamama hasn’t
broken his physical contact with her, and yet he now reaches the apu. For an
Accheño leaving his valley, the mountain pass is literally a threshold-- where
separate elements of the cosmological world meet (Pachamama, apu and the
sky). Each traveler who reaches a pass contributes one stone, sometimes
brought from the valley, to a small cairn (apacheta), thus using elements from
the Pachamama to build a miniature image of the apu reaching for the sky.
Apachetas are “piles of rocks left by travelers in worship” (González Holguín
1989 [1608]). The name comes from apaniy or apachiniy: to bring or to leave
behind (llevar; hacer llevar o dexar ibid.). Apachiy means “to cause to carry”
(Brundage 1985). The travelers leave a stone on the pile “so that the fatigue of
the journey and the weight of the charge will go away’ (Arriaga 1920: 218).
Albornoz in his 1584 Instrucción thus describes the apachetas:
“There is another kind of huaca, very common on all the roads and at all
the mountain passes in Peru, which they call apachita or camachico [he
who commands] by another name. They are in all the climbs and slopes
of the paths, and those who walk with a load or are tired of walking
salute them and offer a prayer or a stone, in such a way that in those
places there are piles of them. Others dig the ground of the huaca, while
telling it their troubles and their joys. Others tie knots with straw that
is nearby. Others offer twigs, others flowers, or the feathers of the
pariguanas, which are the birds known as flamencos in Spain. Others
acollicos of coca or corn; the acollico is a little bit of chewed coca, or
whatever one worships” (in Duviols 1984: 197).
As late as the beginning of the 19th century, the heads of defeated
enemies were also deposited at apachetas (Demelas 1991:203) as a warning to
potential attackers, a practice which adds a dimension as territorial markers to
the symbolism of the apacheta.
1. 2. The valley’s ritual space.
1. 2. 1. Apus as sacred markers.
The apus that delimit the sacred horizon of Accha also link the valley
with other groups. Siwina can be seen from Pilpinto, Acos, and Acomayo, and
is part of their ritual horizon. An apu that is visible from a great distance is
integrated on the horizon with the local apus. The importance of an apu. in the
local hierarchy is directly proportional to its distance from the community, and
therefore its relative size on the horizon.
The overlapping structure of ritual landmarks, at the same time as it
defines the sacred environment of a given population, also forms a continuum
that links together neighboring communities who share one or more apus . The
less the distance between two communities, the greater is the number of
common apus, and the higher the level of shared regional as well as ritual
identity. Yet in this area of small high-altitude interandine valleys, each
mountain pass is indeed a threshold between ritual spaces, and no two
populations have the exact same referential circle of sacred co-ordinates. Each
valley’s perimeter of apus therefore constitutes a unique horizon of ritual
landmarks.
1. 2. 2. Accha’s local apus.
There are seven apus in Accha: Siwina, Kangal, Ankara, Machu Pisqo,
Sumbrererioq, Runtu Marka, and Itunka. Siwina is the community’s main apu.
Kangal, slightly higher than Siwina according to Peruvian topographical maps,
33
is the second most important apu. Legend has it that Kangal used to be a
volcano and tried to unseat Siwina as main apu
Fig. 2. Accha and its apus
by projecting rocks in Siwina’s direction. But Siwina could not be defeated, and
now Kangal is no longer a volcano. Sumbrererioq is a quechuazation of a
Spanish word and means “the Hat Shop”. This apu sits at the end of the
plateau of Achupampa and is topped by huge cylindrical boulders that vaguely
evoke piles of hats on display. Sumbrererioq, also called Kuntursenja (Beak of
the Condor) is believed to contain many bones of the Ñaupas , the mythical preIncaic ancestors. Brian Bauer who did an archaeological survey of Accha,
indicates the presence in Sombrererioq of Inca burial sites, but no evidence of
pre-Inca occupation (pers. com.) Itunka’s name comes from the word itu
connoting both ‘sacred mountain’ and ‘ritual boundary’ (see infra.) Machu
Pisqo, or Tahui, is the name of a peak on the south side of the plateau. Machu
Pisqo means ‘old penis’ in Quechua. When asked for a clarification of the
meaning of that name, people would indicate the pointed shape of the peak,
and draw a graphic sexual connection between this and the gaping hole of
Acchatoqo, a broad but shallow cave on the north-east side of Siwina.
It seems that Siwina, like Sumbrererioq, was an burial site in precolumbian times: I have been told that people looking for tapados, (buried
treasures) inside the cave of Acchatoqo had found bones. I personally saw in
Acchatoqo fragments of textiles too small and brittle to collect, and that I was
33
Mapa topografica, n.d., Instituto Geografico National.
51
unable to identify or date. In addition, there are a great number of skulls lying
on the west flank of Siwina itself. Don Mariano, who took me there to show
them to me, says that they were unearthed by cows grazing on the
mountainside. He pointed at what he claims to be an abnormal elongated
shape of the skulls as a proof that those were Ñaupas skulls --the people who
inhabited the earth before the sun and the Incas-- saying “see, their heads were
different from ours, they were not like us.”
1. 2. 3. Siwina: gender and mythistorical identity
The sexual marking of Siwina, implied in the relation between this apu
and Machu Pisqo, is further apparent in its general shape, which, when seen
from the village resembles a reclining pregnant woman with her hands folded
on her swollen abdomen, as if asleep or lying in state. She is known as the
Ñusta or Inca princess. The use of the term Ñusta, however, raises another
possible implication:
In some cases wiñaq rumi (emerging stones) are considered to be
manifestations of Pachamama. The female spirit who inhabits these
stones is called ñusta. (J. V. Nuñez del Prado 1974:246.).
This description of the wiñaq rumi fits the highest point on Siwina: a
formidable cylindrical boulder that corresponds to the entertwined hands of the
reclining princess. The suggestion that the word ñusta could serve to designate
a female spirit connected with Pachamama, in addition to the overall shape of
the mountain, underlines the complexity of the relation between apus and
Pachamama already alluded to. This is further complicated by the fact that,
although Siwina as a mountain is perceived as female, its spiritual
representation is a man known in local myths either as “Señor de Siwina” or
52
“Cristóbal” who lives inside the mountain and whose subterranean domain is
entered through Acchatoqo (see chapter 5).
1. 3. Regional apus in Accha ‘s sacred horizon: Ausangate and
Huanacauri
Besides the seven apus that surround the village, the hierarchy of sacred
mountains also includes some more distant ones. Of those far-away mountains,
two are recognized in Accha (as they are in the whole southeastern part of the
Cusco region) and are integrated in the community’s ritual horizon. Those are
Huanacauri and Ausangate.
Fig. 3. Regional apus in relation to Accha and Siwina
1. 3. 1. “Son hatun apus porque tienen nieve”
The power of a given apu and its position in the sacred hierarchy of the
region is proportional to the dimension of the social group it protects. The
ritual importance of Huanacauri and Ausangate is derived from their sheer size
--and concurrently the fact that they are permanently snow-capped--, from their
relation to pre-colonial mythology, and from the history of pilgrimages and
ritual practices attached to them. These sacred mountains, and the mountainlords who inhabit them were, and are, considered by the inhabitants of the
region in their immediate proximity as the most important deities they
recognize.
Ausangate is one of the peaks connected with the main pilgrimage of the
Cusco region, Qollur R’iti (Sallnow 1987: 211). The genesis of the pilgrimage
involves the character of the Christ Child who promises salvation to a young
Indian shepherd before entering a rock, in a form of lithomorphism common in
Andean myths (see chapter 5.) Today, Ausangate “is expressly likened to Dios,
God, creator of all living things” (Sallnow 1987: 127.)
According to J. V. Nuñez del Prado (1974), Ausangate is inhabited by
Roal, the Creator God, whose name “has been confused with that of Apu, and
both are used interchangeably as a generic term for the spirit of the
mountains”(1974: 245.) But Nuñez del Prado points out that this association
between Ausangate and the Creator God is only true for the people of that area.
For the inhabitants of the Apurimac region and part of the Cusco Valley, the
divinity resides in Salqantay. For the people of Arequipa, he lives in a volcano
called Pichu Pichu.
Nevertheless, one should not visualize a multiplicity of supreme spirits;
rather, we are dealing with the same deity who resides in the highest
mountain of each zone and takes for the purpose of liturgy the name of
the peak that he inhabits in each case (ibid.)
Here the distinction between the mountain and the apu seems both
unavoidable and clear: it is the distinction between a physical reality and the
spiritual entity it contains, and the local focus implies that for each community
the most important mountain will be the receptacle of this highest spirit. Yet
there exists a clear symbiotic relation between the two, and the shape and size
of the mountain, its proximity to other mountains, and other features,
determine the characteristics of the apu, its name, and the ritual activities and
myths associated with it. In a culture that puts such emphasis on its ecological
and geographical environment (see Martinez 1980), the sacredness is embedded
in the very rocks and earth of its landscape.
1. 3. 2. Huanacauri: Between Accha and Cusco
Huanacauri is the most important regional apu on the ritual horizon of
Accheños. It is located at the southern tip and in the Cuntisuyu quadrant of the
Cusco Valley, on a straight line between Cusco and Accha. The modern road,
built along the old Cuntisuyu Inca road, that takes Accheños to Cusco through
Paruro descends into the Cusco Valley by a pass near the top of Huanacauri.
For Accheños, Huanacauri has the same status at the regional level that Siwina
has at the level of the valley. It functions as a cosmological point of reference
that mediates between Accha and Cusco, and also, through mythic time, relates
Accheños to the Inca past.
The mountain Huanacauri was an important ritual locus in Inca times,
associated with rituals of socialization, initiation, and accession to manhood for
the young Inca nobility (Zuidema 1964, 1990). To this day, it is the apu that is
responsible for maintaining rules and order, and overseeing the proper
behavior of individuals (J. V. Nuñez del Prado 1974). In the Inca myth of
origin, Huanacauri occupies a salient position, as it is the place from the top of
which the Ayar brothers first discovered the site of the future city of Cusco; it
is also where Sinchi Roca, the son born to Manco Capac in Huaynacancha,
underwent the ritual of ear-piercing. It is finally where Ayar Uchu was
transformed into a stone, worshipped by the Incas as one of their most
important shrines (Urton 1990: 39-8; Molina: 1959), the most important huaca.
outside of Qoricancha (Rowe 1946: 296). The carved stone on top of
Huanacauri was taken into battle against the enemies of the Incas. According
to Guaman Poma, the Ayars went straight from Pacariqtambo to Huanacauri to
worship their god (1980 vol. 1:64).
At the time of Carlos Paullo Topa Ynga, the heirs to the throne were
called capac apo Ynga Uana Cauri, “which means king” (1980 vol. 1:159).
34
And
indeed, in his depiction of the execution of the rebel Inca king Tupac Amaru I in
1572, Guaman Poma paints the Inca mourners singing with tears running down
their cheeks the following verse:
Ynga Uana Cauri,
maytam rinqui?
Sapra aucanchiccho
mana huchayoqta
concayquita cuchon?
Inca Huanacauri,
where are you going?
could it be that our evil enemies
will cut your throat,
though you are sinless?
35
This verse is interesting in other ways. Tupac Amaru I is one of the
prototypical figures of Inkarrí, the generic Inca King of myths. Versions of the
messianic myth have the beheaded body of the Inkarrí, or his head, buried and
growing back into a complete body (Ortiz Rescaniere 1973, Decoster 1987ms).
36
This association of Huanacauri with Tupac Amaru suggests then that the sacred
apu has gone underground and is being nurtured and ultimately revived by
Y sus dios avia que ser Uana Cauri [82]....Este ocho hermanos salieron de Pacari
Tambo y fueron a su ydolo uaca de Uana Cauri [84]....Que en aquel tiempo avían
lexítimos que al dicho lexítimo le llamaron Capac apo Ynga Uana Cauri; quiere decir
rrey [183].
35 p. 452 [454] vol 2: 419.
36 The messianic connotation is further emphasized by the use of the word
huchayoq, sinner, or mana huchayoqta, without sin. Huanacauri, whose name
might be rendered, in one interpretation, as “protector-of-atonement,” was
involved in the Capac hucha, “the rite of the great sin.” The name of this rite,
through which the whole population of Cusco was purified, also serve to
designate the victims of human sacrifices (Zuidema 1989c.).
34
56
Pachamama, underlining the relation mentioned above between apus and the
earth. This relation will also be made evident in the case of apu Siwina and the
myth of Cristóbal in chapter 5.
In Guaman Poma’s subtly subversive letter to the King of Spain, it is
easy to read in his description of the execution of Tupac Amaru I a parallel
between the sinless King of the Incas, the redemptory Huanacauri and the
Spaniards’ Christ. A similar association can be made for Ausangate.
Ausangate is either said to have been created by Inkarrí (Sallnow 1987:212), or
on the contrary, it is Ausangate who created Inkarrí (J. V. Nuñez del Prado
1974:240). Sallnow, who does not himself relate Tupac Amaru II to Inkarrí, also
states that the pilgrimage was started in 1783, the year when the last supporters
of the 18th century rebel leader were put to death in Cusco.
As the same time as Guaman Poma was writing his letter to the King of
Spain, Pérez Bocanegra wrote a catechism (1631) while he was the resident
priest at Andahuaylillas, a village at the southeast tip of the Cusco Valley. In
his Quechua text, he simply used Huanacauri, the name of the apu that
dominates the locality, to translate the Spanish Dios. This he did for the benefit
37
of the inhabitants of the village, who viewed Huanacauri as their supreme god.
Huanacauri and Ausangate are barely visible from Accha, beyond the
circle of local apus. Yet they are an integral part of the community’s sacred
geography. These and other major apus of the region are recognized by all.
Even when they are out of sight, people will turn and blow in their direction.
Travelers passing through Accha bring with them their own sets of apus and
blow a phukuy to them in thanksgiving, for protection, and to celebrate their ties
with their place of origin. They also blow towards the apus in the direction of
their travel, asking for safe passage. In the same way, people who leave Accha
37
I am obliged to Bruce Mannheim for bringing this point to my attention.
57
maintain their identification with the apu. of their community of origin: there is
a transplanted Accheño in Cusco who drives a truck called Siwina de Accha and
also a huayno band with the same name.
2. Itu: center and periphery.
This relation between Accheños and their apu of origin is rendered in
Quechua by the word itu which designates “the apu of one’s district of birth
and ... is the point of reference of the individual’s identity” (J. V. Nuñez del
Prado and Murillo1988ms:1). This use in turn can be traced to the word ituy or
ytiy meaning to ‘demand’ or ‘borrow,’ to carry something delicate or heavy
38
with great care, to carry an object in front of oneself in both hands, to take away
with oneself.
guidance.
40
39
The word also relates to the idea of remembrance, advice and
Itu is also the name of a offertory ritual to the sun.
41
As applied to
the apu of origin, itu refers to the role of personal protector, provider, and
42
guide that one’s apu plays for the individual, at the same time as it indicates
something is carried along and is part of one’s cultural and local identity.
It is, I believe, this link to the apu that is being expressed when Accheños
claim that Siwina can be seen from Cusco. This is a meaningful statement,
ituy: rogar (Guardia M. 1959).
ituy: llevar con ambos manos un objeto pesado a la altura del pecho (Lara 1978) ituy
o it’uy: to carry [a cooking pot] with great care by the handles (Luís Morató:
pers. comm.). ituy: llevar algo a la altura de la cintura (Prov. Altas) (Cusihuamán
G. 1976); ituykachay: llevar algo consigo en la mano o en los brazos. (Guardia M.
1959); yttiyccachani: llevar algo consigo en la mano (González Holguín 1989
[1608]).
40 sonccoyqiypy ytiycachay Diospasiminki: traen en la memoria o consigo el sermon que
oyes: allisimcta yticllami: darle buenos consejos; ytitman simicta machit machini:
predicar al alma cosas de provecho (González Holguín 1989 [1608]).
41 Itu: ceremonia invocatoria al sol para conjurar los males (Lira 1944).
42 ituq: el que provee la comida, el apu. (Luis Morató: pers. comm.).
38
39
because not only is the view of Siwina from Cusco blocked by Huanacauri, but
also the corollary is never made that Cusco can be seen from Accha. By
claiming that Siwina can be seen from Cusco, Accheños who travel away from
Accha can maintain a fictitious contact with a visual icon of identity that
connects them with the community.
In addition, the use of the word itu raises an interesting issue that deals
with the establishment of community boundaries. One of the accomplishments
of the Agrarian Reform --by way of promoting the creation of peasant
communities--, was the mapping of the land belonging to these communities.
Since the 1970s this has been accomplished by sending teams of engineers from
the Ministry of the Reform to the villages which petitioned for their accession to
the status of peasant community. The engineers’ role is to walk the periphery
of the community and to try to reach an agreement over the boundaries
between the community and its neighbors. This eventually leads to the
establishment of an expediente, a document that makes official the limits of
Accha as staked out by the Ministry workers (see chapter 3).
As a result of this process, small pyramids of stones are left at the
outskirts of the community. These pyramids, which serve to indicate the
official boundaries, are called itus by Accheños. In the official document of the
Agrarian Ministry that describes and records in Spanish the process of
delimitation for the community of Accha, the word ito is used to designate
43
these same mounds of rocks. The word might be an incorrect spelling -dropping of the silent h-- of the Spanish term hito meaning a “pile or heap of
rocks, a boundary stone or a landmark,”
43
44
The vocalic change from o to u,
Expediente: Reconocimiento de la Comunidad Campesina Sihuina Accha, 1976,
Ministerio de la Reforma Agraria, Cusco.
44 hito: mojón o poste de piedra. (Diccionario de la Academia Real.)
common in the Quechuazation of Spanish words, would account for the local
use of itu to designate these boundary markers.
Yet these piles of rocks are in shape, and I believe in symbolic structure,
not unlike the apachetas described above, which I argue function partly as icons
for the apu. In addition apacheta means, as we have seen, something that is
carried or brought, and the Quechua meaning of itu relates to something that is
carried away. In the same way as the apacheta is taken to the apu from the
valley, the itu may mark the apu’s extreme reach within that valley. These two
terms taken together suggest a dual centrifugal/centripetal movement centered
on the apu.
Itu is also the name of an Inca ritual concerned with the expression of
group identity, allegiance, and boundaries. It was performed in times of “dire
need” and marked by fasting and abstinence, and the use of special clothing
(Polo 1906b:217). According to Zuidema (1989c:253), the Itu Feast took place in
November, and was dedicated to the beginning of the sacred season between
the first passage of the sun through the zenith (30 October) and the second
zenith passage (13 February). All cripples, foreigners and sick persons where
excluded from Cusco, and the city closed itself from the outside. The ritual
expressly served to put young initiate men in contact with their ancestors; it
also was a way to create and celebrate political marriage alliances between
Cusco and other kingdoms. Zuidema says that the word “probably derives
from the Aymara language … [and] was used for the circle that is sometimes
seen around the sun”. This etymology and the ritual symbolism connected
with it reinforce the interpretation suggested here of the boundaries around a
center and of the relation between this center and the outside.
45
Similar ritual movements include for instance the yearly ritual of Capac
Hucha mentioned above and discussed in Duviols 1976a, during which the
45
60
There is, as we have seen, a certain linguistic cross-reference in the usage
of the word itu to designate the markers used in the delimitation of the
community’s territory. Itu is at the same time the pile of rocks that establishes
the boundary (hito, itu), and the spiritual link to the local apu (itu) that a villager
carries with him (ituy) when he is away from Accha. The same word that
serves to mark the boundaries of the community also connotes its sacred
referential locus and identity marker. This in turn would suggest that the
agreed upon limits of the community correspond to the area that is directly
under the control of the apu, ensuring a concordance between the focus of
cultural identity and the territorial limits.
Furthermore, if we accept, as I suggest, that this correspondence between
the apu and the spatial boundaries of the group influenced the linguistic
approximation hito/itu rather than the other way round, then we might also
argue that what is recorded in the mythical history of a population or
populations as fights between apus --e. g. between Kangal and Siwina-- may
well have related to disputes or negotiations between discrete political entities
over access to land.
3. What’s in a name? : Toponymy, mythistory and cosmology
3. 1. Siwina
In Accha, names of objects, places or people are meaningful. Often I
would be asked what my patronym was, and my interlocutor would repeat it
slowly as if trying to match it against his or her own repertoire of known
names. When that would fail, they would ask for my mother’s name and
huacas from the provinces, and the sacrifices and offerings from those provinces
would be brought to Cusco and then sent out again along ceque lines in a vast
double movement of people, goods and sacred objects that ensured the
purification of all the parts of the empire, and also expressed the renewal of
their ties to the ritual and political center of Cusco.
61
slowly shake their head. An individual’s patronym and matronym convey
meaningful information about who the person is and where he or she comes
from. Quechua toponyms are nearly always descriptive of the places they
designate (marka, pata, pampa, toqo, etc.). When the gloss is not immediately
clear, Accheños will often spontaneously offer an etymological explanation.
Siwina is the only apu in Accha for which I was given two different etymologies
--one Spanish and one Quechua, both linking the apu to the Incas.
One of the interpretations of the name Siwina is that it derives from the
phrase Inca Sibillanos. Sibillanos does exist as a patronym in Accha, and is
recognized as a ‘Spanish’ surname (Sevillanos, Sevillans). Calle Inca Sebillanos
46
is the name of the southernmost street in Accha, that separates the village from
the pampa and runs along the edge of both moieties. The phrase ‘Inca
Sibillanos’ is believed to imply that the inhabitants of Accha at the time of the
Spanish conquest were recognized as “tal caballeros como los Españoles”--true
gentlemen just like the Spaniards.
It is in that respect remarkable that, although the name of the apu is
usually given as plain ‘Siwina’, or sometimes as ‘Siwina de Accha’, when the
lineage of the community and its supposed relation to the pre-colonial elite are
to be emphasized, the above etymologies and their variants are always given,
preceded by the word Inca, and ‘Sebillanos’ alone is never offered as the
meaning of Siwina.
The other explanation given by Accheños for the name of the apu ,
suggesting a derivation from siwi meaning “ring” , relates it to an Inca outpost
47
or observatory: “Inca Siwillaq means that there is a “ring” on top of Siwina. It
This happens to be Don Mariano Guzman’s matronym, which he
occasionally spells, like some other families in the village, Zevillanos.
47 González Holguín (1989 [1608]). This meaning of siwi is also found in
contemporary Bolivian Quechua (Juan de Dios Yapita, pers. comm.).
46
was used for smoke signals.” The ‘ring’ mentioned here refers to a small round
stone building on top of the mountain, identified by Bauer as Inca (pers.
comm.), which could possibly have been used as an observatory or beacon
tower. Besides this building, there is some evidence of an Inca presence in
Accha. At the edge of the village itself, at the foot of Siwina Bauer found what
he claims is one of the largest Inca site in the region. Surface collection revealed
a “very large amount of Inca pottery” spread over several fields, but no
architectural structure and no early Inca or pre-Inca material.
48
While in Accha,
I was shown a small length of wall that is supposed to be Inca, in Ayllu Santa
Ana, not far from where Bauer did his surface collection.
The identity of the Incas of Accha is uncertain, although it is reasonable
to assume that they were connected with the Inca building on top of Siwina.
This building could have served a dual purpose as a communication post with
Cusco, and also, conceivably, as a small outpost: Accha was the southernmost
limit of the territory occupied by Incas-de-privilegio (Bauer 1992, Poole 1987b),
the ennobled populations who were ritually and politically related to the Incas
of Cusco (see chapter 7). In addition to the Incas-de-privilegio, there is archival
evidence of a (Cusco) Inca ayllu (Incacona) in Accha at the turn of the 17th
century (AGN 1623), and also that the lineage of Tupac Yupanqui owned
property in Accha (Poole 1984: 87).
In regard to the etymology of Siwina, the existence south of Cusco,
between Huanacauri, and Pacariqtambo of a mountain named Cerro
Sevillanoq, does not necessarily support the Spanish derivation over the
Quechua. Either name, Siwina and Sevillanoq, could conceivably be a
This suggests an important Inca presence, but does not necessarily preclude
a pre-Inca occupation, as Bauer’s archaeological team did not do any digging
on that site (Bauer pers. comm.).
48
corruption of either the Spanish Sevillanos or the Quechua siwi. Yet the fact
that these two mountains are on the same direct line from Cusco would seem to
support the claim for the existence of a system of communication based on a
succession of visual signals.
3. 2. Accha
Often the derivation of a toponym is implicated in a narration as a
validation of the story and the mooring of local landmarks in a larger historical
or mythic past. Accha-Siwina is the official name of the village since its
recognition as comunidad campesina as a consequence of the 1969 Agrarian
Reform-- a name that appropriately combines those of the community and its
main apu and also serves to differentiate it from other ‘Acchas’ in the region.
The etymology of the name Accha is unclear. It is generally agreed in
Accha that the name of the village used to be Q’aqcha or Kaqcha. This is verified
by historical documents although they offer a great variation in spellings:
Haccha, Caccha, Agcha, Aqcha, etc.
Most of the etymological explanations collected in Accha for the
meaning of the village name have to do with the alleged military or aggressive
nature of the original population: “Terror, what frightens. Before, there was a
group of defenders against Chumbivilcas.”
49
Another explanation claims that
Accheños had a war with a population along the Apurimac Valley and defeated
them. Hence Q’accha, “which means the ones on top, the winners.”
50
Cusihuaman (1976) gives for q’aqchay the following translation: ‘scare, fright,
terror; to terrorize, to scare, to put to flight’ Guardia M. (1980) glosses in a
51
49
“Espanto, que hace asustar. Antes era un grupo de defensores contra
Chumbivilcas.”
50 “quiere decir los de encima, los vencidores”
51 susto, terror; tr. espantar, aterrorizar, ahuyentar
very similar way the word kaqchay , but with a nuance of awe, of fear inspired
by respect. J. Lira gives: Q’aqcha : ‘panic, great fear’ and González Holguín
52
offers the following: Kacchari: terrorize, kac charcuni, o kacchaycuni, o
53
llacsaycuniy, llacsarcuni
heart,
54
‘to terrorize, to startle, to astound or to cause to lose
Llacsarcunyi, given here as a synonym, is associated elsewhere with fear
of the supernatural.
55
One explanation offered in the Accha for the name of the village gives
this meaning an interesting twist: “The first ones to come to Accha had first
settled in Ullpo Torre. They moved when Ullpo Torre fell, when the mountain
56
came. That is why it is now Kaqcha: ‘los asustados’ [those who were shocked,
surprised].”
This interpretation, which supports one story of the genesis of the
original settlement (see chapter 7), brings to mind a 1786 description of Accha
as a “village...located at the foot of a mountain topped by a formidable crest
that constitutes a constant threat and seems to be ready to fall on top of the
village...”
52
57
This fairly accurate description of the balancing boulder on top of
panico, miedo grande.
atemorizar
54 atemorizar, sobresaltar de repente, pasmar o desmayar.
55 l lacsak llacssak tapiya: Cosa temerosa de la otra vida; llacssaytucuni:
desfallecer quedar atajado, o desmayar, o turbarse despauorido, o de alguna vision
fantasma, o miedo repentino.
56 Ullpo Torre is the name of a ruined chapel at the entrance of the plateau of
Achupampa, believed to have been one of the original sites of settlement before
the population finally moved to its present location at the foot of Siwina (see
infra chapter 4 and chapter 7).
57 Antonio de Alcedo, Diccionario Geografíco de las Indias Occidentales (1786):
el pueblo de Accha está situado a la falda de un cerro con el continuo peligro que
amenaza un crestón, que parece está ya para caer sobre el pueblo.. Jordán Rodriguez
(1950) uses the very same quote without attributing it, and refers to the village
as Acca, although he spells it Accha in the rest of his work.
53
Siwina --the wiñaq rumi in 1. 2. 3. --might suggest a physical threat that literally
hangs over Accha.
Another related meaning that was sometimes offered is that of thunder
(trueño). The Quechua word for ‘thunder’ is qhaqrararay (Cusihuaman 1976)
58
ccakñin (González Holguín 1989 [1608]), but a gloss in González Holguín links
both etymologies: Kacchanta çurcun ccacñiy : to be knocked down by thunder,
or stunned by a great noise, which supports a connection with fear brought
59
suddenly by an exterior or supernatural danger. More interestingly, Gade
offers an Aymara rather than Quechua etymology for the name which would
link it to another natural/supernatural phenomenon: “Illapa tends to have a
figurative meaning. Qhaqya (also kaxya, ccacya, caccha), an Aymara word also
used by Quechua speakers in southern Peru, is literal, but can also refer to the
evil spirit in lightning (1983:770).”
Although I find those etymologies that link the name of Accha to fear
caused by a natural or supernatural threat intriguing, I believe that the actual
origin of the word must be found elsewhere. Don Mariano’s explanation nicely
relates an occupational etymology for the population of Accha with the
meaning of Siwina as post of observation and communication: “The Incas on
top of the apu were cachas, ‘messengers’. Siwina and Huanacauri are at the same
level. You can see one from the other. They would signal each other with
smoke and the chaskis [runners] would run to Pacariqtambo.”
In his monograph on Accha, Ccori claims that “many historians” agree
that there once were tribes of nomads who settled in the region, “such as the
Ullpus, who settled 4 kms from Accha, and the Kcachas were to be found in
This is clearly an onomatopoeia, as is k’aqcha, the sound of the slingshot and
of thunder.
59 Derribarle el trueño, o gran ruido pasmarle
58
what is today the community of Accha” (1978:14). I was not able to obtain any
information on the sources used by Ccori. But there is a place called Ullpo or
Ullpotorre between Accha and Pilpinto, and Ullpo was one of the “pueblos
viejos” that were regrouped by the Spaniards to form the community of Accha
(see chapter 7). In Don Mariano’s explanation, Accheños claim the existence on
Siwina of a population of Inca messengers (cachas in Holguín). Ccori’s
statement seems rather to trace the origin of the name to pre-Inca times by
implying they were nomadic, i.e. presumably herders. It is however possible
that the name cachas (messengers) was derived from a function (of sentinels
and messengers) that the population living on or around Siwina occupied vis-avis Incaic Cusco and that the occupational appelation was subsequently
thought to designate the ethnic group and ascribed a pre-Incaic origin.
60
3. 3. Anchoring the past: toponyms and cultural identity
The claim related above that messengers (cachas) at the top of Siwina
would receive signals from Huanacauri, which would then be communicated
by runners (chaskis) to Pacariqtambo, is rather puzzling: not only can
I have decided to ignore other etymologies offered for Accha, mostly because
their derivations do not take into account early colonial spellings of the name
(q’ aqcha, agcha or caccha) and are based on the current orthography or are
otherwise unsubstantiated. For instance, Paz Soldan (1877) says that the name
means “handsome, beautiful” in Quechua but fails to give the derivation to
which he ascribes that meaning. Espinoza Galarza (1973: 171) suggests that the
name comes from aqchi, “sparrow-hawk”. Mestizo schoolteachers in Accha
claim that the name of the village, and that of Achupampa, the vast plateau
beyond Hanansaya come from achu,, which they say is the name of a small
black fly. Besides the fact that a common derivation between achu and accha, let
alone the earlier spellings of the community’ s name, seems unlikely, I couldn’t
verify the suggested meaning for achu. Instead, Lira, Gonzales Holguin and
Cusihuaman all offer meanings that relate to the sharing of arable land, which
seems appropriate for Achupampa, this vast expanse of potato land where
laymis and fondos often take place (see chapter 1).
60
Huanacauri be seen directly from the summits around Pacariqtambo, but
61
Accha is also about twice as far from Cusco as Pacariqtambo is, and in the same
direction. That is to say that it would be just as fast, and a lot more direct, for
chaskis to go straight to Pacariqtambo from Cusco as it would be from Accha.
Yet the use of the term cacha used in that narration suggests another
possibility. Zuidema notes that the word is also an equivalent of ceque
(1989c:504). Accha is on the old Inca road that leaves Cusco through Paruro to
Chumbivilcas and leads to Arequipa and Tacna (Levillier 1946:20; Romero 1978;
Poole 1987b:261).
62
This road, now called machuñan (“Old Road”) in Accha,
corresponds to the ritual road to Cuntisuyu which coincided with the first
ceque line in Cuntisuyu (Polo 1916 [1571] vol 2: 39, Zuidema 1989c:461, 1990:76
and 1964 passim; see also infra chapter 5). This ceque line, and the road, go
through Mount Anahuarque, not Huanacauri, located on the sixth ceque of
Collasuyu (Polo 1916 [1571] vol 2: 31). The two mountains are next to each
other, but Anahuarque, smaller than Huanacauri, cannot be seen from Accha.
The mention of cachas as operating a link between Accha, Pacariqtambo, and
Huanacauri could refer to both the road and the ceque system and allude to a
communication network as well as ritual movement of people.
Gary Urton, pers. comm. 1990.
It must be noted, as does Levillier, that this Inca road is not mentioned in the
chronicles nor in the “Ordenanza de Tambos”.of Vaca de Castro, where the
only authorized road to Arequipa goes along the Vilcanota River through
Urcos, Quiquijana and Pomacancha --the Acomayo truck-road described infra
in chapter 3-- and on to Yanaoca in Canas (Tinta), Cora, and Hatuncana, the
main settlement of the Canas Indians (Ulloa 1908). The evidence used by
Levillier for the existence of the road to Arequipa going through Accha comes
from a 1779 “Ordenanza para las postas del Perú” which I have been unable to
locate. The Inca origin of the road is, however, supported by Accheños as well
as by archaeological evidence (Bauer pers. comm.).
61
62
I discuss later (chapter 5) how the myth relates Siwina and Acchatoqo,
the shallow cave on Siwina, to the Cusco Valley and the Incas. For now, I
would only like to suggest that the linking of Accha and its main apu to Inca
military organization, as well as to the mythical place of origin of the Incas
(Pacariqtambo) and to one of the main apus of the Cusco Valley (Huanacauri),
63
is an example of temporal and geographical anchoring of the community in the
historical and mythic past.
This anchoring is frequent as a narrative device, and one can often hear
versions of myths that incorporate local landmarks. For instance, Don Mariano
told me in Accha that not far from the village there is in the valley of the
Apurimac River a depression in the rock called Inkaqonqorina:
There it is said that the Inca kneeled before he went on to Huanacauri,
and then to the cathedral [of Cusco]. He kneeled down, prayed to God
and threw his golden rod, which landed in Huanacauri. Then from there
he threw it again and it landed a second time. The cathedral used to be a
lake. There he founded Cusco.
64
One can recognize in this narration a succinct version of the myth of
origin of the Incas (see e.g. Betanzos 1987; Urton 1990) in which Manco Capac,
the first Inca and founder of Cusco, left the cave of Pacariqtambo with a golden
rod given by his father the sun. He was to build the city at the spot where the
rod buried itself into the ground. Huanacauri was one of the stops on Manco
Capac’s journey to Cusco. The Inkaqonqarina story blends elements of the
myth of origin (the Inca, the rod and Huanacauri), with Christian symbols:
kneeling, praying, and the cathedral. But more interestingly, it incorporates
Pacariqtambo --or rather Tambotoco, the actual cave from which the first
Incas originated-- and Huanacauri are two of the three “idols” that Guaman
Poma identifies for the Incas. The third one was the sun (Guaman Poma 1980:
266).
64 this is a literal translation of the name Inkaqonqorina.
63
mythical events and sacred places which become connected to the local space
by way of named and recognized landmarks. This narrative device is not
uncommon. J. V. Nuñez del Prado (1974) cites a story collected by O. Nuñez
del Prado in the community of Q’eros. In the story, Inkarrí first threw his
golden rod and founded Q’eros. The site however turned out to be
unsatisfactory and he went on to the build Cusco. He later installed his first
son as ruler of Q’eros and came back through this village on his way to the
jungle. Signs of his passage are indicated by toponyms such as Inkaq Yupin
“Footprint of the Inca.” In this manner, a generic myth becomes localized in
the community through the reference to the known topography of the village.
In a similar way, some toponyms in Accha correspond to important
ritual sites of Inca Cusco as though the community and its own social and
sacred space functioned as a scaled-down model of the larger system. There is,
for instance, below Itunka a small pointed hill called Huanacauri, and also at
the foot of Siwina a site occupied by large boulders which is called
Sacsahuaman, the name of the Inca fortress/ritual center above Cusco, notable
for its megalithic architecture. In Accha, Sacsahuaman is the place where the
Hurinsaya moiety prepares the Child Jesus for the procession of Christmas.
This information was given me as sole explanation for the name of the site, and
no connection was ever made to the Cusco Sacsahuaman or to the apparent
resemblance of the two sites.
65
There is, however, evidence that in Inca times, minor huacas situated away
from the most important sites in and around Cusco would bear the names of
those important huacas. Albornoz, the great extirpator of idolatry, mentions
several huacas Coricancha, Huanacauri, and Anahuarque named “in memory
of” or “in reverence for” those in Cusco (Albornoz 1583 in Duviols 1984:205206). A structural relation might have been involved between these major
huacas and their eponyms, a relation that might have been formal, as in the case
of the two sites mentioned in Accha, or ritual/functional, or even directional
and calendrical, as a way to reinforce the association of the various shrines with
65
70
The relation of the community to the valley and to the sacred landscape
that both delimits and controls its boundaries is an expression of the extreme
importance of the ritual environment in the creation and maintenance of the
group’s cultural identity. In addition, toponyms have been shown to be
variously interpreted by Accheños as hermeneutic devices that connect the
community to a mythic and historical local geography. Howard-Malverde
(1986) shows how myth and local topography are linked in a relation through
which both are justified and validated. In the Siwina myths, toponyms are also
used to validate the myth, and in addition connect them with a specific social
group within the community, the ayllu or saya to which the narrator belongs
(chapter 5). Through these multiple interpretations, the symbolic, social, and
physical geography of the community is related to a larger known historical
and mythic past (e. g. the foundation of Cusco, the Inca communication
system). At the same time, this process of anchoring mythic structures in the
local geo-social space makes Accha the point of reference of a restructured
cosmological system that has the village for its center.
one same ceque line.
71
CHAPTER THREE
CULTURAL IDENTITY, BOUNDARIES AND CENTER
1. The initial problem: focus, definition, and delimitation
In this section, the terms "definition" and "delimitation" will be used in a
quasi-etymological sense, that of finis and limen, of border and threshold. I will
consider the inclusive concept of group identity, as determined by the group’s
own perception of its boundaries and limits. Generally, I found that in Accha
social boundaries are arrived at in two ways. One is through a consensual
perception of territorial identity and the extent of the group’s territory. The
other is through the physical or, more often, legal and judicial resolution of
conflicting claims leading to the acceptance of more or less stable borders
between neighboring groups. In other words, the territory of the group will be
shown to be defined both in relation to its symbolic center and in relative
opposition to other groups.
1. 1. Traditional Andean structures of identity
Before demonstrating how these two processes of definition operate in
Accha, I will show how they can be identified in various forms in other
ethnographical and ethnohistorical studies of Andean cultures. Zuidema’s
historical studies of the Inca Empire have indicated the importance of a number
of structural devices that served to identify the various groups within the State
and the relations between these groups (e. g. Zuidema 1964). One of these
organizational features was the moiety/quadripartite
system, or saya/suyu division. Inca Cusco, the political and administrative
center of the structure, was divided into two halves hierarchically arranged:
Hanansaya (upper) and Hurinsaya (lower). The rest of the valley and the
whole empire also followed the same division. In addition, the two moieties
were further divided into two hierarchically ranked halves, the whole system
forming the totality of the Inca world, Tawantinsuyu: Chinchasuyu and
Antisuyu in Hanansaya, and Collasuyu and Cuntisuyu in Hurinsaya. As new
territory was conquered, it was integrated in this twofold dual system, which
also functioned as a directional division of space, so that the whole universe,
terrestrial and celestial, known and unknown, became part the same
classificatory structure.
The hierarchical classification functioned to determine the relative
position of each group: if ,within Hurinsaya, Collasuyu was hanan (upper) to
Cuntisuyu, in turn both groups were hurin (lower) to Chinchasuyu and
Antisuyu. Finally, when represented in the court, all of those might stand in an
hurin relation to Cusco, as periphery to the center of the structure (Zuidema
1990).
Superimposed on this dual /quadripartite organization was the
centrifugal structure of the ceque system described by Zuidema (1964).
Zuidema conceptualizes the ceque system as 42 directional lines radiating
towards the horizon from Coricancha, the so-called Temple of the Sun in Cusco.
According to Zuidema (1964, 1989d and passim), the ceque lines had a number
of functions in Inca culture. They were used for astronomical observations and
to divide and organize the various groups --panacas and ayllus-- that made up
the two moieties of Cusco and its valley. As a ritual calendar, the ceque lines
connected a total of 328 huacas, the ‘sacred places’ of the Incas (Cobo 1979;
Garcilaso de la Vega 1966). Huacas could be natural sites such as rocks, rivers,
lakes, or mountains, or they could be man-made shrines, the most elaborate and
the most important in Inca times being Coricancha, the Temple of the Sun
(Avila 1873). Under the Incas, the most sacred idols of the conquered nations
were removed to Coricancha where they became both hostages and
participants in the glory of the Sun and of the Inca (Polo 1916, Garcilaso de la
Vega 1966, Zuidema 1990). The total number of huacas related to a modified
tropical year: each huaca. corresponded to a calendrical date, and all the huacas
on a given ceque were the ritual responsibility of one of the ayllus or panacas.
The huacas, arranged in ceques , “merged the ordering of space with the
ordering of time” (Urton 1981:8). They also articulated social, sacred, and
topographical space, as each community’s huacas were the object of worship
and sacrifices, and exercised control over the territory of the group. During the
important festival of Capacocha (Capac Huccha), the complex process of
gathering sacrificial goods in Coricancha and then redistributing them to the
peripheral huacas might have been a ritual expression of the integrationist
politics and redistributive economy of Tawantinsuyu (Duviols 1976a), at the
same time as the walking of the ceques by the outsider groups served to express
in a directional way the relation between the 12 groups in Cusco and the rest of
Tawantinsuyu (Molina 1959).
Taken together, the Inca dual/quadripartite structure and the ceque
system served to both differentiate and interconnect the elements of the
structure. They opposed the segments and groups to each other, at the same
time as they related the center/inside of the system to the periphery/outside.
1. 2. Community, center and boundaries.
Any given ayllu or panaca in Incaic Cusco was associated with a huaca, or
series of huacas on a given ceque line. But it was also associated with the major
huacas of the relevant suyu (quarter), and those of the appropriate saya (moiety).
In addition, there were huacas that transcended group divisions, such as
Coricancha, the Temple of the Sun, or the pyramidal ushnu of Aucaypata, the
main ritual square in Cusco. The elements had their huacas too, or elements
themselves could be a huaca (Arriaga 1920: 249). There were huacas that
concerned only part of a lineage or even a household, which Albornoz
compares to Roman lares. Huacas could be crippled individuals or animals or
misshapen ears of corn or potatoes . There were even ‘portable’ huacas with
very specific functions (Van de Guchte 1984, Flores Ochoa 1976). All of these
would in a certain way serve to shape the ritual and spiritual identity of the
variously embedded groups.
One of the most important defining huacas was the pacarina of the group.
This was the place of origin, whether rock or water, from which the group had
supposedly originated. Arriaga (1920 [1621]), in his guidelines for the
repression of native religion, stresses the importance to locate and destroy the
pacarina of all the ayllus. This process had probably already been achieved to a
great extent during the campaign of reducciones, when the population where
relocated and their hamlets of origin destroyed (see chapter 7) --although there
is no guarantee that there was an exact correspondence between these hamlets
(pueblos viejos ) and the pacarinas of the populations that were being regrouped.
The resilience of the relation of the group to the pacarina is indicated in the fact
that today in Cusco, rituals performed by ritual specialists (apucamayoqkuna)
associated with specific panacas or ayllus conduct portions of the ritual at the
pacarina of the royal ancestor of the group (Frost and Decoster 1988ms).
In his book on the mythistory of the Incas, Urton (1990) shows in an
different context the importance of the pacarina. He represents how various
Inca lineages of the early colonial era operated the manipulation of accounts
dealing with Pacariqtambo, the presumed pacarina of Manco Capac and hence
of the whole Inca royal class, in order to boost their own claims through the
Spanish legal system and structure of inheritance.
Taylor (1980) argues that llacta, usually translated as “village” or
“community,” relates to an ensemble of elements that tie a human group to its
(mythic) place of origin. It refers in fact to the deity that protects the
community, the deity’s sanctuary, the land that it controls, and the group that
lives there. None of those elements is separable from the others, and llacta
should be understood as local huaca, community or country depending on the
context. Llacta is linked with the notion of origin, of pacarina, the place where
the ethnic group and or its ancestral hero appeared and where he returned after
his death, and it is also where the group members will go when they die
(1980:13-14). Those deities/heroes/lineage ancestors taught a set of rites and
beliefs to their people, provided them with vital energy, watched over them
and protected them against their enemies in the territory under the ancestors’
control (1980: 15). This emphasis on place and origin was essential to the
production of individual as well as collective identity and was carried over into
the post-conquest period (Urton 1990).
1. 3. The ordering of space and the creation of identity.
Martinez’s (1980) work on the Aymaras offers a fundamentally different
model of Andean space based on a interpretation of contemporary indigenous
conceptualizations of local geographic and social environments. His thesis
convincingly suggests that the territory of a community is conceived and
organized as a “text”, the signification of which is based on a topographical
ordering defined in terms of “boundaries” and “articulations”. Unfortunately,
in the derived semantic classification of topographical terms, Martinez fails to
recognize the necessarily processual relation between a group and its physical,
social and historical environment. Martinez’s “grammar” remains descriptive
rather than generative. I believe that, in the study of a culture, a more
meaningful organizational logic must be derived from the social practice
reflected in the actions of the individual and the group in dealing with that
environment (see e.g. Merleau-Ponty 1953; Bourdieu 1977; Barth 1981). It is
only in that sense that Martinez’s two classificatory notions of boundaries and
articulations might be successfully applicable to the study of Andean social
space. A processual rather than taxonomic use of these concepts can serve to
bring together studies that emphasize the physical reality of the group as
defined in terms of spatial, kinship, political or economic boundaries ( e.g.
Allen 1984, Isbell 1985, Murra 1980; Skar 1982, Zuidema 1964), and works that
define the group’s boundaries through its relation with other groups ( e.g.
Abercrombie 1986, Bastien 1978a, Palomino 1971, Platt 1978, Urton 1984). A
study of the practices through which the group’s identity is produced will show
how a definition of the group in relative opposition, or articulation, with what is
recognized as outside of it, is concurrent with the notion of an absolute
definition of the group based on a symbolic center, such as the apu , identified
in chapter 2 as a ritual locus of identity of the group.
2. Defining the boundaries: Accha
2. 1. Defining the other
One way to express territorial identity is by stressing what lies outside of
it so that the group itself is defined in a negative way: in opposition to what it
is not. By defining the other as both different and foreign --the apparent
tautology being a consequence of the process described here-- the self becomes
indirectly defined.
Accha is a fairly typical Spanish-designed Andean village, centered
around a plaza, from which narrow streets lined with whitewashed adobe
66
houses extend in a grid pattern. Yet when the name “Accha” is used by the
comuneros --and, consequently, in this work-- rarely does it apply solely to this
localized physical and social unit. At times, it will serve to designate the
community and the whole extent of its cultivated land; or it might represent the
village and the hamlets (anexos) that politically and administratively depend on
it; it might on the contrary serve to oppose the main village to those same
hamlets; it can even, in an hyperbolic way, contrast “Accha” as an economic
system and a way of life with the regional and national capitals of Cusco and
Lima, the ethnographer’s own faraway land, and the rest of the world.
Because of its location, Accha serves as a link between the province of
Chumbivilcas and the regional capital of Cusco. People from Livitaca, Santo
Tomás and Capac Marca --villages located 8 to 12 hours away-- leave their
horses in Accha to catch a truck there for Cusco. Chumbivilcanos also come on
market-days to trade horses, as Accheños value Chumbivilcas horses for their
speed and endurance. These activities clearly entail the existence of numerous
ritual kinship ties between Accheños and Chumbivilcanos. Yet, the latter are
definitively perceived as outsiders and are usually depicted as “wild” (salvajes,
sallqa, ch’unchu) in a slightly comical way. Poole (1987b) talks about
67
Chumbivilcas society as characterized by a high level of “ideological
66
see discussion of reducciones, in chapter 7.
development, or even folklorization of such themes as violence, machismo,
bandolerismo and solitude” (1987b:258). Chumbivilcanos are cowboys and
cattle rustlers, they live on horseback and carry guns and knives, and lassos
made of rawhide. On Sundays, market-days, when they ride into sleepy Accha
wearing their white felt hats, the scene irresistibly evokes a South American
remake of an old western movie.
To Accheños, then, Chumbivilcanos are the other, the outsider. But they
are outsiders with whom one has contacts and ties of compadrazgo. From the
point of view of Accha, they belong to the fringe of the village’s own territorial
identity. Further away on the spectrum are the wild men (ch’unchus) that Don
Mariano once encountered:
When I was a young man, I was looking for gold with four
peones in the jungle near Markabamba, along the Rio Colorado. We
were captured by a band of naked savages who did not know salt or
sugar. The women too were naked, and they knew no shame, like
animals. They spoke a different language. We were held prisoners for
three months. They undressed me and painted me so that I looked like
them They all had green stains on their faces. They wanted to keep us
for the race. They wanted us to do it with their women, but I wouldn’t.
A priest came by in a canoe, but he wouldn’t rescue us for fear of
reprisals. Still, we ran for it and escaped with the priest. We made it
back to our base without clothes, tools or food. We had to cut wood with
stones. I bought most of the land I own with the gold I brought back
from that expedition. I have the receipts for the gold I sold.
Once on a truck on the way to Cusco a Pilpinto man with the blue-eye
trademark of his village and a taste for comedy answered the query shouted
from a truck going in the other direction by shouting: “Un camion tan grande,
¿como va ser de Acomayo? Es de mi país , donde los hombres hiflan y las
vicuñas vuelan: es de Chumbivilcas.” (“A truck as big as this one, how could it
be from Acomayo? It is from my land, where men whistle and vicuñas fly: it is
from Chumbivilcas”).
67
For Don Mariano, those wild men were another category of strangers.
They spoke a different language. They lacked the most basic elements of
culture --salt, sugar, clothes, and shame-- and were so alien that any form of
contact, whether linguistic or sexual, was impossible. They were far more
foreign than Chumbivilcanos are, with whom one can communicate and trade.
The ch’unchus’ lack of culture was a threat to Don Mariano’s own, and upon
escaping he found himself --as if through contagion-- naked and without tools.
Yet, these ch’unchus brought wealth to Don Mariano, in a curious restaging of
discovery and conquest, where he, the highlander, played the part of the
cultural outsider and possessor of civilization.
Another group of outsiders is comprised of a broad continuous category
that includes all the people that are perceived as “more advanced” that
Accheños themselves: from migrants to the cities, to mestizos and “Spaniards”
in Cusco and Lima, and to North Americans and Europeans, generally lumped
together as gringos.
There is here no perception of unbridgeable separateness, as in the case
of the wild men. Rather the differences are perceived as degrees of progress
that will eventually be achieved by all. There is among the villagers a
fascination for gringo technology and the riches that it brings. Each member of
the gringo culture is expected to possess and dominate completely its
technology: one of the most common requests made to a foreigner is for a
metal detector to look for buried treasures (tapados). I could never quite
convince anybody that I did not own a metal detector, that I would not know
where to find one, nor how operate it were I to come across one.
Cusco and Lima are considered as representing intermediary degrees of
progress between the village and the technological wonderland of the gringos.
Accheños qualify their village as “backward” (Sp. atrasado) in relation to the
modernity of city life, and use the same word to compare Peru with North
America or Europe. The attraction of the city is apparent in the ever increasing
flow of migration from the highlands to the regional and national capitals (see
chapter 1) as well as abroad.
68
In the 1970s, one Peruvian in seven lived in
Lima. At the end of the 1980s, the ratio was one in three. The lure of the city is
especially strong for young highlanders who leave their village in the hope of
finding work that will provide them with money and access to material goods.
That this hope is rarely realized is the great tragedy of the migrants’ condition.
They usually find themselves cut off from the subsistence economy of their
village of origin at the same time as they are unable to enter the market
economy of the urban center. In spite of their claimed intention to do so, few
migrants actually return to the village, and regardless of the poor economic
prospects offered them in the urban environment, most remain to join the
subproletariat of the pueblos jovenes.
2. 2. Being runa: the fragility of Quechua identity.
In spite of the ties that migrants cultivate both among themselves in the
new settlements and with the community of origin (chapter 2), when they leave
the village, they undergo a transformation of identity. They cease to be runa
and enter the category of q’ala, a word that designates the “non-Indian” (Albó
ms. 1982), or the individual who has shed his original cultural baggage and
finds himself ‘naked’ (Isbell 1985; Harris 1980; Allen 1988), much like Don
Mariano among the ch’unchus. In some Andean communities, this process of
cultural undressing is often quite literal: in Salasaca (Tungurahua) in Ecuador,
lives a population of some 2000 descendants of mitimaes, originally from
see Paul Gelles and Wilton Martinez’ s (1993) recent movie on Peruvian
immigrants in Washington D.C.
68
Bolivia, who wear a very distinctive black poncho, supposedly to
commemorate the death of Atahuallpa. Anyone moving into the village must
adopt this dress, and anyone leaving the community must abandon it (Meisch
1984:290-91).
Runa means “human being” in Quechua. It is the term that Quechua
speakers use to designate themselves, and runasimi is their language. Indio is a
term of insult, even among the villagers who sometimes use it in
confrontations. In present-day Peru and Bolivia since the Agrarian Reforms,
the media and the government in an euphemistic shift use terms referring to
occupation rather than ethnicity, like campesino (peasant) or comunero (villager).
Vecino is used to designate the mestizo shopkeepers and teachers, who are not
perceived as members of the community in the same way comuneros are, yet
often exercise functions of political power, such as alcalde or teniente.
For a successful migrant, the shedding of his identity may lead to the
acquisition of a new cultural, social, and even ‘ethnic’ identity: a runa who
moves out of the village and adopts the dress, language and educational
baggage mestizos, may perceive himself and be seen by others as a mestizo.
The concept of race in Peru is, in political and social discourses, more explicitly
rooted in socio-economic and cultural factors than disguised as purely genetic
make-up (Van den Berghe 1974; Van den Berghe and Primov 1977; Rasnake
1988; Albó 1974; Jacob 1986).
Chumbivilcanos, wild men, mestizos of the cities and q’alas are
sufficiently different from Accheños that they can define themselves in
contrasting relation to these categories. It is this cultural imprint that allows the
villagers, through a recognition of the foreign and of the outlandish in a literal
sense, to come to a common perception of their own cultural identity as
Accheños. However, this recognition of the other is only one of the
components of that identity.
3. Conflictual boundaries.
Boundaries are also constructed through physical confrontation, or by
the establishment of an equilibrium or compromise reached over a contested
zone, which, through the application of a legal and judicial process, may
become settled as a legitimate boundary between two groups. It should be
stressed that this process of confrontation usually takes place between groups
that are perceived as alike, in contrast to the oppositions made in the previous
section.
3.1. Communal labor and conflict over access to land.
Before considering how I understand this process of creation of
boundaries to function at the intercommunity level, I would like to offer an
illustration of the process of boundary dispute and resolution at the level of the
smallest intracommunity units: the households.
I have discussed the laymi at Kachaqkalla, stressing the fact that there
was more than enough land, and that everybody who wanted --that is to say
anybody who cared to be registered in the village--had access to it. Although
this is quite accurate, it should not be taken to imply that there is no
competition for communal land --quite the contrary, as was clear in the free-forall rush described in chapter 1.
However, Don Mariano who had been standing on the edge of the circle
of men during the assembly --the women sat further away with the children-did not rush to claim a plot. He walked to where he had left his poncho and
chakitaqlla (foot plow) and proceeded to start plowing the perimeter of a plot.
Soon a young man, an ahijado or godson who had quickly completed drawing
his own wachu (limit) joined Don Mariano without a word and helped him
finish delimiting his plot. Don Mariano told me later that whenever the laymi
took place in Kachaqkalla, he would simply take the plot that used to be his
father’s before him, and that nobody had ever challenged him. This, I believe,
illustrates the acute knowledge of social topography that I mentioned earlier.
The laymi hadn’t taken place in Kachaqkalla in twelve years. Yet not only was
Don Mariano able to identify the unmarked plot of land he claimed rights to,
but presumably the other faenates also recognized this land as his, as they
probably also recognized a number of plots beside their own, not only in
Kachaqkalla, but in the nine other laymi locations as well. This minute
knowledge of the territory is essential for the economic and social survival and
reproduction of the individual within the group, and also exemplifies the
intense, near obsessive relation to the land that characterizes southern Peruvian
highlanders.
The laymi, like most organized labor activities in the village, is at the
same time an expression of social ranking and an arena where status is
negotiated. The men who were fighting over limits of the plots were mostly
young men who were trying to move up to better land by occupying plots that
were not being claimed for that specific laymi. Don Mariano’s claim, on the
other hand, was not properly based on any hereditary right, but rather on his
status in the community and his father’s before him. As Don Mariano grows
older, a widower without adult children in the community, his position will
weakens. It is conceivable that such claims might one day be successfully
challenged by younger individuals.
69
In the years since is his wife’ s death, Don Mariano has been repeatedly the
victim of theft and robbery. Ducks, pigs, chickens, and one horse disappeared
69
The claim to potato land, unlike that to corn land, is not based on legal
ownership. It is based on the authority to control and hold the plots of land in
the communal fields. This control operates through physical means, as is
apparent in the way that speed, strength and --in the event of shouting
matches-- intimidation guarantee access to the better plots at the laymi. Control
is also obtained through the social position and power that an individual
acquires in his lifetime by going through the cargo system and accumulating
authority in various official positions in the community, as in the case of Don
Mariano.
3. 2. Agrarian Reform: drawing the limits.
Don Mariano said that before the Agrarian Reform of the 1970s, the
limits of community land were not always legally set and that there were
numerous occurrences of invasion of cultivable land by neighboring
populations, leading to physical confrontation between the communities. He
would show me parcels of land that had been the occasion of battles between
Accha and neighboring communities, particularly Ccochiruay, Pampacucho,
and Pilpinto. His stories would document the various episodes of invasion and
from his courtyard, sheep were taken from his herd. Once, his room was
broken into and clothing and a radio set taken. A regular and heavy drinker of
trago, Don Mariano was on occasion robbed of his poncho and hat while lying
drunk in the street at night. None of this occurred in the time while I was
staying with Don Mariano. When in the village, I would occasionally carry him
home at night when he was drunk, and also, I believe, act as a general
deterrent. Thefts are frequent in Accha. However the victims of thefts seem to
be not the wealthier individuals, but people like Don Mariano who live without
the usual entourage of extended family, compadres, and peones. Once an
individual loses this supportive social structure, he or she loses the ability to
defend and protect his or her material assets (see B. J. Isbell 1977).
retaking and re-losing the land, and would usually tell of the ultimate triumph
of righteous Accha over its greedy neighbors.
Yet, much before the Agrarian Reform, in fact since the beginning of the
colonial period, many confrontations were resolved by judicial rather than
physical means, especially when the case involved, as one or both parties,
Spaniards or mestizos. There are a number of recorded cases of complaints
filed by the local hacienda owners against a campesino or group of campesinos
claiming invasion of property. Typically, in the cases that I have had the
opportunity to study for Accha, the campesinos would claim a right to the land
through occupation, but the judgment would always be in favor of the hacienda
owner.
70
The Agrarian Reform was a state land reform effected by the Marxist
military government that ruled the Peru between 1968 and 1980. As was the
case elsewhere in South America where such reforms took place, the Peruvian
Agrarian Reform was in many ways meant to forestall political unrest in rural
areas. This policy was brought on by a number of factors (land invasions,
political insecurity, and a gradual unsuitability of the hacienda system to a
changing economic situation) which together made such a reform both
necessary and unavoidable (Yambert 1989; Diaz and Pelupessey 1987). The
motivations behind the Reform were confused at best, and it has been claimed
that it was enacted because of a political fight between the APRA and the Acción
Popular, the party of Belaúnde, or even that the Reform was a devious way for
the Limeñan elite and industrial capitalists to deal a blow to the landowning
oligarchy (Yambert 1989).
The wide-sweeping Reform was initiated in June 1969 with an edict by
General Velasco (Ley 17716), and the expropriations of land were officially
70
e. g. Farfán vs. Guzmán et al., 1963ms., private collection.
concluded in June 1976. The reform affected a majority of the haciendas in the
country. It redistributed 8, 000, 000 hectares, representing 47% of all arable
land (Caballero 1977). The expropriation and redistribution of land was by far
the most important aspect of the Reform. The Reform dictated that all
agricultural activity be conducted directly by the owner, a measure aimed at
eliminating absentee landowners. This implied the transfer of ownership of the
land to the people who actually worked it, mostly in the form of cooperatives in
the coastal region, and in the highlands mainly through parceling and private
ownership or through the creation of peasant communities (comunidades
campesinas) who would own and administer the land communally.
I have written in chapter 1 how the hacienda Huanchoq Siwina became
communal land, thus eliminating the need for saya pasture land. The
Fernandez Vaca family, among the most powerful if not the oldest
71
landowners in the region, claim to have anticipated the Reform and distributed
the land to their peones, as “it seemed to be a fair thing to do.” Yet the family
still owns three fair-sized haciendas in the Velille Valley, and one of the sons,
Abelardo Fernandez Vaca, who married a campesina and lives in the village,
owns enough property to have a household of retainers who work in his fields,
lime quarry, and carpenter shop. While in P’irca, in the district of
Pacariqtambo, I was told that the local hacendados, the Nuñezes, had forestalled
the consequences of the Reform by giving away and selling their land to
hacienda workers and allied campesinos. They were later able to buy most of it
back after the expropriations. Other hacendados anticipated the Reform in a
The Fernandez Vaca family comes originally from Paruro. I have not been
able to ascertain the date of their move to Accha, but they have been there for at
least three generations. All members of the family use the double patronym.
Abelardo’s matronym is also Vaca and his full name is Abelardo Fernandez
Vaca Vaca.
71
different way. Diego Salazar, the current mayor and owner of the hacienda
Chamina reportedly went to Lima in 1969, where he apparently had sufficient
contacts so that his property was not affected by the expropriations. Even
when the Reform did lead to the redistribution of hacienda land or its transfer
to the peasant community, it did not necessarily benefit the communeros .
Today some villagers complain: “Before the Reform we served one lion [the
hacendado] now we serve seven tigers [the various village elected authorities]”.
Don Abelardo Fernandez Vaca, who made this comment to me, explained it by
saying that if one needs a favor from the village officials, the response is likely
to be, “Of course I will help you, but right now I am busy in my chakra, maybe
you can help me out there first...”
The legal proceedings that document the creation of Accha as Peasant
Community show that it took three years (from 1973 to 1976) to determine the
72
limits of the community with six other communities (Poccorhuay, Parcco,
Ccapa, Pampacucho, Ccochiruay, Taucabamba, and Ccahuatura) and a number
of haciendas (Chamina, Occotuna, Muyocc, Pata Pata, Maquilla, Cirunta,
Ccosccora, and Amancae). Missing from the list of neighboring communities is
the name of the comunidad campesina of Pilpinto, once an anexo of Accha (see
chapter 6) that had been made into a separate district by a decree of President
Belaúnde in 1963 (D. L. 14747). I can only ascribe the absence of a reference to
Pilpinto to the fact that presumably the limits between the two districts were
drawn at the time of the creation of Pilpinto into a separate district. Also, the
nature of the terrain between the two communities --an abrupt 700 m. drop -makes the boundaries easier to determine.. In spite of a generally hostile
relationship between Accha and Pilpinto, a number of villagers from each
Expediente: Reconocimiento de la Comunidad Campesina Sihuina Accha,
1976, Ministerio de la Reforma Agraria, Cusco.
72
community have land in the other. The Accheños, however, often complain
that the ‘shopkeepers’ from Pilpinto have been buying the good land in Accha
because they have the means to do so. There wealth can be traced to the
colonial times when, precisely because of the lack of land around their village,
Pilpinteños became coca traders for the whole region (Gade and Escobar 1982).
During the process of establishment of the boundaries, when there was
litigation between two communities, the ministry workers would bring
together not just the authorities of the communities involved but the whole
population. The ensuing confrontation closely resembled the invasion battles
that it was meant to avoid, but finally it would lead to a compromise. Luis
Vargas of Hurinsaya, who played an official role in this lengthy process
comments that there never were any injuries, but that a lot of threats and insults
were exchanged. At the end, everybody would walk along the agreed-upon
limits together and plant the itos, the stakes that fix the boundaries between
these communities.
73
Because a relatively short period has elapsed since the application of the
policy of delimitation of community boundaries resulting from Agrarian
Reform, it is difficult to estimate whether land invasions between neighboring
communities are less frequent now that the community boundaries have been
committed to official archives. Yet individual invasions remain extremely
frequent today, as they also seem to have been in the past.
See the following detailed description of the boundary between Accha and
Ccochiruhay: “Comienza de Chichacruz sigue de norte a sur por toda la ladera
hasta el manantial de Chiripujio de hay sigue por toda la ladera hasta la
cuchillada de Rayuna del punto baja por toda la lomada Machoñan camino real
que va de Accha a Paruro donde termina la colindencia entre la comunidad de
Sihuina Accha y Ccochiruhay (Expediente: Reconocimiento de la Comunidad
Campesina Sihuina Accha, 1976, Ministerio de la Reforma Agraria, Cusco, ff8).
73
3. 3. Tinku as generative process
Land invasions and physical confrontations between groups are
traditional ways, not only of acquiring or maintaining rights to land, but also of
drawing and redefining boundaries between groups. The ritual battles known
as tinkus serve among other things to mark and symbolically celebrate these
boundaries. The word itself indicates a meeting, or joining of forces, like two
rivers (see chapter 1: tinkoq; tincukmayo in González Holguín). Tinkuy translates
as “confluence” (Taylor 1979:76) and refers to “the harmonious meeting of
opposite forces” (Mayer 1977:76). It carries the idea of bridging and linking
(Urton 1981). González Holguín gives definitions of the term that connote
opposition, harmony or complementarity. He lists as meanings, tincuni, “fight
or battle”; or ttincusccappacha, “a good fit”; tincukmacin tincuk pura; “contrary
as in complementary colors”; and tinqui, “a pair of something, like gloves”. It
means also “limits”, tincuk pura.
Molinié-Fioravanti (1988) describes ritual battles as a pan-Andean
phenomenon that opposes two moieties, or two communities, or two ecological
zones, or else pits men against men and women against women in an
atmosphere of fiesta and elaborate confrontations involving pre-Hispanic
weapons and sometimes ritual killings, rape, and cannibalism (MoliniéFioraventi 1988; also Platt 1978; Abercrombie 1986).
In the opposition of two groups, the limits become marked, yet at the
same time the confrontation operates the union of the two groups, which are
brought together during the actual tinku. The adversaries do not need to be
identical --and probably mustn’t be-- but they need to be opposable, that is to
say comparable. It would be impossible for Accheños to have a tinku with the
salvajes of the selva, or with gringos. In the past, tinkus in Accha took place
between the two moieties: groups that are perceived as both distinct and
identical. Today, the tinkus are limited to the period of Carnival and take place
between the young boys of the two moieties with fruit being used for weapons.
74
It should be noted that even this pacific form of ritual confrontation is losing
some of its importance in comparison to the enthusiasm that accompanies the
regular inter-moiety soccer games.
Limits define identity. But in several symbolic ways they also guarantee
the reproduction of the group. In Sorata (Bolivia) tinkus are expressly a form of
sacrifice to the Pachamama and the blood shed ensures a good harvest.
75
The
tinku itself has been interpreted a sexual metaphor (Platt 1978; MoliniéFioravanti 1988).
It should be emphasized that it is the articulation and the mediation
between the groups, that generates the boundaries; it is because they fight in
tinkus that two social groups are being perceived as discrete, and not the other
way round. Molinié-Fioravanti also writes that “the Other, the enemy in the
battle is both a part of myself, as he constitute with me a dual structure, and is
the basis of the otherness of my moiety, as it allows my identity” (1988:56). The
expression of the limit, far from isolating the group, also defines the potential
incoming outsider, qatay, “son in law,” or forastero, “stranger,”who brings to the
group his productive and reproductive powers.
4. Moving away from the village
This section will deal with the geographical and social reality of the
village as the center and point of reference of what I call absolute (rather than
The final stage of the puberty rite in Inca time also involved a battle with
fruit waged at the top of Saccsahuaman between two “armies” of the newly
initiated men, one group wearing for the occasion black tunics and the other
white tunics.
75 Decoster, 1985ms.
74
relative) identity. I will argue that, beside the definition of their identity
arrived at by opposition to other communities or groups, Accheños have a
sense of identity that is directly anchored in the geographical reality of the
village.
4. 1. Landmarks in communal identity
In Accha every field, every spring, ford, junction of two paths, every
rock outcrop or unusually shaped stone has a name. All of these landmarks
have stories attached to them, either as part of one’s history in the community
or as legends and tales passed down through the generations. Any member of
the community knows the history of all chakras, their past and present
ownership, and their average yield; what rock to steer clear of at what hour of
the day to avoid diseases and accidents; and where the bones of the ancestors
are buried so that one doesn’t chance to rest there and wake up with the cold of
death in one’s own bones. All these are part of an Accheño’s necessary baggage
of knowledge. It is that very knowledge that lies at the basis of the distinction
between the village and the world outside of it. And it is only to be expected
that as one moves away from the village, the importance of this minute kind of
information decreases, and only the most significant landmarks are recognized.
4. 2. The roads as link with the outside
There are two roads that connect Accha to Cusco (see fig. 4 ). The older
of the two, which is also the longer (172 km), goes through Acomayo, the
capital of the province of the same name, before connecting with the CuscoSicuani highway about 100 km southeast of Cusco at the latitude of Lake
Pomacanchis. The road between Acos and Acomayo was built in 1949 and was
extended to Pilpinto in 1951. Labor was recruited in the villages concerned by
the project and paid for by the Ministry of Transport and Communications. It
was only in 1969 that the last portion of the road, between Pilpinto and Accha
was completed by faenas (voluntary work- parties) from Accha. This was the
result of a community initiative and received no support from the provincial,
departmental, or national governments. In one of the many instances of the
rivalry between Accha and Pilpinto, Pilpinteños not only refused to help: they
also tried to oppose the construction of the road.
Fig. 4: The two roads to Cusco
Until 1969, Accheños had to do this last leg of the journey on foot or
horseback --one hour for the Accha-Pilpinto trek, and two in the reverse
direction. Now buses can still only go as far as Pilpinto, but trucks and pickup
trucks drive all the way to Accha. About six vehicles belonging to various
individuals in the community alternate to assure daily transport to and from
the city. The journey between Accha and Cusco by the Acomayo route takes
between 8 and 12 hours, depending on the season and the mechanical condition
of the truck. Although this route is much longer than the Paruro route, it is
preferred by truck-drivers because there are more villages along it, which
allows them to pick up more passengers on the way. Drivers from Accha have
been pushing forward the time of departure from the village so as to be first on
the road and collect the most fares. To the expressed disgust of Pilpinto
drivers, they usually leave Accha at 2:00 a. m., often cruising with engine and
headlights turned off part of the way down in order to give no advance
warning to the Pilpinto truck-drivers asleep in their cabs.
The more recently opened road through Paruro, the capital of the
province which includes Accha, is more direct (110 km) and relatively faster
than the Acomayo route. Yet it is never used during the rainy season, and very
seldom the rest of the year, because it is considered dangerous by truck-drivers
This road follows the Inca trail called machuñan (“old road”) that, in imperial
times, connected Cusco to Accha and, beyond, to Chumbivilcas and Arequipa
76
and was until the 1950s the only way to travel to Cusco, the regional capital.
Then, people would walk or ride their horse in two days from Accha to Cusco
with a stopover in Paruro. This way of traveling became obsolete when
Acomayo and then Pilpinto and eventually Accha were connected by road to
the Sicuani-Cusco highway, making the journey possible by truck in less than a
day. The building of the Paruro-Accha road began in the early 1980s as part of
the development of the region of Paruro, as a way not so much to cut down on
travel time for Accheños, but rather accentuate the political and economical
linkage of Accha with Paruro, the provincial capital.
76
Poole, 1987b:261; Levillier 1942 vol. 3: CLX. See also chapter 1.
4. 3. Shared knowledge and geographical space
There is a diminishing sense of accuracy, a weakening in identification in
the relation between people and the territory, as the place of reference shifts
away from its center--in this case, away from Accha. I happened to be on the
first truck out of Accha when the new road through Paruro was inaugurated on
the 30th of August 1985, the day of the fiesta of Santa Rosa de Lima. Accheños
hadn’t traveled along that way for some 30 years, except for some who
occasionally took large herds of sheep by foot to Cusco (individual sheep, like
individual campesinos, travel by truck).
As soon as this first truck left the familiar zone that extends to the limit
of the cultivated village land, passengers started pointing out and naming
forgotten landmarks: distant hamlets, rock outcrops, caves, passes... They
argued over some of the names, and exchanged tales about the places, either
taken from their own experience when they used to walk the path, or from
stories they had heard. The naming exercise lasted throughout the trip; but as
the truck got further away from Accha, the number of landmarks recognized
narrowed to include only the most important villages and peaks on whose
names most everyone could agree. Finally the truck reached Apu Huanacauri,
whose awesome mass had dominated much of the trip. Beyond and below it
the Valley of Cusco was revealed to the travelers, in much the same way it had
been to the mythical Ayar Brothers whose journey followed the same direction.
The sight of the city elicited no other comment than expressions of relief for
having safely reached the end of the journey, and a sign of the cross from some
of the travelers in gratitude for a safe trip.
77
In other circumstances I have seen in P’irca (Pacariqtambo) villagers setting
off on a journey on foot turn to kneel and cross themselves at the last place on
77
Traveling is dangerous. Not only because of the quite real perils of the
actual journey --not least of all the common occurrence of fatal road accidents-but also because of the very act of moving away from the safety of the village
and the apu. Accheños rarely travel alone, do not dally on the way, and do not
travel at night if they can avoid it.
4. 4. Cachaspari or la despedida: separation and death
The separation inherent in the act of traveling is expressed in the name
“Cacharparimoco” that designates two places in Accha. Both are low rounded
mounds on the side of paths --now roads-- leading respectively to Paruro (and
Cusco) and Acomayo (and Cusco). The name is said to mean “Place-where-onesays-farewell.” Moqo literally means a knoll . González Holguín (1989 [1608])
78
gives for cacharpayani. the following gloss: “to see someone off, or advise
him”; churatamuni:: “put him on his way.” The notion of guidance and
79
80
advice underlines the perceived dangers in leaving the village. Also contained,
in Cusihuaman’s definitions, are the ideas of separation: kachariy to let go, to
drop, to detach, to free; and of dispatching: Kachay : to send, to commission.
81
82
Fianlly, González Holguín also offers this gloss: Cachani : to send a message.
83
the path from which the village could still be seen.
78 morro, cerro muy pequeño redondeado (Martinez 1980). It can also serve to
designate a joint or an articulation of the body, as for instance a knee.
79 despechar al que se va; o avisarle.
80 ponerle en el camino.
81 Soltar, hacer caer, desatar, dar libertad.
82 enviar, mandar, comisionar.
83 embiar hasta alla mensaje.
The mounds do not actually mark the boundaries of the community:
even in its least inclusive expression, the community extends far beyond those
two vantage points, from which a good stretch of the road can be seen.
However, they can be perceived to be at the limit of the village’s main
concentration of houses. One Cacharparimoco is found just past the chapel of
Santa Ana, where the old Inca road, and the dirt road from Paruro and Cusco
enter the village . The other is located across from the chapel of Compón in
Hanansaya on the road to Pilpinto, Acomayo and Cusco.
The Cacharparimoco in ayllu Santa Ana (Hurinsaya) also called Tantar
Q’asa, or “pass where people congregate” is where a large Inca site was found
by Brian Bauer (see chapter 2, 1. 2. 3.). The Hanansaya Cacharparimoco is
located across the path from the chapel of Compón, the last stop of a funeral
party on the way to the cemetery of Hanansaya. The relation between
Cacharparimoco and the graveyard is unique to Hanansaya, as the main road
from Hurinsaya --the road to Paruro-- leaves from Santa Ana, while the
Hurinsaya cemetery is located at the limit of Hurinsaya proper, on the path to
Parcco and Pocoray, the old Inca road to Chumbivilcas. The Hurinsaya chapel
is located within the walls of the cemetery, rather than outside, as in the case for
Compón in Hanansaya.
In Hanansaya, Compón is “the place where the dead rest” on their final
journey. After the long wake at the house of the deceased the coffin is carried
to this small chapel, where it is laid on trestles. The relatives then sit in a line
on Cacharparimoco, facing the chapel, with the width of the road between them
and the dead person. A male relative, but usually not the chief mourner (i.e.,
the closest male relative of the deceased) pours shots of trago for the assembled
people amidst crying and wailing. This activity, which has taken place
throughout the night at the house of the dead person, is repeated outside the
cemetery walls immediately following the burial, and often also for a number of
days afterwards..
The symbolism involved here, I believe, is that of a metaphorical relation
between traveling away from the village and death. This is evidenced by the
similarity of what takes place at the same site to dispatch either the dead or the
travelers. Since nowadays trucks leave from the plaza before dawn, travelers
are not “seen off” at Cacharparimoco any longer. But in the early morning,
when people are huddled in the back of the truck waiting for it to leave, often a
young man appears carrying a bottle of alcohol. He is usually a younger
relative of one of the travelers, not a member of the household: nephew, ajihado
(godchild), or minor compadre, or any younger individual who finds himself in
a subservient position. The young man climbs up the side of the truck, and
straddling the wooden side wall of the truck respectfully serves shots of trago
to his tio (uncle) or padrino (godfather), who may in turn involve his fellow
travelers in these pre-departure libations. In the past, when journeys were
made on foot or horseback, the same activity would have taken place on
Cacharparimoco at the beginning of the trip as it now does prior to the
departure of the truck.
84
The use of trago is of course involved in a number of daily and ritual
activities (see Allen 1988). However, the structural and spatial relation between
the activities by which the dead and the living are seen off is worth noting. The
gloss given for Compón, “the place where the dead rest,” further suggests the
85
symbolic parallel: the dead are seen as on a journey to the outside of the
Don Mariano Guzmán describes this farewell as cariño no más : “nothing but
a gesture of love.”
85 the same term samay (Quechua), descansar (Spanish) “to rest” is used during
an actual journey, or agricultural task, and is usually a signal to stop, sit
together, and share trago, chicha, and coca leaves.
84
community, and it is their living relatives, who will remain in the village, who
see them off from Cacharparimoco.
In Accha, the word cachaypari
86
also serves to designate the final day of a
fiesta, glossed in Spanish as la despedida de la fiesta, “farewell to the fiesta.” It is
the day when cargos are passed on and a new carguyoq appointed for the
following year. On cachaypari everybody goes to the door of the church where
the outgoing carguyoq brings dishes of uncooked food that he hopes to present
to the incoming carguyoq. The symbolism of the uncooked food might in turn
relate to the nature of the cargo.
87
The carguyoq ‘s main duty at any ritual is to
provide prepared food to participants from the whole community. The way
this is achieved is by collecting foodstuff from the network of actual and ritual
kin. The cargo then operates a transformation of raw goods into social
prestations.
The outgoing carguyoq needs to chaskichicuy -- “to pass on his cargo”. If
he fails to do so, he is said to have let his cargo die, and this is “the worst thing
that can happen to him.” The emotional level is always high during cachaypari.
For the outgoing carguyoq this marks the end of a year of work and privation, of
asking for favors and cashing in obligations owed him. It is also the end of
several days of high visibility and high status, of feasting and being fêted by all.
The word cacharpari is also found in other but related contexts. Cachaspari is
the name of the slow huayno, also known in Spanish as la despedida “the
farewell” remarkable for its sad melody and melancholy lyrics (Van Kessel
1981; also Raúl García Zarate, in concert, 1993). Castro Pozo associates the
same dance with death in his description of the conditions of the Andean miner
and of “the end of his life, of which he took leave with stoicism and skepticism,
while his relatives bade him good-bye, dancing the lugubrious cachaspari”
(1936:80).
87 The emphasis on uncooked food is also made in Hopkins’ s (1988)
description of a ritual enacted for the fiesta of Santa Rosa in Andahuaylillas.
86
The incoming carguyoq has the same hardship and honors to look
forward to. On this day, he is committing himself to spending more capital
than he owns, and more income than he can expect to generate over the next
several years. He is faced with the challenge of being a good carguyoq, one who
will be remembered and whose name will be associated with an especially
outstanding fiesta. Often the passing of the cargo is accompanied by much
crying and wailing and by hugs and kisses between the old and the new
carguyoqs.
Thus the concept of cacharpari relates to both liminal space and liminal
time. It is concerned with transitions, and with the negotiation of death and the
social or ritual reproduction of the group. This is why I believe that the two
Cacharparimocos are not only boundary markers, but also indicators of a
process of separation of the individual from the community. The dramatic
emphasis given to this process in its various contexts is indicative of the
importance of the group as locus of cultural identity for the individual
Accheño.
The political implication of the spatial orientation of the two
Cacharparimocos is also important. They are located at the edge of the village
and oriented from the community outwards, in the direction of the two
provincial capitals Paruro and Acomayo, and the regional capital, Cusco. There
is no corresponding place on the other side of the village from where leaves the
road to Chumbivilcas and Arequipa. The lack of such marker at the southern
edge of the village would seem to indicate an orientation emphasizing the
importance of the relation to Paruro, Acomayo, and Cusco rather than to the
other neighboring ethnic groups to the south. This privileged relation might be
historically related to Accha’s position at the edge of the territory of the Incasde-privilegio (chapter 2), and to the fact that this relation to Cusco and to the
populations directly to the north of Accha was carried over through the
creation of the Toledan era settlement (reducción) and into the colonial period
(see chapter 7).
However, if the outward orientation of Accha is towards Cusco, it does
not imply that Accheños vision of their space is in any way centered on Cusco.
Unlike the oppositional definition of identity mentioned above that results from
a relation to the outside and the foreign, the spatial mapping that I have outline
in this section is Accha-centered. It is construed in terms of separation from the
center, not of opposition to other places or spaces.
5...and coming back...
The relation to the village as focus of identity is obvious during the
return truck journey from Cusco to Accha. Accheños who go back to their
village after a few days in the city, typically to sell produce and buy necessary
staples like kerosene, alcohol, or cooking oil, must come to the paradero --the
truck stop for Acomayo, Pilpinto and Accha, located a short way down the
street from the main market of San Pedro in Cusco. The truck usually leaves
between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m., so that in order to be sure to leave, and to be able to
claim a portion of floor space to sit or stand on for the long trip, one must arrive
before 2 a.m. At that hour, the market street, which during the day teems with
a constant flow of buyers, sellers and passers-by, is quite deserted. The only
activity is at the few stalls of market women selling soup, and at the ubiquitous
pushcarts of hot sweetened herbal tea (emoliente). The paradero crowd also
includes young bread vendors and cigarette sellers, and thieves and
pickpockets who often mix with the travelers and get into the truck as if they
were traveling, only to jump off at the last minute taking with them some
villager’s meager bundle or precious wad of bank notes.
The time immediately prior to the departure of the truck is one of polite
nods, and of less polite discussions on the amount of space commandeered by
some individuals, and the size, amount and location of their baggage. These
fights usually take place between women, who are more likely to be the regular
commuters, selling produce in the city and returning to the village with
merchandise. The male passengers, on the other hand, are more often
occasional travelers: village authorities on an administrative errand to Cusco,
or peasants who have just sold a portion of their annual crop. These are
returning to Accha with a wad of paper money tightly tied in a handkerchief
inside their shirt, and their only baggage usually consists of a few liters of
alcohol, a few gallons of kerosene, and some foodstuffs and treats for their
wives and families.
In their dealings with the bureaucracy, market women, people in the
street, and taxi drivers, Accheños, men and women, who spend a few days in
the city are constantly reminded of their identity as campesinos, or even indios.
Their dress, the ojotas (tire-rubber sandals) they wear for shoes, their quick
shuffle through the busy streets, but especially their language, give them away.
In their interaction with Cuzqueños, they painstakingly attempt to shed the
negative image that they project and to mimic the ways of the city. So, when
88
they board the truck in the early morning in Cusco, greetings and disputes over
space, between neighbors from the same village are in Spanish, using the
89
formal “usted” form. When the truck finally departs, and everyone is more or
In a recent movie on the village of Q’eros, film maker John Cohen shows
how Q’eros villagers going to the neighboring town to trade and buy, wear a
plain ‘traveling’ poncho over their own intricate and colorful ponchos, to avoid
being recognized and derided as Q’erenos.
89 Seventy percent of men in Accha and 24% of women speak some Spanish
(Ccori 1978:22). As a rule, monolingual speakers are least likely to travel to
Cusco.
88
less settled for the long journey, cigarettes and coca leaves change hands, and
wet babies are parked on strangers’ laps. Conversations can then start in
earnest, but these conversations still take place in Spanish.
Yet there is an important turning point on the journey between Cusco
and Accha, one which is reached after only two hours of highway driving, but
perhaps significantly, is located precisely half way between the two
destinations. Shortly after Urcos on the Cusco-Sicuani-Puno highway, trucks
going to Accha leave the asphalt road at a bridge called Chuquicahuana, cross
the Huatanay River that they had been following since Cusco, and start the
winding climb on the dirt road that leads to the plateau of Pomacanchis. This
turn-off not only marks a change in speed and ease of locomotion as well as in
temperature, traffic, and scenery, but is also indicated by a language shift in the
back of the truck from Spanish to Quechua. Suddenly no one seems to speak or
understand Spanish any longer. And even the occasional foreign traveler, or
the anthropologist returning to his field site, with whom every one was
conversing in reasonably fluent Spanish, is all of a sudden confronted with a
stream of questions, jokes, and sexual innuendoes in Quechua.
The bridge of Chuquicahuana clearly functions as a cultural boundary
between the city and the village and a linguistic watershed where travelers
discard the identity that they have assumed for the trip.
90
The consensual
choice of language operates as “a signal of distinctness and of a speaker’s
identification with others” (Blom and Gumperz 1972:433, quoted in Urban
1991:308). This sense of shared linguistic community contributes to Accheño
There seems to be no reverse transformation on the way to Cusco. From
what I have been able to observe, the cultural shift -- and the shift from
Quechua to Spanish-- takes place after the travelers have left the truck at the
paradero in Cusco, as if the physical shell of the truck itself helped maintain
throughout the trip a sense of shared community that needn’t be discarded or
disguised before the destination is reached.
90
identity, moored, as we have seen, in the physical reality of the village and the
shared knowledge of the villagers. Centered on the village, Accheño identity is
further constructed and reinforced in the opposition with other groups,
through the determination of categories of foreignness, and also through the
creation and negotiation of boundaries. As the village-centered identity is
limited by the actual distance from the center, so in the same way do the
boundaries determined by relational oppositions in turn serve to reinforce the
central focus of identity. This double process of definition of the group -absolute and relative, or central and peripheral-- ensures both the maintenance
of its identity through the permanence of the structure, and its flexible
articulation with the outside.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE CONSTRUCTION OF SOCIAL SPACES AND THE PRODUCTION OF
GROUP IDENTITY
Exclusion is itself a form of inclusion
(John Updike Pigeon Feathers and Other
Stories. New York, Fawcett Crest,
1962:64).
I realize now that Don Mariano --and probably everybody else in the
village-- never was quite sure what I was doing there or what it was I was
trying to find out. Yet he was always eager to answer my questions and would
often gauge the relevance of his responses by whether or not I would pull out
my notebook and start scribbling. If I did, he would stop and repeat what he
had just said, and slow down enough to make sure that I could write down the
mixture of Quechua and Spanish in which he talked to me, pausing at intervals
like a schoolmaster giving dictation. Sometimes, when there were others
around, he would scold them for talking too fast for me to be able to take notes.
Many of my questions to him had to do with the theoretical problem that
had drawn me to Accha: the ayllu and moiety structure. Don Mariano would
answer willingly enough specific queries about the location of ayllu land, the
names of the moiety authorities, and where were the limits between the various
groups. However, when I asked directly about the nature and function of the
system of ayllus organized into moieties, he
would explain it away as “just an old custom.” Other Accheños, especially the
mestizos who occupied positions of authority in the village-wide political
structure, like alcalde and gobernador, denied that such a structure existed. Even
some of the most reflective participants in the moiety/ayllu system, like
Abelardo Fernandez Vaca, dismissed it with a shrug as “just a way to organize
labor, but in fact we are all one community.”
As I became involved in the study of ritual and economic practice in
Accha, particularly saints’ fiestas and communal labor-parties, in which the
elements of the moiety/ayllu system become activated, I came to the realization
that what I had at first taken as a rejection of the importance of the section
system was in fact a statement on both its function and its nature. It became
apparent that in Accha, through the mechanics of communal labor, the
moiety/ayllu structure operates as what Geertz calls a total cultural system
(Geertz 1973), and produces a mapping of individual and group identity, at the
same time as it guarantees the reproduction of the community through the
establishment of clear blueprints of social and economic behavior. We will also
see that the system of embedded social units extant in Accha replicates the
processes of relative definition and absolute definition identified in chapter 3 by
stressing each group’s relation with others within the system, and also by
centering the collective identity of the group to its church and patron saint.
1. The ayllu and moiety structure.
Perhaps one of the most intransigent questions in Andean studies is that
of the definition of the social unit, long a theoretical problem for
anthropologists, but one that becomes even more critical in a situation marked
by a historical context of lasting cultural interaction. In spite of the difficulties
in formulating a general statement on the nature of the constituting units of
Andean rural communities, I need to give a minimal definition of the moiety
and the ayllu before I proceed to consider the particularities of those
interconnected elements in the social system in Accha.
The dual or moiety structure is a system of social organization whose
fairly widespread presence in a number of societies attracted initially the
interest of theoreticians of the Année Sociologique (Needham ed.: 1973), before
being formulated as a structuralist question by Lévi-Strauss (1956), but which,
“for all the special attention it has received, ... remains a provocative dilemma”
(Turner 1984:336).
The Andean dual system is often interpreted as one of complementary
opposition based on hierarchical inequality expressed as relations of upper to
lower, rich to poor, male to female (e. g. Randall 1982). In Peru, the moieties are
called sayas, with Hanansaya being the name of the “upper” moiety and
Hurinsaya that of the “lower”. Within those two moieties may be found a
varying number of clan-like groups known as ayllus in Peru.
91
The inclusion of the ayllu structure within the dual structure is not general
throughout the Andean region. Abercrombie (1986) and Platt (1978; 1982)
indicate a reverse situation among, respectively, the Killakas and the Machas of
Bolivia, where the ayllu is the inclusive unit, sometimes of the size of the ethnic
group or pre-colonial kingdom, and the dual division functions at the level of
the ayllu, dividing and uniting the group’ s villages and hamlets. In Accha, on
the other hand, and in many high Andes communities of southern Peru (e. g.
Poole 1984; Urton 1988), as well as in Incaic Cusco (Zuidema 1964; 1990), the
ayllus are the minimal units which are regrouped within the constitutive
moieties. This variation in the ayllu-moiety relation reinforces my conviction of
the interdependence of the two structures and of the impossibility to study
them separately.
91
The term ayllu generally designates a form of rural social organization
92
that has survived centuries of Inca and colonial rule and, the present-day
influence of the market economy. Various manifestations of that form of
organization can be found today in many parts of the Andes. Although we
know little about the shape taken by pre-Incaic ayllus, it is probable that some of
the characteristics of the pre-colonial and contemporary organization predate
the hegemony of the Inca state (Murra 1972). Ethnohistorians give a fairly
complete image of the overall form and nature of the Incaic ayllu. In Inca times,
its base was a more or less endogamic core which owned and worked
communally a certain territory. Within the ayllu, pasture land was communally
exploited, while chakras were distributed among the domestic units according
to their needs. Thus there were periodic redistributions to account for changes
due to births and deaths. Widows and orphans were at the charge of the whole
community. In addition, a certain amount of communal work had to be
assumed by the group, such as terracing and irrigation --pre-Incaic techniques
that were developed to a considerably larger scale under the Inca state. The
ayllu also was made to contribute a certain amount of labor and agricultural
and manufactured products to the state. Each ayllu was in addition associated
with one or several local shrines, huacas, which were simultaneously perceived
as the ancestors of the lineage, and as having supernatural control over the
territory of the community (Murra 1980, Sherbondy 1979, Wachtel 1974,
Zuidema 1964). Ayllus therefore usually constituted the totality of a rural
settlement, but were often grouped in llactas (‘communities’) organized in a
R. Tom Zuidema has devoted many publications to the nature and
functioning of the ayllu system in Inca Cusco. I have alluded to elements of
that system in the preceding chapter, and do so again in chapter seven. In this
chapter, I want to limit my focus to the organization of the ayllu and moiety
system in small size rural communities.
92
dual system, themselves arranged into larger ethnic groups exceeding the limits
of kinship.
In spite of these generalizations, the forms taken by the Incaic, and even
more so by the modern ayllu, remain too varied to allow the identification of a
single pattern. In a consideration of the nature of the ayllu, Zuidema and
Quispe (1973) remark that both the early chronicler’s interpretations of the
Incaic ayllu and the present day ethnographical descriptions of the modern
institution define it “equally as a group of kinsmen, a lineage, an endogamous
group, an exogamous group, or a localized group unrelated to the kinship.”
(1973:360-61) This diversity of forms taken by the ayllu leads the authors to
speculate whether Andean culture is “nothing more than a mere amalgamation
of different types of societies, with no similarities between them”, or whether
there might be some yet undiscovered basic cultural elements that would allow
the consideration of the different types of societies as “so many representations
of the same structure” (ibid. 361).
I suggest that instead of trying to relate the various forms taken by the
ayllu through time and space to a hypothetical ideal ayllu, of which other
expressions of the structure would be nothing but decayed manifestations, it is
more profitable to consider the process of transmission and transformation of
the institution as itself a structure. For if social institutions at the same time
express and reflect the totality of a given cosmological concepts, it is also true
that only through praxis are these institutions reproduced and transformed.
The following interpretation of the functioning of the ayllu and moiety
system in Accha draws from many past studies of those groups as symbolic
units or as systems of opposition that illuminate the important concept of
spatial, but also economic, or political boundaries (e. g. Skar 1982, Platt 1978,
Isbell 1978, Allen 1984, Murra 1980, Fonseca 1981, Palomino 1971, Martinez
1983, Golte 1980a). My understanding of the dynamic principle of the system,
as it will be framed in this chapter, owes much to Billie Jean Isbell’s suggestion
that the key to the understanding of such structures might lie in “that
dialectical process found in the relation between the ideal and the activity”
(Isbell 1977: 81). My study of the dialogical interplay of the social units in
Accha is derived from Gary Urton’s argument that the systems of opposition at
work are in fact processes of negotiation that through formal and informal
devices guarantee the production and the reproduction of the group (Urton
1984, 1988, 1992).
2. The social geography of Accha
There is in Accha a number of divisions between social groups. Some of
those divisions are clearly marked and the groups are fairly distinct in spatial,
social and political terms. Other divisions are much less clear. Some groups
seem to overlap, some divisions appear obsolete or contradictory. I will start
by attempting a description of the various groupings recognized in Accha.
At the same time as they deny the importance of the section system,
Accheños are quite clear about the physical location of its subdivisions, and
their integration in the community as a whole. They say that from the top of
Apu Kangal, across the Pampa from the village, Accha resembles a ch’ullu,
woolen cap, with the two earflaps represented by Hanansaya and Hurinsaya
and the crown of the hat being made up of Santa Ana and Cusco ayllu. These
four groups, and the relations among them, constitute the totality of what is
recognizable as an Andean corporate structure of ayllus and moieties.
93
At a different level of integration, there are also anexos which I discussed in
chapter 1, and will also appear later on in this discussion.
93
The most inclusive division is between the two moieties or sayas of
Hanansaya and Hurinsaya. Accha has been described by Gade and Escobar
(1982), in a study of that and several other highland communities in the region,
as “an extreme formalization of the dual structure.” What justifies this
statement is the fact that in Accha, unlike in most of the present day highland
communities that have a functioning moiety system, the two moieties, as well
as the other intracommunity groups, are localized. The plaza de Armas is
divided in two by a shallow stream that takes waste water to the marshy
drainage land of the pampa. This stream separates the square in two, and its
prolongation likewise divides the rest of the village. Each half of the square has
its own church, identified with either moieties (el templo de Hurinsaya, and el
templo de Hanansaya), and at two ends of the village are found two cemeteries
where the dead of the respective moieties are buried (see Cacharparimoco in
chapter 3).
Within Hurinsaya are also found two ayllus, also localized: Ayllu Santa
Ana and Cusco Ayllu, each with its little square and chapel, respectively, Santa
Ana and Santa Rosa de Lima. There are several unusual features that are
peculiar to Accha. One is the fact that there are only two ayllus within the
whole structure, and that they are both in Hurinsaya. The other is the extreme
emphasis on the localization of the unit. Those two features jointly serve to
give the functioning of the ayllu and moiety system in Accha a distinctive
originality that I want to explore.
2. 1. Civil-political hierarchies.
The political hierarchy of Accha consists of several parallel structures
that coexist and are activated at different, economic, ritual and calendrical
levels. The traditional structure of the cargo system seems in Accha to be
exclusively connected with rituals, and is activated in ritual circumstances. The
positions of carguyoqkuna, owners of the cargo, are held usually for one year,
and are “volunteered” at the end of the previous fiesta in the ceremony that has
been identified as ‘passing on the cargo’ (chapter 3). There are several cargo
structures centered around the various groups’ fiestas and patron saints. Thus
a member of a given ayllu can throughout his life hold in succession --but not
necessarily in order-- both in his ayllu and his moiety the various cargos for the
corresponding fiestas. Furthermore, there is no interdiction for any individual
to have a cargo in another ayllu, “as long as they work the land of the saint”
(Abelardo Fernandez Vaca). It might possibly make sense for a young man
living in the anexos, or even today in Hanansaya, to want to invest into the
cargo system in Hurinsaya and the ayllus, where he might perhaps ultimately
wish to move into the group, marry in or claim land.
Tenuously tied into that structure is another political structure of
officials elected at the level of the individual social unit by the empadronizados,
the registered members of the group. This is the level at which decisions are
made concerning the organization of communal labor, mobilization of
individuals for faenas, choice of location of the group’s fondo , common potato
land, for the next two years. For each group, there are two elected officials: a
presidente and a teniente. Those are elected by their peers every two years
during December.
Finally, there is the civil-political structure introduced from Europe with
the reducción policy of the 16th century (see chapter 7) that gave the community
a hierarchy of municipal positions: alcalde, gobernador and teniente gobernador,
secretario and juez de paz . Those to are elected positions, and election times
correspond to the national political calendar. The candidates for alcalde run on
tickets that correspond to national parties. From 1985 to 1989, the Aprista
mayor was both a hacendado and a forastero, being a ex-guardia who had married
the daughter of a local hacienda. The governor and teniente are in theory
appointed by the provincial authority. In practice, the provincial prefect in
Paruro is usually content to ratify the name put forward by the alcalde. The
other positions were also occupied by mestizos, not only because they are
influential positions, but also because they imply a certain level of education -i.e. the ability to speak, read and write some Spanish. The position of juez de
paz even requires a short course in legal matters in Cusco.
2. 2. Duality, tripartition, and quadripartition: bases and parcialidades
If instead of ayllus and moieties one asks about parcialidades, the
94
information received is quite different. In that context, the inclusive structure is
usually referred to as ‘la comunidad madre’, with its presidente de comunidad and
within this structure are the bases with their own presidente. In Accha, there are
one presidente de comunidad and three presidentes de base. The authority of the
three presidentes de bases corresponds to the following parcialidades: Hanansaya,
Hurinsaya and jointly Cusco ayllu and Santa Ana. As ayllus, Cusco ayllu and
Santa Ana are distinct and part of the saya of Hurinsaya, which itself stands in
relation/opposition to Hanansaya within the main community. But as
parcialidades, the two ayllus are joined, and defined in opposition to both
Hurinsaya and Hanansaya (see fig. 5).
Accha (llacta)
Accha (comunidad madre)
Lit. parcel, subdivision. Interestingly, the word has in Spanish a double
meaning: it can also signify partiality, esprit-de-corps. At the beginning of the
colonial era, it was used as a translation for ayllu (Rostworowski 1981).
94
Hanansaya
Hurinsaya
C
Hanan
Hurin
CA/SA
SA
A
Moiety/ayllu system
Base/Parcialidad system
(Cargayoqkuna)
(Oficiales)
Fig. 5 The two hierarchical structures
The two structures coexist within the village and are part of discrete
realities and discourses. The first structure, termed here moiety/ayllu system,
is activated for ritual purposes, and functions at the intragroup level for fiesta
95
specific organized labor that is the object of the reminder of this chapter. The
second structure is oriented towards the outside of the community, and relates
to national politics, provincial bureaucracies and development agencies. In
effect, the distinction between the two systems reproduces what I have
described in the previous chapters as absolute identity (Accha from within) on
the one hand, and relative identity (Accha in relation to the outside) on the
other.
I need to add that beyond its two ayllus, Hurinsaya also includes, outside
of the village limits in the direction of the Velille valley, two dependent anexos
(see fig. 6). Those have been seen taking part in the laymi in chapter one. We
shall see that they are also involved in ritual work parties in association with
Hurinsaya within the moiety/ayllu system.
See Gary Urton (1992) for a discussion of emergence and activation of the
ayllus in Pacariqtambo.
95
Fig. 6. The system of social divisions in Accha:
Hu= Hurinsaya, Ca= Cusco ayllu, Sa=Sta Ana ayllu.
It will be noted that Hurinsaya is represented twice in this diagram: as a
moiety in opposition with Hanansaya; but also as a subdivision at the same
level of the two ayllus. This is meant to underscore the fact that Hurinsaya
exists both as a subgroup in relation and in opposition to Cusco Ayllu and
Santa Ana, and as the inclusive moiety in opposition to Hanansaya (see also fig.
5). For all intents and purposes, the moiety of Hurinsaya includes three
subgroups: Cusco ayllu, Santa Ana and Hurinsaya.
2. 3. Mode of recruitment.
Ayllus and moieties in Accha are mostly but not prescriptively
endogamous. A person is a member by “communal consensus”. A man has to
live for two years in one place and then petition to become a member of his
group of residence. A man who has lived there for two years and is accepted
has immediately “la voz y el voto” (voice and vote). All memberships are
recorded in the books of the comunidad madre.
That is only true for a man: a woman may renounce her rights in her
own community and automatically become a member of her husband’s
community, if she wishes. However, she may decide to keep her membership
in her group of origin, and in fact, her husband might want to switch his
membership from his group to hers. If a man from Santa Ana marries a woman
from Hurinsaya, he can work his and his wife’s chakras in Santa Ana and
Hurinsaya, and remain a member of Santa Ana. If he moves to Hurinsaya, he
becomes part of Hurinsaya and can keep working his chakras in Santa Ana
Being registered in an ayllu gives one the following rights and obligations:
access to laymi land, right to vote and duty to participate in faenas.
3. Death doth us part: faenas and the dual structure.
3. 1. Graveyards: machays and campos santos.
In Inca times, ayllus and hamlets would bury their dead in caves and
other sacred sites that corresponded to each group. The practice of burying the
dead in underground chambers or caves (machay ) is documented by Guaman
Poma (1980[1613]) and Arriaga (1920), who also notes that the Indians would
often exhume their dead after a Christian burial and take
Fig. 7 Plan of Accha and its subdivisions
them to their ancient machays (see also Doyle 1988, Harris 1982b). The
Spaniards insisted that the dead be buried inside the village and in sacred
ground around the church. This was one of the hardest rules to enforce for the
resident priests throughout the colonial period (Decoster 1990ms; also chapter
8), and a hard one for the Indians to follow, for whom communal interments in
the middle of the village was clearly an aberration.
In the late 18th century, European cities started building their cemeteries
outside of town for reasons of health. The idea first started in Paris, Milan and
Madrid in the 1770s and 1780s. This practice soon came to the Americas, and in
time, to the highland villages. The Mercurio Peruano (1964-[1791-]) extols the
moving of campos santos outside the towns for reasons of hygene. The clergy
strongly resisted that impulse, mostly because it would be more difficult for
them to collect for the burial (Clément 1984:119). But two royal cédulas soon
imposed the new practice in the Americas .
96
Until the beginning of the 19th century (Abelardo Vaca), the one
graveyard in Accha had been situated on a lot adjacent to the casa cural called
P’achapuquio.
97
I suggest that the reason for the graveyard to have been in
P’achapuquio rather than outside the church, as was the Spanish-imposed
custom elsewhere, relates to the existence of the two churches, which would
have forced the clergy to either privilege one church over the other or allow
burials in two churchyards. The one cemetery on ‘neutral grounds’ is the only
indication I have found of a lack of total acceptance of the dual system by the
colonial church. Later, when, as part of the implementation of the cédulas ,
Accheños were instructed to build a cemetery on the periphery of the village,
they built two instead at the extreme limits of the moieties.
Today, the two graveyards are clearly not over-occupied, and there is no
apparent justification for having two graveyards rather than one. The
monuments are mostly above-ground constructions made of adobe walls and
topped with tiles, and resemble in materials and shape the houses in the village.
98
The adobe bricks for the monuments can be made on the spot, outside the
“para que las autoridades civiles y militares de Indias informen sobre la
conveniencia de establecer cementerios en las afueras de las poblaciones”
(Madrid 27 Mars 1789) and “sobre establecimiento de cementerios fuera de
poblado en los dominios de Indios” (Aranjuez 15 May 1804) (Both quoted in
Clément 1984:117).
97 The name of the place itself is an indication of its function: spring (puquio)
where the clothes (p’acha) of the dead are washed as part of the funeral ritual.
98 Block-shaped and pastel painted monuments also occur, usually built by
relatives who live in Cusco. This type of monument is most common in the
Cusco graveyards and to me evokes the flat-roofed light blue and light green
houses of the working class suburbs. There too, the houses of the dead is
patterned on the houses of the living.
96
graveyard walls. The tiles are also made locally with clay from the river and
fired in the village.
The dead of each moiety must be buried in their respective cemeteries,
under penalty of a fine payable by the survivors to the consejo. When I asked
why anybody would want to be buried in the “wrong” cemetery, Don Mariano
pointed to the difference in terrain between the Hurinsaya cemetery on dry
land at the foot of the mountain, and that of Hanansaya bordering some
imperfectly drained marsh land: “.....and their graveyard: the way they bury
their dead in Hanansaya is, they dig a hole and dump the body in the water.
That’s why there is a lot of people from there who pay the fine to be buried in
Hurinsaya. That doesn’t happen too much in the other direction.” The ‘hole in
the ground’ must be taken as an exaggeration as we have seen that most burials
are above-ground burials.
99
The maintenance of the graveyard is done by each moiety.
100
In
Hanansaya, where there are no subdivisions, the moiety as a whole takes part
in a work-party. The situation is different in Hurinsaya. Figure 8 shows how
half of the surrounding wall is covered with straw and the other half
A case of ‘cross-moiety burial’ is that of Benjamin Ocón Sebillanos, who was
a member of Hanansaya and first cousin (MBS) to Don Mariano, of Sta Ana
ayllu, and Hurinsaya. This is the same man mentioned in chapter 1 as the
intermediary between Accheños and llameros from the highlands. His
daughter, Irene Ocón Guamani de Vargas, daughter of Benjamin Ocón. and
Margareta Guamani is buried in the Hurinsaya cemetery. This is because her
husband Luis Vargas, who is still alive, is from Santa Ana. Her presence in the
Hurinsaya is therefore coherent with the rule of group acquisition outlined
above. It appears that Benjamin was to have been buried in the same plot as
her and his name was already on her tomb. As it was, he died --perhaps
murdered-- as he was looking for his pigs, sometime during the dry season of
88-89. His body was taken to Paruro for an autopsy and buried there.
100 See Urton 1984 and 1988 for the discussion of a similar division of
communal labor along ayllu lines in Pacariqtambo.
99
Fig. 8 The organization of the work-parties for the maintenance of the
cemetery walls in Hurinsaya
with tiles. In fact, the wall is divided into four parts, and each corresponding
subdivision is responsible for one section of the wall. However, the work
parties always consist of two of those subdivisions at a time, either Santa Ana
and Cusco ayllu together, or Hurinsaya and Misanapata, an anexo of Hurinsaya
comprising the hamlets of Nieta, Tambo, Maymachi and Avancay.
101
The
reason why the other anexo of Hurinsaya, Oyaino, is not involved in the
graveyard work is because it has its own graveyard.
When I arrived in Accha in 1987, Cusco Ayllu and Ayllu Santa Ana had
covered their half of the wall with tiles.
102
The section corresponding to
Nieta was one of the original pueblo viejos reduced in Accha by Toledo.
Both Nieta and Tambo had status of ayllu of Hurinsaya at least through the
19th century (see chapter 7). Avancay was an hacienda belonging to the
Fernadez Vaca, identified as Hamancay in 1836 (see chapter 7). I have no
information on Maymachi.
102 This had been the object of a faena for which each member of the two ayllus
had to provide 50 tiles.
101
Hurinsaya and Misanapata was still covered in straw. The discrepancy lasted
for the two years that I was there. I need to point out that the division in
sections doesn’t extend to the inside of the graveyard: people can be buried
anywhere inside its perimeter. The only rules that seem to apply are that the
foot of the grave must face east, and that children are buried in the southern
section of the graveyard.
3. 2. Maintenance of the churches.
The church maintenance follows a similar pattern. Hanansaya people
work all together on the maintenance of the Hanansaya church. But
Fig. 9 The organization of the work-parties for the roof of the Hurinsaya
church.
the roof of the church of Hurinsaya is divided into 4 sections, which the
subdivisions have to work in pairs: Hurinsaya together with the anexo of
Misanapata, and Cusco Ayllu and Ayllu Santa Ana jointly with the anexo of
Oyaino (fig. 4).
In 1984, Padre Sergio, the resident priest, closed the Hurinsaya church
claiming that it was in too much disrepair. He later confided to me that in fact
he did not want to have to say mass twice on Sundays, --once in each of the two
moiety churches-- which he what he had to do up to then. He then proceeded
to organize work-parties to restore the remaining church --that of Hanansaya.
He asked the presidente de comunidad how this should be done, and this 5-day
schedule was the result:
Monday:
Tuesday:
Wednesday:
Thursday:
Friday:
Hurinsaya
Misanapata
Cusco ayllu/Santa Ana
Oyaino
Hanansaya
What we see here, is a transformation from a spatial pattern of division
of work into a temporal one.
103
The same groups that were involved in the
maintenance of the Hurinsaya church were drafted to participate in the
refection of the Hanansaya temple in the same alternation between village
ayllus and anexos. To those was added the moiety of Hanansaya as a whole,
counting only for one faena day a week.
Although the members of the Hurinsaya moiety resented the priest for
closing down their church they did not object to being jointly responsible for
80% of the work expenditure for the maintenance of the other moiety’s church.
I believe that by closing one of the two churches, the priest had in effect
eliminated the dual division at that level, and made of the remaining church the
responsibility of the whole village. This is a clear indication of the flexibility of
This rotational system is not uncommon. In 1988, in preparation for the
planned electrification of the village, there was a such a three-day rotation
involving Hanansaya, Hurinsaya and Cusco Ayllu and Santa Ana jointly.
Because the electrification project was organized by the oficiales of the
comunidad madre, they used a rotation system based on the triadic structure.
103
the system, which can be taken back to the situation in the Hurinsaya
graveyard for comparison.
A parallel between the organization of the Hurinsaya church-roof workparty and the cemetery work-party clearly shows the potential for creating or
collapsing divisions (fig. 8 and 9). The anexo of Oyaino has its own cemetery in
the valley and therefore does not participate in the maintenance of the
Hurinsaya cemetery. They do however have a responsibility towards the
maintenance of the church. In the same way, I would venture that the same
principle explains the situation in Hanansaya where through the collapse of the
constituent units, responsibility for the maintenance of the graveyard and of the
church moved to the higher inclusive level. One of the most recent evidence of
the gradual transformation of the ayllu-structure in Hanansaya, still present in
the collective memory is the people, is that of Belén, the last ayllu to disappear
in Hanansaya. When I would ask people to name the subdivisions in Accha, I
would be told that “there is no longer any ayllus in Hanansaya, as a medical
post has been built where the chapel used to be. But the church bell from the
Belén chapel is now kept in the main Hanansaya church.”
This statement makes three points: one that there is a clear identification
between the actual church building and the status of group. The second point
is that the transfer of the bell from the chapel to the church illustrates the logic
of the ayllu/moiety system whereby upon the disappearance of one element of
the system, the structure is reconstructed as the next level of integration.
Finally, there is the implication of a state of potentiality, of dormancy that is
built into the system and could lead to the disappeared group being
reactivated. In spite of the disappearance of the last ayllu in Hanansaya, the
blueprint for the subdivision system is still extant, and if the Hanansaya ayllus
were to be reactivated, or new ones created, I would expect to see the same
kind of partitioning take place again.
104
In the scheme of fission and fusion described here, the division is in fact
the underlying structure, and the union the overt one. Yet each level of
division carries in itself the principle of unavoidable complementarity. The
perimeter of the graveyard is divided into quarters but worked in halves, and
the roofing of the Hurinsaya church must be conducted jointly by one
subdivision from the village and one from an outside hamlet. No one part of
the structure can ever operate by itself. When the opposition between the two
churches was canceled by a fiat from the priest, all the subdivisions
collaborated in the repairs of the remaining church.
The implication of the statement ‘we are one community’ is not ‘in spite
of the subdivisions’ but ‘because of the subdivisions’. It is the mechanics of
division and complementary union built into the ritual work labor system, that
guarantee the physical as well as cultural reproduction of the whole community
at large.
3. 3. Potatoes and the dead:
When I arrived in Accha in the dry season of 1987, Don Mariano had
been a widower for about a year. When Doña Lucía died, he did not have a
On the relation of the group to its churches, see Isbell and Fairchild (1979ms
), Houdart-Morizot (1976), Palomino (1968) and Wachtel (1990). The notion of
disappeared ayllus as dormant was first suggested to me by Catherine Allen
who claims that in Sonqo ancient ayllus are identified by name and location and
that they can potentially be revived (pers. com.). Urton (1988) also relates the
disappearance of an ayllu in Pacariqtambo to the collapse of a section of the
churchyard wall.
104
tomb ready for her and she was temporarily buried in one that belonged to a
compadre of his. Her death had greatly affected Mariano. He told me that a
few months after she died, being quite drunk, he had talked a friend of his into
accompanying him to the cemetery. They had taken down the adobe bricks
sealing the tomb and slid out the coffin, at which time the friend took off
running. Don Mariano opened the coffin and later told me that he’ d been
amazed to see how shiny his dead wife’s eyes were, how her fingernails and
hair had grown and how she seemed to be sleeping.
Months after that event, the compadre who owned the tomb where Doña
Lucía was buried, was pressuring Don Mariano into getting his wife out of his
(the compadre’s) tomb. The man was reasonably concerned about what would
happen if he would unexpectedly need the tomb, and it was still occupied.
After trying unsuccessfully to calm the man’s anxieties, Don Mariano took me
to the (Hurinsaya) graveyard to select a spot where we would build a new
tomb for Doña Lucía, and eventually for himself too. Once there, Mariano
asked me to pick a spot for the tomb. I replied that he too someday would be in
it, and for a very long time, so he might want to pick a spot that he liked, maybe
under this tree, or perhaps next to that wall.... He looked at me with
puzzlement, clearly unconcerned with scenic requirements for his final resting
place, and bending down where we stood, he grabbed a handful of dirt and
rolled it between his fingers like the farmer that he is and said: “This here is
good soil. Let’s build it here.”
105
This concern with the quality of the soil for a burial underlines an
implicit parallel between the human population of Accha, living and dead, and
That choice turned out to be an infelicitous one, as when we started work a
neighbour of Don Mariano showed up and claimed that his mother was buried
in the spot we had selected. We had to involve the authorities of the village in
the dispute, and eventually lost our claim and had to build on another spot.
105
potatoes. The basic subsistence crop in the district is grown and planted in a
series of communal fields around the village and the seeds, after the harvest,
are kept in two separate storehouses within the village. Thus the life cycle of
the potato is a continuous movement between the fields where they are planted
and later excavated and the storehouses where they are kept inside the village
until the next planting season. This movement parallels that of the soul of the
dead believed to travel underground along a subterranean river and to be later
reborn at the source of a water spring. In this respect, the graveyard is nothing
but a way-station in the cyclical reproduction of life. The relation between the
two cycles is further evidenced in the fact that the springs out of which the soul
is reborn are called in Quechua by the same name, ñawi, as the potato eye, or
bud, out of which the plant grows. Likewise, the seed is called wawa, or baby
(Arnold 1988, 1989ms), and the bodies of mummies are analogous to chuñu,
freeze-dried potatoes (Allen 1982).
As we have seen, the dead are separated in the Hanansaya and
Hurinsaya graveyards. Yet this division is denied for the living at one level of
discourse: “we are one community”. Conversely, the seed-potatoes are
carefully separated into two storehouses, one in each moiety,
106
even though
they end up sown in communal land. This insistence on separating the seed is
even more interesting as there is no symbolic marking of a relation between the
group identity and the seed (as there is in other contexts)
107
and that seed can
very well be bought, sold or exchanged.
This in spite of the opposition of the non-governmental development
organizations (NGO) financing the storehouses, who maintained that one
storehouse was sufficient for a place the size of Accha. The presidentes de base (i.
e. officials of the moiety/ayllu system) claimed that it was not ‘convenient’.
107 For instance the seed corn in Santa Ana ayllu, where year after year
handfuls of corn kernels from the field of Santa Ana are distributed during the
fiesta to ayllu members to start the sowing in their own fields (chapter 5. 3.).
106
Fig. 10 Production and storage
The separation of the potato seed must then be viewed as symbolic of the
social divisions that exist within the community, in the same way as the
separation of the dead is a representation of the same social separations that are
negated in the official discourse of and about the living (fig. 10). There is also a
symbolic inversion between potatoes and people. Potato seed is separated
above ground inside the village (in the storehouses) and planted together
outside of the village (in the ten rotating communal laymi fields, represented as
a counterclockwise ring of numbers in fig. 10). In contrast, humans are
theoretically united above ground within the village and “planted” separately
outside of it. This contrast is only valid for the laymi system and official
discourse of the village-wide political structure. The fondo system on the other
hand, which separates the potato fields by moiety and ayllu, replicates the
moiety/ayllu ritual system of humans who are separated in life as in death.
However I believe that the most meaningful relation is that both
potatoes and humans are separated while they are “dormant”, but are together
when they are maturing and reproducing. In this way, storehouses are not so
much graveyards for potatoes as graveyards must be seen as storehouses for
the dead.
4. The role of fiestas in the definition of group identity
4. 1. A wealth of Virgins
Of the many fiestas that are celebrated in Accha, most are what could be
called ‘calendrical’, or ‘liturgical’ rituals: major catholic holidays like
Christmas, Easter, and Todos Santos (All Saints’ Day). Although many of these
liturgical holidays have specific significance in terms of a regional agricultural
or astronomical calendar, this catholic fiesta cycle is common not only to the
Andean region, but throughout Latin America (e.g. Brandes 1988) and serves to
punctuate the yearly ritual and economic cycle of the community.
However, the most important fiestas in terms of general participation as
well as cargo organization are those that are both group-specific (ayllu, moiety
or village) and saint-specific. If the ‘liturgical’ fiestas punctuate the whole year,
the patron-saint fiestas in the Andes usually fall in the months of “winter” or
dry season. That is to say that a village or an ayllu are most likely to have a
patron-saint whose feast day falls in June, July, August or September (see
chapter 5). Not only are the winter months a period of low agricultural activity,
but also they come after the harvest of corn first and then potatoes. These
combined factors allow for the necessary time and surplus needed for the fiesta
activities.
The three group-specific fiestas celebrated today in Accha are Virgen del
Carmen (July 16), Santa Ana (July 26), and Santa Rosa de Lima (August 30th).
These three saints are the patron-saints of respectively, the whole village of
Accha --or, more aptly, of the two moieties of Hanansaya and Hurinsaya--,
Ayllu Santa Ana, and Cusco Ayllu. The fact that Hurinsaya and Hanansaya
have the same patron-saint means that there are not three but four “Virgins”
celebrated in Accha: ‘birhin Carmen Hanansaya’, ‘birhin Carmen Hurinsaya’,
‘birhin Santa Ana’, and ‘birhin Santa Rosa’. When referring more specifically to
the physical representation of the saint, i. e. her statue, these names may
become ‘mamita Santa Ana’, ‘mamita Hanansaya’ and so on.
The Cusquenian anthropologist, Juan Victor Nuñez del Prado suggests
that the Spanish conquest and ensuing campaign of catechization brought
about a shift the indigenous religious thought. In precolumbian times, there
was a unique female deity (Pachamama) and a number of individual male
deities (the apus). The situation was reversed with the introduction of the
catholic doctrine whose components became perceived as on the one hand, a
unique male entity (Dios) and a fragmented female deity (the female saints) on
the other.
108
I suggest that Accha’s patron-saints are representations of one unique
female element: within the community, the actual historical or hagiographic
identities of the various saints are generally ignored or collapsed into an
overarching figure of the Virgin.
109
But this should not in any way be taken to
J.V. Nuñez del Prado, pers. comm., 1989. This contradiction between a
traditional cosmology and catholic doctrine seems to be confirmed in Accha in
the constant complaints by the priest, Padre Sergio, that his catequistas whose
duties include giving a rough translation in Quechua of the sermon and the
gospel of the day, routinely render santo (‘male saint’) as apu, and santa (‘female
saint’) as birhin (‘Virgin’).
109 To support this point, I only want at this stage to mention that of the three
Virgins, it is Santa Rosa who is associated with the Infant Jesus, whose statue is
also kept separately in the chapel of Santa Rosa, and takes part in the
celebration of that saint’s fiesta. Santa Ana’ is not recognized in Accha as the
108
mean that these Virgins are interchangeable. In fact, each individual saint and
her material representation are an important focus of identity for each of the
groups.
The four statues are identical generic female saint statues, store-bought
in Cusco, made of painted plaster. What differentiate them are the clothes,
wigs, jewelry and ornaments that are made for or offered to the saint on the
occasion of her fiesta, as a sign of devotion, or ostentation, or as part of a minor
cargo, or perhaps as a signal or commitment to engage in a cargo. The
individual items donated to the saint are identified with the embroidered name
of the donor if it is a piece of clothing, or otherwise recorded by the prioste or
catequista.
The existence of those four female saints in Accha as patron saints of the
four components of the moiety/ayllu system underlines the structural
correspondence between the four groups involved. This correspondence is
most striking during the fiesta of Carmen when the two saints of the moieties
are brought out of their respective churches simultaneously and jointly
110
paraded around the village: rather than one communal celebration of the saint,
two parallel celebrations take place concurrently. But if the uniform
characteristics of the identities of the patron saints, and of the relation between
each group and its saint suggest a ritual equality between Hanansaya,
Hurinsaya, Cusco Ayllu and Ayllu Santa Ana, we will see in the next section
how the actual celebration of each fiesta expresses and produces a hierarchical
relation between the groups.
mother of the Virgin Mary. Rather, as we will see (chap. 5), she is identified as
the mother of Cristóbal, who as “el Señor de Siwina”, is recognized as the
embodiment of the community’s main apu.
110 The church of Hurinsaya is reopened for that day to allow for the
preparation of the statue of the saint.
4. 2. Building the enclosures: inclusion of the excluded
All three of the saint’s fiestas feature a bullfight as one of their principal
activities. These bullfights, in the tradition of highland villages, involve, rather
than a professional bullfighter, local men who set out to prove their courage by
facing young bulls, armed only with their ponchos and a good dose of trago.
The bulls are never killed or hurt. But there is rarely a fiesta without one or
more amateur bullfighter getting seriously injured.
One of the most important cargos of each fiesta is that of torero. He must
procure the bulls for the fight, provide trago for the building of the enclosure
and lead several horseback parades throughout the duration of the fiesta, often
little more than drunken stampedes through the streets of the village. A few
days before the bullfight, the torero builds a bullpen for the corrida in a
designated spot --in all three cases a corner of the plaza adjacent to the church
or chapel. On the day of the bullfight, the task of building the actual enclosure
for the bullfight is conducted by a faena work party of the members of the
relevant group or groups.
Fig. 11 Enclosures for the bullfights:
mmmmm= part of fence built by the mayordomo (bullpen)
casacasa=Cusco ayllu and Sta Ana; huhuhu=hurinsaya; hahahah= hanansaya
I have shown above how in ritual labor each level of division carries in
itself the principle of unavoidable complementarity. The work on the perimeter
of the graveyard and the roof of the church must be conducted jointly by one
section from the village and one from an outside hamlet. No one section can
ever operate by itself. The building of enclosures for the bullfights shows that
the actual ritual practice that expresses the separation of the group also requires
the inclusion of the group which stands either directly in opposition, or at the
next higher level of integration from each sponsoring group.
The building of the fences for the three bullfights follows a precise
pattern that indexes relations of hierarchy or social proximity between specific
groups. In each case, each group involved is responsible for the same portion
of the enclosure year after year.
111
Figure 11 indicates this distribution for each
of the three bullfights. In Santa Ana, the enclosure is built jointly by Santa Ana
and Cusco Ayllu. Hanansaya and Hurinsaya, although they will participate in
the fiesta and in the bullfight, do not help in the building of the arena. In Cusco
ayllu, where the fiesta of Santa Rosa de Lima is held, the enclosure is divided
into two parts: one built by Hurinsaya, and the other by Cusco Ayllu and Ayllu
Santa Ana jointly. For the bullfight of the Virgen del Carmen, the enclosure is
built on the Plaza de Armas, abutting the wall of the church of Hurinsaya.
112
Hanansaya, Hurinsaya, and jointly again the twin ayllus Cusco Ayllu and Santa
Ana each contribute a portion of the fences.
In a very similar contexts see Urton’ s articles on the preparation of the
plaza in Pacariqtambo prior to the fiesta (1984) and the maintenance of the
church walls in the same community (1988).
112 Nowadays, Accheños insist that the fiesta of Carmen is that of the whole
village, but there is a possibility that at some time in the undetermined past
Hanansaya had its own bullfight, although I have no information on the
location of the enclosure or the modalities of its construction. The existing
configuration of the enclosure on the main plaza for Carmen might be the
traditional one for the moiety of Hurinsaya and there might have been at some
time a parallel setup for Hanansaya on the other side of the plaza.
111
We see that the group, in the act of defining itself, incorporates in the
creation of its limits the very group or groups in relation to which it defines
itself at the most immediate higher level. If the fiesta is a celebration and
expression of collective identity, then the communal labor involved in the
preparation of the fiesta underlines the articulation of the group with the others
and the interdependence between groups.
I also want to suggest that the building of the bullfight enclosure not
only expresses collective identity, but also produces it. I believe that in Accha
individual identity is primarily as a member of a group, but that each member
is expected to build his or her own persona, following guidelines that are
anchored in the structure of the group. In a highly symbolic way, in the
building of the bullfight enclosures, each male ayllu member (faenante) is
required to bring one post and one leather strap. Therefore, year after year,
each individual contributes one element of the whole fence as well as the tie to
link his post to his neighbor’s post. Each portion of the fence thus becomes a
tally of the group’s constituting members, and a metaphor for the group itself
as a entity made up of individual elements bound together. The whole finished
enclosure brings the metaphor one step further as the contribution of every
faenante in the village adds up to form a protective perimeter that guards the
population of the whole village (the spectators of the bullfight) against the
dangers of the wilderness brought in by the
fiesta.
113
In this way, boundaries both protect the members of the group and
bind them together.
5. Defining the ayllu and the moiety
113
see chapter 5 for a discussion of the categories of wild and tame.
What precedes may now allow us to attempt an approximation of the
nature of the various social units. Through ritual practice, we have seen that
the intracommunity groups, as was the case for the larger community (chapter
3), define themselves both absolutely --in relation to the iconic pole of the
church and its saint-- and relatively --in opposition to the other groups by
stressing their limits. Therefore, I want to offer here that the identity of the
group is based on the recognition of a symbolic center and clearly marked
boundaries. That definition of the ayllu (or the moiety) differs from others
based on, for example, genealogical ties (Zuidema 1964 and passim) or
leadership (Isbell 1985) and is entirely influenced by the strong emphasis on
territoriality and limits in Accha.
114
The ritual practice taking place within the moiety/ayllu system equally
stresses the collective identity of the participants within their group, as it does
the collaborative yet hierarchical relation of that group with the other
constituents of the system. The next chapter will take a view of the ritual
production of identity from within the group. It will consider myths collected
within ayllu Santa Ana which tell of the relation of the group with its natural
and supernatural environment, and which seem to underline the fragility of the
ayllu’s physical and cultural reality. Those myths will be related to ritual
performances within that ayllu that emphasize the cyclical necessity for the
physical and symbolic reproduction of the group.
In this chapter, in my discussion of the functioning of the moiety/ayllu
system, I have alluded to the particularities of this system in Accha (e. g. the
emphasis on localization), but was not able to explain them solely through a
consideration of ritual practice. In the last part of this work (chapters 6, 7 and
Although I do believe that this definition applies to situation where the
boundaries are not necessarily physically drawn the way they are in Accha.
114
8), I will look at the social systems operating in Accha in diachrony. I will use
archival documents that trace the existence of Accha from being an encomienda
(chapter 6) to its creation as a Toledan reducción. (chapter 7). Chapter 8 will
look at the influence of the clergy in Accha at the time of the rebellion of Tupac
Amaru II. By tracing the historical processes that over the centuries have
shaped Accha, I will be able to offer suggestions to explain the localization of
the groups and the endurance of their boundaries. I will also present an
interpretation for the existence of Santa Ana and Cusco Ayllu as sole surviving
ayllus, and for the strong ties that exist between the two.
CHAPTER FIVE
MYTHIC TRANSFORMATIONS AND RITUALS OF RENEWAL.
Often, at night, over much trago, Don Mariano would tell stories while
we sat in the dark kitchen of the house fixing and eating the evening meal.
Ours was an unusual household: a widower with a weakness for liquor, and
his gringo guest. Don Mariano did most of the household work himself,
trusting me only with the most menial chores, like fetching water and peeling
potatoes. While he prepared the meal, Don Mariano talked about the events of
the day, bits of gossips that I would invariably have missed, and previsions
concerning the upcoming agricultural tasks. After dinner, the narrative often
shifted to more distant anecdotes about his life in the seminary as an adolescent
and his stint in the army as a young man. As the evening progressed, the
stories took a different quality: they were perhaps about men he had seen at
night dig up the buried treasures of the Incas, guided by the light of falling
lightning, who later died unnatural deaths; or maybe about a reunion of dead
priests he had stumbled upon as a young seminarist when he had lost his way
in an underground maze of corridors and had entered a forbidden chamber.
All those stories were always time- and place-specific. Even when Don
Mariano had not himself witnessed an event, he always provided the identity
of the participants and the place where it occurred, and he would pause after
giving me those details as if to dare me to challenge him. Other times, he
would set the story for me to come up with the moral or draw my
own conclusions from his account. There was for instance the tale of the young
man who was gored by his own bull for having disobeyed his father. Or there
was the story of the woman who, as an eight year old (“she was the daughter of
my compadre Martín and later died in childbirth”) had unearthed a yellow basin
and a white one --Don Mariano nodded when I asked, “surely those must have
been gold and silver, right? “
1. Ephemeral reality and stable disequilibrium
These are three stories that I always heard as a set, either told by Don
Mariano himself or, when others were present, by different narrators
responding to each other. All stories were collected in Ayllu Santa Ana, as
attested by the mentions of the patron saint and the chapel for that group, as
well as toponyms geographically connected with that ayllu (and with
Hurinsaya, its encompassing moiety). In the transcription that I offer below,
the first and most elaborate version is the one given by Don Mariano. Other
narrators gave much more succinct versions, some of which I also include.
All three narratives involve the community’s mountain deity, apu
Siwina, and other local toponyms, and also specifically refer to three catholic
saints (Santiago, Santa Ana and San Cristóbal ) whose feast days follow each
other --25, 26 and 27 July respectively. The narratives indirectly connote two
separate sets of t’inkaska ritual activities, performed at that time, which
anticipate and celebrate the necessity of renewal. One of those rituals, the
t’inkaska Santa Ana, deals with the geo-social delimitation of the ayllu and its
symbolic and physical reproduction through the distribution and sowing of
early corn. The other, the t’inkaska Santiago, is concerned with the physical
reproduction of the herd and its ‘socialization’ through the marking of the
animals. The calendrical period which is the focus of the myths and of the
ritual/agricultural activities mentioned here corresponds to a dangerous time
of the year best understood as an annual pachacuti when the world of the living
communicates with the underworld, the sun prepares to die and be reborn, the
granaries are emptying, and the fields are ready to become fecund again.
Starting from a consideration of the myths, I propose to look at the
theme of transformation as an index of Accheños’ attitude towards change
expressed in terms of unstable opposition between wild (savage) and tame
(civilized). Such dichotomy recalls the one used in the relational definition of
identity mentioned in chapter 3 --the community of Accheños in opposition to
the outlandish outside. However, the implicit and explicit references to Inca
mythology and Catholic hagiography also betray a conscious construction of
Accheño collective identity based on historical validation.
The contrast in the myths between wild and civilized can be interpreted
as a metaphor for the delicate balance necessary to maintain that collective
identity, and as a cautionary tale about the ephemeral and fragile quality of
Accheño culture. But the temporal relation linking the myths to the two
t’inkaskas also serves to underline the indispensability of cyclical renewal -seasonal or ritual-- for the physical survival of the community.
115
1. 1. The myths.
M1: Siwina and the ganadero.
One day a cattleman (ganadero) from Arequipa met a man from
Accha named Cristóbal who agreed to sell him animals. Cristóbal, also
called Siwina, told the ganadero that he was well-known in Accha and
that the first person he’d meet would give him directions to his house.
So, when the Arequipeño came to Accha to collect his animals, he walked
into the first house he saw to ask for directions. The old woman who
opened the door said that her name was Ana and that in fact Siwina was
her son. ‘Follow this alley’ she said ‘and knock on the door at the end.
That’s where he lives.’ The alley was bathed in sunlight, and the door at
115
See also Métraux 1967.
the end appeared made of gold. The ganadero knocked, and Siwina
opened the door.
‘Ah, you have come for your bulls. Come around the back, there
is another door. I will meet you there.’
Indeed, at the other door, the ganadero was met by Siwina, with
bulls bigger and more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen before, and
worth much more than the agreed price. Before the man left with his
cattle, Siwina warned him that under no circumstance was he to use a
sling to herd his animals, but instead to direct them by swinging balls of
coca in front of them. However, when at nightfall the ganadero decided
to stop in a place near Maqpi called Torowiskuna (‘corral, place where
the bulls are enclosed’), the bulls balked and the ganadero used his sling
to force them into the natural enclosure. Immediately, the bulls were
transformed into deer (taruka), foxes (atoq), and also other wild (sallqa)
animals who escaped into the air and underground.
Angry, the ganadero returned to Accha but could not find
Siwina’s house. The people he asked said that there was no one by the
name of Ana, except for Santa Ana (‘nuestra señora la virgen de santa
Ana’). He entered the chapel and recognized it as the house where he
had first met Ana. Walking back outside, he realized that the shining
door was in fact Acchatoqo, the cave in the side of Siwina, which can be
seen at the end of a narrow street leading off the plaza.
M1a: First Variant: Firearms
A buyer came from Arequipa. ‘I have 8 smoke-colored bulls’ said
Inca Siwina, ‘but you cannot make any noise’. Once the ganadero got
to Guaynos, he shot firearms.. All the bulls were changed into tarukas.
The following day he came looking for Inca Siwina but couldn’t find
him. If you are given a woman and you don’t do a t’inka [sacrificial
libation], the woman will be changed into a taruka.
M1b: Second Variant: the Origin of Deer
Men were herding tarukas around Siwina. A young Indian
shepherd appeared to them and told them that they should herd tarukas
by shaking balls of coca in front of them instead of using their slings.
Everything worked well until one day a man forgot/disobeyed the
instruction. Since then, tarukas go wild and we have to hunt them.
M2:. Lord Siwina and the Teams of Bulls
One day, a man from Araypalpa discovered that his 2 teams of
bulls had disappeared. He noticed the tracks on the ground and followed
them up the side of Siwina until he got to Acchatoqo. Two Inca soldiers
116
Don Mariano, like all Accheños, uses the Spanish ‘toros’ to designate bulls
as well as oxen. I too do not distinguish in my translation.
116
were standing guard outside the cave. The man walked up to them and
told them that he was looking for his bulls. ‘They are inside,’ said the
soldiers, ‘but they are working right now. Come on in, Lord Siwina will
want to talk to you.’ He followed them and found himself inside the
mountain of Siwina and saw that it was nothing but an immense chakra
where dozens of teams of bulls were doing the early plowing (barbecho)
for planting the corn. One of the soldiers went to tell Lord Siwina that
the owner of the bulls had arrived. ‘Let him in, let him in!’, said Lord
Siwina. They fed him chicha and muti [corn beer and boiled corn]. At
dawn, when the time came for him to leave, Lord Siwina handed him two
ears of corn, one of white corn and one of yellow corn ‘Use these as seed’
said Lord Siwina. When the man arrived home, he discovered that one
ear of corn has changed into gold and the other into silver. The same
night, the bulls returned home.
M3. Apu Santiago and the Two Brothers
There were two brothers. The older brother was badly treated
while the younger got everything from their father. The older son went
on a trip. Stopping in Oyaino for the night, he dreamed of a resplendent
man on a white horse. This was Apu Santiago. In his dream, the
horseman asked him, ‘What do you have in your bag?’ ‘Just a little bit
of muti,’ replied the young man.
Santiago gave him three stones, and told him to put them at
night in a fire in each of his two corrals, and also inside his house. The
young man went home and did as he had been told. In the morning, one
corral was full of sheep and the other full of cattle. The house was full of
corn.
His brother, suspicious of this new wealth, took him to the judge,
where the older brother told his story. The younger brother then decided
he would do the same thing his brother had done. He packed some muti,
and when night came, went to sleep in the same place his brother had.
He too had a dream and the same horseman appeared to him and gave
him two flowers, telling him to put them in his hat-band and to go home.
But when he arrived home, he was attacked and torn to pieces by his own
dogs. He had been changed into a deer. The two flowers on his head had
become antlers.
1. 2. Mythic elements: transformations and passages
1. 2. 1. Mythic avatars
The unifying element of these three myths seems at the onset to be the
theme of transformation: from domesticated animal into wild animal in the
first myth (M1); from domesticated plants into precious metals in the second
(M2); from stones into domesticated animals and also from human into wild
animal in the third (M3). This theme of transformation is fairly common in
Andean myth and its metaphorical import has been studied by Urton (1985 )
Isbell (1985) and Sullivan (1985 and 1988). Here I want to consider
transformation itself as an element of, and an index for, a process embedded in
various specific cultural contexts.
Fig. 12 Transformations in the Accha myths
In all three myths and their variants, domesticated is the marked
category, and wild is unmarked. Most of the transformations --except for that
of stones into grain and cattle, to which I will return-- seem to operate from
domesticated to wild, as if domestication were an volatile state that could be
instantly canceled. Those transformations are the consequences of a test that is
put to the human protagonists in the myths. In M1, the Arequipeño is tested
for faith and obedience, and fails. The other individuals are rewarded for their
purity of heart (the bull owner in M2 who accepts two ears of corn and leaves
his bulls behind; and the older brother in M3), or punished for their lack of it
(the younger brother in M3).
In figure 12, I have diagrammed the various transformations present in
the myths. In the first myth, M1, the transformation from domesticated bulls
into wild deer is a consequence of the symbolic transgression of a prescribed
ritual behavior imposed by the Apu. As in the two variants, M1a and M1b,
117
and in M3, the transformation is instantaneous, unforgiving and irreversible.
The shaking of the balls of coca seems related to the ph’uku offering to the
apus (see chapter 2).
117
In M1b, the myth variant that claims to depict the origin of tarukas the
deer are at first domesticated animals being herded by men, and only become
wild as a consequence of transgression. In the myth, the apu, in its common
avatar as maq’ta, a young boy, gives Accheños the means to domesticate deer.
When subsequently they forget or ignore the rule he has made, the deer return
to their wild state.
118
M1a adds to this version the equivalence of firearms to slings, both
iconographic attributes of Santiago.
119
I only heard this version once, and in the
very abbreviated form that I give here. The final sentence postulates a relation
of women to the wild and to the Nether World, Ukhu Pacha, also found in
other symbolic contexts (e.g. Isbell 1976; Flores Ochoa 1988 ms).
Three separate and parallel transformational processes take place in M3,
the first from stones into domesticated animals (sheep and cattle) and
domesticated plants (corn), and the second from human into wild animal
(taruka). This latter in turn triggers a transformation from domesticated into
wild animals, when the dogs become the predators of their master.
Finally, in my tentative representation of the second myth, M2, the story
of the team of bulls, the transformation of domesticated plants (corn) into
mineral (gold) might seem problematic. Yet, the fact that Siwina says “use
these for seed” is revealing. There is enough evidence of a symbolic parallel
There is in the Huarochirí document a similar story, but the transgression is
presented as a mistake on the part of a young deer, who mispronounced a
magic refrain, and forever sealed the deer’s fate as the prey of men instead of
their predators. As the deer were assembled and chanting together in
preparation to a hunting expedition against men, the young animal said “how
will men eat us” instead of “how shall we eat men”, instantly causing the rest of
the herd to scatter and flee. From that day deer became food for men (Taylor
1980:55).
119 For more on this and on the relation of firearms and slings to thunder, see e.
g. Silverblatt 1988.
118
between agricultural and mining activities (Salazar-Soler in prep., Taussig 1980,
Nash 1979) to postulate a direct correspondence between gold and silver as
crops of Ukhu Pacha and yellow and white corn as crops of Kay Pacha.
In Accha, Ukhu Pacha is the domain of the seed, and Kay Pacha, the
visible world, that of the actual plant. The whole agricultural cycle of the corn
production thus a passage from Ukhu Pacha to Kay Pacha, and the plowing
that is taking place inside the mountain anticipates the growing of the corn in
the chakras above ground. This symbolic passage is also suggested in M3,
where Santiago trades the few grains of muti--the ultimate ‘domesticated’state
of corn into boiled foodstuff that can no longer be used as seed-- for three
stones which, once buried, in turn will change into an abundance of corn and
animals.
In the diagram, I have also represented in dotted lines the missing logical
transformation in the Accha myths: the one between humans and stones,
extremely frequent in other mythic context. This element is not entirely absent
in the Accha material: not only are the two Inca soldiers of M2 commonly
identified with two monoliths flanking Acchatoqo, but also the embodiment of
the apu itself (i. e. mountain into man) might be read as such a transformation.
Yet, the emphasis is clearly not on those, and I would propose that
transformations between humans and stones are more commonly associated
with myths either dealing with the origin (birth or rebirth) of individual heroes
or societies and the creation of social order.
120
I will argue here that the 3 myths
For instance, the Pacariqtambo myth of origin, the mythic/historical
episode of the war between the Incas and the Chancas, the Huarochirí
manuscript contains several instances of stone transformation, as do numerous
regional myths (Betanzos 1987, Santa Cruz Pachacuti Yamqui 1950, Cobo 1964,
Duviols 1976b, Urioste 1983, Howard-Malverde 1986, Urton 1986). The
Huarochirí manuscript, is also full of stories of animals and plants transformed
into people. There are also many examples of animal transformation in
120
are instead concerned with the maintenance of social order and the physical
survival of the group.
1. 2. 2. Caves as passages
I have alluded to links between the three Accha myths and an assumed
Inca history. The theme of the cave (toqo or machay) or tunnel (chincana) is one
121
such link. Stories about underground journeys can be related to the two
connected themes of Inkarrí and Paititi in the Andean mythic corpus. In most
versions of the myth, Inkarrí is presented as the generic Inca king, whose
persona is usually considered to be based on the historical characters of
Atahuallpa and Tupac Amaru I, and also on mythic elements predating the
Spanish Conquest (Urbano 1981, 1982). Inkarrí was a son of the Sun and the
Moon, and he tied down the Sun so that time would stand still. He also
domesticated the bull. He was defeated by the Spaniards, who killed him with
fire arms, when all Inkarrí had to fight with was a sling. He was beheaded by
the Spaniards and his head buried; since then, out of his head his body has been
growing back. When this process is achieved, when the world turns, he will
come out of the earth and rule again (Bourricaud 1957; Ortiz Rescaniere 1973).
The myth of Paititi is to space what that of Inkarrí is to time. It asserts
that the Incas were not all destroyed by the Spaniards. They went
underground and escaped to a secret location, a lost city called Paititi, usually
moralistic tales, in the beliefs about the condenados (sinners condemned to
wander in the shape of animals), or in myths about liminal heroes who have
both human and animal characteristics (Urioste 1983, Gow and Condori 1976,
Palma 1952, Barstow 1981, Arguedas 1978, Isbell 1985, Allen 1983).
121 A well-known cave in Inca mythistory is that of Tambotoco from where the
Ayar brothers came.
thought to be in the lowlands, where they continue to live and rule as they did
before the Conquest.
In both the Inkarrí and the Paititi themes then, the Incas continue to exist
in a different time or space and are expected to return and rule again. Those
stories tell of parallel worlds. One is Kay Pacha, the world we live on, that is
dominated by the mestizo culture, where Quechua Indians experience
oppression and humiliation. The other is Ukhu Pacha, the underground world
of the millenary Inkarrí, and of the Inca past, described in myth as a world of
justice and abundance. The myths themselves are like chinkanas, like passages
that allow access to the hidden world.
122
1. 2. 3. The man in the mountain, and his mother
There is in one of the chronicles an interesting story about a cave which I
believe operates a semantic linkage between the themes mentioned above and
those found in the Accha myths. In what Means (1964: 209) calls the episode of
the Shining Mantle, Montesinos (1920 [1644]) narrates what he presents as the
story of the beginning of Inca rule. I will summarize it as much as possible,
keeping the elements that I think are relevant to the Accha myths.
A chinkana is literally a place where one becomes lost. The maze under the
seminary of La Merced where young Mariano ventured was a chinkana, which
also linked, according to him, the cathedral to Saccsahuaman. Contemporary
stories about chinkanas tell of a campesino who enters a cave, loses his way, and
meets an Inca who gives him directions or brings him to the end of the tunnel,
which leads either to Paititi or to modern-day Cusco. The myth further
involves a reward granted to the campesino by the Inca, with conditions
attached to the reward, and a punishment for transgressing those rules
(Michael Thomas pers. com.). We find recognizable elements in all three of the
Accha myths (quest, meeting with a supernatural being, reward, transgression,
and punishment).
122
At the time, says Montesinos, vices reigned all over Peru. The most
prominent of those vices was bestiality, which was “the origin of all the
misfortunes that affected the kingdom” (1920: 68). The women gathered to try
and remedy this situation that deprived them of their sexual partners. The
leader of these women was a noble woman called Mama Ciuaco (siwiacu). The
name includes the morpheme siwi, which is the same root as Siwina, and means
a ring.
123
The name siwi yacu (Ciuaco) could mean “the ever widening circle”,
as suggested by Means (1964:209) or, more likely I believe, “the ring of water”
(yacu is water in contemporary Ayacucho dialect). Ciuaco enrolled the help of
her son Roca to restore the happy order of yesteryear (Montesinos 1920:69).
She proposes to achieve her goal by having Roca appointed king and making
him appear to have been chosen by the god Viracocha himself. She had gold
hammered out and made into a shirt that shone like the sun itself. Then she
took him
secretly to the Chingana, a famous cave which overlooks Cusco, and
which today [1644] extends as far as the convent of Santo Domingo
which was in ancient times the house of the Sun (Means 1920: 70).
Roca was to remain hidden for four days and then walk out of the
chingana at a time when the sun would hit its entrance, and thus appear to be
himself clad in sunlight. Those structural elements closely parallel the Accha
myth of Cristóbal (M1) in which Ana’s son also comes out of a cave,
resplendent in sunshine.
In the Shining Mantle episode, the stratagem
worked. Inca Roca was named king and Ciuaco was therefore recognized as
the wife of the Sun. Inca Roca’s first royal decrees --no doubt as a way to get
Another name given the apu in Accha is “Inca Siwillaq” which is said to
refer to the “ring” (siwi) of Inca masonry on top of Siwina. It was used for
smoke signals (see chapter 2).
123
rid of the evil of bestiality-- was to order great animal sacrifices, and that every
man take a wife. Thus, says Montesinos, started the Inca dynasty.
This last claim is what prompted Zuidema to suggest that Inca Roca is in
fact meant for Sinchi Roca,
124
the first Inca King actually born of the original
brother-sister pairs, and that Ciuaco is in fact Mama Huaco, Manco Capac’s
sister, and in some versions of the origin myth, also his wife and the mother of
Sinchi Roca (Betanzos 1987; Murúa:1925).
1. 3. Myth, hagiography, and popular religion.
1. 3. 1. Mama Huaco, Anahuarque, and Santa Ana
Accepting Zuidema’s postulate of the identification of Mama Ciuaco
with Mama Huaco leads to more structural parallels. Mama Huaco was the
real conqueror of Cusco. She killed the original inhabitants and ate parts of
their bodies (Betanzos 1987: 20). She is sometimes represented as a dragon
(amaru, serpiente). She was a promiscuous witch who could talk to the devil,
and to stones and mountains (Guaman Poma: 1980: 63). Yet she was also the
Mother of Corn, having introduced its cultivation into the valley. She thus has
a dual personality: that of a gluttonous cannibalistic monster, and that of a
fertile civilizing heroine.
In Ecuador, she lives on as Mama Huaca, and is connected with practices of
infant sacrifices (Rivet 1906, quoted in Hartman 1984: 654). She is represented
as an
Montesinos’s lack of reliability as a chronicler is best expressed in this
judgement by Means: “He was that rara avis : an ignorant and gullible Jesuit.”
Yet Szeminski in his study of Pachacuti Yamqui’s chronicle argues for a strong
structural correspondence between Sinchi Roca and Inca Roca (1987:124 and ff).
That might explain the apparent collapse between the two in Montesinos’ s
narration.
124
old woman with long tangled hair, which she combs with a golden comb.
She lives in caves in isolated places high in the mountains She is
considered the owner or the keeper of the gold buried in the time of the
gentiles, in particular of ears of corn of solid gold of which she gives
kernels when one brings her tender children, not yet baptized, or young
dogs (Hartman 1984).
In the Cusco region, Mama Huaco is also associated with Anahuarque,
an apu south of Cusco on the way to Accha. Mount Anahuarque was the site of
a fertility ritual during the Inca puberty rites, which featured sexual games
between young men and young women. Anahuarque was also an Inca queen
in one mythic tradition. Again, fertility is her main attribute: she is said to have
had 150 children (Zuidema pers. com., 1990b and 1990 ms; Billie Jean Isbell
pers. com.). In the region around Accha, Mama Huaco and the mountain
Anahuarque are linked to the cult to Santa Ana, the virgin Mother of the Virgin
Mary (Zuidema pers. com.; some maps even give the name Santa Ana to one of
Anahuarque’s two crests).
Not much is known about Saint Anne. The Gospels make no mention of
her. The apocryphal gospel of Saint James written in the 6th century names her
as the mother of Mary and says that she and St. Joachim were an old couple
with no hope of children when the birth of Mary was announced by an angel,
and that the holy child was miraculously conceived under the Golden Gate at
Jerusalem. This story is rejected by St. Augustine, St. Jerome, and others
(Holweck 1924). It is, however, easy to see how this miraculous conception, a
duplication of that of Christ by Mary would warrant that Mary’s and therefore
Jesus’ birth would be untainted by the original sin. “The doctrine of the
Immaculate Conception of Mary conferred on St. Anne a status like that of
Mary herself” (Christian 1981:37). In fact she shared with her daughter two of
her main attributes: virginity and motherhood, which in turn led to a collapsing
of the hagiographic personae of the two saints. There are many representations
of St. Anne holding together on her lap the child Mary and the infant Christ.
125
Through the centuries the Catholic Church oscillated between
recognizing her and banning her from its calendar (Englebert 1951). But hers
was such a popular cult that when her feast was finally officially recognized by
pope Gregory XIII in 1594, her shrines and those of Mary jointly accounted for
more than 50% of all shrines in Spain. She was sometimes thought to protect
against hail. In contemporary Latin America, she is sometimes thought to
control the forces of evil and is represented with a snake drapped over her
shoulders.
126
Her feast is celebrated on July 26. Santa Ana is the patron saint of
the ayllu in Accha that bears her name, and her saint’s day is there considered
as the first day of the planting of corn. Her fiesta is marked by a ritual blessing
of the seed and of the population of the ayllu, and the symbolic expression of
the reproductive relation between the two.
1. 3. 2. Cristóbal and Inca Siwina
San Cristóbal (Saint Christopher), although no longer officially a saint, is
one of the most popular sacred figures of the Catholic Church. It is believed
that his persona is based on a historical character who lived and died in Lydia,
Asia Minor. The early hagiography relates the most monstrous and
paradoxical things about him. A Greek legend makes him into a giant with a
The Johnson Museum at Cornell has on permanent display a wooden statue
and reliquary from 13 th-century Belgium in which the three generations are
represented in that way.
126 I have come across such an image in a religious goods store of Washington
Heights in New York City. The caption reads “Santa Ana Dominatrix”.
Zuidema finds similar characteristics associated in Cusco and in Southern
Europe with not Santa Ana but Santa Marta, whose feast is on July 29 (Zuidema
1990ms, 1991).
125
dog’s head who ate human flesh, but who was converted to Christianity and
changed his ways. In the Latin tradition he is believed to have been a ferryman
for poor travelers, who once was asked by an unknown child to carry him
across the ford. Halfway to the other bank, the man was borne down by the
child’s weight in spite of his great strength; for the child was Christ, carrying in
his hands the weight of the whole world (hence Christophoros, “Christ-bearer”
in Greek). Christopher was later beheaded by King Dagnanus. In medieval
times, his statues were placed at the entrances of churches and dwelling houses,
and frequently at bridges and city gates, because it was thought that he who
looked on a figure of St. Christopher was sure not to meet with sudden death
that day. He is the patron of travelers --his likeness can often be found inside
cars, trucks, and buses-- and porters (cargadores), and protects against hail,
thunderstorm, and sudden death (Roeder 1955; Englebert 1951; Holweck
1924:210). His feast day falls on July 27 (Almanaque del Cusco).
127
1. 3. 3. Santiago and Thunder
Santiago is Saint James the Greater (Santiago el Mayor), son of Zebedee,
older brother of St. John the Evangelist and with him one of the first apostles.
He received from Jesus the nickname ‘Boanerges,’ Son of Thunder, for his fiery
temper and eloquence. Other sources trace his nickname to the time when he
Frank Salomon claims that at the beginning of the colonial period
‘Cristóbal’ was by far the most common Christian name among the Indians
(pers. comm. 1990). This is a puzzling piece of information. We know that the
baptismal names were chosen by the converts themselves, and not imposed by
the Spaniards --which led to the necessity to ban some Christian names, as in
the case of Santiago. I find it unlikely that newly subjugated people would
choose for themselves and their children the name of Columbus, the individual
who made the colonization of the Americas possible. There must have been a
different reason for using the name, perhaps connected to the persona of San
Cristóbal himself.
127
and his brother John wanted to make the fire of Heaven come down on a
village that had refused to receive them. He was imprisoned by Herod and
beheaded in 42 AD. His body allegedly ended up in Spain sometime during the
first century and finally lodged in Compostela in the 9 th century. His shrine
soon became, next to Rome itself, the most important site of pilgrimage for the
whole of Western Europe. In the middle ages, he rapidly became the object of a
popular cult that, taking literally the Gospels’ modifiers, integrated also Saint
James the Minor (Santiago el Menor) in a cult reminiscent of pre-Christian twin
deities --such as the Dioscures--, one of which would ascend to heaven while
the other remained on earth to serve as the protector of men.
He became the patron-saint of Spain during the Reconquista and earned
the name Matamoros for his support in the war against the Moors. He is the
patron of pilgrims, porters, and animals, and protector in war (Holweck
1924:518). His feast day is celebrated on July 25, and is marked in Accha and
elsewhere in the Andes by important rituals involving the marking of
domesticated animals. In colonial times, that date was also in various places
the occasion of rituals honoring the dead.
1. 3. 4. Catholic saints and their symbolic transformations
The three saints mentioned in the myths have their fiestas on three
consecutive days: the 25th, 26th and 27th of July. In the religious context of
indigenous communities, the relations between saints are often expressed as
kinship relations (Brown 1981:97). Saints perceived as structurally close or
equivalent are referred to as brothers or sisters, with the hierarchical
distinctions rendered as older and younger (Urton 1986). Relations other than
siblingships also exist. In the first myth (M1), Santa Ana is the mother of
Cristóbal; in other ritual situations in Accha she is referred to as Cristóbal’s
wife. I believe that the structural equivalence of the hagiographic attributes
and calendrical correspondence of the saints’ days cause this kinship relation
128
to be collapsed to the point that in Accha and in the myths, the personae of
Cristóbal and Santiago might be merged (see table 2). In fact, the fiesta of
Cristóbal is not independently celebrated in Accha, although it is in other
communities, and in Cusco itself.
Table 2 : Popular hagiographic and mythic attributes of the charaters
mentioned in the myths
Santiago
Santa Ana
San Cristóbal
Apostle
Mother of Mary
Holy Helper
beheaded
beheaded
protects animals;
fertility
protects against sudden
protects in battle.
death
killer of men
cannibal
cannibal
(Matamoros,
(Mama Huaco)
(dog-headed monster)
Mataindios)
patron of pilgrims,
patron of travelers,
porters
porters
Fiesta 25 July
Fiesta: 26 July
Fiesta: 27 July
It is worth noting that the cults of all three saints share a degree of nonorthodoxy. Like that of Santa Ana, the cults of Santiago and Cristóbal were at
some time discouraged by the Church. It is tempting to see those examples of
popular cults that go against the dogma as cults of rebellion. Yet, clearly their
popularity is not a function of the Church’s ban, but rather the Church attitude
is determined by the saints’ popularity perceived as a threat to orthodoxy.
In the European liturgical calendar, unlike the Cusco Almanac, the feast of
Saint James and Saint Christopher are not 2 days apart, but fall on the same
day; for Guaman Poma, the feast of San Cristóbal falls on the 26th, the day of
Santa Ana.
128
This is especially true of the cult of Santiago which was readily
integrated into Andean popular religion, in a manner that was seen as
threatening to the Spanish imposed order. “¡Santiago, y a ellos!” was the war
129
cry of the Spaniards during the Reconquista. When the war against the Moors
for the reconquest of the Iberian peninsula ended in 1492 and the Conquista
started, many of the supporting structures were directly transposed to the New
World and put to work there. Santiago Matamoros became Santiago
Mataindios
130
The power of Santiago surpassed even the expectations of the
conquistadors: Silverblatt (1988) claims that the awed Indians so totally
adopted Santiago that the Spanish authorities felt that the catholic saint was
used as a disguise for the worship of their devil, the Thunder.
131
Immediately
after the Conquest, Illapa, Qaccha and Santiago all seem to be used
interchangeably to designate the thunder.
132
Today in Accha, Santiago is
“Saint James [help us], and [let us get] at them”. The first time the Incas
heard the famous cry was in Cajamarca, when, after Atahuallpa had thrown the
breviary to the ground, Padre Valverde turned to the Spanish troups shouting
“¡Salid a el! Os absolvo¡” (“After him! I absolve you!”) (Gheerbrant 1961).
130 In P’irqa, a hamlet of the village of Pacariqtambo, Santiago is not the village
patron, but the saint whose image is taken to the main community of
Pacariqtambo during that village’s main fiesta (September 8: Virgen de la
Nadividad) in what seems to be the expression and renewal of ritual and social
ties between the main community and and its several anexos. (see Urton 1990.)
In P’irca, there is no indication that the people are aware of what the prone
figure under the horse’s hooves represents. It is referred to as ‘the angel’ and is
said to be supporting both the horse and the saint. When the statue is fully
dressed (arrimada), there is a curtain of material that hides the statue of the
moro/indio.
131 The association between Santiago and thunder may not have start in the
New World. It was also documented in 16th century Spain (R. Valcárcel
1988:153). As we have seen, even the Gospel makes this association.
132 “When there is thunder”, says Arriaga, “they say that Santiago’s horse is
running. Could they possibly have heard of the Hebrew name that our Lord
gave the apostle St James ?...Or is it because they saw that during the wars they
129
invoked when thunder is heard. Prayers are said to him to bring rain. He is
also the Lord of all the apus
133
and the owner of all the animals, wild as well as
domesticated.
1. 6. Wild vs. tame: the structures of transformation
It is sometimes said that Ukhu Pacha is the mirror image of Kay Pacha
(Fock 1981; Harris 1980). Ukhu Pacha is the domain of the anti-structure. It is a
‘world upside down’ whose very existence justifies, explains, and makes
possible the other structure (see Bakhtin 1968, Kristeva 1967, V. W. Turner
1969). Jorge Flores Ochoa (1976) says that in Q’eros the apu is the father of
Ukhu Pacha. The llameros of Q’eros divide the animal world into two
categories: the sallqa or wild animals, and the uywa, or domesticated animals. I
have already mentioned in chapter 3 that Accheños use sallqa to designate
Chumbivilcanos, their ‘wild’ neighbors to the south. The word also refers to
the desert, the high puna or the jungle, that is to say land that is not only
uncultivated, but uncultivable. On the other hand, the verbal form of uywa,
uyway means to raise, and is used, as indeed its English equivalent, both for
domesticated animals as for children. So the opposition between sallqa and
uywa is baesd on the notion of human control: the latter category is dependent
on humans and ‘socialized’ by them; while the former is beyond human
control.
had with the Spaniards, when [the Spaniards] wanted to shoot their
arquebuses,which the Indians call Illapa or Thunder, they [the Spaniards]
would shout ‘Santiago! Santiago!’. It is important to make sure that they don’t
use the baptism name Santiago, but Diego” (1920: 215). The ban on the use of
the name Santiago was implemented until 1621, when the prohibition was lifted
by the Church.
133 See also Fuenzalida 1980.
Domesticated animals (llamas, alpacas, sheep) are on loan by the apu to
the humans. The sallqa or wild animals include among others, vicuñas,
guanacos, taruka, viscachas, fox, puma and condor. Because they are wild,
those animals belong to the apu and serve him in the same way are the
134
domesticated animals serve man. Vicuñas (sallqa) are like alpacas (uway)
because they give wool. Deer are like llamas and they carry burdens, especially
during the nights of full moon in August when they bring on their backs sacks
full of silver for the Apu (Flores Ochoa 1976:127-128).
135
To say that “deer are like llamas” is not to negate that opposition
between the two (wild/tame, hunted/domesticated), but rather to emphasize a
structural relation that can be expressed as:
wild game animals : apu :: domesticated animals : humans.
Flores Ochoa(Tinkoq 1988, Cusco) gave a more specific equivalence
between wild and domesticated categories. He said that deer are the bulls of
the apu, foxes his dogs, condors his chickens, and pumas his cats. Thus the
transformation of cattle into wild animals in M1 was not just a punishment for
the transgressor, it was also a reclaiming of what was the property of the Apu.
The apu is also responsible for the reproduction and safety of all animals. A
myth in Q’eros says that the apu let a man from Kay Pacha marry his [the apu’s]
daughter (from Ukhu Pacha) so that the man could take care of the alpacas and
ward off dangers. To that aim, the daughter and her alpacas came out of a ñawi
into Kay Pacha. In order to insure reproduction, one should never eat a whole
llama. Something must go back to the Pachamama, bones or blood. The groom
from Kay Pacha transgressed that rule and ate a whole llama, and the woman
got upset and went back to Ukhu Pacha with her animals (Flores Ochoa, Tinkoq
1988, Cusco). The same rule applies to venado and after the hunt, the stomach is
buried for the apu, to ensure success in future hunts (Lopez 1927).
135 The calendrical reference is relevant to the rest of the argument. The
motive of riches and prosperity associated with Ukhu Pacha is prevailing
through the myths and rituals mentioned in this chapter.
134
The animals --bull and deer-- that are opposed in the Accha myths are
136
in fact considered as structurally equivalent. Don Mariano pointed out their
relatively comparable morphologies --hooves and ‘horns’--, and that they
occupy the same ecological niche. What sets them in contrast is the fact that
cattle are docile and contributes their labor to the household, and graze in the
pasture land, whereas deer are man-shy, and come and eat the young corn
shoots in the chakras. The domesticated animals are those who belong and
contribute to the order that the campesinos attempt to impose on their
environment. Everything that escapes that control is wild.
137
2. The myths and the astronomical calendar.
I have mentioned earlier the narrow calendrical focus of the three myths:
the three days of July 25, 26 and 27. According to Guaman Poma, the fiesta of
Santiago, July 25, was the first day of chacra iapuy quilla, literally “moon in
which to plow the fields.” Calancha (1981) calls it chahuar huarquiz , the month
to repair bridges, clean irrigation canals and prepare for the planting. This date
is also the beginning of the fiesta dedicated to tayta apu, to the local mountain
That bulls would occupy in Accheños’ mythical and ritual life the same
position as llamas do in other parts is due to differences in ecological and
economical environments. Q’erinos are high altitude herders and Accheños are
temperate valley agriculturalists. Llamas are rarely seen in Accha (see chap. 1.)
whereas cattle play a major part in their daily activities and economic survival,
as do llamas for Q’erinos. This is confirmed by R. Valcárcel who claims that in
the iconography of the Cusco region, bulls have replaced llamas --e.g. clay bulls
for llama-shaped stone conapas (1988: 152.)
137 The same distinction is made for plants by C. Franquemont : “All Andean
cultigens are thought to have their wild counterparts that are regarded as asocial and un-useful” (1992ms). De la Torre (1986) also offers a classification
between animals and plants, contrasting them as belonging to Amito and Shapi,
respectively the good and bad spririts that control the world. In that
classification, the people in the Cajamarca oppose the deer with the sheep,
rather than the bull, as proposed here.
136
divinity (Aliaga 1987). At the beginning of this time, the spirit of the Apu is
said to leave the mountain, either in the shape of a condor (Mallqu) or in the
shape of a young boy (Maqt’a) (Poole 1984), as in the variant of M1b.
It is a time of danger when burnt offerings must be made to the
Pachamama to ensure the protection of the household and the following year’s
harvest, and to assure the benevolence of the apus. It is, claims Guaman Poma
a time when the sun stands still in his “other seat” before turning back and
going in the opposite direction. In Accha, Don Mariano says it is a time of
danger when earth opens and the ‘beings from above’ communicate with the
‘beings from below.’
Chacra iapuy quilla is also the month when starts the planting of the early
corn or michica sara in the chakras of highest elevation, to be harvested before the
winter. According to Guaman Poma, the fiesta of Santiago was the first day for
those activities. In Accha, however, it is the fiesta of Santa Ana that marks the
ritual start of the planting of early corn, after several months of dry season, a
time when the reserves of corn are rapidly dwindling.
The place of this period of time on the ritual/agricultural calendar is not
arbitrary. The dates of the three saint’s fiestas signal pivotal points in the
agricultural year. Urton (1981a) remarks that the corresponding period in
Misminay functions as the calendrical equivalent of the astronomical pillars
which in Inca Cusco served to determine the planting sun. These four pillars,
located on top of the mountain of Picchu, on the horizon of the valley of Cusco,
served to calculate the antizenith passage of the sun, one of the four most
important solar astronomical observations in Inca Cusco
138
(Aveni 1981) Of the
These four dates were, for the latitude of Cusco, the first passages of the sun
through zenith (October 30 and February 13) and through nadir or antizenith
(August 18 and April 26) (Zuidema 1988).
138
four pillars, the two middle ones served to frame the setting of the sun on the
date of the antizenith (August 18) and the two outer pillars corresponded to the
sunsets respectively of two weeks before and two weeks after that date, or
August 4 and September 2.
August 4 is an important date according to Zuidema, because not only
does it mark the half-way between the June solstice and the September equinox,
but also it is the date when the Inca king opened the agricultural season
(Zuidema 1990b), and the first full moon after that date marked the month of
planting (1982c). Why then does Guaman Poma translates chacra iapuy quilla as
‘agosto’, and at the same time refers to it as ‘el mes de Santiago’ ?
The ten-day discrepancy between the date given by Zuidema (August 4)
and that given by Guaman Poma (Santiago, or July 25) needs to be explained by
the calendar change from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar which took place
in 1582 in Catholic Europe and in 1584 in Peru.
139
By the time Guaman Poma
wrote his Nueva Corónica, the new calendar had been in place for nearly 30
years, yet the dates he gives correspond to the Julian calendar .
The fact that in Accha today the rituals associated with the planting of
the early corn and the beginning of the agricultural cycle coincide not with the
astronomical events that the Incas used for determining those dates, but with
The Julian calendar established in 708 (Roman era) by Caesar, represented a
change from a lunar calendar to a solar one. It was based on a year of 365 1/4
days and consisted of three regular years and one leap year every four year,
that added one day in February. But the estimate of the duration of the year
turned out to be too long and by 1582 the offical calendar had accumulated an
advance of 10 days over the astronomical year. In order to remedy this, in 1582
pope Gregory XIII, the same pope who made Sant Ana into a saint, decided that
thursday October 4 would be immediately followed by friday October 15. This
specific period of ten days was chosen because of the absence of important
holidays between these dates. The new calendar also suppressed the leap years
that fall on centuries, except in the case of millenaries divisible by 400, which
limit the error to one day every 3000 years.
139
the corresponding dates and saint’s days in the Julian calendar is indicative of
the early acceptance by the indigenous population of the European calendar as
a way for keeping track of ritual and agricultural time. Not only did the clergy
very early on impose the Catholic ritual calendar, at the same time as it
suppressed the pre-colonial rituals and branded astronomical practices as
idolatry; but also, with the collapse of the central authority and its system of
specialists, the European calendar was likely to have been adopted as, all things
considered, a much easier way to keep track of time. So that when the
calendrical change took place 50 years after the onset of the Conquest, certain
saint’s fiestas had already become temporal markers for specific tasks or events
and were kept in spite of the displacement occasioned by the switch to the
Gregorian calendar.
3. Ritual construction of group identity and reproduction of the ayllu
3. 1 The t’inkaska of Santa Ana: renewing the seed
On the evening of the last day of the fiesta of Santa Ana,
140
a ritual called
t’inkaska Santa Ana was performed, which linked the planting of the corn to the
territorial delimitation of the ayllu and its physical reproduction. It was a
joyful ritual, full of clowning and joking, which took place on the little plaza in
In the preceding days, a bull fight and a curtimunti (‘tree-cutting ritual’,
which serves to designate the carguyoqs for the following year) have taken
place. I believe the curtimunti is a new addition to the fiesta of Santa Ana and
replaces what Don Mariano described to me as quyllawa for which a great
number of guinea-pigs were gathered in the middle of the square under a
mound of straw which was then set on fire. Participants would then catch the
escaping guinea-pigs. Although the quyllawa was abandoned a few years ago,
this practice recalls the sacrifice of one thousand guinea pigs performed in Inca
times at the same time of the year “in order to prevent that the chacras be
damaged by frost, wind, rain and the sun” (Polo 1906:216; also Cobo 1964 and
Cabello de Balboa 1951).
140
front of the chapel of Santa Ana. An arroba of corn was piled on a woven
carrying-cloth (lliclla). On top of this ‘misa’, a cross was drawn in the center of
the corn with eucalyptus leaves, and a muyu shell put in the center of the cross.
The corn came from the chakra of Santa Ana, and some of it must be distributed
to all the ayllu members. Each year, the sowing of corn starts in each individual
chakra with a little of the seed from the chakra of Santa Ana. Before this
happens, the seed for the resowing of the chakra of Santa Ana for the following
year has to be separated from the rest of the corn through a complex process
involving every ayllu member, and stressing both attributes of virginity and
fecundity associated with Santa Ana.
The ritual officiant, the t’inkaskayoq, handed to each person in turn a
ritual drinking vessel made of the horn of a bull (wanpar) filled with chicha .
Each participant poured libations on the piled corn and kissed a handful of corn
before drinking the chicha. Each person then ran the empty horn through the
corn to fill it up with kernels. That part of the ritual was accompanied with a
comical tug of war. The participants tried to fill up their horn as full as possible
to render more difficult the work of the t’inkaskayoq who had to count the
kernels. He, in turn, would try to grab the horn before it was full. Practical
jokes were performed all through the ritual, mostly directed to the t’inkaskayoq,
who had a horn of chicha emptied down his neck, and was also pushed from
behind into the mound of corn as he kneeled in front of the misa. The
t’inkaskayoq had to empty the corn filled horn by counting two kernels at a time.
If there was an odd number of kernels in the horn, the last one would be set
aside for the chakra of the saint. The kernels taken out in pairs were returned to
the pile of corn, because they were, according to Don Mariano, ‘already a
couple.’
141
Only the unpaired kernels are appropriate to reseed the chakra Santa
Ana. I believe that the concept of fecundity played out in this ritual attributes
to the reproduction of the corn of Santa Ana norms of human reproduction,
that is to say both sexual and social reproduction.
.
142
As most of the corn was returned to the pile, the process ended when we
ran out of participants, not corn. Every adult man woman on the little plaza
that evening participated in the t’inkaska. I too was handed a wanpar by the
mayordomo of Santa Ana. When I pointed out that I was not really a member of
the ayllu, he said: “you live here, you work the fields, you have the right.”
Earlier on, when I left the house to go to up to the plaza, Don Mariano decided
to tag along, saying: “I have done my cargos. I have the right to be there.” I
believe that the three factors that determine the right, (dirichu , from the Spanish
derecho), to participate in the ritual are the same that determine the
membership in the ayllu : residence, participation in faenas, and participation in
the civil-ritual hierarchy.
When all the ayllu members who were present had gone through the
ritual, the outgoing mayordomo handed the seed for the chakra Santa Ana
following year’s mayordomo for safekeeping. Then, the t’inkaskayoq tied the
lliclla containing the rest of the seed around his waist, and taking off his
This pairing of the seed, or of the fruit of the harvest was witnessed by
Tschopik in the rather different context of divination. He describes how before
harvest a plant of potato is pulled out of the ground and its tubers are counted.
If there is an even number of potatoes, harvest will be abundant; odd, it will be
meager (quoted in Harrison 1989:65).
142 This relation of the production of corn to human sexuality is also
underlined in what could be a follow-up of this ritual observed by Luis Dalle on
Christmas day of 1969 in the same community of Accha. In a ceremony
performed in a corn chakra, a similar misa was laid out and participants handed
horns of chicha which the women would “put briefly between their legs as an
auspice of fecundity before pouring a libation and drinking” (Dalle 1971:61).
141
sandals, as one would in a freshly plowed field,
143
proceeded to run around the
small plaza of Santa Ana, and in the streets that delimit the periphery of the
ayllu, sowing fistfuls of corn on the way. Children dove after him, playfully
fighting among themselves to collect the grains. More children and women
lined up on the t’inkaskayoq’s path, holding out their cupped hands or their
outstretches skirts to receive from him a handful of the seed.
This corn, harvested in Santa Ana’s chakra and which had been separated
as ‘couples’ by the t’inkaskayoq, would be used to initiate the sowing of the
individual chakras of the ayllu members. The corn that had been separated in
individual kernels by the t’inkaskayoq would serve for the planting of the chakra
Santa Ana, thus guaranteeing the following year’s fiesta, and reproducing the
cycle that connects, through the seed, individual members and their land to the
ayllu and the land of its patron saint.
3. 2. The t’inkaska of Santiago: socialization and physical
reproduction of the herd
The t’inkaska of Santiago is not a collective, group-based ritual like the
t’inkaska of Santa Ana; rather, it takes place throughout the village and its
surroundings in individual corrals. The corrals are recognized as the houses of
the animals and are symbolically and physically located between the wilderness
of the puna where the animals graze and the domestic center of the house. The
fiesta of Santiago is a celebration of the ties between the human household, the
apu, and the herd. It is the day when those who own horses and bulls cut,
I was told prior to the fiesta that Santa Ana was the time when “bulls plow
the streets of the village, and the planting starts”. There was no plowing on the
occasion I witnessed. Billie Jean Isbell (1991 ms: 27) mentions a planting ritual
in Cancha Cancha where men dressed as women plant the plaza with corn beer
residue (qoncha), after what men and women alike fight with toasted corn flour
-- both of those products over-processed corn, like the muti of the myth, and
like it inappropriate for the reproduction of the corn.
143
braid, and decorate their manes and tails with flowers. Don Mariano, at the
time when I lived in his house, owned neither bulls nor horses. Therefore, I
decided to attend the t’inkaska of my compadre Abelardo Fernandez Vaca,
although I suspected him to be a rather casual ritual officiant.
Early in the morning, Don Mariano and myself joined Don Abelardo,
and a member of his extended household -- part factotum and part paco (ritual
specialist)-- to the corral where the animals had spent the night. We proceeded
to burn offerings of coca to Apu Siwina as an act of thanksgiving for the herd,
and as a recognition of the apu’s ownership of the animals, echoing the ritual act
demanded by the Siwina in M1. Then, the animals were marked (siñalakuy) to
identify them as belonging to the Fernandez Vacas. This was done by cutting
distinctive notches in the ears of the animal.
144
Around midmorning, the women from the household arrived at the
corral, bringing chicha, trago and food. The husband and wife jointly proceeded
to decorate the animals, as well as each other, with flowers, while taking turns
pouring libations and sprinkling trago and chicha over the animals. Don
Mariano claims that the t’inkaska is “like a wedding” and that it is also the only
occasion when people drink out of a yanantin, the double-bowl chicha vessel,
associated elsewhere with wedding ceremonies.
145
To ensure the fertility of the herd, stone representations of the animals
called illas were buried in ritual offerings to Apu Siwina in the far corners of
the corral at the end of the day. Those were meant to guarantee the
multiplication of the herd, much as in M3 the stones given by Santiago caused
Other people may use branding. Don Mariano still kept a branding iron in
the house.
145 See e. g. Platt 1986.
144
the corrals to fill with cattle and sheep.
146
In Accha, cows are said to calf “with
the corn”, that is to say at the time of the main corn harvest in April and May,
more or less nine months --the duration of gestation in bovines-- from the day
of the t’inkaska Santiago. Throughout the day, the themes of the sexual
reproduction and the fertility of the herd were strongly emphasized, often
through the exchange of crude jokes between the participants.
In addition to this clear emphasis on the physical reproduction of the
animals, I believe the t’inkaska Santiago also expresses the superimposition of a
human identity and behavior upon the animals’ own identity through their
participation in strictly human activities --the drinking of chicha and trago, and
ritual floral adornment.
147
If, in M1, the transgression on the part of ganadero
caused the animals to be transformed from tame into wild, the ritual of the
t’inkaska Santiago on the contrary pulls the animals out of the wildness and
wilderness of the puna into a state of extreme domestication and this ritual
assimilation with the human household serves to balance the risk of their
148
returning to the wild, and to ensure a state of normal domesticity for the rest of
the annual cycle.
4. Ritual and Myth.
See Arguedas 1978 and Flores Ochoa 1976 for a discussion of illa, thunder
and fertility.
147 In other parts of the Andes, this process of socialization of the animals into
the human group is achieved through performing weddings between pairs of
animals, arranging animals into positions of coitus, or simulating coitus
between a human and an animal (B. J. Isbell 1991 ms ). This is clearly the
reverse side of the danger described in the Shining Mantle episode of bestiality
to humans. That which socializes animals, at the same time endangers the
social order for humans. Isbell’ s interpretation is different. She argues that the
fact that humans also simulate animal coitus at the same ritual indicates a
reciprocity between humans and animals (ibid. and pers. com.).
148 See also Poole 1984 for a similar description of the ritual.
146
As I have indicated, before the imposition of the European calendar and
its concomitant system of church rituals and saints fiestas, the indigenous
groups in the region based their calendrical dating of ritual and/or agricultural
activities on a complicated system of astronomical observations that are not
today performed in Accha. Instead, nowadays, the various saint fiestas are
explicitly identified as marking the beginning of an agricultural task or the
performance of a specific ritual.
But if the dates of those rituals are based on astronomical and
agricultural events pre-dating the European calendar, the identity of the saints
associated with those days is clearly an European imposition. As I have shown
for Santa Ana and Santiago, that identity became worked into the rituals and
the myths to form a complex but coherent system of indicators of the need --as
the case is-- to prepare for planting and to anticipate the rainy season, and the
reproduction of the herd. On the other hand, the discrepancy between Santiago
(in Guaman Poma) and Santa Ana (in present day Accha) as the ritual start of
the planting season has less to do with calendrical accuracy that with the
ascription of the agricultural rites to the appropriate religious entity. As we
have seen, Santa Ana, as a female saint associated with fecundity, relates to
Pachamama and the growing of corn, whereas Santiago is connected to the Apu
and Thunder, and the welfare of the animals.
There is at any rate a temporal overlap between the two fiestas, both of
which last several days. This ritual and calendrical coalescence is also rendered
in the myths, in which Santa Ana is the mother of the apu (M1); Siwina,
nocturnal owner of the animals, also conducts the plowing of the chakra and the
distribution of the seed (M2); and finally Santiago is the giver of both animals
and corn (M3).
The fiestas of Santiago and Santa Ana are indexes of cyclical change. The
t’inkaska of Santiago has to do with the fecundity and multiplication of the
animals, as the same time as it reaffirms the control of humans over the herds.
The ritual of Santa Ana serves to signal the start of a new agricultural cycle. By
stressing the social and spatial limit of the ayllu, it also celebrates the physical
and social reproduction of the group. Finally, the symbolism of the passing on
of the seed from year to year and throughout the whole ayllu underlines the
control by the group of its environment.
These rituals, and the myths that relate to them, also seem to emphasize
the Accheños’s perception of the ephemeral and illusory nature of their cultural
identity . They represent attempts at predicting and controlling
transformations at the same time as they celebrate of the necessary danger of
change. Peasant cultures, and I believe this to be true for both contemporary
and past Andean cultures, are less concerned with resisting changes than with
attempting to anticipate them, through astronomy, divination, ritual, myths,
and other means. Through these agencies they can hope not to prevent, but to
control change, and to harness its energy much as they use the destructive
effect of frost to preserve potatoes or channelize the power of running water to
irrigate terraces.
CHAPTER SIX
DENIAL OF IDENTITY: COLONIAL DESTRUCTURATION AND THE
ENCOMIENDA OF ACCHA-CABANILLA
El nombre “Indio de América Latina”
define a mi gente con una serie de
negaciones. El Viejo Mundo trató de
conocer a las culturas que había
conquistado en el Nuevo Mundo; pero al
darles nombre las definío por lo que no
son. (Downey 1992)
What the anthropologist is most concerned with “differs from
everything men ordinarily think of recording on stone or paper.” (Lévi-Strauss
1963: 25, quoted in De Certeau 1975: 216) De Certeau goes on to cite the
following characteristics of the traditional object of ethnographical study:
orality (communication characteristic of savage, primitive or traditional
society), spatiality (or synchronic framework of a system without
history), otherness (difference that postulates a cultural discontinuity),
unconscious (status of collective phenomena referring to a meaning that
is foreign to them and is only given to a knowledge coming from
elsewhere)(1975: 216).
In contrast, the object of history is given as “writing, temporality, sameness
(identity), and consciousness” (ibid.).
The assumption made by both Lévi-Strauss and De Certeau, among
many others, of the unconscious quality of collective practice feeding into
the otherness of anthropological discourse has been rightly criticized (e.g.
Fabian 1983; Bourdieu 1977). The discussion of the activities which control the
cultural production of group membership and the physical maintenance of the
group in chapter 4 argues shows such praxis as clearly conscious and selfreflective. The collective activities of ayllus and moieties index the mechanisms
involved in the production and reproduction of those social units. However, if
the nature of those mechanisms is easily comprehended, the specific of the
particular system in Accha are harder to explain. As I have stated before, Don
Mariano, as well as many other Accheños, was always eager to answer
questions dealing with how the system functions. But to the question of why it
operates the way it does, most respondents cited ‘customs’ and ‘the times of the
ancestors’.
Having reached the limits of orality, the researcher must turn away from
the spoken word towards what is not said, and look for it in what is written.
Existing historical records may be used to try to explain the peculiarities of the
situation in Accha. However, guided by Barnes’ (1992) image of distorted
mirrors, my approach to historical documents is more concerned with what is
implied than with what is stated. Thus by trying to decipher the ‘unwritten’ of
the written text, one may be able to come full circle and attempt an
ethnography of historical material.
1. Contrasting identities and the imposition of culture
The overriding assumption by the conquering Spaniards that the land
controlled by the Incas formed an empire of which the political integrity
necessarily paralleled an ethnic and cultural uniformity directed their colonial
enterprise. In turn, the same assumption has guided much of the historical and
anthropological study of the Andean region. Whether they focus on the local
population as generic peasant groups, or attempt a search for pure indigenous
forms, most studies ignore the fact that any Andean “reality” must be seen as
twice historically determined --first by the Inca conquest and then by the
Spanish.
The Inca colonialization of the region, while explicitly preserving ethnic
differences between the groups, imposed a political, economic, and, to some
extent, ideological unity.
149
But it took the Spanish conquest and the
subsequent colonial rule to create and enforce an homogeneous identity upon
this culturally diverse population, through destructuring policies reflecting the
conquerors’ apprehension of the “indio” as generic Other.
150
The pattern of cultural creation imposed by the Spanish conquest
exemplifies a dialectical relation through which the forces of oppression and
resistance engaged in a process of mutual shaping that in turn determined the
form and nature of their interaction. Under the Incas, the expression of cultural
identity by the various ethnic groups was not only permitted: it was mandated.
For political, but also for ritual and ideological reasons, it was important that
Tawantisuyu would unite --but not blend-- a composite whole of distinct
elements. For example, each minimal ethnic group (marka or llacta) was given
by the Inca as an honorific favor, or allowed to choose for itself, a specific dress
--tunic, headgear, and sometimes earplugs for the local nobility-- that would
thenceforth identify the members of that group (Garcilaso 1966, Guaman Poma
1980, Cobo 1964). Even the mitmakuna --those settlers who were part migrant
workers, part hostages, and part garrison, and who had been uprooted from
The extent of this unity and how it might have gone beyond the intent of
the ruling Incas is discussed in Rowe 1982.
150 For a discussion of destructuration in the context of the Spanish cultural
imposition, see e. g. Wachtel 1977. My consideration of the political
implications of the colonial discourse, and the notion of ‘the Other’ in cultural
encounters was also influenced by Sahlins 1981, Fabian 1983, and Bucher 1981.
149
their place of origin and sent to other parts of the empire --even those exiles
were expected to continue wearing the costume of the native land they could
never hope to see again (Murra 1973; 1980; Prescott 1847).
In contrast, the Spanish conquerors, far from stressing the ethnic
distinctions between the peoples that they grouped under the generic term of
indios, implemented the general imposition of an artificially uniform cultural
identity. This is evidenced in a series of policies designed to ensure political
and economic domination, as well as moral authority, over the newly
conquered populations. These policies, among which encomiendas, reducciones,
and doctrinas are exemplary illustrations, were characterized by the recreation
of structures that did not necessarily have to be genuinely Spanish, but that
could be easily identified and controlled by the dominant group.
De Certeau (1984) describes a pattern of creation of cultural practice
based on the articulation of “strategies” of domination and “tactics” of
reinterpretation, through which both dominant and dominated cultures
participate in the dynamic elaboration of cultural reality. The relation that he
defines between strategies and tactics is one of opposition between operative
dimensions --space vs. time. Strategies deal with the determination by the
dominant group of “proper” space; tactics, with the manipulation of events by
the dominated group to turn them into opportunities (1984 xix).
151
The material presented in this chapter and the next will emphasize the
structures of domination and of imposition of culture imported to Peru by the
Spanish Crown, the Catholic orders, and the early colonists --entities whose
interests and policies were, as we shall see, often at odds from the start.
Comparable concepts can be found in Overgaard 1987, Anderson 1991,
Scott 1985, Smith 1991.
151
In these two chapters, I will focus mainly on the historical data that
document the institutions of the encomienda, the reducción, and the doctrina in
Accha. I will show how those distinct institutions functioned jointly to
implement a general colonial ‘strategy of domination’, in which the encomienda
system operated a denial of indigenous identity --or for that matter a refusal to
recognize the very humanity of the native population -- while the reducción and
the doctrina corresponded to an imposition of a Spanish-conceived blueprint for
indio identity. Against the setting of imposed structure the last two chapters of
this dissertation will address operative tactics of resistance to and
reinterpretation of the dominant culture by Accha’s indigenous population.
152
2. Of the soul of the Indians: the encomienda system and the problem of
perpetuity
2. 1. The nature of the institution
For the early American conquistadores of the late 15th and early 16th
century, indios were by definition pagan idolatrous savages, and the “moral”
justification of conquest required that they remain so in spite of the necessity to
civilize them (see e.g. Pagden 1982; Rivera 1992). In many ways, although for
other reasons (see e.g. Bucher 1981, Lévi-Strauss: 1962), the necessity to divide
the world between savage and civilized was as important for the early
discoverers as it was and is today for the indigenous population. This tension
The profound interaction of these conflicting or concurring forces is also
manifest in much of the data presented in the balance of this work. I have in
the introductory chapter stated my reservations towards an approach that
celebrates the quest for pristine indigenous forms. Yet, the idea of syncretism,
still popular in some intellectual circles in Peru and elsewhere, favors a vision
of culture as a haphazard blending of influences and traits that is not only
inaccurate, but also demeaning to the processual and creative nature of cultural
production.
152
was at the core of the celebrated dispute between Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas
and Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, who debated the existence of the Indian soul.
The requirement that the Spanish colonists be responsible for the
catechization of their indios was the compromise that concurrently permitted
economic exploitation and “civilizing” endeavor. A royal decree(cédula) of
Valladolid, dated 3 November 1536, sent in the name of the Queen to Francisco
Valverde, who was Bishop-elect of Cusco, and to Governor Francisco Pizarro,
stated that “those who own indios are obligated to have priests by them so that
they be instructed in the religion” (in Lisson-Chavez, 1943: 187). Indeed,
according to Las Casas, the very right to conquest was only accorded by Rome
under the condition that the heathen be converted and that God would hold the
King responsible (Las Casas 1958). However, the question of just how much
indoctrination the clergy was supposed to be providing was a disputed
question throughout the colonial period, and fed a long lasting power struggle
between the Church and the secular powers (Batra 1982, Lavallé 1982, de Egaña
1966, Desdevises Du Dezert 1917).
Many of the colonial institutions that were explicitly aimed at a
restructuration of the local indigenous society were not necessarily original to
the New World, let alone to Peru (Hampé 1982, Málaga 1975, Chamberlain
1939). Some were on the contrary proven methods of controlling geographical,
economic, and social space, tried out early on in the Iberian Peninsula, the
Canaries, and the Caribbean before being later adapted to the specific
conditions of the Andes.
The encomienda is one such institution that existed in Spain at the time of
the Reconquista, that is to say the reclaiming of Spanish territory from the
hands of the Moors, which started in 718 A. D. and ended with the fall of
Granada in 1492. The encomienda at the time of the Reconquista consisted of
grants, made to Catholic nobles, of land and jurisdiction over Muslim
populations. Commoners, in turn, usually received smaller land grants and
ennoblement as a reward for exceptional feats of arms (Burkholder and Johnson
1990:17). The grants were made for the duration of the life of the grantee, or for
that of the King, or at the will of the latter, but were often transmitted from
father to son by special royal privilege (Chamberlain 1939: 35-36). In the New
World these grants, also called repartimientos, consisted of people rather than
land, although land grants were also made independently by Pizarro in his
authority as Adelantado of Peru.
Keith (1971) stresses the difference between the Iberian and the New
World encomienda, saying that “the most important rights [the Reconquista
encomienda] conferred were rights to land, while the Caribbean encomienda
conferred direct rights over Indians who themselves had legal status as
landowners.” (1971: 434). Whether or not the legal status of the Indians was a
consideration in the policy of the encomienda is at best debatable; what is not is
the fact that control through tribute over the people who work the land rather
than control over the land itself was clearly a more profitable and more direct
system of exploitation for the New World settlers. Because of the dependance
on labor, land at first “had not been given away in large quantities, because it
had little value except for those who had access to the labor to work it, and the
demand for it was therefore small outside the immediate vicinity of the Spanish
towns” (Keith 1971:444). The system of indirect exploitation of the land
allowed many of the original encomenderos of Perú to move to the new cities
(Lockhart 1969; Zavala 1973) and live there off the product of their encomiendas .
For all intents and purposes, the terms encomienda and repartimiento are
used interchangeably (Zavala 1973, Hampé 1982, Espinoza Soriano 1980),
although the etymological meanings indicate a different emphasis: the
repartimiento is a dividing up of goods, the sharing of a bounty, while the
encomienda refers to the (temporary) entrusting of those ‘goods’ to individuals
by a higher authority. Torres’s (1888) historical essay on the institution
illustrates this difference between the two terms, saying that Christopher
Columbus was authorized to distribute (repartir) land among his companions,
also entrusting them (encoméndolos) with Indians to work that land (1888:93).
This distinction is followed by Chamberlain (1939), who suggests a logical and
temporal sequence between the two: “While technically the repartimiento
[referred to] the act of partition, the term repartimiento was commonly applied
to the original grant [of a population] and that of encomienda to subsequent
grants [of the same population]” (1939:26). Kirkpatrick (1939) argues that
repartimiento was used at first to designate the actual physical grant accorded to
a Spaniard, and encomienda later came to mean the official grant, and the
institution in general. Vargas Ugarte (1942) uses a definition of the encomienda
as it was given by Solórzano Pereira in his Politíca Indiana (1972 [1672]). At
that rather late stage in the development of the institution, the American
encomienda had acquired marked feudal characteristics based on a system of
services, rewards, and obligations between the vassal and the sovereign: “the
right, granted by royal favor to the encomendero , to levy tribute on the indios of
his or her encomienda, in exchange for which the encomendero had the duty to
take care of them (cuidar de ellos), especially of their religious education, under
an oath of fidelity to the monarch, and an engagement to serve him with arms
and horse should the need arise”. Thus, says Vargas Ugarte, the word
encomienda was applied to both a right and a portion of land occupied by those
obligated to pay the tribute (1942: 67).
Keith (1971) follows Lockhart (1969) in stressing a difference between the
“repartimiento of local inspiration and the encomienda, conceived by government
officials” (1971: 433), a difference that for Vargas Ugarte edges on the notions of
prestation and retribution on the part of the Crown, contained in the institution
of the encomienda and not of repartimiento (1942:67) While Keith deplores the
confusion between what he views as separate institutions, he recognizes that if
sixteenth century Spaniards preferred to call this institution repartimiento,
modern historians have generally called it encomienda (1971: 433).
This later statement rather reinforces the fact that we are dealing with
what is generally seen as one institution, albeit perhaps conceived differently in
time and space. In this chapter I am working from legal documents from the
AGI that deal mostly with the institution as it operated between the Crown and
the colonists. For the sake of clarity I follow here the modern usage of using
exclusively the term encomienda to designate both the physical units of
indigenous population allocated in the New World to the colonists, and the
system of distribution that granted them.
153
However, whenever it might be
necessary to differentiate between a grant made by the Crown or by military or
political leaders in the colony --as in the case of Antonio Vaca vs. Antonio Villa
(in 3. 2. 1. below)--, this distinction will be duly made in my discussion when it
applies. I will also use repartimiento , mostly in the next chapter, when talking
about the population unit constituted by an encomienda, specially in the course
of the resettlement into reducciones. In that, I will be following the practice of
the documents of the time.
The general use of the word encomienda also avoids the confusion brought
by the fact that the term repartimiento also served to designate the distribution
of mit’a and, later, the forced assignation of goods by the corregidores (Kahle
1965, quoted in Zavala 1973: 975). Wolf 1982, on the other hand, seems to be
unaware of the semantic overlap between repartimientos, which he solely
identifies as the allocation of forced labor, and encomiendas which he translates
rather awkwardly as ‘trusteeships’ (1982: 142-143).
153
2. 2. History of the encomienda in Perú
The first encomiendas in Peru were granted by cédulas of the 13 of March
and the 26 of May 1536,
154
through which Pizarro divided among 170 “men of
Cajamarca” the gold and silver that the Inca Atahuallpa had gathered for his
ransom. He also distributed (hence repartimiento, allotment, distribution)
among the conquistadores who wished to settle in Cusco, and later Lima,
Huamanga (Ayacucho), and Arequipa, a number of Indians for their personal
service, as had been the practice in the Caribbean and in Nueva España.
Pizarro himself received in the 1536 distribution an encomienda of 20,000
Indians, a figure that far exceeded the limit of 300 in effect at the time (Torres
1888:97).
The encomiendas of Peru were always comparatively few and large. Their
number reached 500 in the 1540s and remained fairly stable after that (Lockhart
1968). In 1561 there were 427 encomiendas in the whole of Peru, and an
additional 50 were unassigned (vacas). At the time of Toledo’s Visita General,
general inspection of the colony, in 1571, more than half of all the encomiendas in
Peru were located in the district of Cusco: a total of 225. One hundred and forty
five of those had between 100 and 1,000 tributarios. Only twelve had more than
1,000 (Cook 1975: xvii). When Toledo left Peru in 1581, the three Audiencias of
Lima, Quito, and Charcas (these three terms correspond roughly to today’s
Peru, Ecuador, and Bolivia) had 695 encomiendas, with 325,899 tribute-payers
who jointly raised 1,506,290 pesos de oro, of which the quinto --the 20% destined
Hampé suggests that they might have been a distribution prior to that date
and claims that “the first references, albeit not very precise, concerning
distributions of Indians correspond to the early date of 1532 and would have
taken place in San Miguel, at the time when the men of the Peruvian campaign
were getting ready to undertake the march on Cajamarca” (1982:174). Pizarro
had secured from the crown the authorization to create encomiendas as early as
1529, just before launching on his third trip to Peru.
154
to the King-- was 301,258 pesos. The Province of Cusco was again the greatest,
with approximately 1/5 of all encomiendas (125) and 1/4 of all tribute payers
(74,977) who paid 1/4 of all the tribute (304,668 pesos) (Torres 1888).
2. 3. The debate
The debate over the encomienda system predated the Spanish conquest of
Peru. The system was the object of criticism from two directions. It was
deemed un-Christian and immoral by many, including Dominican
missionaries, and to a certain extent by Queen Isabel herself. The Leyes de
Burgos, passed by Ferdinand in 1512-13, after the Queen’s death, allowed the
continued existence of the encomienda, which Ferdinand favored as a way to
bring money to the Crown’s coffers, but attempted to impose moral rules for
the treatment of the Indians. These laws were by-and-large ignored in the
colonies. Bartolomé de Las Casas, himself a Dominican friar, led a fierce
campaign against the enslavement of the native populations of the Americas -thus initiating the “black legend” version of the treatment of the Indians.
influential treatise on the destruction of the Indies was completed in 1541.
155
His
156
The other critics of the encomienda were those who saw the institution as
limiting both the authority and the profit of the Crown. Among those was the
president of the second Audiencia,
157
Don Sebastian Ramirez de Fuenleal, who,
See Choy 1958 and Moreno 1983 for a discussion of the relative historical
value of the “leyenda negra”, and its political import.
156 The origin of Las Casas’ personal opposition to the institution of the
encomienda may be traced to a much earlier date. In 1504, the young cleric
was in Hispañola and he was offered a “magnificent” grant of land and enough
Indians to work it, which he soon returned, “convinced of the injustice of such
grants” (Torres 1888:94).
157 The Audiencia was a collegial administrative and judicial authority made
up of lawyers and administrators and built on the model of the Castilian
Audiencias which were primarily appellate courts. The first American
155
in view of the problems of social and judicial organizations he faced in Nueva
España with repartimientos and corregimientos, suggested as early as 1532 ways
of limiting excesses and guaranteeing the authority of the Crown.
The combined influence of those two convergent critiques of the
institution won the commitment of Ferdinand’s grandson, Charles I of Spain,
later the Emperor Charles V, to the eradication of the practice. This
commitment was formulated in the Nuevas Leyes of 1542, the New Laws for the
regulation of the American colonies. These laws, influenced in great part by the
campaigns of Las Casas, were penned by a council of jurists and theologians in
Valladolid with the dual objective of improving the condition of the Indians ,
158
and of prevent the encomenderos from becoming a true colonial nobility (Baudot
1981, Zavala 1973, Burkholder and Johnston 1990, Gongóra 1951, Belaúnde
1945).
One of the royal edicts included in the 1542 New Laws contained a
condemnation by the emperor of the form of direct servitude that allowed
encomenderos to use their grants of Indians for agricultural and mining work.
The Leyes Nuevas also prohibited the further enslavement of the Indians and
granted them the same rights and duties as any subject of his Majesty.
However, this prohibition did not extend to the regulation of coerced labor of
the encomiendas and the m’itas in the mines of Potosi and Huancavelica, legal
institutions for extracting tribute or labor from the indigenous population.
Audiencia was created in 1511 in Hispañola as a way to save the Spaniards
living on the island the need to appeal to the Spanish supreme courts. The
second Audiencia was created in 1527 in Mexico in a clear attempt to limit the
civil and military powers of Hernan Cortés. Several other Audiencias were
created in the following decades, including in 1543 that of Lima.
158 The Crown believed --on the basis of what had happened in the Caribbean,
that the encomienda led to the mistreatment of Indians, hence to depopulation.
Some missionaries (e. g. Matienzo) claimed on the contrary that the encomienda
was the best protection of the Indios (Keith 1971).
Another stipulation of the Nuevas Leyes was the provision that replaced
the direct service with the equivalent in tribute. From then on, instead of a
grant in Indians, the encomienda became the right granted by the King to the
encomendero to levy tribute on the population allocated to him or her.
Because of the dehumanized aspect of this form of exploitation, it was
both easy and logical to tie the duration of the grant to the duration of the life of
the grantee. In the case of straightforward slavery, the slaves are part of the
estate, and are passed on as part of the inheritance. In such a structure, the idea
of temporary usufruct would be at best impractical. In the encomienda system,
as we will see, the problem did not exist.
Thus, one of the provisions contained in the Nuevas Leyes was that the
encomienda would revert to the Crown immediately following the death of the
encomendero . This measure was an attempt to prevent the creation of a de facto
hereditary class of ruling colonists in the new territories. It outlawed the
custom of segunda vida, which extended the benefit of the grant to one of the
grantee’s heir, a practice that had been authorized by a royal declaration of 1513
(Zavala 1973:24), and implemented by Cortés in Mexico in 1524 (Zavala
1973:42), banned by Carlos V in 1525, and reinstated again for Pizarro’s benefit
in 1536 (Torres 1888:96). By demanding the return of the encomienda to the
Crown, the New Laws did not abolish the encomienda, but ensured that the
Indios passed from the control of the encomendero to that of the King, that is to
say from one Spaniard to another (Keith 1971:440). In spite of the Crown’s
claims to the contrary, the New Laws were not inspired by moral
considerations, but by a desire for economic and political control.
The imposition of the life-tenure limit was unacceptable to the
encomenderos, who wanted those grants to be made in perpetuity, and their
reaction was immediate. The licenciado Cristóbal Vaca de Castro, was
responsible for the initial attempt at enforcing the Nuevas Leyes . He had been
sent by Charles V to help Pizarro in “restoring tranquillity to the country, with
authority to assume the government himself in case of that commander’s
death” (Prescott 1847: (2)122). Vaca de Castro was already on his way from
Panama to Perú when Francisco Pizarro was assassinated in June 1541 and
Diego de Almagro took power. Acting on the mandate given him by the King,
Vaca de Castro, allied with the Pizarrists, confronted and defeated Diego de
Almagro in the Battle of Chupas. In spite of Vaca de Castro’s military and
political successes, the King decided to send as Viceroy to Peru someone with
159
no connection to the recent events. This man was Blasco Nuñez Vela, whose
actions in favor of the Crown which were directed to enforcing the New Laws
were immensely unpopular with the Spaniards of Peru even before he arrived
in Perú (Prescott 1847:(2)157). He was ousted in 1544 --and later executed-- by
Gonzalo Pizarro who was then proclaimed governor. The Crown remained
without an official representative in Peru for the next four years. It was not
until 1548 that Bishop Pedro la Gasca, President of the Audiencia, who had
been sent by Spain with authority to govern, defeated the rebel Pizarro at the
Battle of Jaquijaguana.
Even after the rebellion was finally quelled, the opposition to the life
tenure limit was so strong that the Nuevas Leyes had to be repealed. In order to
secure the Crown’s share of the tribute, the Viceroy Gasca had to give in on the
issue of inheritance and guarantee “one more life” before the grant would
revert to the Crown.
The institution of the Viceroy was copied on an Aragonian model of
government in the Italian provinces (Baudot 1981: 109). The first American
Viceroy, Antonio de Mendoza, was sent by Charles V to Nueva España in 1535.
Blasco Nuñez de Vela left for Perú in 1543.
159
In the following century and a half, the Spanish Crown’s policy towards
the institution of the encomienda attests to the continued concern with limiting
and controlling the power of the encomenderos in the colonies, as well as with
increasing its own authority and profit. At the end of the 16th century, there
was a limitation on the encomiendas given to residents of Peru, and the grants
were attributed instead to the Grandees of Spain. This policy was reversed in
1701, and the encomiendas of non-residents reverted to the Royal Treasury. The
share of the Crown was raised to half of the income of the encomienda for the
Crown. Finally in 1718, the institution itself was legally terminated, at a time
when the depopulation of the Indies had made all but obsolete and inoperative
a system that was by definition meant to function on the labor of the native
population. It must be seen as an index of the power of the colonists that, in
spite of the constant opposition from Spain, the system lasted into the 18th
century, and died a natural death after having outlived its usefulness to the
criollo population of the Americas (Mesa 1989, Zavala 1973, Gibson 1966).
However, the disappearance of the encomienda did not necessarily
improve the fate of the Indian population, for as the encomiendas became vacant
and reverted to the Crown, functionaries moved into the position of the
encomendero. At first, the corregidores were supposed to be the eyes and the ears
of the Crown, and were appointed either by the King in the case of large cities,
or by the Viceroy. However, as early as the end of the reign of Philip II, the
potential financial benefit of the position was sufficiently important that it
became the object of a flourishing trade, and appointments were sold and
bought according to the income and profit that they generated: there were first
class corregimientos like those of Potosi, Cusco and Cajamarca, and second and
third class ones like Abancay or Huanuco (Baudot 1981: 214; Tord Nocoli: 1974;
Lohman 1957).
One of the motivations behind the reclaiming of encomiendas by the
Crown, besides what was perceived as a threat to its authority, was a hope to
increase the King’s share of the tribute, limited in the encomiendas to the 20% of
the quinto tax. In fact, much of the tribute from the corregimientos never reached
the royal coffers and was absorbed in administrative costs. For the Indian
population, there was essentially no difference between the old encomienda and
the new corregimiento, except that the latter was controlled and taxed by an
appointed official, rather than by a recipient of a royal grant.
3. Nature of the data on the encomienda:
The documents of the Archivo General de Indias in Seville on the
encomienda are of three kinds. First there are requests (peticiones) addressed to
the King describing individual merits and achievements and asking for the
allocation of an encomienda , i.e. a grant in Indians in Peru, Mexico, or
Guatemala. The justification invoked was usually of the nature of military
services rendered to the King by the petitioner or one of his ancestors.
Sometimes the request could be for three or four lifetimes, and in some rare
cases, as for instance for Pedro Pizarro, Marqués de la Conquista, in perpetuity
(AGI Lima 1062). More usually, in the case of a first petition, the request was
for the duration of the life of the petitioner, or sometimes for two lives, his and
that of one heir, depending on what law of inheritance was in effect at the time.
It was also frequent for the recipient of an encomienda or his heirs to petition to
have it extended for an extra lifetime -- “una vida más” (AGI Lima 1061; 1652).
The structure of inheritance was regulated by a cédula of Jan. 30 1580, giving
precedence to hijos legítimos over hijos naturales , male children over females,
older sons over younger, and children over the widow. The heir was obligated
to support his siblings and mother. If the heir was a daughter, she had to marry
within a year. Marriage to another encomendero would entail renouncing one of
the two encomiendas. The widow would lose her encomienda upon remarrying
(Torres 1888: 129-130). These latter provisions testify to the obvious desire on
the part of the Crown to prevent the consolidation of excessively large grants.
Another category of documents are attributions (concesiones) or
confirmations (confirmaciones de encomiendas) by the King of those grants. Those
are reales cédulas that usually simply authorize the money amount of the grant.
For instance, the King might “order the Viceroy of Peru to locate available
Indians in those provinces in order to raise the 20 pesos in income allocated to
the Marqués” (AGI Lima 1652). Sometimes the King might allocate a specific
encomienda, which, having returned to the Crown at the death of the original
encomendero , can now be granted to another petitioner.
After the suppression of personal service to the encomendero in the midsixteenth century, the encomienda became nothing more than a source of
monetary income, the amount of which was determined in the grant. The
alienating aspect of the practice of the encomienda is evidenced in the cynical
way the request is presented to the King, asking him to allocate the first
available contingent of Indians --”Indios que hubiese bacos o primeros bacasen”
those who either are “vacant” (vacos) i.e. not currently part of an encomienda, or
the first who will become available at the expiration of another recipient’s term.
The fact that the grant would be allocated as a function of the total
income guaranteed to the recipient made for a situation by which one
encomendero might be the recipient of a grant spread over several population
settlements --sometimes even in separate provinces of the colony. Conversely
one population might be divided among several encomenderos , and be turned
into little personal fiefdoms. We will see below that both those patterns apply,
at some time or other, to the encomienda of Accha.
Another consequence for the study of the system is that an exact
correspondence between the encomienda and the Indian settlement is, in the
early stages, more often the exception than the rule. Later, Felipe II, in order to
encourage the creation of pueblos reversed a previous ban, and allowed
encomenderos to reside in their encomiendas, ruling at the same time that not two
encomiendas would be given to one encomendero if they could not form a single
pueblo (Torres 1888:166).
In some cases, the way the income was to be generated is specified in the
royal decree: in such-and-such village, tribute-payers will provide 3 pesos in
cash; in another, they must guarantee nine loads of wheat, or twenty loads of
firewood. In the legajo already mentioned (AGI Lima 1652), there is a letter to
the King, dated 1686, from the Marquesa de Manzenar asking for a revision of
her encomienda on the grounds that she finds herself unable to raise the amount
of 204 pesos in fruit or cash her grant entitles her to, because of the
demographic drop in the population of her encomienda (AGI Lima 1652).
The third kind of documents relating to the encomienda system are
judicial documents (pleitos) dealing with conflicts between Spaniards over the
legal ownership of various encomiendas or the distribution of the revenue from
the said encomiendas ( AGI Justicia 406 and Justicia 408; see below). Taken
together, those documents enable us to trace the beginning of Accha’s existence
within the colonial society. Conversely, a reconstruction of the history of early
colonial Accha as encomienda in this section, and as reducción in the next chapter
serves as an illustration of the functioning of these institutions.
4. The encomienda of Accha: the archival record
The history of the encomienda of Accha is complicated. The historical
reconstruction is made more difficult by inconsistencies in the existing archival
documentation and the fact that as it passed from encomendero to encomendero,
the size of the encomienda and the identity of the Indian populations concerned
changed. The earliest mention of Accha as an encomienda is found in a
document of the Real Academía de la Historía de Madrid, which has been
studied by various researchers, most recently by Wachtel (1971) and Hampé
(1979), and contains a report of all the encomiendas of Peru based on a visita
conducted in 1561 by the Marqués de Cañete (Viceroy Andrés Hurtado de
Mendoza). Achacabanilla (Accha Cabanilla) was one of the 427 encomiendas in
existence at the time. The document only tells us that it was valued at 2,600
pesos. At the time of the visita, it belonged to “his Majesty because of the death
of don Juan de Mendoça. Those Indians were granted [by Cañete] to don
Antonio Vaca” (Hampé 1979). The fact that the only information about the
160
encomienda is the identity of the encomendero and the amount of tribute that it
raises again underlines the nature of the grant as nothing more than a
guaranteed income for the Spanish grantee.
Juan de Mendoza seems thus to have been the original encomendero of
Accha. It is likely that he was a member of the Spanish military nobility
(Lohman 1956:146): Mendoza is a name borne by some of the greatest nobles of
Spain, particularly of a hidalgo family from the Maestrazgo de Santiago in
Extramadura; two Viceroys, including the Marqués de Cañete, were also
named Mendoza (Lockhart 1972:306). The Catálogo mentions the passage to
Tierra Firme of a Juan de Mendoza, identified as the son of Juan Díaz de
Mendoza and Francisca Díaz de Caicedo, vecino of the town of Brautevilla. He
The phrasing seems to indicate that the encomienda was given to Vaca by
Cañete at the time of the visita. In fact, we shall see later that the grant had been
made several months before that.
160
was part of the army of Pedro de Alvarado which embarked for the Americas
on the 4th of October 1538 (C. Bermudez Plata 1949).
In all probability, this is the same Juan de Mendoza who later fought on
the side of the loyalists against the rebellion of Gonzalo Pizarro and was given
as a reward 2,000 pesos in rent by Gasca in 1548 (del Busto 1986). As is often
the case in those grants, there is no indication of the encomienda from which the
rent was to be levied. However, I suggest that it is likely that it was indeed
Accha Cabanilla because of the identity of another of the recipients of Gasca’s
grants, Juan Berrio, who was given 800 pesos in rent at the same distribution of
grants . Berrio’s name is still found in the 1571 Visita of Toledo as one of the
161
encomenderos of several settlements in the Accha region. The population of the
new village of Accha itself (Jesús de Acha in the document) was at the time
shared between Antonio de Vaca --who, as seen above (Hampé 1979), had been
given by 1561 the encomienda vacated by the death of Mendoza-- Juan de Berrio
and three other encomenderos (Ulloa 1908: 333). I suggest that it is quite likely
that Berrio and Mendoza were given encomiendas that became ‘vacant’ at the
same time in the same population or, even more likely, were given adjoining
encomiendas in a newly carved-out territory.
In reality, Mendoza’s encomienda was much larger than what was
derived from the population of Accha. An undated document from the AGI,
which can be dated, thanks to internal evidence, between 1557 and 1560,
162
gives
for the encomienda of Juan de Mendoza the total sum of 9,000 pesos (AGI Lima
199, N°37, s/f, 2ff). The part of Mendoza’s grant that was transferred to
Other recipients of Gasca’ s favors at the same time include Polo (1200
pesos), and Betanzos (100 pesos), who had been working as interpreter for Vaca
de Castro ( the Quipocamayoc document) and later for la Gasca.
162 That is to say between the creation of the Lanzas y Arcabuces and the grant
made to Vaca de Castro (see infra).
161
Antonio Vaca de Castro comprised two geographically distinct groupings,
Accha and Cabanilla, spanning several ethnic groups. There is no motive to
believe that those distinct populations were grouped for any other reason than
the fact that they were available (vacos) at the same time and that their
combined value in tribute corresponded to the amount of a grant that needed to
be procured at that time.
The population of Accha-Cabanilla was made up of a population of
Chilques in Accha, together with groups of Atunlunas and of Oxiveres, and a
small contingent of Uros fishermen. Those three latter groups lived in
Cabanilla, now in the Provincia of Lampa, in the Department of Puno. The
various groups were taxed differently, both in the nature and the amount of the
tribute: The Accheños tribute-payers each paid 5 pesos in silver, corn and
wheat; the Atunluna and Oxubires, paid 5. 5 pesos in silver, llamas, chuñu, and
cloth; and the Uros, presumably recognized as less solvent, paid 2. 5 pesos in
silver and fish.
Legal documents (pleitos) that I collected in the AGI in 1990 shed some
light on the trajectory of the encomienda of Accha, while illuminating the
functioning of the encomienda system, and of the colonial judicial institutions.
This material, as we shall see, also underlines the potential difficulties in
accurately tracking the transmission of the grants.
4. 1. Antonio de Villa vs. Antonio Vaca de Castro (AGI Justicia 406)
This is a long manuscript (119 folios) dated 1564. The title page of the
documents reads:
Lima, 1564. Antonio de Villa vs. don Antonio baca de castro, Knight of
the order of Santiago and resident of the city of Cusco on:
[crossed out:] The refutation of the Indians of Dn. Juan de Mendoza
which are granted to the said dn. Antonio Baca de Castro
[added:]The question of 400 pesos of annuity on the Indians of Alcha
(sic) and cabanilla which were granted to Dn. Juan de Mendoza and
later granted to the said dn. antonio baca de castro.
163
The crossing out of the original title of the suit is indicative of the
confused nature of the issue. Although the first intention of Villa’s suit might
have been different, ultimately the plaintiff does not question the grant of
Indians to Vaca de Castro, but requests the payment of a partial grant to be
levied on the encomienda.
Antonio Vaca de Castro is identified in the document as knight of
Santiago, vecino of Cusco, and ‘hijo natural’ (rather than ‘hijo legítimo’) of the
Licenciado Vaca de Castro, the Governor of Peru who took over after the death
of Pizarro.
Villa is only identified by name at the beginning of the pleito, but further
in the document we learn that he is a gentilhombre de las compañias de lanzas y
arcabuces. His ‘credentials’ (méritos) given by the Conde de Nieva (f. 60) and
also the letter of encomendación by the Viceroy Cañete himself (f. 2) mention his
arrival in Peru by way of Santa Marta and Tierra Firme, and how he was taken
prisoner together with Vela Nuñez, brother of Blasco, for having attempted to
recover the king’s ships from Gonzalo Pizarro. Nuñez was beheaded by the
‘tyrant’, and Villa himself made to confess in preparation for his execution. He
Lima año de 1564. Antonio de villa con don Antonio baca de castro
cavallero de la orden de Santiago y vecino de la ciudad del cuzco sobre:
[crossed out: La contradicion de los Indios de dn. Juan de Mendoza q estan
encomendados al dicho Dn. Antonio Baca de castro].
[added:] La situacion de 400 pesos de renta sobre los indios de Alcha y cabanilla
q estuvieron encomendados a Dn Juan de Mendoza y despues se
encomendaron al dicho dn. antonio baca de castro.
163
apparently managed to survive and was later involved in the repression of the
mutiny of Barrionuevo, Melgarefo and Miranda in Cusco, and also in
Jaquijaguana and in other battles against Gonzalo Pizarro and Francisco
Hernandez Girón.
The suit documented in the AGI pleito was started on November 22 1560
and ended 11 June 1567. The motive of the suit was the failure on the part of
Vaca de Castro to pay the sum of 400 pesos ‘vitalicos’ (for life) accorded Antonio
de Villa by the Marques of Cañete “on the Indians of Haccha y Cabanilla,
previously of Dn Juan de Mendoza”.
The date of the grant, signed by Cañete, is August 16th, 1560 (fol. 3), only
3 months before the beginning of the suit. The Viceroy specifies that the grant
should be paid in 2 yearly installments and come from the encomienda of Accha
y Cabanilla ‘which is vacant, and which used to belong to Juan de Mendoza’.
This allows us to date with great precision the beginning of Vaca de Castro’s
tenure as encomendero of Accha-Cabanilla. As Villa further claims to have first
attempted to collect his rent on September 9, 1560, Vaca de Castro must have
received his grant sometime during the 3-week period between August 16th
and September 9th, perhaps even at the same time as Villa was granted his 400
pesos, possibly as part of the same process of redistribution of the late
Mendoza’s encomienda.
One of the defenses that Vaca de Castro used in order to avoid paying
Villa is the fact that an ‘infamous’ (decantada) royal cédula of Brussels of the 25th
of December 1555 denied Cañete the right to grant Indians, other than in the
quality of proxy for the King and on a temporary basis (interinamente). The
royal cédula was in reaction to the growing attempts in the colonies to force the
issue of perpetuity. The King recommended that Cañete suspend the
“distribution of vacant encomiendas or those that would be vacated until the
arrival of Antonio de Ribera who would bring the resolution to this question”
(Zavala 1973:860). The Viceroy at first obeyed the directive, but later gave in to
the pressure of the colonists who anticipated --rightly it appears-- that Ribera
would decide in favor of perpetuity, and allocated a total of 20,000 pesos in
Indian tribute, as well as 100,000 pesos for three military regiments.
It would seem at first that the argument that Cañete’s grant to Villa was
illegal would backfire, as apparently Cañete granted Vaca de Castro as well as
Villa. The difference, however, was that Vaca de Castro’s encomienda was
granted by a royal cédula from Brussels, dated 1 March 1558, giving him a grant
of a total value of 16,000 pesos:
We order that you [the Viceroy], in conformity with the content and
form of this our decree, give as encomienda to Antonio Vaca de Castro
and put in his charge the said repartimiento and repartimientos of
Indians presently vacant, or the first that will become vacant, soon,
without delay, according to this promise, and put him or his proxy in
possession of those. ...”
(Coleccion de documentos inéditos relativos al descubrimiento,
conquista y organizacion de las antiguas posesiones españolas de
America y Oceania, sacados de los archivos del reino y muy
especialmente del de Indias, xxv, 36, quoted in Zavala 1973: 224)
164
It is therefore obvious that the Viceroy, by giving Accha y Cabanilla to
Vaca de Castro, was only following --with a 30-month delay-- the King’s orders
to find suitable vacant encomiendas for the royal grantee. But on the other hand,
Vaca de Castro suggests that in giving the 400 pesos of rent to Villa, the same
Cañete was disobeying the King’s expressed order to suspend the distribution
of grants.
Vos mandamos [al virrey] que conforme al tenor y forma desta nuestra
cédula, encomendéis y pongáis en cabeza del dicho Antonio Vaca de Castro el
dicho repartimiento y repartimientos de indios de los que estuvieren vacos, o
los primeros que se vacaren en esa tierra, luego, sin detenimiento alguno, segun
dicho es, y lo metáis a él o a quien su poder hubiere, en la posesion dellos.
164
It should be noted that the amount of 16,000 pesos granted is much
larger than the revenue of the encomienda of Accha y Cabanilla, valued in 1561
at 2,600 pesos (Hampé 1979). The many pleitos in which Vaca was involved,
concerning mostly the very legitimacy of his encomiendas, indicate that he had
other encomiendas in Velille (AGI Justicia 419), Huaraz (AGI Justicia 405), and
elsewhere (AGI Justicia 408, AGI Lima 199).
The amount of the grant is quite exceptional in comparison with grants
given to other individuals during the same period. What could Antonio Vaca
had done to deserve a reward eight times larger than what seems to have been
a comfortable grant at the time? In fact, this large grant was not accorded
directly to Antonio, but to the older Vaca de Castro as a form of compensation.
Cristóbal Vaca de Castro had narrowly managed to escape from Gonzalo
Pizarro in 1544, only to be jailed as soon as he reached Spain on various charges
of treason and embezzlement.
165
It was twelve years before the charges were
cleared, and the Licenciado “so far from peculation, was proved to have
returned home no richer than he went” (Prescott 1874:(2)175). He was released
from jail and reinstated in his honors and dignities on the 23rd May 1556, the
embargo on his possessions in Peru was lifted (AGI Justicia 1077) and not only
was he accorded
compensation for damages, but he received the cumulative salaries for
the twelve years he had spent in jail, corresponding to his position on the
Consejo Real, and in addition the Emperor granted him 15, 000 or 20,
000 pesos of income in Perú, which he turned over to his son Antonio
who was then the oldest heir [after the death of the first born
Jerónimo] In addition, he was given permission to export 500 slaves to
Perú free of tax; he also received the encomienda of Palomas and the
Ironically enough, one of the accusations against Cristóbal Vaca de Castro
was that he had failed to fulfill his mandate to return the encomiendas to the
Crown (García 1957: 245).
165
knighthood of Santiago for his son. (García 1957:265; emphasis and
clarification added).
It is not clear how soon after this bequest Antonio Vaca de Castro
crossed over to Perú. It is possible that he did not leave Spain before the actual
royal decree granting him the encomienda some twenty-two months later. But it
is also possible that he went immediately to Peru and waited there for an
encomienda to be allocated to him: we saw that in the fall of 1561 he was already
identified as vecino of Cusco --which is to say that he paid taxes and probably
owned property in that city. There is also no indication whether the totality of
his Peruvian encomiendas were granted all at the same time.
The Audiencia of Lima ruled against Vaca de Castro in December 1563,
deciding that the grant made to Villa by Cañete was in fact in conformity with
the King’s decree that the late Mendoza’s encomienda should be used in part to
support the Lanzas and Arcabuces and retired members of those companies -who included Antonio de Villa. Vaca de Castro appealed twice on technical
grounds but was finally sentenced in 1567 to pay the plaintiff the total amount
of the owed revenue and the judicial costs --which after all amounted to a very
small fraction of Vaca’s total encomienda.
4. 2. Lanzas y Arcabuces vs. Antonio Vaca de Castro et al.
(AGI Justicia 408)
4. 2. 1. Las Compañias de Lanzas y Arcabuces
The compañias de Lanzas and Arcabuces appear in another lawsuit filed
in 1564 in what seems to be a group action against Vaca de Castro and others
encomenderos (AGI Justicia 408).
The companies were part of a prestige colonial guard and military order
created in 1557 by the Viceroy Andrés Hurtado de Mendoza, Marqués de
Cañete . The Viceroy earmarked 114,600 pesos from the product of some
encomiendas “which had become vacant” (que vacaron) for the maintenance of
these companies. The 21 encomiendas were situated in Cusco (11, for p. 46,500),
La Paz (7 encomiendas for p. 20,100), and La Plata (3 encomiendas for p. 48,000).
Included among the Cusco encomiendas was that of Acha y Cavanilla for the
amount 5,000 pesos to be levied from this encomienda (Torres 1888:108-109;
Zavala 1973).
Cañete created these companies of hijosdalgo partly because of the regal
vision he had of his mandate, and partly to avoid the fate of Nuñez de Vela: the
Lanzas and Arcabuces were supposed to protect the Viceroy against the
encomenderos as well as against outside forces (Lohman Villena 1956). Cañete
chose primarily men who had crossed over from Spain with him, and who had
not received another grant from the King. Membership in the compañias was
incompatible with an encomienda. In fact, when in 1555 Cañete’s right to grant
encomiendas was revoked , the Viceroy used commissions in the compañias as a
166
replacement for encomiendas. The accompanying yearly income ranged from
500 pesos for an arcabucero to 3,000 pesos for a captain of lanzas.
The situation became quite confused when Cañete, in order to placate
the encomenderos irritated by the financial burden represented by the compañias,
proceeded to redistribute to others the same encomiendas that he had earmarked
for the support of the Lanzas y Arcabuces --even before his right to make grants
had been restored. This left the compañias without the income needed for their
upkeep, and resulted in numerous lengthy lawsuits (Torres 1888: 108-109), one
of which involved the same Antonio Vaca de Castro (AGI Justicia 408).
4. 2. 2. The verdict
166
The cédula of Brussels 24 December 1555 mentioned above.
In 1564, the Audiencia de Lima ruled in favor of the Compañias de
Lanzas y Arcabuces against Vaca de Castro and several other encomenderos :
Taking in consideration the depositions and claims in this suit, we
declare that the tributes of the repartimientos of Papiris and Chunbi,
Calabaya la mayor and Calabaya la menor, Atun Colla Quichuas and
Atun Cabana, Paucarcolla Carangas and the repartimientos of Poca
Caguaca and Tinta Lanbay Acha and Cabanylla and Yanque and Cacha
in parts wherein owned by don Antonio Baca, dona Lucya Luyando and
[illegible] Rruiz de Marchena are owed for the grants made by the former
Viceroy of these kingdoms, Marques de Cañete, for the wages of the
lanzas and arcabuces and order that the royal officers of his Majesty
collect the tributes that from now on will be levied in the said
repartimientos and have them sent to the caja real of this city of los
Reyes to be paid to the said lanzas and arcabuces, regardless of the
grants and allocations existing or granted and in the other
repartimientos concerned by this suit.
(AGI Justicia 408).
167
The date of the ruling, coming shortly after the initial decision (1563) in
the case between Antonio Villa and Vaca de Castro, may indicate a resolution of
the question of the validity of the grants made by Cañete, and also suggests that
this pleito might have been a general suit by the compañias regrouping
individual claims of which Antonio de Villa’s was one. However, I will show in
4. 3. 3., that this group action by the compañías to recover tribute for their wages
Hallamos atento los autos y meritos deste proceso que devemos declarar y
declaramos que los tributos de los rrepartimientos de papiris y chunbi calabaya
la mayor y calabaya la menor atun colla quichuas y atun cabana paucarcolla
carangas y los rrepartimientos de poca caguaca e tinta lanbay acha y cabanylla e
yanque e cacha en la parte que en ellos tienen don antonio baca, dona lucya
luyando y [illegible] rruiz de marchena estar obligados de las situaciones hechas
por el marques de canete vissorey que fue de estos rreinos para la paga de las
lanzas y arcabuces y mandamos a los oficilaes reales de su mayestad cobrenlos
tributos que de aqui adelante corrieren de los dichos repartimientos y los
envien a la casa real desta ciudad de lo rreyes para que dellos sean pagados los
dichos lanzas y arcabuces sin enbargo de las encomiendas y situaciones
encontradas o hechas y en los demas rrepartimientos sobre que es este pleito.
167
(paga) was independent from the action by Antonio Villa, an ex-lancer suing for
his pension, and that Antonio Vaca was delinquent on both counts.
It should be noted that this pleito, like the previous one (AGI Justicia 406),
also testifies to the complexity of the system, which made the encomenderos
responsible not only for the levy of tribute for the royal coffers (the quinto) but
also --because of the multiplication of grants by Cañete within a same
encomienda-- for collecting tribute within their encomiendas on behalf of other
grantees. The wording of the verdict (“regardless of other grants”) not only
confirms the legality of grants made by Cañete, but may even suggests they
took precedence over others.
As a footnote to this legal fight between Antonio Vaca de Castro and the
Lanzas and Arcabuces, another AGI document reveals that between 1572 and
1575, Vaca de Castro successfully sued 4 prominent encomenderos out of their
encomiendas (AGI Justicia 419):
Don Antonio Vaca de Castro, of the Order of Santiago (son of the
Licenciado Vaca de Castro, past Governor of the Kingdoms of Peru,
resident of the city of Cusco vs. Pero Gonzalez de Prado, native of
Toledo and resident of Piura, Francisco de Grado, and Pedro Ortiz de
Orve, native of Ordenes and resident of Cusco, and Diego de Sosa,
resident of Arequipa, and Agustin de Villaseca, resident of Piura,
concerning:
That in fulfillment of the Royal Ordinances that granted him 16,000
pesos of annual income in available Indians, it is determined that it
should be given to him, together with their products and tribute, the
repartimientos of Indians in the possession of the above-mentioned
individuals by grants from the Viceroy don Francisco Toledo and for
which he had made special provisions, confirmed for four of those by an
original ordnance of His Majesty.
168
Dn Antonio Vaca de Castro, del habito de de Santiago (hijo del Lizdo Vaca
de Castro, gobernador que fue de los reinos del Peru) vezino de la ciudad del
cuzco= con=Pero Gonzalez de Prado, natural de Toledo y vecino de Piura con
Francisco de Grado, y con Pedro Ortiz de orve, natural de ordinas y vecinos del
cuzco y con Diego de Sosa, vezino de Arequipa y Augustin de Villaseca, vecino
168
(AGI Justicia 419)
It appears that Toledo had refused to honor the royal cédula granting the
four encomiendas in question and had given them instead to the men named in
the suit. The Audiencia Real in Lima ruled in favor of Vaca de Castro and
stated:
that Don Vaca de Castro be granted .. in the amount prescribed in
conformity with his ordinances provided that the total product do not
exceed the assigned 16, 000 pesos and that there should be made an
allowance on the Indians that he owned and about whom he brought suit
against the Companies of gentlemen Lanzas y Arcabuces of a
supplementary amount to cover the suit.
(AGI Justicia 419).
169
The emphasis is here on putting together the exact amount of revenue
owed Vaca de Castro, not to exceed 16, 000 pesos, plus compensation for the
legal fees to be deducted from the tribute levied on the Indians involved in the
lawsuit --i. e. those of Accha y Cabanilla. The document underlines the nature
of the legal and political disputes among the Spaniards, in which the
indigenous population in the form of repartimiento was merely equated with its
worth in currency, and was granted, hoarded and traded as such.
4. 3. The Visita de Condesuyu and the Tasa de la Visita
de Piura,sobre: Que en cumplimento de las Reales Cedulas que tenia para que
se le situasen 16,000 pesos de renta anual en indios vacos, ... , se le diesen con
frutos y tributos los repartimientos de Indios que los referidos poseian por
encomiendas del Virrey dn Francisco Toledo, y sobre los que habia hecho
especial señalamiento, confirmado en quatro de ellos pr cedula de S. M. que
esta original.
169 que se le encomendasen a Dn Antonio Vaca, ... respecto de haverlos
señalado, conforme a sus cedulas con tal que su producto no exediese de los 16,
000 pesos asignados y que hiciese dexacion en los Indios que poseia y sobre que
trahia pleito con las companias de los gentiles hombres Lanzas y arcabuzas de
otra tanta cantidad, como cobrase en los de este pleito.
The 5th Viceroy, Francisco de Toledo, had barely landed in Peru when
he proceeded to conduct a general inspection (visita general) of the human
resources of the land he controlled, that took him from Jauja (1570) to Cusco
(1572) to Alto Perú (the present-day Bolivia), where the visita ended in 1574
(Vargas Ugarte 1942; Cook 1975). This visita accomplished several goals. It led
to a census of the indigenous population as well as a detailed calculation of the
nature and amount of the tribute that should be levied. It broke up encomiendas
consisting of several distant populations, as was the case of Accha and
Cabanilla, and finally, as we will see in the next section, operated the
regrouping of the population into villages. Two documents resulted from the
visita of Condesuyu that took place in 1571. The first document, authored by
Luís Mexía, the visitador eclesiastico for Condesuyu (the position held by
Albornoz and Molina in other parts of the colony), was published in 1908 by
Ulloa. This “Visita General de los yndios del Cusco, Año del 1571, provincia
Condesuyo” gives information about the distance from Cusco, size and names
of the “new reducciones, and parishes and curatos which were created in the
province of Condesuyo of the city of Cusco, by order of his Majesty in the
general inspection made by the Viceroy Don Francisco de Toledo” (Ulloa 1909).
In it, Antonio Vaca de Castro is identified as the main encomendero of the newly
created Jesús de Accha and part encomendero of 7 other populations in the same
region.
The second document, the Tasa de la Visita General de Francisco de
Toledo was published by David Cook in 1975 and gives instead the name of
Pedro Bernaldo de Quirós as encomendero of Accha.
Pedro Bernaldo de Quirós is identified in the Catalogo de pasajeros as
the son of Diego Bernaldo de Quirós, from Seville, who arrived at La Florida on
the 8 of March 1536 (C. Bermudez Plata 1949). His story resembles that of Juan
de Mendoza. Garcilaso (1966) refers to him as a ‘famous soldier’ and a
conquistador of the Isles of Barlovento, Cartagena and Tierra Firme. After
having served as lieutenant (alférez) in one of these campaigns, he was
confirmed in that quality by President Gasca. Bernaldo then followed Gasca to
Perú and fought at his side in the Battle of Jaquijaguana against Gonzalo
Pizarro. According to del Busto (1986) he was later involved in the
preparations against Sebastián de Castilla, possibly in Cusco, and in Lima
during the uprising of Girón. In April 1586, he was a captain and a vecino and
alderman of Cusco; he could sign his name, and admitted to 60 years of age.
He was also, says del Busto, “the encomendero of Cacha y Cabanilla, with 800
pesos of annual rent granted by the Viceroy Andrés Hurtado de Mendoza [the
Marqués de Cañete] who gave him those Indians for having renounced a
commission of Gentleman Lancer in the Viceroyal guards” (1986:246).
170
4. 3. 1. Vaca or Quirós: which encomendero?
The two documents resulting from Toledo’s visita give apparently
conflicting information on the encomienda of Accha: one has Vaca de Castro as
encomendero of Accha and several other populations in the Condesuyu region of
Cusco (Ulloa 1908); the other tells us that Cabanilla has reverted to the Crown,
and that Accha is now granted to Diego Bernaldo de Quirós (Cook 1975). How
can this contradiction be resolved?
Puzzling at first, this discrepancy regarding the identity of the
encomendero of Accha between the Visita (Antonio de Vaca) and the Tasa
(Bernaldo de Quirós) is in fact easily explained. The former document was
Del Busto seems to imply that the 800 pesos represented the totality of the
value of the encomienda, whereas Quirós had in fact been given, as pension after
leaving the Lanzas y arcabuces, a share of the total tribute, as had Villa before
him.
170
written by a secretary during the actual visita conducted in 1571 by the Viceroy,
and contains the names of the encomenderos already in place, among which Vaca
was numbered, or who were appointed by Toledo at that time. The Tasa, on
the other hand took longer to complete and was not finished until 1583 (Toledo
in Cook 1975:235, 135), and so contains the names of several new encomenderos
who received grants up to that date. By then, Vaca de Castro had died.
It is possible that in 1571, at the time the visita was conducted, Antonio
Vaca de Castro was still have in Cusco. But there is documented evidence that
he was in Spain in May 1572, when he witnessed the will of his father, who died
between that date and July of the same year (García 1957:275). A suit started in
November 1574 probably places him in back in Cusco at that date (AGI 419).
However, we know that he died in Valladolid on February 18th, 1576 (García
1957: 275)--which is to say between the date of the Visita (1571) and that of the
completion of the Tasa (1583). This explains why the two documents resulting
from the same visita identify two different individuals as the main encomendero
of Accha.
Antonio died without an heir and was buried beside his parents in a
small Jesuit chapel in Valladolid (García 1957). There is no indication that
Antonio ever married. The cédula of 1551 compelling the encomenderos to marry
within three years “para evitar los desórdenes y falta de moralidad que se
hacían sentir” had been repealed in 1561, before A. Vaca de Castro received his
encomienda, although the marriage of single encomenderos was still ‘encouraged’
(Recopilacíon, lib. 4, tit. 5, ley V, Sarmiento Donato 1988: 163). At Antonio
Vaca’s death, his encomiendas properly reverted to the Crown, with the puzzling
exception of the encomienda of Guamanpalpas and Coporaque, half of which
apparently had been entrusted to Antonio and one heir for 12 years starting in
1573 (Toledo in Cook 1975: 144, 171). There is no indication in the Tasa of the
identity of the heir, or even whether someone actually claimed that
encomienda’s tribute in the quality of Vaca’s heir.
Toledo, who supported the Compañias de Lanzas y Arcabuces, took the
opportunity of Antonio Vaca’s death to resolve the conflict resulting from
Cañete’s haphazard granting policy. He either granted Accha to Quirós for the
rent of 800 pesos or confirmed the grant thereof. The rest of the tribute from
that encomienda went to the Compañias de Lanzas y Arcabuces for the wages of
the gentiles hombres, as did the totality of the tribute from the encomienda of
Cabanilla, henceforth separate from Accha (Cook 1975: 94).
4. 3. 3. The tribute from Accha
The Tasa de la Visita General de Francisco de Toledo details the nature
and amount of tribute to be levied in each repartimiento . In the case of Accha,
the Tasa records 805 tribute-payers for a total population of 3,900. The total
tribute to be extracted was 4,000 pesos, of which 3,200 pesos were to be paid in
cash and the rest in kind: 300 fanegas of maize (450 pesos), 210 fanegas of wheat
(315 pesos) and 280 chickens (35 pesos). Of the 4000 pesos in tribute, 502 went
“para justicias y defensores de los indios”, that is to say for the corregidores, 600
were for the two priests and 160 for the salaries of the 5 caciques, themselves
exempt from tribute --a total of 1,262 pesos for local salaries and costs. Of the
remaining 2,738 pesos (4,000-1,262), 1,938 pesos went to the royal officers in
Cusco for the maintenance of the aforementioned company of Lanzas y
Arcabuces, and 800 pesos were paid annually to Pedro Bernaldo de Quirós for
one lifetime.
The figure of 2,738 pesos should then be considered to be the total net
“revenue” of Accha. The corresponding figure for Cabanilla is 3,246 pesos for
annual tribute, and 1,916 pesos for the net annual revenue. This gives for Accha
and Cabanilla a total revenue of 2,738+1,916=4,654 pesos. This figure of the
Toledo Visita (1571-1583) is smaller than that of 5,000 pesos in Cañete’s 1555
grant to the compañias (Torres 1888, Zavala 1973), and it is much greater than
that of 2,600 pesos granted by the same Cañete to Antonio Vaca in 1561 (Hampé
1979). This would seem to indicate that from 1561 on Vaca de Castro was the
main --but not the only-- beneficiary of the revenue of the encomienda of AcchaCabanilla.
It is quite possible to presume a dramatic demographic drop in the
tribute-paying population of the encomienda in the 15 years or so between the
granting of the encomienda to the Lanzas y Arcabuces by Cañete and the visita
by Toledo, to explain the 7% decrease in revenue between 1555 and 1571:
between 1550 and 1570, the total population of Peru had dropped by half a
million, or nearly 30% (Cook 1981,1982). The mortality caused by various
epidemics, famine, and forced labor, had in fact brought Cañete to lower the
tribute to reflect the diminution of tribute-payers (Cook 1975:XXIV).
Yet there is another explanation for the difference between the Cañete
and the Toledo figures, and in fact the very changes occasioned by the Toledo
visita might have been responsible for skewing the final revenue figure. A
comparison between the pre-Toledo and the post-Toledo encomienda suggests
that, in fact, the former Accha y Cabanilla was more than just the sum of the
later encomiendas of Accha and of Cabanilla. Torres (1888) published, as an
appendix to his work on encomiendas, a “Relación de las encomiendas existentes
en el Perú cuando practicó la visita é hizo reparto general el Virrey D. Francisco
de Toledo” (1888:137ff). This account of the encomiendas as Toledo found them,
is presented as a table without any kind of commentary or analysis. In that
table, Torres gives the number of tributarios, and the total tribute of the
encomiendas, but not the net income derived from them after deduction of
salaries and other costs. Not only are Cabanilla and Accha already entered
separately, but Torres groups together Accha with Pilpinto and gives for this
entry the figures of 1471 indios tributarios and 7295 pesos of annual tribute
(1888:146). This total figure of the tributary population (1471) corresponds
rigorously to not two but three entries in the Tasa: Accha (805 tributarios),
Pilpinto (399) and Lauray Ullpo (267) (Cook 1975). This latter population is
identified in the Ulloa (1908) document of the Visita as an anexo of Accha . The
corresponding annual tribute given in the Tasa for those three populations is
4,000 pesos (Accha), 1,976 pesos (Pilpinto) and 1,320 pesos (Lauray Ullpo) for a
total of 7296 pesos. The difference of one peso between the two documents is so
insignificant that it must be ascribed to an error in the manuscript. The net
revenue is then easily obtained from the Tasa: Accha 2738 pesos, Cabanilla
1916, Pilpinto 472, and Lauray 378, which gives a total income of 5,504 pesos for
what I now believe to have been the total population of the encomienda of
Accha-Cabanilla.
A further indication that there was no significant drop in the tributepaying population of Accha-Cabanilla between 1555 and 1571 is the fact that
Toledo uses Cañete’s original figure of 5,000 pesos in the Tasa, when, following
the death of Antonio Vaca, the physical property of the Indian population of
the encomienda has reverted to the Crown:
The ownership of the Repartimiento and Indians of Cavanilla and
Oliveres is transferred to the Royal Crown and Patrimony and out of the
tribute of those in the repartimiento of Accha, which used to be part of
the encomienda of don Juan de Mendoça, 5000 pesos of revenue go to
the gentiles hombres of lanzas y arcabuces by grant from the
Marques of Cañete.
171
La propriedad del Repartimiento e indios de Cauanilla y Oliberes está
puesta en la Corona y Patrimonio Real y en los tributos de ellos y del
repartimiento de Accha que fueron de la encomienda de don Juan de Mendoça
tienen los gentiles hombres lanzas y arcabuces de este reino 5000 pesos de renta
171
(Cook 1975: 94)
The fact that Toledo does not revise the figure of 5,000 downwards confirms my
opinion that there was no drop in revenue, but that the tributes of Pilpinto and
Lauray Ullpo were part of the total revenue of Accha-Cabanilla, bringing a total
income of rather more than the 5,000 guaranteed by Cañete. If we assume that
the actual make up of the encomienda (Accha, Cabanilla, Pilpinto and Lauray
Ullpo) did not change between 1555 and 1571, we can also assume that the
grant of 5,000 pesos made by Cañete to the Compañía corresponded to the
totality or near totality of the revenue of the encomienda of Accha y Cabanilla at
the time of the grant. The sum of 2,600 pesos that he later granted to Vaca de
Castro did not come from any supplementary income from that encomienda, but
from this earlier grant of 5,000 pesos for the wages of the Compañía that had
been rescinded. Likewise, the 400 peso grant made at the same time to Antonio
Villa came on top of Vaca’s 2,600 pesos, out of the same 5,000 pesos. Thus, since
1561, as encomendero of Accha y Cabanilla, Vaca de Castro controlled for this
encomienda a total revenue of 5,000 pesos (and perhaps as much as 5,504 pesos),
of which only 2600 were legally his. He was sued by Villa for 400 (AGI 406)
and presumably for the remainder by the compañías (AGI 408). As we have
seen, in both cases the court ruled against Antonio Vaca de Castro, but his right
to the 2,600 peso revenue never was in question, as he was identified as
encomendero of Accha as late as 1571 (Ulloa 1908).
By 1583 (date of the completion of the Tasa), but presumably as early as
1576 when he died, Vaca had been replaced as encomendero of Accha by Quirós,
a retired member of the Lanzas y Arcabuces. The post-visita difference in status
between Accha and Cabanilla is significant. The former was granted (to
por situacíon del marqués de Cañete.
Quirós) and the latter reverted to the Crown, although the major revenue of
both still went for the wages of the compañias. There seem to have been no
provision for the compañias to levy their own tribute. Instead, it had to be paid
to them by the encomendero (Quirós and before him Antonio Vaca) in the case of
Accha, or by the colonial Real Caja when the encomienda reverted to the Crown,
as in the case of Cabanilla.
The positions of Villa and Quirós were comparable: both received a
grant of money in exchange for their position in the compañias of 400 and 800
pesos respectively. The difference is that Villa’s grant was to be paid to him by
Vaca, the principal encomendero of Accha. I believe that Quirós became
principal encomendero by default at the death of Vaca, and became responsible
for the levy of the tribute for the compañias. Had Vaca lived, he would have
been responsible for the collection and payment of the tribute for both Quirós
and the compañias. Conversely, had Vaca died sooner, or had his encomienda
been ruled invalid, as the original pleito tried to establish (AGI Justicia 406),
Villa might have become main encomendero and would have been accountable
for the levy of the tribute for the compañias. This is why, in spite of the ties of
Villa to the compañias, I believe that the two documents (AGI Justicia 406 and
AGI Justicia 408) correspond indeed to two unrelated lawsuits. AGI Justicia 408
is not a class action by the compañias on behalf of wronged individual (retired)
members that would either supersede or encompass the suit initiated by Villa
(AGI Justicia 406). Rather, it is a separate action to recover tribute due the
compañias in accordance with the revised grants made by Cañete --in the case of
Accha-Cabanilla and Vaca de Castro this would have amounted to 3,000 pesos,
the difference between the joint incomes of Vaca and Villa, and the total
revenue of the encomienda.
The fate of the encomienda of Accha after 1583 (final redaction of the Tasa)
is less well documented. Presumably, in accordance with the policy being
enforced, at the death of Quirós it reverted to the Crown, and ceased to be an
encomienda and became part of a corregimiento of Chilques y Mascas: the
‘pueblo de Accha’ is identified as ‘of the royal crown’ in a 1623 document (AGN
Derecho Indigena y Encomiendas, Leg. 5, Cuad. 75, 1623, f13). Its income
presumably continued to be reserved for the maintenance of the compañias who
continued to live a checkered existence until they were replaced in 1784 by the
Regimiento de Caballería de Milicias de la Nobleza.
5. Denial and Invention of identity.
As encomenderos and other European settlers were denying a cultural
identity to those they called Indios, they were at the same time occupied in
inventing their own identity based on a feudal relation to the Spanish Crown
that was all but unknown in Spain itself (Chamberlain 1939; Thompson 1985)
The feudal system in Spain never reached the level of organization it
acquired in France and other parts of Europe where the granting of land and
rights was conditional on a contract between the vassal and the King. In
contrast, the grants in Castile and Leon were unconditional (Altamira y Crevea,
1913-1914, 1:313-315, quoted in Chamberlain 1939). In America, the principle of
the encomienda, which was in the early days of settlement “marked by
seigniorial traits and aspirations, was transformed into a money rent” (Sempat
Assadourian 1992:56) under pressure by the Crown, even before the end of the
16th century. Yet because of the need of the Spaniards to create for themselves
a new identity in the New World, the encomienda went from being a distribution
of the spoils of Conquest (repartimiento) to being perceived as constituting the
‘nerve’ of the new colonial society (Gongora 1970:117). At the end of the 17 th
century, a contractual relation was felt to have been reached between the
encomenderos and their King (Solórzano Pereira 1672). In fact, this relation,
which included the responsibility for the moral and physical welfare of the
Indians and the duty of the encomenderos to arm themselves in defense of the
Crown in return for the King’s protection, corresponded to an development of
and a justification for the colonial system, rather than to a transfer of a
supposed pre-existing structure in Castile.
The material presented in this chapter is enough evidence to prove that
the encomenderos were much more interested in extracting revenue than in
constituting a feudal class based on a system of rights and duties towards the
Spanish Crown and the Indian population. Yet this perceived relation of
vassality may have been a way for the Spaniards of America to deal with
sharing their space and their history with the Indians (see Pagden 1992). Their
relationship to the native population was thus directed by the royal grace
(merced), and they in turn were responsible to the King.
172
The invention of the
Indian, as tribute-payer, provider of labor and object of religious indoctrination,
may well have been accidental to the identity the Spaniards of America were
attempting to invent for themselves.
172...This
feudal vision played also a determining part in the invention of criollo
identity, particularily at the time of American independence from Spain. There
was a belief among the ‘traditionalist’ portion of the revolutionary movement
that there had been a pact between the King and the conquistadores who had
endured sacrifices and hardship in the name of the Crown and were entitled to
expect recognition and rewards (“Carta de los Españoles Americanos”, 1792, in
Gongóra 1980:159-181). The subsequent failure on the part of the King to
respect this pact was felt to cancel any obligation of fidelity the descendants of
the first Spaniards in America to the Crown of Spain, and justified the fight for
independence from Spain. I am indebted to Nydia Ruiz for drawing my
attention to this later development of the relation between Spain and its
American colonies.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MAKING OF ACCHA: THE VISITA OF TOLEDO, REDUCCION AND
DOCTRINAS
Pueblo nombrado el nombre de jesús de
acha .... está doce leguas del cuzco
tributan como los demás sus comarcanos y
tienen la mesma horden de christianidad y
justicia y buena yglesia y hornamentos; es
un curato.
(excerpt from the 1571 Visita of
Toledo, Ulloa 1908:333)
In the previous chapter, I discussed how the institution of the encomienda
served to deny the Indians of Accha-Cabanilla an identity other than that of
tribute-payers, at the same time as it contributed to the fabrication of a criollo
identity distinct from a Spanish one. This chapter deals with the imposition on
the Indians of Accha of a new identity through the institutions of the reducción
and the doctrina , and will consider three related issues. In the first place, early
documental material on Accha raises the question of the enduring existence of
the dual-structure in that community and its implication in regard to the
understanding of the functioning of other local social units such as the ayllu and
the anexo. Secondly, the identity of the various groups that constitute the total
social system of Accha, both at the time of the reducción and since, suggests a
reinterpretation of the widely accepted hierarchical relation between
Hanansaya and Hurinsaya, and specifically of their respective ties with
Cusco, with the dominant elite and with the outside of the community. This
proposition has implications for the interpretation of historic and ethnographic
material dealing with the mode of recruitment in the units, and of the
maintenance of the social and ritual system. Thirdly, the role of the Catholic
Church and its historical relation to the social structure will be seen as relevant,
not only as a colonial organ of control and acculturation, but also as a locally
reinterpreted institution that served and, as was established in chapter 4, still
serves as a dynamic marker of group identity within the community of Accha.
1. Reshaping space: the urbanization of the Indies
The conquest and colonization of the Americas by the Spaniards was
from the start an exercise in control of space, population and resources. In the
early days of the colonial period, the extraction of tribute from the indigenous
population was operated with little change to the structures of production in
place before the conquest. The early colonists were generally content with
procuring from the population the same kind and amount of tribute the Incas
had demanded. But two generations after the conquest, when feuding Spanish
factions, Inca rebels, and Indian population were coexisting in a state of relative
peace, the need arose for an optimization of the process of extraction of
revenue.
The existing settlement pattern of ayllu-size hamlets was perceived by
the Spaniards as impeding the collection of tribute required by the Crown, and
demanded by the encomenderos. The idea was therefore to select convenient
locations to build new settlements whereto the neighboring ayllus would be
moved, thus ensuring a better control of the labor force (Murra 1975; Spalding
1984). In fact the creation of Indian villages was the most visible external form
of transformation of the colonial society of the late 16 th century (Chevalier
1967:3).
1. 1. Blueprints and antecedents
In the mind of the promoters of this policy, the reducción would not only
guarantee the economic control of the population, but also its political control
through acculturation and Christian indoctrination (Gade and Escobar 1982).
At the same time, in conjunction with the contemporary campaign of
“extirpation of idolatry,” the policy of reducción was a deliberate attempt on the
part of the Spaniards to ‘normalize’ their new environment. Yet, if that was a
clear case of imposition of culture, it was less the imposition of Castilian culture
than of an idea that the colonists had of what Indian culture ought to be like. In
fact, as a result, the planning of the reducciones and their execution were neither
Spanish nor Indian (Alcina Franch 1986:364).
Stanislawski (1946, 1947) points out that the Spaniards lacked the
experience with architectural and urban planning that the Renaissance
provided other Europeans:
As Spain was uninitiated in the methods of town planning, her
[American] settlements were amorphous for about three decades after the
beginning of her control. Finally, she realized the necessity for a plan
and for this turned to her neighbors, and beyond them to the Greeks and
the Romans from which they had profited (Stanislawski 1946:120).
The same author also claims that the various royal decrees aimed at
173
regulating the settlement of Spaniards in the New World, correspond
from the 1513 instructions given by King Ferdinand to Pedrarias Dávila
regarding the settlement of the Caribbean to the well-known, elaborate, 1573
ordinance by Philip II (see Nuttall 1921-1922).
173
rigorously to a Roman planning strategy based on a grid-plan and a central
square. In the 1573 “ordinances concerning discoveries, settlements, and
pacifications,” a codification of a series of earlier instructions, the section on the
laying out of new towns appear to have been directly copied from the
guidelines established by Vitruvius, the first century B. C. Roman military
engineer and architect (Stanislawski 1947).
The new Spanish towns in America were to be centered around a main
square , with four main streets oriented to the cardinal points and eight
174
secondary streets radiating from the square. The size of the plaza had to be
proportionate to the size of the settlement, bearing in mind that the Indian
towns “being new are bound to grow in size and it is intended that they shall
do so” (Nuttall 1921-1922: 250). The first building to be constructed was to be
the main church, occupying a whole block on the main plaza. Immediately
afterwards, a site had to be assigned for the royal and town council halls, the
custom house, and the arsenal. No private houses could be built on the plaza,
except for the shops and dwellings of merchants. The rest of the lots were to be
assigned by lottery to the Spanish settlers. There were also provisions for a
slaughterhouse, hospital, commons for grazing, fisheries and tanneries (Nuttall
1921-1922; Stanislawski 1947).
Although this royal ordinance claims to concern both ‘Spanish towns’
and ‘new Indian towns’, these instructions deal with Spanish rather than
indigenous settlements. In fact, the ordinance even specified that Indians had
to be kept out of the town while it was being built, by fences if necessary, and
that there should be no commerce between the Spaniards and the Indians
(Nuttall 1921-1922: 252-253).
The ideal proportions of the main square --2/3 as wide as it was long-- were
identical in Vitruvius and Philip’ s instructions (Nuttall 1921-1922).
174
In designing the villages intended for the resettlement of the Indian
population a scaled-down version of these recommendations for the building of
new Spanish towns in America was used: the reducciones must be built
“conforming to the plan of the towns of Spaniards” (Toledo 1867: 17).
175
Even
the concentric separation between Spaniards (inside) and Indians (outside) was
reproduced in the Indian villages: we will see that in the actual building of
reducciones, never was there the suggestion of a totally indigenous population,
and that just as in colonial settlements for Spaniards, the physical center of the
Indian village was occupied by a small Spanish and mestizo population, in
addition to the Spanish administrative and religious buildings.
1. 2. “Policia humana”: civilizing the Indians
Francisco de Toledo is often credited with the original campaign of
reducciones in the New World. However, the policy did not in fact originate
with his vice-royalty, and was first tried out, unsuccessfully, in La Española
(Duviols 1971). In Peru, Matienzo refers to a provision real, a royal decree, dated
1549 asking that the Indians be regrouped into villages. This was expressly
meant to facilitate the indoctrination of the Indians in the “policia humana” and
their subsequent education in the Catholic faith: first turn them into civilized
human beings in order to make Christians out of them (Matienzo 1967[1567]:
48). This emphasis on the indoctrination as main purpose of and justification
for the reducción is also found in the instructions given by Toledo to the
visitadores “...thus you will provide and ensure that the said Indians are
regrouped so that they can be better indoctrinated and maintained in justice”
“conforme a la traza de los lugares de españoles”. Only a careless reading
of this statement could lead one to believe that the intended models for the
reducciones were peasant villages in Spain, rather than Spanish settlements in
America.
175
(C. A. Romero 1921). Elsewhere, in a letter, Toledo in describing the prereducción situation implies that the better catechization of the population was
the main reason for the reducción:
There was one doctrina in the charge of just one priest which had 1,000
Indians spread over a territory of more than 60 leagues of mountains
and high plateaus. It was necessary to remedy to this situation by
regrouping the Indians in large villages, and by ensuring that one
priest would not have in his charge more than one village, or, if the
population is insufficient, two or three villages, as long as they are no
more than two leagues apart. (in Levilier 1935(1):248)
Although Matienzo, at the time magistrate of the Audiencía of Chacras,
did not have an official part in the elaboration of the campaign of reducción, his
detailed recommendations to the King concerning the administration of his
American provinces directly influenced Toledo (Chevalier 1967: 1). Lohmann
suggests that although Toledo had previously had a general idea for the
reducción, the literal correspondence between parts of Toledo’s general
instructions to the visitors (Romero 1921) and Matienzo’s Gobierno del Peru
(1967[1567]) proves that Toledo read Matienzo soon after his arrival in Lima
and before setting out on his campaign of reducciones (Lohmann 1967). There
are also numerous correspondences between Matienzo’s recommendations and
Toledo’s Ordenanzas written after the Visita.
However, Matienzo himself was directly or indirectly influenced by
ideas that were clearly being circulated at the time, both in Europe and in the
Americas. The second Council of Lima, for instance, whose instructions were
published in 1567-68 contains many measures --including the concentrations in
villages-- that were similar to those recommended by Matienzo. In addition,
many of the recommendations made by Matienzo overtly to the King, and
presented by the author as original (“...que me parece...,” “...a mi parecer...”), not
only duplicate the guidelines established by Vitruvius, but also postdate similar
provisions outlined in various royal decrees.
As the expressed intention of the reducción was to facilitate the control
and catechization of the populations, and to teach them the principles of moral
and Christian conduct, the church building was given a primary position in the
Indian reducciones --as indeed in the New World Spanish towns-- and occupied
a whole block on one side of the plaza. Next to it, there was the house of the
priest, and alongside the remaining periphery of the square, the tambo, “inn”,
for traveling Spaniards, the house of the Spanish correjidor, the jail, town hall
176
(consejo) and finally, to complete this nucleus of “policía humana”, Spaniards
willing to live in the village. The houses of the Indians were to be built in
blocks further away from the plaza, allocating two solares
177
to the caciques and
the heads of large families (Matienzo 1967[1567]1, xiv: 54 and passim; Duviols
1971:250). Thus the core of the new indigenous settlements was deliberately
Spanish, as Matienzo’s expressed purpose was to “transform the Indian
through the assimilation of European ideas and lifestyles” (Lohmann 1967: lx).
A case in point is the treatment of the hunter and fisher Uros of the Lake
Poopo area, whom Matienzo proposed to send to the cities and to the m’ita in
Potosi so that they would acquire a taste for meat and bread, “and start
Matienzo also made a provision for the house of what he called the
tucuirico , literally “overseer”, a native correjidor who was to have been from a
different village or region (Matienzo 1967[1567] 1, xiv: 56). This office was
obviously derived from that of tokoyrikoq or tokrikoq created by Topa Inca to
serve as provincial governors or inspectors and operated the articulation
between Inca institutions and the non-Inca population (Sarmiento de Gamboa
1906[1572]:87; Guaman Poma 1980 (1)91; Patterson 1991: 75-76). There is no
indication that these indigenous functionaries persisted in the colonial era. The
highest Indian authorities remained in the reducciones the caciques under the
administrative authority of the Spanish correjidor who was in Toledo’ s plan
supposed to be the “defender of the Indians”.
177 ‘Plots’ or ‘lots’: there were 4 solares in cuadra, or ‘block’.
176
behaving like human beings, which would make their conversion easier”
(Matienzo 1967[1567] 1, xi: 41). Toledo expressed the same idea when he
discussed the advantages of the reducciones: “...in order to learn to be Christians,
[the Indians] must first learn to be human and need to be introduced to
civilized and rational government and way of life” (Toledo 1867:19).
The reducción governed not only the structure, but also the size of the
new settlements. The population of the village was limited by the Archbishop
Loyoza at the second Council of Lima of 1567 to 400 male tribute payers, “o sea
1300 almas de confesión”, 1300 souls being the estimated total number that a
single resident priest could be expected to effectively catechize.
Matienzo in turn, without explaining how he came to this figure,
reckoned:
It seems to me that in each village there should be 500 tribute-payers,
and if in the repartimiento there are 600 or 700 Indians, let there be
two villages: half in one and half in the other, even if the number in one
parcialidad is greater than in the other. (Matienzo 1967 [1567] 1, xiv:
49).
Toledo’s Ordenanzas suggest that the priests in the reducciones be given
“between 400 and 500 tribute-payers to indoctrinate” (Toledo 1857: 18), perhaps
a sign of the influence of both the Council and Matienzo in the Toledo’s
implementation of the reducción.
If, as I have claimed above, the blueprints for the reducción were the
products of the Spaniards’ vision of what a village of His Majesty’s subjects
ought to look like, with a clearly expressed allegiance to both the Church and
the state, the realization of the project was entrusted to -or rather forced uponthe local population. The recommendation of Toledo was to convince the
caciques of the advantages of the reducción. If the cacique refused to cooperate,
he was to be replaced by one who would. Then, through the authority of the
caciques, the population was ordered to organize work parties for the
construction of the church and the administrative buildings, and then to set fire
to their hamlets of origin (pueblos viejos) in order to discourage those who might
be tempted to return to their ancient dwellings (Toledo 1867:187).
The hamlets of origin were also generally the paqarina of the ayllus and
were built around or near the group’s huaca. Toledo recommended that the
new settlements be built away from those huacas (called mochadores, i. e. places
of worship in the text of the Instrucción). Yet, as the viceroy also forbade
chakras inside the reducción for health reasons, it was decided that the Indians
would maintain access rights to their chakras in the pueblos viejos located no
further than one league from the new settlements (Romero 1921: 165). This in
turn made it impossible to guarantee that none of the Indians would move back
to their hamlets. Indeed, these pre-Toledan settlements often reverted to being
occupied and became anexos (annexes) of the new reducciones (see Urton 1990;
Bauer 1987).
2. The reducción of Accha
Accha was reduced in 1571, one of 47 pueblos nuevos, new villages, that
were created in Cuntisuyu during Toledo’s original campaign of reducción
which lasted 5 years and led to the creation of more than 1,000 villages
throughout Peru (Ulloa 1908). The reducción of Accha, that is to say, the
physical concentration and relocation of the indigenous population, was drawn
from several encomiendas in the region. I will quote the whole pertinent section
of a document published by Maurtua in 1906 in the Juicio de Limites entre Perú
y Bolivia: Prueba Peruana, tomo primero, virrenato peruano. The Juicio is a
vast legal document (22 volumes) dealing with a dispute over the borders
between Peru and Bolivia presented for arbitration to Argentina in 1906. In this
first volume, the Peruvian side assembled a number of documents meant to
support its claim. Some of these documents seem rather irrelevant to a 20th
century territorial dispute, but contribute valuable information to the colonial
history of the Andean region. The document that interests me, “Relación de los
Corregimientos y otros officios que se proveen en los Reynos e provincias del
Pirú, en el distrito e gobernación del Vissorrey dellos,” is dated by Maurtua
“between 1578 and 1583”, and refers to data that indicate that it was written by
or on orders of Toledo and based on his Visita. In the section “Corregimiento
de la Provincia de los Chilques,” one of the entries reads:
The repartimiento of Acha, of the encomienda of Pedro de Quirós and
the tributes of the Lanzas; has 805 tributary Indians and a total
population of 3,900 individuals; and the repartimiento of Pilpinto, of
the encomienda of Doña Inés de Santillan, which has 399 tributary
Indians, and a total population of 5,990 individuals; and the
repartimiento of Laurayulpo, granted to Joán de Berrio, which has 267
tributary Indians and a total population of 1,180 individuals. The ones
and the other were reduced in three villages called Santiago de
Cuchiraypampa, el Nombre de Jesús de Accha, and the other, Pucaray.
(Maurtua 1906: 203-204)
The dates proposed by Maurtua appear to be quite accurate. The
reference to Quirós and the Lanzas as recipients of the tribute from Accha, and
the figures (a total of 1471 tribute payers for the 3 reducciones) which are
identical to those discussed in the preceding chapter (e. g. Cook 1975, Torres
1888 and Ulloa 1908) allow us to attribute this document with a fair amount of
confidence to Toledo’s administration, and to date it after 1576 (death of Vaca
de Castro). In addition, the identity of the one of the other two encomenderos
match the one mentioned for those encomiendas in the Tasa (1583) but not in the
Visita (1571) where the encomendero for Pilpinto is identified as Lorenço Ladrón
de Guevara (Ulloa 1908:333, 342).
This excerpt helps us understand why the figures for the 3 reducciones
were grouped together in Torres (see chapter 6). Toledo’s visitadores , when
they arrived in a new area, were faced with a scattered population, a mosaic of
ayllus spread over a large region, who paid allegiance to various caciques, and
tribute to distinct encomenderos (Abercrombie 1986 ms. :4). Because of the
intermingling of those several layers of differentiation (i. e. ethnic, social, fiscal
and also possibly linguistic and occupational), the visitador had to operate at a
larger regional level in order to bring about another kind of differentiation: this
time one based on geographical proximity.
In the process of the reducción, some encomiendas were indeed directly
established as whole villages. Others were already villages when Toledo
started the Visita, and might or not have been moved by the viceroy to locations
deemed more convenient than the ones they occupied. Neighboring
encomiendas that did not have enough Indians to constitute a reducción in their
own right may have been brought into already existing villages. Finally,
several small encomiendas might have been regrouped into one single reducción
(Torres 1888:115).
As the tribute levied by the encomenderos followed the tribute pattern
established by the Incas, and Inca records were used for that purpose, and as
caciques were responsible for collecting the tribute in their own group, it is
likely that in many cases the granted population had discrete --social, if not
geographical-- boundaries that corresponded to pre-colonial borders. That is to
say, the whole encomienda could quite possibly correspond to a pre-colonial
polity. But this was not always the case: because of the necessity to match the
size of the encomienda with that of the repartimiento --i. e. the peso amount of the
grant with the number of tribute-payers-- large polities might be split up for
small grants or several unconnected groups might be combined, as in the case
of Accha and Cabanilla. Thus a large encomienda was often made up of several
groups (ayllus or llactas) that were not necessarily connected by any traditional
ritual, political or economic ties; and it is also conceivable that the encomienda
limits might have cut through established ‘archipelagoes’ (see chapter 1, 1. 2. )
or have divided pre-existing polities . Sometimes the archival record does not
178
suffice to determine which of those situation applies to the case at hand. For
instance, the 267 Indians of the encomienda Laurayulpo belonging to Juan de
Berrio (Cook 1975: 139), grouped with Accha and Pilpinto by Maurtua (see
above) and Torres (see preceding chapter), were divided between the new
villages of Cuchiray, and Accha, with 180 tribute payers going to the former,
and 87 to the latter (Ulloa 1908:232-233). The presence of the pueblos viejos
Laura in Cuchiray (ibid.) and Ullpo in Accha (ibid. ; see table 3) suggests that
the encomienda of Laurayulpo had been originally created by joining together
two distinct populations, and that in a way the reducción redressed the situation
by separating them again. Yet the fact that in the Visita Ullpo is called
Ulpocomara, and that Comara is the name of a pueblo viejo reduced in Cuchiray,
and also of one in Accha, would on the contrary tend to suggest that the
reducción split a connected population made up minimally of Laura, Ullpo and
Comara. Both interpretations seem possible.
The non-correspondence between the indigenous structure and the
encomienda structure was, obviously, fairly irrelevant as long as the only
difference between encomiendas was the identity of the faceless encomendero to
Torres 1888:105. Gasca tried to remedy this situation by recommending that
“each encomienda be formed by the number of Indians that obey the same
cacique.” This however was not implemented.
178
whom the tribute was paid through the caciques. The physical regrouping of
the settlements, however, led to an increased isolation of the communities,
forced to function as independent micro-societies (Matos Mar and Fuenzalida
1976), and through the creating of physical boundaries, dealt a major blow to
the traditional economic and social structures of the region.
In their tasks of regrouping the population the visitadores had to comply
with several sets of directives. They had to form population centers of
manageable size (400 to 500 tribute-payers); build the new villages far enough
from the old huacas and the hamlets of origin (Romero 1921:165); find a site for
the new village that would be environmentally appropriate, with water and
arable land in the proximity (Matienzo 1967[1567]); and at the same time, they
had to obey the royal directive that “not two encomiendas would be given to one
encomendero if they could not form a single village” (Philip II, 1570, in Torres
1888; see chapter 6), thus operating a consolidation of the encomiendas
simultaneously as they regrouped the tribute paying populations. In the case of
the three encomiendas mentioned in the above quote, the reducción changed the
physical landscape where those populations lived: where there had been tens
of hamlets granted to several encomenderos, three new villages had been built.
In theory, and in accordance to the above mentioned royal decree, each of those
three villages would pay tribute to only one encomendero.
Before they left, the visitadores also named the new villages. The
significance of the act of naming of new territories by the
discoverers/conquerors has been aptly described by Rivera (1992) as an act of
appropriation and expropriation. In this case, naming the village put it under
the control of the Spanish institutions (the crown and the Church) and placed
the Indians in a position of occupants subject to the laws of those institutions.
It was the custom to give a saint’s name and attach it to a local name. It
is possible that the saint’s name corresponded to the date of founding of the
community, as was the case for instance for the creation of Los Reyes (Lima). If
this is the case, Santiago Cuchiraypampa (Cuchirhuay) would have been
funded on July 24 (see chapter 5), and El Nombre de Jesus de Accha on January
15, day of the Holy Name of Jesus. I can only ascribe the absence of a saint’s
name in the case of Pucaray to the fact that it was reduced as an “annex of the
parish of el Nombre de Jesús [de Accha]” (Ulloa 1908:333), and therefore did
not rank it’s own patron saint. Those Christian names, again as in the case of
Los Reyes, have long been dropped, leaving only the Quechua name. That
179
part of the name was usually that of the local site of the new village (e. g.
Cuchiraypampa, ‘Plain of Cuchiray’) only if the reducción was made up of
several encomiendas. If, on the contrary, there was only one encomienda
involved, the new village would simply keep the name of the encomienda
(Torres 1888: 115). That would seem to have been the case for Accha which
kept its name through the reducción process. Yet we will see in the next section
that the reducción of Accha was actually made up of the populations of 5 distinct
encomiendas. I can only speculate on the reason for the reducción to keep the
same name by offering that the location of the reducción was already occupied
by a pre-reducción and pre-colonial hamlet and that both the site and the
settlement bore the name of Accha. We already know that there was an Inca
settlement identified by Bauer in what is today the Cacharparimoco district of
Santa Ana ayllu of Hurinsaya (chapter 3, 4. 4. ). The Inca population residing in
that settlement might have been connected with the operation of the Inca
Less than 10% of the Spanish names have survived in current usage (Gade
and Escobar 1982:434). Today, the patron saint of Accha is the Virgin of
Carmen (see chapter 5): often villages that had been assigned a non-Marian
patron later adopted a Marian one (Sallnow 1987).
179
building on top of Siwina which local stories identify as an
observation/communication center (chapter 2, 1, 2, 3, . ). We will also see that
there were populations of transplanted Incas-by-privilege and of mitimaes living
in the region which ended up as part of the reducción of Accha. I will also
suggest that there was in addition an indigenous non-Inca population that
might have pre-dated, then coexisted with, the Inca population, and later made
up the rest of the reducción. This latter indigenous population, (perhaps the
Qacchas mentioned in chapter 2, 3. 1. ) might have given its name to the
encomienda in the first place.
2. 1. How the system worked: the integration of the Cayaotambo
Indians in the reducción of Accha
The impact of the campaign of reducciones on the “mosaic of ayllus” that
made up the human landscape of the region of Accha before 1570 is best
illustrated by the case of the Cayaotambo Indians. At the time of the Visita, the
population of Cayaotambos lived roughly in the region between Paruro and
Accha, and was divided into two encomiendas, that of Pedro Vasquez (Cook
1975:187) and Paula de Silva (Cook 1975:160) The former encomienda was
reduced in Paruro, and the latter in Araypalpa, Accha, and several of its anexos.
Poole (1984) claims that the name Cayaotambo (from cayao, ‘outsider’)
180
served
to designate the Chilques Indians, one of the two groups that gave its name to
the colonial province, Chilques y Mascas --the other one being the Mascas of
Pacariqtambo.
Poole proposes that the Cayaotambos (/Chilques) were Incas-byprivilege, “Incas-by-privilege” (ennobled Incas, as opposed to Incas by birth)
In the tripartite division Collana, Payan, and Cayao, that last term
designates those who are not related through kinship (Zuidema 1964). Salas
(1979) reinforces this by arguing that the Chilques were originally Aymara
speakers and came from Collasuyu.
180
(Garcilaso 1966; Zuidema 1983c). The Incas-by-privilege formed a buffer zone
around the Cusco Valley and were often used as local lords (Bravo 1981) and as
a sort of high-ranking mitimaes who were dispatched to various parts of the
empire (Guaman Poma 1980:318-335). Incas-by-privilege were often related to
the Incas of Cusco through marriage ties, but found themselves in a
hierarchically subservient position (Zuidema 1990). Thus for instance, as
nobles, Chilques Indians were allowed to wear earplugs, but they had to be
smaller that those worn by the Incas, and made of reed rather that of worked
precious metals (Garcilaso 1966:57). Valcárel (1980) offers a version of the
Pacariqtambo myth of origin that codifies this hierarchical relation: The four
Ayar brothers who emerged from the cave in Pacariqtambo each corresponded
to a ‘tribe’. Ayar Uchu was the leader of the Tambos, Ayar Cachi of the Maras,
Ayar Auca of the Chilques, and Ayar Manco of the Mascas. The Mascas the
principal tribe, for whom the Inca royal fringe was named: mascapaycha,
insignia of the Mascas (1980:193). After Ayar Uchu and Ayar Cachi were
eliminated, only the Mascas and the Chilques were left. The Chilques were
defeated by Topa Amaru Inca, son of Sinchi Roca, the second Inca King,
(Guaman Poma 1980:(1)125) and were always considered as enemies of the
Incas and as such were not allowed to crop their hair, but had to wear it long
and braided, in sign of inferiority (Valcárel 1980:193). They were not allowed to
live in the city of Cusco and their ‘capital’ was Araypalpa, located at just
beyond the boundaries of the area under the direct control of Cusco (Poole
1984:94; also Bauer 1992).
A 1623 legal document located in the National Archives in Lima
underlines the non-local nature of the Cayaotambos. It also provides valuable
information on the identification of those Indians with specific pueblos viejos and
ayllus, and their enforced settlement in three reducciones (AGN, Derecho
Indigena, Leg. 5, c. 75, 1623). The object of the document is a claim made in
1620 in the village of Accha over the position of cacique of Cayaotambo. In it,
the plaintiff, Don Cristóbal Marca, traces his patrilineage back to the time of
Inca Huayna Capac, when Marca’s great-great-grandfather Apu Guachimanta
held the position of “cacique principal of the Indians of Cayaotambo”, a position
that was rightly his because it had been that of his ancestors. He was succeeded
by his son Hucharima. Apu Ataucaua, son of Hucharima was cacique at the
time of the Spanish conquest. Then came García Marca, son of Ataucaua and
father of Cristóbal Marca, who was cacique of Cayaotambo at the time of the
1571 Visita ordered by Toledo. When the repartimiento of Cayaotambo was
reduced with that of Tauna [Tahona] in the village of Araypalpa, where there
was already a cacique principal from the time of the Incas, the visitador made Don
García one of two segundas personas (AGN, Derecho Indigena, Leg. 5, c. 75,
1623, ff. 1-12).
The preceding material provides some interesting information on the
reducción of the Cayaotambos. For instance, why was Don Garcia Marca
subservient to the cacique of the population already settled in Araypalpa? If we
accept Poole’s argument that the Chilques and the Cayaotambos were the same
people, we exclude the possibility that we are dealing with two separate
polities. However, it seems that the Cayaotambo polity itself was divided. In
the Tasa and the Visita, the repartimiento of Cayaotambo reduced in Accha,
Araypalpa and Cuchiray is easily identified with Doña Paula de Silva and her
heirs. The only other entry for Cayaotambo in the Tasa (Cook 1975:187) deals
with a repartimiento granted to Pedro Vasquez. The only entry for Pedro
Vasquez in the Visita refers to the repartimiento as “Collana tambo”(Ulloa
1908:342). This repartimiento was reduced in Paruro (Ulloa 1908: 334).
181
I
believe that it is possible that the Cayaotambo population, which spread
between Paruro, Araypalpa, and Accha, over a distance of six leagues on a
north-south axis along the machuñan Inca road, was itself divided into
subgroups, perhaps according to the Inca model of Collana, Payan, Cayao, each
of them with their cacique principal. This hypothesis seems to be supported by a
witness, Martin Aymagualpa, age 68, from ayllu Ulpo, in Accha, in the same
1623 document mentioned earlier:
He said that when he was a child, he heard many old Indians say that
the Indians Cayaotambos are and come from a large number of Indians.
One of the Incas who governed these kingdoms of Peru brought [them]
from Pacaritambo and many other parts and that he had settled one part
of them in the village now called Araypalpa, one other part in the village
now called Pocorai, and another part in the village of Accha. And in
order that the said Indians be recognized and differentiated from the
natives of the lands where he settled them, he gave them the name
‘Cayaotambotauna’ , and that in each village that he thus reduced, there
was a cacique principal, and I heard them say that don García Marca
was the cacique principal for the Indians reduced in the village of Accha.
(AGN, Derecho Indigena, Leg. 5, c. 75, 1623, ff. 36-37)
182
The witness is for the plaintiff, the son of García Marca who feels he has
been cheated of a position that was rightfully his. It is interesting to note that in
this excerpt, and in much of the document, the plaintiff and the witnesses
pattern their defense on a Spanish legal model. Underlying the claim, for
instance is the assumption of a right of succession from father to son, being
traced all the way to the time of Huayna Capac, whereas filiation was not the
general rule of succession in Inca times (Toledo in Levillier 1940 tomo 2, Urton
There is in the Tasa a reference to another Collanatambo, “Collanatambo y
Cazcas” (Cook 1975:181) but it is already a crown property, therefore I believe
there is no possible confusion, and that Collana tambo refers to the collana ayllu
of the [Cayao]tambo Indians.
182 Poole (1984:91) also cites the same document.
181
1990, Espinoza Soriano 1983-84). The above statement by Martin Amaygualpa,
witness for the plaintiff, illustrates this co-option of categories, or historical
revision, when he mentions the settlement of Incas-by-privilege by the Incas,
and his use of the term “reducción” underlines the similarity between the Inca
and the Spanish resettlement of populations.
In the 1623 document we are told that the Inca responsible for the
relocation of the Cayaotambos was Topa Inca, the father of Huayna Capac, and
grandfather of Huascar and Atahuallpa (AGN 5/75, 1623: f. 33v.). That would
date this move late enough for it to have happened in the lifetime of the “old
Indians” whom Martin Amaygualpa --who was 68 in 1623--claims as his
sources; and certainly late enough in the history of the Inca state to presume
that this region, 50 kilometers from Cusco was already occupied, not only by
“common” Indians, but also by Incas-by-privilege. Topa Inca (or Tupac
Yupanqui), usually identified as the son of Pachacutec, is believed to have died
in the very last years of the 15th century. If he was responsible for the
resettlement of the Cayaotambos, then the list of cacique names given in the
pleito might correspond to the whole lineage of Cayaotambo rulers since they
settled in the Araypalpa/Accha region. One of Topa Inca’s accomplishments,
according to Sarmiento, was to have developed the policy of mitimaes invented
by his father (1906[1572]:97). Betanzos tells us more precisely that, in order to
deal with unrest in Antisuyu, 10,000 people from that province were sent to
Cuntisuyu, and 6,000 people from Cuntisuyu were in turn sent to Antisuyu
(Betanzos 1987[1551]:156). We also know that the same Topa Inca and his son,
Huayna Capac, sent Chilques mitimaes --among many other tribes-- to
Cochabamba, in what is now Bolivia (Wachtel 1982).
There is other evidence of reciprocal movements of population between
the Cayaotambos and several populations in Chinchasuyu. Three ayllus of the
anexos of Accha Hanansaya (see table 3 ) have names of tribes from the north:
Chachapoyas who with the Cañaris formed the honor guards of ‘halberdiers’ of
Huayna Capac and his son Huascar (Pachacuti Yamqui 1950[1613]:267), and
eventually allied themselves with the Spaniards, as did their neighbors, the
powerful Huanca nation defeated by Pachacuti Inca (Espinoza 1966; 1971).
Stern dates the conquest of that region to 1460 and mentions the subsequent
forced resettlement of population implemented by the Incas (Stern 1982:12).
For lack of specific evidence, I can only suggest that a small number from those
two populations were resettled as mitimaes in the Cayaotambo region at that
time, which would explain the presence to this day of the ayllus Huancamarca
in Pocoray, and Huanca and Chachapoya (today, Chacha) in Parco (see table 3).
Poole shows that there was a population movement in the reverse
direction. She compares some published material indicating the presence of
Chilques ayllus in Vilcashuaman (Salas 1979), with an unpublished revisita of
the repartimiento of Cayaotambo y Tauna in Accha, Araypalpa and Cuchiray
conducted in 1603 (AGN Derecho Indigena 3/46, 1603).
183
Comparison between
the two lists of ayllus shows that some of the resettled mitimaes ayllus identified
as Chilques in Vilcashuaman had the same names as some of the Cayaotambo
ayllus reduced in Lauraypalpa, Cuchirai and Accha.
184
(Poole 1984:463). In
The existence of such a document dating 30 years after the Toledan visita
aimed at reinforcing the policy of one repartimiento per reducción indicates that
however brutal the reducción campaign was, the actual reorganization was far
from immediate, more, in this case, because of the resistance of the encomenderos
than of the Indians.
184 The two lists are: 1) Cayaotambotauna ayllus (1603): Ayllu Tauna and
Hurin Ayllu de Tauna (Araypalpa), Ayllu Cangalla (Cuchirai), Ayllu Comara
and Hurin de Comara (Accha), Barcelona (Accha), Guayguaconga (Accha), Tia
and Hurin Tia (Pocoray or Guayguaconga [Accha]), Ayllu Caraibamba
(Pocoray[Accha]) Ayllu Taucaguaman (Guayaconga?) Ayllu Chachapuyac
(Parco [Accha]), Ayllu Chilca (Pocorai [Accha]). 2) Vilcashuaman ayllus:
Cangalpata, Curaica, Tiatiatauna, Hanan and Hurin Curma, Yantaura, Tauna,
183
addition, in 1600, the name of the cacique principal of the repartimiento of Hurin
Chilques in Colca, Vilcashuaman, was Tomas Guallpa Tuyro, which might
suggest a relation to Francisco Tuyroguallpa, of ayllu Tauna in Araypalpa in
1571, to whom García Marca lost the cacicazgo principal of Cayaotambotauna
(AGN 5/75, 1623: f. 11v. AGN Derecho Indigena 3/46, 1603: f. 5r.).
Yet, I believe that the so-called Chilques ayllu mitimaes might in fact have
been drawn from a much broader pool than the part of the Cayaotambo
population for which we have a record of ayllu names. In addition, the very
technique used here to determine relations of origin between distinct
settlements must be questioned: the 1603 revisita lists as one of the Cayaotambo
ayllus an ayllu Chachapoya, which we have determined to have been originally
an outsiders ayllu. It appears that those ayllus of mitimaes or forasteros became
sufficiently integrated in the ayllu structure of their new region of residence to
be considered as part of the polity in which there were resettled.
Finally, the fact that at the time of Toledo’s inspection, the separate
repartimientos of Chilques and of Cayaotambo were reduced as several
neighboring ayllus in three distant reducciones might indicate the coexistence of
two related yet distinct polities interwoven in the human landscape of this
corner of Cuntisuyu. Given that, it would be quite possible to accept that a
group of Incas-by-privilege was moved quite late into a region already
occupied by the Chilques. At the time of their resettlement, they were given the
name of Cayaotambo (AGN 5/75, 1623:f. 11 v.) and not Cayaotambotauna, as
claimed by Martin Amaygualpa, who tends, as we have seen, to confuse Inca
resettlements with the Spanish reducciones.. The name Cayaotambo might be an
indication of a hierarchical relation to the collana Tambos of Paruro, or even an
indication of their origin as “outsider” Tambos that is to say displaced from the
Raura, Auquipaja, Guaigua, Tauca.
Pacariqtambo region. Outside of the region, however, as part of mitimae
settlement in Chinchasuyu, those Cayaotambos would be recognized as
Chilques (Salas 1979) and indeed operate within the ayllu/moiety structure of
the other resettled Chilques. That is quite definitely true in the case, outlined
above, of the Chachapoyas moved first from there Northern lowlands to
Araypalpa-Accha region, and later sent with other ayllus from that region as
part of a Chilques mitimae settlement in Vilcashuaman.
2. 2. ayllus into pueblos viejos into moieties
The 1571 document describing the Visita of Condesuyu, already
mentioned in the previous chapter (chapter 6: 4. 3. ) contains a list of pueblos
viejos that were regrouped into 47 reducciones in that province (Ulloa 1908). I
will only transcribe in their entirety the entries dealing with Jesús de Accha and
its anexo Pucaray, as the pueblos viejos regrouped in those two reducciones came
to form what is today the community of Accha and its district.
It must be understood from what precedes that the process of reducción
was as arbitrary in splitting up groups as in throwing others together, and that
the consequences of this restructuration, delayed as they were, eventually led to
the severing of ancient ties and the advent of new alliances. As I attempt to
interpret that process, I too am guilty of a “reduction” as I now focus more
narrowly on Accha, that is to say on that fraction of several populations from
the Cayaotambos of Paula de Silva’s encomienda, from the Indians of the
encomienda of Accha belonging to Vaca de Castro and the Chilques from other
encomenderos , who became settled in that specific location.
Fig. 13: Reducciones, anexos and pueblos viejos
Here is the text of the 1571 Visita dealing with the reducción of Accha and
its annex Pocoray:
The village named el Nombre de Jesus de Accha regrouped fourteen
villages which are Ayabamba, Guamis, Comara, Oyaino, Nita, Ulpo,
Comara, [two names are missing in the transcription of the
manuscript] Guaranga, Guaiba, Cunga, Guarupata, Pilpinto,
Quiquixana, Mohína in which there were 705 Indian tribute-payers of
which 247 from the encomienda of Ladrón de Guebara , 287 of Vaca de
Castro, 87 of Juan de Berrio, 66 of doña Paula de Sylva, 18 of Don
tristán de Silva. It is situated at 12 leagues from Cusco. They pay the
same tribute as those in the same region and have the same standards of
Christianity and justice, and a good church and ornaments. It was made
into one parish.
The village named Pucarai as an annex of the parish of El Nombre de
Jesús regrouped 6 villages which are Guancamarca, Vacaypampa,
Quiragua, Parco, Viringuiri where there were 242 Indian tribute-payers
of which 66 belonged to doña Paula de Silva, 176 to Vaca de Castro. It
is 2 leagues from the said parish and 12 from Cusco, with the same
standards of Christianity and justice as their neighbors. They have a
church and ornaments. (Ulloa 1908:333)
The entries for the other reducciones in the region, like Araypalpa and
Cuchiray mentioned earlier, read in very much the same way, and involve
Indians from the encomiendas of the same five encomenderos (See Poole 1984 for
the reducciones in the whole Paruro region). This piecemeal rearrangement
operated by the campaign of reducción testifies to the complex pattern of
neighboring ayllus that existed before it. Table 3 show how this complex
structure was rearranged as a community and how the new structure endured
and changed through time; fig. 13 shows the geographical location of some of
the recognizable names of ayllus and pueblos viejos.
The architects of the reducción policy wrote into their recommendations
and ordinances provisions that guaranteed a de facto perpetuation of the
system of ayllus and moieties by insisting that the repartimientos be regrouped
into ayllus, with their caciques, and ensuring that, where needed, there would be
double sets of official positions (Toledo 1876[1575]:156-157). For Matienzo, the
existence of the dual system seems to be as obvious as age and gender:
[In the visit of ] the inhabited places and settlements, record all the
Indians there are, men as well as women, specifying how many of which
in each house, their ages, whether they are single, married, in
concubinage or widowed or spinsters, and record the names of the
caciques and principals, and how many Indians each one has, and which
are hanansayas and which hurinsayas (Matienzo 1967 [1567] I, 14:49).
How can we explain that the Spaniards who, in order to facilitate the
economic exploitation of the indigenous populations did not hesitate to destroy
their physical environment by razing their hamlets, not only had no problem
accepting the dual structure where it existed, but encouraged its reproduction
in the new villages? The argument sometimes made that the Spaniards
recognized a situation that existed in Spain is not very convincing: although
there are in Spain cases of divided communities (Arguedas 1968), they are
never as widespread nor do they exhibit the extreme ritual and political
interdependence that characterizes Andean dual structures (see chapter 4). In
fact, there was on the part of the Spaniards, more than benevolent acceptance.
Matienzo’s fascination with the dual structure seems to have been directed by
the possibilities of political control it offered in the simplified form of the
traditional Andean political structure that the Spaniards applied
(Rostworowski 1988). In addition, Toledo needed the support of the local
leaders in order to accomplish his campaign of restructuration, and it was in his
interest to leave intact the local political hierarchy (Stern 1982; Abercrombie
1986 ms).
Table 3 the making of Accha (sources : Ulloa 1908, Villanueva 1982, AGN
1781, ADC 1836. © possible Cayaotambo ayllus AGN 1603)
1571
PUEBLOS
VIEJOS
Quiquixana
Ulpocomara
Guaranga
Pucarai
Guancamarca
Vacaypampa ©
Parco
Viringuiri
1689
ANANSAIA
AYLLUS
Quiquijana
Ullpo
Guaranga
AYLLUS
Quiquijana
Ullpo
Huaranca
ANEXOS
ANEXOS
ANEXOS
Pocoray
Ayllu Tantar Cusco
Ayllu Guancamarca
Pocorguay
Ayllo Tantar
Ayllo Guancamarca
Poccorhuay
Ayllo Tantar
Ayllo Huancamarca
Ayllo Huatacalla
Ayllo Ttia©
Ayllo Chilcas©
Parco
Ayllu Accha
Ayllu Guanca
Ayllu Chachapoya©
Parco
Ayllo Accha
Ayllo Guanca
Ayllo Chacha©
Hda. Guaranay
Parco
Ayllo Accha
Ayllo Huanca
Ayllo Chacha©
HURINSAYA
AYLLUS
Anancosco
Orancosco
Tambo
Acchacuna
Nicta
Guanos
Ollaino
Barcelona ©
Hda. de Chamina
URINSAYA
AYLLUS
Hananccosco
Urinccoscco
Tambo
ANEXOS
ANEXOS
ANEXOS
Pilpinto
Ayllu Collana
Ayllu Pilpinto
Ayllu Cayao
Ayllu Guanopata
Pilpinto
Ayllo Collana
Ayllo Pilpinto
Ayllo Callao
Ayllo Guanopata
Pilpinto
Ayllo Collana
Tambo
Accha
Nicta
Guanos
Oyayano
Hda. de Sucsulla
Pilpinto
Guarapata
1836
HANANSAYA
AYLLUS
Quiquijana
Ullpo
Guaranga
URINSAIA
AYLLUS
Cusco
Nita
Guamis
Oyayno
1791
HANANSAYA
Nieta
Guanos
Uyayno
Barcelona ©
Hda. de Chamina
Ayllo Ccallahua
Ayllo Huanupata
Hda. Comara©
Hda.Hamancay
Mohína
Ayabamba
Comara©
Guayaconga©
Ayllu Collana
Ayllu Cayan
Ayllu Mohina
Ayllu Tia©
Guayaconga©
Ayllo Collana
Ayllo Caillagua
Ayllo Mohina
Ayllo Tia©
Hda Acobamba
Chorillo de Comara©
Huayaconga
Ayllo Collana
Ayllo Ccallahua
Ayllo Muina
Ayllo Ttía
Hdas Occotuna
Quiragua (?)
Whatever the Spaniards’ motivation, in the application of the policy of
reducción, populations which might or might not have already been coexisting
within an operative dual structure were suddenly forced to share a common
space. We recall how Luis Mexía, the visitador for Cuntisuyu, described Accha
in the wake of the reducción as one village with one parish and one church
(Ulloa 1908:332; see supra). What follows is what a religious visitador saw in
1689:
The parish of Urinsaya is founded next to a lagoon, and the village is
divided into two parts, one named Urinsaya, with its own church, the
other Hanansaya with another separate church, the said village with its
two parts is divided by a stream as if they were two distinct villages.
(Villanueva 1982: 471)
The existence of the stream splitting the village square in the same way
in 1689 as indeed it does 300 years later suggests in Gade and Escobar’s terms,
an “example of extreme formalization of the dual system” (Gade and Escobar
1982: 432). It could be that in the reducción, two populations were regrouped
that either already were in a dual relation, or on the contrary, in the case of
unrelated populations forcibly reduced together, had an overly defined
perception of their distinctiveness. If either of these scenarios was the case and
if it related to the strong expression of duality in the reducción, then one would
expect to find all of one (pre-Toledan) population in one moiety and all of the
other in the other moiety. The test of this hypothesis using the data from the
Cayaotambo does not yield very conclusive results. I have indicated in table 3
the names of Cayaotambo ayllus (©) from the 1603 revisita, that are recognizable
in the 1571 Toledan Visita and the subsequent revisitas. Only two pueblos
viejos, Guaiba and Cunga, are found both in the original 1571 Visita and the
1603 revisita of Cayaotambo (as Guayaconga; see fn. 182 for the list of
Cayaotambo ayllus). Some of the names on that latter list appear in later
revisitas: Chachapoya (Parco), Ttía (both in Pocoray and in Guayaconga),
Barcelona in Hurinsaya, Chilcas in Pocoray, and Comara in Guayaconga. I
believe that the reason why those did not appear in the Toledo Visita is that
they were ayllus of anexos, that is to say subdivisions of pueblos viejos, rather
than actual pueblos viejos, and therefore were not recorded as constituting
elements of the new reducción.
This is in fact the most striking fact about Cayaotambo ayllus
distribution: instead of a solid grouping of these ayllus in one of the two
moieties, they are found at the periphery of the community, either as anexo
(Guayaconga) or ayllus of those anexos (most of the other Cayaotambo ayllus).
The only exception seems to be ayllu Barcelona in Hurinsaya. It seems rather
peculiar to have within Cayaotambo ayllus --a group presumably settled before
the conquest-- the name of a Spanish town. I would point out that the name
Barcelona occurs in the 1603 revisita, and not in the 1571 Visita, where it would
have figured if Barcelona had been a pueblo viejo at that time.
185
That fact
supports the point I made earlier of the late assimilation in Cayaotambo of
outsider (non-Cayaotambo) ayllus. Furthermore, today’s communal memory
(Barcelona no longer exists in Accha) places that ayllu between hacienda
Chamina and hacienda Bella Vista on the way to Parco, nearly in the Velille
river valley. It appears safe to say that the Cayaotambo ayllus were integrated
on the periphery of the community, perhaps because of a perceived outsider
status in relation to the main community. Rather than forming one of the two
moieties in the reducción of Accha, we find that Cayaotambo is involved in a
There is always the unlikely possibility that Barcelona was one of the two
names that Ulloa, the transcriber of the 1571 document, was unable to read.
185
concentric dual relation with the community, both across and outside of the
moiety system.
What other candidates can we hope for, which together would have
maintained or created the strong dual relation in Accha? I decided to consider
the constituent ayllu names in order to try to establish a pattern of distribution
of the ayllus according to their ethnic and geographical origin and to their
possible relation to the pre-colonial Inca system of social organization and
ranking. The categories that I use, elite, outsider and local, reflect my belief that
whether or not the populations existing at the time of the reducción were
organized in a dual system, they probably were loosely arranged in the
tripartite system of collana, payan and callao, as a way to integrate the various
populations of mitimaes, Incas-by-privilege and authochtonous groups. The
existence of that organizational structure seems to be confirmed by the presence
in post-reducción documents of ayllu names such as Collana and Callao in the
anexos of Accha.
In the following list, the names of the various groups are taken in the
order they appear in table 3, first the Hanansaya ayllus and anexos, then the
Hurinsaya ayllus and anexos. I am considering names found either at the time
of the reducción or in later revisitas to ascertain that I would not overlook ayllus
that do not appear in the 1571 document.
Group:
Identification of origin:
Quiquixana
(Hanansaya
ayllu)
Locality in Collasuyu, S-E of Urcos,
Chilques Indians, therefore Incas-byprivilege (Zuidema 1964, Guaman
Poma 1980). Huaca Contisuyu 6:9 on
the ceque line of Huanacauri.
Status:
Outsider/
Elite
Ullpo
(Hanansaya
ayllu)
Meaning unclear “bees” (?)
“defeat”(?)
Ullpotorre is a collapsed construction
of adobe at the E end of Achupampa,
four km from Accha and on the path to
Pilpinto. Ullpus Indians settled there
at the time the Qachas moved settled
in Accha (Ccori 1978.). Associated
with Laura as encomienda and
Comara as pueblo viejo.
Huaranga
(Hanansaya
ayllu)
Means 1,000. Designates the size of an
Inca administrative segment made up
of 1,000 adult men (Julien 1982).
Pucarai
(Hanansaya
anexo)
Means “fort”. Located in the Velille
valley. Might have been the site of a
military settlement guarding against
the Chumbivilcas Indians to the S of
Accha.
With Accha, one of the original
Toledan reducciones .
Tantar Cusco
(Pucarai ayllu)
The name indicates the group is Inca
(Poole 1984). Perhaps those were the
original garrison of the fort of Pucarai.
Huancamarca
(Pucarai ayllu)
Huanca nation.
Huatacalla
(Pucurai ayllu)
“beginning of the year”?
perhaps named for an astronomical
calendrical landmark.
Ttia
(Pucarai ayllu)
Means either “brazier” (name of
several huacas in Cusco) or “to stay,
to live” (tiyay). Cayaotambo (AGN
1603), Chilques in Salas 1979.
Local?
Locals
Inca/Elite
Outsider
Local
Outsider?
Chilcas
(Pucarai ayllu)
Coastal group, from Chilca, a pre-Inca
polity. Mitimaes? Identified as
Cayaotambo in AGN 1603.
Vacaypampa
(Pucarai ayllu)
Caraybamba (“sterile plain”) , Pucarai
ayllu, Cayaotambo in AGN 1603.
Disappears from the records after that
date.
“Irrigation.”
Parco
(Hanansaya
anexo)
Accha
(Parco ayllu)
Outsider
Outsider?
Local
Name of a nomadic group. The
original settlers of the district together
with the Ullpus (See chapter 2).
Local
Huanca
(Parco ayllu)
Huanca nation.
mitimaes from Jauja.
Outsider
Chachapoya
(Parco ayllu)
Chachapoya nation.
Mitimaes. Identified as Cayaotambo
in AGN 1603.
Outsider
Viringuiri
(hacienda in
Parco)
Hacienda Guaranay (1791). From
huayra, “wind”?
pueblo viejo= locals
Forasteros= outsiders
Cusco
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
There was an Incacuna ayllu in Accha
in 1623 (AGN 1623). May have turned
into Cusco ayllu (and later split into
Hanancusco and Hurincusco).
Tambo
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Perhaps Tambos from Pacariqtambo.
Incas-by-privilege. Today a hamlet on
the way to Velille and Parcco. Part of
the anexo of Misanapata (Hurinsaya).
Local
/Outsider?
Inca
Outsider
/Elite
Accha
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Payan ayllu in the triadic system.
autochthonous population. Such
group often was named for the whole
larger group (Zuidema 1964).
Local
Nita
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Name of a hill in the Velille Valley,
Nicta Urqo. Today (jointly with
Tambo) part of Misanapata (anexo of
Hurinsaya).
Local
Guamis
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Oyaino
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Guanos, from guano?
Barcelona
(Hurinsaya
ayllu)
Spanish city; identified as
Cayaotambo in AGN 1603.
Chamina
(Hurin
hacienda)
Sucsulla
(Hurin
hacienda)
?
Hacienda: forasteros.
Pilpinto
(Hurinsaya
anexo)
“Butterfly.”
Collana
(Pilpinto ayllu)
collana: “first” in the
collana/payan/cayao system
Pilpinto
(Pilpinto ayllu)
payan ayllu: autochthonous
population.
Cayao
(Pilpinto ayllu)
cayao ayllu: outsiders population in
the triadic system.
Local
Perhaps from uyway, to raise animals.
Local
sucsuy: “to permeate, as in irrigation
water.” Forasteros.
Outsider/
Spaniards?
Outsider
Outsider
Local
Elite
Locals
Outsiders
Guarapata
(Pilpinto ayllu)
“windy plateau”. Note the
transformation to “guano” after 1689.
Comara
(Pilpinto
hacienda )
?
Cayaotambo (1603); hacienda
Huayaconga 1791
Hamancay
(Pilpinto
hacienda)
Sucsulla
(Pilpinto
hacienda)
Name of a wild flower.
Guayaconga
“Gorge that diminishes” . Named for
a rock tunnel, perhaps the pacarina of
(hurin) Accha? (see below, Genesis).
Guaigua= Chilques in Salas 1979.
Collana
(Huayaconga
ayllu)
First in the tripartite structure.
Cayan
(Huayaconga
ayllu)
Probably a misreading of Cayao in the
1689 visita. Becomes Ccallahua in later
documents. Outsiders in the tripartite
structure.
Outsiders
Mohína
(Huayaconga
ayllu)
a group of Incas-by-privilege in
Quispicanchis (Bauer 1992:24) perhaps
named after Lake Muina, pacarina of
Huascar, and connected with Cusco
Hurinsaya (see Frost and Decoster
1988).
Outsiders
Tia
(Huayaconga
ayllu)
Locals
Outsiders
Outsiders
“to permeate, like irrigation water,”
Outsiders
Elite
see above
Outsiders
Antani
(Huayaconga
hacienda)
from anta, “copper”
pueblo viejo= locals
Forasteros (hacienda workers) =
outsiders.
Ayabamba
(Huayaconga
hacienda)
“Plain of the dead” becomes
Acobamba, “Sandy plain”, Occotuna
perhaps “Marshland”
pueblo viejo= locals
Forasteros (hacienda workers) =
outsiders.
Outsiders
? Perhaps related to Viquaquirao, the
Inca Hanansaya Cusco payan ayllu of
Inca Roca. (Zuidema 1990:36; 1964:4)
Quirao means ‘cradle’. Could also
simply designate a local landmark.
This pueblo viejo disappears after the
reducción.
?
Quiragua (?)
Locals
/Outsiders
2. 3. Duality, Incas and foreigners
I propose that at the time of the reducción, there may have been in place
both a functioning dual system and a tripartite system. Incoming groups
became integrated in those structures, such as the Cayaotambos whom we saw
immediately after the reducción incorporated as outsider ayllus in both moieties.
Some of those groups, like the Chachapoyas, the Huancas and the coastal
Chilcas, must have spoken distinct languages and have looked and dressed
differently from the indigenous populations. When Accha was created, this
system might also have taken in populations which were not yet part of it, and
assimilated them into an elite, locals and outsiders structure (collana, payan
and cayao). This was a dynamic and flexible structure that could accommodate
new incoming groups like perhaps ayllu Barcelona, and later the foreigners
recruited to work in haciendas (forasteros sin tierra).
186
While what precedes argue for the pre-reducción existence of the
tripartite division, there does not seem to be a clear argument for the existence
in Accha of the dual structure before the reducción. There is however a
noticeable difference between the two post-reducción moieties in the marked
presence of Incas and Incas-by-privilege ayllus in Hurinsaya (ayllus Cusco and
Tambo, principally), and the increased number in that moiety over time of
forasteros (foreigners) both in outsider ayllus and in haciendas. The only evidence
of Incas in Hanansaya is the location Tantar Cusco ayllu in Pucaray, an annex of
the parish of Accha at the time of the reducción later identified as an anexo of
Hanansaya.
187
The fact that the Inca ayllus are not mentioned at the time of the
reducción for Accha nor Pucaray leads me to believe that the reducciones were in
fact made around the presence of those Inca ayllus. Because of its small size,
Pucaray was made an anexo of the whole doctrina. The anexos seem to have
been rearranged at a later date, and Pilpinto and Guayaconga appear as anexos
of Hurinsaya, while Pocoray and Parco (itself at first an ayllu of Pocoray) as
those of Hanansaya (Ulloa 1908; table 3).
The presence of Incas and forasteros in Hurinsaya might be explained by
a relation between Hanansaya and Hurinsaya, which is and was as primordial
for the social, political and economic organization of indigenous communities,
The flexibility of the structure is shown in how hacienda Indian population
(but not ayllu population) moved in the 19 th century from Hurinsaya and
Guayaconga into Pilpinto. As Pilpinto was becoming more important and its
mestizo and Spanish population was buying hacienda land, nonexistent in
Pilpinto itself (see chapter 2), the forastero Indian population of those haciendas
became integrated in the ayllu system of that locality.
186
it is now an anexo of the whole community of Accha, and is trying to be
recognized as a comunidad campesina.
187
as it once was for that of the state (Urton 1990, Poole 1984, Guaman Poma 1980,
Zuidema passim; see also chapter 4). This relation is often considered to be
analogous to one of upper to lower, male to female, day to night, rich to poor,
order to chaos (Randall 1982). It has also been suggested that there is a
correspondence between Hanansaya and Cusco on the one hand, and
Hurinsaya and the outside on the other (Zuidema 1964; Bauer 1986 ms; Randall
1982). I contend that the latter proposition betrays a Cusco centered view that
is not necessarily directly applicable to other population centers where the
relation might in fact be reversed. I suggest that the opposition would be better
expressed as “autochthonous” vs. “stranger”. I believe that this stating of the
relationship would actually be applicable both in Incaic Cusco and in the
provinces. Furthermore, such interpretation also offers the possibility of a
dynamic relation between the dual and the tripartite structure.
The view away from Cusco dictates that all foreigners, Incas or not, are
integrated in the same moiety (see e. g. Houdart-Morizot 1976; Palomino
1971), with the provision that within that moiety they probably would occupy
different ayllus, namely collana and cayao respectively. This integrating moiety
in Accha was Hurinsaya, although there is some evidence that it was not
always the case elsewhere.
188
The status of noble Inca that I attribute to ayllu Cusco, listed in my
reconstruction of pre-Toledan ayllus in Accha, is based on evidence from Paruro
(Poole 1984), Copacabana (Zuidema 1964:100) and to references to the military
nobility in the Inca empire (Pachacutec Yamqui 1950[1623]:273). Table 3 shows
In Copacabana, there was a Cusco ayllu in Hanansaya (Archivo Nacional
de Sucre 1729 cited in Zuidema 1964:100). Zuidema says it consisted of Inca
conquerors and administrators of the region. Urteaga 1931 cites the same case,
and quotes from Ramos Gavilán’ s Historia de Copacabana (Urteaga 1931:55-56,
ft 3). But Urteaga’ s case for a generalization of this case is doubtful and rests
on a questionable interpretation of data form Uhle and Bandelier.
188
that ayllu Cusco, the Inca ayllu within Hurinsaya, had an intriguing trajectory
through the colonial period. At some time between 1689 and 1791 a fission took
place within ayllu Cusco. That did not in fact signal the creation of a moiety
structure within a moiety structure, but rather the splitting of an abnormally
large ayllu: by 1689, ayllu Cusco counted 59 tribute payers (Villanueva 1982),
twice to three times as many as any of the other ayllus in Hanan or Hurinsaya.
There is no way of knowing if it had been large from the beginning, or if it had
acquired more members since the reducción, nor who those new members might
have been. What happened after the fission becomes even more puzzling, and
suggests that some of the visitadores might have had problems keeping track of
the ayllus. In the 1836 list both Hurincusco and Hanancusco are mentioned, but
we find no ayllu Accha within Hurinsaya or ayllu Pilpinto within Pilpinto,
which indicates that the census taker was thrown by the payan ayllu name
duplicating that of the community. In another slightly earlier document,
however, ayllu Accha is present (as ayllu Acchacuna, ‘people of Accha’), but
there is only Urincusco ayllu, and no corresponding Hanancusco (ADC 1831).
Today, the situation has reverted to a unique Cusco ayllu (see chapter 4).
We can either speculate that, as there was a diminution in the number of ayllus,
the two Cuscos consolidated, or on the contrary, that they accentuated their
separation. I support the latter hypothesis, and suggest that one of the two
sub-ayllus changed its name to that of its patron saint, which explains the
189
presence in today’s Accha of an ayllu Santa Ana, absent in the earlier
documents. One of my reasons for making this suggestion is the fact that the
Cacharparimoco identified by Bauer as an important Inca site is found today
within the limits of ayllu Santa Ana, and we have no reason to believe that the
As might have been the case for ayllu Ullpo in Hanansaya which seems to
have become Belén (from Virgen de Belén) at a later date (see below section 8).
189
strong association of the ayllu with its territory (chapters 4 and 5) was not
always a reality. If that is true, it would further identify Santa Ana as an Inca
ayllu, probably born of the fission of the original ayllu Cusco, itself an Inca ayllu.
As a result of the split, Hurincusco would have become plain Cusco ayllu, and
Hanancusco Santa Ana ayllu. This historical relation between the two ayllus
might explain the narrow ties between them today that are activated in ritual
activities (see chapter 4).
The Incas in Accha --both Cusco Incas and Incas-by-privilege--were there
before the reducción (chapter 2 and 3), and occupied a prominent place in the
new settlement. But there is some evidence of the overwhelming presence of
another kind of ‘outsiders’ in Accha Hurinsaya beyond the Colonial period. In
1836 -- the date of the last figures in table 3, there were in Accha Hurinsaya 103
forasteros sin tierras (‘landless foreigners’) against just 12 in Accha Hanansaya.
The corresponding population of originarios con tierras (i. e. autochthonous
landowners) was 121 in Hurinsaya against 144 in Hanansaya (ADC 1836).
190
The question of the uneven presence of forasteros sin tierras in Accha is
easily resolved: this name at first served to designate “foreigners” who left
there reducción to take advantage of the tax exemption attached to that status at
the beginning of the colonial period. In censuses, Indians were defined in two
categories: originarios (indigenous) and forasteros (foreigners). The colonial
government defined as foreigners those who couldn’ t claim ancestors in the
The 1754 census gives for Chilques y Masques no forasteros : Total
indigenous population=7,839; tributarios =2, 199; originarios =2,199; forasteros =0
(1859 Memorial de los Virreyes, quoted in Golte 1980b). This figure is clearly
unacceptable: there were already haciendas in Accha (and one would assume
elsewhere in the province) at the end of the 17th century. But we also know
that in 1689, the hacienda workers of Hamancay were recorded as members of
Nicta ayllu (Villanueva 1982) thus altogether avoiding the category of forastero.
That added proof of the flexibility of the social system is also a proof of the
extreme unreliability of historical sources for this kind of material.
190
censuses of the place, and who did not have access to land in the same way as
the originarios did (Golte 1980b: 52; also Urton 1991). However, forasteros soon
became an integral part of the colonial economy and worked in haciendas and
even paid taxes (Sanchez 1978; Matos Mar 1976; Wightman 1990). Then, as
hacienda workers, their numbers would be highest where the Spaniards, the
criollos and their haciendas were, which in Accha was Hurinsaya. The
forasteros lived on hacienda land and during the visitas they were counted as
belonging to the ayllu and moiety where the hacienda was located. In some
cases --Chamina or Viringuiri, for instance--, forasteros actually constituted an
ayllu.
The Cayaotambos, being situated as they are on the periphery of the new
settlement, do not fit the picture presented here of an incorporation of outsiders
into Hurinsaya. Either they had long been integrated into scattered ayllus; or it
is also possible that, if they were resettled by the Incas after the creation of the
Inca settlement in Accha (the site of Cacharparimoco in Santa Ana, and the two
outposts on top of Siwina and in Pucarai), the Cayaotambo population might
have been deliberately positioned on the periphery of that Inca settlement, in
the same fashion as Inca Cusco was surrounded by a ring of Incas-by-privilege.
2. 4. The two churches
We lack historical information to determine whether the relation
between the pre-reducción moieties was exceptionally oppositional
191
or if it
became so after the physical regrouping of the two populations. Either of those
factors would help explain the extreme and enduring nature of the localized
Salas implies that this was the case for the Hurin Chilques and Hanan
Chilques in Vilcashuaman (1979: 24-26). Urton (1990) and Bauer (1992) have
used ethnohistorical and archaeological data to show the existence of prereducción moieties in Pacariqtambo
191
dual structure in Accha throughout the colonial period, and into the present.
There is some ethnographical evidence that leads to presume a conflictual
situation at the time of the reducción. Assuming, as I have before, a permanence
of the intra-community boundaries, a look at a map of Accha (fig. 7) suggests an
imbalance between the two moieties. Although the moiety line (i. e. the ditch)
runs through the middle of the Plaza de Armas, it is obvious that the moiety of
Hanansaya is wedged behind its church and covers very little of the actual
territory of the village. Where Hurinsaya and its ayllus Cusco and Santa Ana
are located on high and dry ground, the houses of Hanansaya border the
marshy edge of the lagoon and are often flooded during the rainy season (see
chapter 4). More importantly perhaps, Hanansaya Accheños only have a very
limited access to corn chakras, which are mostly under the control of
Hurinsaya, in the valley of Velille. Those contemporary distinctions I feel can
safely be assumed to have been persistent, as they are based on territorial
demarcations.
I propose that the unusual expression of the relation between the
moieties physically divided on the ground must be seen in relation to the
exceptional way in which the reducción was implemented, and that the church
played a major role in the perpetuation, if not creation of this overmarked
differentiation.
As already noted, the aim of the reducción was to facilitate the control
and catechization of the populations, and to teach them “human and Christian
policy”. The role of the Catholic Church was thus primordial, either directly, as
in Huarochirí, where the Jesuits reduced personally sixty pueblos viejos into 8
reducciones, or indirectly in other places, in conformity with the Matienzo plan
which gave a central function in the new settlements to the church and the
resident priest. This is not to say that the catechization of the Indians started
with the reducciones. We have seen in the previous chapter that encomenderos
were held responsible for the indoctrination of their encomiendas. The
catechization of the Andes had started literally from the first days of the
Spanish conquest,
192
led by the regular orders. Some of those, like the
Mercedarians had been founded during the Reconquista as military-religious
orders and were eager for a new field of action after 1492.
193
On the other hand,
the secular clergy had a slow start in the Americas, and it took over two
centuries to catch up with the regulars. By the middle of the sixteenth century,
each of four orders, Augustins, Dominicans, Franciscans and Mercedarians had
a convent in Cusco, situated respectively in the Inca districts of Colcampata,
Tococachi, Carmenca and Caucachi and had started the evangelization of the
population in the immediate neighborhood of those convents. In the 1560, the
secular clergy was feeling powerful enough to expel the orders from the Indian
doctrines in Cusco (Perez Rodriguez 1966:348-52). The regulars then proceeded
to move out of the city into the provinces following the same geographical
orientation they occupied in Cusco. Thus the Mercedarians who in Cusco were
based in Santa Ana (Carmenca) in the SE district of Cusco, moved in that
direction into Cuntisuyu. By the time Toledo wrote his Ordenanzas, the orders
had a total of 400 missionaries divided between the new reducciones.
There had been at least 2 priests in the Accha region before the reducción.
One was a Franciscan P. Misionero Fray Francisco de Obregon who went
around preaching and building churches. He was in Accha from 1549 (before
the division of the provinces between the orders) until perhaps as late as 1570.
The Mercedarians had a convent in Piura before the fall of Cusco in 1533.
(Sanlés 1958).
193 The order La Merced was founded in 1218 and was dedicated to the freeing
of Christian prisoners, either by paying a ransom, or by buying Muslim
prisoners they could then exchange (Tourón del Pié: 1958)
192
There is an informe on him: “they say that they saw him predicating to the
infidels in some places like the Bridge of Accha in the old corregimiento of
Chilques, now Province of Paruro” (AGI 74-5-25, Información de servicios,
quoted in Perez 1966:363). Then in 1560 came the first Mercedarian, and the
first doctrinero of what was then the encomienda of Accha, P. Fray Lorenzo
Galindo (AGI, II-2-18 f. 237, quoted in Perez 1966 p:354; and Arch. Merc. Cusco
Leg. 1 N°17, quoted in Barriga 1942).
In the 1570s, the population of the new reducción of Accha was 705
tribute payers (Ulloa 1908:332) or 805 (Cook 1975:138). The discrepancy
between these two figures, puzzling at first, becomes irrelevant as the ‘Accha’
of the visita includes Pilpinto, but not Pocoray, whereas the tasa includes
Pocoray, but not Pilpinto. When those two anexos are added, the total figure
(947 tribute payers in one case or 1204 in the other) corresponds to more than
the double of the recommended by Matienzo and Toledo. In other words,
Accha should have been reduced into two villages, each one with a church and
a priest. Instead of that, the visita states very clearly that in the original 1571
reducción there were one village, one church and one parish, with Pocoray as
anexo of that parish (Ulloa 1908: 332), and one priest, presumably the
Mercedarian Lorenzo who was already in place as doctrinero of the encomienda
(see above). But by the time the tasa was written in 1583, there is, in the
breakdown of the tribute, a provision made for the salary of not one, but two
priests (Cook 1975:138). In the twelve years between those two dates, the
decision was made to split Accha into two parishes. It seems that initially the
annex of Pocoray, which was already a reducción and had a church, was
elevated to the rank of parish and given a resident priest.
194
Pilpinto, the anexo in the other valley (the Apurimac) was reduced soon
after, but remained a ‘subparish’ (viceparroquia) of Accha until 1987. This date
194
Corregimiento de Chilques y Mascas:
Nine priests, one in Yaurisque and Pacaritambo, another in Guanoquite
and Omacha, Vilque and Quille, those four are secular clergy, another
one in Paruro, another in Colcha and Araypalpa, another in
Cuchiriguay, pocopata and Pampacuchi, another in Achapilpinto and
Bernave, another in Pocara and Parco, those five, Mercedarian Friars
(AGI Escribiana de Camera 503B, 1614 . f37)
At the time, then, it appears that there are two parishes of Mercedarians
in the new reducción of Accha: one in Accha [and] Pilpinto and San Barnabé
(identified in Villanueva 1982 as San Barnabé de Guayaconga): that is to say the
totality of Hurinsaya and its 2 anexos; and the other in Pocoray and Parco. It
seems clear at that stage that there is only one priest (and presumably one
church) in Accha itself, and that the other is in Pocoray, no longer an anexo of
the parish of Accha. We know that by 1689 there are two priests in Accha, one
for Hanansaya and one for Hurinsaya, and that Pocoray is at that time
identified as an anexo of Hanansaya. It is possible, as Perez suggests, that the
population of Accha grew to such an extent in the intervening decades that it
required the creation of another parish. But the reincorporating of Pocoray as
an anexo of Accha Hanansaya, which until then did not exist, or at least was not
recognized as a parish, indicates that what happened instead is that the parish
was moved from Pocoray to Accha, only a two hour walk away.
It is possible but unlikely, that the order of la Merced decided to
consolidate its parishes, and moved its priest in Pocoray to larger, better
corresponds to the entrance of the Shining Path in Accha. The Archbishop
‘sacrificed’ his priest in Accha and moved another priest into Pilpinto. Until
then, the Accha priest was responsible for saying mass there on fiesta days, and
for baptisms and marriages. Pilpinto belongs to the province of Acomayo and
has long ceased to be an anexo of Accha. In fact, it has taken over (‘stolen’)
Guayaconga, the old Accha Hurinsaya anexo as its own (Padre Sergio Mazzuoli
pers. com.; Abelardo Fernandez Vaca pers. com.).
situated Accha; but that would not explain keeping the parish division in
Accha itself. I rather believe that the shift was occasioned by an oddity of the
reducción process. I propose that the division was created by the return of a
population which might have lived on or near the site that is now the village,
perhaps the ellusive Ullpos who appear in various contexts as the original
settlers with the Qachas of the Accha region (chapter 2), then resurface with
Laura as part of the encomienda of Juan de Berrio, formed with Comara one of
the pueblos viejos reduced in Accha (chapter 6 and this chapter), and finally is
identified as the predecessor of Belén Ayllu in Hanansaya (below). It seems
possible that the population that was forcibly settled in Pocoray at the time of
the reducción, moved back to Accha a few years later, a movement inverse but
similar to the quite common repopulation of pueblos viejos by their previously
uprooted inhabitants.
195
This scenario would explain the odd spatial inversion between the
moiety division in the village and the ayllus, and the orientation of their anexos,
as seen in figure 7. It would seem logical that the incoming population was
forced to settle in the less desirable --because often flooded-- eastern part of the
new village. But it maintained its ties with Pucaray and Parco, henceforth its
anexos, located on the west side of the Velille Valley. Accha Hurinsaya, located
with its ayllus on the west side of the village had its anexos in the east.
Fig. 14 Spatial orientation of moieties, ayllus and anexos
I believe this is how many contemporary anexos originated, from the
repopulation of the destroyed puebos viejos,
195
The manse of Accha was occupied by two priests until the end of the
nineteenth century. And until the end of the eighteenth century, both of those
were Mercedarians. There was a period of several years that coincided in part
with the rebellion of Tupac Amaru during which there were one Mercedarian
(in Hanansaya) and one secular priest (in Hurinsaya). This situation and its
political implications are described in the next chapter.
Never throughout the time of dual occupation was there a suggestion
that Accha was one parish being served by two priests. All the revisitas and
inspections of the parishes were made separately and often at different dates.
And the odd presence of the two churches in such a small village was often
commented upon, and was depicted as the salient feature of Accha on maps of
the bishopric (AGI: Lima 1110).
The moiety division which is marked in such a dramatic way in Accha
by the presence of a stream across the Plaza de Armas, also creates a redoubling
of the village square, with the two churches standing at each end like mirror
images of each other. It also separated the two priests: the central stream that
runs through the plaza also runs through the manse dividing its building and
enclosed yard in two.
196
Even during the time when there was no
secular/regular conflict between the two priests, the existence of the two
churches reinforced in each moiety a sense of identity both in relation to their
church, and in opposition to the other moiety. In conclusion to this chapter, I
present an ethnogenesis of Accha, which reads as a processual rewriting of the
historical creation of Accha.
In fact, the so-called stream functions as an open air sewer common in
Andean localities and collects the soiled water from the priest house through
the square where it collects more waste, and into the lagoon.
196
3. Genesis: the creation of Accha and the movable churches
I have indicated in chapter 5 my belief in a mythic memory which
transmits information about a past that becomes somehow encoded in the
story. Don Mariano told me about the genesis of Accha in a way that
incorporates identifiable spatial markers which echo the temporal markers that
I have been tracking throughout this chapter:
The first church was in Waywakunka, but it collapsed, so it was then
moved to Ullpo Torre and that one too collapsed. After that, it moved to
another place also called Ullpo at the limit of Accha (Hanansaya). This
formed the church of Belén. Then came Hurinsaya, a large church.
That is why Hurinsaya was always capital. Then Hanansaya was built
because Belén was ready to collapse. Then came the ayllus: first Santa
Ana and then Cusco ayllu.
The human --or supernatural element-- is curiously missing from Don
Mariano’s narrative and the story is told in the passive mode. The churches
seem to be moving by themselves, yet there is no doubt that this narrative is all
about the origin of social groupings in Accha. I have shown in chapter 4 the
narrow relation between the group and its church in the production of group
identity. Don Mariano’s narrative dramatically underlines this relation by
using the churches as metonymic figures for their populations of reference.
We know that Toledo’s policy of reducción involved the destruction of
pueblos viejos, and their huacas, and the regrouping and consolidation of the
populations into a centralized village. I would like to propose that the same
logic that prompted the extirpators of idolatry to built Catholic churches and
shrines on top of Inca huacas in order to reclaim some of the holiness of the site,
and the souls of the worshippers who frequented them, also caused the
197
Indians to adopt the churches as a replacement for their lost huacas a. The
extirpators who burned the huacas were deliberately destroying the ayllus’
spiritual, social and religious center. At the same time they were explicitly
offering the churches as a substitute. I believe that Accheños were receptive to
the change and willing to invest the new constructions with the same attributes
their huacas or pacarinas had: the control and index of group identity. This
early co-option, rather than the zeal of the clergy can account for the building of
the two churches on the two moiety sides of the same plaza, and of the various
chapels in the ayllus. In turn, the character of spatial control of the pre-reducción
huaca over an area of influence could take the characteristic of a localized barrio
within the physical constraints of the reducción, Each church building would
thus be exclusively associated with one neighborhood and that population’s
social identity be primarily centered on its church. In a kind of feedback
process, the dynamic relation between those two connected features --the
boundered localization and symbolic focus of Accha’s social groups-- must be
seen as decisively instrumental in the maintenance of the moiety/ayllu
structure over time.
Another element of the genesis story is that as a member of ayllu Santa
Ana and of the Hurinsaya moiety, Don Mariano gives precedence to these two
groups. His spatial narration giving temporal primacy to his two primary
groups of affiliation can be read as a mythical interpretation and justification of
the group hierarchy within Accha. More interestingly still, it can be understood
as an expression of the mythical memory of an historical event: that of the
colonial creation of Accha.
This was a tried and true policy that had already been used in the
conversion of Ireland.
197
Don Mariano’s narration follows a centripetal movement through which
Accha is perceived as built from the outside, which is consistent with the
process of the reducción. Some of the place names mentioned (Waywakunka
and Ullpo) are recognizable as pueblos viejos. It seems possible that the barrio in
Hanansaya known today as Belén, after the name of its disappeared church (see
chapter 4), might have corresponded to the localized settlement of the
population of the pueblo viejo of Ulpocomara, reduced in Accha as ayllu Ullpo
(see preceding section).
Waywakunka (Guayaconga) is a place by a cave near the community of
Taucabamba, above Pilpinto. It appears in Toledo’s Visita as two separate
pueblos viejos, Guaiba and Cunga. From 1689 onwards, it is identified as
Guayaconga, and as anexo of Hurinsaya (table 3). Ccori (1978) contributes
interesting, information in the matter. He claims that Accha was recognized by
the first constitution of Peru on November 1, 1823 with Guayaconga as capital.
The law 683 of 21 November 1907 gave it the status of district, and recognized
Accha as its capital, “apparently when its ancient capital of Guayaconga
disappeared in the flooding of the Apurimac” (Ccori 1978:16). I think that
narration too should be read as another story of origin involving a primeval
flood (see for instance Guaman Poma 1980, Taylor 1980). It should be noted
that both Don Mariano and Ccori’s narratives point at Guayaconga -- and its
alleged destruction, or that of its church-- as the point of departure of the
creation of Accha. I have seen no other mention of the flood to which Ccori
refers, and the current location of Waywakunka is nowhere near the river. Nor
is there any mention in any of the early documents on the reducción of
Waywakunka (or Guayaconga) as “capital.”
198
On 21 November 1988, I was told by an member of Hurinsaya: “One
hundred and sixty three years ago, this village was made into a “villa” by
198
The story of the creation of Accha, as told by Don Mariano does not
follow moiety lines, although it does emphasize the dual hierarchy and
Mariano’s own ayllu of membership. There is in his account an alternation
between the two moieties that suggests a shared history: The place of origin is
identified with an anexo of Hurinsaya; the second place mentioned becomes an
ayllu in Hanansaya; then comes the main church of the Hurinsaya moiety, then
that of Hanansaya, and finally the two Hurinsaya ayllus Santa Ana and Cusco
ayllu --the story incorporates the totality of the extant social groups in Accha,
and even one which has only disappeared within human memory. Yet
outwardly the story is not about people or ayllus or moieties, but about
churches and chapels. The church building is inseparable from the identity of
the group, which comes into being when the church is built, and disappears
when the church is destroyed.
Simon Bolivar as part of the first Constitution of Perú. Eighty-nine years ago, it
became a district” (Fernandez Vaca). Stiglich (1923): The district of Accha was
created by Bolivar who also made urinsaya capital; Urinsaya made a “villa” by
a ley del 21 noviembre 1907 . At the time. Hurinsaya had 1500 inhabitants, and
Hanansaya 200. In spite of the confusion to whether it was made a villa or a
district first, it seems clear that Urinsaya was the capital.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOCIAL CONFLICTS AND FAILED REBELLIONS: IMAGES OF CLASS
AND ETHNIC IDENTITY.
In chapters six and seven, I have used the archival record to document
the role of the Spanish institutions in the twin act of denial and invention of
local identity. The vision that I have painted of a fairly simple dialectic between
the oppressive strategies of the colonial powers and the tactics of resistance of
the indigenous population becomes more and more blurred with time, when
new categories come into play and the old ones become less easily recognizable.
This chapter aims at presenting an historical aspect of this complex
picture. I will discuss the underlying cultural discourse of the most important
rebellion of the late eighteenth century, that of Tupac Amaru II, and the indirect
impact it had on the life of Accha. I will use archival documents to show a
vignette of the relations between the clergy, the local elite and the Indians in
Accha at the time of the rebellion.
1. Destructuration and resistance.
I have shown that cultural identity is both intrinsic to the relational basis
of the group (see chapters. 2 and 3), and imposed from the outside (chapter 6).
This contradiction gives rise to political processes of integration and exclusion
which in the Andes can be traced back through centuries of
revolts and rebellions in which the struggle for indigenous identity paralleled
the fight for political freedom.
The Spanish conquest served to transform the use of external symbols of
cultural identity into a new imagery that was in turn used by the conquered
populations in new political statements that incorporated the expression
imposed by the dominant power (Urton 1990, Rowe 1957, Silverblatt 1988,
Spalding 1984, Stern 1982, Scott 1985, Smith 1991). My consideration of the
fabrication of a new identity hinges on the idea of the ‘implicit social
knowledge’ (Taussig 1986) which underlines, rather than the existence of
permanent cultural traits or historical material forces, the nature of the
dialectical imagery that embodies the relation between an imposed cultural
reality and its reinterpretation by the dominated group.
I have made the claim in chapter 5 that traditional Andean society is
based on harmonious disequilibrium of differences expressed in terms of the
relation of the social group with the natural and supernatural environments. In
contrast, the conquest and colonization created an unbalanced dichotomy
through the artificial and superficial homogenization of elements -- e. g. the
creation of the category of Indian by the ruling class (Campbell 1979, Piel 1970).
Through time, the attempted dialogue (Rivera Cusicanqui 1984) between
those conflicting discourses has usually resulted in two (often concurrent)
responses from the ruling elite: reproduction of oppression or attempts at
assimilation. Extreme cases of oppression are the massacre by the dominant
powers of rebellious leaders and the suppression of cultural symbols. More
subtle examples are the reproduction of economic oppression, known since Las
Casas as “self-ransom” through coerced consumption and dependence (Rivera
1984: 18-19).
The attempt at assimilation parallels the process of oppression. It can
take the form of the appropriation by the dominant culture of the historical and
mythical heritage of the dominated group; or it can mean the negation of
cultural differences.
2 Rebels in search of an identity: Tupac Amaru II (1780-81)
José Gabriel Condorcanqui, known as Tupac Amaru II, is described by
Hemming as “the gallant precursor of independence from Spain” (Hemming
1970: 473). After the 1969 Peruvian revolution, the likeness of Tupac Amaru
was the emblem of SINAMOS, the national organization for aid to social
mobilization. Campbell (1979) comments on the use of the 18th century rebel
by the Peruvian Marxist military junta, and claims that by making of Tupac
Amaru a symbol of their political actions, and “by developing Tupac Amaru as
a revolutionary hero and his movement as the first vestige of an antiimperialistic struggle uniting all classes and ethnic groups, the generals [hoped]
to identify themselves symbolically with the continuation of the struggle”
(1979:3).
199
This view was also shared by some of the most recent Peruvian
governments. The APRA government in power from July 1985 to 1990 issued a
new currency bearing the effigy of Tupac Amaru: the inti (‘sun’ in Quechua)
replaced the old sol (same meaning in Spanish) as a new monetary unit.
200
Such a claim is also meant to counter the assertion by indigenous political
movements and anti-establishment historians that the independence of Peru in
1821 only served to shift the actual power from the hands of the peninsulares
(Spaniards from Spain) to those of the criollos.
200 As a sign of the rocketing inflation, the value of the new currency was also
adjusted so that not only did the Inca sun replace the Spanish one, but it is also
one thousand times more powerful. In this intelligent manipulation of
symbols, Tupac Amaru, enemy of the Spaniards, was established as the link
between the present and the glorious past, and, in those days of financial chaos,
as a promise of a new economic order. Ironically, five years later, the
government of Fujimori changed the name of the currency back to sol and was
199
This attitude of the government constituted an attempt to appropriate a
symbol of Indian identity by transforming an ethnic relation into a political one,
thus creating an artificial historical unity between the government and the
Indian masses.
201
This process of co-optation by the dominant culture of
symbols of Indian struggle was ironically delayed in Peru by precisely the same
events --the indigenous rebellions-- that eventually became appropriated in this
attempt at creating a national mythology (Pagden 1987).
Moreover, there was a further shift in the nature of symbols through
time. The Tupac Amaru rebellion of 1780-81, because its leader was identified
with his namesake and ancestor, the Inca rebel executed by viceroy Toledo in
1572, symbolized the Incas and their fight against the Spaniards. When the
name Tupac Amaru is used today by either a national government or a
guerrilla organization (e.g., the Tupamaros of Argentina and Uruguay or the
Movemiento Revolucionario Tupac Amaru of Peru), it is Condorcanqui, the
second Amaru, that is being evoked. The figure of Tupac Amaru becomes a
complex symbol (Inca noble, Indian rebel, anti-imperialist freedom fighter) that
can thus be used, as pointed out by Lewin, by both masses and elites in and out
of Peru (quoted in Campbell 1979).
Perhaps because the expression of history in Andean traditional cultures
is not necessarily linear, past and present epochs are sometimes conceived of as
parallel rather than sequential.
202
Historical time and characters can thus be
made to coincide and merge. Examples of such processes have been revealed
by Zuidema (1964) who shows how several discrete individuals can be made
infinitely more successful in stemming inflation.
201 A similar attempt was made by the Bolivian Agrarian Revolution of 1952,
when the term Indio was officially replaced by campesino, thus transforming an
ethnic category into an occupational one for the purpose of creating an
appearance of national unity.
202 See Jacopin 1973 for a discussion of Western and non-Western time.
into one single historical character, and how Inca rulers bearing the same name
had common characteristics attributed to them.
Kubler (1946) remarks on “the striking lack of formal indigenous cultural
content” of the Tupac Amaru rebellion. He states that the philosophy behind
the rebellion was culturally Spanish, not Indian, and that the Indians didn’t
wish to destroy or displace Spanish institutions, but rather to capture them. Yet
Ossio suggests that Andean indigenous ‘messianic’ rebellions, if they did
propose a return to the time of the Inca, did not advocate a “return to the
historical period of the Inca. In a society that was, and went on being ...
predominantly oral, the past is constantly remodeled on the present, and thus is
never perceived as being independent from the latter” (1973: xxiii).
Furthermore, if time is conceived as a succession of cycles punctuated by
cataclysms, there is no real return to the past but a structural inversion of the
previous world. The idea of the Inca basically means ‘order’, regardless of any
historical consideration, and as an ideological claim it must be understood
simply as a return to order. By the same token, the Andean ‘millennium’ can
only be seen as a rejection of the current order.
The Tupac Amaru revolt was simply the largest and most visible
example of several regional, multi-class uprisings against Spanish authority
(Campbell 1979:4). The reasons for both the astonishing success and the
ultimate failure of the revolt are contained in the nature of the system of
exploitation described in the previous chapters. In fact, immediately after the
end of the revolt, as part of the trial conducted against some of the alleged coconspirators, the religious and civil authorities of Cusco engaged in soulsearching attempts to explain the causes of the rebellion and the popularity of
the insurgency among the Indian population. They put the blame squarely on
the corregidor who bleeds the Indians, and on the priest who finishes them off:
To see a corregidor extract from his province in five years, 200,
000 or 300, 000 pesos and that this fact should be public knowledge and
be tolerated and accepted, wasn’t this bound to lead to violence? They
have transformed the righteous intent of the repartimiento
[distribution of goods] into the greatest tyranny. How can a
corregidor respond to the charge of not adhering to the fixed tariffs?
Well do I know the answer for I have heard it often, and it is that they
wouldn’t be so well-off if they obeyed the precepts of their sovereign.
(Letter of Dn. Benito Mata Linares, oidor
del Cusco, 1793, in AGI Cusco 29).
The ‘messianic’ character of a movement may have as much to do with
the perception of the participants than with the personality of its leader. In
addition, subsequent popular or political co-optation and reinterpretation may
play an important part in ascribing a messianic significance to historical events.
Yet some individual leaders, by design or through historical conjunctures,
prove exceptionally suited for popular iconizing.
José Gabriel Condorcanqui Tupac Amaru (1738-1781) was a mestizo who
had claims to Inca, non-Inca, and Spanish nobility. He was a direct descendant
of the rebel king Tupac Amaru Inca, who was executed by Viceroy Toledo in
1572. José Gabriel had also inherited from his father the title of Cacique of
Pampamuras, Tunigasuca, and Surimana in the Bishopric of Cusco.
The very nature of Tupac Amaru’s multicultural identity, his original
appeal to the mestizos and criollos of Cusco, and the fact that today he can at the
same time be part of the official national pantheon with the criollo heroes of
national independence Miguel Grau and Simon Bolivar and be identified as
Inkarrí in Quechua weavings -- where he is represented as a human figure
drawn and quartered by four horses--, are indications of the complexity of the
relations between the cultural identities at play.
This multiple identity of Tupac Amaru II was in a great part responsible
for the initial success of his campaign. He appealed to the nascent class of
mestizo bourgeoisie, who saw in him a champion in their fight against the
criollo and Spanish landed aristocracy and the crown, as well as to the Indios for
whom he personified Inkarrí, the mythic embodiment of the generic Inca king.
Throughout his campaign, Tupac Amaru gave his orders in both Quechua and
in Spanish (Valcárcel 1970), in recognition of the dichotomy within his
following. According to the make-up of his audience, in some of his addresses
he would refer to himself as King of the Incas and emphatically promise the
overturn of the Spaniards; in others he would talk in a more moderate tone of
tax reform (Vayssière 1983).
In 1780 Tupac Amaru began to lobby against the practice of mit’a or
forced labor. This led to a personal conflict with Antonio de Arriaga, the
corregidor of the province of Tinta, whom he eventually captured, ransomed,
and executed. Tupac Amaru’s promise to end the mit’a and to reform taxes and
the trade monopoly won him the support of a mixed crowd of Indios, mestizo
and criollo traders and artisans, who started collecting arms, money, and
ammunition. A week later, he was at the head of an army of 6000, that
increased tenfold by the time he laid siege to Cusco at the end of 1780. But
Tupac Amaru’s reluctance to attack the city caused his downfall and he was
captured two months later, brought to trial and sentenced to be drawn and
quartered on Cusco’s main square (O’Phelan 1988, 1989).
Vayssière (1983: 51) claims that the 18th century saw among the Indian
elite a resurgence of Inca dress and that “caciques would dress as Inca kings
with the avowed aim of reviving the purest Inca tradition” . In his analysis of
the rebellion, Campbell does not trace Tupac Amaru’ s mass appeal to the fact
that he used symbols of his Inca identity or rank. Rather, he gives a detailed
account of how Tupac Amaru “wore the dress of a Spanish nobleman,
including a black velvet coat, a gold waistcoat, a beaver dress hat, silk stockings
and shoes with gold buckles” (Campbell 1979:7-8). However, after describing
the execution of Tupac Amaru, Campbell tells us that the Spaniards prohibited
the use of
Inca nationalistic symbols, among them claims of descent from the last
Inca kings, hereditary caciqueships, the wearing of the Inca royal garb,
the display of pictures of the Incas, plays or other writings about the
empire, the use of Quechua language, and even of the ceremonial conch
shell horns (1979:10).
This reaction clearly indicates the determination on the part of the
authorities to treat the uprising as primarily an indigenous rebellion, in spite of
evidence to the contrary. We must give credit to the Spaniards and assume that
the cruel execution of Tupac Amaru and his family and the ban on Inca symbols
were not just to finish off the rebels, but rather were meant as the elimination of
what the colonial authorities perceived, or wanted to identify, as a threat to
their own established order. Thus, together with the description of Tupac
Amaru’ s dress, the nature of the prohibitions that followed the suppression of
the revolt also provides us with a sketch of the external symbols associated -- at
least in the minds of the colonial legislators -- with Inca/Indian cultural
identity. In contrast to what happened in previous rebellions (especially that of
the Taqi Onqoy), in which the rebels rejected all things Spanish, we see in
Campbell’ s description the elimination by the dominant group of the cultural
symbols of the vanquished in reaction to the revolt.
Pearse (1975) notes that during the Tupac Amaru revolt, peasants in
Oruro forced the whole criollo population to dress like Indians and chew coca
like them. Pearse rightly remarks that the regulation of dress in colonial society
was a means of publicly indicating an individual’ s status and the
accompanying rights and duties. Deliberate changes in dress either signified
the passage of an individual from one status to another or implied the
alteration of the social order itself (1975:138-139).
Accordingly, after the demise of Tupac Amaru II, the colonial powers
imposed the use of clothing that was derived from the dress of Spanish
peasants, which the Quechua and Aymara Indians promptly adapted into the
colorful ponchos and hats that have become associated with Andean cultures.
However, in a pattern reminiscent of de Certeau’ s interpretative tactics, the
distinctions that existed in Inca times were reworked in the new clothes, so that
to this day it is possible to identify the place of origin of an Andean Indian by
the color and design that he or she wears . Thus the attempt to impose a
203
homogenous Indian identity was, at least to that extent, foiled.
3. Tupac Amaru in Accha
Accha was indirectly connected with the Tupac Amaru movement even
before the start of the rebellion. The events that precipitated Tupac Amaru’ s
actions against Arriaga, involved the priest of Coporaque, Vincente de la
Puente. A man of great arrogance and violence, la Puente had antagonized his
congregation and caused Arriaga to take measures that led to the ambush
which cost the corregidor his freedom and later his life. It so happens that before
being named at Coporaque, la Puente had been the priest of Accha, and had
been forced to leave that parish where he had been accused of “disturbing the
public peace” (Rowe 1985: 123; also Valcárel 1970 vol. 1: 615).
However, as notes Abercrombie (pers. com.), the groups of identification
are not necessarily the same as in pre-conquest times. This can be explained
largely by the reshuffling of populations occasioned by the creation of
encomiendas and reducciones (see chapters 6 and 7).
203
Later, perhaps because of its location on the way between Tinta and
Cusco, Accha seems to have received several visits by the rebels. There is very
good evidence that Accheños were not on the side of the revolt. In December
1780, Marcos de la Torre wrote to letter Micaela Batista where he complained
that as he was passing in the area he was attacked by a group of men from
Accha and Pilpinto, armed with firearms, who stole there mules and equipment
and roughed up the peones (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol 3: 371). We know
for a fact that Tupac Amaru was personally in Accha at least in one occasion: in
March 1781 he wrote from there a note to one of his lieutenants Tomás
Choquehuanca of Chumbivilcas (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol 3: 125). Around
the same period, one of Tupac Amaru’ s lieutenant Miguel Anco, was also in
Accha where he was accused of committing “many excesses, killing many
Spaniards of both sexes, raping women inside the church, preaching and
confessing, and immediately afterwards revealing the confession”
204
(Durand
Flores 1980-1982, Vol. 3: 762). Elsewhere, Anco is accused of having killed three
women in Accha (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol. 3: 125). On March 3, 1781, the
villages from the doctrine of Accha are said to have been totally destroyed by
the rebel forces (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol. 2: 233). Finally, in July 1781,
José Antonio Arreche, Visitador General, sentences Miguel Anco to be
decapitated and to have his head sent to Accha to be displayed on a pole in the
most public site (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol 3: 774). This last information
seems to indicate that the destruction inflicted on Accha was unusual, and for
The presentation of the crimes committed by Anco is telling: the murders
are made worse by the fact that his victims were Spaniards --in fact there is no
mention of whether or not anybody but Spaniards got killed; the rapes are
aggravated for having been committed inside the church; and other sacrileges
are equated with crimes as murders and rapes.
204
that matter, that Anco treatment of Accha was also untypical: if he had done
the same in other villages, why send his head to Accha?
What seems to be clear is that the population of the village at large were
probably opposed to the rebellion, although it would be difficult to say whether
that opposition was a consequence of Miguel Anco cruel treatment, or perhaps
a justification for it.
3. 1. Tomás Miguel de Otazú, tupamarista priest?
The case of Tomás Miguel de Otazú, friar of the Order of La Merced and
priest of Accha Hanansaya during the rebellion testifies in a very vivid way to
the complexity of the cultural relations operating at the time of the revolt. The
legal documents generated by the suit against Otazú make it clear that an
understanding of the conflict cannot be reduced to a schema, however valid, of
Spanish oppressors and Indian oppressed. The case against Otazú illustrates
the relations existing at the time between Spaniards and Indians, but also
between mestizos and criollos, laymen and religious, seculars and regulars, and
judges and doctrineros. The conflicting relations of power between all those
categories form the backdrop of the historical context of the rebellion at the
same time as they allow an approximation of the way each group identified
itself in relation to the others.
The legal documents to which I will be referring in this section were
collected in the Archivo Arzobispado del Cusco (AAC) where the archives of
the Cusquenian secular clergy are kept.
205
The suit against Otazú concerns an
accusation made against the Accha priest of participating in the Tupac Amaru
The various regular orders that are still active in Cusco have their own
archives, which are unfortunately not as accessible to researchers as the AAC.
205
rebellion. Cross references to that accusation can also be found in some
documents of the Archivo General de Indias in Seville (AGI), collected in an
extensive five-volume compilation of documents from Seville on the Tupac
Amaru rebellion published in the last decade to celebrate the bicentennial of the
rebellion (Durand Flores 1980-1982). In one of the chapters of a companion
volume to that collection, the author refers to Otazú as a “cura tupamarista” on
the strength of a letter from bishop Moscoso to the Viceroy, in which the priest
is mentioned as “having expressed pro-Tupac Amaru feelings” (Aparecio 1980:
84).
In contrast, the original AAC documents, which to my knowledge have
never been studied, reveal the underlying political rivalries and conflictual
nature of class and ethnic relation in Accha itself at the time of the rebellion and
in the following years. Those documents also emphasize the extent to which
the political and legal discourse of the time was in the hands of the criollo and
mestizo elites. The actors as well as the authors of those documents were local
representatives of those elites. Yet, throughout all this, the indigenous
population of Accha in the late 18th century can be glimpsed at the periphery of
the dominant culture’s carefully defined categories of identity.
Before turning to the material of the AAC, I need to mention the first
accusation of complicity in the rebellion, made against our priest in January
1781, that is to say during the rebellion, found in the aforementioned letter of
the Bishop of Cusco to Viceroy Jáujegui.
206
In that letter, Bishop Moscoso y
Peralta also states that he has ordered Otazú to present himself under penalty
of excommunication. This order was apparently ineffective, because eventually
January 1781, Moscoso a Jáuregui. Coleccion documental del Bicentenario
de la Revolucíon emancipatora de Tupac Amaru, vol 1. “Documentos varios del
Archivo General de Indias” p. 168, Lima: CNBRETA.
206
Moscoso y Peralta sent for Otazú to be arrested and brought to Cusco to answer
to the charges. Otazú arrived in Cusco in March 1781, when Tupac Amaru was
already imprisoned.
From jail, Otazú immediately wrote a letter to Bishop Moscoso. He
asked that, “in order to vindicate [his] honor and refute a false accusation”
against him, a declaration be taken under oath of “José Gabriel Tupac Amaru,
jailed for the execrable crime of lèse-majesté.” He demanded that the following
questions be put to Tupac Amaru:
First let him say whether he is or ever was friends with me, and on what
terms, whether through personal communication or letters, stating
where, how and since when.
Also, let him declare whether he has consulted with me in his depraved
actions and despicable intentions, and how, whether orally or in writing,
and in the second case, where or who was the person who delivered the
letter or letters.
Finally, have him declare if I have, in whatever occult or extraordinary
way, had any part in his crimes. (Otazú to Moscoso, April 24, 1781).
207
The questions were put to Tupac Amaru, although in a more succinct
form, and the answers are found at the end of a long and moving confession
made by Tupac Amaru two weeks before his execution, in which he justifies the
rebellion by the mit’a, repartos,
208
and other burdens put on “nosotros los pobres
indios” by the corregidores. After this declaration, in the presence of the
Visitador Benito de la Matta Linares , Tupac Amaru was asked under oath a
209
number of questions about events of the rebellion and the identity of some of
Coleccion documental del Bicentenario de la Revolucíon Emancipadora de
Tupac Amaru, tomo III, “Los Procesos a Túpac Amaru y sus compañeros: 1.” p.
175, Lima: CNBRETA.
208 Mit’a was the forced labor, mostly in the mines of Potosi and Huancavelica
imposed on the Indians. Accheños together with the rest of the province of
Paruro were exemted from the mit’a (Gade and Escobar 1982); repartos are the
forced sale of goods to the Indians.
207
his accomplices. The questions and the answers are very specific, and in several
instances Tupac Amaru gave the names of individuals and the nature of their
participation in the struggle.
In turn, when he was asked whether he knew Tomás Miguel de Otazú,
priest of Accha Hanansaya, “he said no, and that he couldn’ t certify whether or
not the man wrote to him, because many wrote to him without knowing him.”
(Coleccion documental, tomo 3: 224) There is no reason to believe that Tupac
Amaru, who seemed candid and named names in this declaration, would have
lied to protect the priest from Accha. Whether or not Otazú was a Tupac
Amaru sympathizer, it would seem that the prosecution no longer had a case
after that deposition by Tupac Amaru. This is apparently the conclusion the
Visitador reached, and after a further period of inquiry, Benito de la Matta
Linares wrote in July of the same year a letter to Moscoso y Peralta stating,
“Nothing came up to disprove the good conduct and pure intentions of this
exemplary ecclesiastic.” (20 July 1781, de la Matta to Moscoso, Coleccion
documental ... tomo 2: 677).
3. 2. Other cases against Otazú
The church archives of the AAC in Cusco contain several documents
pertaining to this exemplary cleric. Most of them are legal suits against Otazú,
starting in 1783, two years after the events related above. In this document,
three women, Nicolasa, Marcela, and Casimira Otazú, identified as Otazú’ s
This is the same individual who twelve years later wrote the long letter
attributing the blame for the rebellion to the excesses of the corregidores, which
is quoted above in 2. It is tempting to speculate that his interpretation might
have been influenced by this meeting with Tupac Amaru, who makes very
much the same point in his confession.
209
daughters, brought an action against him, accusing him of being derelict in his
obligations to support them (AAC liv, 1, 6,1783.)
In 1785, another charge was made by Bernardino Zenteno, employee of
the parish, who claimed two years of salary due him by Otazú (AAC xxxv, 3,
59, 1785.)
Then in 1786, Otazú’ s brother Vicente, a secular priest, and his sister
Estefania, a Nazarene nun, brought an action against him for refusing to pay
them the sum of 1,500 pesos each, as part of their father’ s inheritance (AAC
xxix, 3, 69, 1788). In all of these cases, the judge ruled against Otazú. In 1790, a
niece of Otazú started an action against him claiming the sum of 3,000 pesos for
a house in Accha belonging to her that had been sold by Otazú (AAC lxxxii, 1,
10, f. 14, 1793). This case was still unresolved when Otazú died in 1793.
However, the legal actions didn’t end with his death, and the unfortunate
Vicente Otazú, who was his brother’ s executor, was sued by Otazú’ s successor
as priest of Accha Hanansaya, who claimed that various objects of gold and
silver, and even the baptismal font, had disappeared from the church during
the tenure of Miguel Otazú (AAC lxiii, 1, 5, 1796).
This impressive accumulation of suits against Otazú does paint the
picture of a man not over-burdened by scruples, nor terribly concerned with
commandments and vows. It is difficult to estimate how unusual such an
attitude was in the colonial clergy (see for instance Juan and Ulloa 1978 [1826]).
However, rather than to speculate about our priest’s morals, I would simply
like to point out that an individual who seems to have been inclined to deceive
his close relatives and staff, and steal from his own church, is likely to have
been fairly unpopular among his parishioners. It is even conceivable that he
would have made enemies willing to have him removed from his position.
3. 3. Contreras vs. Otazú
The most interesting of all the AAC documents concerning Otazú is
another suit, started in 1783, two years after the original accusation of
complicity in the rebellion --and two years after the execution of Tupac Amaru.
The accusation amounts to one of inappropriate behavior on the part of the
priest. The action is brought by Don Jacinto Contreras, vecino of the village of
Poccoray, doctrina of Accha “against Don Thomás Otazú, priest of the said
doctrina for excesses committed both at the time of the rebellion, and during
the exercise of his pastoral ministry” (AAC lxxiii, 2, 29, 79 ff., f. 2, 1783.)
There are seven distinct charges:
1. On the 29 of April, on the day of the celebration of the Assumption of
the Lord, Otazú singled out Agustin Contreras (son of the plaintiff) blaming
him for the death of the rebel Juan de Dios Valencia [follower of Tupac Amaru],
saying loudly that the said Valencia had come to help them; after wounding
210
Agustin Contreras twice in the stomach, which left the young man close to
dying, he had him given 200 lashes.
2. For having refused to take arms against our people, he ordered two
Indian women, named Isabel Ojeda and Antonia Ccapa, to receive 100 lashes
through the streets of the village.
3. When Gaetano Parriagua asked confession for his mother who was
quite ill, [the priest] refused to comply with this clear obligation, saying that he
had to remain at home as he was expecting a letter from José Gabriel Thupa
Amaru in response to the letters that he, [Otazú], had sent him.
The presence of Valencia in Accha in January 1780 is documented (Coleccion
Documentos... vol. 3: 589).
210
4. A cantor named Ysidro Oviedo was brutally and forcibly married [by
the priest], with no other motivation than greed. [Otazú] drenched Oviedo in
blood and blessed him against his will.
5. When Joseph Padilla requested confession for his wife, [the priest]
refused and the woman died without the holy sacrament.
6. The Indians continue to follow their old customs, and they bury each
other in the wilderness.
7. The state of ruin of the churches of Accha and Parcco is so evident,
that if it wasn’t for [the plaintiff’s] contribution to the repair of the church of
Poccoray in wood, Indians, money and other materials, the said church would
be without a temple (ibid. f. 3).
The charges seem to fall into two categories. There are two accusations
of assault and five of failure to perform the duties of priest and párroco. The
accusations of participation in the rebellion are merely secondary to those
charges and their import nearly anecdotal: The young man was wounded
because of the death of a rebel, the two Indian women were punished for
refusing to take part in the rebellion, and the expected arrival of letters from
Tupac Amaru kept the priest from doing his pastoral duty.
Otazú’ s response to the accusation came through his lawyer. In an
attempt to refute the charges, he wrote that the accusations were nothing but
slander on the part of a mestizo, who held Otazú in implacable hatred as the
latter was responsible for Contreras loss of his post of cacique. It seems that a
few months before the suit, Otazú sent a denunciation to the authorities
concerning the excessive brutality with which Contreras, then cacique of
Pucaray an anexo of Accha Hanansaya, treated the Indians. This resulted in
Contreras being relieved of his position.
However, on the 15 th of July of the same year, José Pérez, canon in
charge of the discipline (canonigo penitenciero) of the cathedral, provost and
vicar general of the Bishop, ordered Otazú to appear before him, under penalty
of major excommunication and confiscation of his property. At the same time,
he sent to Accha a team of notaries and clerics to conduct an investigation of the
charges.
The way this kind of investigation was conducted was identical in
criminal cases and in witchcraft cases.
211
A questionnaire was drawn including
all the charges, and the questions were then posed one by one to the witnesses.
The following is the resulting testimony of Joseph Padilla of Poccoray whose
wife had died without sacraments --the fifth charge in Contreras’ s accusation:
Concerning the charges one through four, the witness states that
he has indeed heard rumors to that effect, but cannot testify whether they
are true or not. To the fifth charge, the witness declares that it is false.
It happened a long time ago, when Otazú had just become priest of
Accha. The witness’ s wife fell ill as the result of giving birth, in the
village of Poccoray. The witness sent an Indian Lorenzo Quispe to
Accha to fetch the priest. But the Indian couldn’ t find the priest as the
latter was in the anexo of Parco. However, he found Otazú’ s vicar, an
Augustinian friar by the name of Sebastian Ayala, whom he asked to
come and confess the sick woman. But for lack of a horse, the vicar could
not come to Poccoray. Otazú only found out about these events on the
day of the funeral. He expressed his regrets and said that had it been
him, he would have gone on foot, and that in the future he would reserve
one of his own mules for such eventuality (f. 17).
From testimony to testimony, the other charges are clarified in the same
way. It appears that the two Indian women were whipped and paraded
through the streets on donkey back, not because they refused to fight for Tupac
Amaru, but because they were witches (f. 18).
212
The same lawyers were involved in Inquisition cases as in internal church
cases as this one.
211
Nor did Otazú ever mention awaiting a letter from Tupac Amaru. When
he refused to bring the sacraments to Gaetano Parriagua’ s sick mother, it was
during the days of fiercest fighting, and he would have had to pass through the
battlefield. He did say that he was expecting news of the battle but never
mentioned Tupac Amaru. The mother died the following day (f. 18v).
The investigators located the Indian Ysidro Oviedo, married by force
and drenched in blood by the priest. Oviedo stated that during the marriage
ceremony, ‘he had refused to answer the priest’ s question as to whether or not
he [Oviedo] wanted to be married. Consequently, the priest gave him a small
slap on the face which drew a drop of blood’ (f. 19), and later, in order to foster
an amicable relation between the witness and the woman, the priest proceeded
to marry them, with the consent of both.
Several witnesses gave similar versions of the case of Agustin Contreras,
son of the plaintiff, who had allegedly been wounded and lashed in connection
with the death of one of Tupac Amaru lieutenants. According to the
testimonies, Agustin had indeed been whipped on orders of Otazú, but it was
because he had ‘broken the head of a parishioner’ and stolen cattle. In the
testimonies, young Contreras is variously qualified as ‘shameless’
(desvergonzado) and as a ‘thieving dog who steals cows from the Indians.’ (ff.
19v. and 20r.) The exact number of lashes varies from 30 to 80 according to the
witnesses. One said that Agustin had been slightly hurt when a knife was used
to take off his pants prior to the lashing (f. 18v.), but he was now perfectly
healthy. All denied that there had been any mention of Valencia, the rebel, or
any other supporter of Tupac Amaru.
This in turn might simply refer to the use of plants or coca leaves or to other
traditional practices that Otazú, as doctrinero of the parish, was responsible for
punishing.
212
It is becoming clear that of all the charges, the whipping of Contreras Jr.
is the only damaging one, and indeed, the only one that remained after 1
September 1783. On August 14, Otazú volunteered his own version of the
events from Cusco. He had gone to the Contreras house to talk to Agustin
about the charge that Agustin had ‘broken the head’ of Silvestre Ysasigas, one
of Otazú’ s Indian parishioners. Agustin denied the accusation, became
abusive, and threatened the priest first with a knife, then with a gun. Otazú
had called some parishioners who were passing by and they had whipped
Agustin.
While the inquiry was going on in Accha, Otazú was being kept in jail in
Cusco, and the order to confiscate his belongings had been carried out on
August 14. Protesting the damage done to his reputation, he demanded to be
allowed to make a confession ‘in verbo sacerdote tacto pectore’, that is to say under
religious oath. This demand was granted him, and his deposition was recorded
on the 19 th of August in front of Don Matias de Ysunza, religious prosecutor of
the Real Audiencia of Lima, who headed the commission investigating Otazú.
The same seven charges were put to Otazú, without, however, the least allusion
to his complicity in the rebellion. He refuted them all, saying that he always
behaved as a ‘good ecclesiastic minister and faithful vassal of his Majesty’ (f.
27).
The true nature of the charge becomes apparent at this stage and testifies
to the conflicts of power in the communities, to the relations between categories
of racial and political identity, and to the limits of the authority of the priest:
‘Why’, asked the judge, ‘have Contreras whipped, when he is a Spaniard, and
as such is under the jurisdiction of the appropriate judge to whom any such
case should be referred?’ (f. 27) It is perfectly fitting for Otazú to give, in his
words, ‘the lightest blow [...] to an Indian like Ysidro Oviedo when he was
being deceitful towards the woman who is now his wife’, ‘a short slap that
caused the drop of blood in question’ (ff. 27 and 39), or to whip two old Indian
women under his jurisdiction. But to do the same to a Spaniard is a clear case
of misuse of power on the part of the priest.
To this Otazú answered that Agustin Contreras (to whom he had
previously referred as a mestizo) might call himself a Spaniard, but in truth he
looks more like a Zambo [a black African] and his behavior is perfectly
shameless, he is the head of a gang of robbers, thieves, and highway bandits,
and he never takes confession or follows the precepts of the church.(ff. 27v.
28r.). In other words, Otazú seemed to claim that young Contreras by his
appearance and his behavior did not qualify as a Spaniard.
213
Two weeks after this deposition, Otazú’s lawyer, Alejo de la Vega, tried
a different argument. In a letter to Ysunza, he challenged the legality of the
accusation and its rationality:
Only Indians are protected from whipping by Royal Orders and Laws.
And yet, in spite of this, the synods of every bishop allow that they can
be punished in moderation, within the limits of the usual 50 to 100
lashes according to the gravity of the crime ... Well, if this practice is
permissible towards the Indians who are expressly protected from
whipping by Royal decrees, what special privilege does Contreras hold
that he thinks the priest cannot punish his excesses (f. 39v.) ?
On the other hand, de la Vega also attacked Contreras for ‘except for the
fact of his son’ s whipping, having invented crimes of the greatest gravity, all of
them imaginary, and that are totally unrelated with the wrong that he believes
to have incurred.’ He also accused Contreras of ‘slandering [his client] by
The category of ‘Español’ might not be any more clear-cut than those of
‘Indio’ or ‘mestizo’ (see chapter 2, 2. 2. 2. ): There were in 1751, 65 individuals
who were classified as ‘Españoles’ in a visita of Accha Hanansaya. Most of
them had Spanish surnames, but some did not: the list included a Josefa
Pomacondor and a Pedro Quispe (AAC 35. 1, VI, 2, 39, 1751).
213
making a number of false charges, not only regarding his pastoral ministry, but
also, what is worse, regarding the horrendous crime of complicity with the
rebel Josef Gabriel Tupa amaro, without providing the least proofs for those
charges’ (f. 38.)
Why should Otazú’ s lawyer bring up in his defense his client’ s alleged
participation in the rebellion, when nobody else was mentioning it any longer?
It looks as if, recognizing the seriousness of the charge of whipping Contreras,
the lawyer used, in order to deflate the charge, the tagged-on accusation of
complicity in the rebellion. This, I believe, indicates that Otazú and his lawyer
were confident that this accusation could not be made to stick. More
importantly, they may have decided that the judges, who had investigated the
same charges against Otazú two years earlier and had fully exonerated him,
were not taking this accusation seriously.
This argument is reinforced by the existence of a letter signed by the
plaintiff, Vincente Contreras, and apparently written in his hand, addressed to
Juan de Dios de Valdivar, identified as the son-in-law of the corregidor, asking
him for his support in Contreras’ s suit against the ‘adversarial kinsman of
Thupa Amaro’ (f. 69). The letter somehow found its way into the legal file, but
nowhere else in the document is there a mention of this allegation of family ties
between Otazú and Contreras.
It would be a mistake to think that in this case, as in the 1781 accusation
of complicity, Otazú was getting lenient treatment from the religious
prosecutors because he was a priest. Quite the contrary: one needs to
remember that Otazú was a Mercedarian, and that those who judged him were
of the secular clergy. Since the middle of the 16 th century, the seculars had
been trying to regain the advantage they had lost by getting late into the
business of evangelization in the Americas. In the 18th century, the power
equation was rapidly changing, mostly for two reasons: the regulars were
losing credibility, and at the same time the crown was increasingly lining up on
the side of the secular clergy.
The regular clergy, and the Order of la Merced in particular, were being
accused of the same offenses that underlay the accusations made by Contreras
against Otazú: exploitation of the parishioners, physical and sexual abuse of
the Indians in the care of the doctrineros, and lack of zeal in the completion of
their duties of education and catechization (Juan and Ulloa 1978 [1826]).
There was between the regular and the secular clergy a state of war
aimed at either keeping or taking over doctrinas and parroquias, first in Cusco,
then progressively in the provinces away from Cusco. A sign of this process
was visible in Accha itself. The first two priests of the original reducción had
been Mercedarians, and Accha had been a Mercedarian stronghold ever since.
At the time of Otazú, however, this was no longer the case. The other priest,
the one in Hurinsaya, was a secular priest, Don Ysidro de Vargas.
At the beginning of the rebellion, an unnamed priest of Accha wrote to
the archbishop of Cusco, expressing his concern about the fact that he had
heard rumors that Tupac Amaru upon entering a village would insist on
having the priest open up the church, light up the altar and display the holy
sacraments (Durand Flores 1980-1982, Vol 1: 157). The priest asked the
Archbishop whether to refuse to obey the rebel, should he walk into Accha, or
to give in to the demands of the rebel in order to avoid being harmed.
Although the identity of that priest is not given in the letter, I content that it
must have been the secular Vargas checking in with his superiors: it would
have been very unlikely for the Mercedarian Tomás Otazú to ask the
Archbishop for directives. The difference between this cautious attitude of the
secular priest and Otazú’s alleged acts of fraternization with the rebels reflects
the schism existing between the secular and the regular clergy rather than
personal political attitudes towards the rebellion. One must also point out that
this opposition between the two priests followed the lines of the moiety
division. Other cases have been documented where the dual division played a
part in the rebellion, with one moiety supporting the rebels, and the other the
government forces (Cajías 1988ms)
During the procedure against Otazú, the antagonistic aspect of the
cohabitation between the two priests became apparent when the Vicar General
José Pérez decided to name Vargas to the commission conducting the inquiry in
Accha (AAC lxxiii, 2, 29, f. 3, 1783). Otazú reacted immediately to this saying
that ‘by right, the judge commissioned to sit on any commission needs to be
independent and impartial’ (f. 10). In consequence, it was the coadjutor of
neighboring Pampacucho, Lucas Sorayo, who was named by the prosecutor
Ysunza to head the commission in Accha. However, in some of the subsequent
suits against Otazú, Vargas was regularly involved in the action on the side of
the prosecution, either as a witness or an executor when he was entrusted to
physically remove gold objects from the house of Otazú in order to pay the
latter’ s debts.
The coexistence in Accha in 1783 of one Mercedarian and one secular
priest is an example of the process of secularization of the doctrinas in the
provinces. By that time, bishops no longer had the official power to replace the
regular priests with secular ones --as they did during the 16th century-- but
could fill all vacancies with seculars, that is to say with people that would be
directly under their control. A conviction of Otazú would have created such a
vacancy. As he was awaiting judgment in the Cusco prison, Otazú must have
been perfectly aware that he was running the very real risk of losing his
doctrina, that is to say his job, his social position and his income. What the
charge of complicity had not done in 1781, when the rebellion was still alive, it
was unlikely that the same charge would achieve two years later. On the other
hand, the charges of neglect of his pastoral duty, brutality, and misuse of power
were both real and serious.
Otazú was eventually vindicated after a counter-investigation of the
Contreras. All witnesses agreed in their opinion that those indeed were
Spaniards, ‘but of the lowest kind’ (AAC lxxiii, 2, 29, 1783, f66). Judge Pérez
ruled that in the case of the whipping the priest had been justified, and
sentenced the Contrerases to pay 50 pesos for ‘malicious slander’ (f. 79):
Regarding the lashing that the priest gave Agustin Contreras, given the
statements by the witnesses concerning the harm and the wrongs that he
inflicted upon the Indians, and that caused the good-hearted doctor to
punish him, whom I compliment for the way he fulfills his pastoral
obligations, I declare sufficient the time spent in jail, and the suspension
of his privileges that he endured for five months which more than punish
him for his excesses. I declare that his property be returned to him, and
that he should be set free and his privileges restored. (f. 78).
In this final manipulation of social categories, the judge sides with the
defense: Agustin Contreras, who was first identified as mestizo, then as a
sambo by Otazú, is recognized as exhibiting the behavior of a low-class Spaniard
and his punishment by the priest becomes justified for the good of the Indians.
By his actions, Contreras surrendered his status of Spaniard subject to the legal
authority of Spanish judges. He fell instead under the jurisdiction of the parish
priest, just as Indians did.
The case of Contreras vs. Otazú, besides this evidence of manipulation of
ethnic and social categories, also exemplifies another form of conflictual
relations. The abolition of corregimientos by Jáuregui in 1780 left a political
vacuum in the communities that both priests and caciques tried to fill (Cahill
1984). Both were in enough of a position of power to benefit from the
availability of extra income. Don Benito Mata Linares, the prosecutor who
conducted the interrogation of Tupac Amaru and is quoted above as putting
the blame for the rebellion on the corregidores, goes on in the same letter to
describe one of the ways for a priest to generate income:
[....The] corregidor may well initiate the destruction of the Indios, but
it is the priest who annihilates him. At the death of a poor parishioner,
the priest seizes all his possessions, his land and chattel, leaving his poor
widow and unfortunate family in the most lamentable situation, and if
this is not enough to cover the fee that he arbitrarily charges, he makes
them into slaves.
(Letter of Don Benito Mata Linares, oidor del Cusco, 1793, in AGI
Cusco 29)
Caciques also were in a position of power that led to the extraction of
revenue from the Indians.
214
The position of cacique was the highest rank in the
local indigenous hierarchy -- which might explain Otazú’s assumption that the
Contrerases were Indians. Traditionally, caciques were exempt from tribute,
and had control over the labor of the population. They were in particular
responsible for organizing the mit’a labor, which could be an important form of
leverage to trade and negotiate favors.
Priests and caciques were therefore in competition not only for social
control, but also for economic control, over the indigenous population. On a
denunciation by Otazú, the cacique Contreras lost his social position and his
The name cacique was borrowed from the Arawak language and used by
the Spaniards to designate local chiefs throughout Spanish America. In the
Andes, it replaced the Quechua curaca to designate the head of ayllu, moiety or
marka. Neither term, curaca or cacique, is used any longer. They have usually,
as in Accha, been replaced with ‘presidente’. However sometimes, as in
Pacariqtambo, the term ‘segunda persona’ (second person, lieutenant) is still
used for the heads of the ayllus, suggesting that the system was once dominated
by a ‘cacique principal’ at the head of the whole village.
214
source of income. On a denunciation by Contreras, the priest Otazú nearly lost
his.
Whether or not Otazú deserved the qualification of ‘tupamarista priest’,
his modest posthumous glory -- the inclusion of his name in Aparicio’s (1980)
article on rebel priests (see above 3. 1.) -- was eventually due to the rivalry
between antagonistic elements fighting over the economic and social control at
the local level in the provinces. The influence of these conflictual forces was
also an important factor in the Tupac Amaru rebellion and did not end with its
failure.
CONCLUSION:
CONTINUITY, CONFLICTS AND COMPROMISES
Before this last invasion, there had been one other occupation of church
land since I’ve been the priest here. That was about three years ago, I
guess. They just walked into the land as they did this time and started
hoeing. I tried to argue with them, showing them, with the help of Dr.
Frisancho (a mestizo from a hacendado family who has a law
degree) the illegality of their action. That didn’t work. So I went on
strike. I brought a chair and a table outside of the church and just sat
there, refusing to say mass. Finally they gave up. ‘
(Father Sergio 08/88)
So he just sat there, on that chair, at that table from 8 o’clock in the
morning until 12 noon, day after day after day. And it was going to be
the fiesta of Carmen, and obviously he wasn’t going to say mass. People
were starting to say, ‘Let’s kick him out of the village. What good is a
priest who doesn’t say mass? Let’s just put his stuff in his car and kick
him out of the village. ‘ But I said, ‘Careful! A priest isn’t just an
individual. He’s got a lot of support behind him. He’s got the whole
Church. It just wouldn’t do any good to kick him out. ‘ So we took
down the surkus and moved out of the field. The following day, he and
that idiot Frisancho were walking arm in arm throughout the streets,
feeling so macho...’
(Abelardo Fernandez Vaca 08/88)
In conclusion, I want to evoke factors that during my stay in Accha
directly or indirectly shaped the processual system of cultural production. One
of those was the intermittent presence in the region of members of the guerrilla
movement known as Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) and how this presence
affected the lives of Accheños. The other factor that I will sketch was once
again the Catholic church in the person of the village priest.
Father Sergio was a priest in many ways very much unlike Miguel Otazú --a
caring expatriate, believer in the theology of liberation-- but whose visions to
better the condition of Accheños were oddly blind to the most vital elements in
the lives of his parishioners.
1. Sendero Luminoso
1. 1. Fieldwork in a ‘zona liberada’
Between my first trip to Accha in 1985, when I was exploring the
possibilities of fieldwork there, and my return in July 1987, the control post of
the guardia civil had moved from the entrance of the village to Pilpinto, the
locality on the Apurimac river situated forty minutes away from Accha. My
official looking letters of recommendation from the National Institute of
Culture were given a much more thorough examination than they had received
at the occasion of my previous passage. I spent the final leg of the journey in a
state close to despair as I listened to truncated news and ironic commentaries
on the recent events. I remember that a mild mannered man in his fifties was
being teasingly asked whether he now slept with a machine gun in his bed: I
learned later that he was the mayor of Huillque, a small village half a day walk
south of Accha and part of Sergio’s parish. In May, a group of Shining Path
guerrillas had walked into the village, tried and executed two cattle-rustlers,
flogged several wife-beaters and redistributed cattle.
A few days later, a
215
guardia was found in the lagoon, dead of a knife-wound. This had occasioned
the retreat of the guardias to Pilpinto and the de facto abandonment of Accha to
the guerrillas.
As an anthropologist planning to do an extended period of fieldwork, I
was faced with several possibilities. The first that occurred to me was to look
215
Isbell (1992) reported that such actions are common Sendero tactics.
for a different and safer place where to do research. However, I remembered
the difficulties I had in selecting a site two years before and was not willing to
go through that again, and further delay the start of my work. I had also had
two years to start thinking about the theoretical issues presented by Accha’ s
unusual ayllu and moiety structure and was not eager to give up what I thought
would be an intellectually challenging situation. Another possibility was to see
the new situation as another kind of challenge and redirect my research on the
Shining Path itself. Yet I was concerned that an active investigation of the
guerrilla movement while living in a village that it controlled would constitute
a threat to my own safety and that of the people I would be staying and
working with. Faced with that choice I decided to remain in Accha and stay
with my original research project, which was after all the reason for my
presence there in the first place. I could postpone making a decision until
something happened that forced me to make a choice.
It turned out that, over the next two years, I never saw a guerrilla --not
knowingly anyway. From time to time, there would be rumors of guerrilla
actions in the villages around Accha and of movements of Guardias and
Shining Path at the limits of Chumbivilcas to the south. But, in keeping with
the decision I had made, I never solicited information on that matter.
216
1. 2. Accheños and cumpas
During my stay in Accha, the senderistas were referred to as cumpas,
short for compañeros, ‘companions’. Ricardo Roman remarks that this name is
That decision was reinforced in December 1988, when, on the birthday of
Abimael Guzman, leader of the Shining Path movement, two of my friends
working as development volunteers in a village of the Province of Apurimac
were summarily tried and executed by a group of teenage women guerillas for
having refused to leave the village.
216
less and less used in the sierra for the guerrillas and has been replaced with
terms that do not in anyway suggest an identification with the movement:
terrucos, senderucos, and --as a mock code-word-- sacos, for sacos largos, i. e.
sendero luminoso (Ricardo Roman, pers. com.). References to Sendero
Luminoso were often made in jest, as in the case mentioned above of the mayor
of Huillque, children would be threatened with the cumpas, or men would
jokingly warn each other to amend their womanizing or drunken ways before
the cumpas punished them. I felt that for many, the guerrillas were just another
threatening presence in a environment already full of dangers. Some, like my
compadre Eusebio , preferred their presence to that of the guardias: ‘the
217
cumpas make mistakes, but they make fewer mistakes than the police’.
This is not to say that the threat posed by Sendero was not real. In 1987
when they first ‘liberated’ the area, the guerrillas had a meeting with the village
authorities, and I have no information about the content of the meeting. But
they also visited the priest and he told me later that he had been warned that
the movement had no policy against priests at the time but that could change:
he should watch his steps. I suspect that the same kind of warning was issued
to the village authorities. The presence of Sendero continued after my
departure from Accha. The successor of the mayor of Huillque, the quiet
gentleman in the truck-- was publicly flogged in 1991 and the same year Sergio
had a new encounter with a guerrilla column during his annual tour of the
anexos. On Easter Sunday of 1992, a large red flag bearing the hammer and
sickle, emblem of Sendero, was unfurled on top of Siwina and stayed there until
the following Tuesday when the guardias came from Acomayo (they had left
This name, like that of several other Accheños mentioned in this chapter,
has been changed.
217
there post in Pilpinto in July 1989) with great demonstrations of firepower and
took down the flag.
1. 3. Victims of a foreign war
The lives of Accheños were affected by Sendero in various ways. One of
my young friends was drafted and while on leave in Accha told how his
company had been involved in a clean-up operation and how as a young
enlisted man he was put to guard the prisoners who looked, dressed and speak
like his parents. An officer caught Faustino in conversation with the suspects
and promised him he would “toughen him up”. The following morning
Faustino was summoned in front of two of the prisoners who had been hog-tied
and blindfolded, and ordered to shoot them point blank as they lay on the
ground.
Finally the Sendero presence also affected the village in a different way.
Ironically, as soon the guardias abandoned Accha in 1987, Accheños became de
facto terrorists for the mere reason that they lived in a zona liberada. They were
being harassed at police check points and considered with suspicion when they
attempted to conduct administrative business in Cusco. Once more, like in
colonial times, an identity that they had not chosen was imposed on them by
the dominant culture. As a consequence of the constant harassment by the
guardias, and the real danger of being arrested and disappeared, instead of an
exodus of Accheños out of the village, the reverse happened and villagers
tended to travel less. Less of the village production was sent to the city, and
people reverted to relying more on traditional networks of exchange and
barter.
In 1988, before the municipal elections were to take place, compadre
Eusebio, a very active, involved and popular individual in the village told me
over beer that his compañeros de base were pressuring him into running for
mayor. I answered that I thought it was a great idea and that I felt his
candidature would be an improvement over the current mayor (the Aprista
hacendado mentioned elsewhere). “You don’ t understand,” said Eusebio, “I
cannot do it. I have to consider the safety of my family”. “Surely the cumpas
would have nothing against you?” I replied. “It’ s not them I’ m afraid of”, said
Eusebio. “The day the guardias retake the village, they are going to kill all the
authorities.” That year, no one ran for mayor of Accha.
2. Padre Sergio’ s questionable decisions
2. 1. The land invasion
This work opened in the introduction with the account of the
Kachaqkalla laymi and the villagers’ assembly that preceded it. On that early
morning of March 1988, the presentation of my anthropologist’s credentials was
not by a long shot the most important item on the agenda, nor was I the only
unusual presence among the three hundred faenantes gathered in a circle in the
middle of the plain. While I walked out to the laymi, and had my decisive
encounter with Don Mariano, the priest and the justice of the peace had driven
the five miles from Accha in Father Sergio’s four-wheel drive pick-up truck to
resolve a crisis caused by an invasion of land belonging to the church.
Every year, at the end of the rainy season, Father Sergio went on a sixweek horseback tour of the anexos and other isolated parts of his parish. During
that time he conducted weddings and performed mass baptisms of the babies
born in the past year.
218
That year, while he was away there was a faena led by
One of Father Sergio’ s tricks of the trade that he related to me was that
when he was asked to baptize a baby who seemed abnormally still, he would
pinch the child to make sure he was still alive. Parents have been known to
bring their dead children to be baptized in order to prevent their souls from
218
some of the Hurinsaya authorities --including my compadre Abelardo
Fernandez Vaca, who was also at the time teniente alcalde [deputy mayor] for the
village). The faena corresponded to a de facto invasion of some church land
located in Achupampa, the vast plateau on the east side of Accha before the
drop to Pilpinto and the Apurimac.
It was a piece of land that the priest rented out to individuals who used
it to grow wheat or beans, or potatoes to people who didn’t have access to laymi
land, that is, mostly mestizos. The rent was one arroba per topo, which Father
Sergio used to feed lunch to about 80 needy children on school-days. The plots
were distributed by the catequista, who tended to help his friends. Renters
staked their claim in the same manner as participants to the laymi : by drawing
the perimeter of their plot and building a little border made of earth clods,
called surku (from the Spanish for ‘furrow’).
During the invasion, the invaders destroyed the surkus and turned the
land into a fondo (moiety communal land) for Hurinsaya. This was at once the
signal and the catalyst of the conflict between the church (in the person of
Father Sergio), and the campesinos, in the persons of the invaders. By the time
Sergio came back from his rounds, the conflict had escalated to include those
perceived as collaborators and there were talks of not only sending Sergio back
to France, but of firing the catequista too.
2. 2. History of the conflict
Father Sergio says that the land had belonged to the church for at least
two centuries. He had a document dated 1910 stating church ownership of the
land,
219
which had been willed to the church in exchange for masses for the
souls of the dead. Several years ago, he and other priests from the Acomayo
wandering in limbo.
region had a meeting and decided to put pressure on the Archbishop in Cusco
to sell all the land owned by the Church in the communities. The argument
was that as the priests collect the rent, they are put in a position of gamonales, of
landowners. Indeed in Accha, such land is known as terreno del cura “land of
the priest.” The Archbishop’ s response had been somewhat less than
forthcoming.
The solution reached for the specific land invasion discussed at the
assembly in March 1988 was the following compromise between Father Sergio,
the justice of the peace, and the president of the community. The priest
proposed that the invaders pay him the normal annual rent, which would be
used to feed the village children their daily school meal. People displaced by
the invasion would have no recourse and be put on the waiting list for the
following year. Then with the justice of the peace acting as notary, the land
would be sold to the poorest villagers and the product of the sale used for the
refection of both churches. This plan was subject to approval by the
Archbishop and would be ratified by the village assembly at large. That plan
obviously recognized the fait-accompli of the land-invasion, but at the same time
reinforced the fact of the ownership by the church. The revised plan, proposed
at the assembly by the president as “more logical” was to use some of the
communal product from the laymi to feed the children, as they ought to be the
responsibility of the whole community. This was the plan that was adopted by
the faenantes at the assembly. All parties declared themselves satisfied with the
compromise. But in fact, that resolution did not penalize the invaders, and
There seem to be several ways in which the Church acquired land. Some
was bought, some was granted (Pérez Rodriguez 1966), and some was
bequeathed more or less voluntarily by parishioners (see Letter of Don Benito
Mata Linares, 1793, quoted in chapter 8; see also Farfán 1942 for a
contemporary description of the priest as ghoul).
219
would probably eventually lead to a situation where the people who occupied
the land would refuse to recognize the claim of the church. In addition, the fact
that the compromise reached proposed to use a surplus from the laymi to settle
the priest’s demand is a clear indication that the invasion did not take place out
of necessity,
220
but rather as a political act against the priest and also against the
mestizos and other non-registered members of the community who did not have
access to laymi land.
2. 3. Church land and saints’ land
If Accheños had a problem recognizing the land of the priest from the
land of the Archbishop, the priest was guilty of not distinguishing between that
land and the land of the saints. I believe that his fault lay in the fact that unlike
his predecessors, he was not concerned with making a living out of his
priesthood.
When Father Sergio arrived in Accha in the 1970s, there had been a
hiatus of several years without a priest. Yet there was, awaiting him, had he
cared to notice, a structure that made the church and, in part, the fiesta system
mostly self-sufficient. I am referring to the structure of church and saints
chakras.
221
Don Mariano provided me with a list of those specifically ascribed
fields, mostly maizales, the product of which is earmarked for specific ritual
purposes I doubt that this is an exhaustive list as it exhibits the bias of a
member of Santa Ana and Hurinsaya. The distinction between the saints
chakras: and the church chakras is mine, not Don Mariano’ s. For him, all those
chakras are individual and do not fit into categories.
See chapter 1: “potato fields are free, they are everywhere.”
This system was probably inherited from the confradías (see Celestino and
Meyers 1981; Lebras 1940).
220
221
a) Saints chakras:
1)chakra Santiago in Punapampa;
2) near that a chakra for chicha for Santa Ana,
3) plus two more topos also for Santa Ana near Oyaino;
4) one trigal (wheat field) for Birhin (Virgin) Purificada, planted by Pancho
Vargas, the sacristan for Hurinsaya;
5)chakra of the Niño for Christmas, above Saccsahuaman;
6) chakra of San José, which has been sold;
7) Santa Rosa had a chakra of two topos in hacienda Bella Vista, but it was sold
to a man from Pilpinto 50 or 60 years ago “and we haven’ t been able to get it
back;”
8) Birhin de la Navidad also had a chakra that was sold;
9) Birhin del Carmen (Hurinsaya) has an apple orchard and a maizal in Tambo,
10) Hanansaya has a chakra also for Carmen in the same site.
b) Church chakras:
1) Aceitechakra was given to the church by the ancients (i. e. bequeathed at
death); it is located in Aya (Oyaino).
2) There is also a small Vinuchakra, near the chakra of Santa Ana, but it is
currently being planted by the carguyoq of Santa Ana.
3) to 6) There are also four chakras reserved for the sacristans for their own use.
7) One chakra ‘del señor parroquio Salas’ which that priest used to rent out for
profit (this has been sold),
8) and, near Oyaino, a trigal de la iglesia, reserved for the use of the priest, but
Sergio was not interested, so it was taken over by the people.
The saints’ chakras are given in usufruct to the carguyoqs of the fiestas.
They might use the product of thechakra to make chicha and/or sell it to cover
part of the cost of the cargo (see chapter 5). In contrast, church chakras serve for
the maintenance and the running of the church: vinuchakra (‘wine chakra’, to
buy mass wine), aceitechakra (‘oil chakra’) for the kerosene for the lamp that
burns in front the altar. There are also chakras for the personal use of the
various sacristans (one per church and chapel), and finally chakras for the
personal use of the priest, that he may plant for himself or rent out. Father
Sergio seemed to have overlooked the importance of those and over the years
allowed several saints and church chakras to be sold. The priest’ s lack of
interest in the matter, and the fact that he received a stipend from France that
covered his personal expenses as well as the cost of kerosene, wine and so on,
caused him to misjudge the economics and politics involved.
Letting Aceitechakra, Vinuchakra, and the priest’ s own chakras be used
for other purposes, created a situation that will be difficult to reverse. More
importantly, the fields that he indiscriminately sold were altogether in a
completely different category from the income-yielding land that had been
invaded in Achupampa, which he was perfectly justified in trying to sell. By
selling saints’ chakras he made it impossible for the carguyoq of those fiestas to
assume the cost, and therefore, in the opinion of Pancho Vargas,the Hurinsaya
sacristan, was responsible for the breakdown of the cargo system.
222
In the 1950s, when Don Mariano served as prioste for fiesta of Carmen, the
highest position in the cargo system, there was one prioste in each moiety and
more than twenty minor cargos. In 1989, for the whole village there were just
one prioste, one torrero (builder of the bullpen see chapter 4) and one albarero
who provides the rockets.
222
2. 4. One church or two?
When Father Sergio closed the Hurinsaya church, all the
saints’ statues and paintings were carried into the Hanansaya church, and
placed alongside or underneath the corresponding images in that church. In
consequence, the church of Hanansaya had two of everything: two statues of
Carmen, two crucified Christs, two supine Christs in their shroud, and so on,
which lent a decidedly surrealistic air to the already baroque decor of the
church. When there was a fiesta, the Hurinsaya people would carry their image
of the corresponding saint across the Plaza to the door of their church and
prepare and decorate the statue there, while their Hanansaya counterpart
would do the same to their statue in front of the Hanansaya church. Both
statues would then be carried in procession around the Plaza de Armas on the
shoulders of members of their respective moieties.
The performance of church rituals in Accha between 1987 and 1989
betrayed the respective positions of the priest and the villagers and the extent
to which they were willing to compromise. For instance, during the
performance of Holy Week, Father Sergio would tolerate leading a procession
on Holy Monday with the Señor de los Temblores (a crucified Christ) and on
Holy Friday with the Señor del Sepulcro (a reclining Christ in a glass coffin)
although he saw this as aberration: both logic and liturgy would demand that
those saints were reserved for after the Via Crucis. But he categorically refused
to have two images of Christ be paraded at the same time, judging that to be
“nonsensical”, and, I would suspect, rather sacrilegious. He amended the way
Holy Friday was celebrated in Accha before he came and now led a Via Crucis
at the normal time (3 p. m. ) with the Hanansaya Señor del Sepulcro and the
accompanying female saint, the Virgin de los Dolores. Then at 6 p. m., the
priest would lead a ‘procession’ following exactly the same route this time with
the Hurinsaya statues of the same two saints. However, for the celebration of
Carmen, the major fiesta in Accha, the processions would include side-by-side
the two statues of the virgins. The priest, under pressure form Hurinsaya,
would also say at least one mass outside the door of the condemned church. I
believe that the priest’s behavior betrayed the fact that he was not comfortable
with the existence of the dual structure, which offended his understanding of
the church doctrine, and his vision of what a parish should be like. The
shutting down of the Hurinsaya church is the most obvious sign of that
discomfort. The compromises reached in the above example indicate the limits
of what the population was willing to accept in exchange for having a resident
priest in the village, and securing his participation in fiesta rituals.
3. Imagining Accha: practice and history
This thesis is an attempt at sketching the cultural history of the people of
Accha, and the way they achieve and maintain a collective identity. I have
shown that cultural identity in Accha is mostly determined by the perception
and the expression of membership within a group. The actual nature of the
group changes according to the context and can be at any one time one or
several of the following: humans, Quechua speakers, Accheños, or members of
an ayllu.
The first five chapters of this thesis describe the mechanisms of
production and reproduction of group identity as I was able to identify them.
The next three chapters are my reconstruction of some of the historical
circumstances that affected those cultural mechanisms. I have followed the
path of “reverse history”, recently taken by Wachtel in his study of the Urus of
Bolivia (1990), not to explain today’s Accha from its past, or to interpret its
history in the light of its present, but to outline a set of the shaping forces and
their impact on the community’s contemporary life.
Since Marx, it has become a cliché to say that men and women are the
product of a history they help create but do not control. It is undeniable that
Accha was shaped by the Incas’ settling of various populations and by those
latter’s forced relocation by the Spaniards. But Accha is also defined by Don
Pancho sowing corn from the chakra Santa Ana through the streets of the ayllu,
and by Don Mariano plowing a furrow in Kachaqkalla on a plot that is marked
as his own by nothing except by communal agreement.
That however should not be taken as a statement of the belief in
historical continuity, nor as a claim for historical determinism --although I
venture that Accheños’ wariness of Cusco has not changed since Huascar; nor
has their anticipation of the first thunder at the end of July; the same faenas that
carried faced stones to the tip of Siwina also bring tiles to the roof of the church;
and the motivations that directed the building of two potato storehouses in
1989 were precisely the ones that led to the building of two graveyards seven
generations before and of two church several centuries ago.
The study of historical data dealing with Accha was meant to provide an
intersection between local history and large scale (national) history. This
anchoring of past events in a social reality that I was able to follow
intermittently through several centuries, brought a different sense of tangible
reality to the study of historical events and categories otherwise --in my mind-frozen in time, like the reducción or the Tupac Amaru rebellion. There are still
people called Otazú who live in Accha.
I generally believe that the material I have presented concerning the
elements by which contemporary Accheños both define and create their
identity (what I have called absolute and relative definition of the group, and
the corollary emphasis on boundaries and centers) is valid for Accha in the
time-frame of my study. The fact that those defining elements are expressed
and created through practice and maintained through time (reproduction and
transformation), both allows and limits their applicability to other spaces and
other times.
I must stress that the structure of practice discussed here is necessarily a
reflexive one. I have shown many examples of clearly thought-out expressions
of collective identity defined in terms of relative opposition in contexts of
coexistence and interaction of multiple groups (building the fences in chapter
4), of linguistic and spatial boundaries (crossing the Huatanay River in chapter
3), of the knowledge of an Inca presence (the myths of Siwina in chapter 5) and
of a Spanish colonial past (genesis in chapter 7). Ultimately, I believe that
reflectivity is above all evidenced in the various expressions of the fragility of
Accheño identity and statements of the necessity for renewal, reproduction and
and renegociation in the face of natural and man-made challenges.
At the beginning of my consideration of the impact of colonial
institutions on Andean social systems (chapter 6), I quoted De Certeau’s (1984)
assertion that strategies of domination operate on space, whereas time is the
locus for tactics of reinterpretation. I gave the reducción and the creation of new
villages as illustrations of the colonial appropriation of Andean space. I
propose that indeed through time, some of the tactics of reinterpretation of the
indigenous population (like for example the creation/re-creation of a moiety
structure and the building of the second church) did lead to their control over
space: that of the localized moieties and ayllus.
In fact, all ritual practice is concerned with the control of space. The
laymis have to do with agricultural and economic space. The ceremonies to the
apus are directed at with the recognition and definition of ritual space. The
symbolic mapping and claiming of social space is nowhere more acutely
apparent than in the faenas of the cemetery walls and the church roof, and in the
sowing of the little plaza of Santa Ana that metaphorically represents the
physical and social reproduction of the group. Even the Via Crucis mentioned
above in this section follows a path that amounts to the shortest possible circuit
linking the spatial limits of all four parcialidades. It is, like the building of the
fences for the bullfight of Carmen, a clear example of a ritual that stresses the
boundaries of the distinct groups in order to emphasize their unity.
But this control over space must be achieved primarily through time:
whether the temporal sequence of the consecutive cargos that an individual
must perform in his or her lifetime or the seasonal and agricultural time of
calendrical rituals. The relation between time and space is nowhere more
obvious than in the transformation of a spacial structure into a temporal one in
the case of the organization suggested to the priest by the president for the
faena of the Hanansaya church. Such a relation is also contained in the
symbolism of Cacharparimoco, the space of separation for those who leave the
village whether as a travelers or almas.
Time and space are used both in the absolute and relative definitions of
identity. I have shown that space, in the form of toponyms, can serve to anchor
regional or mythic history, and that on the contrary time that unearths the
deformed skulls of the Ñaupas serves to express distinctinctiveness. More than
anything, I have been able to show that through historical accidents, co-options
and the ritual maintenance of a complex processual structure, collective identity
of Accheños is the product of both their history and their practice.
GLOSSARY
alcalde (Sp)
mayor; one of the position of village-wide authority
in Accha.
almas (Sp)
lit. souls; the dead.
anexo (Sp)
annex; hamlet that is politically and
administratively related to a larger village or ayllu.
apacheta (Q)
a cairn like shrine connected with the apu and with
travel.
apu (Q)
the mountain-lord; also used for a non-Inca lord
(kuraka) and a male saint.
arroba (Sp)
unit of weight (about 30 pounds).
audiencia
tribunal; supreme court.
ayllu (Q)
variously defined Andean social group. In Accha, it
is territorily delimited, centered around a church
and organized in ritual practice in relation with or
within other groups.
barbecho (Sp)
first plowing; fallow.
cacicazgo
(Sp from Arawak)
cacique (Arawak)
position of cacique (see).
campesino (Sp)
lit., peasant, since the Agrarian Reforms, refers to
the indigenous population.
cargo (Sp)
lit. charge; ritual position of responsibility for a
fiesta, or in the ritual-political hierarchy.
local chief; used by the Spaniards throughout the
Americas; replaces kuraka (see) in the Andes.
carguyoq (Q from Sp)
Individual holding a cargo.
cayao (Q)
second division in the Inca tripartite social system;
foreigner, outdsider.
cédula (Sp)
legal document; (royal) edict.
ceque (Sp from Q)
a line, a division; an alignment of huacas.
chakitaqlla (Q)
Andean foot plow.
chakra (Q)
field; principally cultivated corn field in Accha.
chicha (Q)
corn beer.
chuñu (Q)
freeze-dried potatoes.
ch’eqta (Q)
a measure of land equivalent to 1/2 topo.
collana(Q)
the first division in the Inca tripartite system; elite.
compadre (Sp)
the general term for male ritual kin; compadrazgo
designates the institution.
comunero (Sp)
inhabitant of a community. In Accha, refers to the
Indian population, as opposed to ‘vecino’.
consejo (Sp)
town hall.
corregidor (Sp)
Spanish functionary who was responsible for
collecting tribute for the crown.
criollo (Sp)
from ‘criar’ to raise, as in animals and children; the
population of Spaniards born in the Americas.
curato (Sp)
parish.
cuwi (Q)
also cuy; Guinea pig.
doctrina (Sp)
parish dedicated to the conversion and catechization
of Indians.
encomendero (Sp)
recipient of an encomienda.
encomienda (Sp)
grant in Indians that guarantees a set income in
tribute to the grantee; the Indian population of the
grant.
empadronizado (Sp)
n. and adj. One who is registered in the community,
and therefore votes and works in communal labors.
Same as faneante.
faena (Q)
communal labor done jointly by registered members
of the group (faenantes).
fanega (Sp)
unit of weight and of land.
fondo (Q from Sp)
the land that is work communally by the 2 moietites.
forastero (Sp)
foreigner.
hacendado (Sp)
owner of an hacienda.
hacienda (Sp)
agricultural exploitation usually owned privately by
one individual or family and operated with the help
hired labor.
hanan/hurin (Q)
upper/lower (moieties).
hierno (Sp)
sometimes used instead of the Quechua qatay to
designate a male affine.
huaca (Q)
a generic term for shrine or sacred object or site.
informe (Sp)
report.
kuraka (Q)
also curaca; chief of a local political and
administrative unit (ayllu, marka, saya etc.); the
term was replaced after the Spanish conquest by
cacique.
laymi (Q)
general communal labor involving the faenantes of
the whole community and the annexes; the site
where such activity takes place.
legajo (Sp)
file, dossier.
llacta (Q)
village, country, place of provenance.
maizal (Sp)
corn field.
maqt’a (Q)
an avatar of the apu as a young man.
masa (Q)
team of 3 men plowing together; also an unit of
area.
the royal fringe of the Inca king.
mascapaycha (Q)
mestizo(Sp)
indinvidual of mixed ancestry; nowaday connotes
more a social class than a genetic group.
mit’a (Q)
forced labor, mosly in the mines, in colonial times.
mitima (Sp from Q)
also mitmaq; population relocated by the Incas.
mochador (Sp from Q)
shrine or place of worship; often used by the
extirpators for huaca (see).
ñawi (Q)
lit. eye, source, center etc...
ñusta (Q)
Inca princess.
pacarina (Q)
huaca of the place of origin of an ayllu.
pachacuti (Q)
revolution, transformation of the universe.
papal (Sp/Q)
potato field.
parcialidad (Sp)
section, division.
parroquia (Sp)
established parish.
payan (Q)
third division in the Inca tripartite system:
indigenous.
phukuy (Q)
a ritual gesture consisting in blowing on coca leaves
before chewing; relates to the apus
pleito (Sp)
legal suit.
qala (Q)
q’ala, ‘naked’; someone who has rejected his
cultural identity for that of cholo or mestizo
qatay (Q)
son- or brother-in-law; male affine; in-marrying
outsider.
reducción (Sp)
the resettlement of the Indian population into
villages at the beginning of the colonial period; esp.
viceroy Toledo.
repartimiento (Sp)
the population comprising an encomienda.
reparto (Sp)
1) forced distribution of goods to the Indian
populations.
2) also sometimes distribution of Indians to
Spanish encomenderos (see).
revisita (Sp)
inspection usually of the parishes by religious
authorities.
runa (Q)
human.
saya (Q)
moiety.
senderista (Sp)
member of Sendero Luminoso, Shining Path.
solar (Sp)
plot or lot; corresponds to 1/4 cuadra or city block.
suni (Q)
high valley plateau.
surco (Sp)
groove; in Accha, furrow drawn to signify
ownership of a plot of land.
tambo (Q)
an inn or a relay.
taruka (Q)
high altitude deer.
tasa (Sp)
evaluation; rate.
t’inka (Q)
libation.
t’inku (Q)
meeting, merging; ritual battle.
trago
liquor made by mixing industrial alcohol and water.
topo (Q)
unit of measure, principally of area.
tucuiricu (Q)
also tokoyrikoq, tokrikoq: overseer.
vecino(Sp)
neighbor, resident, applies to mestizos living in a
village.
visita (Sp)
inspection.
wachu (Q)
furrow.
yanantin (Q)
two-bowled drinking vessel used at weddings and
for Santiago.
yunta (Sp)
yoke; team of oxen.
˛
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