Amundsen-Meyer - 2011 - Identity Crisis in Archaeology (Calgary)

Identity Crisis:
Archaeological
Perspectives on Social
Identity
Proceedings of the 42nd (2010) Annual
Chacmool Archaeology Conference,
University of Calgary, Calgary, Alberta

Edited by Lindsay Amundsen-Meyer, Nicole
Engel and Sean Pickering

Published by:
Chacmool Archaeological Association
University of Calgary
2011

We would like to thank all the contributors for allowing us to include their research in this
volume and for their patience as we moved through the editing process. Thanks are also owed to
the members of the 2009 Chacmool Conference Committee, without whom this examination of
archaeological aspects of identity would not have occurred. We would also like to thank Dr.
Gerry Oetelaar for his continued help and guidance throughout all stages of the publication
process. Finally, thanks to the Chacmool Archaeological Association for continuing to sponsor
both the annual Chacmool Conference and the publication of each years proceedings.

Table of Contents

Introduction ..................................................................................................................................... 1
Lindsay M. Amundsen-Meyer

Paradox and Praxis in the Archaeology of Identity ...................................................................... 11
Andrew Gardner

Adorning Identities: Brooches as Social Strategy in Early Medieval Europe .............................. 27
Heather M. Flowers

Health and Social Status in early Anglo-Saxon England: A Consideration of Cemetery Evidence
from Edix Hill (Cambridgeshire) .................................................................................................. 37
Julia A. Gamble

Age and Gender Identities and Social Differentiation in the Central European Copper Age ...... 49
Jan Turek

Funerary Rites as a Means of Land Appropriation ....................................................................... 62
Lieve Donellan

Lifting the Veil: Identity and Dress of Brides on Athenian Vases ............................................... 74
Renee M. Gondek

Practical Identities: On the Relationship between Iconography and Group Identity.................... 86
Christopher M. Roberts

The Costume of Crisis Reinforcing Local Identity in Later Etruscan Art .................................... 96
Eoin M. O'Donaghue

Kashrut and Shechita The Relationship Between Dietary Practices and Ritual Slaughtering of
Animals on Jewish Identity ......................................................................................................... 106
Haskel J. Greenfield and Ram Bouchnick

"It Is Very Difficult to Know People...": Cuisine and Identity in Mycenaean Greece ............... 121
Julia Hruby

I Discard, Therefore I Am: Identity and Leave-Taking of Possessions .................................. 132
Monica L. Smith

Does Ethnicity Matter in Colonial Relations? The Case of South Italy ..................................... 143
Edward Herring

Theatres of Memory: Second Life and the Cyber Identity of the Middle Ages. ........................ 157
Megan Meredith-Lobay

Identity Negotiation during Tiwanaku State Collapse ................................................................ 167
Nicola Sharatt

The Archaeology of Death on the Shore of Lake Nicaragua ...................................................... 178
Sacha Wilke, Geoffrey McCafferty and Brett Watson

A Different Kind of Afterlife: The Cultural Biography of Headstones ...................................... 189
Katherine Cook

The King is Dead, Long Live the King: Mimesis and Identity in the Cultural Projects of the New
Order at Tikal .............................................................................................................................. 199
Joshua Englehardt

Hybrid Objects, Hybrid Social Identities: Style and Social Structure in the Late Horizon Andes
..................................................................................................................................................... 211
Cathy Lynne Costin

Sex, Drugs and Rock Gods: Examining Nicaraguan Stone Sculptures ...................................... 226
Sacha Wilke

Ceramic Analysis from the Site of La Delicias, Nicaragua ........................................................ 235
Lorelei Platz

Bling and Things: Ornamentation and Identity in Pacific Nicaragua ......................................... 243
Geoffrey McCafferty and Sharisse McCafferty

Who was that Masked Man: Iconography and Identity in the Middle Classic Maya Ballgame 253
Priscilla Mollard

Continuity, Cultural Dynamics, and Alcohol: The Reinterpretation of Identity through Chicha in
the Andes .................................................................................................................................... 263
Guy S. Duke

Harmony and Conflict: The Balseria Feast and Central Panamanian Chiefly Societies ............ 273
Mackenzie K. Jessome

Distinguishing Social Identity in the Archaeological Record: The Toyah/Tejas Social Field ... 285
John Arnn

Architecture and Social Identity: Observances from Two Historic Sites in Calgary ................. 299
Dale Boland

Social Memory and Identity as Reflected in the Reuse of a Residential Group at the Maya Site of
San Bartolo.................................................................................................................................. 311
Diane Davies

Everything Necessary for a Comfortable Existence: Colonialism and Identity in the Petit Nord,
Newfoundland ............................................................................................................................. 321
Jennifer Jones

A People for All Seasons: Expressions of Inuit Identity over the past 500 Years in Southern
Labrador ...................................................................................................................................... 332
Lisa K. Rankin

A Theory of Complexity, Archaeological Data, and the Ouroboros Problem: A Critical Analysis
of Archaeological Practice on the Northern Plateau, British Columbia ..................................... 341
Lucille E. Harris and Michael Wazenreid

An Anthropology of Third-Wave Mayanism: Emic Rationales Behind New Age
(Mis)appropriations of Ancient Maya Calendrics and Symbology ............................................ 352
Marc Blainey

Identiy Crisis: Archaeological Perspectives on Social Identity
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Introduction

Lindsay M. Amundsen-Meyer
Department of Archaeology, University of Calgary, 2500 University Dr. NW, Calgary, Alberta,
T2N 1N4

The Conference

Sponsored and organized by the Chacmool Undergraduate Association in the Department of
Archaeology at the University of Calgary, the Chacmool Conference is one of the largest annual
archaeology conferences in Canada. The papers included in this volume were drawn from close
to 120 papers presented at the 43
rd
Annual Chacmool Conference in November 2009. This
Conference was especially meaningful, as the mayor proclaimed the week prior to the
Conference Archaeology Week in the City of Calgary, an event which drew together the
Chacmool Archaeological Association, Graduate Archaeology Students Association and
Archaeological Society of Alberta to promote public awareness of archaeology. Entitled
Identity Crisis: Archaeological Perspectives on Social Identity, the conference was meant to
attract papers that would contribute to a dialogue on and the study of social identity in the
archaeological record. The response to the call for papers was extensive with topics ranging from
technological and culinary practices as markers of identity to material and spatial aspects of
households and communities as signs of identity, In fact, identity followed individuals to the
grave as indicated by the treatment and disposition of human remains in mortuary contexts.
Furthermore, participants in the conference came from the Circumpolar North to Latin America
and from Western Canada to, Greece and Rome.

Identity Crisis

As a component of daily practice, identity itself is a characteristic of both individuals and groups.
The construction and maintenance of identity in the past may not have been straightforward;
many of our social categories such as race, gender, and social status likely did not hold the same
meaning to the people of the past (Meskell 2001; Wynne-Jones and Croucher 2007). Theorizing
social identity in archaeology thus warrants recognition that, although our subjects are dead and
long-buried, they were once people with lives, friends, goals and senses of self. We should,
therefore, study past identities through the reconstruction of daily practices and social
interactions to gain a greater understanding of the people of the past.

Michel Foucault has argued that identity is a form of social construction which people impose on
themselves and others (Foucault 1994). The contributions to this volume highlight the fact that
there are, indeed, multiple, layered and plural identities, created through both self-definition and
the perceptions of others. Consequently, the concepts and definitions of identity discussed in this
volume are dynamic, changing with history, environment and socio-political relations
(Martindale 2009; Wynne-Jones and Croucher 2007). For archaeologists who are forced to
examine a static record, it is important to recognize the dynamic nature of social identity and to
adopt a more active view of the archaeological record in which the construction of identity
occurs as a fluid and continuous process (Meskell 2001).

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As archaeologists, we often operate under the assumption that artifacts and material remains
have a direct relationship with social identity (Casella and Fowler 2005). Although material
remains do serve as a good indication of social identity in many cases, this explicitly material
focus is not necessarily justified. As the contributors to this volume show, the examination of
material culture is only one of many ways in which social identity can be accessed in the
archaeological record. Because identity is the product of social processes, the study of the daily
lives of groups and individuals through material remains, iconography, communal events, dietary
practices or burial customs can lead to a greater understanding of the mechanisms of identity
construction and maintenance within a given culture (McGuire and Wurst 2002). As the
contributions in this volume illustrate, the question of identity in archaeology is intriguing given
the different approaches to identity construction and the different responses of individuals to
social stimuli in past societies. The articles included in this volume explore the study of identity
in a variety of contexts, ask different questions and offer new interpretations of the
archaeological record.

The Contributions

The papers in this volume represent only a small subset of a wide range of papers from different
regions and countries presented at the 2009 Chacmool Conference. The diverse array papers
presented here should include something for everyone, from new approaches or ways of looking
at identity in the archaeological record to new perspectives on social identity. Archaeologists in
the Old and New Worlds are faced with different problems, materials and social contexts in their
approaches to the study of identity. For organizational purposes, we have opted to present the
papers dealing with the Old World first, followed by those dealing with New World culture
areas, but we encourage our readers to explore the innovative approaches used in other parts of
the world which may, in fact, have applicability in their own culture area. However, the volume
begins with a paper by Andrew Gardner, the keynote speaker at the 2009 Conference, who
presents a discussion of theoretical approaches and considerations in the archaeological study of
identity. He discusses the fluid and multiple nature of social identity, which make it difficult to
discover this ever-changing concept in the archaeological record. Identities, Gardner suggests,
have the power to both divide and unite present and past populations. He nevertheless suggests
that social identity can and should be studied archaeologically and presents a number of
theoretical and methodological techniques for doing so. Gardners encouragement to take up the
study of social identity provides a nice lead into the remaining papers of the volume.

Old World Approaches to Identity
The symbolic world of a group or individual is often expressed in funerary contexts, making
mortuary analysis a good venue for identity research. At death, people are immortalized as they
were. Grave goods, as personal belongings and/or items of socio-symbolic significance, give an
indication of who a person was in life and may also create a metaphorical link between the living
and the dead. Similarly, skeletal analysis can provide an indication of the life of a particular
individual while the ritual accorded at death may reflect perceptions of the individual as well as
larger societal worldviews (Aranda et al. 2009; Bruck 2004; Mengoni 2010; Weiss-Krejci 2004).
Four papers in this volume explore social identity through funerary contexts in the Old World.
Heather Flowers uses grave goods, specifically brooches, to infer social identity during the
decline of the Roman Empire. To Flowers, the brooches served both functional and symbolic

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purposes. Their iconography reveals the social, political and religious status of individuals as
well as their kinship and personal identity. Through her analysis, Flowers also shows how
material culture can be used as a social strategy to create, maintain and visualize identity. Julia
Gambles paper provides an example of how bio-archaeology can be used to study social
identity. Through the combined analysis of grave goods and the health status of associated
individuals, Gamble is able to relate sex and/or gender differences to societal positions. Like
Gamble, Jan Turek examines how age and gender reflect social identities. Turek, however, takes
a different approach looking at body orientation rather than skeletal remains per se. Turek shows
that, although there were set rules for the orientation of male and female burials in the European
Copper Age, some elderly individuals cross this line suggesting that gendered social identities
sometimes change with age. Lieve Donnellan also uses funerary ritual to infer group, rather than
individual, identity. Donnellan shows how sixth century B.C. tumuli in the Greek colony of
Istros combine Greek and indigenous customs. He shows the fallacy of using rigid ethnic
dichotomies arguing that local/indigenous customs can be appropriated and new identities
created in colonial situations, a theme common in many papers in this volume.

Analysis of artistic representations is commonly used to identify and interpret social identity in
the archaeological record, because this iconography reflects the materialized worldview of the
respective society. Both material culture and the associated iconography make cultural
statements about their respective societies, specifically through social memory and related
praxis. In this way, social identity often becomes associated with specific types of iconography,
which can then be used to study these identities. Although artistic representations are often seen
as markers of political order and of elite social identity, they can also be used to explore how
common people mapped and understood their own social world. Further, artistic representations
and specialized artifacts are often used to enhance communication, and thus serve as a valuable
avenue from which to access social identity (Chenoweth 2009; Lucero 2010; Moore 2010; Perez
2005). In this volume, three papers use artistic representations to access social identity in the
past. Gondek examines how the clothing of brides represented on Ancient Greek vessels reflects
the womans new identity as a wife and shows how these artistic depictions differ from written
descriptions of the ceremony itself. Her work cautions us against using only a single line of
evidence to infer changes in social identity. Roberts paper builds on this situational, flexible and
context dependent nature of identity and explores how a flexible social identity can be studied
through the static material record. Roberts paper serves as a cautionary tale, identifying a
number of potential pitfalls in connecting iconography and identity. Moving away from
ceramics, Eoin ODonaghue uses Etruscan art on sarcophagi, engraved mirrors and tombs to
study local identity in the region. Like Gondek, ODonaghue specifically looks at types of dress.
By studying the period of Roman expansion in Etruria, ODonaghue shows how iconography can
be used to strengthen local identity during a time of conflict.

The production, distribution, and consumption of food are governed by ideological and cultural
rules that can serve as metaphors for social and world orders. These activities are related to
material practices that are accessible archaeologically and are linked to the construction,
maintenance and change in social identities. Our choices in the preparation and consumption of
foods reflect the division of labour (and by extension gendered identities) and social status, and,
by extension, the role of the group or individual within a larger society (Balme and Bowdler
2006; Lyons 2007; White 2005). Haskel Greenfield and Ram Bouchnik examine the relationship

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between religious identity and foodways, specifically studying Jewish dietary practices and food
production techniques. Zooarchaeological evidence from a number of sites in Israel is compared
with Jewish texts at both the household and community level. The authors identify multiple
levels of social identity where Jewish laws allow the construction of group identity while
household and community level dietary practices show the smaller scale process of self-
identification. Julia Hruby uses ceramic, paleobotanical and textual evidence to show that
Mycenean elites in the Aegean Bronze Age utilized different types of cuisine than the general
populace. Communal events often involved the conspicuous consumption of food and, as such,
provided the perfect setting for elites to negotiate and maintain their social power. Hruby is not
only able to examine differential class identities through dietary practices but also to show the
unique identity of the Palace of Nestor based on regional differentiation in ceramic styles.
Hrubys paper highlights that not only the types of food consumed but also the rituals and
material culture associated with its production and consumption can be used to infer the social
identity of the consumer.

Humans not only express their worldview through the production, distribution and consumption
of material culture including foods but also through the systematic discard these items (Hall
2001). Therefore, discard, or the leave-taking of possessions, can be a statement of identity just
as much as the production, circulation and use of these goods. In her paper therefore, Monica
Smith studies identity through the placement of sacred and secular trash in Asia and India. She
concludes that not only the trash, but the handling of trash as an event, can be a component of
identity formation and communication. Discarded items, therefore, should not simply be seen as
out of sight out of mind; they should be an object of study.

Reading through the contributions to this volume, it becomes clear that identity is not static or
singular; it is multiple, politicized and contested, created through a series of competing material
and ideological processes. The archaeological emphasis on cultural and political boundaries and
a static material record can sometimes cause us to overlook the many layers of contested
identities. However, culture contact is not simply an encounter: it is a dialogical relationship
which creates and negotiates new forms of cultural identity (Bernardini 2005; Curtoni et al.
2003; Martindale 2009). Several papers in this volume show (e.g., Cathy Costin, Diane Davies,
Nicola Sharatt and Lieve Donellan, among others) that times of conquest and instability are often
times when identities are contested, re-negotiated and re-created. At the beginning of this
volume, Andrew Gardners paper showed us the theoretical basis for this paradoxical nature of
identity and demonstrated how archaeology has been able to bring to light changing identities in
the later Roman Empire. Similarly, Edward Herrings paper examines changes in local power
relations in the colonial period of South Italy. The author illustrates how a basic division between
colonial and indigenous identities can be reformulated in ethnic terms. Herrings work
demonstrates shifting attitudes towards ethnicity that have occurred in anthropology and how a
middle ground approach can lead to valuable conclusions.

Although the articles thus far have discussed past identities, identity creation does not only occur
in the past. Popular culture brings ideas from the past and interpretations of history into the
present, causing identities to be re-lived and re-negotiated. Furthermore, in our modern
technological world, the internet serves as a vehicle to spread these ideas and as a tool of
ethnographic study and identity creation (Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2002; Silverman 2002). Along

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these lines, Megan Meredith-Lobay shows us how identities created and lived in the past can be
real and alive in the present. Through an online community, some individuals in our modern
world self-identify as medieval people. Meredith-Lobays work demonstrates that, if we use
only past indicators of cultural identity, we may create a very narrow interpretation of identity
that is not truly representative.

New World Approaches to Identity
The different contexts and opportunities of New and Old World archaeology do not preclude the
use of similar approaches in both regions. In the New World, as in the Old World, funerary
contexts lend themselves to the study of identity, as two papers in this volume demonstrate.
Using mortuary data from Peru, Nicola Sharatt studies a time of major socio-political change to
show differences in identities before and after the collapse of the Tiwanaku state. Although
archaeologists commonly study the rise of colonial empires, the disintegration of these empires is
less commonly considered. Sharatts paper illustrates how new and interesting interpretations can
result from the study of contested and re-negotiated identities during such times of upheaval.
Wilke and her collaborators, like Jan Turek, use styles of burial as a window into past identity.
The authors identify three distinct burial styles in the cemetery of El Rayo, Nicaragua that allow
them to infer changes in social complexity through time and across societal classes.

Analyses of artistic representations also cross-cut continents, as six papers in this volume show
through their analyses of stelae, sculptures, headstones and ceramics in the New World.
Katherine Cook bridges the study of funerary contexts and artistic representations in her analysis
of the iconography on headstones from the Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria, British Columbia.
Cook argues that although these monuments are often seen as static markers of individual
identity, tracing the historical changes of the monuments indicates that they are as fluid in death
as in life. Cooks paper demonstrates that identity construction and negotiation can continue even
after an individual or group no longer exists. Josh Englehardt studies iconography on Classic
Maya stelae to explore how Maya rulers appropriated the identity and iconography of other
groups in order to assert control over these groups. Englehardts paper highlights ways in which
symbolic representations of identity can be manipulated in order to create a new social reality.
Cathy Costin also examines identity construction and negotiation during the imperial expansion
of the Inka Empire. Unlike Englehardt, Costin shows how hybrid ceramic iconography, which
combined both imperial and indigenous symbols, was used by the state to reinforce subjugated
identities and by the subjugated groups as a form of identity rebellion. Through sculpture, Sacha
Wilke applies an approach similar to Englehardt to study the possibility of expansion and contact
between Mesoamerica and Lower Central America. In the process of studying the larger group
identity, Wilke discovers that both individual identity and that of an individuals societal role can
be manifest artistically. Lorelei Platz uses ceramic manufacture and iconography to study social
identity in a period for which little other cultural information is available. Platz work reveals
that ceramics from the Tempisque period (500 B.C. to 300 A.D.) in Nicaragua appear to be most
closely related to vessels from Honduras, a conclusion which has implications for the larger
group identity of these people. Finally, Geoff and Sharisse McCafferty examine how material
culture (specifically objects of ornamentation) were used to assert identities. In this paper, the
McCaffertys examine how identities are performed in Pacific Nicaragua, with symbols used as
the material representation of this performance.


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In the archaeological record, group identity is often inferred from spatial variation in material
culture. The creation of this group identity occurs through the acting out of communal events
where a sense of us is built around a perceived commonality (Demers 2009; Emberling 1997;
Nassanay 2008). This commonality is asserted in events such as the ritual imbibing of chicha in
the Inka Empire, the balseria feast in Panama and the Mayan ballgame. Priscilla Mollard, for
example, ties together the study of communal events and artistic representations by examining
iconography depicting the Classic Maya ballgame. The ballgame itself was a ritual performance
that reinforced the spiritual identity of the Classic Maya. Mollards study is particularly
interesting as it examines depictions of the ballgame both as indicators of regional group identity
and of individual social identity. Guy Duke examines how chicha, the official beverage of the
Inka court, was used to assert indigenous identity in colonial times and into the present. He
illustrates that, although the context in which chicha is consumed has changed over time,
drinking chicha has remained an identity practice for indigenous peoples of the region. Dukes
work highlights the dynamic nature of identity creation and negotiation. Mackenzie Jessome
examines how the balseria, a form of ritualized warfare in Central Panama, was used as a
political ritual for obtaining social rank. Jessomes work shows that communal events such as the
balseria can be used as a strategy for obtaining political and social power within a group, and
how this power can be transferred between groups. John Arnns discussion of group identity
takes a different tact, cautioning archaeologists not to always emphasize divisions and
boundaries within and between cultural groups. Arnns examination of Texan aboriginal groups
at the time of contact suggests that, although the cultural setting is pluralistic, the archaeological
record is quite homogeneous. These groups are seldom isolated and boundaries are commonly
permeable.

Architecture and built space are material entities, situated in social space, which direct peoples
daily lives and which incorporate their identity into the material record. Buildings reflect the
identity of the people who constructed them and serve as a non-verbal form of communication.
Furthermore, architecture is created with a spatial structure that represents an individual or
groups cultural values and identity. Peoples relationship to particular buildings, therefore, was
(and is) part of their constructed identity (Coupland 2006; Dawson 2007; Lyons 2007; Nanoglou
2008). Two papers in this volume address the study of architecture and identity. In her study of a
late nineteenth century log structure in Alberta, Dale Boland examines how architecture can be
representative of social identity and serve as an expression of individual agency. Boland shows
how the style and history of a building can provide clues into the lives of the people. Diane
Davies, like Boland, examines architecture, but Davies does so in the prehistoric context of the
Preclassic Maya site of San Bartolo. Instead of examining standing structures as a marker of
social identity, Davies illustrates how structure reuse can become a medium of expression for
individuals and groups who use these buildings as a way to connect with their past and their
ancestors and, in doing so, create a new individual or communal identity. Davies work
highlights the fact that not only the material expression of architecture but also the reuse of
architecture can shed light on social identities in the past.

In addition to architecture, the spatial organization within houses and settlements as well as
household material assemblages can be studied as indicators of social identity (Nanoglou 2008).
The household represents the basic unit of analysis in social organization. Therefore, household
archaeology is well suited to the study of identity because different cultures and individuals have

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different conceptions of social space. Domestic architecture and the organization of space within
such structures, therefore, encode and communicate information about the traditions and identity
of the group (Coupland 2006; Dawson 2008; Lyons 2007; Oetelaar 2000). Like studies of
architecture, studies of household assemblages can be undertaken in both historic and prehistoric
contexts, as shown by two papers in this volume. Jennifer Jones, for example, uses historic
household assemblages to illustrate how different identities were constructed by the Guardiens
and other fishermen in the Petit Nord of Newfoundland. She uses economic differences inferred
from the material assemblage of the Kearney household to interpret intercultural interaction and
differentiation. A salient point arising from Jones work is the idea that identity can be
constructed not only through commonality, but also through difference. Lisa Rankin, in turn,
examines the household assemblage of the Inuit in Southern Labrador and explores shifts in Inuit
identity as these people moved out of the eastern Arctic, encountering new environments and
peoples. Rankins contribution once again highlights the changing nature of identity as Inuit
maintained, re-negotiated, altered and expressed their identity through centuries of culture
change.

We finish this volume with two theoretical papers from the New World which leave us with
some poignant thoughts on social identity. Looking specifically at the Northern Plateau of British
Columbia, Lucille Harris and Michael Wazenreid examine the expression of social identity in
complex societies. These authors review the history of argument construction and the problems
in using ethnography for studies of social identity, leaving us to wonder how our own theoretical
frameworks affect our interpretations of social and ethnic identity. Finally, Mark Blainey closes
the volume with a call for an emic approach, which he applies to the modern veneration of the
Maya 2012 prophecy. Like Harris and Wazenreid, Blainey implicates our own worldview in our
interpretations of the past. He also demonstrates how an indigenous and a Western worldview
can be reconciled, ultimately leading to a more valuable and perhaps realistic interpretation of
the past.

The contributions in this volume represent only a small sample of the approaches used to study
social identity in the archaeological record of the Old and New Worlds. Each paper included in
the volume presents a unique and innovative approach or interpretation of social identity in the
past. The study of identity in archaeology is in a constant state of transformation, and these
contributions not only answer some questions but also raise new issues for tomorrow.

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2004 Mortuary Representations of the Noble House: A Cross-Cultural Comparison Between
Collective Tombs of the Ancient Maya and Dynastic Europe. Journal of Social Archaeology
4(3):368404.

White, Christine D.
2005 Gendered Food Behaviour Among the Maya: Time, Place, Status and Ritual. Journal of
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Wynne-Jones, Stephanie and Sarah K. Croucher
2007 Theorizing Identity in African Archaeology. Journal of Social Archaeology 7(3):283285.


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Paradox and Praxis in the Archaeology of Identity

Andrew Gardner
Institute of Archaeology, University College London

ABSTRACT. Questions of identity dominate archaeological discussion because identity is a
large part of the reason for doing archaeology at all. Yet archaeologists have struggled to
grapple with the paradoxical nature of identity, which is both fixed and fluid. In the present and
in the past, identities are contingent yet essential, affording yet constraining, unifying yet
divisive. Sensitivity to context is the only way of untangling such a mass of potentially multiple
contradictions, and while always a challenge in archaeology this is an approachable goal, when
twinned with a framework which foregrounds practice not just things, then, but what people
did with things. This paper proposes some methodological and theoretical suggestions for taking
up this challenge, highlighting the importance of holistic material culture studies and some
insights from Structuration theory and Symbolic Interactionism. Examples are drawn from the
archaeology of the Roman empire and from the reception and redeployment of identities linked
to that empire in later times.

Identity and the Archaeological Agenda

The language changes, but the connection remains constant: archaeology is fundamentally a
discipline concerned with identity. While by definition dealing with old things, it is the meaning
of these things as associated with people that makes archaeology of interest to both its
practitioners and its audiences (cf. e.g., Daniel 1981:13, 172). How that association is to be
construed, in terms of ethnicity, rank and status, gender, age or occupation, has varied
considerably over the course of the history of archaeology, and these things have not always
been referred to as identities at all (cf. Daz-Andreu and Lucy 2005:24; Meskell 2001:190192,
2002:279282). The substance of archaeological interpretation has nonetheless revolved around
them. From the Renaissance scholars seeking to make their cities rivals of Rome in fame, to
Gordon Childes cultures and the New Archaeologists debates over burial ranking,
archaeologists have been preoccupied with identities in the past and explicitly or implicitly
their connections to identities in the present. This in itself begins to give the lie to the idea that
the complexity of identity is primarily a contemporary obsession, but this suggestion requires
some further consideration, as it can be a common motif both in the sociological literature from
which we must draw, and in some internal critiques (Bauman 2004:20; Ct and Levine 2002:1
2; Pitts 2007:700; cf. Jenkins 2004:814; Shennan 1989:1415). Most obviously, the papers
delivered at this Chacmool conference, and the countless case studies published by
archaeologists exploring this theme, confirm that this is not the case, and in this paper I will add
some of my own examples to demonstrate, I hope, that identity politics is far from novel.

Moreover, at a conceptual level it seems clear that the role identities perform in human social life
is not just a product of modernity, but relates to a deeper propensity towards classification
(Jenkins 2000). This, though, begs the question of what identity means. Here we should

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acknowledge that if identity has been an ongoing concern, the terminology associated with it has
changed, with the word identity itself taking a prominence in recent decades that it lacked
previously. Importantly, this term has shifted from meaning sameness to accommodate
difference, and therefore encompass the dialectical process of identification as we now
understand it (Skefeld 1999:417; Woodward 2002:viixii). Identity is furthermore about the
relationship between individuals and societies (e.g. Daz-Andreu and Lucy 2005:56; Jenkins
2000:10; Verkuyten 2005:19), and therefore about selfhood, personhood, community and
institution. It is about power and politics (e.g., Bauman 2004:38; McBryde 1992; Meskell 2002).
And herein lies the most important connection with archaeology it is about time. As
Richard Jenkins puts it: without a past we could hardly know who we are (2002:274; cf. Cohen
1985:98103). Such an oft-repeated sentiment risks sounding trite, yet it underpins the existence
of archaeology as a particular way of dealing with a concern which everyone shares: the rooted-
ness of sameness and difference in past experience.

I would therefore go so far as to make the suggestion that all archaeology is ultimately
archaeology of and for identity, and that there is no more pressing matter of theoretical and
methodological significance in our discipline, precisely because its limits extend far beyond our
disciplinary boundaries, both within the academy and in the public sphere. In this paper my aim
is to develop this argument through examples, which will be focused around two key problems.
The first has to do with the paradoxical nature of identity as both fluid and fixed, which actually
underlies many of the theoretical disputes within archaeology and other fields. The second has to
do with the implementation of an explicit archaeology of identity through a focus on practice.
This is not a new approach (e.g., Jones 1997; Lightfoot et al. 1998), but it does need to be re-
evaluated in the context of the perspective on identities proposed in the first half of the paper.
My examples will be focused around the identities associated with a particular Roman site in
Wales in a range of different temporal contexts, and through this I hope to further illustrate that
while identity is a consistent thread in human societies, its particular dynamics are always
situated (cf., Jenkins 2004:1014). This point is worth remembering as we explore the
relationships between past and present identities, upon which theme I will conclude.

Sources of Paradox: Multiplicity and Commitment

For quite some time, archaeologists have been moving beyond essentialist and monolithic
identities and investigating plural and situational ones (e.g., Jones 1997). While it is vital to
deploy the insights from constructivist or instrumentalist approaches in building a workable
theory of identity, an important corollary of this is that we do not neglect the way in which
identities come to feel essential and fixed. This is a lapse sometimes made in recent treatments
of the topic (e.g., Casella and Fowler 2005:78; Daz-Andreu and Lucy 2005:2; cf. Jones
1997:7983; Lucy 2005:100), but one that need not be made if we take on board all of the
relevant contributions from social psychological work on the theme. Many of the key elements
of this work derive from the founders of the Symbolic Interactionist (SI) tradition and the work
of people like George Herbert Mead and Erving Goffman, synthesised most effectively in recent
years by Richard Jenkins (2000, 2004), with the addition of insights from later work, including
Giddens structuration theory (especially 1984). These approaches converge on the idea that
identity is a phenomenon that unites individuals and collectives, and might thus be described as a
medium that binds agency and structure (Gardner 2007:239240; Jenkins 2004:24; Verkuyten

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2005:16). As such, identification can be conceived as a process linking individuals and
institutions through the interactions that people engage in.

This process can be further described as consisting of an internal-external dialectic of
identification (Jenkins 2004:1819). This idea expresses the comparative definition of identity
between self and other at both the individual and collective level people create definitions of
themselves partly in relation to others definitions. In this way we can grapple with the degrees
to which identity can be constrained or imposed as well as created, and also with the relationship
between self-images and public images. This relationship is important because, among other
things, it accounts for the way in which constructed identities become internalised, generating
commitment to them, and coming to seem anything but constructed to people participating in
them (Jenkins 2004:2021). At the individual level, this is especially true when the process
begins in primary socialisation, leading to the creation of quite stable commitments to some
forms of identity, such as gender (Jenkins 2004:19; Sandstrom et al. 2006:5789; cf. Lucy
2005:98). In archaeology, this inward-facing side of identity seems to have been accorded less
prominence than the outward-facing, signalling side (e.g., Lightfoot et al.1998:216), perhaps
because of the legacy of the style wars in our discipline and the ways in which we tend to view
material culture as communicative.

At the institutional level this internal-external dialectic also holds good; there is a tension
between group identification (asserted by its members) and categorisation (imposed by outsiders)
(Jenkins 2004:2122), typically centered upon the negotiation of boundaries. The kinds of
collective identity which are so defined can further be analysed in terms of the relationship
between their nominal and virtual aspects their name, and the experience of living with that
name for individual members (Jenkins 2004:2223) allowing us to track similarity and
difference within groups. Altogether, this set of theoretical tools allows us to unpick the many
dimensions of identity, the relationships between these identities, and the part that power plays in
their maintenance and transformation.

In this they help us to deal with the paradox of identity, both in general terms and with specific
reference to our field (cf. Hewitt 2003:102105). While the ambiguity and multiplicity of
identities, neglected for so long in archaeology (Meskell 2002:281285), needed to be asserted
and has quite successfully been restored (e.g., Mattingly 2004; Meskell 1999), there is an equal
need to balance this with an understanding of how and when, in the past and in the present,
particular identities become reified, fixed, institutionalised and committed to (cf. and contra
Casella and Fowler 2005:68). The source of multiplicity the many roles which people
inhabit, and their susceptibility to change over time is well-understood, but the source of
commitment to identities is perhaps less so. Partly it happens because of the mundane, taken-for-
granted ways in which people live them and the enactment of identities in practice will be my
second theme but crucially it happens because of the distribution of power in a society
(Jenkins 2004:23). The processes by which identities can be imposed often involve power over
(Miller and Tilley 1984:5), whether this be the power of parents over children, doctors over
patients, or imperial administrators over subjugated people. Internalised identities, however,
frequently enable power to subvert, resist or challenge such inequality (Holland et al.
1998:192232; Jenkins 2004:7276; Vekuyten 2005:145148), and thereby reinforce the
commitment that individuals have to them. Moreover, we should not underestimate the

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emotional importance that stability of identity, even if that identity is stigmatised, has to an
individuals ability to continue with everyday life (Garfinkel 2006:15179; Goffman 1963). In
words which underscore the importance of Giddens notion of ontological security (Giddens
1984:50), Jenkins writes: the routine stability and constancy of ordinary lives is something
important that is often lost sight of amid all the talk about identity (2004:9). As I hope to show
in the second half of this paper, practice provides the mechanism for both stability and change in
social life, and is highly amenable to archaeological investigation.

Before moving on to this theme, I want to illustrate some of the principles discussed so far with a
brief example. As mentioned above, I am going to move around in time with my examples, but
focus upon one place and its inhabitants and associations. This place is Caerleon in southeast
Wales, now a town close to the City of Newport, and best-known in archaeological terms as the
site of one of the three long-term Roman legionary fortresses in Britain. For present purposes, I
want to explore some of the post-Roman history of Caerleon, and look at the way a pseudo-
historical figure associated with this location has been used in the creation of a range of different
identities, and has conferred legitimacy and commitment while also symbolising multiplicity.
This figure is King Arthur, who is fascinating as a resource through which people in a range of
times and places create narratives of identity that become powerful on a long-term basis. In
particular, the story of the creation of Arthur highlights how identities interact with each other,
and are appropriated to different causes, through specific practices such as the writing of
histories, poems and legends.

There are two principal Medieval writers who talk about Caerleon. One is Giraldus Cambrensis
Gerald of Wales who describes some of the upstanding ruins of the Roman site there in his
late twelfth century Itinerary of Wales; Gerald is perhaps more important for his role in creating
stereotypes of the Irish, and will not concern us much more here (Itinerarium Kambriae I,5;
Boon 1972:69, 133; Murphy 1999:3359). The other writer, living earlier in the twelfth century,
is Galfridus Monemutensis, Geoffrey of Monmouth, and it is the effect of his work that I wish to
concentrate on. King Arthur has competing claimants to his celebrity aura in various parts of the
UK, including the Scottish borders, Cornwall and the west country, and Wales. The case of the
latter rests quite significantly on Geoffreys account, in his Historia regum Britanniae (History
of the Kings of Britain; a.k.a. De gestis Britonum [Concerning the Deeds of the Britons]; Reeve
2007:viiviii), describing Arthurs court at Caerleon. In this story, the Roman remains of
Caerleon are reimagined as a palatial center with important ecclesiastical and scholarly
institutions, and Arthur chooses to celebrate both the feast of Whitsun and mark a victory in Gaul
there. A great roster of guests from across Europe appear, games and banquets are held, and the
twelfth century ideals of chivalry and power are projected back into the sixth century (Historia,
IX, 156162; Higham 2002:2256). This episode is part of a detailed account of Arthurs reign,
which forms the climax for a History that recounts the lineage of British kings back to the
Trojans and Brutus, son of Aeneas. Geoffrey claims that his work is based upon a lost British
book, though much is actually taken from earlier historians Gildas, Nennius and Bede, and
even more his own talent for fiction (Historia, Prologue; Higham 2002:2235; Reeve 2007:lvii).
Even in the twelfth century, some other historians such as Gerald of Wales were
dismissive of the Galfridian narrative, but it was not until the later sixteenth century that such
criticism became more forceful and more widely accepted (Higham 2002:224, 235239; Knight
2001:48; cf. Kidd 1999:89). In the intervening 400 years, Geoffreys histories which

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circulated in considerable numbers (Davies 2000:39; Reeve 2007:vii) had a profound
influence on the formation of British identities, which has outlived the dismissal of his fabricated
facts. As such, they illustrate the way invented traditions can underpin identities and so become
internalised, sedimented, and powerful.

Geoffreys account of an extremely long British past (given the time in which he worked), which
culminated in the life of the heroic King Arthur, was written in the midst of a period when
Anglo-Norman expansion was impinging upon more and more parts of the British Isles, though
was in the process of being temporarily checked in Wales. The fundamental problem to which it
spoke was the relationship between British and English identities, which was already a well-
established source of tension going back at least to Bede in the eighth century (Davies 2000:10
12, 3548; Higham 2002:221226), revolving around the consequences of the Anglo-Saxon
arrival in Britain following the collapse of the Roman diocese in the

fifth century. Revealingly,
the end of Geoffreys text changed between the first and subsequent versions, with a promise that
the British would regain control of the Isles (the Welsh referred to themselves as British at this
time) being altered to a statement that they were weak and unable to hold this ambition any
longer (Davies 2000:40, 44). Nonetheless, the military expansion of England within the British
Isles over subsequent centuries was buttressed by concerted efforts to appropriate Galfridian
history, and particularly Arthur, for English monarchical legitimacy (Davies 2000:3153;
Higham 2002:226239). One particularly devoted follower of Arthurian traditions in the
thirteenth century was Edward I. Edward sought supposed Arthurian relics from Wales after
defeating the last really independent Welsh prince Llewelyn and was personally involved in the
refurbishment of Arthurs tomb at Glastonbury in 1278, while a near-contemporary account of
his second wedding in 1299 directly followed Geoffreys Caerleon story, indicating that the
identification with Arthur had spread (Davies 2000:32, 4043; Higham 2002:2323; Loomis
1953). The remains of Arthur and Guinevere, discovered in 1191, were another fabrication,
which served largely to reassure any rebellious Britons that Arthur was dead, and would not
return as some believed. At the same time state patronage of the monument helped to create a
link between English and British lines of kingship, and ultimately back to powerful classical
ideals via the mythical Trojan founders of Rome (Edward also built one of his most important
castles, at Caernarfon, to resemble Constantinople; Davies 2000:2, 3143; Higham 2002:226
235). This kind of appropriation continued until the Tudor period, when a dynasty with Welsh
connections sought to make the most of them. Elizabeth, for example, held Arthurian pageants,
while Caerleon and its Arthurian connection figures heavily in a poem by Thomas Churchyard
written in 1587 (The Worthines of Wales) and dedicated to the queen (Barber 1986:138140;
Knight 2001:4951).

From the later sixteenth century onwards, though, Galfridian history succumbed to increasingly
rigorous research and criticism and gradually became more of a joke than a political point of
reference (Higham 2002:239266; Kidd 1999:8384; cf. Davies 2000:39, 41). The relationship
between the elements of what gradually became the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Northern Ireland were set out in Acts of Union rather than military conquests, and new ideas of
Britishness began to be created in relation to a worldwide empire. These still drew upon the
ancient past, however, and the creation of a new discourse about Celticness to contrast with
Saxon-ness in the eighteenth century replaced the Anglo-British dilemma of the early Middle
Ages, reflecting the successful mapping of the idea of Britain onto England (Davies 2002:43

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53; Kidd 1999:8398; cf., Geary 2002; Hingley 2000; James 1999a). The Roman past also
became more important in the nineteenth century, reflecting the international colonial ambitions
of the day.

Arthurs role in these later centuries changed and became less political. For the earlier Middle
Ages, though, this example of the fantasy of Arthurian Caerleon shows both the mutability of
identity within the dialectic of self and other, but also that its contours can become remarkably
fixed through a mixture of concerted political action by individuals who shape institutions, and
peoples need for past roots. In this case, one specific kind of practice writing has taken
center-stage. This can be seen as a practice that facilitates the intentional creation of memories,
which are then institutionalised, internalised and deployed by a wide range of people who
commit to those memories over a considerable expanse of time. In the second half of this paper, I
will explore other types of practice, and expand upon the significance of this concept for the
method of interpretation in archaeology.

The Archaeology of Practice, in Practice

Practice has been part of the language of archaeology for more than two decades, and according
to Michelle Hegmons recent review (2003:219222), is now a widely accepted approach.
Certainly, the theme has figured heavily in some influential theoretical publications (e.g., Dobres
2000; Dobres and Hoffman 1994; Jones 1997), and been applied in some detailed case studies
(e.g., Fewster 2007; Joyce 2004; Lightfoot et al. 1998). Here, then, I want to focus on a couple of
key elements that serve the purposes of this paper. One is how, theoretically, practice serves as a
unifying theme for a number of different approaches that also have a lot to say about identity and
offer analytical tools that can be of assistance to us in understanding it, such as those already
discussed. Secondly, and following on from this, I want to highlight the methodological
implications of practice theory, which have perhaps yet to be explicitly generalised or widely
adopted in the production of archaeological data. In this discussion I will tend to use the terms
action and practice somewhat interchangeably, and my title contains yet a third praxis. For
archaeological purposes all can usually be considered characteristic of a certain approach, but
there are some subtle differences between them that are worth bearing in mind. Praxis, whilst
meaning action or practice in Greek, has come to have a more specific sense in the Marxist
tradition, of a unified continuum of thought and action that can lead to transformation (Joseph
2006:489; Kumar 1999; Marx 1983 [1845]; cf. Mao 1967). This is useful in inter-relating the
material and the ideal and is very much part of the linkage between consciousness and action in
Giddens theory of structuration (e.g. Giddens 1979). This is not just an obscure theoretical
point, as the linkage of doing and thinking is important in interpreting archaeological data and in
overcoming the charges of idealism levelled at much post-processual archaeology. A concept
that links external and internal states is vital to interpret peoples activities in a non-behaviourist
fashion (Kohl 1993; cf. Shanks and Tilley 1992:5556; Thomas 2004:191). This is just one of
the advantages of a theory of praxis.

Another, which dovetails absolutely with issues of identity, is the way practice theories enable us
to deal with tradition and transformation, and with the internal-external dialectic of
identification. From across the spectrum of theorists aligned on this theme Marxists,
phenomenologists and pragmatists, structurationists and Symbolic Interactionists the key

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point emerges that peoples lives are a continuum of embodied interaction with the world, along
trajectories structured by experience, habit and expectation, and yet open to creativity and
challenge (cf. Cohen 2000:84). Of course these different theories offer a range of languages and
specific analyses of this process, but the common threads are remarkable (e.g., Goff 1980;
Rosenthal and Bourgeois 1991) and highlight a great range of considerations to attend to in
understanding both past societies and our own interactions as archaeologists (cf. McDavid 2000;
McGuire 2002; Saitta 2003). Foremost among these are the ways in which the production, use
and deposition of material culture is structured by practices which are often routine, but
sometimes novel, and that similarities and differences in practices are the fundamental building
blocks of identity. This link to identity is of course crucial for our purposes here and so it is
worth repeating. Identity is not about abstract concepts or symbols of identity, for representation
and labelling are themselves practices. The activities that people undertake eating, dressing,
building, disposing of waste, writing, speaking, and so on are the mechanisms by which
people are categorised by others, or themselves, as they interact. Importantly, of course, in the
flow of everyday life, different practices come to salience at different times, and with them
potentially different identities. Often the most habitual practices are constitutive of very
important identities, but ones that are only highlighted in circumstances of comparison with
another way of doing things. Multi-layered and contextually-dependent, and thus open to change
and contradiction, identities and practices nonetheless interlock to create our sense of stability as
routines create social reality (Hewitt 2003:102113; Holland et al. 1998:270287; Jenkins
2004:1825, 114). Identity structures practice and practice structures identity. Considering the
archaeological record as a result of patterned activity across time and space thus gives a powerful
insight into past identities, while considering the role of the practices of archaeologists in
constituting their own and others identities gives us a foundation for an ethical perspective on
the present.

Leaving the latter point to one side for the time being, the methodological implications of such a
perspective are quite profound. This does not mean, though, that it is a revolutionary approach
rather that it demands that existing methods be pushed to their limits. It does require that we
accept that there is some connection between past practices and archaeological patterns, and this
may be contested in some cases. All one can say here is that while evaluation of formation
processes and contextual integrity must be considered on a site-by-site basis, in general terms
there would not be any structure at all to the archaeological record if there were no relationship
with some dimensions of practice, and practice theory is therefore one set of theory that
archaeology is well-suited to (Lightfoot et al. 1998). Interpretation of this relationship is
certainly possible with old data, although the resolution at which specific types of practice can be
examined will be correspondingly variable (Gardner 2007). If one sets out to excavate a site with
this approach in mind, then the technique of understanding patterns of practice rests on nothing
more than a historical approach to stratigraphic sequence (Harris 1989:118119 cf. Andrews et
al. 2000; Chadwick 2003) integrated with a broadly functional approach to artifacts (Lightfoot et
al. 1998:199203) and a multi-scalar approach to contextual comparison (Hodder 1991:128
155). These elements then need to be put together in a particular way, however, which allows us
to see the change and continuity in different types of practices (dressing, eating, dwelling etc.)
over time and space, upon which interpretations of identity can be built. This is the key point,
and has rarely been achieved as an explicit part of new archaeological work (see Barrett et al.
2000 for one example). As others have pointed out (Casella and Fowler 2005:78), it is easy to

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elide practices into identities to document patterns in the deposition of pottery and ecofacts,
and then to interpret these in terms of a particular style of cooking and eating, for example,
which is then assumed to be representative of an identity group. This is one step short of the
archaeology of practice, however, as it falls into the same trap as all previous approaches to
identity. Avoiding this trap depends upon going beyond establishing practices to investigating
when the performance of particular practices led to salient comparisons of identity. This
inevitably requires some exercise of what Collingwood called historical imagination
(1946:231249), but without this the archaeological project becomes very limited indeed.

As an example of the way multi-scaled analyses of practice can be built, I will focus upon the
archaeology of the later Roman period at Caerleon, which started out as Isca, a Roman legionary
fortress and its dependent settlement. Isca was built around 70 to 75 A.D. and largely abandoned
sometime in the last quarter of the fourth century, 300 years later, although the nature of the
fourth century occupation is disputed (Gardner 2007:176177). The excavation history of Isca is
patchy and does not give us much promising evidence. Much of the larger scale excavation,
which is generally more useful for plotting artifact distributions in relation to context, was
conducted prior to the Second World War, when such detailed recording was not undertaken.
The material from such excavations can nonetheless be useful in creating different kinds of
context pottery assemblages, for example, were relatively well documented, and can give us a
background picture of practices to do with cooking and eating across the fortress. Practices of
building, dwelling and dumping can be partially reconstructed from structural sequences,
particularly for some more recently excavated sites, such as the Fortress Baths, which were
mainly explored in the late 1970s and early 1980s (Zienkiewicz 1986). This building changed
dramatically in use in the 290s A.D., with some structural elements apparently dismantled, and
this has usually been treated as an important indication that the garrison force, Legio II Augusta,
left the fortress at this time (e.g., Boon 1987:4445). People still used the building, for other
purposes, well into the fourth century, however, so with a simple interpretation of identity, we
are left with a simple question: who were these people? Analysis of the practices being enacted
at this site, in comparison with others, produces a more complex interpretation and a more
complex answer.

Even without plotting the artifactual material in detail (cf. Gardner 2007:7071), some
interesting patterns are to be found. One is that in Roman sites with a substantial population,
rubbish is typically discarded close to the point at which it is generated. When the baths were in
use for bathing, considerable quantities of refuse, including lost jewellery and animal bones from
meat snacks, accumulated in the main drain of the cold bath (Zienkiewicz 1986:243250). In the
fourth century, then, when rubbish was instead being dumped in the swimming pool that had
been in use in the middle of the exercise yard, it is likely that people were still using the building
quite actively, but for different purposes. This latter set of rubbish deposits included plentiful
pottery from industries which any reasonably well-connected community had access to, and
which display continuity of traditions of cooking and eating from immediately preceding
periods. Other artifacts from these deposits also signal continuity in practices such as exchanging
and dressing (Zienkiewicz 1986:258261). Overall, little seems to have changed, apart from the
spatial location of rubbish disposal reflecting the cessation of one practice bathing. Even the
significance of this may be down-played if we consider that the baths were frequently not in
working order in earlier periods, when the garrison was reduced in size. The importance of any

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changes in terms of salient comparisons of identity on an everyday basis is therefore
questionable.

What this example does make us consider is the difference between practices that were being
maintained, either deliberately or (more likely) habitually, versus those that were being
transformed (cf., Gardner 2007:172186). The former seem to be more everyday practices likely
to be bound up with age, kinship and gender dynamics, while the latter are primarily to do with
building and using certain types of official or institutional space, which the Fortress Baths can
be defined as. While bathing, as a practice of bodily maintenance, certainly is personal, the
Fortress Baths are a context for large-scale performance of such activity, as they required
considerable resources to run (Reece 1997:1819). The end of bathing here is therefore not
necessarily to do with a change to personal practice, but to the institutional context of this kind of
practice. And as such changes were commonplace across Britain in this period, they probably
relate to a shift in the institutional definition of the wider military community (cf. Gardner 2007;
James 1999b), rather than being representative of military abandonment at individual sites. In
this case, comparing practices across time and space gives us insights into the maintenance and
transformation of a range of identities, highlighting that, at any given moment, some will be in
flux while others are more stable.

Conclusions: Power and Identity

In this paper, I have argued that the complexities of identity in the past can be explored by being
attentive to certain key themes. From detailed analysis of the archaeological record, we can
define types of practice, and how these are sustained or changed over time. Then, by considering
the contexts in which these were compared in the past, we can explore the ways that they related
to salient identities. We can expect these identities to be multiple and overlapping, but also
institutionalised and committed to. All of this requires a holistic, comparative archaeology,
examining nested scales of context. The point I want to close upon is that the theoretical issues I
have highlighted in this paper are as important to understanding the role of archaeology in the
present as they are to interpreting the past. The identities of archaeologists are multiple and we
are often conflicted about the nature and purpose of archaeological knowledge, about how it can
best be protected from abuse while also being empowering to the disenfranchised. Inevitably,
then, the relationship between archaeology and identity has a great deal to do with power. Any
significance that archaeology has in the wider world rests largely upon its ability to contribute to
debates about identities whether this is at the universal scale, on a local level, or somewhere
in between.

Archaeologists do not have much power, but given the wide variety of ways that people engage
with the past, we must embrace our natural affiliation with identity matters and do our best to
make positive contributions to these debates. In living with the paradoxes of identity, sometimes
this means challenging other interpretations, and sometimes empowering them, informed by
general theoretical principles but always ultimately judged on a case-by-case basis, and careful
ethical consideration (cf. Meskell 2002; McDavid 2000; Smith 2004). Of course we are not the
only ones with the right and the ability to speak about past identities and their relationships with
the present, but we do have a great many tools and resources at our disposal to do so. We must
not throw up our hands at the complications, because, while resolution of the paradoxes of

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identity is always contingent and contextual, it happens all the time. With diligence of technique,
imagination, and responsibility to those around us, we can make something of the attempt to deal
with these issues. Indeed, as part of the ongoing creation of our own identities in the present, we
have no choice but to persevere.

Acknowledgments. I am very grateful to the organisers of the 2009 Chacmool Conference for
their invitation to present this paper, and to the editorial committee for their comments upon this
published version. I would also like to extend my appreciation to staff and students at the
Institute of Archaeology, UCL, for discussion in many situations of some of these ideas.

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Adorning Identities: Brooches as Social Strategy in
Early Medieval Europe

Heather M. Flowers
Department of Anthropology, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455

ABSTRACT. In the centuries following the decline of the Roman Empire, the maintenance and
manipulation of identity became ever more crucial as various groups moved, met, and mixed in
northern Europe. During this period, a unique art style developed in northern Europe. Style I
animal art was primarily rendered on brooches. While brooches served a functional purpose,
they could also symbolize social status, kinship, political and ideological affiliations, and aspects
of personal identity such as age and gender. The creation and development of this style was an
active process through which material culture was used as a social strategy to create,
renegotiate, and maintain personal and group identities. This contextual analysis of brooches
from burials examines the ways in which personal adornments were used to visually express
social identity in early medieval Europe.

Forming Identity in Early Medieval Europe

The early medieval period was a time of dynamic change during which individuals and groups
actively negotiated their social identities in reaction to the decline of the Roman Empire and the
creation of new cultural networks. During this time, northwestern European groups developed a
series of new cultural traditions, including new funerary rites and artifact styles. In the fifth
century A.D., a unique art style developed in southern Scandinavia and spread to other areas of
northern Europe, including Anglo-Saxon England. This style, now referred to as Style I animal
art, was primarily rendered on brooches clothes fasteners that were large, conspicuous, and
ideal media for communicating messages to others. While these adornments served a functional
purpose, they may have also symbolized social status, kinship, political affiliations, ideological
beliefs, and aspects of personal identity such as age and gender.

Style I art can be seen as a continuation of earlier Germanic art styles that emerged during the
fourth century along the northern Roman frontier and in areas north of the Rhine. These early
Germanic styles were applied to belt sets as well as jewelry. A stylistic link has been
demonstrated between Roman chip-carved bronzes and these Germanic objects. Traditionally, it
has been posited that late Roman art was passively copied by peoples beyond the frontiers (Inker
2006). However, I suggest that the development of these styles was instead an active process by
which material culture was used as a social strategy to renegotiate and maintain personal and
group identity. The Germanic styles can be seen as dynamic hybrid traditions in which local and
Roman styles were combined to produce multivocal expressions.

The ways in which Romans and local peoples interacted were not homogenous across northern
Europe; different peoples used Roman objects and Roman ideas in novel ways, manipulating
them in order to stress what they perceived were important aspects of their identities (Gardner

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2007). It is important to recognize that the specific social context in which an individual lived
would inform the ways he or she chose, perceived, and manipulated these new forms of material
culture. Local peoples did not necessarily act as passive receivers of Roman culture, but likely
behaved as active agents; selectively choosing which types of objects and cultural practices to
adopt, adapt, and incorporate into local traditions, and which to resist (Lucy 2005; Webster 2001;
Wells 2005). Because of this, a range of identities was likely created in the cultural space
between what has previously been seen as two discrete categories: Roman and native. These
identities were neither one nor the other, but new identities actively created through individual
agency (Hill 2001).

The issue of identity, then, is crucial to our understating of the dynamic societies that developed
during the early medieval period. But how was material culture used to express identity during
the early medieval period? Through the study of brooches and related artifacts in grave good
assemblages, it may be possible to understand more fully the dynamic social, political, and
ideological structures of early medieval societies. This paper presents an analysis of brooches
from Anglo-Saxon burials that examines the ways in which personal adornments were used to
visually express social identity in early medieval Europe.

Graves, Artifacts, and Identity
Furnished graves provide ideal contexts from which to study identity. Many of the surviving
objects in early medieval graves were used to adorn the body. Objects of personal adornment are
intrinsically symbolic because they are chosen and displayed by individuals, and may thus
express aspects of identity by acting as visually transmitted social signifiers (Bogatyrev 1971).
Types of non-verbal communication, including material goods displayed as adornment, are
commonly used to express an individuals perception of his or her self (Parker Pearson 2000;
Wells 2001). However, although such objects are worn by individuals, their associated
connotations may be controlled by dominant individuals or groups (Wells 2001; Wobst 1977).
Additionally, an individual can have multiple identities throughout his or her lifetime. Thus, an
object used to adorn an individual can convey many layers of meaning. In early medieval
Europe, particular types of brooches and decorative styles were connected to specific genders
and life stages, but may have also had associations with specific classes and kin groups.

Symbolic and biographical aspects of the deceased can be expressed and commemorated in
mortuary rituals through material culture (Williams 2005). In this way, objects associated with
the mortuary ritual contribute to the remembering of the dead. While the act of burial can create
different types of memories about the dead, it can also create, reaffirm, or terminate relationships
between the deceased and his or her fellow community members. The liminal transition between
life and death creates an opportunity for the community to renegotiate and reify their
relationships, values, and ideological beliefs through the use of symbolic behavior and objects
placed with the deceased (Chapman 1994; Hedeager 2000; Theuws and Alkemade 2000). During
this process, however, any number of these relationships may be manipulated, inverted or
idealized, such that the picture we see of an individual in a grave may not represent reality.
Thus, interpretations of burials must be made with caution.

Fifth and early sixth century Anglo-Saxon cemeteries are characterized by a lack of extreme
differentiation; moderately wealthy graves appear frequently in cemeteries, as do burials without

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grave goods (Moreland 2000). Wealthier Anglo-Saxon women were often buried with a
distinctive assemblage, which consisted of a pair of brooches, beads, and a belt from which were
hung various tools, such as knives, keys, spindle whorls, and girdle hangers. A third brooch
could be worn at the center of the chest to pin an over-garment such as a cloak (Owen-Crocker
2004 [1986]; Stoodley 1999). The brooch complex and the belt group were the two most
essential components of the costume, although additional objects were included such as wrist-
clasps, rings, pins, and bracelets (Lucy 2000). In most fifth and sixth century cemeteries, the
majority of women were buried with some variation of this costume. Only a few women in any
cemetery were buried with the largest and most complex brooch types associated with Style I art.

Style I Art
Style I art is characterized by zoomorphic decoration in which animals are depicted in
compartmentalized form. Parts of the animals body are stylized and are often abbreviated or
contorted (Halsall 1995; Haseloff 1974, 1981; Salin 1904; Shepherd 1998). Motifs in the art are
often ambiguous, reversible, or embedded within other figures. Elements of one animal may be
part of another, and elements of two animals, when viewed together, often depict a human mask.
Some figures appear as hybrid animal-men. In most cases, the animals appear to have been
hidden within the ornamentation. On many brooches, the faceted, chip-carved metal surface
enhances the abstract forms of the animals and seems to create a moving surface (Hills 1980;
Speake 1980). Within this entangled surface, the hybrid motifs are not depicted naturally, but are
represented as figures that explore the boundaries between human and animal. Thus, items on
which Style I art appear have multivocality; one layer of iconography disguises other levels of
meaning. There are likely many possible meanings inherent in the styles condensed and cryptic
iconography (Dickinson 2005; Kristoffersen 1995).

Style I motifs are deliberately confusing. Many scholars have pointed out the difficulty that even
experts encounter in understanding the motifs. Yet a common theme emerges as one observes a
brooch. Motifs such as paired and intertwined animals as well as ambiguous animal and human
masks appear to share a theme of dislocation and shape shifting (Kristoffersen 1995, 2000;
Lindstrm and Kristoffersen 2001). It has been claimed that the cult of Odin was the central
religious element in early medieval northern Europe (Hedeager 1999:151). In this cult, Odin was
seen to pass into a state of ecstasy during which the soul was released to travel through time and
space. The soul, once released from the body, transformed into an animal. This transformation
might be seen in the art itself where, in some cases, a figure is seen as an animal when viewed
from one direction, but as a human face from another. In some pieces of metalwork, the central
figure has been identified as an Odin-like deity. Brooches with such motifs may have enabled
shamanic transformation because the art itself referenced the act of transformation between
animal and human forms.

Style I Art in Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries
While the specific motifs embodied in Style I iconography may never be deciphered, it is
possible to associate the motifs with specific social constructs. In the archaeological record, Style
I motifs are strongly associated with mature women. In an analysis of several Anglo-Saxon
cemeteries (Butlers Field, Gloucestershire [Boyle et al. 1998]; Empingham II [Timby 1996],
Leicestershire; and Great Chesterford, Essex [Evison 1994]), graves of individuals with Style I
decorated objects were found to be distinct from other graves.

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At these cemeteries, brooches of all types were commonly included in grave good assemblages.
Between 75 and 97 percent of the individuals buried with brooches at these sites were
determined through osteological analysis to be female. The inclusion of brooches is also
correlated with age, suggesting the presence of age thresholds at ages 12 and 17 when
increasingly more elaborate brooch types became appropriate to wear.

Brooches decorated with Style I art, however, were less common than other brooch types and
were worn exclusively by females. Between 8 and 18 percent of females in a cemetery were
given Style I-decorated brooches. Only a few individuals per generation likely had access to such
objects. Moreover, the majority of individuals buried with Style I decorated brooches between
59 and 100 percent were over 25 years of age. The florid cruciform and the square-headed
brooch types had special significance; they were always decorated with Style I motifs and were
placed in wealthy graves of mature individuals. Style I brooch burials also tended to be wealthier
than other brooch burials, with more artifact types being included in the grave. The wealthiest
Style I graves could include up to three Style I brooches.

In all of these cemeteries, Style I motifs decorated the largest and most conspicuous brooch
types, perhaps functioning as identity markers of age, status, or specific social roles. Were the
women that wore these brooches signaling maturity and fertility, were they part of a religious
class, or were they elites merely referencing status and power? A high level of expertise would
have been required to make these ornate objects, likely making them quite expensive (Hines
1997). As such, they probably were seen as markers of status. However, some of the wealthiest
brooch burials do not contain Style I decorated objects, suggesting that artifacts associated with
the animal iconography expressed an additional aspect of identity. Grave good assemblages with
Style I ornament also included objects rare in other graves, such as keys and latchlifters, glass
vessels, ivory-handled bags, combs, and amulets such as beaver teeth. Such artifacts may have
had ritual and apotropaic associations.

The iconography of these large, ornate brooches indicates that some relationship existed between
the individuals that wore them and the meaning inherent in the symbolic expression. Because of
its ambiguous and polysemous nature, Style I animal ornament seems to have been a restricted,
ritualized text. To the observer unfamiliar with the style, making meaning of the decoration
would have been difficult. The motifs take time and effort to understand, and were therefore
likely controlled by those who could decipher them. The messages signaled may have been
controlled and maintained exclusively by the elite members of society, effectively concealing the
arts meaning from the uninformed (Magnus 1999). Women buried with such objects had access
to resources and ideological knowledge not accessible to the majority of women in the
community.

Religious Associations in Style I Art
It has been hypothesized that women who performed religious rituals may have been associated
with Style I motifs. Women who held spiritual power in their communities may have used
brooches decorated with these motifs as ritual or amuletic objects. This assumption comes from
interpretations of depictions of a goddess or priestess on contemporary pendants and gold foils.
In these representations, a woman is often depicted wearing an oversized relief brooch, a brooch
type associated with Style I motifs. Because the relief brooch is enlarged and emphasized in

31 | P a g e

these depictions, some scholars have interpreted the object as having some special significance,
perhaps representing a ritual tool (Arrhenius 2001). Indeed, psychological studies have shown
that women have a greater acuity for processing environmental stimuli subconsciously, and thus
may have been well equipped to mentally manipulate the ambiguity represented in the art
(Lindstrm and Kristoffersen 2001:77). It is unlikely, however, that all women who possessed
these brooches were ritual practitioners. Nevertheless, the brooches could have referenced the
spiritual nature inherent in a specific group or identity, such as mature, fertile women or the
female leaders of the community.

Women may have played a large role in the curation and dissemination of the ideology
embedded within Style I art. Since the objects were designed to simultaneously express and
disguise meaning, they may have acted as pictorial aids to introduce ideological concepts to the
uninitiated (Dickinson 2002). Animal motifs may have referred to legends, parables, myths,
symbols and rites, and appropriate social roles and behaviors (Lindstrm and Kristoffersen
2001:79). If material culture was used in this way, it suggests that women in early medieval
society held power in ideological structures and were instrumental in the creation and
maintenance of ideological concepts.

During the mortuary ritual, these adornments may have been used not only as simple grave
goods representing an aspect of the deceased individuals identity, but as objects that assisted the
ideological and symbolic processes associated with Anglo-Saxon death and burial. Williams
(2004) argues that some artifacts found in Anglo-Saxon graves, such as toilet implements, may
not so much represent the dead as they were in life, but may have acted as objects that
transformed or reconstituted memories of the dead. This concern with the transformation of the
deceased individual may relate to the choice of seemingly transformative shamanic motifs
utilized on brooches (Williams 2001). In the burial process, brooches and their associated motifs
of animals and humans intermingling and shape changing may have facilitated the deceaseds
transformation from a living individual into a remembered ancestor of the community.

Style I Art in the Northern European Context
Style I art was used most intensively in the later fifth century when competing groups struggled
for power in northwest Europe (Kristoffersen 1995). The iconography and ideology related to
Odin was developed by elites and referenced by others throughout northwest Europe, likely to
legitimize their claims to political and ideological power; and indeed, kings often claimed
descent from Odin in their royal genealogies (Axboe 2001; Magnus 2001). Style I art, which
expressed a worldview that referenced Odin and the liminal relationship between human and
animal, embodied a common elite ideology that was almost certainly maintained though political
alliances, intermarriage, and the use of a common symbolic language rendered on metalwork
(Hedeager 2000:45). At burials, the deceased, dressed with traditional adornments and
accompanied by depictions of transformation, formed and expressed an idealized identity of the
individual for the mourners. This image reinforced cultural ideals that could be remembered and
recreated in later rites (Williams 2005).

In the seventh century, Style I art became less ambiguous and developed into Style II, which is
more commonly associated with male objects. At this time, male graves became more elaborate
and the standard female dress accessories of the fifth and sixth centuries, including brooches,

32 | P a g e

went out of fashion in womens burial costume. This change occurs with the stabilization of
Germanic kingdoms across northern Europe, as well as the introduction of Christianity
(Dickinson 2005). It could be the case that when emergent political structures became more
permanent, an ambiguous art style controlled by women was no longer needed to maintain a
common elite identity that signaled political affiliations and traditional ideologies.

Conclusion

Clearly, in the Anglo-Saxon cemeteries studied in this analysis, Style I animal art had some
special significance. Worn by only a few mature women per generation, brooches decorated in
this style were often associated with other unusual grave goods that may have had apotropaic
qualities. The images depicted on these brooches were imbued with meaning, emphasizing
themes of transformation, ambiguity, and hybridity. While we may suggest that the motifs were
associated with a pre-Odinic shamanic cult, this can never be known for certain. However, it is
clear that the motifs formed a restricted and perhaps ritualized symbolic code used to connect
elites throughout northwestern Europe. It may be that the ambiguous nature of the early animal
art style was reflective of and may have expressed the cultural ambiguity of the time, where
identities, local and regional, real and idealized, were flexible and capable of transformation.

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1999 The Spindle and the Spear: A Critical Inquiry into the Construction and Meaning of
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Health and Social Status in early Anglo-Saxon
England: A Consideration of Cemetery Evidence
from Edix Hill (Cambridgeshire)

Julia A. Gamble
Department of Anthropology, University of Manitoba, 435 Fletcher Argue Building
Winnipeg, MB R3T 5V5 (umgambl6@cc.umanitoba.ca)

ABSTRACT. The association between health and social position is of great importance to
individual and societal wellbeing. Such an association is clearly evident in modern societies, and
has been documented extensively. Historical and archaeological research has also demonstrated
such a connection in past populations. This study takes a bioarchaeological approach to the
investigation of this relationship by considering the human skeletal evidence in conjunction with
grave good evidence for the early Anglo-Saxon period. The investigation examines burial
evidence from the cemetery of Barrington A, Edix Hill (Cambridgeshire) in association with
stature, non-spinal arthropathies, and stress indicators. Insufficient sample sizes limited the
extent to which conclusions could be drawn, but when the assemblage calculations were
assessed in relation to skeletal indicators interesting patterns appeared, particularly with
regards to potential sex/gender differences. This study thus demonstrates the enormous potential
in combining human skeletal and archaeological evidence in a bioarchaeological approach.

Introduction

The existence of an association between an individuals health and social position is apparent
across modern societies, and in past societies through the historical and archaeological records.
An individuals position within his or her society relates to the conditions of his or her life, and
this in turn has an impact on health. Similarly, an individuals state of health may have an impact
on that person's lifestyle and social position. The widespread existence of this relationship
between health and social position has made it a point of interest in many anthropological
investigations (Privat et al. 2002; Robb et al. 2001). The aim of this study is to test whether such
a relationship can be seen for the early Anglo-Saxon population at Edix Hill, Cambridgeshire.
This involves a bioarchaeological investigation of health (as derived from the skeletal remains)
and social status (represented by the grave goods).

Background

Central to the current investigation is the hypothesis that there is an association between an
individuals health and the nature of his or her lifestyle (as dictated by structural mechanisms
within the greater society). For the purposes of this study, it is proposed that individuals will
possess objects in life in accordance with their social positions and economic means and that this
will be reflected in the burial record (Arnold 1988, 1980; Binford 1971; O'Shea 1984; Pader
1982; Saxe 1971; Stoodley 1999). Furthermore, given the potential of the human skeleton to

38 | P a g e

change in accordance with both environmental and genetic stimuli, it is maintained that the
analysis of skeletal material from a cemetery population can elucidate aspects of lifestyle (Larsen
2002; Mays 1998; Robb et al. 2001). These observations in turn may be linked with the
behaviour of the individual in life. The absence of an association between the health and social
status indicators would suggest either that the indicators used fail to demonstrate a relationship
between health and social structure, or that there was no association between health and lifestyle
in the Edix Hill population. The consideration of these two negative relationships is essential
here, as the indicators chosen may not in fact be associated with behavioural patterns for this
population or sample sizes may be inadequate to demonstrate a firm association.

The hypothesis that there is an association between health and social structure in the Edix Hill
population is based upon two premises. The first is that the status of an individual in life may be
directly linked to treatment in death because people of differing social status will have
differential access to resources and will be affected by unique circumstances in their daily lives
(Binford 1971; Stoodley 1999). The second premise is that circumstances such as access to
nutritional resources and activity patterns will directly impact the quality of a persons life
(Stoodley 1999) and his or her health (Larsen 2002; Mays 1998). Given that health is manifest in
the physical condition of the body and that certain health indicators can be detected in the
skeletal remains (Larsen 2002; Lovell 2000; Mays 1998), it is possible to gain insight into the
relationship between health and social status.

Social status is defined here as the social standing(s) of an individual in reference to his or her
ascribed and attained position(s) within a given society (Cohen and Bennett 1998:298). In this
way, an individuals status is dependent upon his or her relationship to those with whom he or
she interacts (Binford 1971; Saxe 1970:29 as cited by Pader 1982: 58). Goodenough (1965:2)
considered social identities to be intricately connected to social persona (the combination of
rights and duties which characterize social interactions). In order to infer status from
archaeological remains, it is necessary to consider the ways in which these interactions shape the
material record.

Status is both dynamic and multifaceted. Some statuses are predetermined and largely beyond an
individuals control (ascribed statuses), and others are highly variable and controllable by the
individual (such as those statuses which may be attained through life) (Pader 1982; Scull
1993:69). These factors interact in complex ways. A person will have multiple forms of status,
both at a particular point in time and throughout his or her life (Binford 1971; Knsel and Ripley
2000:167), and status may differ at the individual, group, and societal levels.

Status can be said to be in a constant state of flux. It can change according to the particular
interaction taking place, the individuals involved, and the situational context. It is dependent
upon particular circumstances, and is highly flexible. As such, it is more difficult to detect in and
to understand from the archaeological record. These complexities become increasingly apparent
as we move from the interpretation of social positions from the burial record to the inference of
societal values. This is a central problem to the investigation of status from the archaeological
record. The difficulty arises when these societal values become equated with universal norms
within the archaeological literature and are then used to inform our understanding of the social
position of individuals within the society. This can lead to a highly circular pattern of reasoning.

39 | P a g e

In order to gain insight into the society being considered, the nature of the burial deposition must
be understood to the greatest degree possible given all available evidence and care must be taken
to explicitly acknowledge any limitations. Ideally, the investigation should proceed on a case-by-
case basis.

Further complications to the determination of status from burial evidence lie in the nature of
burial itself. While this evidence is often taken to directly indicate the social position of the
deceased (Arnold 1988, 1980; Binford 1971; O'Shea 1984; Pader 1982; Saxe 1970; Scull 1993),
the influence of the people who conducted the burial must be considered (Arnold 1988; Hadley
and Moore 1999; Hrke 1997a, 1997b; James 1988; King 2004; Lucy 2000; McNeill 2001;
Pader 1982). An individual may have some influence over the way in which he or she is buried
by actively engaging in a particular set of societal values and beliefs throughout his or her life.
However, the ultimate decisions regarding the burial will be the responsibility of the living, and
their conscious decisions dictate the nature of the burial (Arnold 1988; Hadley and Moore 1999;
McNeill 2001; Pader 1982; Parker Pearson 1999; Scull 1993).

While we cannot claim to capture the entire range of status associations relating to the
individuals being buried, we are still looking at the ways in which certain members of the society
perceived the deceased individual (and attempted to create a perception of that person) (Scull
1993). We are therefore getting a glimpse into the values of that society. The consideration of the
burial assemblage as a measure of wealth may enable us to reach an understanding of some of
the societal values and of the social structure of that society (Arnold 1980; Hadley and Moore
1999; Richards 1992). Once this foundation is established, it may be possible to gain a sense of
individual status within the context of the particular society being studied, ie. as measured
against 'norms' or general patterns.

Methodology

This investigation focuses upon status as measured through wealth. Although status is far more
complex than can strictly be reflected by this relationship (Hadley and Moore 1999; Pader
1982)
1
, wealth is one proxy of status that can be determined from burial assemblages, and these
have frequently been studied in relation to the interpretation of social distinctions (Arnold
1988:142; Binford 1971; Hadley and Moore 1999; Lucy 1997; Pader 1980, 1982; Scull 1993;
Stoodley 1999). Individual status during this analysis was based on wealth scores derived from
the respective burial assemblages. An artefact count was developed from the information in the
site report (Malim and Hines 1998), and grave good values were calculated using Arnold's
method for estimating percent rarity
2
(Arnold 1980:108). The 'wealth' estimates are then
considered in relation to a number of health indicators, such as stature, non-spinal arthropathies,
and stress indicators.

Age and sex are also taken into account throughout the analysis. Differences between male and
female burial assemblages are evident during the early Anglo-Saxon period (Hadley 2004;
Halsall 1996, 1995; Hrke 1997a; Hirst 1985; Lucy 1997; McNeill 2001; Pader 1982, 1980;
Stoodley 1999). One of the implications of this is that females frequently receive higher wealth
scores according to the methods of wealth estimation (Table 1) (Stoodley 1999). Any study

40 | P a g e

Table 1. Male and Female Wealth Scores.
Average Grave Good Counts Average Assemblage Values
Male 2.6 189.03
Female 6.77 510.61

Table 2. Age Categories.
Age Category Age Range Number of Individuals
1 0-12 29
2 13-20 20
3 21-30 41
4 31-45 16
5 >45 19

which attempts to look at the status of individuals within a cemetery will thus need to consider
males and females separately. Age thresholds, at which individuals progress from one stage in
their lives to another, have also been suggested in the literature (Duhig 1998; Hrke 1995;
Stoodley 2000). Age categories in this analysis were developed in such a way as to both
acknowledge these thresholds and maintain a relatively balanced sample size across the
categories (Table 2).

Materials

The early Anglo-Saxon cemetery of Edix Hill, Barrington A, Cambridgeshire was used in this
investigation as it fulfilled the two primary criteria the availability of a reasonably large, well
preserved population which would provide adequate data on demographics and health, and the
presence and high level of recording of grave goods from which to derive wealth scores. Due to
practical limitations, it was not possible to conduct an independent skeletal analysis. All
information was therefore drawn from the Edix Hill site report (Malim and Hines 1998).
Excavations at Edix Hill from 19891991 recovered 115 graves containing 149 individuals and
dating from approximately 500 A.D. to the first half of the seventh century (Hines 1999:6566;
Malim and Hines 1998:281282). A total of fifty-one females and forty-eight males were
identified in the Edix Hill cemetery sample (Duhig 1998).

Results and Analysis

Once the Edix Hill sample was subdivided by both sex and age, the sample sizes within the
categories were often too small for definite conclusions to be drawn. For example, in the
consideration of stature, the only age categories which contained ten or more individuals were
the third age category for females (n=14) and the third (n=14) and fifth (n=10) age categories for
males. The wealth analysis showed that females had significantly higher wealth scores than
males. This difference is consistent with the literature, and is also informative with regards to the
differentiation between what have become known as gendered and ungendered burials (Stoodley
1999, 2000). More specifically, some Anglo-Saxon grave goods are buried with both males and
females (ungendered), while others appear to be sex-specific (gendered). Through the separation
of male and female burials in this analysis, the gendered burials were often distinguished from

41 | P a g e

the ungendered burials by their higher wealth scores. The individuals buried with no grave goods
were those with scores of zero according to this system. Furthermore, closer analysis reveals that
individuals buried with gendered assemblages had more grave goods that were not gender-
specific than individuals who were not buried with gendered assemblages. Thus the wealthiest
individuals were apparently those buried with gendered assemblages.

The most significant trend in the investigation of the association between health and social
position was a distinction between males and females in how health indicators related to status
indicators. In the case of stature, a slightly positive correlation was evident for the females (r
2
=
0.0845 for assemblage value and r
2
= 0.0959 for artefact count; n=38), while the correlation with
males (r
2
= 0.0026 for assemblage value and r
2
= 0.0002 for artefact count; n=32) was negligible.
Effectively, while female stature appears to be associated with wealth indicators, male stature
demonstrates no such relationship. Furthermore, while a higher percentage of females with
greater than average stature had higher than average wealth scores, the same pattern was not
characteristic of males.

The interpretation of these results for stature is complex, particularly given the dependence of
adult stature on both genetic and environmental circumstances. However, it is clear from the
results that there is a distinction in the patterning between males and females, and as such some
interpretation of these results is justified. Put simply, it is possible that stature had a different
influence on female status in terms of wealth than it did on males in early Anglo-Saxon society.
Alternatively, given the possibility that wealthier individuals had access to better resources, this
would have affected the expression of stature. Females may have been more heavily influenced
by these factors than males during the critical period of growth, but the possibility that males
may be more sensitive to environmental stress (Molleson 1993:168 as cited by Duhig
1998:161) should also be kept in mind as a potential balancing factor. Given this latter
possibility, the lack of an aparent association between wealth and health indicators for males
may indicate that there were cultural factors in place which buffered against potential negative
effects on male stature during critical growth periods.

The consideration of other skeletal indicators in association with wealth scores further highlights
a clear difference between male and female patterns. A total of thirty-nine individuals showed
evidence of non-spinal arthropathies in the Edix Hill sample. This included sixteen females,
twenty males, and three individuals who could not be sexed (Malim and Hines 1998:Table 3.3).
In this sample, males expressed a significantly higher frequency of arthropathies (71 percent)
than females (43 percent). Overall, when considered next to status indicators, both males and
females with arthropathies had lower average wealth scores than individuals without
arthropathies. Furthermore, while all of the females with arthropathies stay relatively close to the
median, males with arthropathies cover the entire male wealth range. Thus, the expression of
arthropathies in relation to wealth suggests that female health was more directly associated with
status than was the case with males. However these associations are far from clear-cut and
further analysis into this relationship is necessary to reach more conclusive results.

The analysis of stress indicators showed a moderate positive correlation between stress and
status for males (r
2
= 0.221 using grave good counts and r
2
= 0.345 using assemblage values) and
an extremely weak negative correlation for females (r
2
= -0.0665 using grave good counts and

42 | P a g e

r
2
= -0.0314 using assemblage values). In this case then, a stronger correlation was seen for
males than for females. As such, it appears that stress is indicating a different relationship than
arthropathies for males and females.

The etiology of stress indicators is highly complex. They are by definition signs of physiological
disruption which can be caused by any number of environmental circumstances (or even a
combination of circumstances) (Duhig 1998; Larsen 2002). Thus, while dental enamel
hypoplasia could be caused by nutritional deficiency in relation to starvation, it can also form in
response to any number of infectious agents (Larsen 2002; Pindborg 1970). Cribra orbitalia and
porotic hyperostosis have been studied extensively in relation to their connection with iron-
deficiency anaemia (Stuart-Macadam 1989, 1991), but their presence may reflect a strong
immune response to disease rather than to a deficiency of iron in the diet (Stuart-Macadam 1989,
1991, 2006). Thus, the interpretation of these indicators is far from straightforward, and while
there is a possible correlation between their prevalence rates and the status indicators, further
information is required if this relationship is to be more fully understood (Larsen 2002).

Cumulative skeletal pathology was considered according to both age and sex. While broad sex
differences were evident when all ages were considered at the same time, these differences were
not nearly as obvious once the sample was further divided by age groups, in part due to
frequently small sample sizes. The largest sample size was for females between the ages of
twenty and thirty (n=20). This age sample also produced the strongest correlation between
cumulative skeletal pathology and wealth scores (r
2
= -0.421 for the grave good counts and r
2
=
-0.370 for assemblage values). A rather drastic shift to a weaker positive correlation (r
2
= 0.122
for grave good counts and r
2
= 0.142 for assemblage values) appeared in the next age group. This
meant that effectively, individuals went from a state of lower wealth with greater pathology in
the younger age group to one of having higher wealth scores with greater pathology in the older
age group. The reason that wealthier individuals had poorer health scores upon reaching this
period in life is not clear. It is possible that these individuals were more adequately provisioned
to survive episodes of ill health and thus to survive longer and demonstrate pathological changes
in the skeleton (Wood et al. 1992). Larger samples would be useful to further elucidate this
relationship.

Discussion

The results of this analysis indicate differences between the ways in which status and health
interacted in males and females. Stoodley has also noted patterning of the burial assemblage in
relation to age for the different genders, suggesting that the female pattern may be more strongly
affected by biological factors, particularly around puberty (Stoodley 2000). Furthermore, Pader
points to differences in the association with sex-linked artefacts between males and females, with
females showing less overall constraint in relation to the associated burial goods. Females are
also shown to be less constrained by age than males ... [suggesting] a closer relationship
between females and children than between adult males and either adult females or children
(Pader 1980:155). The gender distinctions visible at Edix Hill in the analyses of stature, stress
indicators and non-spinal arthropathies further substantiate these observations. Furthermore,
since the skeletal evidence may be directly connected to the living individual (given that the

43 | P a g e

skeleton reflects occurrences in life), the evidence from this study helps to link the gender
distinctions visible in the mortuary record and those present in the living society.

It was not possible in this study to fully explore all aspects of status during the early Anglo-
Saxon period in association with health. In particular, the nature of the gendered and ungendered
burial, and burial with no grave goods, was only explored indirectly through the establishment of
assemblage values and grave good counts. More attention has been paid by recent scholarship to
the higher degree of variability in patterns of expression in Anglo-Saxon burial assemblages,
(Hadley and Moore 1999; Lucy 1997, 2000; Stoodley 1999). It has been suggested that male and
female burial kits might be expressing different meanings, and therefore require independent
interpretation, keeping in mind the potentially symbolic and ritual aspect of the burials, and
recognizing the active decisions of the individuals conducting the burials (Lucy 1997; Stoodley
1999). Furthermore, it has been proposed that more elaborate burials were reserved for
individuals of childbearing and marriageable age (Lucy 1997; Stoodley 1999). In addition, there
is a potential association with age thresholds.

If this analysis had attempted to engage in a more direct consideration of the division between
gendered and ungendered assemblages, both time and space limitations would have adversely
affected the quality of the results. A number of factors would have initially been required for
such an examination. First, to produce a breakdown of the population into gendered and
ungendered burials, site-specific identification of the gender-specific items of the burial
assemblage would have been desirable. It is not sufficient to assume that the meaning attached to
different objects will be consistent across cemeteries, since gender and other social identities are
constructed according to the particular context and are therefore highly changeable (Hadley and
Moore 1999). The complexity of the burial ritual entails that there will be a high degree of
variability in the expression of identity within the burial practice (Hadley and Moore 1999), and
as such, wide-scale analysis across cemeteries cannot be conducted at the base level.
Consequently, patterns in the association between particular grave goods and gendered
assemblages which have been noted at other sites (Stoodley 2000, 1999) could not be simply
applied to the study of Edix Hill.

Conclusions

An association between health and social structure is apparent at Edix Hill. This association
demonstrates that the health of individuals was affected by lifestyle in some way which was tied
to the burial assemblage, and that this was related to sex. Further research into the relationship
between health and lifestyle (in terms of differential access to resources and activity patterns),
has the potential of elucidating this association. This research would ideally investigate the
various elements of the burial ritual more extensively (Pader 1980). Not only would a more
exhaustive consideration of burial structures be useful, but other research has highlighted the
potential social significance of particular artefacts (Stoodley 2000), artefact characteristics
(Hrke 1995, 1997a), and spatial location in the grave and in the cemetery (Pader 1982). Such a
contextual approach is necessary if we wish to reach a better understanding of the complex
interactions and relationships involved in the burial ritual, and by extension of some of the
beliefs and social patterns within the population involved (Hadley and Moore 1999; Pader 1982).
This analysis has demonstrated the potential of this area of inquiry, and the inconclusive (albeit

44 | P a g e

suggestive) nature of the results further emphasizes the necessity of a more extensive
investigation into the relationship between health and those lifestyle parameters dictated by
social structure during the early Anglo-Saxon period.

Acknowledgments. My sincere thanks to my Masters supervisor, Dr. Dawn Hadley (University
of Sheffield) for her guidance through the course of this project, and to Dr. Kent Fowler
(University of Manitoba) for his continued encouragement and advice. I would also like to
acknowledge Dr. Corinne Duhig, who was responsible for the skeletal analysis in the Edix Hill
report. Finally, to my family for their support and patience throughout the duration of this
project, and to all of those who have contributed along the way.

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Notes

1
Although see Hirst 1985: 97 for contra Pader 1982 on the extent to which wealth as determined
from the burial assemblage can be used as a status indicator for the cemetery population.

2
See also Shepherd's statistic 1 (Shepherd 1979: 56).


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Age and Gender Identities and Social
Differentiation in the Central European Copper
Age

Jan Turek
Department of Archaeology, University of Hradec Krlov, Rokitanskho 62 500 03 Hradec
Krlov, Czech Republic (turekjan@hotmail.com)

ABSTRACT. Analysis of the Copper Age funerary practices in Central Europe provides a
model for the basic differentiation of prehistoric society. Some elderly men were buried
according to the female rules and their gendered social identity faded with their increasing age.
Such practice is known from some native communities in Siberia and North America where there
are more than just two gender categories. Our traditional view of human society recognized only
men and women as relevant gender categories. These are however modern constructs. In this
paper I argue that we need a different approach towards interpretation of the dead societies as
our current gender concepts are not always appropriate for a past reality.

Gender Structure of the Copper Age Burial Customs

In the Third Millennium B.C., some regions of Europe shared common elements of material
culture, as well as similar burial rites. Vast areas of central, northern and eastern Europe shared a
Corded Ware (CW) Culture (Single Grave) although later the Bell Beaker (BB) phenomenon
spread through central, southern and western Europe. Both of these archaeological cultures
exhibit a degree of uniformity in their material culture as demonstrated by a specific range of
symbolic, prestige goods found mainly in funerary contexts. The principles of the CW and BB
burial rites arise from the same symbolic system probably reflecting a similar social and
economic background for the Late Eneolithic communities. In the following paragraphs we are
going to review and compare the system of CW and BB burial rites (Figure 1).

Corded Ware cemeteries in central Europe include primarily single flexed inhumations. Multiple
burials are rare, represented mainly by dual antipode burials. The number of graves containing
more than two people is very small (Turek 2001). CW female burials are usually placed on the
left side with the head oriented to the east. For male burials the typical orientation is to the west,
with the body placed on the right side. As a result of this practice burials of both sexes face south
(Figure 1:3,4). This orientation may have been symbolically related to the location of some
cemeteries on the landscape. A common location of CW cemeteries is on the edge of terraces or
slopes, most of which are oriented to the south-east. BB cemeteries occurred in similar locations
but with a preference for north-east slopes (Turek 1996; Turek and Peka 2001). Although the
locations of these cemeteries may reflect some ritual commitment to the direction of sunrise, the
sheltered location of nearby habitation sites may also have been important. Possible evidence for
a solar cult may be inferred from shell disc amulets with motifs of double crosses or concentric
circles, presumed symbols of the solar wheel. The same motif also appears on some of the

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V-perforated buttons of
the subsequent Bell
Beaker period (see
Figure 1:1b). The BB
females were usually
buried on their right
side with head
orientated to the south
and male opposite on
their left side, head
orientated to the north.
Therefore people
buried in the Beaker
period were facing east
(see Figure 1:1,2).

The position of the
arms appears to have
been highly symbolic
within the Corded
Ware burial rite (Turek
1987, 1990), even
though this placement
was not specific to
gender and age groups
or the amount of grave
goods. The positioning
of the arms was also
important in the BB
period, even though the
number of varieties
decreased (cf. Havel
1978: Figure 3). As
such, the positioning of
the arms may well
relate to an alternative
social category/identity
but we have been
unable, given our
limited knowledge, to establish the meaning behind this placement of the upper limbs.

Male and female burials appear to be accompanied by different "gendered" artefacts. Female
burials include necklaces made of perforated animal teeth (see Havel 1981:70, on the use of
wolf, dog, wild cat and fox teeth in Corded Ware burials) as well as imitation teeth made from
bone. Necklaces were also made from small perforated circular discs of fresh water shell.
Another artefact appearing in female graves is the aforementioned shell solar disc symbol. The

Figure 1. Scheme of the Copper Age burial rites and gendered
artefacts. 1 Bell Beaker female burial; 2 Bell Beaker male burial;
3 Corded Ware female and infant burial; 4 Corded Ware male
burial. Depicted artefacts come from various sites in Bohemia and
they have different scales.

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pottery assemblage commonly found in female burials consists of ovoid pots (Figure 1:3) and
large amphora storage vessels although these also appear in male graves and in the subsequent
BB period. Male burial assemblages include weapons symbolic of social power such as battle-
axes, mace heads or axes. In later BB burials, these weapons were replaced by copper daggers
and archery equipment (Figure 1:2be). The CW funerary pottery attributed to males is
represented by beakers that have been decorated with a cord impression or the so-called herring-
bone motif. In both periods the funerary ceramics were different from those found in domestic-
settlement contexts.

Beakers are not exclusively male artefacts even though the majority of them were found in the
graves of CW men. Beakers make up 19 percent of the pottery assemblages found within male
graves and only five percent in female graves (Turek 1987:38). A similar observation was made
by Havel (1978:Figure 5) in the case of the BB, where 20 percent of decorated beakers were
associated with men and 11 percent with women. It is important to note that gendered artefacts
need not only reflect the social status of the dead because, in some cases, they may serve as
symbolic representations of the relations between the deceased and other members of the
community. That is, some artefacts may represent the mourners and their relationship with the
dead. A beaker or copper dagger in a BB female grave, for example, may be a symbolic gift from
a father or husband, rather than an artefact used by the deceased in day to day practice. Brodie
(1997:300301) observed that: Upon the occasion of burial it might have been the domestic
duty of female relatives to provide the deceased with a serving of food and drink, together
sometimes with their ceramic container [whereas] male relatives would be expected to provide
weapons, ornaments or tools.

The CW and BB funerary practices seem to be a symbolic reflection of the division of labour
within the family and a reflection of the different social status of men, women and children. The
individuality expressed within the context of a single burial is indicative of an individuals
association with a particular social category rather than a celebration of someone's special skills
or the status achieved during their lifetime. The composition of the CW funeral assemblages
seems to be quite uniform as is the number of items included in the grave. Thus, the average
number of artefacts in the graves of adult males is 3.7 whereas, in the graves of adult females, it
is 3.4 and in childrens graves 2.7.

The symbolic expression of male and female status in burial rites probably reflects different
social roles for each sex within society. The evidence for the Corded Ware burial rite may also
be considered as a reflection of social diversification among members of a society, including
children.

Gender Differentiation Amongst the Child Burial

Despite the perceived invisibility of children in the archaeological record (cf. Sofaer- Derevenski
1996), the analysis of the CW and BB burial rites in Bohemia and Moravia (Havel 1978;
Neustupn 1973; Turek 1987, 1990) provided evidence that may help to evaluate the position of
children within Late Eneolithic society (Turek 2000). It seems very likely that the main feature
of the CW and BB burial rites, which is the symbolic differentiation of male and female, even
applied to child burials. The sexual dimorphism of sub-adult skeletal remains is not sufficiently

52 | P a g e

developed to enable us to determine their
sex. However, the position of the body in
the grave, head orientation and "gendered"
grave goods seem to reflect the same
system of sexual distinction observed
among adult burials (Figure 2). Despite the
high mortality rate expected in the age
category infants I (06 months, cf.
Neustupn 1983), which is well
documented for pre-industrial societies,
there are surprisingly few infant burials.
Within the Bohemian and Moravian CW
cemeteries only four burials of this age
category were recorded. One was a new-
born child buried together with its mother
(Figure 1:3, here of grave from Blany
[Hnzdov and imnek 1955]). The majority of the youngest children were thus probably
disposed of in alternative ways as documented by various ethnographical observations such as
the Dajaga and Nandi tribes in Kenya (Husler 1966; Hol 1956;). It may also be that children
under a certain age were not fully accepted as members of a community and therefore did not
have the right to a proper funeral. The situation changes in the age category infants II (6 month
5 years) where, from the age of 2 years, there is an increase in the number of child burials.
Before the age of two, children are particularly vulnerable to dehydration due to infection as
indicated by the mortality pattern in current third world countries. At this age, vital life changes
happen as the child begins to communicate verbally, to walk unaided and to eat solid food as a
supplement to breast-milk. In some primitive societies, it is also believed that children below a
certain age (usually 2 years) have no soul (cf. Husler 1966). This perception, for example,
justifies infanticide or the use of similar non-ritual methods for the disposal of childrens
remains. In some regions, children get named only after this critical period when their chance of
survival increases.

The pottery assemblages included in child burials during the Corded Ware period seem to reflect
their age as some of the pots are miniature versions of the real vessels (Buchvaldek and
Kouteck 1972; Turek 1987, 1990). Similar observations were made in the context of Bronze
Age child burials in Ireland ("pygmy cups" [Donnabhin and Brindley 1989]). The examination
of BB cup volumes from north-west Bohemia provided evidence of a possible utilitarian division
according to use (type of drink?) or user. However, it is important to put these data into the
context of the age and sex category of the persons buried with those cups such as was done with
the British and Irish Beakers (Brodie 1998:Figure 2; Case 1995). Unfortunately the majority of
the cups from north-west Bohemia are missing contextual data due to the early date of their
discovery. It also appears that the CW child burials in Bohemia and Moravia were more often
accompanied by bowls (every fourth child burial) than those of adults (every thirteenth burial).
However, this may reflect the practical use of bowls for the consumption of food by individuals
in this age category.

In some tribal societies, differential survival of one sex over another is caused by uneven

Figure 2. Lbeznice (Central Bohemia) - Corded
Ware child burial in male position, with a
siltstone mace head (photo: J. Turek).

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parental investments given the socio-economic conditions of the parents or the entire
community. Such a pattern was documented, for example, among the Mukogodo, a pastoral tribe
in Kenya with a lower socio-economic status relative to neighbouring groups. Because girls have
a better chance of marrying out of the tribe, they have a greater reproductive potential for the
Mukogodo community. Therefore, Mukogodo girls receive better medical care than boys (Cronk
1989).

In order to examine the possible preference of one sex over another in the context of CW and BB
burials, we have compared the number of children buried in male and female positions given the
symbolism associated with burial orientation. The number of CW girls and boys buried in
Bohemia and Moravia is almost equal with 21 girls (42.9 percent) and 19 boys (38.8 percent),
not counting the nine child burials in non-diagnostic positions (n = 49 burials in total). There is a
similar record for BB child burials in Bohemia where 24 of the 27 children were buried in
diagnostic positions with 13 (54 percent) identified as male and 11 (46 percent) as female.
Similarly, there is an almost equal number of child burials in female and male positions in a CW
cemetery in Central Germany (Siemen 1992:231). The one exception seems to be in Moravian
BB cemeteries where 23 of 25 children were buried in diagnostic positions with 17 (74 percent)
identified as male and 6 (26 percent) as female. This record challenges any assumptions that sex-
biased infanticide existed in the Late Eneolithic period in Central Europe.

The number of grave goods found within male and female child burials in Bohemian and
Moravian CW cemeteries appears to be fairly even although girls seems to have slightly more.
Excavations have revealed that stone tools or weapons accompany some of the childrens burials,
especially those with a male orientation. In the context of childrens graves these artefacts clearly
were of symbolic importance and may have well been anticipating their social roles as adults. In
some particular Bohemian and Moravian CW burials, the bodies of very young boys (six months
to six years old) are accompanied by hammer-axes or mace heads. In Moravia, for example,
there is the burial of a five year old child from Dtkovice (District Prostjov [imov and
md 1976]) with a hammer-axe. In Bohemia, the burial of a six year old child in grave 130/63
from Vikletice (District Chomutov) included a mace head whereas grave 47/64 contained the
skeleton of a child in the infants II category accompanied by a battle-axe (Buchvaldek and
Kouteck 1970). A similar pattern has been identified the CW period in Central Germany
(Siemen 1989). The pattern for the Moravian BB burials appears to be very similar. For example,
the grave of a 910 year old boy accompanied by a copper dagger, golden and copper spirals and
amber beads was present at Lechovice (District Znojmo) whereas the cremated remains of a
child (Burial 53/80-II) from Radovesice (District of Teplice) were found with flint arrowheads, a
stone wristguard, a bow shaped amulet and V-perforated buttons.

Child burials accompanied by objects that may be interpreted as symbols of wealth and social
status do not necessarily reflect prehistoric social relations simply because these children died so
young. Because other male child burials do not include such symbolic artefacts, it can be
assumed that this group of sub-adult male burials may represent socially favoured individuals of
some sort. They might have been firstborn sons and thus potential heirs of social status and
wealth within a family or a community. Similar observations were made by Susan Shennan
(1975) at the cemetery of the Nitra Culture at Bran south-west Slovakia where a small group of
sub-adult women were buried with rich copper necklaces and other jewellery. On the other hand,

54 | P a g e

the majority of girls burials on this site were accompanied by ordinary artefacts. On the basis of
this evidence, Shennan (1975) infers the existence of a system of ascribed hereditary wealth. In
fact, this evidence may indicate the initial stages in the development of social differentiation
which persisted in Bronze Age communities. Such social differentiation may have been a result
of progressive changes in the system of agriculture and food production, namely the introduction
of teams of oxen, ploughing implements and secondary products revolution (Neustupn 1967;
Sherratt 1981).

Gender Symbols on Bell Beaker Cups

Humphrey Case (1995) and Neil Brodie (1998) demonstrated how volumes of British and Irish
beakers differed in male (largest volume), female (medium volume) and child burials (smaller
volume). The gender differences are apparent not only in the volumes of the vessels but also in
their forms and decoration. Some forms of Bell Beaker pottery (so called accompanying pottery
die Begleitkeramik), namely the one handled cups, were decorated with plastic ornaments,
presumably related to gender (Figure 3). Male symbols include moustache (or tusk) decorations
protruding down the root of the handle or phallic inverted Y shapes distributed over the vessel
body, usually in even numbers of two or four times. The Y symbol, which may resemble the
schematic picture of sexual intercourse, is sometimes outlined from the top. The female
counterparts include pairs of nipple-like protrusions located on both sides of the handles root
and/or distributed over the body of the vessel. Significantly, the male and female symbols never
appear on the same pot and they seem to be segregated into male or female burial assemblages.
Examples from Moravian cemeteries at Ostopovice (burial 14/73, see Ondru and Dvok 1992),
lapanice (see Dvok and Hjek 1990), Vykov (burial 9/57) and Zhlinice (69/89, see Dvok,
Rakovsk and Stuchlkov 1992) include individuals buried in the male position, all of which are
accompanied by cups with moustache decoration. Similar decorations were noted on the cup
from male grave four at Lochenice in Bohemia (District Hradec Krlov [Buchvaldek 1990:30,
38, Obr. 9:1]). Unfortunately many more cups with male or female symbols are stored in
museum collections but the lack of contextual information prohibits their use in such studies.

These pots may represent the gender role of the individual not only in a funerary context but also
in everyday gendered social activities. The labelled pots may also have been distinguished in
linguistically as male and female pots, possibly being used in much more personalised ways than
the majority of pots represented in the ceramic assemblages. The gender differentiation of some
pottery types at the end of the Eneolithic period and the habit of labelling common cups with

Figure 3. Female (left) and male (middle and right) symbolic decoration of the Bell Beaker
cups (after Heyd 2000).

55 | P a g e

male or female specific symbols may thus reflect the social need to distinguish gender roles in
ceremonial as well as secular activities.

Only for Women! Gendered Pottery Types in the Late Eneolithic Period

The gender differentiation of the late Eneolithic pottery in Central Europe is also represented in
less explicit ways. In the Corded Ware (29002500 cal. B.C.) and Bell Beaker (25002300 cal.
B.C.) funerary contexts, for example, it is possible to distinguish certain specific types of vessels
such as egg-shaped storage pots and tall one handled jugs that occur exclusively in female
graves. Perhaps then, some pottery types represented in female burials were used in day to day
practice by women and were taboo for men to touch and vice versa. Similar behaviour was
observed, for instance, in the Mandara Valley amongst the Sub-Saharan populations of present
day Cameroon (ern et al. 2001), where women were not allowed to touch some of the male
pots and could only manipulate them by using isolation wooden sticks. The gender
differentiation of the Bell Beaker pottery may also be a key to the problem of missing female
burials in Bohemia and perhaps some other regions of Central Europe.

Missing Women
I have recently discussed the question of missing female burials in Bohemia and central
Germany during the Bell Beaker period (Turek 2002). In Moravia and southern Germany, by
contrast, both sexes are equally represented in burial sites. The lack of female burials in certain
regions of central Europe must reflect alternative methods of burial that were used for a certain
number of deceased women. There are certainly many ways of disposing the body without
leaving any traces retrievable by archaeological methods. In the case of some Bell Beaker sites,
for example, secondary burials were placed in the fill of burial mounds as indicated by the
contents of intact barrows in eastern Moravia and central Germany. Many of these prehistoric
burial mounds however were destroyed through agricultural activity in much of central Europe.
These flattened burial mounds and the tendency to cremate the bodies of the deceased may be the
key to the question of missing Bell Beaker women in Bohemia and central Germany.

The few preserved Bell Beaker cremation burials in Bohemia often contain large ovoid storage
jars or amphorae apparently used as urns for the ashes of the deceased. These may be the
cremated remains of women, for whom this method of body disposal was used. In several cases,
the associated smaller pots such as cups and bowls show the effects of burning in the cremation
pyre while the large urns have smooth unburned surfaces. Apparently, the smaller pots were only
placed near the cremation pyre because the deformation of the vessels by fire was inconsistent
with placement in the fire (Danek, Prchov and Turek 2009). By contrast, the amphorae or
ovoid storage jars were selected as containers for the ashes after the cremation ceremony was
completed and were thus not placed near the fire.

Bell Beaker Amazons the Case of Tiice Burial

Mixed Gender Burial Assemblages
I would like to draw your attention to the small collection of Bell Beaker female burials
accompanied by artefacts normally connected with men, namely three female burials equipped
with archers stone wrist guards, artefacts usually present in mens graves. One such female

56 | P a g e

archer comes from Moravian grave 12/34 at lapanice II (District Brno-Venkov, see Dvok and
Hjek 1990:10, Taf. XVI) which includes a rich burial assemblage of seven vessels, including
two decorated bell beakers, four V-perforated buttons and a copper awl. Another female archer
was discovered in grave III at Prague-Vrovice, Bohemia while the third case comes from an
isolated burial chamber (no. 77/99) at Tiice District Mlnk (Turek 2002). The latter burial was
accompanied by two stone wrist guards, an amber bead, copper awl and dagger, and six vessels
including four decorated bell beakers. Significantly, most of the daggers found in female graves
are miniature versions (3794 mm) of those associated with male burials. These miniature
daggers might have been used in other ways than the full size artefacts or their function may
have been purely symbolic. I believe these exceptional cases of rich female burials belong to a
socially preferred elite group within these populations.

The mixed gender assemblages seem to be characteristic of the rich female burials with
decorated beakers and burial chambers surrounded by a circular ditch. I presume that the
relationship between decorated beakers, internal construction of the grave and package of
prestigious goods is more likely to be a reflection of a social distinction than a chronological
difference. In addition, the blending of male and female gendered assemblages in the rich
graves seems to reflect this social differentiation. We should bear in mind that not every item in
the burial assemblage must indicate the social status of the deceased. Instead, such gendered
artefacts could be a symbolic demonstration of the relations between the deceased and other
members of the community. In this context, it is important to note that the wrist guards in grave
77/99 at Tiice were detached from the body, one being located near the western wall of the
burial chamber and the other one laid on the left forearm with its inside up (post-depositional
movement?). Such placement could reflect the actions of other community members during the
funerary ritual in order to emphasise the social status of the deceased and to reinforce community
identity. Under these circumstances, the male gendered artefacts might have been delegated to
women (rarely the other way around) to reinforce social norms, social relations and rules of
differentiation. As such, the female burials with archery equipment are representing members of
a social elite, possibly female warriors or the Bell Beaker Amazons.

Corded Ware Women-Men?

In some cases, such as Grave 60/1964 at Vikletice which contains the body of a man aged 5560
years, there are elderly men buried with body orientation and grave goods typical of female
burials, suggesting that some elderly men switched their gender to female. Roland Wiermann
(1998) compared this evidence to the norms of some Siberian and North American tribes. Based
on the presence of such gender category amongst the Chukchee, Koryak and Yakut in Siberia
and the Mohave and Navaho in North America, Wiermann assigns the term berdache to such
women-men. In fact, some aged men may have decided to retire as women for symbolic and
practical reasons. Such old men would symbolically give up their masculine attributes and social
power while at the same time abandoning the practical need to compete with other male
members of the community. In this way, the new gender status sets him free of competition and
certain social obligations. One finds evidence of similar role changes in the spatial clustering of
graves by age and gender within some Copper Age funerary areas. In the Corded Ware burial
group at Brno-Star Lskovec in south Moravia, for example, there was an old man aged 5060
years close to the graves of three children aged 11.5, 23, and 78. The spatial proximity of

57 | P a g e

these graves may be an indication of the special social status and changed identity of the elderly
person buried in the childrens section of the cemetery. A similar pattern has been observed at
the Polish Bell Beaker cemetery at Samborzec.

Conclusion Gender Identities

Reconsidering our Gender Perspectives on Past
Societies
Most of the archaeological discussions on
gender traditionally deal with the concept based
on biological sex. This is, however, in many
respects a misleading approach. Amongst some
native communities in Siberia and North
America, there are more than just two gender
categories, with most groups recognizing three
or four genders such as man, woman-man,
woman, man-woman (Lang 1996:183196).
The Chukchi in Siberia recognize as many as
seven gender categories apart from man and
woman. Such categories are not evidence of
institutionalized homosexuality! That is, the
gender switch is usually not a result of sexual
orientation but rather of occupational
preferences and personality traits. Among the
Ojibwa, for example, one daughter may be
raised as a boy, a practice also common among
the Kaska People of Alaska and Inuit or Eskimo
in Canada. Such practices usually occur in
regions where subsistence activities centered on
hunting, a typical male activity in the normal
division of labour. Among the Mohave, the
woman-man is called Alyha (Figure 4, 5) and
the man-woman is referred to as Hwame. The
men who changed their identity usually dressed as women and changed their hairstyle and
tattooing pattern. They also acted as women, adopting their manners and gestures, even adjusting
their voices accordingly. Further, they took on womens jobs such as spinning and weaving
blankets and raising children in extended families. Some even pretended to have menstrual
cycles together with other women. Men-women, on the other hand, deny female physiological
functions. They never menstruate, hide their breasts and may marry a woman or remain single.
They also use weapons and take up mens tasks including fighting. In certain cultures, people
can even mix the culturally defined roles.

Figure 4. Corded Ware woman-man burial
from Vikletice (North-west Bohemia, after
Buchvaldekand Kouteck 1970).

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Understanding Gender Concepts of Prehistoric
Societies
The perception of gender in archaeological
interpretations commonly reflects our current
social reality. In our Christian Western worldview,
the traditional gender categories of men and
women are based on biology and presume the
primacy of reproduction in human
societies. Alternative social roles were judged as
deviations by the biased majority. The extremely
difficult position of homosexuals in Twentieth
Century Western society was caused mainly by the
lack of an appropriate and commonly recognised
gender category. Not surprisingly, the concept of
trans-sexualism developed in cultures that only
recognized and valued two gender categories
based on biological sex while the tribes in North
America and Siberia had gender categories ready
for such cases. In Western society, Christian
norms instigated a social neglect of homosexuals
m ainly due to the absence of appropriate gender
categories. As archaeologists, we should change
our approach to the interpretation of past societies because our gender categories do not always
correspond to those of a former reality.

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Funerary Rites as a Means of Land Appropriation

Lieve Donnellan

ABSTRACT. The paper re-examines evidence of the earliest tumuli (sixth century B.C.) in the
Greek colony Istros (Histria), on the Romanian coast of the Black Sea. Past scholarship tried to
explain the cremation rituals and their human sacrifices as belonging to the customs of the local
Thracian aristocracy. Others have referred to barbaranised Greeks or mix-Hellens or
Homeric rites. The funerary rites of Istros find close parallels in the indigenous graves of the
same period. The paper argues, following post-colonial theories, that rigid ethnic dichotomies of
colonial societies should be avoided, and that all participants, colonized and colonizers,
construct meaningful realities. In Istros the funerary rituals and identities find a better
understanding if considered as appropriation: Greeks adopted and re-interpreted local
customs in order to maintain themselves and their power positions in a time when these were
questioned.

At the end of the seventh century B.C., Greeks, according to literary sources (Hieronym. Chron.
P. 95B Helm; Ps.-Scymn. 766772) coming from Milete, a powerful city in Asia Minor, founded
the colony Istros located on the Romanian coast of the Black Sea. Excavations have confirmed
the existence of a settlement at this location: habitation nuclei and a temple site on an acropolis
testify to the existence of a lively centre, dated more precisely by the presence of ceramics
belonging to the so-called Wild Goat Style (MWG II last quarter of the seventh century B.C.)
(Alexandrescu 1962; Avram 2003; Dimitriu and Coja 1958; Nawotka 1997). The settlement
continued to exist during the Roman period, under the name Histria, until the seventh century
A.D., when it was abandoned and never occupied again.

The necropolis of Istros was, as in every Greek city, located outside the habitation nucleus. Of
the necropolis, hundreds of tumuli are still visible today. Only a few dozen of them have been
excavated. The graves associated with the first century of the citys life have never been found;
they are likely located in a now submerged area (Alexandrescu 1966:137141). The known
graves of the archaic period (dated between ca. 560 510 B.C.) have puzzled scholars since their
discovery in the 1950s, for they display a curious mix of traditions, normally attributed to
different peoples, Greeks and natives. The relationship between the Greek colonists and the
indigenous groups, known as Getae (Her. Hist. IV, 93), in Istros has been poorly understood.
This relationship and the identities associated with it, as exposed in the grave rituals, will be the
theme of this paper.

The Necropolis of Istros

The graves, excavated during several campaigns, dated from the sixth century B.C. to the
second/third centuries A.D. (Alexandrescu 1965, 1966; Alexandrescu and Eftimie 1959;
Condurachi 1966). The archaeologists distinguished three different phases, based on significant
changes in the burial ritual, occurring in the mid-fourth century B.C. (Hellenistic period), and at

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the end of the first century B.C. (Roman presence). The cremation ritual was dominant during
the first periods, which is exceptional for a Greek colony in the Black sea area, because in most
Greek colonies inhumation had been dominantly. The cremated remains were not gathered in an
urn, but were deposited on the ground on the same place as the pyre. Typologically, several
forms of pits have been distinguished. The more recent pits are the most elaborated ones. Around
the pyre additional structures could be erected including: an earthen platform, stone circle, ditch
or tumulus, features which proved to be significant (cf. below). In the necropolis, some
inhumations, deposited in flat graves, were also found. These were very simple graves, without
additional structures, and without significant grave goods, in contrast to some of the tumuli.

The Archaic Tumuli
Tumulus XX. (Figure 1) This tumulus, the
eldest of the archaic tumuli, had a central
cremation grave, located on top of a so-
called funerary platform (an earthen
elevation of 0.5 m high). Around the grave
and platform a segmented ditch had been
excavated, in which the (partial) remains
of a horse had been deposited. Also
ceramics, mostly of Greek tradition, but
also one indigenous hand made vase, had
been offered as sacrifice; the ceramics
allowed the tumulus to be dated to 560
550 B.C.

Tumulus XVII. (Figure 2) This grave is the
second one known after tumulus XX. The
tumulus contained a central cremation
grave, deposited on a funerary platform.
Greek vases and some containers
belonging to the native tradition (hand
made) allowed the burial to be dated to the
period around the third quarter of the sixth century B.C. Around the grave, a circular ditch had
been constructed, which contained three inhumated persons, and the remains of four horses. The
curious position of the human bodies, in a contracted position with their faces down, led the
archaeologists to interpret them as having been sacrificed.

Figure 1. Tumulus XX with in the middle the
cremated remains, at the edges a ditch with the
(partial) remains of a horse and ceramics of Greek
tradition and one hand made vase (indigenous)
(after Alexandrescu 1966:156 figure 19).

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Tumulus XIX. (Figure 3) The third tumulus
found can be dated in the period from the
mid-sixth century B.C. to 525 B.C. The
cremated remains were placed on a
funerary platform. There is evidence for a
multiple cremation: based on the grave
goods, it can be
proposed that a man and a woman were
buried together. Around the grave a
circular ditch was constructed, and the
bottom of the ditch was completely paved
with stones. This ditch also contained
anomalous human remains: two human
bodies were placed one on top of the other.
According to the excavators the bodies
seemed to have been thrown into the ditch,
without respect to any funerary rite. Partial
remains of horses had also been deposited
in the ditch.

Tumulus XII. (Figure 4) The last of the
archaic tumuli was located 400 m away
from the cluster of the other three tumuli.
Tumulus XII contained a cremation grave,
together with the cremated remains of
several objects (ceramics, iron, bronze and
bone). The ceramics have allowed the
tumulus to be attributed to ca. 530510
B.C. Located to the northeast of the central
grave, under the same tumulus, two pits
were found, which contained the remains
of 35 inhumated individuals. The bodies
had been deposited one on top of the other,
in diverse positions and orientations,
without any regularity, and were mixed
with the (incomplete) remains of horses,
mules, and ceramics. Physical
anthropological research determined that
the majority of the individuals were of
male sex, but two were female. The age range represented was from 11-14 years old for the
youngest, and 5060 years old for the eldest.

Figure 2. Tumulus XVII with the cremated remains
in the middle; in the ditch towards the edges of the
grave the remains of three persons and four horses
were found (after Alexandrescu and Eftimie
1959:146 figure 5).

Figure 3. Tumulus XIX with the cremated remains
in the middle of the grave; a surrounding ditch was
completely paved with stones; in the ditch the
remains of two human bodies and one horse were
excavated (after Alexandrescu 1966:151 figure 17).

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The Archaic Tumuli of Istros: Greek vs.
Native

The occurrence of cremations under tumuli
with horse and human sacrifices made the
archaeologists believe that they had found
graves of the indigenous aristocracy
(Alexandrescu and Eftimie 1959; Hughes
1991:6869; Kurtz and Boardman
1971:317). Horse and human sacrifices
were unknown for the Greek world in this
period, whereas the groups inhabiting the
northern steppes of the Black sea area,
nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes like the
Scythians, and Thracians, were not only
famous for their riding skills, but also for
the practice of human sacrifice (Hdt. Hist.
IV, 71-72, 95-6; V, 5).

Some years later, the excavators of the
necropolis interpreted the graves as
examples of heroic burials, as described by
Homer in the Iliad (Hom. Il. XXIII, 105-257): the hero Patroclus, after being killed by the
Trojans, received a lavish burial: a large pyre had been constructed on which Patroclus body
was burned. Libation sacrifices were made, and cattle, horses, Patroclus dogs, and twelve
captured youth of Troy were also sacrificed. After the cremation, Patroclus remains were
gathered in a golden urn, which was deposited on the pyre, and a large tumulus was erected on
top of it. The excavators of the necropolis of Istros sought to explain the tumuli by ascribing
them to Greek aristocrats using the works of Homer to distinguish themselves socially, and they
saw this ultimate Greek heroic theme as proof for the Greek ethnicity of the dead (Alexandrescu
1971, 1994; Simion 1998:168).

Some other explanations for the tumuli have been offered as well: the contrast between
inhumation in flat graves in the sixth century B.C. necropolis, in the countryside near the Greek
city Istros, and cremation in the city itself could demarcate ethnic divisions between Greeks
coming from different regions (Damyanov 2005). Another suggestion was that tumulus XII, the
tumulus with the two collective graves, was a war monument from the period when the Persian
King Darius travelled through Thracian lands, in the last quarter of the sixth century B.C., while
on his way to fight the Scythians, who lived to the north. In the central grave of the tumulus an
army leader would have been buried, and in the collective graves fallen soldiers, or citizens
(Dimitriu 1964:144).

There are several problems with these different explanations. The correlation of funerary habits
with an ethnic identity, as proposed initially by the excavators, cannot be maintained. Abundant
research on ethnicity in past decades has stressed the malleability of culture in the
communication of ethnicity (Hall 1997; Jones 1997; Malkin 2001). No habitual practice, object,

Figure 4. Tumulus XII with a centrally located
cremation grave and two pits containing the
collectively buried remains of 35 individuals (after
Alexandrescu 1966:156 figure 19).

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or language may be taken as firm proof of ethnicity. Physical traits, language, dress, or objects
may be used in a strategy of identity communication, but their meaning is heavily dependent of
context. As post-colonial theories on intercultural contact suggest (see below), radical
oppositions of cultures, or ethnicities, are to be avoided. It is therefore not likely that the burials
in Istros could be understood as Greek versus Getic, or vice versa.

Traditionally, Greek colonies are considered to have imported from their mother cities burial
rituals, among other customs, such as religion, language, and law, as part of their colonial
identity. These opinions have been more recently attacked, from the new perspectives on
ethnicity, by historians, and also by archaeologists (Osborne 1998). The local context as the
primary influence for the choice of specific burial rituals in colonies, rather than habits exported
from the mother land, has been observed equally in other Greek necropoli (Shepherd 1995).

Furthermore, the explanation of social competition or Homeric inspirations does not account for
the similarities between the tumuli of Istros and the tumuli found elsewhere in non-Greek
Romania (see below). The suggestion that tumulus XII should be seen as a war monument does
not account for the fact that the non-normative burials of humans in the ditch, together with
offerings, were practiced during several generations. Moreover, several children and elderly
people were among the 35 individuals in the pits. Thus, it is unlikely that these pits represent the
burials of fallen warriors. If these 35 bodies are interpreted as citizen victims, one can wonder
why they did not receive individual graves, and were mixed with horses and mules. Normally,
everyone in the Greek world received an individual grave, be it in a simple pit or an elaborated
cist. It is not very likely that the Istrians would decide suddenly to bury their beloved deceased
relatives in an anonymous grave, by throwing them down in a pit, yet still constructing one
individual central grave.

In Istros for the archaic period four tumuli contain features that are difficult to interpret using
traditional models of monolithic ethnicities or cultures with fixed habits. To solve this problem
we must look at two elements: the burial customs of the indigenous world, and new models to
understand intercultural interaction.

The Funerary Rituals outside Istros in the Archaic Period

From the seventh century B.C., only a few burial grounds are known in Romania. In the
immediate surroundings of Istros, another Greek colony, Orgame at Cape Dolojman, and the
necropolis of Celic-Dere in Dobrudja have offered evidence of seventh century B.C. burials
(Lungu 2000a, 2000b; Simion 2000). The other known graves are part of the so-called Basarabi
complex and Ferigile complex (Moscalu 1981; Popescu and Vulpe 1982; Vulpe 1977; Vulpe and
Popescu 1972). In these seventh century B.C. tombs, both inhumation and cremation were more
or less equally represented. Flat graves were absent, only tumuli are known. Remains of the
cremation ritual were preferably deposited in an urn, but deposition of the remains in the ground
was practiced as well. Distinction of social status, with the expression of the warrior, by the
deposition of weaponry, was observed in all necropoli known. The construction of a stone circle
in the interior occurred frequently, while a platform and ditch were constructed more
sporadically.


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For the sixth century B.C. more burials sites are known: those from the seventh century B.C.
continued to exist, and new ones came into being in Romania, and especially in Dobrudja
(Berciu 1957; Bucoval and Irimia 1971; Condurachi 1970; Lzurc and Simion 2000; Mitrea et
al. 1961; Palade 1976; Simion 1995, 2003; Teleaga and Zirra 2003; Vulpe 1959a, 1959b, 1967;
Zirra 1970). The inhumation ritual was slightly more represented in this period than the
cremation ritual. Flat graves make their appearance, mainly in burials attributed, by their
excavators, to Greek colonists and Scythians, but tumuli remain dominant, and are equally
present in so-called Greek necropoli. The distinction between deposition in the ground and
deposition of cremated remains in an urn proves to be less pronounced than during the seventh
century B.C. The use of a stone circle to demarcate the area of burial experiences a decline in
frequency, as do the platform and the ditch, but here the decline is less. Weaponry is still widely
present in the graves.

When comparing these data with the typology of the Istros tumuli described above, one easily
observes the similarities. In Istros, as well as in the burials of the rest of Romania, cremation was
practiced. The burial of the cremated remains, deposited on a funerary platform, under a tumulus,
as practiced in Istros finds exact parallels in the rest of Romania. The practice of expressing an
elite male status is observed widely in Istros, as in the other known graves from the period. The
manipulation of human remains had been widely practiced by the so-called Babadag culture, the
Early Iron Age complex known in the region. For the archaic and classical periods, apart from
the Istros tumuli, no archaeological information on human sacrifices in the region is available,
but ancient writers tell several stories of human sacrifices among the indigenous groups of
Thracia and Scythia (Hdt. Hist. IV, 71-72, 95-6; V, 5). For the La Tne period (fifth century B.C.
to first century A.D.) some 200 individuals from 33 contexts have been reported to have been
sacrificed and buried in a non-normative manner, often in collective graves, and sometimes
mixed with the remains of horses (Srbu 1997). In the Greek world, human sacrifice occurs
frequently in myths, but seems to be absent from the archaeological record (Hughes 1991). The
deposition of horses in tombs is known in several indigenous necropoli, and the importance of
the horse among the local tribes is also illustrated by the horse gear and horse motifs on objects
made of precious metals, which have been found in necropoli (Alexandrescu 1983; Haimovici
2000; Popescu and Vulpe 1982).

From Greek to Native: Acculturation, Hellenization and Post-Colonialism

It can be concluded from comparison with other graves in Romania that at Istros close parallels
existed with funerary practices normally attributed to the surrounding native populations. The
parallels are so close that the excavators initially thought that they had found tombs of
indigenous aristocrats. However, the location of the tumuli, in the centre of a necropolis of a city,
which is known as a Greek colony, and thus pointing at a Greek identity for the dead, makes a
straightforward interpretation difficult. A complex situation of mixed identities seems to have
existed.

The existence of interaction between Greek colonists and native populations has since long been
recognized, and is traditionally described as acculturation. Acculturation can be defined as
indicating cultural changes resulting from the contact between two clearly distinct cultures
(Burke 1982). The term was developed in the late nineteenth century by anthropologists to

68 | P a g e

describe the transformations occurring among the indigenous people of the North American
continent after the arrival of European colonists. Acculturation in ancient Greek contexts is
specifically known as Hellenization (Boardman 2000; De la Genire 1978). Traditionally the
Greek colonists, as the European colonists of more recent times, are considered to have been
more advanced in technology, social and political organisation, law, art, writing etc. They are
thought to have spread their superior culture by colonisation and a subsequent process of
civilising of barbarian tribes who inhabited the regions where the Greeks came to settle. More
and more, archaeological evidence points to close interaction and co-existence on an equal base
between Greek colonists and native populations, in the Black sea area, and the western colonies
of Italy and Spain. To understand and appreciate these situations archaeologists have adopted
other anthropological models, which are grouped under the term post-colonialism (Antonaccio
2003; Malkin 1998; van Dommelen 1997). The post-colonial concepts of creolisation,
hybridization, or bricolage have the advantage that they examine local input in the selection and
adaptation of the cultural goods supplied by the colonising culture. The result of intercultural
contact and identity is a mixture of both groups, in which meanings are changed to the specific
local context. In Istros we must consider a similar situation.

Funerary Ritual as a Means of Land Appropriation

Initially, the archaic tumuli of the necropolis of the Greek colony Istros were explained in terms
of opposing, monolithic, and static ethnic identities, referring to, according to the excavators, the
indigenous Getic culture. Such identities, static, monolithic, and referring to bounded cultures
with fixed habits, were not able to explain the mix of features, referring not only to indigenous
funerary practices, but to Greek ones as well. This was recognized by the excavators themselves,
since they switched from a native to a Greek ethnic attribution of the graves.

Research on ethnic identities, and on the social significance of funerary rituals, have, the last
decades, changed the archaeological approaches to funerary evidence drastically. It is understood
now that burial should be seen as a process that is structured by symbolically meaningful codes
(Hodder 1982:10). This means that burials can be used in social strategies, and can serve as a
platform for the display of wealth, power, and identities. Identities, including ethnic identities,
are constructions, and can, or cannot, be communicated under specific circumstances. Funerary
rituals thus offer, potentially, a stage for the display and construction of identities. As such, in
this specific case, it can be suggested that the archaic tumuli of Istros can be read as the
conscious choice of the communication of a specific message of status, class and power,
constituting specific identities, towards the rest of the population(s).

The rich burials of Istros aristocracy were modelled after the burials of the indigenous
aristocrats. This indicates that the Istrian aristocrats participated in a network of contact with
local aristocrats: by the appropriation of the funerary habits of indigenous aristocrats the Greek
colonists of the higher social ranks integrated into the local elitarian landscape, and could
express status and power to their indigenous counterparts, and lower class fellow citizens as well.
At the same time, as a consequence of the integration into the local elite networks, the aristocrats
were able to appropriate territory: through the adoption of local funerary ritual, a local identity
was appropriated, which legitimated the possession of territory and power towards the

69 | P a g e

indigenous aristocrats, and the elitist position in turn legitimated power and a higher social status
towards the fellow citizens.

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Lifting the Veil: Identity and Dress of Brides on
Athenian Vases

Renee M. Gondek
McIntire Department of Art, University of Virginia, Charlottesville, VA, 22904
(Rmg8m@Virginia.edu)

ABSTRACT. The ancient Greek wedding ceremony was a transitional event marking the advent
of adulthood for a young girl, and it has been suggested that the bride would have been clothed
and adorned with the most extravagant items symbolizing her new identity as both a bride and
wife. Since dress can reveal how certain cultures construct gender and identity, the following
paper examines the dress of women in wedding scenes using ancient Athenian black- and early
red-figure vases (late sixth to early fifth centuries B.C.E.). Specific questions addressed include:
Can one identify the image of a bride based on her attire? Did certain painters dress women
differently? Finally, is there a difference between black- and red-figure female adornment in
wedding scenes? After examining the vases, the archaeological evidence reveals that the dress
and the attributes of the bride appear to have been part of artistic convention and idealization.
Well-known painters, from the Amasis Painter to Euphronios, seem to have made deliberate
artistic choices pertaining to the style and decoration of the garments. Although current
scholarly opinion holds that the garments worn by brides were extremely elaborate, one does not
find such evidence in their depictions on vases.

From the Homeric verses of the eighth century B.C.E. to the playwrights of the fifth century
B.C.E., ancient Greek literature suggests that a bride was clothed and adorned with the most
extravagant items symbolizing her new identity as a wife (LlewellynJones 2003:219). In
Book Six of the Odyssey, Homer describes a scene with a young bride-to-be. The mother of the
girl exclaims:

Nausikaa, how comes it that your mother bore you so heedless? Your bright
clothes are lying uncared for; yet your marriage is near at hand, when you will
need not only to be dressed in beautiful garments yourself, but to provide others
like them for those who escort you (Homer, Odyssey, 6.2538)
1
.

Likewise, in Euripides Medea, the gifts of a beautiful new garment and a shining crown were
meant to dress the girl as a bride (nymphokom) (Euripides, Medea, 784789, 978987). As this
shows, ancient authors have described the custom of well-adorned brides on the day of their
wedding. Did the ancient vase painters follow suite and illustrate such bridal attire? The
following paper discusses the items of dress and adornment worn by women in wedding
processions on ancient Greek black- and early red-figure vases produced in the city of Athens
during the sixth and fifth centuries B.C.E.


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Weddings and Vases

Before surveying the dress of brides and their attendants, it is important to explain briefly the
most important rituals of an ancient Greek wedding. According to ancient Greek authors, girls
were prone to excessive and uncontrolled behavior and, upon reaching puberty, they were
required to be conquered or yoked in marriage (Blundell 1998:16, 2425; Euripides, Medea,
804; Homer, Iliad, 18.432)
2
. The betrothal was made between the intended groom and caretaker
of the bride, usually the father, without the presence or consent of the bride, and it was typically
based on economic and/or political factors (Mikalson 2005:151; Pomeroy 1995:63-64; Rehm
1994:11)
3
. After the arrangements were made between the two families and a dowry for the bride
was determined, the wedding ceremony took place.

The couple prepared themselves for the event separately by sacrificing to the gods and ritually
bathing with water drawn from a sacred source (Oakley and Sinos 1992:1115); in Athens
during the seventh century B.C.E., archaeological evidence suggests that the water source for
these nuptial rites was initially located along the western sector of the Acropolis and, during later
periods, was drawn from the Callirrhoe-Enneakrounos of the Athenian River Ilissos (Brouskare
2004:3237, 190). In addition to the prenuptial bath, the bride was required to dedicate to
Artemis certain articles from her childhood, such as toys and/or garments (Dillon 2002:215219;
Mikalson 2005:152; Oakley and Sinos 2002:1114). Such offerings to the virgin goddess
represented both the advent of adulthood for the young girl and the loss of her own virginity
(Mikalson 2005:152). After ritually bathing, the bride and groom dressed. For the bride, the help
of a special attendant called the nymphetria was essential for her to be properly adorned
(Aristophanes, Acharnians, 1056; Oakley and Sinos 2002:16, 17). Once the couple was prepared
and the houses were decorated, the families joined together for feasting and dancing. Following
these festivities, the bride and groom gathered themselves into a vehicle, and the wedding
procession began (Crouwel 1992:60; Oakley and Sinos 2002:2123). As can be seen on Greek
vases, the groom and a throng of family members escorted the bride to her new home in a chariot
or a cart drawn either by mules or horses. The key participants in the procession, besides the
married couple, were the mothers of the bride and groom who were directly involved in the
transfer of the bride from one house to the other (Oakley and Sinos 1992:26).

This article will examine the visual representations of the wedding on Greek black- and red-
figure vases. The black-figure technique was invented in Corinth in the late seventh century
B.C.E. and displays dark-colored figures on a light background with incised details (Beazley
1986:1; Boardman 2003:9). Female flesh would have been painted with an added white pigment
(Beazley 1986:1; Boardman 2003:16, 3233, 37). Red-figure, a technique invented in Athens
around 530 B.C.E., shows light-colored figures on a dark background (Boardman 1996:7). The
artists, both painters and potters, sometimes signed their work; unsigned vases, however, have
been assigned artists names based on stylistic details. Of the approximately 33 known Athenian
black-figure vases that illustrate the wedding, the most frequent representation was the wedding
procession. At the end of the sixth century B.C.E., the invention of the red-figure technique in
Athens coincides with a change in the types of illustrations. In addition to the wedding
procession, painters of the red-figure technique begin to paint other moments of the wedding
ceremony. Of the approximately 133 known red-figure vases illustrating marriage, we find
scenes of nuptial sacrifice and dedication, ritual bathing, the preparation of the bride, the

76 | P a g e

decoration of the home, the wedding feast, and the wedding chamber (Oakley and Sinos 1992:6,
28; Rehm 1994:30).

Brides and Dress

Through visual evidence and literary sources, two types of garments are known from the Greek
world: the Doric peplos and the Ionic chiton (Abrahams 1964:41; Losfeld 1992:210, 228-229).
The peplos was a woolen garment typically worn by Athenian Greek women up until the mid-
sixth century (Herodotus, Histories, 5.8788; Losfeld 1992:210). The peplos would have been
gathered at the shoulder, pinned, and then girdled around the waist (Losfeld 1992:210). Painters
often portray this garment with no sleeves and thick folds. The chiton, on the other hand, as
explained by Herodotus, was an Ionian-styled garment that originated in western Asia Minor
(Herodotus, Histories, 5.88). As with the Doric peplos, a girdle was wrapped around the waist,
with a second girdle possibly tied higher just below the chest. Cross-bands and shoulder cords
would have been used to further secure the dress (Abrahams 1964:6970; Houston 1931:40).
Another component of female dress that was often paired with either the peplos or the chiton is
the himation. Consisting of an oblong piece of cloth measuring about seven or eight feet in
length, the himation was used to cover the body and/or the head (Abrahams 1964:4849;
Llewellyn-Jones 2003:50, 54; Losfeld 1992:275). Overall, the principle differences between the
depictions of the peplos and chiton were in the manner in which the garments were fastened, the
appearance of the sleeves, and the representation of the fabrics. The Ionic chiton, with its puffy
sleeves, was made of diaphanous linen, and artists often enjoyed illustrating the contrasting folds
of a heavy himation and a light chiton (Bonfante 2003:12). While both garments may have been
worn differently, there is no evidence that they indicate differences in social status. Rather, it is
more likely we are witnessing a change in fashion it appears the chiton became more popular
and replaced the peplos at the end of the sixth century B.C.E.
4
Such a trend is documented not
only on Greek vases but also with the sculpture of the time period the so-called korai figures.

The Visual Evidence

The first wedding procession discussed here is depicted on a black-figure lekythos, or oil
container, painted by the Amasis Painter. Dating to the mid-sixth century B.C.E. and housed in
the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Accession no. 56.11.1), the scene on the vase shows the bride
and groom seated in a cart, surrounded by wedding participants, and approaching a domestic
structure
5
. The bride is clutching her veil and a wreath with her left hand and gesturing toward
the ground with her right. She is adorned with a beaded necklace and an unpatterned himation.
Although the Amasis Painter was active from around 560 to 525 B.C.E. (Boardman 2003:54
56), a time period when the linen chiton may have been introduced on the Greek mainland, the
garment the bride wears is a peplos patterned with stars.

The four women participating in the procession also are dressed in peploi. The woman directly
behind the bride and groom wears a diadem, earrings, a necklace, an unpatterned himation, and a
decorated peplos. The pattern on the peplos, consisting of star-like shapes, is very similar to the
brides. Directly in front of the cart, another woman is depicted crowned, wearing earrings, a
necklace, an undecorated himation, and a decorated peplos. The peplos here, however, is
decorated with dots and Xs, known as saltires. Although her hands are not visible, she grasps

77 | P a g e

her himation and holds it out slightly in front of her chest in the same manner as a bride. The
female participant to the far left in the scene wears earrings and an undecorated peplos, and she
gestures wildly with her arms. The woman leading the procession carries two torches, one in
each hand, and is very likely the mother of the bride (Oakely and Sinos 1993:29)
6
. She is also
crowned and wears earrings, but her peplos is only decorated on the lower hemline of the
garment and the hemline around her neck; the pattern is comprised of double incised lines,
followed by dashes, and then another set of incised lines. Inside the home, there is another
woman, possibly the grooms mother, awaiting the arrival of the newlyweds (Oakely and Sinos
1993:29). She stands at the threshold holding a torch with her left hand and gesturing with a
raised right hand. Although only half of her body is illustrated, one can see she wears a diadem,
earrings, and a peplos patterned at the lower hem.

After analyzing the female garments worn by figures on this vase, one can observe that the bride
is not visually distinguished from the other women in the retinue. Moreover, when one looks at
other vases attributed to the Amasis Painter, most if not all of his women, both real and
mythological, dress in decorated garments
7
. Peploi patterned with rosettes and/or saltires, for
example, can be seen clothing the women weaving on another black-figure lekythos also in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art (Accession no. 31.11.10)
8
.

The wedding procession on a black-figure neck amphora, recently repatriated to Italy by the J.
Paul Getty Museum, is attributed to the Three-Line Group and includes numerous inscriptions
identifying the characters and the scene
9
. Dating to ca. 500 B.C.E., the image celebrates the
union of the mythological figures Alcestis and Admetos, a couple well-known from Euripides
tragic play Alcestis. Alcestis, located to the far left in the chariot, wears a highly ornate peplos
decorated with incised squares enclosing circles. Her face, no longer displaying any of the added
white, must have originally been hidden behind her monochromatic veil. A female figure,
identified as Peith (Persuasion), walks behind the wedded couple and wears a dress patterned in
the same manner as Alcestis (Grossman and Guy 1994:83). The goddess Artemis, facing the
chariot and holding up one hand in front of her face, is adorned with an elaborate head-piece and
a peplos decorated very similar to those of Peith and Alcestis. Two female figures are located in
front of the horses and face the bride and groom. One, whose face is hidden by the pair of horses,
is dressed in a peplos decorated with squares enclosing alternating circles and dotted saltires. The
other, holding torches, wears a crown, a peplos decorated at the hem, and a himation patterned
with saltires and swastikas. The identification of these two figures is not clear: they could either
be Demeter and Persephone or Aphrodite and Semele (Grossman and Guy 1994:84), goddesses
known to play a role in the marital rite. Each of the women in the scene wears highly patterned
garments, and the figure of Artemis especially stands out with her elaborate crown.

A black-figure column krater (mixing bowl) dating to ca. 510 to 500 B.C.E., now in the
University of Virginia Art Museum (Accession no. 1988.62), displays, on one side, figures
thought to be Achilles and Memnon fighting over Antilochos, and, on the other, a wedding
procession (Figure 1; Smith 2004:76). In the chariot, the bride wears a peplos decorated with
saltires and dots, and an undecorated himation covers her head. With one hand, she tugs at the

78 | P a g e

veil and holds a wreath, and with the other she grasps the chariot. The other two women in the
scene, one holding two torches above her head, also wear peploi decorated with saltires and
himations; the himations here, however, do not cover the womens heads. A man standing in
front of the chariot playing a lyre may represent the god Apollo (Oakley and Sinos 1993:28)
10
.
His presence in the procession suggests that the wedding may be mythological in nature, such as
that of Peleus and Thetis often depicted on vases. Indeed, the image of their wedding on this vase
would certainly be appropriate since Achilles, the son of Peleus and Thetis, is shown on the other
side of the vessel
11
.

Figure 1. Black-figure wedding procession on a column krater in the University of Virginia Art
Museum, Charlottesville (1988.62).

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To sum up the evidence presented thus far, the representation of the wedding procession on
Athenian black-figure vases shows the wedded couple being transported in a cart or chariot, with
the bride to the left of the groom
12
. For the red-figure wedding processions, the details only differ
slightly. As we shall see, the bride and groom are portrayed walking in the bridal procession, and
the groom is shown turning back towards the bride and grasping at her wrist or hand
13
. The most
striking difference, however, between the black-figure and red-figure scenes is the frequency
with which the chiton is painted and the artistic display of texture for the garments.

On the exterior of a red-figure drinking cup signed by Euphronios, dating to ca. 515510 B.C.E.
(Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Accession no. 15214; Figure 2), a fragmentary scene
portrays Peleus and Thetis
14
. The bride Thetis, identified by an inscription, wears a chiton and a
himation draped around her shoulders. The thin folds of the chiton are clearly illustrated, and it
appears that the hem of each garment is patterned. Her right hand is being grasped by Peleus,
while she gestures with her left hand. Adorning her left wrist is a spiral armlet created with
gilded clay. The identity of the female goddess behind Thetis is not clear, but she is also dressed
in a chiton and himation. On the other side of the vase, Hera stands on a chariot next to Zeus.

Figure 2. Red-figure wedding procession on a drinking cup signed by Euphronios in the National
Archaeological Museum in Athens (15214). The inscriptions indicate the wedding is of Peleus
and Thetis.

80 | P a g e

She displays similar garments to Thetis the chiton and himation, and, like Thetis bracelet, the
curls of hair on the top of her head were created using gilded clay.

A red-figure drinking cup, attributed to the Amphitrite Painter and dating to ca. 460450 B.C.E.
(Berlin, Antikensammlung, Accession no. F2530), illustrates the groom leading the bride to his
home where the grooms mother awaits holding two torches
15
. The bride, located to the right of
the groom, appears completely consumed by her undecorated and seemingly heavy himation; not
even the hand of the bride that the groom holds is visible. Just visible beneath the edge of the
himation, at mid-calf, are the thin vertical folds of the chiton. The bride wears a diadem and
earrings. The grooms mother and the female torch-bearer, identified as the brides mother,
standing to the far right, both wear undecorated chitons and himations (Oakley and Sinos
1993:33). Although her one arm is distinguishable, the brides mother drapes her heavy himation
in a similar way to the bride.

On a red-figure loutrophoros or ritual water container attributed to Polygnotos and dating to the
mid-fifth century B.C.E. (Toronto, Royal Ontario Museum, Accession no. 929.22.3), a marital
procession shows the bride and groom on foot, accompanied by female attendants. The bride
stands to the left of the groom wearing an undecorated himation and chiton, and her hair is
unbound underneath an elaborate crown. Her right hand holds up a piece of fruit to her chest, and
her left wrist is being grasped by the bridegroom
16
. Interestingly, unlike other brides observed on
vases, her himation is not being utilized as a veil but rather it is draped over her shoulders and
falls in zig-zag folds down her body. Of all the women in the scene, including the bride, the
woman carrying two torches and depicted to the right of the groom wears the most elaborately
patterned garment.

Conclusion

What does this brief summary demonstrate about the bride, her dress, and her identity? The
female garments examined on the black-figure vases are peploi and himations, ranging from
those that are highly ornate to those that are minimally patterned. In terms of dress, there seems
to be no attempt to separate visually the bride from the other females. Moreover, it is clear the
bride herself is not always the focus of the scene; in these processions she is largely
overshadowed by the groom or even other figures. The garments worn by the brides on red-
figure vases are primarily chitons with himations. Most artists were successful in representing
the thin folds of the chiton and the thicker material of the himation. Depending upon the artist,
these garments could have no decoration or minimal patterning. When reviewing wedding scenes
by red-figure painters, it appears that the convention was to leave the chiton undecorated in a
majority of wedding scenes. Euphronios, one of the best known red-figure vase painters, was
certainly capable of detailed patterning on garments
17
. On a drinking cup illustrating the scene of
Heracles being initiated on Mt. Olympos (Berlin, Staatliche Museen Preuischer Kulturbesitz,
Accession no. F2278), one can see an assortment of gods and goddesses both seated and
standing.
18
When viewing a detail of the scene and comparing it to Thetis and Hera on the
previous Euphronios vase, one notices a difference in the treatment of the fabric. It appears
Euphronios painted many of the goddesses in the Heracles scene wearing chitons and himation
patterned with stars. The undecorated chiton worn by the goddess Thetis thus reveals a deliberate
choice on the part of Euphronios to paint a plain garment for a bride. In addition to Euphronios,

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the painter of the Three-Line Group also illustrated a mythological figure wearing items that are
not particularly elaborate in the scene. It seems, therefore, that all brides, whether mortal or
mythological, were wearing the same garments and performing similar actions and gestures.

Based on literary sources, one might expect the dress of an ancient Athenian bride to be
elaborate and conspicuous at such a transitional and important moment. From the examples
shown here, however, it seems one cannot identify the bride in Greek vase-painting based on
items of dress and adornment alone. Often specific actions in the scene, such as tugging at the
veil or being led by a man, can determine whether or not the woman is a bride. Each of the
garments illustrated in the scenes could have been dictated by fashion, or they simply could have
been idealization on the part of the painter. It seems, therefore, it was not the possible
ostentatious nature of the garments that was important, but the way the female body performed in
those garments that made a bride.

Acknowledgements. I would like the thank the University of Virginias McIntire Department of
Art; the University of Virginias Visual Resources Collection; the University of Virginias Art
Museum; the National Archaeological Museum in Athens; I.A. Miliaresis; C.L. Sulosky; and I
would especially like to thank Dr. Tyler Jo Smith.

References Cited
Abrahams, Ethel
1964 Greek Dress. In Ancient Greek Dress, edited by Marie Johnson, pp.1127. Argonaut,
Chicago, Illinois.

Aristophanes
1992 The Acharnians; The Knights; The Clouds; The Wasps. Translated by Benjamin Bickley
Rogers. Harvard University Press, Cambridge.

Beazley, John D.
1986 The Development of Attic Black-figure. Revised edition. The University of
California Press, Berkeley, California.

Blundell, Sue
1998 Women in Classical Athens. Bristol Classical Press, London.

Boardman, John and Donna C. Kurtz
1986 Booners. In Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum. Occasional papers on Antiquities
2(3), pp. 3570. J. Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, Hawaii.

Boardman, John
1996 Athenian Red-figure Vases: The Archaic Period, A Handbook. Thames and Hudson,
London.

2003 Athenian Black-figure Vases, A Handbook. Thames and Hudson, London.

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Bonfante, Larissa
2003 Etruscan Dress. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, Maryland.

Brouskare, Marias S.
2004 Oi Anaskaphes Notios tes Akropoleos ta Glypta. Athens, Greece.

Crouwel, J. H.
1992 Chariots and Other Wheeled Vehicles in Iron Age Greece. Allard Pierson Museum,
Amsterdam.

Dillon, Mathew
2002 Girls and Women in Classical Greek Religion. Routledge, London.

Euripides
2001 Cyclops; Alcestis; Medea. Translated by David Kovacs. Harvard University Press,
Cambridge.

Goemann, Elke
1991 Euphronios der Maler: eine Ausstellung in der Sonderausstellungshalle der Staatlichen
Museen Preuischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin-Dahlem 20.3.26.5.1991. Antikenmuseum, Staatliche
Museen Preuischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin.

Grossman, Janet B. and J. Robert Guy
1994 Black-Figured Amphora (Panathenaic Shape). In A Passion for Antiquities: Ancient Art
from the Collection of Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman, pp. 8286. J. Paul Getty Museum in
association with the Cleveland Museum of Art, Malibu, Hawaii.

Herodotus.
1928 The Histories Vol. III. Translated by A. D. Godley. William Heinemann, London.

Homer.
1995 The Odyssey, Books 112. Translated by A. T. Murray. Harvard University Press,
Cambridge.

2001 Iliad, Books 1324. Translated by A. T. Murray. Harvard University Press, Cambridge.

Houston, Mary G.
1931 Ancient Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Constume. A. & C. Black, London.

Jenkins, Ian
1983 Is There Life after Marriage? A Study of the Abduction Motif in Vase
Paintings of the Athenian Wedding Ceremony. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies
30:137145.

Karouzou, Semni
1956 The Amasis Painter. Clarendon Press, Oxford.

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Lacey, Walter K.
1968 The Family in Classical Greece. Cornell University Press, Ithaca, New York.

Llewellyn-Jones, Lloyd
2003 Aphrodites Tortoise: The Veiled Women of Ancient Greece. The Classical Press of Wales,
London.

Losfeld, G.
1991 Essai sur le Costume Grec. ditions de Boccard, Paris.

Mikalson, Jon D.
2005 Ancient Greek Religion. Blackwell Publishing, Oxford.

Oakley, John H. and Rebecca H. Sinos
1993 The Wedding in Ancient Athens. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, Wisconsin.

Pomeroy, Sarah B.
1995 Goddesses, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical Antiquity. Schocken Books,
New York.

Rehm, Rush
1994 Marriage to Death: The Conflation of Wedding and Funeral Rituals in Greek Tragedy.
Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey.

Roberston, Martin
1992 The Art of Vase Painting in Classical Athens. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Robinson, David M., Cornelia G. Harcum, and John H. Iliffe
1930 A Catalogue of the Greek Vases in the Royal Ontario Museum of Archaeology, Toronto.
Vol. 1. The University of Toronto Press, Toronto, Ontario.

Smith, Tyler Jo
2004 Black-Figure Column Krater. In The Museum: Conditions & Spaces: Selections from the
University of Virginia Art Museum, edited by Andrea N. Douglas, pp. 7677. The Rector and
Visitors of the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, Virginia.

Von Bothmer, Dietrich
1985 The Amasis Painter and His World: Vase-Painting in Sixth-Century B.C. Athens. The J.
Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, Hawaii.


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Notes

1
Homers Odyssey translated by A. T. Murray.

2
Ideally, girls would not have been married any later than the age of 16; and since men were
highly concerned with the preservation of the girls virginity before marriage, they would have
wished her to be married sooner rather than later (Lacey 1968:107).

3
The groom could act in place of his krios or caretaker if he had reached maturity (18 years of
age) (Rehm 1994:11).

4
After some time, the two originally distinct styles of dresses were blended into one, making it
difficult to label the garment Doric or Ionic (Abrahams 1964:6364).

5
For depictions of the lekythos 56.11.1, see: Oakley and Sinos 1993:8788, Figures 6870; Von
Bothmer 1985:64, 182184, Catalogue 47.

6
Torches were such an important feature of a wedding procession that to have a marriage
without them was considered illegitimate (Oakley and Sinos 1993:26, especially footnote 24).

7
For the best representations of vases by this painter, see: Karouzou 1956.

8
See Karouzou 1956 (Plates 43, 44.1) for illustrations of lekythos 31.11.10.

9
For depictions of neck amphora 96.AE.93, see: Grossman and Guy 1994:84-85, Number 35.

10
It is possible to reconstruct the identity of some figures, even without the aid of inscriptions.
The god Apollo, for example, can be determined since he most often holds his attribute, the
kithara (Oakley and Sinos 1993:28).

11
The woman holding two torches and standing in front of Apollo could possibly be Artemis; the
neck-amphora attributed to the Three-Line Group discussed above displays a similar
composition and inscriptions identifying each of the figures.

12
Although none were discussed in this paper, black-figure wedding processions do illustrate the
bride and groom walking towards the home (oikos) (see Oakley and Sinos 1993:Figures 100
104). Likewise, many red-figure vessels show the wedded couple in a chariot (see Oakley and
Sinos 1993:Figures 7274, 7677, 8081).

13
For the gesture hand on wrist [chera ep karp], (see Jenkins 1983; Rehm 1994:14).

14
See Goemann 1991 (208209) for depictions of drinking cup 15214.

15
For a depiction of drinking cup F2530 (see: Oakley and Sinos 1993:101, Figure 91.


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16
Fruit in a Greek wedding ceremony may have symbolic meaning; see: Oakley and Sinos
1993:35.

17
See Robertson 1992:25, Figure 19.

18
See Goemann 1991 (247, 249) for depictions of drinking cup F2278.


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Practical Identities: On the Relationship between
Iconography and Group Identity

Christopher M. Roberts
School of Human Evolution and Social Change, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ, PO Box
872402, 85287-2402 (Christopher.M.Roberts@asu.edu)

ABSTRACT. Current approaches to identity suggest it is situational, flexible, nested in a
variety of contexts, and created in social practice. Such a concept can be difficult to assess from
a material record that is static and incomplete. Iconography, as something designed to
reproduce active sensations from a static form, is a good place to look for these sorts of social
processes. To relate iconography to group identity, however, the process of interpretation must
be properly understood. In this paper I hope to consider how understanding the process of
interpreting iconography in a social situation can shed light on issues of identity and culture
change using post-structural theories of meaning and Bourdieus practice theory. I hope to use
these theories to suggest some ways a researcher can connect iconography to past groups or
identities and certain pitfalls to avoid.

With this paper I hope to address a possible way of connecting items of material culture to social
relationships in the past. I will argue that identity can be conceived of as a social performance
whereby individuals seek to link themselves more closely with some and distance themselves
from others by sharing behaviors (e.g, Bourdieu 1985; Butler 1993). Links are maintained as
people constrain the possibilities of human action and determine some behaviors to be correct
and others to be deviant (Bourdieu 1984, 1990, 1993, 1998). As constraints are made, groups
form that generate a recursive relationship which both produces identities, and is produced by
them. Identities can, therefore, be understood to be produced out of the way humans form
relationships, which in turn produces social groups of limited membership. Thus, if we are able
to observe human relationships from objects of material culture we may be able to link objects to
social groups.

Iconography is a social performance, one that can be related to the creation of identity through
the universal human action of interpretation. For iconography to exist, it must be interpreted, and
this action has a highly social character. Interpretation is the transformation of an object in the
real world into a representation of something else in the mind of a viewer. Such transformations
occur as viewers attempt to connect a sensory encounter with previous experiences drawn from
their memories. Individual experiences are not uniform but instead vary across social groups and
contexts. Thus, the way objects are interpreted by viewers is constrained by the social and
historical context of the artistic piece (e.g., Hodder 1982, 1986, 1992; Panofsky 1955). To
correctly interpret a piece the viewer must participate in the same social context, and share a
social relationship, with the author (Bourdieu 1996; Gell 1998). The process of interpreting
meaning, therefore, is governed by social relationships that have a tangible and measurable effect
on the creation and consumption of iconographic content.


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If identities and interpretations are each a social performance constrained by the way other
people with whom we share relationships have acted in the past, then we should be able to view
the sorts of social groups that created identities and regulated interpretation by studying artistic
objects of material culture. In fact, if we understand how the rules of interpretation are socially
produced and how they affect the material world, it should be possible to connect patterns in
iconographic content to the ways humans related to one another in the past.
For my argument to be convincing, the idea that identity functions as a form of social
performance must be theoretically explored. Identity can be a very difficult term to define. Here I
will stress the importance of Jones (1997:1314) idea that it is rooted in ongoing historically
situated practice, which Pitts (2007:701) aptly describes as a particular way of doing or lifestyle.
To apply such a concept in archaeology, however, we must consider what it means to root
something in the ongoing practice of daily life. More specifically, we must question what
lifestyles are, and how can we observe them in the archaeological record?
Pierre Bourdieus (1977:7795) concept of the habitus is often applied to in order to help
understand how ongoing practices relate to the constitution of society and material culture (e.g.,
Dobres and Robb 2000; Owoc 2005; Pauketat 2001; Pauketat and Alt 2005) and his theories
provide a connection between identity and material culture. At its most basic, the habitus can be
considered a way in which individuals take their past perceptions of the world and use them to
interpret future encounters. It is recursive and thus can be transformed as new experiences alter
our previous encounters, but such experiences will be adopted slowly if they run against
prevailing notions (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992:115140). For the habitus to limit the way we
perceive reality, however, our past encounters must be limited to a relatively constrained set of
total experiences. The way such actions become constrained can only be explained with
reference to the way Bourdieu conceived of social groups and the place of individuals within
them.
Bourdieus (1985, 1993, 1998) theoretical project conceives of society as a series of overlapping
social contexts in which people form groups based on how similar or distinct they felt from one
another. Such feelings are based on both the habitus and the access people have to different
forms of capital, which empowers them to act as they see fit (Bourdieu 1986). Capital and
habitus share a relationship with each other. What counts as capital is socially determined and
must, therefore, be acceptable to the habitus of the people participating in the group. A crude
example of this would be the difference between being a great talent at soccer in the United
States, where it wins you moderate fame, to being such a talent in the rest of the world, where it
can net you the status of the most popular person on earth. Simply put, because Americans do
not value soccer, their habitus will not recognize the capital of soccer talent as something as
valuable as the talent required to play quarterback at American football. How such decisions
come to pass are interesting and can be theoretically explored and used to explain the
relationship between identity and ongoing communal practices.
Bourdieus theory has useful implications for the relationship between practice and identity. As
mentioned above, in social life groups form in which certain practices are singled out as good (in
my example playing quarterback) and others are deemed less acceptable (playing soccer). People
seek out others who share a similar habitus and possess similar amounts of capital. In plainer
terms this means people will seek out those who tend to behave in ways that are similar to them.

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As people group themselves together based on a shared sense of habitus they will proceed to
create groups possessed of an increasingly limited set of shared behaviors, which will start to
distinguish them from groups organized on other sets of behaviors. These groups should not be
considered bounded and exclusive, since people often interact with and participate in different
groups with different past experiences that can change the habitus.
Following Bourdieu, it can be argued that people have an innate tendency to limit the number of
ways they behave in social contexts, which they do in reference to the ways people around them
have behaved. Such a concept of society is also proposed by evolutionary approaches to culture,
which suggest humans are biologically programmed to copy one another (e.g., Bentley 2006;
Bentley et al. 2008; Collard et al. 2008; Hahn and Bentley 2003; Shennan 2000, 2002). Once
groups form based on shared practice those that are shared become normal while those foreign
to the group can be proscribed against and determined to be deviant. The repetition of normal
actions creates a limited number of potential behaviors that are used to distinguish one group
from another. In other words if you behave normally you belong to the group, if you behave
abnormally you do not. Thus, to observe identity choices in the material record we must be able
to observe practices that could be used to generate them.
The problem with identity in archaeology is that we must relate the objects we recover to past
practices without being able to observe the social contexts in which they were used (e.g., Hodder
1982, 1986, 1992). Objects themselves do not act but are incorporated into action and this
incorporation can of course change depending on the behavior. Thus, unfortunately for
archaeologists, some objects can be mundane or powerful symbols of identity depending on how
they were used (see Thomass [1991] concept of promiscuous objects).
A simple example of this is Hebdiges (1981) discussion of how subcultures use style. In the
1970s and 80s, for example, safety pins became one of many symbols the punk movement
adopted to express its identity, as individuals began to incorporate the utilitarian object into their
bodies and wardrobes in new and shocking ways. This practice involved transforming the safety
pin from a fastener designed to prevent pain, into a symbol of defiance and a break from
mainstream life. Parallel to this trend, of course, other people would still use safety pins to fasten
clothing and would not use it to signal any political or ideological message. A safety pin alone,
therefore, cannot be used to identify a punk, but a safety pin incorporated into a specific practice
can. Thus, material culture will arguably take on a relationship to identity only when it is
incorporated into a specific action. As archaeologists, therefore, we must struggle to understand
how objects are incorporated into action in order to understand how they can relate to identity.
Iconography is designed to be incorporated into human action through the process of
interpretation, which is both grounded in social relationships and has an effect on the material
record. Art possesses special properties because it simultaneously exists in both physical and
metaphysical states. As Heidegger (1993) suggests, objects of art are both something real and
something else, something other. The way objects exist in these two states simultaneously is a
result of human beings assigning meanings to objects in their minds.
Iconography is created when the mind of a viewer alters their perception of a mundane object
from what it actually is (e.g., different shades of black on a page) into what it appears to be (e.g.,
a sketch). This act of transformation occurs as people relate the ways objects are fashioned to

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past experiences they possess of other objects of similar appearance (e.g., Derrida 1987;
Heidegger 1993). Interpretation can therefore be argued to function as the connection of current
sensory experience to previous encounters viewers have made throughout their lives, which
occurs in precisely the same way Bourdieu suggests the habitus functions. This similarity in
function, therefore, allows us to connect the interpretation of iconography to different social
groups.
As discussed above, past experiences are not uniformly distributed across social space. In plainer
terms not everyone has experienced life in the same way and these differences in experience will
lead to different points of view. Theorists like Jacques Derrida (1987) and Julie Kristeva (1984,
1986) argue the interpretation of meaning constantly changes as people bring different
experiences from different contexts to bear on each act of interpretation (see also Barthes 1977;
Eco 1990). As objects refer to and transpose different experiences, they change the way symbols
can become meaningful to viewers who possess varying sets of experiences. This body of
thought can suggest that the creation of specific meanings is impossible; that authors are
powerless to create objects with intended meanings in the face of viewers who can interpret art
anyway they please.
In reality, however, the interpretation of meaning is much more constrained than the theorists
suggest. Such constraints are created as authors struggle to fashion material to accord with the
meanings they intend the piece to possess (Gell 1998; see also Keane 2003; Lele 2006). These
struggles can be observed in patterns of repetitive links between objects of art, which foster the
transposition of certain past experiences and work to deny the application of others. By
examining how this struggle is recorded in the way objects make references to things outside of
themselves a link between behavior and iconography can be made.
In order for an object to reliably communicate the idea intended by its maker limitations must be
placed on its form that foster the recollection of certain aspects of past experience and deny the
application of others, a process sometimes referred to as citation (e.g., Butler 1993; Derrida
1982; Joyce 2000; Nanoglou 2009). Iconography functions as a means of limiting the number of
recollections that can be meaningfully employed in the interpretation of a piece, and by
understanding how it achieves these limitations we can finally see how objects of art record
behaviors and can be linked to past social groups.
Erwin Panofskys (1939, 1955) concept of iconology, of which iconography is one of three parts,
provides the best way of understanding how an artistic object communicates its content to a
viewer through citations to other objects. It is a method for understanding the way viewers
apprehend meaning from a piece, grounded in the idea that the relationship between the meaning
of an object and its form is based in specific historical situations (e.g., Summers 1995).
Iconology can be understood as a system in which connections are produced between objects at
three different levels (for a fuller discussion see Roberts 2011).
The first connection we make, what Panofsky calls pre-iconography, is the automatic relation of
a depiction to our prior sensory experience. It is our primal gut reaction to an image that
transforms it from a swirl of paint into an object with which we are familiar. The second
category, iconography proper, includes connections between a representation and the experiences
viewers have had with other depictions of reality. This level involves connecting an object we

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observe to our previous familiarity with representations of people, characters, or events from our
social situation. The third involves making connections between an object and a zeitgeist or
social context. At this level, less tangible connections are made as viewers relate the totality of
their social experiences to an object. Each of these connections can be manipulated by artists and
observed by archaeologists. As my space is limited, however, I will only discuss how such
connections are manipulated to create iconography, which demonstrates how the process of
interpretation is recorded in the material record.
To make this process clear I will use a famous example, Phidias Athena Parthenos from the
Parthenon temple in Classical Athens (e.g., Leiden 1963, 1971, 1984; Prag 1984), and attempt to
demonstrate how our recognition of her can be equated with a specific social behavior that
involves us making only certain connections between our current encounter and past
experiences.
Upon encountering Athena we first apprehend the statue at a pre-iconographic level and make a
connection between the figure and real life. Thus, we should immediately recognize that the
figure is supposed to represent a human. This occurs automatically. Arguably anyone in the
world would be able to look at the statue and recognize a person. Artists, aware that we all have
the ability to see a person in this depiction, must therefore find a way to constrain our
interpretation of the piece so that we do not just see any person, but instead see Athena
Parthenos. They do so by embedding the image with a specific series of attributes that function
to limit the connections we can make between this piece and other past experiences.
The inclusion of these attributes, and the limitations they impose, are the iconography of the
piece. At this level details are included that prevent this individual from being connected to just
any person we might know from our pasts. On the Athena Parthenos these include her possession
of weapons, the elaborate carved mantle with another human face on it, her crown, and the
presence of a smaller winged figure in her hand. Such details are not encountered in the daily
lives of most people but instead are limited to a specific set of fantastic characters known from
the Classical myths. Thus, the way this figure is depicted immediately signals a similarity
between it and other depictions in ancient stories, statues, vases and paintings, while
distinguishing it from more mundane examples (for overviews of Classical art see Boardman
1974, 1989, 1996; Spivey 1996). It is through the repetitive depiction of similar details that
iconography forces a viewer to limit their interpretation to only a few meanings.
The consistency in representation that creates this web of citations must be understood to be the
result of a limitation in social practice, which finally provides a link between iconography and
social groups. A depiction does not become Athena entirely by virtue of a series of repeated
attributes. In actuality what occurs is that people in social groups come to a consensus about
what features can turn an individual into Athena and which ones cannot. Agreement is reached as
interpretations are both selected for and against by different individuals. For example, the
possession of weapons alone cannot make a figure Athena. Artemis is often portrayed holding a
bow and arrow, but never with the aegis, a helmet, or a shield. Thus, the fact that people
repeatedly encounter the same depictions and descriptions of the goddess in a variety of media is
what makes a statue into Athena, not the appearance of its physical form alone.

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The repeated manifestation of Athena in a specific way creates a social consensus that limits the
way meaning can be interpreted from a piece. Once consensus is reached it locks in place
connections between depictions and past experience, and these are maintained as long as a social
group exists that can support them (see Lele 2006 for a fuller discussion of long-lasting
meanings). Thus, in order to prevent meaning from shifting endlessly, people act to ensure that
agreed upon meanings are reinforced and other meanings are suppressed. These meanings are
represented physically in the repetition of suites of attributes that serve to reinforce the
application of some meanings and the suppression of others. In other words people work hard to
ensure that a distinction is made between different depictions, and this distinction is born out of
how we practice life.
These repeated depictions of Athena in a standardized fashion create a visual code that can only
be interpreted by people who have familiarity with the social context that produced it. This code
is both social and material as it represents a social agreement that produces objects designed in a
specific way, which in turn creates a material world that maintains the social agreement by
requiring objects to be designed in this specific way. Iconography, therefore, is both material and
a record of its incorporation into past action.
The action of interpretation can be linked to social groups by considering how it functions as
practice. As mentioned above, Athena can only be recognized by people who know the code that
governs how she is represented. People who know how to represent and interpret Athena have
the option to either correct those who do not know any better or to recognize their inability to
participate in the social milieu that governs the creation of the code (e.g., Bourdieu 1984, 1993,
1996). Thus, they can either socialize new members into their group by teaching them the code,
or use the code to maintain a distinction between themselves and other people. Iconography can
therefore be argued to represent a social action sensitive to the way people have grouped
themselves together in society.
Thus, iconography results from similar social processes to those that create identity. It is
developed out of a repeated similarity in practice that creates certain ways of seeing or
approaching the world. These limited ways of approaching the world are reinforced as people
who share them seek each other out and form social groups. Unlike mundane objects of material
culture, iconography can be considered to possess an embedded record of past human behavior
that can be used to help us understand how people might have related to each other and adopted
behaviors that could have created a sense of group identity. The study of iconography, and more
specifically how artists create a specific code to consistently represent the same meaning, can
therefore be a useful tool for the study of past social groups, and the relationships individuals
shared within them.

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The Costume of Crisis Reinforcing Local Identity in
Later Etruscan Art

Eoin M. ODonoghue
College of Arts, Social Sciences, and Celtic Studies, National University of Ireland, Galway

ABSTRACT. This paper examines how costume was used as part of a complex artistic
programme, to reinforce local identity, in late Classical and early Hellenistic art (c. 350 250
B.C.) in south Etruria. This was a period of crisis in the Etruscan world, with the start of a series
of conflicts, and eventual conquest by the Romans. The reaction to Roman expansion had a
profound effect on the art of settlements such as Veii, Vulci, and Tarquinia. Etruscan art lost its
traditional vivaciousness, and replaced it with imagery intended to strengthen local identity.
Some scholarly attention has focused on this, but little work has examined how the respective
settlements manifested their identity through costume. This paper will therefore examine how,
both Etruscan costume and that used in representations of Greek myth on Etruscan objects, was
used to exhibit local autonomy and characteristics in a time of crisis.

Between the seventh and fifth centuries B.C. the Etruscans controlled, or influenced much of
Italy, from as far north as the Po Valley, and south to the Bay of Naples (Figure 1). At the height
of their economic and political success they produced architectural constructions that dwarfed
contemporary Greek and Italic creations, and many of their artistic accomplishments are
arguably as fine as that of Greece and the Near East. The primary subject matter of Archaic and
early Classical Etruscan art was that of the legitimization of their aristocratic society. Scenes of
banqueting, hunting, fishing and athletics all served to remind viewers of pursuits appropriate for
the ruling classes. It is generally accepted that the iconography of the Archaic period captured
the economic and political success during this period
1
. However, during the early fourth century
the centres of southern Etruria became entangled in the expanding web of power and war that
was Rome. In 396 Rome conquered Veii, its closest Etruscan neighbour, and within 50 years
both Tarquinia and Caere had been defeated
2
. By the end of the first quarter of the third century
all of the major centres of south Etruria had been conquered by the Romans. Even after the
Roman conquest the Etruscans maintained a distinct cultural identity. Romanisation, if we
appreciate it in its broadest historical and cultural form, did not happen aggressively, in Etruria,
and indeed throughout the Italian peninsula, until the first centuries B.C. and A.D.
3
. However,
the focus of this paper is to examine the Etruscan reaction to Roman expansion during end of the
fourth and early third centuries, which undoubtedly was a period of crisis in their world. In
particular it examines how the Etruscans sought to display emblems of their local identity, as a
means of reinforcing local values and beliefs. The specific motif of dress and costume in later
Etruscan art is going to be examined. The evidence includes coinage and tomb-painting from two
major south Etruscan settlements, namely Vulci and Tarquinia.


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Figure 1. Map of Etruria.
But first is it necessary to justify how manifestations of local identity may be determined from
Etruscan art. The changes that occur in Etruscan art during this time period need not necessarily
be connected with their group identity, in that there is no reason to assume that archaeological
cultures have a parallel in socio-political or ethnic groups (Jones 1997:106; Trigger 1989:148
206). Furthermore the majority of the evidence dealt with is from a funerary context, and is
representative of individual or at most a familys identity, and owing both to the destructive
nature of Roman expansion, and to Etruscan buildings, which were usually constructed from
impermanent materials, very little evidence for public or state endorsed representations of local
or ethnic Etruscan identity survive. However, when the nature of funeral ritual in the ancient
Mediterranean is considered it may be suggested that the messages from funerary activities offer
an insight into a societys identity at the moment of an individuals burial. The context of the
evidence makes it possible to identify the conscious choice of a material expression of individual
and community identity (Herring 2009:125). The funeral ritual (including the choice of grave
goods, the decoration of tombs and sarcophagi) represents an occasion in which the community
makes clear its own value systems, and it is during this occasion that the image of the deceased

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becomes fixed (dAgostino 1989:1). Moreover all of the depositions related to the funeral are
deliberate, in that all activity relating to the funeral involves a reaffirmation of the societys
ideals. Therefore, while it is possible that the image of the deceased could be highly
personalised, it is still constructed within social and cultural parameters. The deceased is
represented idealised as a member of that community, with evidence of details of their social,
gender, and group identity. Not only do the burying community affirm the deceaseds
membership of their community, but they also reinforce their own sense of belonging to the
community.

Tarquinia

The first settlement to be examined is Tarquinia. In 351 Rome and Tarquinia were engaged in a
series of conflicts most likely over border disputes, which, according to the Roman historian
Livy ended in a forty year truce (Livy 9.XLI. 67). Despite efforts to avert defeat, including the
reinforcement of the city walls in the late fourth century, upon the end of the ceasefire the
hostilities recommenced and Tarquinia was finally forced to submit to Rome in 308 (Leighton
2004: 169, 173).

The Tomba degli Scudi dates to somewhere between Tarquinias original conflict with Rome
and her eventual submission (Sprenger and Bartolini 1977:146; Steingrber 1986: no. 109). The
iconography of the tomb-painting is very much reminiscent of earlier models from the Archaic
period, as scenes of banqueting dominate, however the imagery is decidedly different from these
predecessors, as it is more sombre and dark (Steingrber 1986: Plates 145149). The paintings
lack the colour and energy of previous centuries and are typical of Hellenistic tomb-painting.
The tombs twenty-seven inscriptions assign the tomb to the Velcha family (Sittig 1936).

The main chamber of the tomb is dominated by two scenes of man and a woman banqueting,
with a representation on the rear and the right walls. This scene from the left wall shows a
bearded man with a black staff, who is identified as Velthur Velcha, and a woman wearing a
diadem who is also named through an inscription as Ravnthu Aprthnai. The woman points to her
husband with her right hand. Both the man and woman wear pale robes with dark borders.

The placement of the couple is extremely different from earlier Etruscan art, as the couple are
depicted in what may be described as an enthroned position
4
. This represents a symbol of public
life in the formerly private domestic environment of the aristocratic tomb. Additionally while
their costume is distinctive from earlier Etruscan art. Velthur Velcha holds a staff, undoubtedly
representative of a civic office which he held in life, and he wears the pale robe with a dark
border which appears to have been the typical dress of aristocratic men of the time. Additionally
his wife wears a diadem, which may identify her as belonging to a ruling Tarquinian family, and
is decidedly different from representations of women wearing garlands in Archaic and Classical
art. The costume of the couple concerns not only their status as members of the Velcha family,
but also that of being, presumably powerful Tarquinian aristocrats.

The rear chamber of the tomb contains the imagery after which the tomb is named. On all but the
entrance wall of the chamber are weapons friezes, consisting of shields accompanied by
inscriptions of members of the Velcha family. Such iconography is again absent in earlier

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Tarquinian tomb-paining and although it is not a form of costume that is worn by members of the
family, it is an allusion to the military achievements of the ancestors of the Velcha family,
critically at a time of crisis when the threat of Rome was imminent.

Similarly in the slightly later Tomba Giglioli the iconography consists solely of weapon friezes
(Cristofani 1967a). Included in the imagery are swords, shields, spears and helmets. The
paintings undoubtedly bear witness to the military accomplishments of and social status of the
aristocratic tomb owner and his family, and again can be connected with the closing episodes of
the war between Rome and Tarquinia
5
. Thus there has been a clear and deliberate effort made to
include imagery appropriate for the Tarquninian present. Although this costume is not
represented as being worn by individuals belonging to the tombs family, we can assume it is
representative of military costume used by the family and possibly even by Tarquinians more
generally. Some notable elements exist on the shields, which have been suggested to represent
the coat of arms of the tomb owners (Steingrber
1986:309). However, it can be suggested that they
may represent emblems of the Tarquinian city-
state, owing to the similarity of the shields
iconography to the imagery on contemporary coins
produced by the city state
6
(Figure 2). One of the
shields depicts the letter A or more likely the Greek
letter Alpha. The A/Alpha has been taken to
represent as part of a monogram of TA for
Tarquinia
7
. Even if this is not that case and we do
not fully understand the significance of the letter it
is possible that the A on the shield held the same
meaning, and was a reference not to the family of
the tomb but to Tarquinia. Furthermore, a shield on
the same wall depicts the head of a boar, an
emblem which also appears on contemporary
Tarquinian coins
8
.

Therefore it is plausible that these elements in the tomb are faithful representations of the armour
worn by local warriors embossed with symbols of Tarquinia. In this case the iconography of the
tomb not only concerns the valour of family members as warriors, but more specifically as
Tarquinian warriors. The imagery can thus be read to reinforce local ideals and through
representations of local identity during a time of political uncertainty.

Vulci

The second settlement examined is that of Vulci the other major centre in south Etruria. At its
height Vulci was one of the most powerful and economically successful of the Etruscan
settlements (Banti 1973:84100). The Fasti Capitolini lists the defeat by the Roman consul Ti.
Coruncanius of Volsinii and Vulci in 280 and the subjection of both cities to Rome (Degrassi
1963:1, 73, 545). The colony of Cosa was founded by the Romans in 273, right in the heart of
Vulcis territory (Brown 1980:1530). As a consequence of Roman expansion the Etruscan city

Figure 2. Tarquinian Coins (after Catalli
1988).

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declined rapidly, which is most obvious in the archaeological record through the decline of
importation, and production of pottery at the site.

The Franois Tomb
The evidence to be considered from Vulci is tomb-painting, namely that from the Franois tomb
in the Ponte Rotto necropolis. The paintings date to the second half of the fourth century; just
after Veii, Caere, and Tarquinia had been defeated by Rome (Cristofani 1967b:186219). Thus
as the Romans expanded their influence further north Vulci was the next the major settlement on
the horizon. The main scenes in this multi-chamber tomb depict episodes from the Theban cycle,
with Eteokles and Polyneikes killing each other, and the slaughter of the Trojan prisoners which
we are most familiar with from book 23 of the Illiad (Steingrber 1986:377379:Plates 183
185). The other main scene depicts what is accepted to be a detail of a historical event, this being
the freeing of Vulcian prisoners and the slaughter of characters identified as being from the states
in Etruria (Figure 3).

Figure 3. The Francois Tomb, Vulci. 1. Combat scene showing the possible freeing of the
Vulcian prisoners. 2. Sacrifice of the Trojan Prisoners (after Cornell 1995).

The exact context of the battle is contested, but it does represent part of the conflicts between
Vulci, Rome and other Etruscan states during the Archaic period
9
. The names of the figures are
identified by inscriptions. On the left hand side of the scene are the two great Vulcian heroes,
with Macstrana freeing the bound Caele Vipinas. To their right Larth Ulthes stabs Laris
Papathnas Velznach from Volsinii. The central scene depicts another famous Etruscan hero
Avle Vipinas, slaying one of his captors from Savonna. To the Vulcian viewer of the scene it
recalls their forefathers and their glorious military triumphs. The same message is clear in the
atrium of the same tomb where we are confronted with the Vulcian Marce Camitlnas preparing
to kill the cowering figure of the Roman Cneve Tarchunies Rumach. Adjacent to this is the
aforementioned fratricide of Polyneikes and Eteokoles, in what be interpreted as an appeal for

101 | P a g e

Etruscan unity in the face of the threat of Rome, when in reality identity and politics largely
generated at a local level.

On the opposite wall of this chamber depicting the historical narrative we are presented with the
sacrifice of the Trojan prisoners. This version of the story is however very Etruscan in nature. On
the left of the scene we can identify Agamemnon, who is represented wearing a pale cloak with a
red border and holding a

spear. Beside him is the shade of the blond-haired Patroklos, wearing a blue cloak. Next to him is
the Etruscan death demon Vanth, wearing a light red robe. Next to her is Achilles, clad in a short
blue chiton, brownish armour and greaves. Achilles is in the process of killing a naked Trojan,
who crouches on the ground. In the centre of the scene is Charun, lord of the underworld,
depicted with his standard blue skin, as well as wearing a light red robe, and holding a hammer
and pilus. Two other figures in armour lead Trojan prisoners to Achilles for their slaughter.
While the story of the scene undoubtedly reflects a moment of the Trojan war, the setting with
the presence of Etruscan death demons undoubtedly is that of fourth century Etruria.
Additionally when we consider the significance of the episode of the funeral games of Patrokolos
as a turning point in the Trojan war, we can see how it resonated in contemporary Vulci. Just as
Achilles gave into his fate to ultimately sacrifice himself for the Greek victory, there is a similar
call to citizens of Vulci to do the same, in the hope of defeating Rome. It has been suggested,
most notably by Coarelli that the scene acts as an allusion to the conflict between Rome (as
represented by the Trojans) and the Etruscans (as symbolised by the Greeks), and consequently
that the Trojan origin story of Rome had been accepted in Etruria by the fourth century (Coarelli
1983:4369). It may well refer to a specific event in this conflict, that being to the killing of
Roman prisoners by the Tarquinians in 357. Bearing this in mind we can see how the origin
stories of both Rome and Vulci are manipulated to fit the context. The Romans are represented
naked in a humiliating form, while the Greeks, the Vulcians ancestors, are represented in full
battle armour defeating their enemy. Additionally Agamemnon and Patroklos wear costume
typical of the everyday attire of fourth century Etruscans.

In another scene from the atrium of the same tomb there is represented a full length portrait of
the tombs founder Vel Saties. He wears an ornate purple himation, decorated with dancer and
weapon dancer figures, and on his head rests a golden garland. To his right is his son Arnza in a
pale robe with a red border, holding a bird on a string. The scene has been interpreted as Vel
Saties practising divination. His costume is unique and is reminiscent of what was to become the
toga pictas worn by triumphant Roman generals. Bonfante suggests the himation that Vel Saties
wears had a similar function to that of a triumphal garment (Bonfante 2003:41). For Vel Saties it
represents him as a Vulcian leader or priest, prophesising a triumph over Rome. Moreover his
son Arnza wears a cloak with a similar design to that of the cloak of Agamemnon in the
tablinum, which serves to reinforce his identity as a noble youth, as well as solidifying the link to
his Greek ancestors. It is also quite similar in design and pattern to that of Velthur Velcha in the
Tomba degli Scudi in Tarquinia, supporting the identification of the costume as a fourth century
artistic short hand for the identification of Etruscan noble men. There are representations of this
costume on other monuments from Vulci, most famously in the procession frieze on the Boston
sarcophagus.


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Therefore the design of the Franois tomb used the motifs appropriated from Greek epic to fit the
particular requirements of the Etruscan patron, who wanted to commemorate the role played by
his ancestors in the history of Vulci (Holliday 1993:191). The complete iconographic programme
of the tomb served to remind their viewers of the political struggles of the Etruscan present,
specifically the threat of Rome. As well as advertising his families own specific motivations it
also represents that of the wider community of Vulci. Although the message of the tomb
concerns the tomb-ownerss family specifically, it does so in the context of their belonging to the
broader community of Vulci. In memorialising Vulcis glorious past, the ideals and valour of
their ancestors are reinforced for the fourth century viewers.

Conclusion

The overwhelming message of earlier Etruscan funerary art was that of the preservation of the
aristocratic class and lifestyle, through the use of displays of fertility symbols and elite pastimes.
Instead, later Etruscan art sends a message of preservation of a different kind, but not just that of
the aristocratic family concerned, but of the respective state itself. These displays of identity are
most evident in material connected with the funeral, where the identity of the deceased
individual is affirmed. In particular, the culturally formed identity of the individual as a member
of their community is made explicit.

The imagery of warfare evident at Vucli allowed the individual states to glorify their warriors,
whether real, symbolic, or mythological, as they sought to defend against Roman expansion.
Furthermore the costume worn in real life representations of individuals both at Tarquinia and
Vulci is also decidedly different from earlier Etruscan art, we no longer see the colourful
costumes as were represented in the Tomba della Caccia e Pesca, but Etruscan noble men wear
pale robes with a dark stripe, which was ironically to become in an altered format the standard
dress of Roman citizens two centuries later. Additionally at Vulci we see a rare representation of
the act of augury as Vel Saties, in his costume possibly that of a priest, seeks to prophesise, what
we may speculate to be the fate of Vulci or at least the outcome of a contemporary conflict,
owing to the broader iconographic programme of the tomb.

At Tarquinia the Tomba Giglioli provides us with elements of military armour which may well
be embossed with the symbols of the city-state. In representing this, the tomb-owners make a
clear reference to their membership of the community at a time of crisis, and reinforce their
identity as Tarquinian warriors.

However, after the initial struggles and defeat by Rome the Etruscans found themselves as one of
the greatest beneficiaries of Roman rule, with former Etruscan noble men admitted into the
senate, as well as the adoption by the Romans of many Etruscans cultural and religious rites.
With the adoption by the Romans of the Etruscan toga in the first century B.C., the costume
which was once part of the everyday dress of Etruscan noble men, became the costume of
Roman men.


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References Cited
Banti, L.
1973 The Etruscan Cities and their Culture. University of California Press, Berkley and Los
Angeles.

Bonfante, L.
1981 Etruscan Couples and Their Aristocratic Society. In Reflections of Women in Antiquity
edited by H.P. Foley, pp. 323342. Gordon and Breach, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

2003 Etruscan Dress (updated edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore.

Brown, F.E.
1980 Cosa: The Making of a Roman Town. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor.

Catalli, F.
1988 La produzione monetaria tarquiniese. In Studia Tarquiniensia, pp. 3340. Giorgio
Bretschneider, Rome.

Coarelli, F.
1992 Colonizzazione e municipalizzazione: tempi e modi, Dialoghi di Archeologia, 3:10:21
30.

Coarelli, F.
1983 Le pitture della Tomba Franois di Vulci: una proposta di lettura, Dialoghi di Archeologia
3:4369.

Cornell, T.J.
1995 The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000
264 B.C.). Routledge, London and New York.

Cristofani, M.
1967a II fregio armi della tormba Giglioli di Tarquinia, Dialoghi di Archeologia 1:288303.

1967b Ricerche sulle pitture della Tomba Franois di Vulci. I fregi decorativi, Dialoghi di
Archeologia 1:186219.

dAgostino, B.
1989 Image and Society in Archaic Etruria, Journal of Roman Studies 79:110

Degrassi, A.
1963 Inscriptiones Italiae. Academiae Italicae Consociatae ediderunt. Vol. XIII. Unione
Accademica Nazionale, Rome.

Herring, E.
2009 Ethnicity and Culture. In A Compnion to Ancient History edited by A. Erskine, pp. 123
133. Wiley-Blackwell, Oxford.

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Holliday, P.J.
1993 Narrative and Event in the Franois Tomb. In Narrative and Event in Anicent Art edited by
P.J. Holliday, pp. 175197. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Izzet, V.
2007 The Archaeology of Etruscan Society. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Jones, S.
1997 The Archaeology of Ethnicty: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present. Routledge,
London and New York.
Leighton, R.

2004 Tarquinia: An Etruscan City. Duckworth, London.

Livy, T.
1926 A History of Rome: Volume IV, Books 810 translated by B.O. Foster, Loeb Classical
Library, Cambridge MA.

Nielsen, M.
2009 United in death: the changing image of Etruscan couples. In Gender Identities in Italy in
the First Millenium B.C. edited by E. Herring and K. Lomas, pp. 7996. BAR International
Series 1983, Oxford.

Pairualt Massa, F.H.
1988 La tombe Giglioli ou lespoir du de Vel Pinie. Un tournant dans la socit trusques.
Studia Tarquiniensia, pp. 69100. Girogio Bretschneider, Rome.

Ridgway, D.
2002 The World of the Early Etruscans. Paul strms Frlag, Jonsered.
Roth, R.E.
2007 Styling Romanisation: Pottery and Society in Central Italy. Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge.

Roth, R.E. and J. Keller (editors)
2007. Roman by Integration: Dimensions of Group Identity in Material Culture and Text.
Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 66, Portsmouth (RI).

Rutter, N.K.
2001 Historia Numorum Italy. British Museum Press, London.

Sittig, E.
1936 Corpus Inscriptionum Etruscarum: Volume 2.1.3. Barth, Leipzig.

Sprenger, M. and Bartoloni, G.
1977. Die Etrusker: Kunst und Geschichte. Hirmer, Munich.

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Steingrber, S. (editor), D. Ridgway, and F.R. Serra Ridgway (English edition editors).
1986 Catalogue Raisonn of Etruscan Wall Paintings. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, New York.

Trigger, B.G.
1989 A History of Archaeological Thought. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Notes

1
For an introduction to Etruscan culture and history see Ridgway (2002) and Izzet (2007).

2
All dates are B.C. unless otherwise stated.

3
It is generally accepted that the principal catalysts in the Romanisation of Italy were the Second
Punic and Social Wars, culminating in the awarding of citizenship to all Italians in 90 B.C.
through the Lex Julia. This view is expounded most notably by Coarelli (1992). Torelli (1995),
Roth (2007), and the contributors to Roth and Keller (2007) offer detailed analysis of the
Romanisation of Etruria and other Italian cultures.

4
In Archaic and early Classical Etruscan art couples are usually represented reclining on a
couch, typically in the context of a banquet. Bonfante (1981) and Nielsen (2009) both offer
comprehensive overviews of this motif and its evolution through to the Hellenistic period.

5
Steingrber (1986:309) also suggests that the tombs iconography may be connected with the
closing episodes in the war between Rome and Tarquinia in 308.

6
The type of coinage used in Tarquinia was the Aes Grave, which usually took the form of
casted bronze. A complete list of coinage minted in Tarquinia is included in the Historia
Numorum Italy (Rutter 2001:38).

7
Pairault Massa (1988), he also suggests a link between the iconography in the Tomba Giglioli
and Tarquinias coinage.

8
Leighton (2004:156) intimates that the symbolic value of the coins iconography may be a
mythological reference, or more likely to the traditional importance of local agricultural
practices.

9
For a detailed account of the numerous interpretations of the context see Cornell (1995:134
141). Cornell suggests the precise background to the scene can only be speculated, but more
importantly from the perspective of a Vulcian viewer of the painting the message concerns our
boys getting the better of a group of foreign enemies (1995:138).


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Kashrut and Shechita The Relationship Between
Dietary Practices and Ritual Slaughtering of
Animals on Jewish Identity

Haskel J. Greenfield
1
and Ram Bouchnick
2

1
Dept. of Anthropology, University of Manitoba
2
Zinman Institute of Archaeology, University of Haifa

ABSTRACT. This paper investigates the relationship between Jewish dietary practices and
identity. The first section summarizes the laws and practices for Jewish dietary (Kashrut) and
traditional ritual slaughtering of animals (Shechita) and discusses their implications for Jewish
identity. It is based upon the detailed laws for kosher slaughtering and butchery practices
described in the various religious texts (Torah and Talmud). Based upon Jewish law (Halacha),
Jewish dietary restrictions identify the types of species, the nature of butchering, and cuts of
meat. Zooarchaeological data from various sites in Israel are evaluated in order to determine
the concordance between text and practice. From this type of information, it is possible to
identify households or communities that followed and practiced Jewish dietary laws in ancient
times.

In most cultures, diet and ethnicity are intimately related. It has long been recognized that choice
of foods and style of preparation are means by which religious and other cultural identities are
established and maintained across time and space. Food and its preparation, also known as
cuisine, are part of the markers that help to identify fellow members of ones cultures; they
determine often who one may sit down and eat with and often ensure cultural continuity over
time (Goody 1982; Mintz and Du Bois 2002).

The Jewish culture is one of the oldest still thriving in the world. It is an intricate mix of cultural
traditions and religious doctrines. Most archaeologists investigating the origins of Judaism, the
culture of its practitioners and the emergence of ancient Israelite culture have focused on
ceramics, cultic items, settlement patterns, historical texts, etc. (e.g., Borowski 1997; Bunimovitz
and Lederman 2009; Faust 2006; or just pick up any issue of Biblical Archaeological Review,
etc.). However, the one domain most intimately associated with Jewish behaviour is that of food
remains, which are rarely discussed.

Due to the vagaries of archaeological preservation, very little is preserved of plant remains.
Hence, it is difficult to reconstruct plant dietary patterns from the archaeological record. In
contrast, animal remains are abundant in the archaeological record. This is particularly fortuitous
since Jewish culture places greater dietary restrictions upon animal rather than plant foods. In
this paper, we will utilize the zooarchaeological record (animal bone remains from
archaeological contexts) in order to investigate the origins of Jewish dietary behaviour.


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Dietary Restrictions in Judaism

Since this paper is concerned with identifying Jewish food choice and preparation practices from
a zooarchaeological perspective, we have to be concerned both with which animals are present
and the mode of their preparation. This type of study will need to involve two components of
Jewish dietary regulations: the study of Kashrut and the study of Shechita. In general, Kashrut
informs us about the presence/absence of various species, while Shechita is concerned with
issues of food preparation. Each is different and is described in more detail next.

Jewish ritual dietary laws are outlined in their earliest form in the Hebrew Bible (Chumash, Old
Testament), particularly in the book of Deuteronomy (Dvarim chapter 12, verses 2122 ). Jewish
dietary laws (Kashrut) are very strict in the nature of food selection and processing. They specify
which animals can be eaten, and how they are to be consummated: slaughtered, butchered, and
prepared for cooking.

The present-day butchery laws (Shechita) initially developed out of references to practices in the
Hebrew Bible (Torah), which dates to the Early Iron Age (c. 1200 B.C.E.). The oral traditions
(Torah she be-al-peh) were canonized in the Late Second Temple Period (second century
B.C.E.
1
first century C.E.) and subsequent Roman occupation (second fifth century. C.E.).
This is when the oral traditions described in the Talmud
2
(Mishna and Gemara) were written
down. These are based on earlier biblical written sources and oral traditions. These laws have
been slightly modified over time with the introduction of new species and technologies, but are
thought to have remained stable, since they were codified in the Roman (post-Temple) period.

There are several widely available sources that summarize the laws of Kashrut and Shechita
(Greenspoon et al. 2005; Levinger 1985; Regenstein and Regenstein 1979, 1988; 1991). The next
section of the paper is a summary of their relevant aspects for this study.

Kashrut

There are many similar terms used to define Jewish dietary regulations. Jewish dietary
regulations or laws are known as the laws of Kashrut. Keeping Kosher is done by following the
laws of Kashrut. Kashrut is the Hebrew word used that encapsulates the concept of "following
the laws for keeping kosher." It means things or foods that are legitimate, acceptable,
permissible, genuine or authentic.

The term Kosher (or Kasher) is used to define which foods are allowable for consumption and
how they are prepared according to Jewish laws. Only certain foods and preparation styles are
defined as kosher or being fit for consumption by Jews. Anything that is not kosher is
considered to be unfit for human consumption by Jews. Non-Jews may consume non-kosher
foods since there is no biblical injunction otherwise.

There are two types of food domains plant and animal. Plant foods include fruits, vegetables,
and seed foods (such as wheat, barley, oats, and other bakery products). Almost all plant foods
are consumable. Plant foods, however, must be strictly examined to prevent non-kosher by-

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products or insects from being consumed inadvertently. For example, leaves of lettuce are
separately examined to ensure that no insects are hidden between them.

In contrast, only a small range of animals are deemed fit for consumption. Animals may include
members from the various classes (i.e., birds, mammals and fish), but definitely exclude all
others (i.e., all amphibians, reptiles, insects, invertebrates, and molluscs). In other words, lobster,
squid, octopus, shrimps, snails, snakes, alligator, and other delicacies are all forbidden.

In order for a mammal to be kosher, it must have split hooves and chew its cud. It can include
both wild and domestic animals. Some common domestic mammals are sheep, goats, and cattle.
Some mammals may have one or the other of the essential characteristics. For example, pigs
have split hooves. In recent years, a species of pig from Indonesia was found to also chew its
cud. However, rabbinic courts have decided that a pig is a pig. It is still not kosher.

A common misconception about wild mammals is that they are not kosher. However, many
species are definitely kosher. Kosher wild mammals include a variety of families, such as cattle
(hartebeest, aurochs), deer (roebuck, fallow, red, moose, reindeer), antelopes (giraffe, gazelle),
and caprines (wild goat, pygarg, ibex, chamois, mountain-sheep) (Amar et al. 2010).

The problem with wild mammals is not whether they possess all of the kosher characteristics, but
how to slaughter them. In order for animals to be deemed kosher, they must be slaughtered in a
particular style. They cannot be hunted, shot with an arrow or gun, impaled with a spear or
stakes, left to starve in a pit, or poisoned. A commonly cited example is that of the giraffe. Based
on the laws of Kashrut, the giraffe has all the signs of a kosher animal. It possesses split hooves
and chews its cud. A second popular myth about giraffes is that they are not kosher because it is
not possible to determine where on neck to cut. In fact, anywhere along the neck is fine as long
as certain blood vessels and organs are severed in the appropriate manner. However, this
confuses the issue of Kashrut and Shechita, which is discussed below.

The secondary (or by-) products of mammals also have to be considered in terms of Kashrut.
Kosher products for consumption (i.e. dairy products) can only come from kosher animals.
However, non-kosher animals may be used for things other than for consumption i.e. labour
(horses, asses), bones (for tools, tableware, hides for belts, clothing, shoes, etc.), scavenging
(pigs, dogs). Very religious Jews will not even use the secondary products of non-kosher animals
for anything related to consumption (e.g. bone spoons) personal hygiene (bone combs),
adornment or clothing (skins). Keeping non-kosher animals in proximity and using them as
beasts of labour is allowable, however.

Contrary to mammals, the rules for which birds are permitted for consumption are not specified.
The bible only lists these birds that are forbidden and the kosher birds have been determined to
be so based solely on historic practices. In general, only birds specifically listed in the Hebrew
Bible are considered to be kosher. These are usually domestic and some wild birds, such as the
many varieties of geese, swans, chickens doves, pigeons and ducks or their close relatives (e.g.,
Cornish hens). Anything not specifically listed in the Hebrew Bible is permitted for human
consumption. The major exception to this rule is the turkey, which is considered as the American
chicken. Consumption of birds of prey is not allowed. The same is true for insects. By and large,

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Table 1: Pure Grasshoppers Families Name in the Jewish Sources, in English and Scientific
name
Species scientific name

Species name in English

Species name in the
Jewish sources

From the Torah
Schistocerca Locust
(Arbeh)

Truxalis Saltamontes
(Salam)

Acrididae Grasshopper
(Chagab)

Tettigoniidae Long-horned Grasshopper
(Chargol)

insects are not considered kosher and cannot be consumed. This is why lettuce is closely
scrutinized and washed to prevent accidental consumption of non-kosher insects. However,
there are some important exceptions. Certain forms of grasshoppers can be consumed according
to religious authorities (Table 1).The rules for fish are once again very specific. In order for a
fish to be considered kosher, it must possess scales and gills. All others are not kosher. This
includes all cartilaginous and bony fishes. Commonly consumed kosher fish include carp,
salmon, bass, and trout. Food preparation also limits what is kosher. Biblical injunctions prohibit
the mixture of meat and dairy products. Hence, meat is never cooked with cheese in a kosher
product.

Shechita

Shechita is a subset of the rules of Kashrut. It focuses entirely on animals and their preparation
into food. It is performed by a ritual slaughter-butcher, called a shoichet, who has undergone
intensive and lengthy training in both the practical aspects of slaughtering and butchering, as
well as the religious laws regulating their practice. It takes years to be certified as a shoichet, in
addition to the requirement that one should be a practicing religious Jew. While a secular person,
or even a non-Jew can be a butcher, animals have to be slaughtered by a certified and ritually-
trained individual in order for the animals to be certified as kosher (Figure 1).

The basic rules of Shechita are relatively simple. First, animals must be alive before they are
ritually slaughtered in order to be kosher. Second, the ritual process must be followed closely.
This is done in a series of major steps:


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1) Slaughter
a) The ritual process begins
with cutting of jugular
veins and the carotid
arteries quickly. It must
be done quickly in order
to promote
unconsciousness and
insensitivity on the part
of the animal. This is
specified by the
injunction to cut the
head with one injury, the
animal would not eat
(Talmud Bavli, Hullin 2)
b) Slaughtering must be
accomplished with a
specific cutting
instrument, called chalaf
(Figure 2). It must be
properly sharpened and
examined after each use.
In general, it is as sharp
as a razor. Many ritual
slaughterers determine
whether it is sharp
enough by whether it can
cut into the distal tip of
their finger nail simply
by resting the sharp edge
of the blade on it. The
use of any type of blunt
instrument is not allowed
(e.g., club or hammer). A
pike or projectile of any
kind also cannot be used.
c) The neck is cut between
the first and the second rings of the trachea. The cutting edge of the knife cannot touch
the cervical vertebrae or larynx. Otherwise, the animal is deemed not kosher.
2) Inspection (Bedika)
a) The exterior of the body and the internal organs are inspected for any physiological
abnormalities, known as Terefot. Anim\als who demonstrate the presence of diseases,
injuries, and malformations are deemed non-kosher and are prohibited from Jewish
consumption. However, they may be sold to non-Jews if they are not infected with
contagious diseases.

Figure 1. Example of Jewish Slaughter (Shechita). Rabbi
Moshe Fecher (18991991), Shoichet for the Jewish
Community of Newark, NJ (1930?1975), slaughtering
cattle c. 1954 C.E.

Figure 2. Roman butcher shop, stone relief, 2nd century
A.D./C.E., located in the Museo della Civilta Romana,
Rome, Italy.

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3) Porging (Nikur)
a) Drainage of blood - After the incision, the animal is hoisted into the air with the neck
down to enhance the drainage of blood from the body and to be skinned. Draining of
blood is necessary since consumption of blood is forbidden in Judaism. This includes
consumption of meat with blood.
b) This stage involves the removal of the sciatic nerve (Gid HaNashe) in the hindlimb
(thigh) since it contains lots of blood that cannot be drained. Since it is so difficult to
remove the sciatic nerve, parts of the animal tend to be forbidden by the Torah and are
not consumed. Porging is not described in detail in ancient texts. Ashkenazim and
Sephardim, as well as in the State of Israel versus the Diaspora, practice porging
differently. In many parts of the world, where there are butchers specially trained in the
practice of removing the sciatic nerve (e.g., Europe, Israel, etc.), the entire carcass is
consumed. However, in North America, the hind quarter of most kosher animals is
simply removed and sold as non-kosher meat. The reason for this is that in the 1860s, the
rabbis decided that the hindlimb would not be considered fit for Jewish consumption
because there was nobody trained in the art of proper butchering at that time. When
trained butchers arrived here in the late 1800s, the tradition and rabbinic decree were
already in place and have been respected ever since (M. Greenfield, personal
communication 2001).
c) It also involves the removal the removal of excess fats (Chelev) since this is also
prohibited.

Origins of Kashrut and Shechita a Zooarchaeological Test

There are three potential ways to investigate the origins of Shechita: through historical and
religious texts, Archaeology, and Zooarchaeology.

Textual sources for the laws (legal codes - Halakha) related to Kashrut and Shechita for animals
derive a variety of ancient religious texts. The best known examples come from the Talmud
(Mishna and Gemara), which are a compilation of oral traditions. These are described in the
previous section. While the information in the Mishna derives from Jewish traditions of the Late
Second Temple Period (c.
.
second century B.C.E. first century C.E.), they were not written
down in their final form until after the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem (during the

second century C.E.). The information in the Gemara was written down a few centuries later, in
separately in both Israel and Babylon (c. fourth fifth century C.E.). The information from these
is largely summarized in the previous section.

Archaeological sources of information come in the form of iconographic depictions (e.g., on
tombstones) of butchering and slaughtering practices. Prior to the Hellenistic period, there are no
depictions. During the Roman period, butchering practices become standardized (Figure 2).
Practices are relatively standardized, widespread region-wide and systematic. The introduction of
steel technology made the processing of animal remains much simpler since butchers were not
limited to disarticulation of limbs, but could cut through limbs with relative ease for the first
time.


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The third way for testing when the practices of Kashrut and Shechita might have appeared is
through zooarchaeology: analysis of animal remains from archaeological contexts. In this paper,
the zooarchaeological data from various archaeological sites in ancient Israel and Canaan are
considered.

A. Kashrut

The distribution (presence/absence) of kosher animals is the best way to identify a potential shift
to a kosher diet and the appearance of the practice of Kashrut. Zooarchaeologists have amassed a
large body of data related to the zooarchaeology of the Bronze and Iron ages of the region.

Temporally, it is very clear that the frequency of non-kosher animals declines in Iron Age (after
1200 B.C.E.). However, this pattern occurs only in certain environments. For example, pigs
almost disappear in highland settlements between the end of the Late Bronze Age (LBA) and
beginning of the Iron Age. This makes sense archaeologically, given that this is the region where
it seems that a Jewish identity and practices are emerging among the population. In contrast, pigs
appear in relatively large quantities in the lowland communities, seemingly inhabited by the
Philistine (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2009; Hesse 1986; Lev-Tov 2000). Clearly, it appears that
the presence of pigs in the diet is an ethnic marker (Hesse 1990, 1995). This pattern continues
through the Iron Age into the Classical periods, where non-Jews and Hellenized Jews use diet as
a means of reinforcing their identities.

B. Shechita

The distribution of butchering patterns can be used to identify when Shechita might have
appeared in the archaeological record. The laws of Shechita imply the introduction of a

Figure 3. Histogram of percentage of metal slice mark frequency over time (average per
period) Jericho.

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systematic butchering pattern. It is interesting to observe when such practices appear in the
archaeological record.

The earliest evidence for systematic butchering practices occurs in the Middle Bronze Age
(MBA). There is a dramatic change between the Early Bronze Age (EBA) and MBA in
butchering practices when practices become systematic for first time. However, the practices do
not appear to be associated with the introduction of Shechita. Instead, they are associated with
the introduction of metal (bronze) butchering tools (i.e., metal knives) (Greenfield 2005, 2008).
The frequency of metal cut marks on bones increases dramatically in the MBA (c. 80 percent -
Figure 3). At this point in time, butchering procedures also begins to change. This can be seen
most vividly with the data from Jericho where there is a dramatic change in butchering practices
between the Bronze Age and earlier periods at the site. The frequency of butchering marks on
upper neck vertebrae (i.e. Atlas and Axis) dramatically increases during this period. There were
none in the pre-Bronze Age levels. They represent 15 percent of cut marked bones (10 percent

Axis; 5 percent Epistropheus) in the EBA. In the MBA, they are present, but their frequency
declines (5.7 percent of all cut marked bones; Atlas 4.7 percent; Epistropheus 1 percent).
While the EBA may be overinflated due to the small sample size (there were only 19 bones
identified in the entire EBA sample and 295 in the MBA sample), the change appears to be
related to a greater systematization of butchering with the advent of metallurgy. Before this
period, butchering marks are more randomly distributed across the carcass. Between the Bronze
and Iron Age, there does not appear to be any dramatic change in the manner in which animals
are processed. The patterns observed for the MBA and LBA continue into the Iron Age without
substantial change (Greenfield 2008).

The next big change occurs during the Classical periods, in particular during the Roman
occupation of ancient Israel. At this time, the country becomes heavily urbanized and

Figure 4. Caprine cervical vertebrae (Axis) with evidence of slaughter from the
Jerusalem City Dump site of the Second Temple Period

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economically developed. The evidence from Jerusalem and its vicinity during the Second
Temple Period indicates the presence of Jewish butchering pattern (Bar-Oz et al. 2007). In
Jerusalem, there is evidence for slaughter of domestic stock in the form of cattle and sheep bone
specimens with cut marks on the ventral face of the 2
nd
(Axis/Epistropheus) vertebrae (Figure 4;
Bouchnick et al. 2007). However, ritual slaughterers, who are prohibited from touching the bone,
would not intentionally make these marks. The marks on the ventral face may therefore be from
accidental nicking of the bone during the slaughtering process (e.g., by novice slaughterers). In
fact, those vertebrae without any marks may best represent the presence of Jewish ritual
slaughter (Shechita). As a result, it can be difficult to identify Shechita or slaughter in the
zooarchaeological record.

Not all neck bones with butchering marks are indicative of ritual slaughter (Shechita).
Butchering marks on the opposite (dorsal) surface of a 1
st
or 2
nd
cervical vertebra (Atlas or Axis)
do not indicate slaughter. The reason is that slaughter must take place on the ventral side of the
vertebra, where the throat, nerves and blood vessels must be severed. Therefore, not all vertebrae
with butchering marks on them represent slaughtering activities. It depends upon which face of
the bone they are found.

Specimens with clear decapitation marks are found at the Hellenistic site of Sahar Hamakim near
Haifa. The slice marks are located on the cranial face of the first vertebra (atlas) of a sheep, at the
point of articulation with the occipital condyles of the cranium (Figure 5; Bar-oz et al. 2009).
Butchering patterns of this nature do not indicate slaughtering activities. Rather, they indicate
disarticulation of the head from the vertebral column (= decapitation).

Figure 5. Ovis aries cervical vertebra (Atlas) with disarticulation marks from the
Hellenistic deposits from the site of Shaar-HaAmakim site (with permission
from Guy Bar Oz).

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It is important to determine whether such marks relate to slaughtering or disarticulation
activities. Slaughtering by decapitation or touching of the bone by the knife during slaughtering
are practices that are forbidden by Jewish law. Once an animal is dead, it is legitimate in Jewish
Law to touch the knife to the bone and disarticulate the skeleton. Therefore, in the case of Sahar
Hamakim, it is impossible to use this particular piece of evidence to determine which ethnic
group was present (e.g. Jews or non-Jews) and whether Kosher practices were present.

There is a variety of other evidence for carcass processing from Jerusalem and other Jewish sites,
including disarticulation between limbs to separate parts of the body (e.g., rib section, upper
from lower limbs), filleting of meat and tendons from bones, skinning, hoof removal, etc. The
carcass was also dismembered. Some bones were sawn in order to enhance the distribution of
meat by body section. The vertebrae were often sawn down the middle to sections of the carcass
that were divided down the midline of the skeleton. Each half of the vertebra was sold still
attached to the associated ribs yielding a rib slab of meat.
When the distribution of cut marks is mapped onto the skeleton (Figure 6), it is apparent that all
parts of the carcass were processed locally in a very systematic fashion. This is evidence for the
presence of professional butchers in the city. In the surrounding villages, the animals carcass is
not divided as systematically. There is clearer evidence for local preparation and consumption.

Figure 6. Generalized caprine skeleton figure with summary of all butchering
marks found on caprine bones. They derive from the Jerusalem City Dump site
of the Second Temple Period.


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The differences between sites in relation to pathologies may also be informative in terms of
identifying Kashrut. Sites with a historically documented non-Jewish population (for example,
the camp of the Roman Legion X Fretensis at Binyanei Hauma in present-day West Jerusalem)
indicate a different (i.e., non-Jewish) pattern. There is very little evidence among the butchered
animal remains for pathologies in the city of Jerusalem city dump (Caprines=0.5 percent, n=17
out of NISP=3484; Cattle=0.7 percent, n=4 out of NISP=609) in comparison to 10
th
Roman
legions encampment (Cattle=6.37 percent (n=1 out of NISP=16) (Figure 7). This indicates that
the laws (Halakha) that prohibit eating of injured or sick animals were followed in Jerusalem,
ensuring that relatively healthy animals were slaughtered for Jewish consumption (Bouchnick et
al. 2007).

Figure 7. Caprine toes (phalange 1) with pathology from Jerusalem City Dump
site of the Second Temple Period.
Conclusions

Previous research on this subject has largely focused on different aspects of the problem. Hesse
(1990, 1995) investigated the origins of Kashrut through the presence/absence and frequencies of
various animals recovered on Bronze and Iron Age sites. Cope (2004) focused specifically on
whether Shechita could be identified in late Second Temple/Roman period occupations of sites
in ancient Israel. In this paper, we begin with an examination of the ancient texts in order to
inform us as to what types of conclusions one may expect. The religious texts on slaughter and
butchery practices from the Talmud are summarized. These observations are applied to the

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zooarchaeological record through a preliminary comparison between the zooarchaeological
remains from the city dump of Jerusalem and other sites from the Late Second Temple Period
and sites where non-Jews were known to have lived.

Tentative correspondence between the practiced butchery tradition and Jewish dietary rules are
found in our analysis. This is evidence by the composition of the animal bones that were recently
excavated at the city dump of Jerusalem, The composition of bones show that meat consumed in
Jerusalem was of Kosher-animals only. The age-at-death of cattle, sheep, and goats show that the
animals were raised and utilized predominately for their meat. Also, butchery patterns found on
the animal remains suggest that qualified slaughterers conducted slaughtering activities.
Nevertheless, qualitative butchery marks that would indicate the Jewish origin of the slaughterers
could not be found. The bone assemblage lacked hind-limb bones with marks of the practice of
removing the sciatic nerve (Nikur). Removal of the sciatic nerve is a unique Jewish butchery
tradition that is expected to leave diagnostic marks on bones. It is possible that the lack of
evidence for Nikur in Jerusalem city dump is due to the small sample size of the bones. Future
research will emphasize a comprehensive study of hind-limb butchery-marks. In summary, the
composition of animal findings and the lack of none-Kosher animals are the most significant
ethnic fingerprint for the Jewish origins of the city's inhabitants.

It is possible to identify Jewish communities by using the information from Kashrut and Shechita
to create a model for expectations of Jewish culinary practices governed by laws and tradition.
The types of animals and how they are processed can be used as a proxy indicator for the
presence of religiously observant or traditional Jews. Kashrut is easier to identify since it is
based on presence/absence of certain species (only those deemed kosher). In contrast, Shechita is
much more difficult to identify. For example, it is hard to find evidence of slaughtering by the
cutting of the neck. Good slaughters do not nick bone, which damages the blade, and would
cause the animal to be deemed not kosher. As a result, it would be lost to the Jewish population
and could only be consumed by non-Jews. Similarly, while the removal of the sciatic nerve is a
hallmark of kosher meat, it is very difficult to find evidence of its removal. It is not on the bone
and a proficient butcher can remove it without hitting the bone. Hence, it is invisible as a
zooarchaeological marker of Shechita. Since it is not always easy to use the presence of a
particular practice as a marker of Jewish behaviour, it may be more fruitful to search for their
absence.

The absence of a systematic pattern of behaviour may be more indicative of a non-Jewish
pattern, e.g. presence of lots of cut marks on the ventral face, lots of diseased animals, etc. Their
presence may mark the presence of non-Jewish, whether by non-Jews or by non-observant Jews.
The increased assimilation of Jews in North America and the secularization of Israelis in the last
half-century have resulted in the adoption of non-Jewish patterns of behaviour, particularly in the
realm of diet. Jews for the most part are invisible as an ethnic group once they have abandoned
their religiously prescribed dietary patterns. Only the religiously observant segment of the
community remains visible.

Butchering practices and diet are an essential component for understanding cultural continuity
and group identity. In the case of Judaism and Jews, where dietary practices are not only
associated with cultural values, they are mandated by religious belief. Therefore, it is difficult for

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Jewish dietary practices to be changed since they are embedded in the culture through the
religion. Jews are a unique ethnic group in that they are a people who share both a culture and a
religion, and the culture has a religious foundation. The fundamental requirement to keep kosher
in order to follow the religion leads to cultural continuity and a reinforcing pattern of behaviour.
Traditional Jewish dietary and butchering practices reinforce group identity over time, thereby
enabling cultural continuity between widely separated communities in both time and space. This
is a very different condition than found in most cultures or ethnic groups. Clearly, there is a link
between butchering practices and Jewish identity, and the zooarchaeological record allows
archaeologists to determine the presence of religiously observant Jews in communities.

Acknowledgements. The authors would like to gratefully acknowledge the administrative and
financial support of the Albright Institute for Archaeological Research (Jerusalem), University of
Manitoba (Winnipeg), University of Haifa (Israel), and Social Science and Humanities Research
Council (SSHRC) or Canada. Also, thanks are due to Guy Bar-Oz and Tina Jongsma Greenfield
for their encouragement to undertake this research, and for permission to use their unpublished
data. This article is dedicated to the memory of Haskels late father (Rabbi Moshe Greenfield)
and grandfather (Rabbi Moshe Fecher), who brought him as a child to help out in the
slaughterhouses of New Jersey during the weekly slaughtering of animals following the Sabbath.
From the age of six, he learned the intellect, dedication and compassion required of slaughterers
who strictly follow the laws.

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Post-processual World. Methods in the Mediterranean: Historical and Archaeological Views on
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Levinger, Israel Meir
1985 [1978, 2
nd
edition] Modern Kosher Food Production From Animal Sources (
- in Hebrew, with English summary) , Third edition. Institute for Agricultural Research
According to the Torah. Jerusalem.

Lev-Tov, Justin S. E.
2000 Pigs, Philistines, and the Animal Economy of Ekron from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron
Age II. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Tennessee, Knoxville.

Mintz, Sidney W. and Christine Du Bois
2002 The Anthropology of Food and Eating. Annual Review of Anthropology 31:99119.

Regenstein, J. M. and C. E Regenstein
1979 An Introduction to the Kosher Dietary Laws for Food Scientists and Food Processors. Food
Technology (Chicago) 33 (1):8999.

1988 The Kosher Dietary Laws and their Implementation in the Food Industry. Food Technology
(Chicago) 42 (6):8694.

1991 Current Issues in Kosher foods. Trends in Food Science Technology 3:5054.

Notes

1
The dating system used in this paper follows the conventions commonly used in Biblical
Archaeology. Instead of referring to the heavily Christianized terms of BC (Before Christ) and
A.D. (Anno Domini), the more culturally neutral terms B.C.E. (Before Common Era) and C.E.
(Common Era) are proposed.

2
The laws canonized in the Talmud (Hebrew: ) are the record of rabbinic commentaries on
Jewish laws, ethics, customs and history that were compiled between 200 and 500 CE. It has two
main parts: 1) the Mishna (c. 200 C.E.), which was the first written compendium of the Oral
Laws; and 2) the Gemara (c. 400500 C.E., depending upon whether it is the Jerusalem or
Babylonian version), which is a discussion of the Mishna and related religious texts. The
Gemara is often referred to as the Talmud in the literature creating confusion


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"It Is Very Difficult to Know People...": Cuisine
and Identity in Mycenaean Greece

Julia Hruby

Abstract. While discussions of Aegean Bronze Age feasting and diet have recently become quite
popular, the topic of cuisine (the style of food) remains comparatively unexplored. Because the
style of food consumed and the rituals by which it is served are closely associated with the
identity of the consumer, and because food and drink provide extensive opportunities for
conspicuous consumption, cuisine provides an unparalleled arena in which elites can build class
and regional identities. The Mycenaeans in general and the inhabitants of the Palace of Nestor
at Pylos in particular developed a class-differentiated and regionally specific cuisine. Ceramic,
paleobotanical, and textual evidence suggest that specialized personnel working for a narrow
class of Mycenaean elites cooked different foods using different techniques from those utilized by
the populace at large. Regional variation in cooking and serving vessels also indicates that the
Palace of Nestor's cooking style differed from those found elsewhere.

While discussions of Aegean Bronze Age feasting have recently become popular, the topic of
cuisine, or the style of food, remains comparatively unexplored. Cuisine has served as a means of
establishing and maintaining identities across time and cultures. It has been used to establish
religious identity, as with the practice of keeping kosher; ethnic identity my family of fourth
and fifth generation Czech-Americans no longer speaks Czech, but still discusses kolachki-
making at length; and even gender identity, as recent television advertisements for Burger King
demonstrate, emphasizing a tie between masculinity and beef consumption. Because the style of
food consumed is closely associated with the consumers identity, and because cuisine provides
extensive opportunities for conspicuous consumption, cuisine provides an unparalleled arena in
which elites can build class and regional identities.
Haute cuisine represents food and its presentation considered to be qualitatively better than what
is normative within a society. In many societies, class difference in food consumption is an issue
of quantity. For example, Stephen Mennell (1985:4245) discusses class-based differentiation in
level of consumption in Medieval England and France, and he finds especially notable
differences in the quantity of meat consumed. Jack Goody (1982) finds similar results in Africa.
Why and under what conditions haute cuisine develops are critical issues, then, and a consensus
has emerged that socioeconomic factors are essential. Bourdieu (1984), following Veblen (1899),
argues that status is symbol-driven. Consumption is driven by socially defined needs, i.e., by
individuals wanting what the members of the class above have. Class mobility may be restricted
through the restriction of access to symbols. In societies in which food was in short supply, mere
quantity would have sufficed to mark the haves from the have-nots, but in the presence of plenty,
another mechanism would have been required.
Perhaps one of the reasons haute cuisine is effective as a means of establishing social hierarchies
is the fact that it entails vast quantities of conspicuous consumption. As Yen demonstrates,
concoctive preparations create more waste than do simple ones (Yen 1975:162). More labor is

122 | P a g e

required in preparation of haute cuisine, and more expense in acquiring exotic ingredients. In
addition, innovation brings the risk of failure, and for an individual or family without surplus, the
failure of an experiment is costly. Because food is consumed on a daily basis, opportunity for
food expenditure never disappears or abates, and its value can never be directly recovered once
consumption has occurred.

I have argued in the past that haute cuisine
requires a variety of ingredients,
preparation techniques, and trained
personnel. We have paleobotantical and
textual evidence that the Mycenaeans had
sufficient variety in available ingredients
to create endless elaboration (Hruby
2006:287297; 2008:152), and that they
actively sought increased variety by
introducing new plant species such as
walnut, chestnut, and rye (Hruby
2008:152), and by importing food items,
such as spices and wine, over considerable
distances (Hruby 2006:137). We have
evidence, moreover, that they had highly
specialized and geographically restricted
food preparation equipment, such as
griddles for making flatbread (Figure 1),
"souvlaki trays" for roasting meat (Figure
2), side-spouted bowls for pouring hot
liquids (Figure 3), and very small tripod
cooking pots (Hruby 2008:153155;
Figure 4). These "special" cooking wares
suggest the existence of specialized food
preparation techniques. Finally, we have

Figure 1. Griddle from Pylos, photograph by the
author.

Figure 2. "Souvlaki tray" from Pylos, photograph
courtesy of the University of Cincinnati
Department of Classics.

Figure 3. Side-spouted bowl from Pylos, photograph courtesy of the
University of Cincinnati Department of Classics.

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textual evidence for
professional food
preparation personnel.
Linear B tablets tell us that
were perhaps as many as
seven bakers, titled a-to-po-
qo, at Pylos, and some
larger number (perhaps 22)
at Mycenae (Efkleidou
2004:162), as well as other
personnel whose titles are
less easily translated. The
meaning of me-re-ti-ri-ja
(and its variants), for
example, remains uncertain,
though it must represent
women and children who
function as some sort of millers or grinders, and there seem to be at least 40 of them at Pylos and
Leuktron (Lingdren 1973:9596). They presumably have an occupation differentiable from that
of those individuals who are called si-to-ko-wo, or grain-grinder, of whom there are 90 at Pylos
(Lindgren 1973:139), and at least 50 at Thebes (Efkleidou 2004:196, 321, 330). It is, therefore,
certain that the palaces supported large staffs to process grains and a few individuals to bake
them. Hence, the combination of available foodstuffs, including exotic ones, specialized cooking
vessels, and specialized cooking personnel all point to Pylos having an elite culinary tradition.
Similar evidence can be adduced from the palatial sites of Mycenae and Thebes.

Here, I present results from a pilot study evaluating the feasibility of determining the character of
prehistoric elite cuisine by looking at the geographic distribution of specialized cooking
equipment. These results are genuinely preliminary until fairly recently, excavations often
chose not to publish their cooking wares, and many of the most recent projects are not yet fully
(or even partially) published. The current study is restricted to material that is already published,
and there are a number of published sites still to be considered. Another drawback is that we
have disproportionately excavated central, higher order sites at the expense of lower order ones,
still known primarily from surface survey.
The goal of this study is fairly simple. If haute cuisine reflects access to the symbolic capital
necessary for elite social status, then the extent to which the distribution of haute cuisine is
restricted should reflect the extent to which access to elite social status is limited. Therefore,
while we do not have access to direct social relationships in the prehistoric past, we may evaluate
the extent of the distribution of haute cuisine as a means of estimating how closely restricted elite
social status was. While it is exceedingly difficult to determine who had access to what food
within a site, having already established that the Palace of Nestor and other contemporary
palaces had a specific elite cuisine, it should be possible to determine how far down the site
hierarchy these elaborate culinary practices reached. Also, in light of the close ties between
cuisine and social identity, we may ask how place or region specific is Mycenaean cuisine. I will
suggest that the Mycenaeans in general and the inhabitants of the Palace of Nestor at Pylos in

Figure 4. Types 69 (left) and 70 (right) tripod cooking pot,
photograph courtesy of the University of Cincinnati Department
of Classics.

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particular developed a cuisine that was characteristic of the palaces, and that it seems to have
reached only a few of the most important sub-palatial centers. There are hints that this cuisine
may have varied from palatial site to palatial site, perhaps reflecting elite competition or
differences in professional training.
Some geopolitical background may be helpful. Mycenaean kingdoms were state-level societies,
with administrative documents, taxes, individuals who held political offices with titles, and large
scale architectural and engineering projects ranging from palaces to city walls to diversion of
rivers. John Bennet's analysis of Linear B textual evidence, supported by survey data,
demonstrates that the state about which we know most, Pylos, was composed of a "Hither"
province and a "Further" province, each with a capital; within each province there were nine
regional centers. A third tier, and probably a fourth, of sites are also mentioned in the tablets.
There seems to have been some consolidation of states shortly before the end of the Bronze Age.
Pylos' Further Province seems once to have been independent, as were many of the sites that
seem to have come within Mycenae and Tiryns's spheres of influence (Bennet 1995, 1998;
Wright 1994).
How deep within this site hierarchy is there evidence for haute cuisine, then? I would suggest we
can test an approach to this problem by looking at both ceramic and textual evidence for the
geographic extent of specific elements of haute cuisine, namely bread and sauces. Let us begin
with the ceramic and textual evidence for bread production, then proceed to the evidence for
production of sauces or gravies. The first vessel type I would like to examine is the griddle, a flat
coarseware tray with dimples or divets on one surface (Figure 1). Griddles are typically burned
on the bottom, implying that they were probably used over coals. The only example to have been
tested yet for residues, one from the site of Midea, was found to have traces of grain and oil,
suggesting that it was intended for the production of flatbreads (Tzedakis and Martlew
1999:126). We find griddles at a range of palatial sites, including Pylos (Blegen and Rawson
1966:267, 273, 274, 312, 332, 340), Mycenae (French 1969:85; Shear 1987:112), Tiryns
(Stockhammer 2007:Tafel 34), and the Spartan Meneleion (Cavanagh et al. 1996:22, 403, 405).
Even from these sites, we rarely find more than a few; I have been able to find evidence at Pylos
only for four.
A number of griddles have been found at the site of Midea (Baumann 2007:161, 268269;
Dalinghaus 1998:136137, 219), where we have not yet found a palace although it is plausible
that there might be one. The site bears evidence of large-scale building activities including a
cyclopean city wall, and much remains unexcavated. Small fragments of griddles have also been
found at Tsoungiza, a second order site. Tsoungiza may once have been a palatial site before it
was incorporated into the territory of a larger neighbor, probably Mycenae, though its two
griddle sherds come from a time where it had already declined in status to become second-order
in importance (Thomas 2005:523525; Wright 1994:6970). To my knowledge, griddles have
never been discovered by surface surveys except by the Laconia Survey in the immediate
vicinity of the Spartan Meneleion. There are none reported elsewhere by the Laconia Survey
(Cavanagh et al. 1996), nor are any reported by the Methana Survey (Mee and Forbes 1997), the
Nemea Valley Archaeological Project's preliminary report (Wright et al. 1990), the Southern
Argolid Survey (Runnels et al. 1995), the Pylos Regional Archaeological Project (Davis et al.
1997), nor the University of Minnesota Messenia Expedition (McDonald and Rapp 1972). They
have also not typically been reported from other second-order sites, even those with extensive

125 | P a g e

evidence for feasting, such as Ayios Konstantinos (Hamilakis and Konsolaki 2004) and those
that have been published more thoroughly, such as Nichoria (McDonald and Wilkie 1992), Lerna
(Wiencke 1998), and Athens (Immerwahr 1971). In light of their visual distinctiveness, we
would expect to find griddles at lower order sites, whether through excavation or through survey,
if they were used on a widespread basis by people regardless of social class. The fact that we do
not implies that either the populace at large used them only in central locations or griddles were
used only by elites. The relatively small number of extant griddles points to the latter
explanation, that they were used in the service of elites.
This makes sense. Porridges, which required less grain preparation, seem to have been the
dietary staple of the population, which presumably had better things to do than dedicate a lot of
time to grinding grain. Elites, by contrast, had slaves to grind and regrind grain recall that
Pylos had 90 si-to-ko-wo (grain grinders) and dozens of me-re-ti-ri-ja (some other kind of grain
grinders) suggesting that the elites there would have eaten bread. The reach of grain-preparation
personnel into second-order sites mirrors the situation we see in the cooking vessels. Leuktron,
the former capital of Pylos' Further Province, is described in tablet PY Ad 308 as having me-re-
ti-ri-ja (Bennett and Olivier 1973:33), and there are examples of a-to-po-qo (bakers) who might
be at Akerewa (tablet PY An 427; Bennett and Olivier 1973:26, 49). No other second-order sites
in the Pylos kingdom are listed as having grain-oriented personnel. The overall picture, then, is
that bread was probably available only to those at the top of the social ladder.
The production of sauces or gravies
also seems to have been restricted.
Our second vessel type is the
souvlaki tray or broiling pan
found in the destruction levels of the
Palace of Nestor at Pylos (Blegen
and Rawson 1966:418; Figure 2).
Similar vessels have also been found
at the site of Mycenae (Tzedakis and
Martlew 1999:134). This vessel
would have been used to grill
skewered chunks of meat. It has an
immediate predecessor at both sites
in the form of spit supports (see
Figure 5 for fragmentary examples)
which are relatively widespread and
seem likely to have been introduced
to Mainland Greece from Anatolia
via the islands, arriving around early Late Bronze III (deduced from data in Scheffer 1984). At
the beginning of the Late Helladic IIIB period, at both Mycenae and Pylos, souvlaki trays replace
spit supports.
Their functions seem to have been comparable. Both the trays and the spit supports show
extensive traces of burning at and near their bases. The spit supports would have been used in
pairs and have had coals placed between them; souvlaki trays would have been placed over hot
coals. The fragmentary spit supports I have found at Pylos sit at a height similar to that of the

Figure 5. Spit supports found below the destruction-level
floor of the palace (i.e., pre-Late Helladic IIIB/C
transition) in room 18, photograph by the author.

126 | P a g e

souvlaki trays, between 7.5 and 9.5 cm tall, lifting the meat a comparable distance from the heat
(Blegen and Rawson 1966:418; Tzedakis and Martlew 1999:134). The difference is that the
newer "souvlaki tray" would allow for the collection of drippings, perhaps in a bowl or basin at
the open end, while spit supports would not. Because drippings are commonly used in the
production of sauces and gravies, this shift from spit supports to souvlaki trays might reflect an
interest in preserving drippings for sauce production. The fact that the shift seems to occur only
at two of the palatial centers reinforces the idea that sophisticated culinary practices were highly
restricted. Again, no spit supports or souvlaki trays have, to my knowledge, been found by
surface surveys.
A third vessel provides additional evidence for the production of sauces or gravies. Spouted
bowls come in a variety of types (Blegen and Rawson 1966:357359; Furumark 1972:627, 637).
Some have a spout opposite a single handle; a few are side-spouted, with the spout 90 degrees
clockwise from the single handle, allowing a right-handed individual to pour towards him or
herself (Figure 3). Side-spouted bowls are relatively rare in Mycenaean Greece. Most examples
are in fine, un-tempered fabrics and are painted, suggesting that they are probably serving
vessels. However, at the Palace of Nestor at Pylos, there are at least 55 side-spouted bowls in a
sandy orange cooking fabric. Prosymna has another such example, as do Makrysia Chania and
Akona near Koukounara (Blegen and Rawson 1966: 358); Tsoungiza might also have one,
insofar as it has a fragmentary cooking bowl spout, but it is not clear whether it is a side-spout
(Thomas 2005:520521).
At Pylos, the side-spouted bowls are stored in a pantry among utilitarian vessels. They show
signs of extensive burning, and the gritty fabric suggests the possibility of heating before
pouring. Today, heating then pouring is typically done to reduce a liquid when preparing gravies,
sauces, glazes, or soups (Rombauer and Becker 1975:154, 339, 522), and these bowls would
facilitate the slow, steady addition of warm liquid. In light of their forms, fabrics, and find-spots,
then, the side-spouted bowls are likely to have been specialized cooking vessels, and they too
may have been used for sauce production.
The presence of griddles and the textual evidence for grain-related personnel suggest that bread
may have been available only to palatial elites and those at a few second-order sites. The shift
from spit supports to souvlaki trays at Pylos and Mycenae, in combination with the unusually
frequent side-spouted cooking bowls at Pylos and their rarity elsewhere, may suggest that
restricted numbers of people consumed specialized sauces. However, the side-spouted bowls are
not the only unique aspect of Pylos' ceramic assemblage and it is a combination of side-spouted
bowls and miniature tripods that characterizes the Pylos cooking assemblage.
The tripod cooking pot, found at sites throughout the Aegean region, is a staple of Bronze Age
culinary technology. The destruction-level tripod cooking pots at Pylos, however, are strangely
small and strangely numerous. There are two types: the pots of type 69 have a single handle and
a spout, and they tend to be smaller, with capacities of .45 to .85 liters; those of type 70 have two
handles and no spout and are slightly larger, with capacities of .6 to1.65 liters (Figure 4). The
legs are approximately three to four centimeters tall. This is in notable contrast to the situation in
places like Mycenae, Tiryns, and Midea, which have one or a few examples of smaller tripod
cooking pots but have assemblages dominated by full-size tripod cooking pots with capacities
many times larger and with legs that exceed nine centimeters in height. Pylos has at least 34

127 | P a g e

tripods of type 69, at least 18 examples of type 70, and not a single standard tripod (Blegen and
Rawson 1966:413-414).
Why, then, does Pylos have such an odd assemblage? We use pots of different sizes in different
ways. The evidence of sooting on and damage to large tripods from other sites suggests that hot
coals were placed between the legs under the belly of the vessel. This interpretation is reinforced
by the observation of Ione Shear (1987:110) that the three feet of the tripods from the Panagia
Houses at Mycenae were not placed in an equilateral triangle but in three corners of a square.
Presumably, this would allow for easier placement of coals underneath. Such a technique would
not work well with a small, Pylos-style tripod, which has a belly reaching to within two or three
centimeters of the ground, and which often has the feet placed very close together. These smaller
tripods also exhibit a different pattern of burning; sooting and damage tend to reach most of the
way up the wall of the pot, suggesting that coals were banked around the pot. It is not yet clear
what culinary difference results from this different method of heating. Perhaps the smaller, more
rounded vessel makes it possible to get a more even heat
The small capacities of the vessels might suggest that they were used to prepare non-staple
foods (such as sauces, syrups, or gravies, or perhaps medicines?) rather than staples (such as
porridges or soups), or that they were used to cook foods consumed by a very few individuals.
Because all of the smaller, type 69 tripods were spouted, the idea that they, at least, were
designed for the preparation of sauces is appealing. The fact that there were at least 34 of them
found in one room of the palace, all apparently in use when the palace fell, is difficult to explain.
If they were used for the production of sauces, perhaps many different flavors were produced
simultaneously; if for medicine, perhaps different "prescriptions". In any case, the use of so
many small vessels must have been labor-intensive.
The pattern that is emerging from the distribution of cooking pots and from the evidence of the
Linear B tablets, then, is one of Mycenaean cuisine highly differentiated by social status, with
access limited to those at first-order sites and a few of the more important second-order ones.
The number of people with access to the symbolic capital of haute cuisine seems to have been
very small. There may also have been regional differences in cuisine, if the oddities of the Pylos
cooking pot assemblage reflect a unique culinary culture. The Mycenaeans were presumably not
any less intelligent than any one else; they would have been well aware that different "kinds" of
people ate differently.
The picture painted here, however, should be considered to be tentative; there remain a large
number of non-first-order sites to examine, and as projects become increasingly committed to
full publication of material that is more functional than pretty, we will gain a more nuanced
understanding of the mechanisms by which Mycenaean cuisines emerged.


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Acknowledgments. My thanks to the organizers of the 2009 Chacmool conference for their hard
work and hospitality, to Shari Stocker and Jack Davis for their extensive assistance in support of
my research at Pylos, to the guards at the Chora Museum for their thousand kindnesses, and to
the Institute for Aegean Prehistory and Berea College for their financial support. Thanks also to
Jason Cohen for his comments on a draft, and to the gentleman at the conference whose name I
did not catch who suggested that the tripods might have been used for producing medicine. I
appreciate the generosity of the University of Cincinnati Department of Classics, with whose
permission I use the photographs in figures 2, 3, and 4.

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1975 Indigenous Food Processing in Oceania. In Gastronomy: The Anthropology of Food and
Food Habits, edited by Margaret L. Arnott, pp. 147168. Aldine, Chicago, Illinois.


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I Discard, Therefore I Am: Identity and Leave-
Taking of Possessions

Monica L. Smith
Department of Anthropology, UCLA, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1553 (smith@anthro.ucla.edu)

ABSTRACT: The human engagement with material culture is usually analyzed in terms of
production, distribution, and consumption. Each of these stages is indicative of decision-
making: in the fashioning of objects, their circulation in the social realm (through gift, trade, or
theft), and their use by the recipient(s). No less complex a phenomenon is what follows
consumption: discard. Studies of the placement of trash in both modern and ancient contexts
provide insights on the way in which the leave-taking of possessions is as pointed a statement of
identity as their production, circulation and possession. This paper considers both sacred and
secular trash as a component of material culture and identity, using examples from
contemporary South Asia and from the ancient urban site of Sisupalgarh in eastern India.

I would like to start this paper with a brief anecdote about something that I recently witnessed in
the neighborhood that I go through on the way to my university. This is a rather nice
neighborhood, in which the morning commute is populated by, among other people, the nannies
and maids who walk from the bus stop to the homes where they work. One day I saw a pair of
women walking along the sidewalk as they passed a little piece of public land that has been made
into a landscaped green space. One of them finished the snack that she had been eating, and
threw her wrapper aside into one of the bushes. Now, here was a person who was going to spend
the rest of her day cleaning up after other people, and who probably had impeccable standards of
cleanliness in her own home. But the act of discard in a public place said a great deal about her
perceptions of the social, class, and ethnic distinctions that accompanied the transition into her
neighborhood of work.

The rich irony of this scenario, and the potential for trash to serve as an expression of autonomy,
provides a window into a reconsideration of discard in the archaeological record. As a person can
physically handle only a limited amount of objects at any given moment, the setting-down of
some items is inevitable. At what point in the process of putting-down do those objects become
abandoned? What prompts the individual to actively discard unwanted items as a deliberate act
of making trash? How, when, and where do individuals discard their unwanted items? When
does the violence of the act of discard emphasize the individuals understanding of the objects
capacity for meaning and memory, ranging from the gentle afterthought of littering to the
forceful hurtling of an undesired item? How are differing understandings of trash negotiated and
engaged with by individuals living in close proximity? And under what circumstances does trash
become the focus of ritual and social activity?


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Trash as an Integral Component of Human-Object Relationships

Although many archaeologists have
written about discarded materials, their
analysis of human engagement with
trash is usually stated in terms of a
relatively straightforward and linear
sequence of production, distribution, and
consumption followed by discard.
However, we should envision each of
these activities as having feedback loops
in which trash is deliberately incorporated (Figure 1).

As the first part of the cycle of engagement with material culture, production is inherently linked
with discard because the acts of manufacture produce a number of by-products that must then be
removed, such as debitage, shavings, and ashes. Production also results in some items that are
not suitable for their intended purposes, such as the wasters of pottery that are removed from
the production context into the discard pile. Archaeologically, however, we know that wasters
can be utilized for other purposes, even contributing directly and indirectly to the production of
subsequent specimens through recycling. Waste that is integral to the production of new objects
includes ground-up sherds used as grog in the manufacture of new pottery or cut-up cloth made
into new textiles. Trash may even be generative of new ideas; we might, for example, consider
the widespread use of microliths starting in the Upper Paleolithic not only as a judicious use of
scarce resources, but a creative means by which the existence of lithic trash provided the impetus
for a new type of technological innovation.

In a provocative book entitled On Garbage (2005), John Scanlan has explored the dynamic and
deliberate relationship of production to waste. He notes that every act of manufacture results in
something that is designed to be used and eventually replaced, with the result that garbage is the
preordained fate of every manufactured item (2005:34). This factor is accelerated in the process
of fashion--what archaeologists would call style--which carries with it the seeds of each
objects obsolescence not only through use-wear but through the mere passage of time. Although
Scanlan is explicitly focused on the modern world, the human propensity to produce and
consume at elevated rates appears evident far back in our ancestry. Examples include the 20,000
year old lithic site of Kutikina, Tasmania, where there were "over 75,000 stone flakes and tools
recovered from a less than 1% sample of the site" (Feder 2004:259). Projected to the entire site,
the foragers living there would have made and used 7.5 million tools. High rates of discard can
be seen in the early agricultural period as well. Randi Haaland (2007:172), for example, reports
on a Khartoum Neolithic settlement that yielded 30,000 fragments of grinding stone in an
excavation of just a small portion of the site.

Distribution provides multiple opportunities for energy expenditure in the moving, removing,
and redistribution of objects. Bodily waste and food waste are discarded daily through deliberate
acts of place-making, in which each individual engages in an autonomous cognitive process
about the location, timing, and visibility of the waste that is generated. Space and waste are

Figure 1. The acts of production, distribution,
consumption and discard are interdependent.

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intimately connected, with the interiors and exteriors of living spaces categorized by the types of
debris that are allowed. Areas that are outside of and between structures become places of
discard for different types of materials, sometimes codified according to the type of waste (see
Hodder [1982] for ethnographically observed discards; Halstead, Hodder and Jones [1978] for
Iron Age England; and Terry et al. [2004] for the ancient Maya).

The distribution of trash can change over time with the introduction of new technologies and
new types of trash, resulting in depositional patterns that demonstrate a deliberate response of
individuals to their surroundings (see Brugge [1983] for ethnographic observations of Navajo
activity areas, and Kuijt and Goring-Morris [2002:373] for archaeological documentation of
changes in trash behavior from the Natufian to the Pre-Pottery Neolithic A phase of the Levant).
The emplacement of usable objects in open spaces can, over time and with the absence of effort,
signal abandonment and disuse along with changing perceptions of ownership. Within interior
spaces, the deliberate clearing of rooms results in patterns of microdebris on the insides of
structures and patterns of macrodebris removed from the interior to the exterior by means of
doorways, windows, and drains.

Trash also is an integral part of consumption, with many finished objects being intertwined with
waste material. In the modern world, packaging provides the most obvious form of trash
associated with consumption. Even without the additional packaging that we experience today,
however, there is waste material inherent in even the most basic activities. Stones have cortex
that must be removed to produce a sharp edge, while organic materials have bark, pith, or thorns
that need to be stripped away. Nearly every food available for human consumption has some
inedible part, such as bones, shells, fibers, or seeds that are thrown aside. Food waste has been a
particular focus of archaeologists who work with the ethnographic record, in which the discard
of bones and other debris from food consumption has been linked to cultural prescriptions of
gender and cleanliness (e.g., Beck and Hill 2004; Hodder 1982). Even the discard of food
leavings is not necessarily linear and unidirectional, however. Tim Ingold has observed that
Among some hunters and gatherers, materials initially dumped as waste may be reprocessed for
consumption as emergency food, in the event that all other sources fail, so that the dump comes
to function as a kind of store (Ingold 1987:201).

As Ingolds remark indicates, humans engage in spatial and temporal assessments of context to
assess the relative value of available items. As archaeologists we should increase our awareness
of items that are trash one minute and highly valued the next as part of the cycle of bricolage
that probably characterized most daily activity in the ancient world. Individuals assess the
potential value of objects and environments and deliberately engage in both conscious discard
and selective salvage in their handling of material objects (Smith 2010). As a result, the
development and treatment of trash is not a linear phenomenon but constitutes an active realm of
both conscious creativity and habituated patterning that can be discerned in both the
contemporary and the archaeological record.


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Trash as Cache

The concept of trash as cache provides one important means of analyzing human interactions
with discarded goods. Individuals can forage from previously-unused or discarded materials for
items of potential value. Parameters of value can change according to individual and household
circumstances or when broad social conditions prompt a redefinition of worth. From the
individual perspective, this might mean eating food that in better times would have been
discarded or fed to an animal, or wearing clothes that
might otherwise be transformed into rags or given
away. From an institutional perspective, it might
mean the management of waste streams not only for
present disposal but also for future use. For example,
some analysts of modern landfill operations advocate
the separation of waste to facilitate future extraction
through selective mining of deposits (Lave et al.
1999). Landfill management also can include the
planning for post-discard use when the facility is full,
such as conversion to wildlife habitat (e.g., Robinson
and Handel 1993). In ancient times the institutional
engagement with trash as cache included manuring
fields with urban discards including human waste
(Wilkinson 1982).

The purposeful engagement with the locus or objects
of trash does not always result from hardship or
deprivation. Trash as cache illustrates the way in
which humans creatively use discards and the discard
environment as part of important social processes.
Two related examples come from modern contexts in

Figure 2. Figure of Ganesha with
reused metal can.

Figure 3. Tying objects to a tree as a votive
activity, eastern India.

Figure 4. Tying objects to a
tree as a votive activity,
eastern India (close-up).

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India, where discarded items regularly become the focus of deliberate ritual activity. One
example is the use of recycled tin cans as a component of worship, where they are used to hold
incense and other ritual objects (Figure 2). The other example consists of what could be termed
votive trash in the form of objects tied to a tree as a talisman of luck and wish-making (Figures
3 and 4). In eastern India, items tied up around tree branches include strips of newspapers and
folded-up wrappers of snack food packages. The use of discarded, secular objects is not because
of the lack of new materials in this culture, but because the discards are close to hand, colorful,
and possess material qualities appropriate for tying (performance characteristics in the words
of Schiffer and Skibo [1997:30]). The focus of the event is the actual process of tying, after
which the person is meant to walk away from the scene leaving the tied object as a memento of
purposeful action.

Trash as Cachet

Trash also is a means by which people can demonstrate their social capital through the evidence
of consumption. Although we are accustomed to thinking of trash as unwanted detritus, its
accumulation can serve as an affirmation of the human presence. A modern example again
serves as the focal point of this observation. In India today as in many other countries, there is an
increasingly pervasive appearance of small-size plastic packets of biscuits and salty snacks. The
availability and consumption of these individually-sized portions validates C.K. Prahalads
(2005) observation of identity-making that occurs through the purchase of inexpensive items
resulting in an economic effect that he terms the fortune at the bottom of the pyramid.
Brightly-colored snack packets are prominently displayed at roadside stalls, and their presence as
litter is ubiquitous even in small villages far from the major supply lines of such commodities.
Although environmentally hazardous, this distribution of long-lasting trash around structures and
bylanes provides a demonstration of household wealth and acquisition autonomy.

Trash as cachet provides a durable signature of material culture engagement that can last much
longer than the original event of consumption. In cultures that do not remove trash from view,
discards serve as a steady, permanent signal of individual purchasing power and household
wealth. Trash as cachet governs both the outright discard of materials and the liminal stages of
abandonment and disuse. The ethnographic record provides examples of chiefs who keep
stockpiles of yams specifically to rot as a demonstration of wealth that is so abundant that goods
can be thrown away (Weiner 1994:392). But even at the level of the ordinary person, the
accumulation of discard is a way to affirm existence through the display of past prosperity that
yields social capital in the present. Trash is forever, especially in social contexts when the
durable record of consumption remains visible in front-yard middens and publicly-accessible
spaces.

In the archaeological record as well, trash has great longevity compared to the event that
generated the discards. Spectacular examples of the social meaning of discards can be seen in the
incremental deposits of waste materials in middens, particularly shell middens which represent
the rapid accumulation of discarded molluscs and other household waste. Shell middens are
found all over the world, and represent a deliberately piled-up collection of discards that
incrementally signal the groups size and longevity of place. Just like any other type of mound,
shell middens become invested with meaning and often serve as the locus of burials once the

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mound has begun to accumulate. Rather than viewing midden burials as simply part of the
general habits of discard, or as an easy place to dig a grave, the placement of burials in middens
and shell mounds signals a sanctifying of the dead that also enhances claims on land.

Trash also can signal the creation and expenditure of social capital when people deliberately
break objects as part of ritual or communal activities. Researchers in the Maya region note that
fragmentary objects such as potsherds are found in dedicatory caches or deep in caves, indicating
their enduring worth in the ritual sphere even when no longer serviceable as a utilitarian item
(e.g., Robin 2002:255; Hutson and Stanton 2007:138). Discarded and damaged objects also can
be the repository of memory through inheritance that links one generation with another. In an
insightful article entitled Forgetting your Dead, Brad Weiss (1997) describes an incident in
Tanzania in which a broken bicycle became an heirloom. Although economically useless, the
bicycle represented what he describes as an obligation to remember which...not only preserves
the legacy of prior generations, but actually projects itself forward in time (Weiss 1997:167,
emphasis in original).

Trash and Urbanism

The human propensity to turn cache into trash and back again is evident at every level, from
simple hunter-gatherer groups to complex societies in the form of chiefdoms and states. In urban
contexts starting around six thousand years ago, the trend towards trash as cache and trash as
cachet continued to be expressed, but in spaces characterized by higher population density. The
archaeological investigation of both ancient and modern cities reveals that when people live in
concentrated population centres there is an acceleration of production, distribution, and
consumption. As a result, cities have a lot of trash not only because there are more people but
also because there are more objects per capita.

Information from the long-term archaeological research project at the ancient city of Sisupalgarh,
India, can be used to investigate the patterns of identity formation that urban dwellers have
inherited from earlier phases of human social history. Sisupalgarh was occupied from the early
centuries BC to the early centuries AD, and was one of several dozen urban centers of this era in
the Indian subcontinent (Lal 1949; Mohanty and Smith 2008; Smith 2008). Its urban core is
surrounded by a rampart that covers more than one square kilometer of ancient habitations. The
site also contains other markers of long-term labor investment in monumental architecture in the
form of standing stone pillars and formal gateways. Research at the site in the past decade by our
team has included systematic surface survey, geophysical survey, and excavations to address
ordinary inhabitants activity patterns in the ancient city.

Sisupalgarhs 7-meter depositional history shows nearly a thousand years of occupation starting
in the mid-first millennium BC, with a significant economic shift evident about halfway through
the sites life. The first half of the occupation is characterized by a material assemblage that
includes high-fired, well-burnished pottery that often bears evidence of use-wear. These
carefully-curated vessels often also have evidence for post-firing graffiti that can be interpreted
as ownership marks. Subsequently there was a rapid transition to a markedly different material
culture assemblage: bricks and tiles appear for the first time, along with rapidly-made and low-
fired vessels in a variety of new forms. Vessels ceased to be slipped, and there is no evidence for

138 | P a g e

use-wear or ownership marks. In
addition to the use of clay for
making bricks, tiles, and vessels,
there is an abundance of terracotta
ornaments in the form of bangles,
rings, pendants and earspools.

Excavations of the upper phases of
household contexts at Sisupalgarh
reveal a truly striking quantity of
discarded objects including
complete and nearly complete
vessels (Figure 5). Smaller
fragments of pottery also are
abundant, and the bimodal
distribution of sherd size in and
around structures enabled us to
propose that the structures were
made of pis (puddled mud) that incorporated surrounding discards back into new structures.
Other types of recycling included the use of broken bricks as wall foundations and broken tiles as
flooring materials. Reuse was not limited to the domestic context: the sites monumental
encircling rampart was regularly augmented by successive layers of refuse-filled soil matrix, and
the area of ritual architecture in the center of the site included a substrate that incorporated a
large amount of crushed pottery as stabilizing material for the subsequent placement of
monolithic stone columns.

The active reuse of bricks, stones, tiles and pottery as building materials in both residential and
monumental areas of Sisupalgarh illustrates the use of trash as cache. Our excavation team
repeatedly uncovered small, casual piles of bricks and tiles between structures, which may be
interpreted as the stockpiles of future building material created by the ancient inhabitants of
Sisupalgarh. At the same time, the large amount of discarded materials ranging from vessels to
ornaments would have been easily and daily experienced by the inhabitants. The use of trash as
cachet enabled residents to advertise both their consumption capacity and fashion sense through
the visible display of domestic refuse and discarded ornaments.

In addition to the sheer amount of trash evident in the upper layers of the site, two particular
instances of archaeologically-recovered trash behavior illustrate how trash was not merely
detritus but was actively cognized as a component of daily life. The first example lay in an area
of residential architecture on the northern side of the site inside the rampart, where we excavated
for three seasons in a large horizontal and vertical exposure. One area had a consistently high
level of discarded materials including complete vessels as well as large quantities of sherds.
Under more than two meters of this accumulation, we encountered a deliberate emplacement of a
special-purpose type, consisting of a complete shed deer antler and several nestled cups. This
unusual, probably ritual, emplacement was highly unexpected given that the area was afterwards
almost immediately devoted to randomly-discarded items.

Figure 5. Trash deposits on exterior of structure at the
archaeological site of Sisupalgarh, India.

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Evidence from another area at Sisupalgarh similarly provided insights into the way in which
trash-related behavior was integrated with other types of symbolism. In an excavation area
outside of the rampart, we encountered three phases of activity whose depositional sequence
mirrored the long occupational history seen on the interior of the rampart. In this exterior zone in
both the first and the third phase, the area of investigation revealed large-scale dumping as
evidenced by the high density of pottery, the appearance of pits, and the distribution of
disarticulated architectural elements such as stone blocks. In the middle phase of occupation,
however, the area was marked by the appearance of round stone-lined features that have a special
affinity with Buddhist and Jain architecture (Ota 2007). The presence of non-domestic features
indicates that the area of investigation was cyclically transformed from an area of ordinary
domestic activity to one of special-purpose use, as signaled through the presence of trash.

Discussion

At Sisupalgarh, as at many other urban archaeological sites, the visible display of past prosperity
was evident in the passageways and courtyards that were part of the lived daily landscape. In this
and other ancient contexts, when trash was discarded around dwellings and remained visible long
after the consumption event, trash might have constituted a stronger statement of identity than
any other form of active material use. Trash requires daily deliberate actions on the part of the
community, not only those who discard items but also those who pick through it, walk around it,
trample it, move it, or ignore it.

The examples from Sisupalgarh suggest that the distinction between trash and non-trash in
ancient sites was much more complex and subtle than it is today. Our contemporary expectations
of trash disposal incorporate the expectation that discards should remain out of sight and out of
mind. However, the deliberate handling of trash as a validating event, and the incorporation of
discards as a component of ritual activity, facilitates the analysis of trash as a dynamic
component of human-material interactions in both the past and the present.

In turning to the present day, the implications for trash behavior as a component of identity
formation provides important insights into human behavior in dense populations. Human
cognitive attachment to material culture favors the continued use of objects as referents and
social symbols, resulting in the retention of trash as long as possible. We can analyze this
phenomenon in terms of the component parts of the current mantra reduce-reuse-recycle. The
exhortation to reduce is not particularly effective, and the suggestion that people should reuse is
only marginally more appealing. By contrast, the encouragement to recycle plays directly into
the human cognitive propensity to signal identity through discard: not only do we get to hold on
to our trash longer while searching for a place to recycle it, but there is now a whole new
repertoire of consumables, ranging from recycling bins to the products made from recycled
materials.

Conclusion

The simple act of discard--its timing, frequency, and location--is a matter of individual autonomy
within a cultural context that is itself actively maintained or modified in each act of throwing

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away. For more than a million years, human interactions with material culture have resulted in
the retention of trash in full public view. The effectiveness of trash as a social and economic
marker comes from its potential to buffer economic fluctuations on both the individual and group
level, and its ability to signal wealth through accumulation.

Acknowledgments. I would like to express my great appreciation to my colleague Dr. R.K.
Mohanty of Indias Deccan College for codirecting the excavations at Sisupalgarh, and to the
many students and colleagues who have contributed to the research project. I also would like to
express my thanks to the organizing committee for inviting me to the 42nd Chacmool
Conference in November 2009. Funding for the Sisupalgarh project has been provided by the
National Science Foundation; the National Geographic Society; the Ahmanson Foundation; and
the Academic Senate, the Department of Anthropology and the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology,
University of California, Los Angeles.

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2007 Evidence of a Stupa at Sisupalgarh, Orissa: Re-Interpreting Earlier Excavation Data. Man
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Does Ethnicity Matter in Colonial Relations? The
Case of South Italy

Edward Herring
College of Arts, Social Sciences, and Celtic Studies. National University of Ireland, Galway.
Email: edward.herring@nuigalway.ie

ABSTRACT. Until recently, almost every study of South Italy in the colonial period framed its
discussions of local power relations in ethnic terms, i.e. that there was a basic division between
Greek and indigenous peoples. This distinction is just as prevalent in the middle ground
approaches of recent work informed by post-colonial theory, as it is in the older, and now largely
abandoned, imperialist paradigm, which talked of the hellenization of native groups. Only in
the last couple of years, has the relevance of ethnicity been questioned. This paper revisits the
evidence for the period from the first arrival of Greeks down to the fourth century BC. It argues
for a subtle and shifting attitude towards ethnic affiliation and conflict, which changes over time
and in the light of local circumstances. Nevertheless, it maintains that ethnic affiliation was one
of the many factors that could affect inter-group relations.

Although defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as the fact or state of belonging to a social
group that has a common national or cultural tradition, in everyday speech, ethnicity is often
synonymous with racial identity. In scholarship, ethnicity is often contrasted with culture. Thus,
ethnicity is that part of community identity derived from genealogy whereas culture is dependent
on traditions, customs, values, and practices. Typically identity involves interplay between the
two, though the degree of emphasis placed on either factor may vary. If we take a modern
example, the German nationality law was only reformed in 1999 to move away, to a limited
extent, from the Jus sanguinis principle derived from the Prussian legal system, yet being
German is more than just a matter of descent as it involves commonalities of language, lifestyle,
heritage, and values.

Ethnicity is used here as a shorthand for community identity. Implicit within this is the notion
that members of a group subscribing to a shared identity would have recognized a common
ancestry and cultural heritage. I am not concerned with whether blood or culture was paramount.
Rather my focus is on whether the differences between incoming (i.e. colonial) Greek
populations and native South Italian communities were significant in driving human behavior.

To provide some background to the present case study: some time during the eighth century BC
groups of Greeks began to settle in various locations in Southern Italy, mostly focusing on the
Campanian coast in the South West and the Ionian Gulf or the instep. The process of settlement
continued during the seventh century and, to a lesser extent into the sixth. The traditional
motivations put forward by scholars to explain what is termed Greek colonization are land
hunger, arising from overpopulation, and/or commercial enterprise (Osborne 1998:251). There
is no contemporary account of the early settlement of South Italy, which is not surprising as our
sources for the Archaic period are generally quite sketchy. There are, however, numerous

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references in later historical and literary sources, which purport to give us information on the
foundation of some of the colonies (Crawford and Whitehead 1983:62-65). These document
what appears to be a formal process led by a mother-city, which provided settlers and other start-
up resources. The new settlements were established from the outset as independent Greek
communities. It is possible to establish foundation dates for some of the Greek cities from the
historical sources. However, archaeological evidence indicates that colonization was less of a
state-led enterprise and by no means as formal or as exclusively Greek as the historical narratives
suggest (Herring 2008; Osborne 1998). During the initial phases of Greek settlement in South
Italy, which are often earlier than the foundation dates gleaned from the ancient sources, the
newcomers from the Eastern Mediterranean seem to have lived alongside native people from
South Italy, who in Classical Greek thought would have been deemed barbarians (Hall 2002).
Later on communities seem to show less evidence for ethnic mixing. The sources consistently
treat the two communities as discrete entities, the Greek cities and the native tribes (Herring
2007a:270-278).

Another issue that is worth rehearsing at this stage is wherein community identity resided for the
populations of South Italy. For Classical Greeks the primary locus of community identity was the
individual polis or city-state. The Greeks did recognize their shared heritage, for instance at the
great panhellenic festivals and in Homers account of the expedition to Troy, but the polis always
came first. Every polis relied on the notion of a common descent, even if it was fictive.

It is more difficult to recognize wherein community identity resided among the native
populations, assuming that the concept held any significance for them. There are artifacts that
show discrete regional patterning, most famously the Matt-Painted geometric pottery (De Juliis
1977, 1995; De Juliis et al. 2005; Fedder 1976; Mayer 1914; Small 1971; Yntema 1985).
Traditionally, regional pottery styles were seen as the material culture of the ethnic groups
mentioned by Greek and Roman writers. At times preconceptions about an ethnically-based
political geography may have shaped the interpretation of ceramic typology (Herring
2007a:272). The more fundamental point is that archaeological interpretation no longer allows us
to make a straight equation between ceramic styles and political entities derived from a separate
and externally-derived source tradition. This outsiders view recognizes various tribes among the
native population. Although individual places are mentioned, they are usually described as an
Iapygian town, or a Daunian city (e.g. the reference to Lucera in Strabo 6.3.9). This suggests
that group identity was most significant at the regional level. However, none of the tribal names,
which are preserved, is attested among the inscriptions deriving from the native populations
themselves. Where self-attributions exist, and they are generally fairly late, they document the
names of individual sites. Thus, native identity may not have been dissimilar from Greek in that
it privileged the local, but may have also respected some wider over-arching structure.

Identity can be predominantly aggregative, i.e. constructed around the factors that unite people.
Alternatively groups can define themselves by contrast with others. This is referred to as
contrastive identity. Many scholars have argued that the Persian invasions of the early fifth
century mark a watershed in the development of a contrastive sense of identity among the Greeks
(e.g., Hall 2000), as they came to see barbarians not only as different but also lesser. Thus, it is
argued that prior to the victories against the Persians, Greek identity was primarily aggregative,
but afterwards the Athenian sense of superiority was exported and internalized by the wider

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Hellenic world. An important question for scholars of Magna Graecia, where Greeks lived in
close proximity to native populations from the eighth century BC onwards, is whether the same
trajectory was followed for the development of colonial identity. However, such a question is
only pertinent if ethnicity mattered.

Recently, Nicholas Purcell (2005) has questioned whether ethnicity was a significant factor in
colonial relations and indeed whether the scholarly emphasis on colonization is justified. He
prefers to focus instead on long-term patterns of economic production and redistribution. What
matters, according to his view, is that elites dominated economic resources and production; the
origins of these elites are not significant. In other words, he would see the long-term history of
South Italy and the central Mediterranean as being dominated not by ethnic encounter and
tension, but by the exploitation of resources, including people, by elite groups.

It would be very easy in the context of a conference on archaeology and social identity to dismiss
Purcells argument as a counter-cyclical response to the fashionableness of the study of ethnicity
since the early 1990s. However, this would fail to do justice to the challenge that he has laid
down.

If we turn to how the history of South Italy has been written, it becomes evident that every shade
on the interpretive spectrum would be affected, if not invalidated, by undermining the
importance of ethnicity. At one end of the spectrum we might take Hellenization as the most
traditional of models (Boardman 1999:190200; Dunbabin 1941; Owen 2005:13), as it assumes
the passive acculturation of the native population. If ethnic difference is not seen as significant, it
becomes hard to argue for a unidirectional cultural drift unless one cultures artifacts were
functionally superior. If we go to the other end of the spectrum and the middle ground theories
found in post-colonial scholarship (Antonaccio 2001; Malkin 2002; Owen 2005:17), the
interpretive models are equally fragile. Middle ground theories operate according to the notion
that in the space where cultures meet, cultural forms mingle and new hybrid forms will emerge.
All such models are predicated on cultural distance and difference, on interplay and change. If
ethnicity does not matter, the interpretive models applied to South Italy simply do not stand up.

The Evidence from South Italy

I shall now survey the evidence for cultural interaction and ethnic relations in South Italy from
the first arrival of the Greeks until the Roman conquest, giving a sense of how relations for each
period are characterized in modern scholarship (Figure 1).

Regular contact between South Italy and the Aegean was re-established by the later ninth century
BC. There is a good deal of evidence for the presence of Greeks in South Italy prior to the
traditional foundation dates of the historically documented colonies. This early contact was
once seen as problematic as it contradicted the ancient historical narrative. The phenomenon
came to be known as the pre-colonial phase, and was compared to Britains early forays into
India and the Far East, invoking the analogy of trade before the flag. More recent scholarship
has come to regard the foundation stories not as a meaningful historical narrative but as charter
myths for the poleis that developed in later periods (Osborne 1998). Thus, the pre-colonial period
is no longer seen as a separate era but simply the first phase of Greek residence in South Italy.

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Figure 1. Map showing some of the principal ancient sites in South Italy.

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In a number of cases, Greek and native people lived together at sites that were later part of
colonial territories. This has been argued for Kaulonia, Pithekoussai, Incoronata near
Metapontum, Siris, Lagaria near Sybaris, and Torre Saturo near Tarentum (Herring 2008:116
122). The exact relationship between the populations is unclear but it would be unwise to
presuppose Greek dominance simply because of the self-ascribed ethnicity of the people in these
areas in later times. It might be argued that natives filled gaps that were absent from the settler
population. Such gaps might be skills-related, i.e. certain types of artisans, or a result of the
absence of certain groups, such as women of child-bearing age. Whatever the power dynamics
between groups, the visibility and likely size of the native component suggests that ethnic
difference was not a major issue. Moreover, if many of the natives were women, it would
suggest that the off-spring of mixed marriages were not deemed to be of lower social status.
This accords with what we know of attitudes to citizenship in the Greek mainland in the Archaic
period; even in Classical times citizen status was usually inherited down the male line. Thus, it
can be argued that ethnicity did not matter in the pre-colonial phase. Western Greek identity may
have been either aggregative or simply not well developed.

By the colonial period, the situation appears to have changed. There no longer seems to be such a
significant native population at Greek sites. There are various ways in which this change can be
interpreted:
1) the native component had been driven out;
2) the native component had been completely assimilated into the Greek community,
at least in terms of what survives archaeologically;
3) the community adopted a Greek identity. As the community developed so the
notion of common descent from a Greek ancestor was increasingly accepted.

The first possibility would imply a change from integration to hostility. There is little direct
evidence for groups being driven out, but it is hard to imagine what such evidence would look
like if it were to survive.

The second option could imply either that the native community did not renew itself or that there
was restricted access to native artifacts. If the community was not renewing itself, this might
suggest hostility. Reduced access to native goods might also signal tension. Furthermore, if the
offspring of mixed marriages were subscribing to a Greek identity, this could suggest that being
of native origin was now seen as inferior.

The third possibility seems to involve a positive selection of a Greek identity. Although this
might imply or ultimately engender hostility towards the natives, it is possible to conceive how
such a selection could have emerged without it. If we imagine the settlement growing by
continued migration from the Aegean, the ethnic balance of the community may have shifted to
the point at which a clear majority of the population was of Greek origin. In such circumstances,
those of mixed origin may have felt it desirable to stress their Greek heritage, whether because of
animosity towards the natives or the desire to conform. This may have been encouraged by male
domination of society, if most of the original native residents were the wives of Greek men.

Whatever the cause, there seems to be a shift in attitude once we get to the colonial phase.
However, the chronological interplay between the historical narrative and the archaeological

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record makes dating the change difficult.

When we consider written sources, the colonial period marks a watershed. Writers have little to
say about pre-colonial times. Indeed, had they dealt with the earliest phase of Greek settlement,
the distinction between the precolonial and colonial periods would never have been required.
As it is, the historical narratives deal with colonization as a formal and entirely Greek enterprise
(Crawford and Whitehead 1983:5265) translate a good selection of the ancient sources on
colonization and provide a useful introduction to the subject). Modern scholarship recognizes
that these narratives have more to do with identity construction than the realities of life in the
eighth and seventh centuries BC. It is not known when the foundation stories first achieved
currency, but by the time that they are written down in the form that survives, the separation
between different population groups was complete.

From the point of view of the Greeks, the change in attitude could be evidence of a more
contrastive attitude to identity than existed on the mainland at this stage. John-Paul Wilson
(2000:33) has argued that the greater level of interaction that characterized colonial settings
encouraged an awareness of difference. The historical sources lend tentative support to the idea
that a more oppositional attitude had developed by the colonial period, but we must be mindful
that our surviving texts post-date the Persian Wars and, therefore, the hardening of attitudes
towards barbarians in mainstream Greek thought.

Comparatively few Greek imports reached native communities in the seventh and earlier sixth
centuries. Moreover, there are only a few instances where scholars have suggested that Greeks
were residing in native communities; and often these suggestions do not stand up well to scrutiny
(Herring 2008). In some of my earliest work on South Italy, I suggested that the greater
divergence between the different regional styles of Matt-Painted pottery that is witnessed
especially from the late eighth/early seventh century may be indicative of a growing awareness
of ethnicity on the part of the natives (Herring 1998:158268). Thus, it is possible to argue that
attitudes were hardening on both sides, but the evidence is far from conclusive.

In the period between the later sixth century and the Roman conquest in the early third century, it
becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate between populations in the archaeological record
because of changes in burial customs, greater numbers of Greek artifacts reaching native sites,
and the spread of ideas and technologies.

This period witnesses a significant increase in the amount of trade between the two communities,
suggesting a greater level of contact than before. The quantity of imported goods found in native
tombs may also indicate a deeper engagement with or appropriation of elements of Greek culture
by some sections of the native community, especially the elite. Although trade is not necessarily
dependent on good relations, outright hostility is likely to be disruptive. Thus, the evidence for
increased trade might suggest that ethnic difference was not especially important. However,
notwithstanding the aforementioned proviso about the increased difficulties in identifying
different population groups, there are few clear-cut instances of co-habitation in this period that
can be documented archaeologically. This does not prove that ethnicity mattered but, given the
separation of the populations argued for the previous period, it may have.


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Trade would have required face-to-face contact between individuals of different origins. The
mechanism by which trade was conducted may be significant here. More than two decades ago,
Whitehouse and Wilkins (1989) suggested that trade was conducted at sanctuaries. They argued
that sites, such as Egnazia (Gnathia), Leuca, Oria, Porto Cesareo and Rocavecchia in Puglia, and
Armento, Garaguso, Timmari and Vaglio in Basilicata, served as gateway communities or ports-
of-trade, where trade could be conducted safely on neutral territory, under the protection of the
deity. This hypothesis allows for the possibility of face-to-face trade without the need for
permanent residency by Greeks among the natives or vice versa. If correct, this would suggest a
certain distance, if not distrust, between the populations.

There is evidence that ethnic expression remained important for native people. On both tomb-
paintings and South Italian red-figure vase-paintings, mostly dating to the fourth century BC,
they are depicted in distinctive costumes, which set them apart from the Greeks (Schenider-
Herrmann 1996; Trendall 1971) (Figure 2). This material was produced for the grave and may
involve a good deal of idealization. Nevertheless, it suggests that ethnicity was important in the
funerary context.

In addition, there is the use of the trozzella in the fourth and fifth century tombs of the Salento
peninsula. Although by this stage most of the ceramics offered in native tombs consisted of
Greek and Greek-style wares, virtually every adult grave contained one trozzella, a traditional

Figure 2. Apulian red-figured column-krater (BM 297) attributed to the Wolfenbttel
Painter. Photograph courtesy of the British Museum. The British Museum.

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vase form which was decorated in a style that had ceased to be used for domestic wares. I have
argued elsewhere (Herring 1995) that this was a conscious or emblemic use of material culture to
advert to native identity.

Ancient writers also provide information about this period, though it is mostly focused on war.
For instance, Herodotus (7.170) tells of a native (Messapian Iapygian) victory in 473 BC against
the Tarentines and the allies from Rhegium, describing it as the worst slaughter in Greek history.
Here the lines of conflict follow the Greek/barbarian divide. Later Thucydides (7.33) reveals that
a Messapian leader gave support to the Athenians during the Peloponnesian War. What lay
behind the Peloponnesian War narrative was local politics. Athens was at war with Sparta, the
mother-city of Tarentum, which was allied to its metropolis. By joining the Athenians, the
Messapians were siding with their enemys enemy. The ethnic dimension, though less obvious, is
not entirely removed.

In the fourth century we often find Graeco-native alliances working against other Greek or native
communities. A typical example would be Diodorus Siculus account (14.102.1) of how the
Lucanians from Southwest Italy joined the Syracusan expedition against Thurii in 390 BC.
Therefore, we should not overstate the importance of ethnic difference as a driver of political
policy. Nevertheless, the historical narrative is often written with ethnic tension in mind.
However, this is no simple matter of seeing the Greeks as honorable and the barbarians as
savage. A good example is provided by Athenaeus citing Book 4 of Clearchus Lives (ap. Athen.
12.522d). We are told that following the Tarentine sack of Carbina, the victors gathered the
women and children of the town inside their temples, stripped them and raped them. Although in
keeping with an established tradition of enmity towards the Iapygians, the behavior of the
Tarentines would have been regarded as deeply sacrilegious by any right-thinking Greek.

There are some instances where the ethnic dimension of conflict is explicitly stressed in the
historical tradition. The best examples can be found in the texts that deal with events in the later
fifth century Campania, when a number of Greek cities came under pressure from native tribes.
Aristoxenos of Tarentum, cited in Athenaeus (14.632), paints a bleak picture of life for those
Greeks who remained at Paestum after the native conquest. The passage seems to imply a
wholesale suppression of Greek culture. The point is not that the account is accurate (Herring
2007b:1115) but rather that it stresses ethnic hostility.

The case of Naples is even more revealing. Strabo (5.4.7) tells us that the Neapolitans voluntarily
admitted some of the Campani to the citizenship. He states that this happened after some internal
conflict but his tone is far from supportive of the decision. The translation does not do full justice
to his animus.

... But at a still later time, as a result of a dissension, they admitted some of the
Campani as fellow-inhabitants, and thus they were forced to treat their worst
enemies as their best friends, now that they had alienated their proper friends. This
is disclosed by the names of their demarchs, for the earliest names are Greek only,
whereas the later are Greek mixed with Campanian. And very many traces of Greek
culture are preserved there - gymnasia, ephebeia, phratriae, and Greek names of

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things, although the people are Romans. (Strabo 5.4.7. Translated by H. L. Jones;
Loeb Translation).

The passage is notable for its implication that there was a significant resident alien population
living in the city. Presumably those who were admitted to the citizenship were free men. To
judge from Strabos comment on the demarchy, in time some were able to achieve a degree of
social status. This suggests a high level of interaction and integration, which is backed up by
epigraphic evidence from the tomb of the Epilytos family, which commemorates several
generations of one family with alternating Greek and Oscan names (Leiwo 1994:61-65). Despite
this mixing of the populations, as Strabo rightly records, the core identity of the city remained
Greek well into Roman times (Lomas 1999). This is an indication of how identity is as much a
construction as a reality.

In the period leading up to the conquest of the region, Rome becomes a player in South Italian
politics. In the sources, the Romans are represented as another ethnically separate population
group. After the conquest, Rome had to interact with the different populations, though it dealt
with cities on an individual basis. Thus, Naples was favored for its loyalty, allowing its identity
to be celebrated. By contrast, Tarentum, which had led resistance to Rome, was denigrated for
displaying what to the Romans were all the worst characteristics of the Greeks.

Over time, ethnic differences were flattened by population shifts and the extension of Roman
citizenship rights. A similar pattern can be witnessed across peninsular Italy, but traditional
identities died hard though it was essential that local affiliations were expressed as a subsidiary
to ones Romanitas (cf. Cic. Leg. 2.2.5).

Conclusion Does Ethnicity Matter?

To return to the question posed in the title: ultimately the answer depends upon ones point-of-
view. If a very long-term view of the production and exploitation of resources is taken,
colonization and its concomitant impact on ethnic relations are little more than footnotes in
history. Settlement overseas, and the access to new resources that it afforded, was simply another
elite strategy for control. The fact that there was some shifting of elites from one region to
another scarcely mattered.

However, it is relevant to remember that Greeks lived in independent settlements in South Italy
in close proximity to native communities for more than half a millennium. If we concentrate on
that period, and obviously there is a sense that to do so is self-fulfilling, then ethnic difference
does seem significant. Certainly the ancients seemed to think so. From the earliest references up
until the texts written under the Roman Empire, Greek sources consistently characterize relations
in ethnic terms. The natives are always barbarians (e.g. the passages by Athenaeus (14.632) and
Strabo (5.4.7) discussed earlier are prime examples).

Purcells (2005:130135) response might be that just because ancient sources privilege certain
issues, does not mean that we should. It is a valid line of thinking. However, I cannot help
feeling that if ancient people saw ethnicity as important then it would have affected their
behavior, at least some of the time. Moreover, there is solid archaeological evidence that ethnic

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difference was marked on the native side, both in terms of costume and certain burial practices.

I shall present one final example to emphasize this point. As already stated, the foundation
stories of the Greek colonies are no longer seen as straightforward history, but rather as
belonging to the realm of ideology and identity construction. Generally the stories are about
establishing a coherent and singular identity for the new community, legitimizing the enterprise
and the right to the land settled, and confirming a citys Greek credentials in the eyes of the
wider Hellenic community by formally recognizing the link to a mother-city. A number of the
stories contain reference to the consultation of the Delphic oracle by the mother-city prior to the
sending of colonists. This is the ideal legitimization of the enterprise, for what could be better
than divine sanction. One version of the Tarentine foundation story is particularly revealing as it
purports to preserve the oracles response. Diodorus Siculus (8.21) tells how the Spartans had
originally asked for the right to settle in Sicyonian territory. The Pythia replied:

Fair is the plain twixt Corinth and Sicyon;
But not a home for thee, though thou wert clad
Throughout in bronze. Mark thou Satyrion
And Taras gleaming flood, the harbour on
The left, and where the goat catches with joy
The salt smell of the sea, wetting the tip
Of his gray beard. There build thou Taras firm
Within Satyrions land.
When they heard this they could not understand it; whereupon the priestess spoke more
plainly:
Satyrion is my gift to thee wherein
To dwell, and the fat land of Taras too,
A bane to be to the Iapygian folk.
[Diodorus Siculus 8.21. Translated by C. H. Oldfather; Loeb translation].

Here the oracle not only gives divine sanction to the colonial enterprise and appropriation of
territory, but also to animosity towards the local population. Accepting that this is not historically
accurate, it is noteworthy that at some point hostility towards a particular population group
became part of Tarentine identity: not only did they have the right to settle in the harbor, but they
were supposed to make life uncomfortable for their neighbors. To me, it is inconceivable to argue
that ethnicity did not matter when it had been internalized as an element of identity to this extent.
Unfortunately, we do not know exactly when this element crystallized in the Tarentine
foundation story, though it is tempting to think that it may have been around the time of the great
conflict in the early fifth century BC mentioned by Herodotus. Strabo (6.3.2) records the same
basic story with the last two lines of priestess remarks quoted in almost identical language. He
cites the later fifth century Syracusan historian, Antiochus as his source.

Even if it were only the Greeks who felt that ethnic difference was important, this would, at
times, have affected their behavior. Thus, it would have had an impact on politics and, therefore,
on the lived experience of the peoples of South Italy.
It would be wrong to overemphasize ethnicity, however. Ethnicity is only one dimension of
identity. Other elements like age, gender, occupation, social status, and wealth cross-cut it, and

153 | P a g e

may often have been deemed more significant. Furthermore, realpolitik often means that groups
and individuals do business with unexpected partners. The archaeological record shows that
Greeks and natives often interacted in friendly ways; intermarriage and other social connections
must have existed. In such contexts, ethnic differences may have been overlooked or not
stressed. At other times, when interaction was more conflicted, ethnicity would have been one
way to heighten the sense of difference from ones enemy. Not only would the significance of
ethnic difference vary according to circumstance, but also different groups within society might
feel friendlier towards foreigners than others. For example, Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Ant.
Rom. 15.6.5), when talking about Naples brief flirtation with an anti-Roman position in 327-6,
reveals how some in Neapolitan senate supported Rome, while others were pro-Samnite.

Moreover, the importance of ethnic difference as a factor in political relations probably changed
over time. In general terms, it would seem to have become more important later on. This may
have been in part a consequence of increased political and economic rivalry, but it may also have
been fed by the development of a more oppositional sense of identity on the Greek mainland
from the fifth century onwards. From our survey of the data, we can suggest that ethnicity was
not a particularly significant factor in early relations between the incoming and native
populations. Later on the situation changed, especially in the fifth and fourth centuries. It is
tempting to think that the shift in attitude came about as the settler communities grew and
established for themselves a distinctive and exclusively Greek identity. Broadly speaking this
may coincide with the colonial period, but I am not seeking to rehabilitate the colonization
narratives as history. Instead of assuming any precise correlation in date, it is probably safer to
think that this change probably occurred sometime during the course of the Archaic period; we
may note, for example, the destruction of the native settlement at Cozzo Presepe in the late sixth
century BC as the chora of Metapontum was re-defined (Ward-Perkins et al. 1977). If the general
suggestion is valid, the western Greeks may have developed a more contrastive sense of identity
earlier than mainland Greece.

By the fifth and fourth centuries a clear picture of ethnic hostility can be drawn. This is the image
that dominates our surviving historical sources, but it may not be a full or wholly accurate
representation of the complexity of relations between different cities and communities.
Ultimately, ethnicity did matter in South Italy, but only when those living there wanted it to.

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Theatres of Memory: Second Life and the Cyber
Identity of the Middle Ages.

Megan Meredith-Lobay
Oxford e-Research Centre, University of Oxford, Wellington Square, Oxford, OX1 2JD, United
Kingdom (megan.meredith-lobay@ualberta.ca)

ABSTRACT. This paper explores how the Middle Ages are created and recreated in the
virtual online community of Second Life. Regions that identify themselves as Medieval within
Second Life are explored as Theatres of Memory, places where memory and identity are staged
and recreated in dramatic ways. The paper presents three ways in which Medieval identities are
created in Second Life: landscapes, objects, and activities. Each of these elements plays out
dramatically in Second Life, but ultimately creates a very narrow interpretation of Medieval in
virtual reality.

I. Using Technology to Create Identity

This paper explores the themes of technology and identity in a rather different way by examining
how identities are created within virtual online communities, specifically Second Life, through
the reinterpretation of the Middle Ages. This examination of the cyber identity of the Middle
Ages will, I hope, enlighten us a little bit about how modern people are utilizing technology to
engage with the past in a meaningful way. The explosion in recent years of new media in
museums and heritage environments, even with the proliferation of historically based games,
means that archaeologists, anthropologists, and other heritage professionals must now apply
theories and methodologies into studying dialogue between the public and the virtual past.
This paper aims to take-part in that dialogue by examining how social memories of the Middle
Ages act as a form of material culture created and recreated within virtual worlds by people who
wish to identify themselves with the Medieval past. Virtual communities which have self-
identified as being Medieval will be examined to understand better how their identities are
created and maintained. Using the framework of Samuels Theatres of Memory, I will examine
virtual Medieval communities in the online world of Second Life, describing how a Medieval
identity is created though sense of place or landscape, objects, and actions (Samuel 1994).
Communities are split into three broad categories depending upon their general purpose;
educational, business oriented, and Role Play or Fantasy. The different ways in which these
categories of community engage with and use the past can speak volumes about how their
creators and users engage with social memories of the middle ages.

II. Theatres of Memory: Second Life, archaeology, and memory

Raphael Samuel describes History as the work of a thousand different hands (Samuel 1994:8).
Bill Gale furthers this definition as an organic form of knowledge and one whose sources are
promiscuous, drawing not only on real-life experiences but also memory and myth, fantasy and
desire (Gale 1996:289). Bill Gale also describes the Theatre of Memory, Samuel's type of social

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history, as a place where the dramatic staging and presentation of memory takes place (Gale
1996:289). Second Life (SL), and indeed any virtual world from the Sims to Avatar, can be said
to perfectly embody everything Samuel attributes to history; memory, myths, fantasies, and
desires not possible to experience within real life and imbued with a drama that can only be
attainable virtually by helping looking at the Middle Ages within SL as Samuels type of
historical narrative we can learn how the dramatic staging and presentation of memory can
come together to define the identity of The Middle Ages.

Second Life is an online virtual community developed by Linden Labs and which went online in
2003 (Harrison 2009). The site allows users to become entirely immersed in the 3D virtual world
by creating virtual likenesses of themselves, an avatar, which can interact with other avatars
through various forms of computer mediated communication, instant messaging and the like. The
site is organised around a series of islands, each with its own communities, or regions, which can
be either public or private. Regions on islands are identified by their name and by a three digit
x,y,z, coordinate system knows as a SLurl (Harrison 2009:86)
1
. There is an economy in Second
Life which mirrors our own; users can buy Linden Dollars which can then be used to purchase
goods and services in the virtual world. The virtual communities in Second Life contain many
different regions which can be styled in any way the creator wants using relatively easy 3D
building techniques or by purchasing ready-made buildings, and furnishings.

Increasing amounts of work has been done on virtual heritage within museum settings and
heritage tourism as well with Second Life (Deshpande et al. 2007). The International Council on
Museums took as one of its themes for Museum Day 2008 Second Life and the intangible
heritage of the digital world and its implications for RL heritage (Forest 2008, ICOM 2008).
Rodney Harrison has also recently explored the importance of studying online virtual
communities by archaeologists in a 2009 paper in the Journal of Material culture that looks
specifically at heritage sites within Second Life itself (Harrison 2009). Harrison explores some
very interesting issues of digital heritage and how its uses and manipulations are similar within a
virtual world to the real world. Shawn Graham (2007) has also looked briefly at the potential for
archaeological teaching and training within the virtual community. Both of these authors
concede that there is much to be gained by studying virtual communities as any archaeologist or
anthropologist would study real life communities. The increasing use of digital space for the
creation of new material culture, art, clothing, tools and architecture of SL itself, represents a
whole new way of studying the interaction between people and their material worlds, albeit in a
virtual way, yet, as both Graham and Harrison discuss, the creation of virtual objects creates a
new set of issues surrounding intellectual property rights.

III. Medieval Identities

I have gone into this study with an archaeological understanding of the material culture of the
Medieval period in Europe, broadly defined as the millennium after the end of the Roman
Empire. However, I want to see how Medieval defines itself and is defined by virtual
communities in Second Life. How is Medieval created, maintained, and identified with in the
digital environment? Rather than focusing upon the people who create these worlds, I want to
focus here on the worlds themselves, on the material remains and identity of the virtual
Medieval. Sites, which self-identify as Medievally oriented can be broken into three broad

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categories within SL: heritage or educationally oriented sites, role-play and fantasy sites, and
business oriented sites. Within each region I will look at the three factors that help to shape the
Medieval identity of the region: sense of place, objects and activities. First, sense of place,
describes the region itself, the distinguishing details of landscape and architecture. Second is the
smaller objects, artifacts if you will, that define Medieval. Finally, I will look at how Medieval
identities are created and recreated through the activities that take place in Medieval regions. All
these factors together define the identity of a particular region and demonstrate the different
ways in which memories of the past create modern interpretations of that past.

A. Educational or Heritage Regions
The first broad category of Medieval region is the educational or historically oriented region.
These regions are defined by their dedication to accepted historical accuracy, and are based upon
specific historical time periods. They are designed to give the visitor a feel for life in a Viking
village, or Shakespeare's London, or even the Renaissance. The historical detail involved in
each of these regions means that the landscapes you encounter when teleported are all very
different. The virtual Mont Saint-Michel (Mont_Saint_Michel/76/28/21 ) is near perfect in its
detailed rendering of the site and the Vikings are well represented by both the Birka Viking Port
(Moonfall/33/77/21/) and the Viking Centre in Wonderful Denmark
(Wonderful_Denmark/124/132/22/).Shakespeares London is a beautiful recreation of an ideal

sixteenth century London (Shakespeare/157/103/46).

Though the
creators of these
regions have put
much effort into
creating them to
be as historically
accurate as
possible given the
constraints of the
software, they are
all somewhat
static. Visiting the
virtual Mont
Saint-Michel may
possibly be
cheaper than
visiting the real thing, but it offers no different view of the site as one would gain from actually
visiting the site. It even has a carefully rendered carpark outside its walls (Figure 1), tourist signs
indicating your direction of travel (Figure 2), and sections cordoned off from visitors. Though
immersive, it is little more than a virtual tour and offers no real way for the visitor to become
part of the Medieval world of Mont Saint-Michel.

Figure 1. Mont Saint-Michel from the carpark.

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The Touch Balls
at the Viking
Centre in
Wonderful
Denmark, a
lovely recreation
of a Viking
village, allow you
to summon a
Viking for a short
period of time
who will engage
in some kind of
period activity,
but you cannot
participate
yourself (Figure
3). The figures
resemble robots at
Disney World
carrying out
activities that are
explained on
billboards
throughout the
region.

The objects and
material culture
within the
educational
regions are, again,
very accurate in
their overall
appearance.
Within the Viking Centre, exact replicas of many everyday Viking tools have been rendered in
3D and placed around the village as museum object might be. Similarly, though outside of our
particular timeframe, the celebrated Okapi Island, a reconstruction of atal Hyk, recreates the
site in detail with replicas of artifacts placed in context within the houses (Okapi/128.128.0).
Though you are able to pick up some of these artifacts, you are not actively encouraged by the
creators of the region to use them in any kind of activity that actively recreates a Medieval
experience.

The activities you are encouraged to take part in within educational Medieval regions are usually
limited to simply walking around and observing. The Birka Viking Port offers some shopping
opportunities, but these regions distinguish themselves from Medieval role-playing regions,

Figure 2. Mont Saint-Michel tourist information board.

Figure 3. Viking Centre Touch Balls instructions.

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which I will discuss later, by discouraging Medieval behaviours such as sword fighting. The
Riverwalk Medieval Renaissance Island invites the visitor to dress in Medieval garb by
providing free virtual clothing, but there is little else in the way of immersive Medieval activities
(Renaissance Island/33.78.27).

Historical/Educational regions, while amazingly accurate and well rendered, offer little in the
way of interactivity that is meant to be an advantage of the whole Second Life experience. What
they do is recreate Medievalness or Vikingness in its most proper sense, adhering to the
dominant narrative of academic history regarding the particular period. These regions are
rendered in exacting historical detail, but there is an invisible barrier between you and the region.
These sites are there for the purpose of learning about the past in a controlled way that is dictated
by the developers of the region. You are not actively encouraged to develop a Medieval identity,
rather the impression one gets is of being in an historical theme park where others are re-enacting
history, but you are not encouraged to participate beyond simply asking questions of the actors.

B. Role Play or Fantasy Regions
In contrast, Fantasy and Role
Playing regions which are
developed by outsiders and
those people not overtly
interested in the educational
potential of Second Life almost
invariably invite the user to
participate in the Medieval
memory as though they were
actually in the Middle Ages, it is
in fact a requirement within
many regions. The Role playing
regions have a number of
characteristics that are fairly
consistent across SL:
requirements for dress and
speech, a stock Medieval look,
and elements of literary narrative
coupled with the historical
patina.

The fantasy and role playing
regions in SL tend to look very
similar (see Figures 4, 5, and 6 as
three examples of different
Medievally tagged regions
developed by different real life
countries). The overall look is
one of a generic later Medieval half-timbered village, though with the inclusion of a good many
future-anachronistic elements. The Medieval look employed by many of these regions seems to

Figure 4. Medieval German role play village.

Figure 5. Medieval Brazilian role play village.

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be an indicator to the visitor that a Medieval past is being evoked and you are to act accordingly
within the region.

Acting accordingly within
the fantasy role-play
regions often means taking
on a Dungeons and
Dragons Role Playing type
persona, dressing in
Medieval costume,
fighting with Medieval
weapons, partaking in
Medieval activities within
the region, largely
involving fighting, and
speaking in a Medieval
way with many thees and
thous. This quote from
the Medieval Dreams Fantasy & Mermaid World is typical of the type of rules applied to Role
Play regions:

Everyone is encouraged to wear Medieval, Middle Earth or Fantasy related
outfits. That includes outfits with Viking, Roman, Stargate Worlds or Xena or
Hercules themes. You may get a nice free one at Tayren's Fantasy Fashions, near
this landing spot.You may also purchase other nice ones from our vendors
(SouthernHarbour 64/123/21).

In contrast to the more
education and historically
accurate Medieval
regions, Fantasy and
RPG regions are fully
immersive, allowing
users to build their own
Medieval homes on the
island, participate in
jousting tournaments and
even work in the
Medieval shops to earn
money (Figure 7).

The first region you
encounter when you put
the simple search-term
Medieval into the SL search engine is the Infernal Ville Role Play Island (Infernal
Ville/125/125.17), a dark, Dungeons and Dragons type region where you are asked to

Figure 6. Medieval English role play village.

Figure 7. Medieval job notice board.

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participate as a Medieval-type fighter. However, like many museums, the first place you actually
go when you arrive at this region is a vast Medieval shopping area where you can purchase any
and all accoutrements of Medieval warfare that you could imagine (Figure 8). The sales of these
items help to support the island itself and allow the residents to more fully participate in the
Fantasy. Objects are sold to be used and, though not perhaps historically accurate, do allow for a
deeper immersion into the Medieval fantasy.

C. Business or Shopping
Which brings me at last
to the finally type of
Medieval site
shopping. These are the
sites where Medieval is
bought and sold as a
commodity. Activities
within shopping regions
are limited to just that,
shopping. Shopping can
either be classified as an
activity common to all
virtual communities, or
as the specific purpose
of a region. Almost
every region with a
Medieval theme,
including educational
ones, include at least
one shop for purchasing
costumes. The
prevalence of shopping
opportunities seems to
suggest that an
emphasis is on the
appearance of
Medievalness within the
community that is the
most important.

Visitors can arrive at
any number of Medieval market regions and purchase, using Linden Dollars, anything from
recreations of actual Medieval Art to Medieval furnishings, and even the Medieval buildings
themselves (Figure 9). Shopping regions follow the same Medieval look that can be found in
role-playing regions, largely because the shopping regions are selling the very buildings used in
Medieval fantasies. The fact that the objects for sale in these markets all look very similar
explains why the Medieval sites tend to look very similar. The Medieval identity in SL is
determined by those people who create objects that they themselves tag as Medieval.

Figure 8. Infernal Ville marketplace.

Figure 9. Castles for rent.

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IV. Conclusions

Each of the regions which are defined as Medieval within the Second Life community can be
described as an individual Theatre of Memory where social memories of a Medieval past are
recreated, remixed, and reconstituted into something Medieval and yet modern at the same time.
This recreation of narrative memory helps give these communities their Medieval identities and
also enlighten us as archaeologists about how memory is used to recreate a specific kind of
identity, in this case, a Medieval one. Medieval in SL is essentially a narrative centered on
social memories of the Medieval past in its broadest sense. In this case Medieval is identified
as a range of social practices and artifacts that an online community uses to recreate a past world
with which they identify themselves.

There is an
interesting
distinction to be
made between a
sites purpose and
the way in which
visitors are asked
to interact within.
The most
archaeologically
accurate Medieval
regions are the
least interactive
while fantasy
regions allow the
visitor to truly go
Medieval. It is telling that there are far fewer educationally oriented Medieval sites than role-
playing and shopping regions. Another interesting point is how the identity of the middle ages is
reinterpreted in a modern milieu.As you move through the Medieval regions, your experiences
are at once modern and Medieval. Incongruous details are everywhere, modern shopping mall-
type areas offing Medieval goods and services within an entirely virtual environment, Medieval
pubs offering jazz concerts every Thursday, and a half-timbered shop selling only Western
cowboy clothing (Figure 10).

It appears to be that where the past is recreated in as accurate way as possible, the level of
immersion and interactivity falls sharply. Rather, it is within those regions not bound by any
historical constructs beyond the dramatic trappings of Medievalness that the most richly
rewarding Medieval experience is possible. In these regions, hybrid realities of past and present
are created and maintained and staged. These spaces are very important for archaeologists and
anthropologists because they demonstrate how a general public likes to engage with their past,
or collective memories of a particular past.

Figure 10. Wild West Medieval clothing and accessories.

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However, rather than leading to new and interesting ways of interpreting Medieval within
virtual communities, the narrative has become surprisingly narrow, representing an idealized and
cemented version of the middle ages which is something of a bastardized Tolkien-
esque/Elizabethan English one, which is imposed upon the virtual landscape by the people who
create virtual Medieval artifacts buildings, clothing, art, and domestic items. However, as the
digital artisans who create the stock architectural forms for SL Medieval are often the same
people who create the regions, it can be argued that the way memory is used in SL to reinforce
identity is nearly the same, as you would find in the Real World; material culture both shapes
and is shaped by its creators.

References Cited
Deshpande, Suhas, Kati Geber, and Corey Timpson
2007 Engaged Dialogism in Virtual Space: An exploration of research strategies for virtual
museumsTheorizing Digital Cultural Heritage : A Critical Discourse, edited by F. Cameron and
S. Kenderdine, Sarah. MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachussets

Forest, Fred
2008 The Digital Aesthetic: Rupture or Community. ICOM News 61(2): 3.

Gale, Bill

1996 Review: Staging the Practices of Heritage. Labour / Le Travail 37: 289299

Graham, Shawn
2007 Second lives: online worlds for archaeological teaching and research: Linden Labs,
www.secondlife.com. European Journal of Archaeology 10: 7779.

Harrison, Rodney.
2009 Excavating Second Life. Journal of Material Culture 14(1):75106.

International Council of Museums
2008 International Museum Day 2008. Electronic Document,
http://icom.museum/2008_contents.html, accessed 10 November 2009.

Samuel, Raphael.
1994 Theatres of Memory, Vol. 1 Past and Present in Contemporary Culture. Verso, London..

Second Life
2009 Birka Viking Port, http://slurl.com/secondlife/SouthernHarbour/64/123/21/ , accessed 12
November 2009.

2009 Infernal Ville, http://slurl.com/secondlife/Infernal Ville/125/125/17, accessed 01 November
2009.

2009 Medieval Fantasy and Mermaid World, http://slurl.com/secondlife/Moonfall/33/77/21/,
accessed 12 November 2009.

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2009 Mont Saint Michel, (http://slurl.com/secondlife/Mont_Saint_Michel/76/28/21), accessed 01
November 2009.

2009 Okapi Island, http://slurl.com/secondlife/Okapi/128.128.0, accessed 25 March 2010.

2009 Renaissance Island,http://slurl.com/secondlife/Renaissance Island/33.78.27, accessed 02
November 2009.

2009 Shakespears London, http://slurl.com/secondlife/Shakespeare/157/103/46, accessed 02
November 2009.

2009Tayrens Fantasy Fashions http://slurl.com/secondlife/ SouthernHarbour 64/123/21,
accessed 02 November 2009.

2009 Wonderful Denmark Viking Centre,
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Wonderful_Denmark/124/132/22, accessed 12 November 2009.

Notes

1
For the remainder of this paper, regions in SL will be cited by using their title and three digit
coordinates, eg. Megans Island 13/156/09.


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Identity Negotiation during Tiwanaku State
Collapse

Nicola Sharratt
Department of Anthropology, University of Illinois at Chicago, Chicago, Illinois 60607
(nsharr2@uic.edu)

ABSTRACT. Archaeologists investigating colonial and imperial expansion have indicated the
ways in which identities are contested and renegotiated in times of major socio-political change.
The contrasting situation, in which large complex political entities disintegrate, has received
comparatively less attention. In this paper, I adopt a diachronic approach and utilize mortuary
data from the Moquegua Valley, Peru to compare the assertion of different modalities of identity
before and after the collapse of the Tiwanaku state. These data indicate that following political
disintegration, intra-community identities were increasingly significant, as community wide
identities rooted in state membership were eroded.

The Tiwanaku

The Tiwanaku polity emerged dominant
among its peers in the Titicaca Basin
around A.D. 400 (Janusek 2004b;
Stanish 2003). By A.D. 800, there was
increased state centralization focused on
the urban capital of Tiwanaku, in
modern Bolivia, and tighter control on
Tiwanaku provincial enclaves (Janusek
2008; Stanish 2002). The largest of these
enclaves was 300 km away in the
Moquegua Valley, in what is now Peru
(Figure 1). In the Moquegua Valley,
migrants from the capital established a
major state administrative center,
replicated homeland life-ways and
maintained close connections with the
heartland (Goldstein 1989, 1993a,
1993b, 2000, 2005; Owen 2005; Owen
and Goldstein 2001).

Around A.D. 1000, the Tiwanaku state
began a process of prolonged collapse,
which affected the capital, the hinterland
and the provinces (Bandy 2001; Couture
and Sampeck 2003; Janusek 2008;

Figure 1. The Moquegua Valley and sites
mentioned in the text.

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Janusek and Kolata 2003; Stanish 2003). In the Moquegua Valley, monumental architecture was
destroyed, urban administrative centers abandoned, and settlement patterns shifted as residents
fled state centers and established smaller, defensible sites up-valley or on the coast (Bawden
1989; Berman et al. 1989; Goldstein 2005; Owen 2005; Owen and Goldstein 2001; Williams
2002). There was, however, considerable continuity in residential architecture and material
culture, with the notable absence of particular state motifs, as people fleeing state centers
replicated familiar practices in their new homes (Bawden 1989; Goldstein 2005; Sims 2006). In
this paper I explore how post-collapse communities renegotiated salient identities as they
responded to political fragmentation.

Identity and State Collapse

I want to highlight three significant topics in recent debates about identity and its accessibility in
the archaeological record; firstly, that identity operates at multiple levels or modalities which
influence, constrain and interact with one another (Meskell 2007). Tiwanaku identity operated at
a series of nested modalities. Regional variants of Tiwanaku styles are found across the south-
central Andes, in Cochabamba, San Pedro de Atacama, and Azapa as well as the Moquegua
Valley (Rodman 1992; Torres-Rouff 2008). Within each region, recognizable Tiwanaku styles
and practices were shared, yet particularities of style at different sites suggest that communities
also asserted distinct identities (Goldstein 2005; Janusek 2002, 2004a). Within sites, there were
additional differences between residential compounds (Janusek 2002), which in turn had
distinctions based oage, sex and so forth.

Secondly, identity is not simply reflected in material culture, but is actively created through
practice and engagement with that material culture (Sorensen 2000; Wells 2001). As Janusek
(2002) has argued, rather than just reflecting difference, the very production and utilization of
particular vessel assemblages was important in the creation and maintenance of identity at these
multiple nested levels. These multiple, nested identities were expressed and entrenched through
not only through crafting, but also differential cranial modification, domestic architecture and
ritual practice (Blom 1999; Hoshower et al. 1995; Janusek 2002; Korpisaari 2006).

Thirdly, identity is contextual and dynamic, and as such, is a topic of particular interest during
times of major socio-political change (Barth 1969; Diaz-Andreu et al. 2005; Insoll 2007; Jones
1997; Wells 2001). Archaeologists have examined identity negotiation during state expansion
(Stojanowski 2005; Voss 2005; Wells 1999). The contrasting situation, in which large scale
complex political entities disintegrate, has received comparatively less attention. However, more
recent examples of state collapse indicate that the fragmentation of the overarching political
entity can also have major repercussions for the ways in which communities define themselves
and their members (Zartman 1995). States act as sources of common identity, desired or
otherwise and their dissolution leads to a situation in which shared identities rooted in state
membership are eroded. Contemporary examples of state disintegration suggest that with state
collapse, intra-state factional identities become increasingly significant (Besteman 1996;
Bowman 1993; Gilkes 1999). In this paper I consider whether the collapse of the Tiwanaku state
precipitated a similar change in the relative salience of different modalities of identity.


169 | P a g e

A Mortuary Approach

Burials are not simply reflections of identities but are important loci for shaping identities
(Barrett 1990; Chesson 2001; Joyce 2001; Williams 2006). The idea that Tiwanaku identities
were in part created through practice and engagement with material culture is a point already
discussed in the Tiwanaku literature (Janusek 2002). Drawing on Joyces (2001) idea that it is
through funerary rituals that identities gain greater or lesser currency I suggest that burials were
also significant media for redefining salient identities in the wake of Tiwanaku political collapse.
To explore this, I compare the assertion of community, corporate and individual identities in
funerary ritual before and after state fragmentation.

Data Sets
Arid conditions in the Moquegua Valley (Figure 1) have ensured better preservation of burial
contexts than in the altiplano heartland and I examine funerary patterns from two Moquegua
Valley sites, Chen Chen and Tumilaca la Chimba.

Chen Chen was the largest Tiwanaku site in the Moquegua Valley, flourishing during the height
of the state. Chen Chen included large cemetery areas, extensive residential sectors, agricultural
fields and substantial storage facilities (Goldstein 1995, 2005; Owen 1997; Palacios 2008; Pari
Flores et al. 2002; Vargas 1994; Williams 1998). Bio-archaeological and strontium isotope
studies on some of the thousands of human remains from Chen Chen demonstrated the presence
of immigrants from the Tiwanaku altiplano heartland at the site (Blom 1999; Knudson et al.
2004). In this paper, I refer specifically to my analysis of 1100 Chen Chen burials, excavated
under the direction of Romulo Pari Flores in 2002, as well as 138 burials, excavated by Bruce
Owen in 1995, focusing on those with intact contexts (approximately 10%).

The second site, Tumilaca la Chimba, was established during the collapse of Tiwanakus
administrative centers, among them Chen Chen. Located 15 km up-valley from Chen Chen,
Tumilaca la Chimba is much smaller and includes four cemetery sectors on a ridge overlooking
the residential sector of the site (Bawden 1989; Pari Flores 1980). Excavations were conducted
under the auspices of Proyecto Arqueolgico Cerro Bal (in 2006 and 2007) in all four of the
cemetery sectors. Radiocarbon dates are forthcoming, but comparison with the local ceramic
chronology and with neighboring post-collapse Tiwanaku sites indicates that the site pertains to
the disintegration of the Tiwanaku state in Moquegua. Further, the populations at Chen Chen and
Tumilaca la Chimba were biologically related, lending support to the hypothesis that those
buried at Tumilaca la Chimba were descendents of Chen Chens inhabitants (Sutter an1d Sharratt
2010). Sixty-four burials were excavated and analyzed, although the frequency of intact contexts
is higher than in the Chen Chen sample, at about 30%.

Chen Chen

Community Identity
Community identity at Chen Chen is evident in cross-site patterns of funerary treatment.
Individuals were buried in single primary internments, in a seated, flexed position, facing east.
Corpses were wrapped in two textiles held in position by a braided fiber rope, and were
accompanied by a recognizable suite of burial goods. The range of grave inclusions at Chen

170 | P a g e

Chen was extensive, but ceramic vessels were most common, particularly keros (vase shaped
drinking vessels) and tazones (flaring sided bowls). Also common were wooden spoons baskets,
gourd vessels, needles, spindle whorls, flutes and combs.

At Chen Chen, mourners engaged in shared funerary rituals across the site. These rituals
mimicked mortuary treatments both at other Tiwanaku sites in the Moquegua Valley and in the
Tiwanaku altiplano heartland and served to assert and reinforce identification with the wide
Tiwanaku realm (Bermann 1994; Goldstein 1989, 2005; Janusek 2004a; Korpisaari 2006).

Corporate Group Identity
Burials at Chen Chen occur in spatially separate sectors, including biological males, females and
a range of young to old individuals. These sectors have been interpreted as representative of
corporate social groups that were distinguished during life by neighborhood proximity and
particularities of material style (Blom 1999). While the physical separation of cemeteries
suggests that mourners asserted group identity, funerary behavior between the sectors is
remarkably similar. In each cemetery, tomb architecture, body treatment, and grave inclusions
were repeated. Although the spatial separation of cemeteries likely represents intra-community
divisions into corporate social groups, the funerary rituals practiced by these corporate social
groups served to assert a shared, community identity, rather than emphasizing difference.

Individual Identity
At Chen Chen few distinctions were made in the treatment of individuals according to their age
or biological sex, although certain vessel forms were only included in adult male or juvenile
burials, and spindle whorls have been found interred only with females (Buikstra 1995). While
life experience at Chen Chen was almost certainly colored by gender, age, occupation and status
identities, these distinctions were not especially salient in the funerary demonstration of identity.

Tumilaca la Chimba

Community Identity
General patterns of mortuary treatment at Tumilaca la Chimba were very similar to those at Chen
Chen. The dead were buried in a similar range of tomb types, but tomb architecture was more
elaborate. At Tumilaca la Chimba, an outer stone ring, standing about a foot above the ground,
was constructed around half of excavated graves. As at Chen Chen corpses were wrapped in
woolen textiles, held in position using braided fiber rope, and seated in their tombs facing east.
The dead were accompanied by similar grave inclusions as at Chen Chen.

Mourners at Tumilaca la Chimba enacted ancestral patterns of funerary treatment, by building
similar tombs, preparing the corpse in similar ways, and interring similar types of grave
inclusions as at Chen Chen. By repeating earlier practices, members of this collapse phase
community asserted a shared identity rooted in their Tiwanaku heritage. There was, however, a
shift from a concern with what was interred in the tomb, to an emphasis on the construction of
visible monuments to the dead. Stanish has argued that stone rings indicate increasing
competition for prestige (Stanish 1985). Grave goods may have been placed within these rings,
perhaps indicating the ways in which monuments to the dead were important loci of competition
among the living. But who was this competition between? Was it between Tumilaca la Chimba

171 | P a g e

and other terminal Tiwanaku communities? Or did intra-community social relations become
increasingly strained in this socio-political environment? The greater emphasis on corporate
group identities suggests that this tension lay within communities, whose members increasingly
used funerals to highlight factional differences.

Corporate Group Identity
As at Chen Chen there was a clear awareness of spatial organization within the four sectors at
Tumilaca la Chimba, each of which include burials of individuals of both sexes and a range of
ages. When the four sectors are compared, subtle but interesting differences emerge.
Architecturally, the smallest of the sectors is notable for its exclusive use of well-constructed
stone lined cists, elaborated by outer stone rings. The two largest cemeteries are also notable for
the higher frequency of prepared tomb mouths and floors.

Overwhelmingly, tombs at Tumilaca la Chimba were roughly circular, as at Chen Chen. But in
one sector, mourners also constructed shallow, oval tombs. Individuals were interred lying on
their backs, instead of seated as in the circular tombs. This sector is further marked out by the
items interred with the dead. Three graves in the sector were notable for the inclusion of camelid
feet, identified as juvenile animals by Dr. Susan DeFrance (personal communication 2007). The
position of the camelid bones was deliberate, with a foot placed in each of the four cardinal
directions. Furthermore, an infant burial in the same cemetery contained the atlas of a llama,
suggesting that inclusion of camelid remains was associated with the sector. The sector is also
notable for the absence of spoons, typical of both Chen Chen graves, and graves in other sectors
at Tumilaca la Chimba. Obsidian was found exclusively in the adjacent sector while the
deposition of crisacola and sodalite jewelry appears restricted to two sectors only. Ceramic
crafting differences are evident between the sectors, with the exclusive deposition of certain
pastes and slip colors in specific sectors.

Ceramic material with evidence of burning, either as stains or soot, was found in only two
sectors. In the second largest sector, there were also two sahumadors, with considerable carbon
deposits, broken on top of a juvenile grave. There is no evidence for burning of grave inclusions
in the other two sectors, and perhaps this funerary ritual was restricted to particular groups at
Tumilaca la Chimba.

Individual Identity
Differences exist between sectors, but within them funerary treatment cross-cut age and sex
distinctions. Keros were now interred with infants, as well as juveniles and adult males, although
as at Chen Chen, they were not found with adult females. As at Chen Chen, experience in life
was almost certainly framed in age, gender and status identities, but these differences were not
emphasized in death.

Conclusion

Archaeological evidence from imperial contexts indicates that state expansion often leads to
identity renegotiation as communities respond to a changing socio-political environment (Jones
1997; Stojanowski 2005; Voss 2005). The data discussed in this paper suggests that identity is
also contested during episodes of state fragmentation. Tiwanaku identity operated at a series of

172 | P a g e

nested levels, conceived of in this paper as community, corporate and individual. These identities
are accessible through the mortuary record, but significantly, funerals are important contexts for
redefining salient modalities of identity (Joyce 2001). Comparison of funerary behavior before
and after Tiwanaku state collapse indicates that political fragmentation precipitated a shift in the
types of identity that were highlighted in death. This parallels more recent examples of state
fragmentation, in which broad identities rooted in state membership are eroded by political
collapse and factional identities become more significant (Besteman 1996; Bowman 1993).

During the height of the state, mourners at Chen Chen emphasized a shared, community wide
identity, evident through the uniformity across the spatially segregated cemetery sectors. Intra-
community difference was down-played as mourners asserted commonality rooted in state
membership. Following state fragmentation, mourners at Tumilaca la Chimba maintained the
general repertoire of ancestral funerary behaviors. By doing so, the community asserted and
confirmed the roots of its shared identity in its Tiwanaku heritage. However, in contrast to their
Chen Chen ancestors, mourners at Tumilaca la Chimba also utilized funerary rituals to
demonstrate social distinctions within the community. In addition to burying their dead in
spatially separated sectors, mourners at Tumilaca la Chimba used every stage of the mortuary
process to express their membership of a particular intra-community corporate group. Difference
between the sectors at Tumilaca la Chimba was asserted in the ways in which tombs were
constructed, in the items included with the dead, and in the rituals undertaken as the dead were
interred.

Identities are contextual and malleable. Although individuals and communities maintain
multiple, nested identities at any one time, the particular significance of different identities is
affected by the wider social world. The differences evident between cemetery sectors at
Tumilaca la Chimba suggest that as the socio-political environment of the Moquegua Valley
underwent major changes, mourners at this post-collapse community utilized funerary rituals to
assert and materialize the increasing salience of intra-community, corporate group identities.

Acknowledgements. Excavations at Tumilaca la Chimba were conducted as part of Proyecto
Arqueolgico Cerro Bal, with permission from the Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima (RDN
1208/INC awarded to Patrick Ryan Williams and Maria Elena Rojas Chavez). Excavations were
funded by NEH and Dumbarton Oaks (awarded to P.R. Williams, M.C. Lozada, and M.
Moseley). Analysis was funded with a Fulbright Scholarship to Peru and a NSF Doctoral
Dissertation Improvement Grant. Thanks to Jennifer Starbird, Martha Palma Malaga and Allende
Godoy for their analysis of the human remains from Tumilaca la Chimba and Chen Chen, to
Susan DeFrance for her analysis of the faunal remains, and to David Goldstein for his analysis of
botanical remains. Romulo Pari Flores and Bruce Owen granted permission for analysis of the
Chen Chen samples. Thanks to Ryan Williams, Maria Cecilia Lozada, Michael Moseley, Donna
Nash, Monika Barrionuevo, Jason Laffoon, Sofia Chacaltana-Cortez, Karl LeFavre, Sabrina
Scholtz, Bill Whitehead, Kenny Sims, the 2007 Contisuyo Field School participants, the Museo
Contisuyo, and the people of Tumilaca.


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The Archaeology of Death on the Shore of Lake
Nicaragua

Sacha Wilke
1
, Geoffrey McCafferty
2
and Brett Watson
2
1
Department of Anthropology, University of British Columbia, 6303 NW Marine Drive
Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1 (sjawilke@ucalgary.ca)
2
Department of Archaeology, University of Calgary, 2500 University Dr NW, Calgary AB
T2N 1N4 (mccaffer@ucalgary.ca, bkwatson@shaw.ca)

ABSTRACT. Multiple mortuary patterns were observed at the site of El Rayo (N-GR-39) dating
to the Sapoa period (A.D. 8001200) at three loci excavated during the 2009 field season. The
site is located on a peninsula on Lake Nicaragua by the colonial city of Granada. The focus of
this paper will examine three styles of secondary burials seen at El Rayo including a
concentration of 12 urns, a mass burial area and burials without urns. Implications of the
observed variation of secondary burial styles will be discussed.

Archaeologically speaking, Nicaragua is one of the most poorly documented countries in Central
America. In this paper we will examine the burial practices at the site of El Rayo (N-GR-39) to
identify materials found in the various burials present and discern differences between deposits.
This information will provide a basis for comparison for future discussions of the mortuary
patterns seen throughout Nicaragua. Since mortuary patterns are among the best information
available on past ideological practices, they also provide a unique perspective on cultural
identities.

The pre-Columbian history of Pacific Nicaragua is difficult to interpret for a few reasons: few
academic archaeological projects have been conducted in the country; conflicting information
exists between ethnohistorical sources such as Oviedo (1959; cf. Squier 1990) and
archaeological evidence (McCafferty 2008); and few scholars have published their work limiting
the data available to other scholars and the public in general. In 2000, Geoffrey McCafferty
(2008) initiated a project at Santa Isabel, Nicaragua with a primary goal of evaluating the
ethnohistorically described connection between Mesoamerica and Nicaragua. This project now
includes the largest collection of archaeologically excavated material from Pacific Nicaragua and
has provided information regarding site formation processes, community organization,
subsistence practices, and mortuary practices. This project has also challenged the chronology by
obtaining numerous radiocarbon dates from stratified residential contexts (McCafferty and
Steinbrenner 2005).

Much of the information regarding artifacts associated with burials relates to looted collections,
essentially eliminating any contextual contributions to the archaeological record. A notable
exception is the major cemetery of Los Angeles on Ometepe Island which uncovered 54 primary
burials in individual graves excavated in a 75 square meter area and date to 10001200 A.D.
(Haberland 1992:92). Burial goods were rare at this site, but included weaving tools, personal
adornments, a celt, and 20 ceramic vessels, including 14 small ollas and two miniature shoe pots,

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associated with 17 of the burials (Haberland 95:1992). Also encountered were large shoe-shaped
vessels used in secondary burials, where the individual was either defleshed or allowed to
decompose then placed into the vessel. Often the shoe-pot was then covered by an inverted bowl
(Haberland 1992:96). Primary and secondary burials were also found at Santa Isabel, with urn
burials being used for children under the age of nine (Chilcote and McCafferty 2005). Extended
primary burials of both adults and children from Santa Isabel featured offerings of greenstone
chunks, bone tools, a miniature vessel, and turtle carapace, while the urn burials lacked such
offerings (Chilcote and McCafferty 2005). Other urn burials have been reported at Malacatoya
(Espinoza et al. 1999), a cemetery in the modern city of Managua, and University of Calgary
excavations at excavations conducted in 2008 at Tepetate (McCafferty et al.2009).

Burial practices provide important information regarding past societies. In this paper two
avenues of information will be examined: first the presence, type and quality of elite objects and
value goods and second the position of the burials on the landscape. By considering these
aspects of burial practices we can examine social inequalities based on these differences.

The site of El Rayo is located on the Asese Peninsula of Lake Nicaragua and has been dated to
the Bagaces (A.D. 300800) and Sapoa (A.D. 8001200) periods based on the ceramic
assemblage and several C14 dates (McCafferty et al. 2009). Excavations took place during July
and August of 2009 at three loci as part of a three year project of the University of Calgary, with
funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

Secondary burials were seen in major concentrations at two areas of the site. In addition, two
primary burials were recovered from the domestic area of the site. These concentrations
contained human remains as well as artifacts previously associated with mortuary practices. The
most important of these include the Sacasa Striated shoe pots (an elongated asymmetrical vessel
shaped like a shoe), which contain human remains as part of a secondary burial. Sacasa Striated
vessels are seen in a limited area generally concentrated within Pacific Nicaragua. This burial
pattern appears to be an innovation beginning at the transition between Bagaces and Sapoa time
periods and continues until the Spanish contact. Area 1 appears to be a mass burial area, with a
minimum of four clusters of shoe pots. Each cluster contained multiple shoe pot urns as well as
other offering vessels and a variety of other luxury artifacts including beads, chert lance-points
or knife blades, and miniature vessels. Area 2 found two nearly complete primary burials within
the Bagaces component of the domestic occupation. Area 3a contained multiple deposits of non-
articulated human remains. These remains are not associated with Sacasa Striated vessels, as
seen at Area 1 and or Area 3b. Instead we see smaller vessels associated with the remains as well
as clustered offerings of prestige goods. Area 3b is the most clearly defined feature excavated at
the site as it was dug into the talpetate, a type of hard sedimentary rock with a high ash content.
The feature contained 18 complete vessels, of which 12 were Sacasa Striated shoe pots. Three of
the shoe pots were excavated to provide a sample for comparison with the shoe pots excavated at
Area 1.

Area 1

Area 1 was identified based on the presence of human remains and artifacts eroding from a road-
cut leading to the lake edge. Informants told us that when the road was constructed numerous

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complete ceramic vessels and other artifacts were found. This suggests that the excavated area
represents only a small part of a much larger burial ground. Within the road cut partial Sacasa
Striated vessels were visible, sometimes containing human teeth and other skeletal remains.

A surprising trend from the urns at
Area 1 was seen in the contents of
the vessels. Expecting to find human
remains, personal adornments and
offerings, we were surprised to find
few human remains and almost no
adornments within the vessels. The
most common artifacts found were
smaller vessels which were placed
within the shoe pot at the time of
deposition. The Sacasa Striated
vessels often appeared to be lined
with broken pottery and contained
large volcanic rocks, numbering
anywhere from twenty to fifty within
a vessel. While the shoe pots
contained few luxury goods or
human remains, both were recovered
from the areas surrounding the shoe
pots. Generally lithic and faunal
materials were lacking from Area 1,
especially when compared to the
domestic area excavated at Area 2,
while ceramics were abundant in all
areas.

The first cluster to be discussed
consisted of three shoe pots (one
being a miniature), one of which
contained a bowl (Figure 1), and a
small olla with a face on it. The
position of the vessels, with the large
shoe pots touching and the miniature
located between them, suggests that
there was a connection between the
burials. A small broken bowl was
found upside down over the mouth of
the miniature. Bowls have previously been found placed inverted over the mouth of shoe pot
vessels presumably as a means of sealing the vessel and its contents (Chilcote and McCafferty
2005, McCafferty 2008). A fragmented bowl was also found covering the mouth of one of the
large shoe pots, which kept the vessel partially empty of dirt. This find shows that the shoe pot
vessels were not completely filled with earth prior to being deposited. Also associated with these

Figure 1. Area 1 Cluster 1, El Rayo. Large volcanic rock
located within the rim of a small vessel within a
fragmented Sacasa Striated shoe pot. Photo by author.

Figure 2. Area 1 Cluster 2, El Rayo. Cache of luxury
goods associated with human remains. Photo by author.

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shoe pots was a unique ear spool and a concave oval ceramic pendant with a raised line across
the widest point.

The second cluster contained four Sacasa Striated urns, a large globular olla, human remains, and
a cache of prestige goods. The cache consisted of four finely-worked lithic points or knife
blades, two large ear spools, and a basalt core (Figure 2). Associated with this cache was a
human cranium as well as one-hundred and forty-one ceramic beads. The beads were found in
three levels below a small bowl on its side; likely the original receptacle of these prestige goods.
Other human remains were recovered from these units but were not in close association with this
cache. Thirty-five complete ceramic net sinkers were found with this cluster. This is an
unusually high concentration when compared to the rest of the area and suggests that a fishing
net may have been included in the burial offerings.

The third cluster uncovered
eight to ten Sacasa Striated
vessels, including an onion-
style grouping, in which urns
are located directly on top of
one another. This type of
burial concentration was also
seen at the Tepetate cemetery.
The nature of the onion-style
deposit makes it difficult to
clearly distinguish one
complete vessel from another
(Figure 3). Inside the onion-
style vessel was a smaller
complete hemispherical bowl.
This onion style grouping
was separated from another
shoe pot by two large rocks.
This shoe pot contained a
small monochrome vessel in multiple pieces. Outside this pot was a complete hunchback
figurine (Figure 4) often referred to as a shaman figurine.

The fourth cluster was an incredibly complex deposit spanning three units and reaching depths of
150 centimeters without reaching sterile soil. This deposit included multiple Sacassa Striated
shoe pots along with a variety of other offering vessels. Prestige goods such as pendants,
earspools, and complete lithic tools were recovered from around the vessels as well as elaborate
support fragments, appliqus, figurine fragments and bone tools. Human remains were rare, and
when found, were generally in very poor condition.

Figure 3. Area 1 Cluster 3, El Rayo. Multiple shoe pot vessels
recovered in an onion-style deposit. Photo by Author.

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Excavations ended at this location with
multiple crania and the articulated long
bones of at least two individuals. Artifacts
associated with these individuals included
a spindle whorl, three small vessels, and a
mano, used with a metate (Figure 5).
These deep remains date to the late
Bagaces period based on the ceramics
found at this level.

A caveat must be given regarding the
compacted clusters of finds recorded here.
The nature of our excavation strategy has
resulted in the appearance of these four
clusters of burials, however, based on the
information received about the
construction of the road it is safe to infer
that the areas left unexcavated would also
contain burials in similar concentrations,
strongly suggesting this locus is a mass
cemetery, clearly used, continuously or
intermittently, for hundreds of years.

Area 2

Area 2 consists of what appears to be
primarily domestic context, characterized
by complete vessels, abundant faunal
remains consistent with day-to-day
subsistence, and traces of stone
architecture (most likely wall foundations).
Remains of at least three individuals were
found at Area 2; one complete skeleton
was found in roughly a fetal position, while
another complete skeleton was found in a
supine posture (Figure 6). The third
individual was represented only by a
relatively robust and extremely well
preserved mandible, with most teeth in
place. Considering the rest of the skeleton
was absent, it is probably fair to assume
that the lone mandible was either an
example of jewelry (though no holes were
drilled), or curated by descendents as a
means of ancestor veneration. Both
complete skeletons were found in deep

Figure 4. Area 1 Cluster 3, El Rayo. Upside down
Hunchback figurine in situ. Photo by author.

Figure 5. Area 1 Bottom of Cluster 4, El Rayo.
Multiple sets of human remains, mano located on
top of a long bone. Photo by author.

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strata, in association with late-Bagaces-period ceramics, while the lone mandible was found
roughly 20 centimetres higher, in a transitional Bagaces-Sapoa layer.

Though we do have examples of
primary burials from Sapoa
contexts at El Rayo and elsewhere,
the vast majority of the human
remains observed from this period
at El Rayo were in at least a
secondary (if not tertiary) context.
Also noteworthy about the two
complete interments at Area 2 is
that they are the only burials with a
clear-cut ceramic association,
putting them solidly in the Bagaces
period.

Area 3

Area 3a has a pattern substantially
different from Area 1 in that no
complete Sacasa Striated vessels
were found in association with the
secondary burials. Complete
vessels were found in the
uppermost and lowest levels of the
excavation pit. A significant
offering was found with three
components. The first consisted of
a miniature bowl covered with an
inverted cup. The second included
a human molar, a ceramic foot of a
bird figurine, and most
importantly, a copper bell (Figure
7). The third component was a
complete bowl. This copper bell is
the first one to be found in
Nicaragua in an archaeological
context. Bells are more commonly
seen on the Atlantic Coast as a possible trade item from Oaxaca, Mexico where they are seen as
early as A.D. 800. A nearly complete vessel was removed from this area above these offerings,
but it was severely fragmented.

One of the most exciting finds of the summer came from this operation. An ocarina (a musical
instrument similar to a whistle or flute) was found in association with a jaguar tooth pendant,
both of which were located directly above scattered human long bones. This ocarina is in the

Figure 6. Area 2, El Rayo. Primary burial of elderly
female. Photo by author.

Figure 7. Area 3a, El Rayo. Offering cluster consisting of a
human molar, figuring fragment and a copper bell. Photo
by author.

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shape of a water bird, identified specifically
as a frigate bird (Patricia Fernandez, personal
communication 2009).

The most structured burial deposit from El
Rayo was also recovered from Area 3. It
consisted of 18 complete vessels which were
placed into a trench dug out of the Talpetate
and occurred in mainly a north-south
orientation (Figure 8). Human remains were
found to the west and east of the line of
vessels, as well as on either side of the
southernmost vessel.

Three of the vessels were excavated to
provide a comparative collection to the Area
1 shoe pots. Within each of the vessels was a
single significant artifact identifiable as an
offering. Vessel 1 contained a chert lance
point or knife blade similar in style to the
ones found at Area 1. Vessel 8 contained a
large fragment of a short, tripod basalt
grinding stone. The last vessel excavated was
Vessel 17 and it contained bone weaving
tools.

At least two periods of deposition occurred to
bring this feature to its completion. In the
first depositional event the trench would have
been dug to encompass the extent of the shoe pots along with the human remains. A second
deposition occurred at which time Vessel 8 was added, because Vessel 8 straddles Vessels 7 and
10, both of which are severely fractured. Vessel 15 may have also been added at this time, due
to the unique proximity to human remains, which appear approximately half way down the
outside of the vessel and appears to have been disturbed with the addition of the shoe pot.
Vessel 15 is also the only vessel with its toe facing north; all other shoe pots face south.

Discussion

Major differences need to be noted in the general artifact assemblage between the secondary
burial areas and the domestic area seen at El Rayo. While the domestic area assemblage
recovered thousands of lithic and faunal remains, almost none were seen at the secondary burial
areas. This suggests these areas were specifically reserved for burial use and occurred apart from
the domestic space. While the types of ceramic artifacts were similar throughout all loci at El
Rayo, burial Areas 1 and 3 contain more a-typical ceramics than the domestic Area 2 (Carrie
Dennett , personal communication 2009).

Figure 8. Area 3b, El Rayo. Ten excavation
units uncovering 18 complete vessels and
fragmented human remains. Photo by author.

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Both secondary burial areas occurred in close proximity to the lakeshore with Area 1 located
within 100 metres of the shore and Area 3 on a hilltop that overlooks the water. While it is
undoubted that these places were not chosen at random, currently we are not confident in
hypothesizing possible reasons for their location. The locations of other organized cemeteries
such as Los Angeles, Malacatoya, and La Chureca (currently being excavated in Managua,
Nicaragua) are also located within sight of lake shores, suggesting that the water held some
importance.

The burials at Area 1 appear to be part of a mass cemetery used by various people within the
society based on the differences in the types of offerings seen at the different clusters as well as
the quality of the goods present. Cluster 1 seems simple with its two miniature vessels when
compared to the dozen vessels recovered from Cluster 4. The offering of lithic tools, ear spools,
and beads at Cluster 2 overshadows the hunchback figurine found at Cluster 3. The difference
between offerings of multiple vessels and one hundred and forty one beads also needs to be
considered important. The differences in the types of artifacts recovered with the burials suggest
differential access to luxury goods. This can be interpreted as representing a range within a
stratified society.

The proximity of the shoe pots in Cluster 1 implies a connection between the offerings. This
connection was likely familial but could have also been social or religious in nature.
Unfortunately no clues to this relationship were uncovered in the excavation; however, the
variety seen between the clusters suggests a more significant connection here. In Clusters 3 and
4 we see the reusing of the exact same place for deposit of offerings and burials. The once
complete vessels were shattered as additions were made to the deposit, making the disturbance of
these previous offerings unimportant. This could reflect the use of the area by different groups
of people who were unconcerned with what others had left before them, but more likely, these
were the same people who were using this exact place because it held significance to them. This
connection to the land is similar to what is being suggested for the Area 2 primary burials.

The presence of deep deposits in Cluster 4 suggests that this area was an important cemetery
stretching across both the Bagaces and Sapoa time periods, reflecting some continuity through
the changes that are seen elsewhere in the archaeological record at this time. While the same
area was being used over a long period of time notable differences were seen in the burial goods
and style of burials suggesting this location was used by a large group of people who held a
variety of positions within the society.

While this paper has focused on the secondary burials seen at El Rayo, the two primary burials
show differential treatment of the individual. The pattern of burials at Area 2 is consistent with
the observed patterns from Mesoamerican cultures at varying degrees of social complexity. The
presence of ancestors underfoot in a domestic context may have served to legitimize land
claims, or simply deepen the connection of a family to their place in the world. In contrast to the
cemetery contexts seen as the other two Areas, the isolated individual interments suggest a
personal connection to the deceased, rather than a more anonymous community connection to the
ancestors in general.


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The lack of shoe pots at Area 3a suggests an alternative ritual practice for the secondary burial of
individuals. The presence of more exotic offerings (the copper bell and the cup-shaped vessel)
along with an alternative deposition of human remains may suggest the elevated standing of
these individuals over those using shoe pot burials at El Rayo.

The shallow deposit of shoe pots found at Area 3b is by far the most organized and structured
deposit found at El Rayo, likely due to its synchronic deposition. We are suggesting this area
represents a private burial of socially linked equals, due to the contemporaneous nature of the
deposit and the equality seen among the excavated shoe pots. This area lacks the extensive
difference in goods seen at Area 1, and instead, shows continuity in the quality and quantity of
items recovered. Three small bowls were recovered near the center of this grouping and if the
vessels were being used as the primary offering, they may represent a collective contribution.
Scattered human remains were found on either side of the line of shoe pots forming some
symmetry within the deposit.

Conclusion

The three loci excavated at El Rayo (N-GR-39), Nicaragua in 2009 were identified as two burial
areas and one domestic occupation area. In this paper we have focused on the secondary burial
areas which show three distinct burial practices. Area 1 appears to be a mass cemetery that
covers an expansive area and was used over a long period of time (spanning the Bagaces and
Sapoa time periods). Area 3 is comprised of smaller burial areas with Area 3a lacking Sacasa
Striated vessels but with the presence of foreign objects (the copper bell and the cup-shaped
vessel). The delimited burials of Area 3b likely represent a private burial deposit of a socially
linked group.

The different burial patterns seen at each of the four areas discussed point to significant variation
between the two time periods discussed, and also likely, within different elements of society at
El Rayo during the Sapoa period. Whether the shift to more public burial practices and richer
grave goods indicates increasing social complexity through time remains to be definitively
shown, however, obvious trade goods such as jadeite and obsidian do occur in higher quantities
in Sapoa contexts. We suggest that the shifting burial patterns reflect a changing face of the
demographics of Pacific Nicaragua during the Sapoa period, characterized by increased contact
with other groups, both near and far, and likely, at least some degree of population intermixing.

We do not yet have enough information to speculate what the differences in the types of goods
associated with the different burials may have reflected in the lives of the people interred. Does
the presence of a shaman figurine mean that shoe pot represents a shaman? Do lance points
point to a warrior? Does elaborate and foreign pottery indicate a trader? At this point we can
only speculate. It is important to note these differences and continue collecting the information
that will one day allow us to make those interpretations.

The excavations discussed here are important for the study of Nicaraguan prehistory. Unique
finds were made without precedence from other excavations in the country. Other artifacts such
as the copper bell, ocarina, and the cup-shaped vessel are previously unpublished and mostly
from looted collections. Further study must occur in Nicaragua to clarify, support, or contradict

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our interpretations from the El Rayo site in order to further explain the diversity of burial
patterns displayed in a single site, over a relatively short time period.

Acknowledgments. Proyecto Arqueologia Granada, Nicaragua was made possible by funding
from Canadas Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council and a University of Calgary
Undergraduate Research Grant. We would like to thank the crew of the 2009 PAGN field season
who worked extremely diligently, with a special note to Carrie Dennett for pushing
interpretations to the fullest extent. Thanks to the Salablanca family for opening their home to us
and allowing us to work on their land.

References Cited
Chilcote, Celise and Geoffrey McCafferty.
2005 Tooth and consequences: Mortuary Analysis from Santa Isabel, Nicaragua. Paper presented
at the 38
th
Annual Chacmool Conference, University of Calgary.

Espinoza P., Edgar, Ramiro Garca V., and Fumiyo Suganuma
1999 Rescate Arqueolgico en el Sitio San Pedro, Malacatoya, Granada, Nicaragua. Instituto
Nicaraguense de Cultura, Museo Nacional de Nicaragua, Managua, Nicaragua.

Haberland, Wolfgang
1992 The Culture History of Ometepe Island: Preliminary Sketch (survey and excavations 1962
1963). In The Archaeology of Pacific Nicaragua, edited by F. W. Lange, P. D. Sheets, A.
Martinez, and S. Abel-Vidor, pp. 63117. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque, New
Mexico.

McCafferty, Geoffrey, G.
2008 Domestic Practices in Post Classic Santa Isabel, Nicaragua. Latin American Antiquity
19(1):6482.

McCafferty, Geoffrey, Silvia Salgado, and Carrie Dennett
2009 Cundo llegaron los mexicanos?: La transicin entre los periodos Bagaces y Sapoa en
Granada, Nicaragua. III Congreso Centroamericano de Arqueologia en El Salvador. San
Salvador, El Salvador. CD published by the Museo Nacional de Antropologia, San Salvador, El
Salvador.

McCafferty, Geoffrey, G. and Larry Steinbrenner.
2005 Chronological Implications for Greater Nicoya from the Santa Isabel Project, Nicaragua.
Ancient Mesoamerica 16 (1):131146.

Oveido y Valdes, Francisco.
1959 Natural History of the West Indies. Translated by Sterling A. Stoudemire. University of
North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, North Carolina


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Squier, Ephraim G.
1990 Observations on the Archaeology and Ethnology of Nicaragua. Labyrinthos, Culver City,
C.A. Originally Published 1853, Transactions, 3:83158, American Ethnological Society, New
York.


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A Different Kind of Afterlife: The Cultural
Biography of Headstones

Katherine Cook
Department of Anthropology, McMaster University

ABSTRACT. Archaeologists have made significant advancements in recognizing
transformations in identity through the material record of the past. However, there remains the
assumption that once memorialized, material manifestations of identity are static, isolated and
possess a singular, permanent meaning. Through the examination of one monument from Ross
Bay Cemetery, Victoria, B.C., this paper argues that monuments exist within a temporal, spatial
and social environment that literally and figuratively transforms the identity of the individual
commemorated through an interactive, mutually constitutive relationship. Archival,
ethnoarchaeological and material analyses are used to explore the significance of physical
changes to the monument, its connections to the landscape and the interactions between people
and object. In tracing these historical transformations of the monument, it is evident that identity
is equally fluid in death as in life and that processes of identity construction and negotiation
continue through the life of the headstone as it continues to bring about particular forms of
interaction.

The life of a funerary monument begins with a death; it is this ending that begins an existence of
transformation, interaction and experience. The identity commemorated, though not the
individual, will continue to develop through the life of the material object. This material afterlife
of commemoration is not as static as it has routinely been treated by scholars. Despite
archaeologys recognition of the fluidity of identity in life and the material connections to
processes of negotiation and renegotiation, the underlying assumption structuring mortuary
archaeology is that once memorialized, identity is quite literally written in stone. Infants will
forever remain infants; they will never age or change. Similarly, spouses remain married, the
religious remain faithful; to be brief, it is assumed that defining aspects of the individuals
identity preceding death make a permanent reappearance through their commemoration. This is,
however, an overly simplistic view of material culture. It ultimately fails to recognize the
dynamic changes that occur as the ground sinks, as cemeteries grow, and as the living continue
to interact with the dead.

In considering funeral monuments, this study will instead adopt a cultural biography approach to
headstones, recognizing the continuing social interactions between people and objects that create
meaning throughout the existence of the monument (Gosden and Marshall 1999:169). This study
demonstrates that monuments exist within a temporal, spatial and social environment that
literally and figuratively transforms the identity of the individual commemorated through an
interactive, mutually constitutive relationship. To understand a given monument and the identity
commemorated, it is therefore necessary to explore the entire life history of the object: the
physical changes to the monument, its continuing interactions with the living, and the landscape
within which it exists. Based on material analysis and a small ethnographic study concerning

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headstones from Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria, B.C., this paper will consider the factors that
influence the ongoing negotiation of identities post-commemoration.

Identity in Mortuary Archaeology

The ability of archaeologists to come tantalizingly close to identifiable individuals in the past by
studying burials has produced a long history of reconstructing the identity of the deceased from
mortuary contexts, particularly in cases of elite, historically-important personages. The
reconstruction of identity across social dimensions however came to the fore in the structural
investigations of Saxe (1970), Allen and Richardson (1971) and most notably Binford (1971),
who adamantly argued that it was possible to observe and formulate the causative variables, or
the variations in social organization, that burials reflect. While the methods and theoretical
frameworks applied to these endeavours have certainly increased in complexity and nuance,
largely as a result of the incorporation of feminist and post-modernist perspectives, the continued
conceptualization of burials as a relatively direct reflection of identity and social structure
continues to detract from understandings of the processes by which identity is negotiated and
constructed through mortuary ritual and the disposal of the dead.

There are however growing concerns with the role that the living community plays in shaping
funerary practices and their material remains, which underlines the relevance of studying burials
and monuments as part of an ongoing interaction, rather than the residue of an isolated and static
event. The complexities of studying identity based on funerary practices, including the tensions
between multi-scalar traditions, the needs and wants of the living conducting burials, and the
impacts of social, political and economic conditions, certainly have been discussed at length
elsewhere (cf. Pader 1982; Parker Pearson 1993). While valid, these concerns rarely move
beyond the structures and actions that originally produce the material record to recognize that
many of the tombs and monuments that we study, being built to last and to be seen, have much
longer life histories than simply the event of burial, which continues to be the mainstay of
mortuary archaeology (for exceptions, see Barrett 1994; Laviolette 2003). The persistence of this
category of material display in public venues however draws attention to new questions and
methods in exploring identity.

The multitude of forces that monuments interact with over a long period of time, including
environmental and social factors, transforming both the material object and the identity that it
commemorates, is perhaps best accessed through the application of methods and theories of
object life-histories or biographies. Initially outlined by anthropologist Igor Kopytoff (1986),
who argued that things cannot be understood independent of the cycles and processes through
which they exist, change and accumulate histories, the biographical approach was popularized in
archaeology in the late 1990s with an explosion of studies considering the life histories of objects
as minute as carved stone balls to those as monumental as megaliths (cf. Holtorf 1998;
MacGregor 1999). In seeking to understand the ways objects become invested with meaning
through social interactions, and the ways these meanings change and are renegotiated, these
studies use the principles of biography to highlight the mutual processes of creating engagement
and identity between people and things (Gosden and Marshall 1999:170). This approach to
material objects, with its emphasis on objects accumulated histories of interaction with people,
resonates with a study of identity and funerary monuments. In these circumstances, not only do

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material objects have their own lives and therefore accumulate their own histories, but as objects
connected to specific individuals, even deceased individuals, monuments become material
manifestations or representatives of real identities that have been and continue to be socially
constructed. Studying the complete trajectory of a funerary monument up to the present can
therefore allow us to explore a changing identity, constantly being negotiated even in death,
much in the same way that we conceptualize and study the identity of the living.

A Biography of a Headstone

In examining the applications of an object
biography approach to the study of identity in
funerary contexts, this discussion will concentrate
on one monument that was selected for its
prominent indicators of identity and for the
evidence of material changes that have occurred
throughout its life. The commemoration of
Catherine Cook approximately 95 years ago marks
the beginning of this monuments story. The
monument itself is a typical style of the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; it is made
of stone with a graduated step base mounted with a
three-dimensional cross element (Figure 1). The
monument has been personalized with the
engraving of the word mother at the centre of the
cross as well as the name, age and date of death of
the individual.

The event of Catherines burial, and the placement
of this monument, is however but one of a series of
events in the life of this grave marker. Six years
later, the monument would experience the addition
of a new inscription, commemorating William
Cook. This was followed by the addition of a
plaque roughly 27 years later, commemorating
Private Peter Cook. Although we cannot know for
certain the original intentions of the design of this
monument, the stylistic and material differences of
the plaque suggest that it was altogether unintended
in the initial design. Overall, this series of additions
over a period of 33 years altered both the appearance of the monument and the information that it
communicates to viewers, highlighting changing motivations and needs on the part of the living.

Figure 1. The Cook monument in Ross
Bay Cemetery, Victoria, B.C.

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Monuments in the Landscape

This relatively short succession of active modifications is not, however, the only alterations that
the monument has experienced. Monuments are embedded in the temporal landscape, exposed
and amenable to changes in the environment, the effects of human actions, and even the dwelling
activities of animals (Ingold 2000:198). Through this vast array of processes and activities,
monuments are not only physically altered but they also come to embody or incorporate new
meanings, symbols and understandings; likewise, the monument continues to impact the
processes and activities incorporated in the landscape.

Both seasonal and permanent environmental changes can have varying effects on the ways that
people interact with monuments. Short-term changes should not be underestimated; the changes
from spring to summer to fall to winter change grassy parks to muddy grounds or snowy fields.
Not only does this impact the way that individuals might perceive a given monument, impacting
their mood or stimulating certain sensory responses, but it can also visually transform the
monument itself. In the case of the Cook monument, a few inches of snow would erase all traces
of Peters commemoration, transforming this from a family monument to that of a couple, which
has completely different connotations for viewers. Despite the lack of long-term material
consequences, an awareness of these seasonal situations can allow us to reconstruct the impacts
they have on social interactions and short-term identity construction.

Although these changes are technically temporary, they may gradually lead to very permanent
alterations: weathering and wearing, and the accumulation of moss, other plant growth or soil
can dramatically obscure inscriptions, iconography and monument morphology. Rain, freezing,
and melting can also crack the stone, which may have been what caused some of the damage
evident on the Cook monument. Were this to result in the complete separation of the upper part
of this monument, it would dramatically change how the living would view and reconstruct
identity by removing both the mother inscription and any religious connotations (Figure 2).
Although there have been extensive conservation-oriented studies regarding environmental
impact on monuments, this is rarely incorporated into archaeological studies of the relationship
between people and material culture. However it is evident that an understanding of ongoing
interactions with monuments cannot be isolated from environmental considerations.

On a larger scale, it is also necessary to consider how the cemetery itself has changed as a living
landscape. The filling in of space with monuments and trees not only prescribes the movement of
people and animals, and where new interments may take place, it also controls certain vistas
while obscuring others impacting not only which monuments are regularly interacted with but
also how they are perceived. Moreover, through these processes of life and growth, cemeteries
become by nature composites of stories and histories; that is, the multi-temporality of the present
cemetery is, as Olivier conveys, nothing more than the sum total of all the past times which
physically coexist in the present moment (2004:205). Individuals and their histories are added
periodically, which typically adds material remains that record not only basic information about
the identity of a particular individual, but socio-cultural trends of that specific time period.
Through these processes, the Cook monument has become integrated into the cemetery as a
whole, contributing to public perceptions of the space and at the mercy of their interaction,


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values and actions. In dwelling in the
landscape, including cemeteries, people engage
in specific activities related to the experience
that the space affords, in turn gathering and
embodying meanings specific to that time and
space (Ingold 2000:192). In these contexts, the
living may partake in activities that either alter
or add to monuments, or vandalise and destroy
them. As such, monuments individually and
especially collectively possess a degree of
agency in their capacity to structure or bring
about certain outcomes, and thus must be
considered as an active component of their
social world.

The accumulation of physical alterations to the
monument, both environmental and human in
origin, in relation to human experiences and
engagement can therefore serve as a starting
point in reconstructing the biography of this
object. It is possible then to infer certain
sequences of events, the most visually dramatic
changes and even the seasonal alterations that
this monument would undergo year after year,
and the impact that this would have on social
perception and communication. However, this
is only one part of the story. As active
components of our landscape, cemeteries are
social spaces significant in the mediation of
attitudes towards mortality and the construction
of identity and heritage. The social interactions
between people and monuments are therefore
also a significant part of this objects story.
Examining the ways in which people interact
with monuments, and the social meanings of
those interactions, is much more complicated than creating a simple chronology of sequences of
material change to the monument as it involves a consideration of multi-temporal sensibilities
and a relatively immaterial component of the past. Nonetheless, it is this component that makes
the sequence meaningful and therefore cannot be ignored. In the interest of exploring this
component, a small ethnographic study was carried out involving one-on-one interviews with a
total of 20 participants of diverse backgrounds, who were shown images of monuments from
Ross Bay Cemetery and asked open-ended questions regarding the individuals commemorated,
their reactions to the monuments, and their personal impressions of the identities communicated.
It must be recognized that this discussion isolates the monuments social relations to the current
cultural consciousness, and that interactions with the monument have most certainly changed

Figure 2. Digital enhancement of the damage
evident on the Cook monument. When
compared to Figure 1, the transformation of
the monument and the information it conveys
to viewers is dramatic and meaningful.

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over time. This study is therefore intended to identify the framework for reconstructing the
historical relationship between people and monuments and the implications of this approach for
our understanding of material culture, rather than offering a conclusive narrative of monument-
human interactions through time.

Monuments, Memory and Imagination

People interact with materials from the past on a variety of levels; however the existence of the
material past in the present is a particularly interesting phenomenon with regards to funerary
monuments. Although they are distinctly personal, being designed, produced and modified with
particular individuals in mind, the majority of people who will interact with it will have no direct
knowledge of that individual. Unlike heirlooms and other memory devices that rely on personal
meaning or value to be passed on, preserved and interacted with, the positioning of funerary
monuments in public spaces prescribes a very impersonal set of interactions. In mortuary
archaeology, the motivations and actions of mourners in funerary practice and their material
manifestations are often recognized but the impact of unrelated individuals is rarely considered.
It is for this reason that this discussion will focus on how observers who are in no way connected
to the individual commemorated react to and understand their monument. If the environment and
landscape has physically altered these monuments and the identities that they commemorate, it is
memory that figuratively changes them through interaction and interpretation on multiple levels.
Jones explains that monuments as material culture provide the, intersubjective medium for
modelling the experience of memory... which simultaneously [allows] people to speak of both
personal and collective experiences (2007:43). In my interviews, both forms of memory were
indeed evident in the interactions of participants with monuments from the past; while an
informed, collective memory provided a basic framework, personal, prescribed memory created
meaningful variations in the narratives that participants constructed.

In recording both personal particulars as well as general historical details, monuments
communicate information that helps to situate it within our collective cultural understandings and
memory of the past. For instance, based on a collective, cultural understanding of family, all of
the participants in this study used the word mother to reconstruct familial relationships between
the individuals commemorated, despite the fact that there were no direct references to
relationships on the monument itself. Religious affiliation was also discussed, once again
facilitated by collective understandings of iconography and symbols. The interpretations of lives
recorded on this monument however extend far beyond these basic details. Collective memory of
historical events and time periods, passed on through history classes, popular culture and family
traditions, also informed participants about these individuals. For instance, taking the collective
lives of all of the individuals on this monument, it represents 129 years of lived history.
Collectively then these lives span the founding of Canada, industrialization, both World Wars,
and the Depression, to name a few. Based on the collective Canadian understanding of these
historical events, the same social, political and economic changes were consistently referenced in
describing these individuals identities and lives. In turn, these monuments also became sites of
memory, reminding present observers of these past time periods. As a result of this collective
memory, there were recognizable consistencies in the stories constructed by the diverse group of
participants in this study.


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However, despite common threads that emerged in participants narratives, it was remarkable
that this study of a single monument resulted in many different perspectives regarding the
individuals commemorated on the Cook monument. It quickly became evident that one of the
most significant aspects impacting participants interpretations was not collective memory, but
personal experience. That is, the participants own experiences and beliefs about family, religion,
womens roles, and mortality informed their understandings of this monument. A particularly
telling example emerged in the patterns and variations in how women portrayed Catherine. Upon
considering the inscription of the word mother on the monument, participants from older
generations, particularly those with children, tended to portray Catherine as a mother who was
loved, valued and appreciated by all of her family. Most significantly, participants with children
also discussed Catherine much in the same way as they would describe themselves as mothers
and also seemed to have a more emotional reaction to the monument than women without
children, at times even being moved to tears. In contrast, younger generations of women,
particularly those currently pursuing university degrees at a variety of levels, tended to describe
Catherine in terms of power. These participants were inclined to suggest that we must make the
assumption that Catherine was the most important or dominant figure in the family. Considering
the changes that have occurred in the roles of women in our society over the past fifty years, it is
likely that these varying perspectives of Catherine have resulted from personal experiences and
life histories, rather than a history specific to Catherine and her family. Likewise, individuals
who openly identified themselves as religious discussed religion as a defining feature of
Catherines identity, often supplementing the narratives with personal references to their own
religious experience.

It is evident that as participants discussed the monument, their own personal narratives became
intimately connected with the stories they were constructing about this family. In fact, in viewing
a series of monuments, individuals were more likely to respond to and remember monuments if
they had a personal connection to them. Monuments with names that they were familiar with,
that triggered emotional responses, or that stimulated curiosities reflecting personal knowledge,
were consistently more impactful than monuments that did not communicate an identity that
participants could personally connect with. Despite the frameworks for interpretation provided
by collective cultural understandings, the overarching variations in the personal imaginations
stimulated by a single monument highlight the ways in which monuments act as a medium
through which people can confront and negotiate personal and collective experiences. Personal
experiences and reactions are equally, if not more important in interpreting the past in the present
as collective histories and understandings, as monuments continue to contribute to the social
processes of identity construction both on the part of the observer and the commemorated
identity.

Implications of the Material Afterlife

Superficially, this monument appears like many others from this time period, both within Ross
Bay Cemetery and across the Western world; it could easily be integrated into grand historical
narratives regarding early twentieth-century funerary practices, or even considerations of gender
and family in society. On the micro-scale, it might even be possible through the analysis of
historical records to trace the lives of these particular individuals in greater detail. I have, in
contrast, argued for a different kind of biography, necessary in exploring a more fluid concept of

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identity in mortuary landscapes. This sense of biography and its significance to our
interpretations is premised on the observation that objects can and most certainly do partake in
the social processes of identity construction. However, in contrast to emerging considerations of
objects as agents or persons (Fowler 2004:53-78), the aforementioned placement of funerary
monuments within the public sphere and the fact that most of these monuments outlive the
people that erected them requires us to consider how objects can create new social relationships
and the role that these new relationships have both on the negotiation of the identity
commemorated and on the subsequent people that interact with them. As an anchor for historical
imagination and a stimuli for social processes, this interaction between people and monuments
can in turn govern the relationship between the living and the dead, popular conceptualizations
of the past, and the maintenance, neglect or even destruction of cemeteries in whole or in part.

There are no laws or rules to be written here; there can be no expectations that monuments will
have played the same role throughout history. Nor is the construction of headstone biographies
an end in and of itself. Rather, by recognizing the changing identities materialized in the form of
active and fluid monuments, and by mapping the transforming social relations connected to those
identities, I have highlighted the necessity of looking beyond the event of burial to truly
understand the historical transformation of relationships between the living and the dead. If
monuments are considered to be neither static nor passive, it opens up a new range of methods in
mortuary archaeology to reconstruct identity; sociocultural constructions of mortality and the
past, and the divisions and connections between people and the material world new directions
which require further investigation. While this study restricted itself to one monument and
mainly considered one particular moment in this monuments life, the fact that material objects
accumulate material evidence of changes allows us to access a much longer history from
funerary monuments in both historic and prehistoric contexts; a history that is arguably not
available in other sources. Furthermore, it gives monuments an active role in their own lives; by
understanding the relationships and interactions with the living, we can begin to understand the
impact that this category of material culture has on the preservation and transformation of the
cemeteries within which they exist, and why certain monuments are preserved and glorified over
others. The monument, despite its seemingly static quality, is therefore as fluid as living
individuals and does in fact play an active role in the sociocultural and natural landscape within
which it exists.

Acknowledgements. A special thank you to all of the participants in this study, as well as Dr.
Kostalena Michelaki for inspiring this research project. My appreciation extends to Dr. Aubrey
Cannon, Nadia Densmore, Linda Petch, Meghan Burchell and Ani Chnier for their
contributions, support and insight.

References Cited
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1971 The Reconstruction of Kinship from Archaeological Data: The Concepts, The Methods and
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Barrett, John C.
1994 Fragments from Antiquity: An Archaeology of Social Life in Britain, 29001200 BC.
Blackwell Publishers, Oxford.

Binford, Lewis R.
1971 Mortuary Practices: Their Study and Their Potential. In Approaches to the Social
Dimensions of Mortuary Practices, edited by James A. Brown, pp. 629. Memoirs of the Society
for American Archaeology No. 25. Washington, D.C.

Fowler, Chris
2004 The Archaeology of Personhood: An Anthropological Approach. Routledge, London and
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Gosden, Chris and Yvonne Marshall
1999 The Cultural Biography of Objects. World Archaeology 31:169178.

Holtorf, Cornelius J.
1998 The Life-histories of Megaliths in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (Germany). World

Ingold, Tim
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2007 From Memory to Commemoration. In Memory and Material Culture, edited by A. Jones,
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Kopytoff, Igor
1986 The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process. In The Social Life of
Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, edited by A. Appadurai, pp. 6491. Cambridge
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Laviolette, Patrick
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2004 The Past of the Present. Archaeological Memory and Time. Archaeological Dialogues
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Pader, Ellen J.
1982 Symbolism, Social Relations and the Interpretation of Mortuary Remains. BAR

Parker Pearson, Mike
1993 The Powerful Dead: Archaeological Relationships between the Living and the Dead.
Cambridge Archaeological Journal 3:203229.

Saxe, Arthur A.
1970 Social Dimensions of Mortuary Practices. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, University of
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The King is Dead, Long Live the King: Mimesis and
Identity in the Cultural Projects of the New Order
at Tikal

Joshua Englehardt
Department of Anthropology, Florida State University

ABSTRACT. This paper explores instances in the Classic Maya visual record involving the use
of iconographic appropriation and glyphic imitation to define, reconfigure, or assert control
over group identities. The theoretical perspective of mimesis provides insight into such cases. It
is suggested that Maya rulers imitatively appropriated the symbolism of a distinct other, thus
contributing to a reconfiguration of social identity. This reconfiguration affirmed the power and
sovereign authority of Maya rulers. Particular emphasis is placed on evidence related to the
identities of the individuals involved in the much disputed Teotihuacn arrival at Tikal in A.D.
378 known as the entrada. Through a manipulation of symbolic representations by means of
mimetic association with the prestige of Teotihuacn, the new order rulers of Tikal
metaphorically transformed the symbolic power of a historical event into a new social reality.

I suggest that the utilization of iconography and writing in Mesoamerica (Figure 1) may serve as
potent tools for understanding the creation of identity. I examine specific cases in Classic Maya
iconographic and textual records involving the imitation and appropriation of foreign symbols to
construct, control, or redefine group identities. Such examples yield more nuanced
interpretations when viewed through the theoretical lens of mimesis. I contend that political
actors at the Early Classic period (A.D. 250600) lowland Maya site of Tikal appropriated the
alien symbolism of Teotihuacn in specifically Maya representational and glyphic contexts,
contributing to a redefinition of social identity. This reconfiguration legitimated the power and
sovereign authority of the rulers of Tikal.

I place particular emphasis on evidence related to the identities of the individuals involved in the
entrada, the disputed Teotihuacn arrival at Tikal in A.D. 378. By manipulating symbolic
representations in order to associate themselves with the prestige of Teotihuacn, the new
order rulers of Tikal altered their social identities by metaphorically transforming the symbolic
power of a historical event into a new and mythical social reality. The interpretations I present
elucidate broader issues related to conflation of identity in Classic Maya representational canons
(Houston and Stuart 1998) and factional competition in the Early Classic period Maya lowlands
(Brumfiel 2003).

Theoretical Framework: Mimesis, Identity, and Symbolic Power

Mimesis is a powerful tool for interpreting the ideology behind the construction of symbolic
features on the anthropogenic landscape. Mimesis is the ability to mime, and in doing so become
other (Taussig 1993:xiii, 19). Through mimesis, the distinction between self and other

200 | P a g e

becomes porous and flexible, thereby opening a tactile experience of the world in which the
Cartesian categories of subject and object are not firm, but rather malleable. Paradoxically,
difference is created by making oneself similar to something else through imitation. The
imitative representation acquires the properties of the represented (Taussig 1993:147). The fact
that is the representation is both like and other creates confusion (or emphasizes a
preexisting disorder) in the self-other dichotomy (Taussig 1993:129).

Mimetic incorporation of other into self is intricately linked to what Bourdieu (1989:16, 223)
labels symbolic power, the ability to redefine a cultural reality. Considering objects as material
discourse, the production and reproduction of the symbolic complexes reflected in material
goods exercise active roles in negotiated social values (Clark 2004; Sahlins 1989:14, 1995). In
the practical politics of constructing social position and identity, individuals may variously
reproduce, modify, or reject culture to reconfigure the social world and the positions of those
within it (Clark 2004:2056; Silliman 2001:192).

Mimesis is a thus strategy of social construction. By acquiring the properties of the represented
and confusing notions of self and other, mimesis has the potential to redefine or corrupt existing
social identities. Creative renegotiations of identity expressed in material culture acquire the
ability to transform present social realities through a reconstruction of history (Sahlins 1989,
1995). Through its display in social space the mimetic representation becomes social fact
(Bourdieu 1989; Rabinow 1987). Its veracity is subsequently internalized within the social group
as objective truth (Bourdieu 1989; Foucault 1977).

Figure 1. Map of Mesoamerica detailing sites mentioned in the text. Map by the author.

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The Entrada and the New Order at Tikal

The presence of an alien stylistic and iconographic complex in the Maya lowlands during the
Early Classic period implies a mimetic process in terms of identity construction and status
reinforcement through a renegotiation of the selfother duality. The late fourth century A.D.
arrival of central Mexican strangers in the Maya lowlands, an episode known as the entrada,
exercised a transformative effect matched by few other events in Classic Maya history (Martin
and Grube 2000:29; Stuart 2000). Many scholars argue that the entrada was a militaristic
incursion signaling the beginning of an overt Teotihuacn presence in the Maya lowlands (see
Martin and Grube 2000:2931; Stuart 2000). A mural at Tikals neighboring site of Uaxactn
showing a Maya lord in a gesture of greeting or submission to an armed warrior in Teotihuacn-
style attire supports this contention (Martin and Grube 2000:30). Although some degree of elite
interaction between Teotihuacn and the Maya area prior to the entrada is widely accepted, the
nature of this relationship remains unclear (Braswell 2003:237; Laporte 2003). In the years
following the event, Teotihuacn style artifacts and motifs proliferated throughout the Maya
lowlands.

Indigenous Maya rulers often appropriated prestigious foreign symbols to reinforce their own
local political authority through association with Teotihuacn, which was the preeminent socio
political and economic power of its time in Mesoamerica (Borowicz 2003; Laporte and Fialko
1990; Nielsen 2006). For example, when the dynastic founder of Copn, Kinich Yax Kuk
Mo, took the throne in A.D. 426, he based much of his authority and success on his links to
Teotihuacn. Public and private cultural projects associated with the ruler incorporate the
political and supernatural symbolism of Teotihuacn (see Martin and Grube 2000:1923, 210;
Sharer 2003:145, 163, Figure 5.1).

After the entrada, the new Tikal dynasty was
radically different from the one that preceded it, and
the royal imagery suddenly became Mexican
(Laporte and Fialko 1990; Nielsen 2006). Most of
the sites monuments were either destroyed or
dispersed from the city center to peripheral locations
(Martin and Grube 2000:30). New, Mexican-style
monuments were erected, such as Stela 32 (Figure
2), which broke from earlier iconographic programs
by incorporating ostensibly central Mexican imagery
and visual elements such as tasseled headdresses,
shell necklaces, ear spools, and goggle eyes
(Borowicz 2003; Nielsen 2006).

I explore the identities of the individuals involved in
the Tikal entrada (Figure 3). Various Maya texts
record that on the date January 16
th
, A.D. 378, a
group of foreigners, led by an individual named
Siyaj Kahk, arrived at Tikal. On the same day the
previous king Tok Chak Ichaak died,

Figure 2.Tikal Stela 32, showing a
highland warrior wearing a socalled
tassel headdress in direct Teotihuacn
art style. Drawing by Simon Martin.
Reproduced with the permission of Simon
Martin.

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and a new ruling order
unrelated to the former ruler
was established at the site.
Under Siyaj Kahks
supervision, Yax Nuun Ayiin,
son of the Teotihuacano
Spearthrower Owl (and
therefore presumably a
foreign king), was placed on
the throne. A new dynastic
order, perhaps drawn from the
ruling house of Teotihuacn
itself, took power at Tikal.
The new king Yax Nuun
Ayiin and his descendants
ruled Tikal for the following
three centuries.

Mimesis and Identity in the Cultural Projects of the New Order at Tikal

I focus on the first two new
order rulers of Tikal, Yax
Nuun Ayiin and his son
Siyaj Chan Kawiil, and the
cultural projects associated
with these individuals. Yax
Nuun Ayiin erected only two
monuments during his reign,
both dedicated in A.D. 396,
neither of which portrays
him as a Maya ruler. On
Stela 4 (Figure 4a), he is
wearing a characteristic
Teotihuacn shell necklace,
elaborate Mexicanstyle
headdress, and holding a
possible Teotihuacn
conquest torch bundle in his
left hand (Nielsen 2006:24
5). On Stela 18 (Figure 4b),
Yax Nuun Ayiin holds the
Teotihuacn coat of arms
shield in his lap, with
characteristic tasseled
headdress and goggles
(Nielsen 2006:25). The

Figure 3. Individuals involved in the entrada and the New Order
at Tikal.

Figure 4. Tikal Stelae 4 (a) and 18 (b), depicting Yax Nuun Ayiin
with a blend of Teotihuacn and Maya visual motifs.
Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc,
www.famsi.org. Reproduced with the permission of FAMSI, Inc.

203 | P a g e

portraits of Yax Nuun Ayiin on the side faces of Stela 31 (Figure 5), a monument commissioned
by his son Siyaj Chan Kawiil, and on Uaxactn Stela 5 (see Stuart 2000:469), make his
Teotihuacn affiliations equally overt. These representations depict him as a fully equipped
central Mexican warrior with plated helmet, atlatl spearthrower, and square shield featuring
central Mexican motifs (Martin and Grube 2000:32, 35).

Yax Nuun Ayiins father, the enigmatic individual known as Spearthrower Owl, bears an overtly
Mexican name whose glyphic representation resembles the Teotihuacn lechuza y armas motif
(see Figure 3). Mortuary goods located in Burial 10, the grave of Yax Nuun Ayiin, are executed

Figure 5. Front and side face iconography of Tikal Stela 31, showing Siyaj Chan Kawiil flanked
by two portraits of his father Yax Nuun Ayiin. Foundation for the Advancement of
Mesoamerican Studies, Inc, www.famsi.org. Reproduced with the permission of FAMSI, Inc.

204 | P a g e

in pure Teotihuacn style, incorporating central Mexican iconography and produced using
Mexican techniques of incising and painted stucco (such as a lidded vessel decorated with
Mexican deities and motifs such as a tasseled Mexican-style headdress, atlatl spearthrowers, and
goggle eyes; see Cash 2005:90; Martin and Grube 2000:33; Wright 2005). The cultural projects
associated with Yax Nuun Ayiin incorporate primarily central Mexican iconographic elements
and references, thus presenting the ruler as having an explicit personal link to Teotihuacn.

Despite overt references to Teotihuacn, many aspects of Yax Nuun Ayiins cultural projects
also display Maya characteristics. Insofar as Classic Maya royal portraits may serve as
reflections or embodiments of self (Houston and Stuart 1996, 1998), such amalgamation suggests
a dualistic aspect to the identity of Yax Nuun Ayiin. For example, the Fire God and floating
Kawiil figure above Yax Nuun Ayiins head or the image of the Maya Jaguar God of the
Underworld that he holds in his right hand on Stela 4 are thoroughly Maya in design and
execution and conform to canons of Early Classic royal portraiture (Cash 2005:91; Houston and
Stuart 1996; Nielsen 2006:25). On Stela 18, he is wearing traditional Maya objects, such as the
plaques and ancestor mask attached to his Mayastyle belt. On Stela 31 (Figure 5), in addition to
the side face portraits of Yax Nuun Ayiin as a Teotihuacn warrior, the front face features a
representation of the ruler floating above the head of his son, this time depicted as an ancestral
sun god in purely Maya form (Martin and Grube 2000:34). The Hombre de Tikal figure found in
Yax Nuun Ayiins burial cache also creates a specific link between the new order and the
previous dynasty by employing glyphs that name and provide the tajal chaak or Torch Rain
God epithet of the former king (Martin and Grube 2000:33).

Materials associated with Yax Nuun Ayiin mimetically assimilate Teotihuacn visual elements
into established local conventions. These cultural projects fuse multiple aspects of the rulers
social identity through such conflation. What makes these examples particularly significant is the

juxtaposition of central Mexican symbols in locations traditionally reserved for Maya imagery.
Rather than a replacement of Maya iconographic elements, however, the competing sets of
symbols coexist within a traditional royal portrait. The incorporation of Mexican elements
symbolically disconnects Yax Nuun Ayiin from earlier rulers and distinguishes him as the
figurehead of the new dynastic order. At the same time, the retention of traditional symbolic and
compositional elements maintains a connection with the aesthetic practices of these same
previous rulers (Borowicz 2003:22426; Cash 2005:91). The new order at Tikal consciously
chose to emphasize links to Teotihuacn while at once preserving an association with both the
old regime and traditional lowland Maya representational canons.

Interpretation and Discussion

Who was Yax Nuun Ayiin? His father Spearthrower Owl was almost certainly a foreigner. This
conclusion is suggested not only by his exotic, non-Mayan name, whose representation includes
the atlatl, a ubiquitous central Mexican motif, but also by the recent discovery of the
Spearthrower Owl hill toponym glyph in the compound of Atetelco at Teotihuacn itself
(Nielsen and Helmke 2008). It is significant that Yax Nuun Ayiin has a Mayan name, and that
the textual titles of his wife Chi Jo Nik indicate that she was a local woman (Stela 31 glyph block
A4). A recent strontium isotope analysis indicates that the individual interred in Burial 10, the
grave of Yax Nuun Ayiin, was not a foreigner (Wright 2005). The fact that Yax Nuun Ayiin was

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born and raised in the Petn suggests that his mother was a local woman, perhaps a noble
intimately connected to the previous dynasty (see Martin and Grube 2000:31), and that Yax
Nuun Ayiin had a claim, albeit irregular, to the throne of Tikal via his maternal ancestry.

I depart from previous interpretations of the identity of the new order rulers of Tikal as either
foreign invaders or local individuals unconnected in any way to Teotihuacn (see Borowicz
2003; Braswell 2003:237; Stuart 2000). Rather, I contend that Yax Nuun Ayiin was a member
of a lineage or faction that rivaled the previous dynasty. I speculate that his mother married the
foreign Spearthrower Owl, who was himself a Teotihuacn nobleman or diplomat. There is
evidence for a Teotihuacn presence in the Maya lowlands prior to the entrada (e.g., talud
tablero architecture, green obsidian from the central Mexican Pachuca source, and Teotihuacn
style ceramics; Braswell 2003; Cash 2005). We also know that royal Maya women sometimes
married in this way (Braswell 2003:23). I hypothesize that Spearthrower Owl was invited to
intervene in the dynastic succession at Tikal by a royal faction that included his wife and Siyaj
Kahk after the previous ruler Tok Chak Ichaak died without a suitable heir. In this power
vacuum, a competing group sought to place one of its own on the throne of Tikal. Yax Nuun
Ayiin was selected due to his maternal connections with the old regime. He later ascribed Maya
titles to his father Spearthrower Owl and installed him as overlord of several sites in the Petn to
propagandize his less illustrious pedigree and justify dynastic change, effectively legitimizing the
weakest link in his heritage and mythically connecting himself to Teotihuacn. His actual links
to Teotihuacn may have been weakeror fictitiousmerely serving to validate a somewhat
irregular change in the line of succession among local Tikal royalty.

Evidence that supports my contention is found in the cultural projects of Yax Nuun Ayiins son,
Siyaj Chan Kawiil, the second new order king of Tikal. Siyaj Chan Kawiils Stela 31, dedicated
in A.D. 445, features Teotihuacn iconography and central Mexican imagery while at the same
time presenting these features in a distinctively Maya compositional format. The visual
composition of the monument is consciously archaic in style and largely copied from the earlier
Tikal Stela 29 (Martin and Grube 2000:34). Iconographically, the front face depicts Siyaj Chan
Kawiil adorned in the trappings of Maya kingship (Figure 5). His headdress, though Maya in
form, bears a medallion with the Teotihuacn emblem of an owl, shield, and spears (or possibly
the name of Spearthrower Owl). The headdress also carries the crest of Yax Ehb Xook, the
mythical founder of the Tikal dynasty. Texts on two associated vases list Siyaj Chan Kawiil as
the sixteenth in the line of Yax Ehb Xook, thus making explicit claims to dynastic continuity
(Martin and Grube 2000:34). The texts and iconography of Tikal Stelae 1 and 28, associated with
Siyaj Chan Kawiil, are also executed in a more overtly Maya style and chart the matrilineal
ancestry of Siyaj Chan Kawiil, thus furthering his association with strictly Maya elements, since
his mother Chi Jo Nik was Maya.

The rear face of Stela 31 contains a text of unusual length, which details the entrada the arrival
of strangers (glyph blocks D19D22), the death of the old king (C23C24), and the
establishment of a new dynasty (D23E15; Stuart 2000). The text fails to mention how the
previous ruler Tok Chak Ichaak died. If the entrada was a true conquest, one might expect the
passage to explicitly detail the manner of his death, as often occurs in Maya texts. At glyph
blocks C5, D8, and H18, the text makes special mention of two former rulers of Tikal, Waterlily
Jaguar and Lady Une Balam, apparently to assert a connection between the new order and the

206 | P a g e

previous dynasty. These textual references and Siyaj Chan Kawiils emphasis on the fact that
his mother was a Maya woman (echoed on Stelae 1 and 28) possibly serve to establish precedent
for dynastic continuity through maternal connections, as I suggest occurred with Yax Nuun
Ayiin.

Continuing the assertion of continuity, one passage details Yax Nuun Ayiin ascending the
lineage house (glyph blocks E5F6, tabaay wi te naah), a distinctively Mayan phrase that
links the new order to the old ruling line. Nevertheless, the text also mentions Yax Nuun Ayiins
father, Spearthrower Owl (glyph blocks G21 and H28), suggesting direct ties to Teotihuacn.
The text names Tikals conqueror Siyaj Kahk as och kin kawiil, the kawiil of the west,
(glyph block D21), suggesting that the new order had its roots outside of the Maya lowlands. Yet
both Siyaj Kahk and Spearthrower Owl are ascribed the highest Maya title of kaloomte or
overlord (glyph blocks D22 and H20). Although these individuals are not referred to as ajaw,
the Maya kingly title, they are clearly portrayed as being of noble stock. The Tikal ballcourt
marker text (Martin and Grube 2000:31) specifies that a close connection existed between Siyaj
Kahk and Spearthrower Owl. Stela 31 (glyph blocks F11E15) indicates that Siyaj Kahk
personally oversaw Yax Nuun Ayiins accession, a fact reiterated on Stelae 4 and 18. As a
whole, the data support the idea that Siyaj Kahk was a member of the lineage or house of the
wife of Spearthrower Owl, the mother of Yax Nuun Ayiin.

There is additional evidence to suggest that the individuals involved in the entrada were
members of a competing faction at Tikal that consciously sought to align itself with Teotihuacn
both before and after the historical event. The tombs and artifacts of Group 6CXVI, a noble
residential compound south of the main acropolis, indicate that the families here were connected
to Teotihuacn. For example, the Tikal ballcourt marker found here is almost identical to a
similar object unearthed at Teotihuacn (Laporte 1995, 2005; Martin and Grube 2000:31). This
object is associated with Yax Nuun Ayiin insofar as it details the entrada event, and features
numerous central Mexican iconographic elements. Moreover, by the second half of the third
century, the distinctively Teotihuacn taludtablero architectural style was employed at the
compound (Cash 2005; Laporte 1995, 2003). Group 6CXVI was sacked and abandoned when
the father of Tok Chak Ichaak came to power in A.D. 320, possibly indicating antagonism on
the part of a different faction of nobles. After the entrada, with Yax Nuun Ayiin on the throne,
Group 6CXVI was restored and reinhabited. Additionally, the successors of Siyaj Chan
Kawiil continued the program of mixed central Mexican and Maya symbolism, and mirrored
claims of dynastic justification through matrilineal descent for the next century (e.g., on Stelae 2
and 40; Houston and Stuart 1996; Martin and Grube 2000:37, 39).

A final piece of evidence for the role of internal factionalism in the entrada comes from the site
of Dos Pilas, which was founded in the midseventh century A.D. by a disaffected or ousted
Tikal faction as a rival capital to the Tikal kingdom (Martin and Grube 2000:42). Dos Pilas Stela
11 depicts Ruler 2, Itzamnaaj Kawiil, wearing a jaguar paw mask. Following Carrasco (1995), I
suggest that this mask is a mimetic allusion to the lineage, house, or faction of Tok Chak Ichaak
at Tikal. In this light, the founders of Dos Pilas may have been the losers in the factional power
struggle represented in the entrada event (Martin and Grube 2000:42, 57). By mimetically
incorporating the imagery of the great, longdead king Tok Chak Ichaak, the rulers of Dos Pilas
present themselves as the descendents of the true heirs to the Tikal throne. This fact would

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explain both the use of Jaguar Paw symbolism and the Tikal emblem glyph at Dos Pilas. It may
also suggest that the alliance between Dos Pilas and Calakmul (Martin and Grube:567) was
simply a means for the Dos Pilas outcasts to defeat their rivals at Tikal: factional competition
played out on a larger, regional scale (Brumfiel 2003).

Conclusions: Historical Metaphors and Mythical Identities

Through the mimetic appropriation of Teotihuacn iconographic motifs in lowland Maya
representational and textual contexts, the cultural projects of the new order redefined the identity
of Tikals rulers, undiluted by foreign blood or central Mexican iconography, but reinvigorated
(Borowicz 2003:226; Martin and Grube 2000:34). Though somewhat inverted, the new regime at
Tikal nevertheless kept faith with the old system: the old king is dead, long live the king. The
new order justified its authority through association with Teotihuacn, but it also presented itself
as a standardbearer of continuity and tradition an impressive political maneuver (Martin and
Grube 2000:34). Through a conflation of distinct representational canons, conflicting identities
were merged within a singular context (Houston and Stuart 1996, 1998). Such symbolic
amalgamation illustrates multiple aspects of the represented subjects, drawing power from both
sources, and fusing a dual identity into a single entity represented in text or image.

The concept of mimesis is a useful theoretical tool that can contribute to our understanding of
numerous aspects of ancient Mesoamerican identity formation. I have detailed a redefinition of
the postentrada identity of Tikals rulers: presenting themselves as other allowed these
individuals to appropriate the power and prestige of the (Teotihuacn) other and justify changes
in dynastic succession. Through the conflation of alien and indigenous symbolism,
representations of the entrada and its aftermath became historical metaphors of a mythical
reality, validating practical arrangements of the present through ideological projection as past
(Sahlins 1989:14). The new order at Tikal thus redefined their public image as both the
progenitors and inheritors of the symbolic power associated with the entrada, transforming their
social identities into the quasi-divine subjects of their monuments. The evidence supports the
conclusion that the new order at Tikal was comprised of members of a rival faction that aligned
itself with Teotihuacn to justify its claim to power, both before and after the entrada event.

Acknowledgments. Sincere thanks to Mary Pohl, Michael Carrasco, and Dan Seinfeld for their
suggestions and comments on previous drafts of this paper. All errors of omission or fact are the
sole responsibility of the author.

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Hybrid Objects, Hybrid Social Identities: Style and
Social Structure in the Late Horizon Andes

Cathy Lynne Costin
California State University, Northridge

ABSTRACT. By combining Imperial Inka vessel forms and design elements associated with
local, conquered populations, artisans communicated essential information about identity in the
Inka Empire. Using Peircean concepts of iconic, indexical, and symbolic modes of signification,
I demonstrate how the Inka communicated effectively with their diverse subjects about the
structure of the state generally and how social identity and social relations were conceptualized
in the increasingly heterogeneous world the Inka created.

The vessel illustrated in Figure 1 was among many recovered during the first excavation I took
part in in Peru, at Huaca Chotuna on the North Coast in the early 1980s (Donnan, in press). It
was to an inexperienced first year graduate student working on Moche odd; an Inka form
with a Chim design. At the time nearly three decades ago I didnt pay much attention to
what I thought to be an anomalous Late Horizon vessel in an intrusive burial. I didnt think about
that pot for many years, until I began working with museum collections, recording information
symmetry patterns in Inka designs, hoping that the
design structure of Inka style pots made in the
provinces might tell me something about labor
mobilization in the Inka empire.

Although relatively short lived, at its height (c. 1460
1533 C.E.) the Inka empire was the largest of the pre-
Columbian polities, covering about 775,000km
2
of
Andean South America and incorporating an estimated
1012 million culturally and linguistically diverse
people (Figure 2). Because the Inka lacked a writing
system, material culture played a key role in
communicating socio-politically important
information. The Imperial Inka style was viewed by
archaeologists as highly standardized and the received
wisdom was that the state carefully controlled the
production of most forms of material culture to control
communication about state hegemony and access to
power, wealth, and prestige. I was curious as to how

Figure 1. Chim-Inka hybrid arbalo
from Huaca Chotuna. Photo courtesy
Christopher Donnan.

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the state recruited and trained large numbers
of artisans to produce the items pottery
and textiles that carried potent messages
about identity and associated privileges and
prerogatives. Based on the premise that
underlying symmetry is at least partially
independent from motif, I hypothesized that
the symmetry patterns that underlay
standardized Inka designs in different parts of
the empire might reflect the degree of
diversity in the imperial workforce. But that
is another story (and another paper).

For a long time, Inka scholars held the
somewhat contradictory notions that the Inka
style was monolithic, but that material culture
associated with the empire could be
categorized as Imperial Inka, Provincial Inka,
and Mixed-Inka. The Imperial (or Cuzco)
Inka style was represented by objects that
scholars believed conformed most closely to
formal and stylistic canons characteristic of
the imperial heartland. While not necessarily
all made in Cuzco, these objects were likely
produced by artisans closely trained and
supervised by state personnel. The Provincial
Inka style was more heterogeneous,
exemplified by objects generally conforming
to imperial formal and stylistic canons, but
exhibiting a greater range of morphological,
design, raw material, and/or color variation
than Cuzco-Inka. It is generally accepted that
these vessels were manufactured throughout
the empire by artisans recruited, trained, and
supervised by imperial personnel or their deputies. Mixed-Inka styles are the most
heterogeneous of the styles, as they combined Inka

In the process of recording standard Inka vessels in museum collections, I came upon drawers
full of pots that looked remarkably like that mutant pot from my early graduate days. These
were Inka forms, but they had been manufactured with Chim technology and they bore
unmistakably Chim designs. At that point, I was definitely interested in ceramic variability in
the Inka empire, and I was intrigued. If state production was so carefully controlled, where did
these well-made, but seemingly aberrant vessels fit in in terms of messages and state strategies
for controlling social status and identity in the empire?

Figure 2. Map of the Inka Empire c. 1533 C.E.,
with locations discussed in text indicated.

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Table 1. Comparison of the attributes of Inka and Chim pottery.
Chimu Inka
Formation technique(s) Mold made; paddle and
anvil
Handmade - coiled
Firing treatment/color Smoked and/or reduced
blackware
Oxidized bi-chrome or
polychrome
Type of decoration Generally figurative Generally geometric
Decorative technique(s) Press-molded; modeled;
paddle-stamped
Painted
Design Structure Scattered Ordered
Common Vessel Forms Stirrup spout bottle; round-
bottomed jar
Arbalo; small plates

Chim-Inka hybrids are among the easiest to spot, because
the Chim and Inka styles are so different from one another
technologically, formally, and stylistically (Table 1). But
further investigation made it clear that Inka and local styles
were being combined hybridized in many other parts
of the empire as well (see, for example, Acuto A.
2010:Figure 5.8; Hyslop 1993:Figure 3; Menzel 1976:Plate
51.38).

What is more, the hybridization seemed to happen in a fairly
systematic way. The hybrid pots were not hodge-podge
vessels made by potters even highly skilled Wones
playing around with shapes and motifs. Moreover, local
forms almost never bore Inka designs. Rather, with just rare
exception, when local and Inka elements were combined, the
product was an Inka form bearing local designs. And,
equally intriguing, the hybrid vessels were almost all one
vessel form: the Inka arbalo.

The arbalo was a particularly potent object with which to convey ideas about social organization
and social identity across the vast expanse of the Inka empire because it employed different
modes of signification to communicate ideas about the imperial social and political order. Using
the Peircean concepts of iconic, indexical, and symbolic modes of signification (Preucel
2006:5666), it is possible to consider both how the Inka communicated effectively with their
diverse subjects and make a plausible reading of the content of those messages. In understanding
how the arbalo served as icon, index, and symbol of the state, we see first how these vessels
functioned generally to convey information about the structure of the state. Turning specifically
to stylistically hybrid arbalos, we see additionally how social identity and social relations were
conceptualized in the increasingly heterogeneous world the Inka created.

The arbalo clearly had an indexical relation to the Inka state: the Inka state had a clear, real
connection to this object. The indexicality of the arbalo derives from the states direct
association with the presence, manufacture, and distribution of these vessels. The arbalo is a

Figure 3. Typical Cuzco-Inka
arbalo.

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distinctive form, with its tall neck, flaring rim, and conical base (Figure 3). It is associated only
with the Late Horizon Inka; no other Andean group made arbalos. Find that particular flaring
rim, gracefully curving neck, or conical base and you know even if the surface is so highly
eroded that you cant recognize the surface treatment or designs youre dealing with an
Inka vessel. Thus, the arbalo form is indexical of the Inka state, not only to archaeologists,
but, I would suggest, to Late Horizon Andean people as well. Although there are more than a
dozen vessel shapes characteristic of the imperial Inka style, only four are found outside of the
imperial heartland, in the provinces, in anything beyond miniscule numbers (Bray 2004). In
addition to the arbalo, these forms are a short-necked bottle, a one-footed olla, and a small,
shallow plate (Bray 2003). All are forms associated with state ritual and feasting. The arbalo is
by far and away the most common of these four forms, comprising more than 50 percent of
diagnostic Inka sherds in the provinces
1
. The total amount of Inka-style pottery varies quite
widely throughout the empire, but regardless of overall quantities, arbalos are always the most
plentiful form.

The arbalo was connected to the Inka state not only because its occurrence was co-terminus with
the physical limits of the state, but also because these vessels were manufactured and distributed
under the direct or indirect auspices of the state. State control (or at least patronage) of the
production of Imperial and Provincial Inka ceramics those that employ both Inka forms and
Inka designs is well documented in the literature (see, for example, Costin 2001; D'Altroy
and Bishop 1990; D'Altroy et al. 1998; Hayashida 1995, 1998, 1999). Arbalos were
manufactured in two sizes: large and small (Miller 2004). The large ones which are relatively
rrare were likely used to store and serve
a liquid, probably chicha (maize beer). The
much more common small ones probably
functioned as canteens, used to transport
and consume liquids. It is often argued that
the small arbalos were distributed by the
state during feasts at which they feted
conquered rulers and local work parties
completing their tribute labor obligations
(e.g., Morris 1982, 1993; Morris and
Thompson 1985). Thus, both manufacture
and distribution took place under the
auspices of the state. The arbalo, then,
served as an indexical sign of the presence
of the Inka state, tied directly to imperial
conquest, state hospitality and labor
control. It held additional meaning as an
iconic representation of the nature of the
state.

Fundamentally, the arbalo represented a
body (cf. Bray 2000). These vessels often
had faces modeled on their necks, and their designs reproduce textile designs in a way that
suggests the arbalo represents a dressed body (Figure 4). In the Andean world, the clothed body

Figure 4. Inka arbalo. American Museum of
Natural History 41.1 8084.

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located the individual within the social order (Classen 1993:145). Throughout the Andes,
clothing was the primary marker of ones social identity: style, cut, and design signaled ethnicity,
class, gender, and other aspects of social identity. At the time of the Spanish conquest, the Inka
state was highly stratified, with ones place in the hierarchy defined by ethnicity, socioeconomic
status, and ones role in the complex system of occupational specialization. As a concomitant of
this system where social identity determined ones social, political, and economic
prerogatives the state was apparently deeply concerned with expressing and reinforcing the
social and physical place of subjugated populations in the empire. The ethnohistoric and
archaeological records suggest that the state was actively involved in maintaining rigid
distinctions of status and ethnicity through practices that regulated dress, residence, and the
consumption of material goods. It is generally agreed that textiles designs conveyed information
about social identity, although whether such information was genealogical, heraldic, ethnic,
hierarchical, and/or occupational is open to debate (Bray 2000; Cummins 2007; Durland 1991;
Rowe 1996; Stone 2007; Zuidema 1991)
2
. Among the Inka, using clothing to distinguish among
ethnic groups was established in their foundation myths and codified in their legal system. To
take a persons clothing was to strip them of their identity altogether; 4000 plus years of Andean
political art indicates that the most devastating way to humiliate someone was to parade them
naked (e.g., Donnan and McClelland 1999:Figure 4.7; Lapiner 1976:Figures 627646; Verano
1986:Figure 26). Political domination was demonstrated by confiscating and in some instances
trampling over the clothing of defeated groups (Betanzos 1996[1557]:89). Thus, the arbalo, as
dressed body, had the potential to convey symbolic information about how social identity and
social relations were constructed in the empire.

Mary Douglas (1996) argues the body is a natural symbol for society, an idea echoed for the
Inka by Cummins (2007), who further suggests that the emperor could stand metonymically for
the empire. The Inka-style arbalo doesnt represent just any body. It is the embodiment of
Inka as ethnic group, as class, and as the state. In sum, the form and decoration of Cuzco
and Provincial Inka arbalos were highly significant, reflecting messages about the embodiment
of identity and the state.

What does this general understanding of how the Inka arbalo conveyed meaning tell us about
hybrid vessels and the way they conveyed information about social identity and social relations
in the provinces? What does it mean when we find this vessel form decorated with locally
meaningful designs? If Inka style arbalos reflect bodies dressed as Inkas, what does it signify
when the arbalo bears local designs, that is, when you have the Inka body dressed as I will
argue below in local garments? There are several possible interpretations. First, the
ethnohistoric documents indicate that when the Inka emperor visited a conquered area, he
dressed in local clothing. Perhaps these vessels commemorated such visits, with the hybrid
arbalo literally representing the Inka in local garb. Second, it is possible that these hybrid
vessels reflected the states standpoint on the incorporation of conquered ethnic groups into the
Inka social order, modeling how formerly autonomous groups were to be absorbed into the
imperial structure. A third possibility is that the vessels communicated local elites claims that
they, too, were legitimate members of the imperial body, warranting a secure place within the
social and political hierarchy. Such assertions might have reflected their acceptance of a new
social charter, or they might have represented resistance or protest on the part of former rulers at
least partially disenfranchised by the imposition of provincial rule. In the first case, local elites

216 | P a g e

might well have sought to maintain or enhance their social standing in part by appropriating the
symbolic language of their new overlords and thereby signaling their willingness to participate in
the provincial bureaucracy. In the later, they might have co-opted the Inkas own mode of
signification to assert their views. Or the local colonized elites might have been simultaneously
representing both their recognition of their subjugation and their resistance to the total authority
of the Inka Empire.

How are we to choose among these explanations? In this paper, I focus primarily on hybrid Inka-
Chim vessels from the North Coast, but also bring in available evidence from other parts of the
empire. It is possible that hybrids had different significance in different parts of the empire,
given the great cultural, social, economic, and political variability among the peoples conquered
by the Inka. However, I suggest that the core signification was similar throughout the empire
because the message conveyed was apt in a wide variety of contexts. As with Imperial and
Provincial Inka arbalos, I consider the indexical, iconic, and symbolic signification of the hybrid
vessels.

A key step in evaluating the various possible explications of these hybrid vessels is to determine
whether they had an indexical relationship to the Inka state similar to that of the arbalos that
bore Inka decorative motifs. Although chronological control is somewhat tricky, it appears that
hybrid arbalos like Imperial and Provincial Inka ceramics are found only in areas under
the direct control of the state. It is also necessary to consider under whose auspices the hybrids
were produced and distributed. The production of hybrid vessels in particular is difficult to
identify, given the nature of the data recovered at production facilities (mostly broken sherds and
misfired vessels whose form and/or decoration are often difficult to identify in the first place).
However, we do have some evidence for the context in which at least some hybrids were
manufactured. Smoked blackware arbalos were probably being manufactured at the two Late
Horizon production locales that have been studied on the North Coast, as evidenced by the
recovery of molds and wasters for both Chim and Inka forms at the same sites (Donnan 1997;
Hayashida 1999). There is also clear evidence that the state controlled the production and
distribution of hybrids in the Calchaqu Valley of northwestern Argentina (Acuto A. 2010; see
also Hyslop 1993). Because it is reasonable to conclude that the production of hybrids took place
under the auspices of the state, it is also reasonable to conclude that they communicated
messages of importance to the state, rather than messages originating among the local, conquered
population.

It also appears that the messages conveyed by the hybrid arbalos were aimed at the local
population, particularly along the coast. Unfortunately, most of the vessels with which I have
worked have, shall we say, less than stellar provenience information. The few that come from
scientifically excavated burials, however, do share one feature: the individuals with whom they
were buried were locals, not transplanted Inka officials (Donnan in press; Menzel 1976).
Although the handful of burials for which we have data might not be fully representative, it
appears that none of the individuals buried with the hybrids also had Inka-style vessels with
them. But they were elites, not commoners.

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I turn now to the iconic and symbolic
signification of hybrid vessels. In deploying
these stylistically hybrid vessels among the
conquered populations, the Inka tapped into
pan-Andean tropes, Inka concepts and locally-
salient images. The particular way they
combined hybridized these elements
communicated politically and ideologically
potent ideas about the relationships among the
conquering Inka and various blocs within the
provincial, subordinate population.

The metaphor of pot as body is likely one the
Chim and other conquered groups would
have understood; this appears to be a pan-
Andean association. The Moche ancestors of
the Chim went so far as to intentionally break
anthropomorphic ceramic vessels when they
dismembered real human beings during their
sacrifices (Bourget 2001). Many of the hybrid
vessels designs are similar to those found on
textiles. As with the Imperial and Provincial
style Inka arbalos, the hybrid arbalos often
specifically reference dressed bodies. Thus, I
think the intent was to make reference to both
ethnic identity and social status in the
decoration of the hybrid pots, just as with the
Cuzco Inka and Provincial Inka style arbalos.
Another vessel strongly illustrates this point. A Late Horizon Chim vessel found in burial
near the one where the Chim-Inka arbalo illustrated in Figure 1 was found depicts a human
figure who has been transformed into a vessel by virtue of the placement of an arbalo-like
flaring rim on his head (Figure 5). The clothing of this figure is carefully rendered depicting a
typical elite Chim style tunic with zigzag design and lower hem fringe (see, for example, Rowe
1984:Plate 1, Figure 91). The association between clothing and identity was well understood on
the North Coast; the Chim also paraded their captives naked (Lapiner 1976:Figures 627646),
presumably to reflect the stripping of their personhood.

In general, the motifs on the Chim-Inka hybrids have deep antiquity on the North Coast and are
distinctive of that place. Cummins (2007:292293) suggests that Inka toqapu designs found
on textiles, ceramics, and other objects were signifying devices that represented territorial
units and the social groups that ruled them. Thus, the placement of North Coast symbols on
imperial vessels further emphasized the incorporation of Chim territory and royalty into the
Inka social and political spheres. The nature of hybridization in ceramic art placing Chim
symbols with deep, local antiquity on Inka bodies suggests how the Inka might have co-
opted Chim genealogies into their own system in order to justify and legitimize the role of

Figure 5. Late Horizon Chim vessel with man
in the form of an arbalo. Photo courtesy
Christopher Donnan.

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Chim leaders in the imperial
structure. The Inka legitimized their
authority over conquered
populations by manipulating
general Andean ideologies of
kinship. As Moore (2004:84) points
out, the Inka conceptualized social
order by extending a ramifying,
lineage-based system that allowed
for ranking and inclusion. The
Inka themselves recognized human
hybrids in their social ranking,
recognizing the offspring between
ethnic Inka elites and their
secondary provincial wives as
occupying an intermediary
kin/status group (Silverblatt
1987:68; Zuidema 1990). More
broadly, after conquest, the Inka in
essence rewrote local origin myths
to unite them into a single
ramifying genesis, drawing local
mythohistories into large Inka
imperial ideologies (Cummins
2007; Zuidema 1982). Hybridity
can allow people to be part of two
groups at the same time (Gilchrist
2005), yet show the
interconnections among them. It is
to this notion of distinct but
conjoined identities that I suspect
the hybrid vessels refer; all are part
of the larger body of Inka empire,
but each people, each ethnic group,
maintains its separate identity.

Although the nature of Inka rule
varied widely throughout the
Empire (cf. D'Altroy 1992;
D'Altroy et al. 2000; Wernke 2006),
there was a need to express this distinct but conjoined relationship between the state and
conquered populations as a matter of governing principle in a variety of contexts. In the North
Coast case, consider the power balance between the Chim and the Inka at the time of the
conquest and the Inkas need to rely on local elites to govern the province. When discussing the
Inka Empire, we usually think about it at its full extent. However, at the time the Inka conquered
the Chim, the two polities were roughly the same size in terms of territorial extent (Figure 6).

Figure 6. Map of probable extent of Chim and Inka
polities soon before the Inka conquest of the Chim,
c.1460 C.E.

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Given that the coastal areas were more heavily populated than the highlands, it is plausible that
the Chim Empire was more heavily populated at the time than the Inka Empire. Furthermore,
the Chim had hundreds of years of administrative experience and a sophisticated political
economy. In contrast, the Inka were relatively young upstarts and there is little evidence for
complex administrative or economic institutions prior to their conquest of the North Coast. Thus,
rather than suggesting a situation where the Inka were immediately capable of dominating the
Chim economically and politically, it is probable that the Chim were both technologically and
politically more complex than the fledgling Inka empire, suggesting that the Chim could have
had a strong impact on Inka material and political culture. Indeed it is widely accepted that large
numbers of highly skilled Chim artisans were pressed into the state-sponsored production
system and that the Chim imperial system might have strongly influenced Inka statecraft
(Conrad 1981; Rowe 1946; Shimada 2000; Topic 1990).

The Chim, then, presented the Inka with a tremendous administrative challenge. The Chim
were big, they were well-organized, and they had lots of stuff the Inka wanted: skilled artisans,
metal, intensive agriculture. Unlike other parts of the empire where the Inka constructed
provincial administrative centers in the imperial architectural style and imported quantities of
state style material culture such as pottery, there is a relative paucity of imperial style material
culture on the North Coast. This is usually interpreted as a sign of the Inkas respect for the
Chim and/or a reflection of the Inka practice of indirect rule. I think the relationship was more
subtle and more contentious, and I think the hybrids can help us understand how identity was
constructed and manipulated in the empire.

Although the relationship between the Inka and the Chim was somewhat unique, the state
needed to make clear a similar relationship between itself and those who served it in a variety of
social and political contexts. Hybrids likely reflect a particular set of statuses/relationships within
the empire. Particularly in the highly stratified coastal provinces, the hybrids likely reflected Inka
strategies for co-opting elites as separate and not-quite-equal. In other areas, where conquered
populations were less stratified prior to incorporation into the empire, they might have reflected
other forms of service to the state. Hyslop (1993) notes that some hybrid ceramics are found far
from the territory of the local component of the hybrid style. For example, Inka-Diaguita hybrids
have been found on the eastern side of the Andes in present-day Argentina; the Diaguita are
indigenous to the western side of the Andes in what is present-day Chile. Hyslop argues that this
stylistically hybrid pottery pertains to mitmaqkuna, groups resettled by the state for a variety of
economic, political, and defensive reasons (D'Altroy 2002; Rowe 1982). Mitmaqkuna were given
land and other resource rights in the areas in which they were resettled, but were required to live
in their own communities, retain their own ethnic material culture, and not assimilate with the
local population. Early colonial court cases suggest they were viewed with suspicion perhaps
as Inka collaborators by the people among whom they were settled (Murra 1978). Like local
elites co-opted into the state bureaucracy, mitmaqkuna occupied an interstitial position in the
local sociopolitical territories where they resided. While the mitmaqkuna served a different
function in the state than did local elites serving in provincial bureaucracies, the use of hybrid
vessels in both suggests that they were integrated conceptually into the empire in similar ways.
Alternatively, the out-of-place hybrids might represent non-ethnic Inka bureaucrats who
served as low-level state administrators outside their traditional homelands.


220 | P a g e

Because I suggest that these hybrids were manufactured in state facilities, I think that it was the
state that was consciously acting to literally incorporate local claims to power and authority
while at the same time providing state authorization for the work of local elites, what is
sometimes called authoritative hybridization (Alonso 2004). We know that local leaders who
were co-opted into the bureaucratic system did not become Inka; this would violate the Inka
class system that based identity on ethnic origin as much as on sociopolitical status. What the
Inka did was pull cooperative local leaders into the constellation of imperial consiglieres, much
the same way the state co-opted the deities and huacas (sacred objects and places) of subject
populations as subordinate, but respected components of the imperial pantheon and ritual
structure. The nature of hybridization in ceramic art placing Chim and other ethnic symbols
with deep, local antiquity on Inka bodies suggests how the Inka co-opted the genealogies of
other ethnic groups into their own system in order to justify and legitimize their role in the
imperial structure.

I hope that this paper has shown how analysis of how vessel shape and design schemes were
systematically hybridized can yield insight into how identity was conceptualized, constructed
and communicated in times of status and class redefinition during Inka imperial consolidation.
By conveying information about these newly constructed identities in three ways iconocally,
indexically, and symbolically the Inka ensured it would reach the broadest possible audience
in their multi-ethnic, multi-lingual society. Creating and promulgating new identities for some
conquered and co-opted groups in particular local elites who worked in the provincial
bureaucracy but also commoners relocated for state service as mitmaqkuna was part of the
Inka imperial strategy. Chim and other non-Inka elites might have embraced or at least acceded
to these hybrid identities as offering them the most privileges and prerogatives after the
conquest, with connections to their local communities as well as to the imperial administration.
While pan-Andean constructs were used to communicate these new identities, the underlying
principles were Inka, reflecting the ultimate balance of power in the Late Horizon.

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Notes

1
Interestingly, arbalos comprise under 30 percent of diagnostic Inka sherds in the Imperial
heartland, in large measure because the other forms are more plentiful.

2
Zuidema (1977) has argued that some designs might have had a calendrical meaning.


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Sex, Drugs and Rock Gods: Examining Nicaraguan
Stone Sculptures

Sacha Wilke
Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1 (sjawilke@ucalgary.ca)

ABSTRACT. The possibilities of migration and the extent of contact between Mesoamerica and
Lower Central America have been debated for years. Monumental artworks represent a dynamic
aspect of most Mesoamerican cultures. Generally, Lower Central America lacks a similar
example of a show of power. One exception is the stone sculptures of the Islands of Lake
Nicaragua and the Chontales region, just north of the lake. The styles and techniques present on
the Nicaraguan sculptures will be examined as well as their possible functions, in an attempt to
determine if these sculptures are the result of the diffusion of ideas from Mesoamerica, or show
independent innovation.

Monumental artwork is known throughout Mesoamerica; from Maya Stelae to the Olmec
colossal heads. The great civilizations of Mesoamerica asserted their place in history through
monumental constructions displaying powerful individuals, events in time and religious doctrine.
As we move south out of Mesoamerica we see fewer and fewer grand artworks. While many
examples of monumental artwork exist in Central America, this paper will examine the stone
sculptures found on the Islands of Lake Nicaragua and the Chontales Region, Nicaragua.

A high level of complexity can be seen in these sculptures which suggest that they were the
product of a long standing local tradition, but one that had substantial regional variation (Stone
1961:195). This tradition was likely based in wood carvings which would not preserve,
preventing them from being known archaeologically (Easby and Scott 1970:236). Stone
(1961:198) notes that the ability of the artist to apply techniques that combine realistic and
stylistic elements required a mastering of the material employed suggesting the artists were
familiar with both the shape and material being utilized.

Sourcing of these statues has been problematic. With the exception of the newly discovered and
documented statues found at Nawawasito (Geurds 2009), the exact provenience of the sculptures
is not known making sourcing and dating impossible. Multiple estimates have been made for the
production dates of sculptures, ranging between A.D. 3001520 (Baudez 1970; Bruhns
1982:152153; Haberland 1973; Navarro 2007; Stone 1977), based on the ceramics associated
with statues. Obtaining secure dates for these sculptures and defining their association with sites
continues to be investigated and debated.

Two main styles of Nicaraguan stone sculptures will be examined in this paper; the alter-ego
Island-style found on Ometepe and Zapatera Islands in Lake Nicaragua, and the columnar
Chontales sculptures of the Chontales region, Nicaragua. This paper will focus on three aspects
of the statues; identification markers; supernatural connection and possible functions. Once these

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aspects have been examined, they will be compared to their Mesoamerican counterparts to
evaluate the level of Mesoamerican influence on their creation.

Identification Markers

The two styles of statuary show drastic stylistic differences. The Island-styles were carved to
create three dimensional images, characterized by a combination of anthropomorphic and
zoomorphic images. The human figure is usually devoid of individualistic characteristics. In
contrast, the Chontales-style statues range from grooved etching to low-relief carvings. These
generally consist of rounded, column-shaped statues with an adorned primary human figure, and
a small zoomorphic image.

The most common of the Island-styles are the so called alter-ego style. The predominant animal
motifs include crocodiles, birds of prey (possibly eagles), jaguars, and deer (Haberland
1973:146). These animals are depicted either worn on the head like a mask or headdress, or as
the full animal seemingly crawling
up the back and onto the head of
the principal figure. From the
front, most of these sculptures
look simple. The human figures
are not well shaped, with little
effort made to make them appear
natural. Instead, simple lines were
carved to distinguish between
torso and arms, while, the faces
are blank or shown simple facial
features. When viewing the image
from the side, however, full
details can be seen that allow us to
identify the type of animal
depicted (Figure 1). That we can
still see clearly the zoomorphic
component while the human face
is blurred suggests that this
component was carved in greater
detail; the difference in modern
appearance cannot have resulted
simply from erosion over time. To
further obscure the human
component, the protruding
position of the headdress over the
primary figure would cause
significant shadows across the
human face, further obscuring the
individuality of the human figure.
The zoomorphic portion

Figure 1. Island-style statue with detailed anthropomorphic
element. Convento de San Francisco, Granada, Nicaragua.
Photo by Fernando Moreira.

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represents between one-quarter and one-third of the total
height of each statue, further reinforcing the importance of
the animal over the human.

While some variation exists in shape, the majority of
Chontales-style statues are columnar, with designs
representing personal ornamentation and facial features
carved in low relief. It should be noted that a range exists
regarding the amount of detail and naturalistic portrayal of
these figures. In particular, arms, and often legs, show
variation with regards to the degree of naturalism. The
unique features of each statue suggest that they were created
to represent a specific individual, rather than a deity or other
supernatural force with a rigid set of identification markers.
These figures are frequently combined with a small
zoomorphic element (located either on the head or less
frequently at the waist).

The personal adornments of the Chontales statues consist of
geomorphic designs placed in areas to show headdresses,
necklaces, pendants, and arm and leg bands (Figure 2).
These designs focus on serpent motifs, often mimicking
patterns likely seen in textiles (Zeyala-Hidalgo et al. 1974),
and some may be indicative of body painting or tattooing
(Bruhns 1992:351).

Where possible, identifying the gender of the individuals
depicted in these statues may provide information regarding
gender relations in everyday life. While all the statues
appear naked, many are asexual (Disselhoff and Linne
1960:120). Both males and females are represented in the
sample of statues with biological indicators of sex,
reinforcing that both sexes held important roles within
society.

At the Convento de San Francisco museum, in Granada, Nicaragua, which houses 30 Island-
style statues, the ratio between asexual and male figures is roughly equal, with only two
examples of females identified. Many of the presumably male statues show evidence of the
removal of sexual organs.

The presence of a deer instead of one of the more predatory animals seen on other sculptures
may be indicative of a powerful female figure. While a buck would represent a power force, this
figures lacks the antlers that would serve to emphasize the animals power, and appears instead
to be a doe. Another statue with a bird headdress is distinctly female due to the presence of
breasts (see Navarro 2007:Figure 14). This bird is different from other styles as it lacks the
curved beak and menacing eyes, instead portraying an upturned rounded beak.

Figure 2. Chontales-style statue
showing detailed ornamentation.
The Museo Arqueolgico
Gregorio Aguilar Barea,
Juigalpa Chontales, Nicaragua.
Photo by author.

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The Chontales-style figures show more variation in the depiction of sexual organs.
Male genitalia are depicted with the presence of three circles (one up, two down), while the
depictions of female genitalia are more subjective and include realistic, concentric circles, and a
possible flower design. Many figures show raised bumps on the chest, but as they occur on both
male and female forms they do not necessarily represent breasts. Both male and female
representations appear with the zoomorphic element and the styles of adornments are similar for
both sexes.

Supernatural Significance

Helms (1992:321) relates stone sculptures to the
supernatural world, as the ability to work raw materials
into intricate ornamentation endowed the creator with
mystical properties. The raw material itself may have
been thought to possess some supernatural qualities as
well, but the act
of working the material into usable goods provided
much of their aesthetic, sociopolitical, and symbolic
value (Helms 1992:321). The individual who
commissioned the work would gain the supernatural
boost from the construction of the sculpture with the
establishment of a large public symbol; the statue not
only acting as evidence of an individuals high status,
but also betraying a need to convey personal capability
(Helm 1992:323).

Animals are prominent images represented on the large
sculptures of Zapatera and Ometepe Islands occurring
both on their own and along with a human figure. These
monumental figures have commonly been thought to
represent supernatural interaction with an animal spirit
and are most closely associated with shamanism
(Bruhns 1992:332. Throughout Central America, the
interaction between human and animal has also been
associated with the use of hallucinogenic substances to
assist in the physical transformation of human into
jaguar or the acquisition of animalistic qualities (Cooke
1993:187).

The appearance of deep-set oval eyes on some Chontales-style statues (Figure 3) may be
interpreted as a sign of intentional drug use to instigate hallucinations (Carrie Dennett, personal
communication 2009). If this is the case, the combination of oval eyes with zoomorphic images
may represent an animal spirit associated with a shaman figure.

Figure 3. Chontales statue with large
eyes. Statue from The Museo
Arqueolgico Gregorio Aguilar
Barea, Juigalpa Chontales, Nicaragua.
Photo by author.

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Of the four major classes of animals
represented in the Island-style, three
represent fierce predators. Animal
headdresses were first seen in Mesoamerica
in the Acatlan region of Oaxaca
in the Late Protoclassic (AD 1150) and
were worn by warriors to give them the
characteristics of that animal (Easby and
Scott 1970:171). Political and religious
leaders also aligned themselves with the
power of these animals. It cannot be
overlooked that these three animals occupy
different levels of the world, and can
transverse between them with little
difficulty. By commissioning and/or
carving one of these statues, the individual
represented is symbolically connecting him
or herself with the qualities of the animal
they are depicted with.

Over sixty percent of the Chontales-style
sculptures housed at the Museo Arqueolgico
Gregorio Aguilar Barea in Juigalpa Chontales, Nicaragua have
evidence of a miniature animal on the head
of the primary figure (Figure 4), assumed
by Zelaya-Hidalgo et al. (1974:3) to be a
visual representation of a guardian animal
or the animal soul of the individual. These
zoomorphic images are distinct from their Island counterparts in that they represent a much
smaller part of the statue. While the Island statue animals seem to overpower the human, the
animals of the Chontales sculptures are more subtle. The smaller size could be interpreted as
representing an animal spirit, while the larger zoomorphic images on the Island-styles could
represent a transformation into the animal or the acquisition of the animals qualities.

Possible Functions

Reports suggest that the Nicaraguan statues were first encountered in association with earthen
mounds and plazas (Easby and Scott 1970:242; Haberland 1973:136), though they may have
been moved prior to European discovery obscuring the original contexts for these works (Bruhns
1992:352). New statues documented from the site of Nawawasito in the Chontales region are
associated with open plazas, and well-constructed rectangular rock mounds, finally giving in-situ
context to the possible connections between these statues and the landscape (Geurds 2009).

Figure 4. Chontales statue with animal on the
head. Statue from The Museo Arqueolgico
Gregorio Aguilar Barea, Juigalpa Chontales,
Nicaragua. Photo by Christina Pitre.

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The close association between
statues and these ritually or
ceremonially significant areas
suggests the statues were
important at the ritual events
occurring there. If these statues
were meant to represent social
roles instead of individuals, they
may have also represented the
ceremonial occasions when these
roles were performed for long
periods of time (Carrie Dennett,
personal communication 2009)
and have acted as a reminder of
these occasions throughout the
year. I suggest that the Island
sculptures depict participants in
ritual events due to the strained
posture seen in many of the
human figures as participation in
elaborate ceremonies may have
required a person to hold a
specific position for long periods
of time. In some statues, the
human figures appear to be
bracing themselves against the
weight of the animal on their head
(Figure 5). The further the head is
inclined forward, the more support
the arms seem to provide. The
creation of a permanent public
image representing an occasion
allowed any event to be shared throughout time and space, even by those not present at the time
of the event. The result is a strong correlation between the power of the event and the social and
political realms of home (Helms 1992:320).

Discussion

Nicaraguan sculptures contrast with their Mesoamerican counterparts in both style and, likely,
function. In style, Mesoamerican sculptures depict major rulers or gods and often relate to
specific moments or events that influence a large population (Demarest 2007). The figures are
heavily saturated with identification markers such as personal adornments, political and religious
symbols, and glyphs telling who the individual was and why they were important (Freidel and
Schele 1988). They were used to convey messages to the masses. The messages were of
greatness, territorial boundaries, or fierce brutality which would instill fear in enemies. The
statues from Nicaragua do not seem to display the same types of information.

Figure 5. Alter-ego statue with bracing arms. Convento de
San Francisco, Granada, Nicaragua. Photo by Fernando
Moreira.

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The sculptures from the Islands reflect a de-emphasis of the individual, instead emphasizing
social identity through the symbols that surround the primary figure. The emphasis is placed on
the details of the zoomorphic images suggesting the role the individual played was more
important than the actual person filling that role. The lack of adornments on the anthropomorphic
figure makes identifying gender impossible and often sexual markers are lacking.
The emphasis on the zoomorphic component of the Island statues suggests that the animal
imagery was the most important part of the message conveyed to the observer. The isolated
nature of both Zapatera and Ometepe Islands likely would have made daily commutes to or from
the mainland unlikely. However, ceramic and lithic evidence suggest that the island sites were
either highly integrated with the mainland, or simply remote camps for those mainland groups
(Brett Watson, personal communication 2010). Based on this relationship between sites, it is not
likely the statuary served as territorial markers.

The Chontales statues show more detail in the decorative aspects of the images. These statues
likely represent specific individuals, but they lack the standardization of iconography and wide-
spread recognition of Mesoamerican examples. Though themes exist in the ornamentation of the
Chontales statues, enough variation is present to suggest that the same individual was not
represented more than once. As no two Chontales-styles statues are the same, or even strikingly
similar, it can be inferred that specific individuals were represented who would have been
important to a specific time and place. The adornments and markings on these figures do not
correlate with decorative motifs elsewhere in the material collection so correlations between
design and supernatural associations are difficult to assess. It is more likely that the
ornamentation represents the actual textiles, missing from the archaeological record, that were
worn by the living community.

Conclusion

The two Nicaraguan sculpture styles discussed here utilize different design techniques to display
information. The focus of the statues is placed on zoomorphic images or personal adornments. In
the Island-styles this is done to emphasize the social role performed by an individual rather than
referring to the specific person performing that role. For the Chontales statues, the adornments
were used to represent specific important people. Both styles represent some connection to the
supernatural world, though the nature of that connection appears different. Even the primary
functions of the styles differ. When these differences can be noted between styles from within
Nicaragua, it is impossible to correlate an origin based on Mesoamerican culture. While
influences may be present, fundamentally, each style stands alone.

Despite long-standing speculation by archaeologists about the designs and functions of stone
sculptures, we still do not know why they were created, who created them, what they represent,
or what effect they had on the everyday lives of people. The Nicaraguan statues represent just
one phase of a longstanding tradition seen throughout all of Central America. The vast
differences in subject, function, and design suggest the Nicaraguan styles were independent of
Mesoamerican influence and need to be considered in their own right. Further work must be
done as these statues provide imperative clues into understanding the opacity of Central
American belief systems.

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Acknowledgments. I would like to thank all the scholars who have pushed my interpretations of
the Nicaraguan statues and made suggestions to this paper including Carrie Dennett, Brett
Watson, and Alex Geurds. Geoffrey McCafferty has provided me with invaluable opportunities
to work in Nicaragua and see these artworks first hand. Thanks to Fernando Moreira and
Christina Pitre who have photography skills which far exceed my own.

References Cited
Baudez, Claude-Francois
1970 Central America. Nagel Publishers. Geneva, Switzerland.

Bruhns, Karen
1982 A View from the Bridge: Intermediate Area Sculpture in Thematic Perspective. Baessler-
Archiv., Neue Folge 30:147180.

1992 Monumental Sculpture as Evidence for Hierarchy in the Intermediate Area. In Wealth and
Hierarchy in the Intermediate Area, edited by Fredrick Lange, pp 331356. Dumbarton Oaks,
Washington, D.C.

Cooke, Richard
1993 Animal Icons and Pre-Columbian Society. In Reinterpreting Prehistory of Central
America, edited by Mark Miller Graham, pp169208. University Press of Colorado, Boulder,
Colorado.

Demarest, Arthur
2007 Ancient Maya: The Rise and Fall of a Rainforest Civilization. Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge, United Kingdom.

Disselhoff, Hans-Dietrich and Sigvald Linne
1960 The Art of Ancient America: Civilizations of Central and South America. 2
nd
edition.
Greystone Press, New York, New York.

Easby, Elizabeth and John Scott
1970 Before Cortes: Sculpture of Middle America. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York,
New York.

Freidel, D. A. and Linda Schele
1988 Kingship in the Late Preclassic Maya Lowlands: The Instruments and Places of Ritual
Power. American Anthropologist 90:547567.

Geurds, Alexander
2009 Figures with Singular Fidelity: Context of the Sculpture from Chontales, Nicaragua. Poster
Presented at the 74
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Annual Meeting of the Society of American Archaeology, Atlanta, Georgia.


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Haberland, Wolfgang
1973 Stone Sculpture from Southern Central America. In The Iconography of Middle American
Sculpture, edited by Ignacio Bernal, Michael Coe, Gordon Eklhome, Peter Furst and Wolfgang
Haberland, pp. 135152. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, New York.

Helms, Mary W.
1992 Thoughts on Public Symbols and Distant Domains Relevant to the Chiefdoms of Lower
Central America. In Wealth and Hierarchy in the Intermediate Area, edited by Fredrick Lange.
pp 317330. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, D.C.

Navarro Genie, Rigoberto
2007 Estatuaria prehispanica de la Isla de Ometepe: Historia, Inventario y Cronologia.
Imprenta Digital Hermoso y Vigil. Managua, Nicaragua.

Stone, Doris
1961 The Stone Sculpture of Costa Rica. In Essays in Pre-Columbian Art and Archaeology,
edited by S.K Lothrop, pp. 192209. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

1977 Pre-Columbian Man in Costa Rica. Peabody Museum Press. Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Zelaya-Hidalgo, Guillermo, R. Karen Bruhns, and James Dotta
1974 Monumental Art of Chontales: A Description of the Sculpture Style of the Department of
Chontales, Nicaragua. Treganza Anthropology Museum, San Francisco, California.


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Ceramic Analysis from the Site of La Delicias,
Nicaragua

Lorelei Platz
T2N 1N4 (loreleiplatz@gmail.com)

ABSTRACT. Information on the social identity of groups found within the early cultural
periods of Pacific Nicaragua, such as the Tempisque period (500 BC AD 300), is limited.
Examining potential relationships with outside areas based on similarities in vessel form and
decoration can provide a greater understanding of the social identities of the deceased and the
external relationships they may have maintained. A sample of ceramic vessels from the site of
Las Delicias near the modern city of Managua, Nicaragua was used to examine the variety of
vessels present and possible implications of the social identity of the people. Initial analysis
showed an interesting fusion of utilitarian and ceremonial vessels that can be found within this
cemetery context, which may provide important information on individual social identity. Not all
design elements appeared to be affiliated with the Greater Nicoya area, an area of Lower
Central America subjected to much research. Interestingly, elements from the ceramic types
examined appear to be more closely associated with areas such as El Salvador and Honduras,
rather than the southern Greater Nicoya area.

Introduction

The type-variety method of classifying ceramic vessels is perhaps one of the most useful
classification methodologies, especially for collections containing polychromes. This system of
classification divides the ceramics into similar groups based on several important elements
including paste composition, decoration applied to the vessel and the surface finish (Sinopoli
1991:5253). Ceramics are first divided into type based on more general characteristics that
the vessels share, while the variety is based around more minute details within the type groups.
The research presented here consists of a type-variety classification scheme of 34 complete or
nearly complete vessels from the site of Las Delicias near the modern city of Managua,
Nicaragua. The purpose of this research project is to provide some insight into the period of
occupation based on the types of ceramics present.

Site Context

During the fall of 2008, a team of local Nicaraguan archaeologists excavated a cemetery site
within the city limits of Managua, Nicaragua near Lake Managua to prevent further destruction
of the burials from modern development in the area. The site consists of multiple burials, several
non-ceramic artifacts, and a relatively large collection of complete ceramic vessels which is
analyzed here. Very little is known about the site context as no prior excavations were
undertaken in the surrounding area. While records on the provenience of the vessels exist, they

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were not accessible for this analysis. Currently, it is unknown if there are nearby habitation sites
that may have been associated with this cemetery.

Methodology

Early classification of ceramic vessels was based on intuitive classification which allowed a very
general visual categorization of the similarities and differences between vessels (Sinopoli
1991:49). These intuitive classifications were then compared to the photographic reference
collections.

The analysis presented here incorporated a comparison of photographic collections of ceramics
utilizing an online collection via Mi Museo (2006), Granada, Nicaragua and a photographic
collection amassed by Larry Steinbrenner containing photographs from private collections he
obtained access to. The photographic collection was used as a visual comparison to the ceramics
from Las Delicias to assist in the identification of the types and varieties. Textual references
describing the differences within the type-variety classifications found in Lower Central America
including Healy (1980) and Bonilla Vargas et al. (1990) were consulted. Following the type-
variety method, vessels were first classified based on similar types followed by similarities in
variety. Vessels were first divided into utilitarian and non-utilitarian vessels based on decoration,
after which non-utilitarian vessels were divided into separate types and varieties based on design
elements. Incision was the primary type of decoration, with differences between the varieties of
ceramics based on the differences in incisions.

Results: Identified Type-Variety Classifications

Table 1 displays the different type and variety categories identified in this comparative analysis.
In terms of vessel form, the majority of the assemblage consists of bowls and bottles (see Table 2
for vessel type frequencies). Decorative techniques were very limited, with incision being the
predominant technique.

Table 1. Quantity of Each Vessel Type.
Table 2. Quantity of Each Vessel Form.
Vessel Form Quantity
Bottle 10
Superhemispherical Bowl 5
Composite Silhouette Bowl 9
Non-Specific Bowl 6
Other 4
Total 34

Type Bocana Incised Bichrome
Bonilla Vargas et al. (1990) provide a general description of this type. Bocana Incised Bichrome
has several diagnostic traits including painted red zones alternating with natural paste colour or
cream engobe (a liquid clay slip), thick incised parallel lines, zoomorphic appliqu and use of
black engobe.
Vessel Type Quantity
Bocana Incised Bichrome 13
Espinoza Red Banded 1
Usulutan Resist 1
Higuerito 3
Utilitarian 10
D 2
Unknown 4
Total 34

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Variety Bocana
The Bocana variety (within the Bocana Incised Bichrome type) is identified by the presence of
alternating red on cream or unslipped areas, incised grooves, and vessel forms with restricted
orifices (Healy 1980:92).

Initially, I had classified several of the vessels as Bocana variety. Upon further examination, I
have chosen to classify them as a separate variety due to the inconsistency in the expression of
the traits identified above. Many of the vessels do not utilize the alternating red and cream or
natural paste zones; instead they are all monochrome. Thus I have classified these vessels under
variety A within the Bocana Incised Bichrome type.

Variety A
The main traits used for identifying
this variety include the presence of
parallel incised lines, often in
clusters, and monochrome
decoration. Vessels tend to
superhemispherical bowl or bottle
form. This variety contains a total
of six vessels from the assemblage.
See Figure 1 for an example of this
variety from the collection.

Variety B
The main traits used for identifying
this variety include the presence of
parallel incised lines (in particular
short parallel incised lines evenly
spaced around the entire vessel
where the collar meets the body).
Vessels tend to be a hemispherical
bowl form with out-flaring rims and
most vessels were bichromes. The
profile of this variety is more
angular than Variety A, with a
sharp angle from the collar to the
body portion. It should be noted
that not all of the vessels display
this sharp angle between the collar
and body; rather some vessels
appear to be a soft s shape. This
variety contains a total of eight
vessels from the total assemblage.
(See Figure 2)

Figure 1. Bocana Incised Bichrome, Variety A
(Mi Museo 2006).

Figure 2. Bocana Incised Bichrome, Variety B
(Mi Museo 2006).

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Type Espinoza Red-Banded
The main traits for identifying this type include red painted vertical bands, natural or buff
coloured base and occasionally vessels have an appliqu. Vessel form tends to be jars with
various orifices (Healy 1987:115).

Based on my analysis there are
three vessels that can be
classified as this type (see
Figure 3). I have chosen to
classify them under this
category rather than the Bocana
Incised Bichrome type because
of the lack of incision. It could
be argued that they concur with
the vessel paining technique of
alternating red and
cream/natural zones. However,
they lack incision which is a
pivotal trait of the Bocana
Incised Bichrome (hence the
name).

Type Usulutan Resist
Variety Unspecified
This variety is characterized by
negative resist painting
producing straight or wavy
lines, cream-brown or light
orange base slip, out-curving
and flared-walled bowls (Healy
1987:240).

The single bowl of this type
displays an out-flaring rim with
tripod supports. Negative resist
painting appears as straight
lines on the wall of the vessel.
The base appears to have a different negative resist design (see Figure 4).

Type D
These two vessels have been grouped together because they are notably different from the rest of
the collection, yet have several similar features between the two vessels. These vessels most
likely consist of a different paste type that is resistant to the light orange slip that has been
applied. The slip is flaking off of the vessel, suggesting the charge between the two surfaces that
normally keeps the bond strong is very weak. Once the slip was applied the drying or firing
process could potentially have caused this

Figure 3. Espinoza Red-Banded (Mi Museo 2006).

Figure 4. Usulutan Resist, Variety Unspecified (Mi Museo
2006).

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slip removal (Rice 1987:150).
These two shards have very
different vessel forms, one
with tripod supports that have
been broken off while the
other appears to be a gourd
shape bowl (see Figure 5).

Type Higuerito
Three vessels in the collection
appear to share some
similarities to the type
Higuerito of the Cuyamel
period of Northeast Honduras.
Typical features of this type
include the gadrooning (wave-
like) effect applied to the
exterior surface of the vessel.
The vessel form for this type
is exclusively bottle form
based (see Figure 6).

Type Utilitarian/Unknown
Monochrome
I have created this type to
identify those ceramics which
are not diagnostic of a
particular type-variety
classification and are most
likely utilitarian wares. These
vessels appear to be un-
slipped and lack any
decoration. This type includes
a total of fourteen vessels from the assemblage examined.

Interpretation

Based on the type-variety ceramic classification of the assemblage, there is a strong correlation
to the late Tempisque/early Bagaces period. While this classification should carry some
significance, there are several factors that must be kept in mind. First, this cultural association
can only be applied to the ceramic analyzed, and does not represent the entire artifact
assemblage. Greater holistic analysis of the site is required to determine if the site extends
beyond the confines of the period previously mentioned.

Understanding how these vessels reflect the general identity of individuals within the site is a
difficult task. As this project is an early analysis of the site, it is difficult to provide any definitive

Figure 5. Type D (Mi Museo 2006).

Figure 6. Higuerito (Mi Museo 2006).

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conclusion. However, there are several interesting interpretations that can be made from Las
Delicias, even at this early stage of analysis.

Considering the larger context of the site, it is interesting that most of the vessels are
monochrome. This might suggest that there was not great differentiation for those vessels being
used in mortuary practices. Some of the vessels have blackened areas near the base, most likely
from being placed over a fire during cooking. Interestingly, both decorated and non-decorative
vessels have blacked areas near the bottom. The fact that these vessels are indicative of cooking
implies that there may have been offerings given to the dead as a ritual feast. The fact that there
is little differentiation between decorated versus non decorated vessels suggests that the feast
prepared was more important that the vessel it was prepared in.

Another important factor to keep in mind is the possibility that later groups occupying the same
area reused this cemetery. It becomes difficult to determine the number of occupations at the site
without extensive testing and analysis of all components that make up the cemetery. Several
different methods could be involved in dating the cemetery such as a variety of ceramic
techniques, dating of radiocarbon samples, and analysis of human remains. Repeated usage of
the cemetery would suggest that this location held a greater significance to the people living in
the area and that it may have been part of a larger group identity and history as it provides a
greater sense of permanence and ownership of the same general area.

The environments in which the ceramics were fired appear to be different. Some of the vessels
have a different colour core and rind. In addition, some of the blackened exterior vessel appears
to have tan-brown/orange paste colours. This is probably due to changes in the firing and cooling
conditions that the vessel was exposed to by the potter (Sinopoli 1991:30). This may indicate a
technique used during the firing process in which the vessel was removed once oxidized and then
smothered to create a reduced exterior appearance. Additional research is required to confirm
this observation. Understanding the composition in this way of the ceramics can help us in
determining the greater identity of the people who used the ceramics as it can determine whether
the vessel was made locally or imported. Through the study or ceramics traded and produced,
lots of information can be gathered relating to individual and group identities.

There appears to be a strong divide between those vessels that are utilitarian and non-utilitarian.
Perhaps one of the most interesting non-utilitarian vessels is a necked jar vessel with a very
restricted throat and neck. This vessel does not appear to have been used for liquids as it lacks
any handle and it would be very difficult to pour liquid into a vessel with such a restricted
orifice. Interestingly, this vessel has what appears to be an incised upside down half-circle
located near the throat. It is possible that this is some type of a makers mark as this design
element is not found on any other of the vessels within the assemblage.

Several of the vessels have some similarities to the ceramic type Higuerito of Northeast
Honduras, part of the Cuyamel period (300BC AD 250). The gadrooning effect applied to the
vessels makes them resemble tuber vegetables such as the squash. This gadrooning design is
commonly found in various parts of the world as the artistic representation of food. A potential
connection to countries of the north, specifically El Salvador and Honduras, may exist based on
the negative resist painting displayed on the Nicaraguan vessels, similar to the Usulatan Type in

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El Salvador, and the gadrooned vessel similar to those found in Honduras. Whether these two
vessel types were traded with the local population or the designs were mimicked, it is difficult to
determine without further analysis.

Future Research

Within the Isthmo-Colombian Area, cemeteries appears to have been located away from the
village or, less frequently, in a delimited locale inside the village boundaries (Dennett 2007:97).
Further excavations, possibly near Lake Managua, may result in the identification of residential
compounds associated with this cemetery. This would allow an expansion of the material
analysis given here to be undertaken which could lend further support to the interpretations
provided

Radiocarbon dates from the site correspond to the date from AD 120380 and AD 1280280
(Geoffrey McCafferty, personal communication 2009). It will be important to determine what
area of the cemetery these samples were taken from and to determine where the ceramics were
found in relation to the radiocarbon samples. It should be briefly mentioned that this radiocarbon
date corresponds relatively to the suggested culture period that I have provided via type-variety
analysis of the ceramics. Further analysis of the entire ceramic assemblage (including sherds) is
required to determine the entire period of occupation. It is possible that the site existed outside of
the late Tempisque/early Bagaces period that the radiocarbon dates suggest.

Several non-ceramic grave goods associated with the burials were identified by excavation
supervisor Bosco Moroney. Future research may include the determination of the distribution of
non-ceramic and ceramic grave goods in relation to specific individuals or locations within the
cemetery.

Reference collections and description into the type-variety classifications within Pacific
Nicaragua are very limited. Therefore, it becomes important to utilize all available sources to
achieve the greatest breadth in ceramic data. Continued research within Pacific Nicaragua and
expanding into the Northern portion of Greater Nicoya will be important to increase the quality
of data available for research.

Conclusion

The full vessel collection of ceramics from Las Delicias, Nicaragua contains several types and
varieties of ceramics from the late Tempisque/early Bagaces period identified within Nicaraguan
ceramics. Due to the paucity of previous research in this area, little is known of the identity of
the people from this period within Nicaragua. My research is suggestive of an external link to
northern, specifically El Salvador and Honduras, human groups. This interpretation is based on
similarities between ceramics from these areas and the ceramic vessels recovered from Las
Delicias. Understanding basic ideas about possible trade and exchange of ideas with other
groups, and how the ceramics were used within the site will help in better understanding the
identity of the people from this area.


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Acknowledgments. Dr. Geoffrey McCafferty, University of Calgary, Carrie Dennett, University
of Calgary, Mi Museo, Granada, Nicaragua, Larry Steinbrenner, University of Calgary, Bosco
Moroney, Site supervisor of excavations at Las Delicias, Nicaragua.

References Cited
Dennett, Carrie Lynd
2007 The Rio Claro Site (AD 1000-1530), Northeast Honduras: A Ceramic Classification and
Examination of External Connections. Unpublished Masters Thesis. Trent University,
Peterborough, Ontario.

Healy, Paul
1980 Archaeology of the Rivas Region, Nicaragua. Wilfrid Laurier University Press, Waterloo,
Ontario.

Mi Museo
2006 Las Delicias Ceramic Collection. Electronic document, www.granadacollection.org,
accessed February 12, 2009.

Rice, Prudence M.
1987 Pottery Analysis: A Sourcebook. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, Illinois.

Sinopoli, Carla M.
1991 Approaches to Archaeological Ceramics. Plenum Press, New York, New York.

Bonilla Vargas, Leidy, Marlin M. Calvo, Juan Vicente Guerrero M., Silvia Salgado G., and F.W.
Lange (editors)
1990 La Ceramica de la Gran Nicoya. Vinculos: Revista de Antropologia del Museo Nacional de
Costa Rica 13(12):1327.


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Bling and Things: Ornamentation and Identity in
Pacific Nicaragua

Geoffrey McCafferty and Sharisse McCafferty
T2N 1N4 (mccaffer@ucalgary.ca)

ABSTRACT. Material culture plays an important role in asserting and reifying social
identities. These identities can relate to distinct scales of recognition, from the local to regional,
and to different aspects of social practice, such as gender, age, wealth/status, religion, and
ethnicity. Using ornamentation from three sites in Pacific Nicaragua, we will contrast the kinds
of identities that may have been performed, and the symbols that were used in their
representation. Artifact classes considered include ear spools, pendants, and beads, as well as
ethnohistorical descriptions of indigenous practice at the time of Spanish conquest.

The Proyecto Arqueolgico Granada, Nicaragua (PAGN) had as one of its main goals the
exploration of cultural identities during the Postclassic Sapo and Ometepe periods of Pacific
Nicaragua (8001520 C.E.). Ethnohistoric accounts from the early Colonial period suggest
dramatic ethnic changes in the region beginning before the end of the first millennium A.D.
(Abel-Vidor 1981; Chapman 1974). Other variables such as gender, age, status and religion
make up the tapestry of ancient society, and so were also considered by project investigators.

Ornamentation is one of the aspects of material culture that is most directly related to identity
(Joyce 2005; McCafferty and McCafferty 2009). In Pacific Nicaragua ornamentation consists of
such items as beads, pendants, and ear spools, made of greenstone, bone, shell, and ceramic.
Ethnohistorical sources (Day 1988; Oviedo y Valdes 1976) also record the use of metal,
especially gold, tumbaga (an alloy of gold and copper), and copper. These have rarely been
found in Nicaragua but are better known from Costa Rica and Panama. Other ornamentation on
perishable materials included textiles, featherwork, and body stamping. These can be inferred
from the polychrome figurines that are common in archaeological contexts.

Building on theoretical discussions by Reischer and Koo (2004) and by Joyce (2005), we have
recently discussed concepts of the body beautiful as seen at the site of Santa Isabel (McCafferty
and McCafferty 2009). The body beautiful refers to emic concepts of the body, including such
aspects as body modification and physical adornment. At Santa Isabel we considered
representations as seen on the ceramic figurines as well as a wide variety of objects of adornment
in evaluating different aspects of social identity. The linkage between these concepts and
individuals are best found in burial contexts where objects can be associated with skeletal
remains. Unfortunately poor preservation has limited the ability to make these connections.
Instead, this paper will present the kinds of ornamentation that have been recovered while
speculating on the kinds of identities that may be represented.


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One assumption that archaeologists often make is that objects of greater value should be
associated with individuals of greater status. Cultural value is difficult to assign, but following
Helms (1993) it may involve objects of rare material or elaborate production. The display of
wealth is often associated with conspicuous consumption that has been variably linked with the
nouveau riche or with lower status groups attempting to enhance their position in emerging
economies (Miller 1982).

Body adornment can be subtle or more ostentatious, as in the current use of bling-bling by hip
hop artists wearing flashy and elaborate jewelry. The term bling is intended to evoke the sound
of light hitting shiny metal or jewels. Bling has spread into mass culture where it refers to the
wearing of expensive clothing, stylish glasses, large and flashy wristwatches and bangles, or
anything that is ostentatious. In this paper we consider the concept of bling as flashy adornment
employed by the inhabitants of ancient Nicaragua.

Archaeology of Pacific Nicaragua

Arriving in the Chorotega town of Xalteva in 1522, the Spanish conquistador Gil Gonzalez was
presented with many gifts from the calchuni or chief Diriangen (Oviedo y Valdes 1976). He
was brought large birds similar in size to turkeys, little white flags tied over lances, gold axes,
trumpets and flutes but the most amazing gift was six women all covered in plates of gold
weighing in at 18,000 pesos (half a million grams). Bling!

Unfortunately, Gil Gonzalez apparently left with all of the gold (taguiste), and after 10 years of
excavation in Nicaragua the only gold we have found was plating on a modern baseball
medallion from a shovel test
pit. Setting our sights slightly
lower we will look at the
examples of Nicaraguan bling
found at the sites of Tepetate
and El Rayo in the Granada
region at the northern end of
Lake Nicaragua (Figure 1).
Tepetate was the site of the
contact period regional center
of Xalteva, while El Rayo was
a fishing village of the same
chiefdom. Archaeological
contexts from both sites have
been dated to the Sapo period
(8001250 CE), supposedly
associated with the Chorotega
ethnic group linked
linguistically with migrants
from southern Mexico. These
results are then comparable to
data from the contemporary site

Figure 1. Map of Greater Nicoya region, indicating sites
mentioned in text

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of Santa Isabel, located about 75 km south but also on the shore of Lake Nicaragua. No contexts
from the Contact period have been identified, so comparisons with the ethnohistorical texts are
tenuous.

The Tepetate site is located on the northern edge of the modern city of Granada. It has been
known to archaeologists since the late nineteenth century, when it was reported to have stone-
slab covered mounds (Salgado 1996); unfortunately it has been known to collectors for at least
that much time, and between looting and urban development there is little of the original site
remaining. The PAGN project conducted excavations at Tepetate in 2008, focussing on three site
loci: one of the last remaining mounds; another structure on the far northern extent of the site;
and a cemetery. Poor preservation severely limited the presence of organic materials, even
deteriorating much of the painted decoration on pottery. But the excavation of 90 square meters

recovered an extensive amount of material culture, including objects of adornment useful for
comparative analysis (Wilke and McCafferty 2009).

El Rayo is located on the Asese peninsula into Lake Nicaragua, located about 15 km southeast of
the city of Granada. It was first discovered during regional survey by Silvia Salgado (1996), and
in 2007 the site was impacted by the construction of a road connecting to a small coastal resort.
Excavations at El Rayo concentrated in three loci: Locus 1 was a Sapo period cemetery
overlying a Bagaces period (300800 CE) site that also included burials; Locus 2 featured a
sequence of Bagaces and Sapo period occupations with extensive domestic deposits; and Locus
3 was another Sapo period area with burials and offerings, perhaps associated with an altar.
Approximately 70 square meters were excavated in total, from which roughly 75,000 artifacts
were recovered. Of these,
over 1800 were identified
as objects, defined as
artifacts other than
potsherds, lithic debitage,
or faunal remains. Roughly
15 percent of the objects
were classified as artifacts
of adornment (Figure 2).
Additional excavations at
Locus 2 were conducted in
2010, though at a relatively
small scale and with the
goal of exposing
architectural features.

Beads were the most numerous of the objects of adornment recovered (n=134). The majority
were made of ceramic and seem to have been manufactured at El Rayo, where long tubes were
found from which the beads could have been cut. Thirty-four bone beads were found, some with
carved designs. Five beads were of jadeite and were significantly larger. Most of the beads were
associated with Feature 34 in Locus 1 (Figure 3), where about 80 beads were found in a small
bowl associated with three urns and an offering of lance points and two large earspools. These
beads were either bone or reddish ceramic.

Figure 2. Pie chart of objects of adornment from El Rayo.

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Ear spools were made of fine clay, polished to a
brownish-black color. The most common form
consisted of hollow circles with thin, hour-glass
shaped walls. They range in size from about one
centimetre to five centimetres in diameter, and about
one centimetre in width. Size may relate to the age of
the individual, or their status. The two large, hollow
ear spools found at Locus 1 in Feature 34 are the
largest weve ever seen, and probably indicate a very
high status (Figure 4a). One other ceramic ear spool
was found that varied from the typical style. It was
thicker with a smaller centre hole, and featured a
possible floral pattern incised on the edge. It was
found in association with a burial in Locus 1, which
also contained a large clay pendant. Ear spools of
shark vertebrae were also discovered (Figure 4b).
Identical hollow ear spool fragments were found on the floor of Mound 1 at Tepetate, and were
also present at Santa Isabel. A solid ear spool was found at Tepetate in association with the burial
cluster at Locus 3 that resembles a solid ear spool found at Santa Isabel (Figure 4c-d).

Figure 4. a-c Ear spools

Figure 3. Beads found at
El Rayo, Feature 34.

Figure 5. Possible ceramic labret

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A hollow ceramic tube found at El Rayo
closely resembled the ear spools, with the
exception of a broad flange attached to one
end (Figure 5). Similar flanges are typical
of labrets known from central Mexico (and
elsewhere). Labrets were mentioned in
ethnohistorical sources about the
indigenous Chorotega (Oviedo y Valdes
1976), but thus far this would be a unique
archaeological example from the region.

Pendants were made of clay, bone, or
animal teeth. One pendant was made of
clay, perforated at either end, and was oval
with a concave back (Figure 6a). It
somewhat resembles others that have been
interpreted as cacao pods (McCafferty and
McCafferty 2009). Two other ceramic
pendants were tear-dropped shape with
hollow centers (Figure 6b). Several
pendants were made from animal bone,
teeth, or claws (Figure 6c-d). The most
elaborate pendant was carved from bone
and appears to represent a skeletal insect
(Figure 6e).

Gar or gaspar (Genus lepisosteidae) is a
huge edible fish from Lake Nicaragua
that is heavily armoured with ganoid
scales that are small, shiny and hard.
Dozens of these scales and a possible
mandible were excavated at Locus 2 in
the Sapo period context. Three of these
scales were modified into eccentric
shapes, suggesting that they were
decorative in nature (Figure 7). They
may have been sewn or mounted onto
clothing or headdresses, or worn as lip or nose plugs.

A copper bell was encountered in Locus 3 in association with other
objects. The objects were scattered around human skeletal remains,
although it was not clearly associated with a specific burial (see
Wilke, McCafferty and Watson, this volume). The bell is
approximately one centimetre in diameter and has a loop at the top
for suspension (Figure 8). Similar bells are known from Costa Rica, where they are made of
gold. Copper bells are found on the Pacific coast of Oaxaca, Mexico, dating to c. 9001200 A.D.

Figure 6 a-d. Pendants.

Figure 7. Gar scale
adornments.

Figure 8. Copper bell.

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Discussion

The excavations at El Rayo have provided us with examples of Nicaraguan bling during the
Bagaces to Sapo transition, A.D. 6001200, and allow us to speculate as to what decorations
may have been important to the groups occupying the site. These objects can also be compared
to those excavated from other sites in Nicaragua.

Identical ear spools were found in Santa
Isabel, located approximately 75 km to
the south (McCafferty 2008; McCafferty
and McCafferty 2009). Sizes range from
about one to three centimetres in
diameter; the five centimetre diameter
ear spools found at El Rayo Feature 34
are the largest yet found and suggest a
distinctive status. The size of the ear
spools may also relate to age, with
smaller ear spools possibly worn by
youths being initiated into adult roles. Solid ear spools with incised decoration are also known
from both Santa Isabel and Tepetate, and may also indicate a status difference. Longer and
thicker tubes were also found at Santa Isabel (Figure 9), and were initially interpreted as another
category of ear spool; whereas that remains as a possibility, these objects may also have been
used as forms for fabricating the smaller, delicate ear spools.

Small ceramic beads were occasionally recovered from Santa Isabel but not in high
concentrations or from burial contexts. Clay beads from both Santa Isabel and El Rayo were
generally undecorated. Santa Isabel produced one large bead with a Mexican Storm God (Tlaloc)
face which was probably worn as a pendant or main bead on a necklace.

Jadeite beads were discovered in small quantities at all three sites. Greenstone debitage
suggested that jewellery, including beads, was produced at Santa Isabel (McCafferty 2008).
Other green stone objects from Santa Isabel included polished green pendants, weaving battens
and spindle whorls. Excavations at Tepetate encountered one green stone bead in a mortuary
context. These data suggest that greenstone was relatively rare in the Granada region, at least in
comparison with Santa Isabel.

Ceramic pendants in the form of cacao pods have been found at Santa Isabel and on Ometepe
Island (Bovallius 1886; McCafferty and McCafferty 2009), although they do not match the one
discovered at El Rayo. Perforated re-worked sherds in round, oval, or angular shapes were an
abundant artefact class at Santa Isabel where over 400 were found (Figure 10 a-c). Only a few
were found at Tepetate, and none were excavated at El Rayo. These objects were obviously
made for suspension but their precise function remains subject to speculation and debate (Wilke
2005). Perhaps these were the poor mans version of the gold plaques described by Oviedo?
Other ceramic pendants at El Rayo were tear-drop shaped with a center hole. These were not
found at Tepetate or Santa Isabel.

Figure 9. Ceramic tube as possible ear spool or mold
for manufacturing ear spools.

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El Rayo featured several animal bone,
tooth, and claw pendants. This type of
ornamentation was also popular at Santa
Isabel but in a more elaborate and diverse
format. For example, one bone pendant
was carved on both ends and featured
suspension holes (Figure 11a). Another
bone object featured a serrated edge,
possibly representing a caiman mandible.

(Figure 11b), and with holes in which
semi-precious stones may have been set
(small pieces of amber, obsidian, and
pearl were found at the site). Human, fish,
and animal teeth were also perforated for
suspension. A perforated turtle carapace
was fashioned as a possible breast plate at
Santa Isabel and a fragment of one was
also found at El Rayo. A similar
perforated breast plate was found at the
site of Malacatoya about 40 km from
Granada (Espinoza et al. 1999).

Marine shell was used to manufacture
jewellery at Santa Isabel, and numerous
examples were found there. However, no
marine shell jewellery was recovered at
Tepetate or El Rayo. Since the Santa
Isabel site included evidence of shell
jewellery manufacture it was suggested
(McCafferty 2008) that this may have
been an artifact class produced for trade or
tribute. It is therefore notable that these
sites in the Granada region do not seem to
have been part of that exchange network.

Roller stamps and stamp seals for body decoration were found only at Santa Isabel (Figure 12 a-
b). These objects may have been used for body decoration using tile, the ash from pine trees.
Fernando Oviedo y Valdes (1976) reported that tile was used to make temporary and permanent
tattoos on an individuals body. Slaves were frequently tattooed using tile. The ancient people
from the east side of Lake Nicaragua, the Chontales, made this dye and bartered it at the native
markets.

Figure 10 a-c. Ceramic pendants.

Figure 11 a-b. Bone ornaments

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Metal objects are rare from our excavations in Nicaragua. One
tiny metal figure, made of native copper, was recovered from
Santa Isabel (McCafferty 2008). Three tiny gold beads were
excavated at Malacatoya (Espinoza et al. 1999). The small
copper bell found at El Rayo is unique from excavated contexts
in Nicaragua.

Conclusion

If the ethnohistorical accounts are to be believed, Gil Gonzalez
was successful in gathering up nearly all the gold from ancient
Nicaragua, but modern archaeologists are not left completely
blingless. A variety of objects of adornment indicate the
expression of different identities, although the analysis is still in
the early stages and with more than a little ambiguity. For
example, of the 15 percent ornaments at El Rayo the majority
were beads, and most of those were from Feature 34, likely from
one large necklace? A pervasive question is whether grave
goods reflect status of the deceased or mourning ritual of the
survivors? Due to the poor preservation of human skeletal remains, it is nearly impossible to
relate objects of adornment with deceased individuals.

Similarities exist in the style of beads and in the hollow earspools of El Rayo, Santa Isabel and
Tepetate. But other characteristics are more localized. The re-worked sherd pendants are heavily
concentrated at Santa Isabel, suggesting a distinctive symbolic use. Santa Isabel also had much
more jewellery made of shell, bone, and greenstone, perhaps because excavations concentrated
on the site center, but also relating to the evidence of production.

Burial contexts are generally the best area for recognizing individual identity. Perhaps the
richest of these was Feature 34 at El Rayo, where three possible burial urns were found
associated with other smaller vessels, the concentration of beads, the two large earspools, and a
cache of finely made lance points. An isolated cranium was also found near these offerings as a
possible trophy head.

At Feature 32 in Locus 3 a poorly preserved extended burial was associated with a dispersed
concentration of complete vessels, the copper bell, a jaguar tooth pendant, and a complete
ocarina in the shape of a frigate bird. These represent the greatest concentrations of burial goods,
and therefore could indicate higher status individuals. Unfortunately the preservation of skeletal
remains is not sufficient to say much about the deceased individual.

It is also interesting that two of the richest graves were found at what would otherwise be
considered an isolated fishing village. Because islands in Lake Nicaragua, such as Ometepe and
Zapatera, were the sites of large stone sculpture, it has been suggested that they may have served
as ritual sites, perhaps including mortuary rituals. Located on the far tip of the Asese peninsula
and surrounded by tiny volcanic islands, El Rayo may have had a ceremonial function as well.
Locus 3 Operation 3 featured a north/south alignment of twelve Sacasa Striated shoe-pot urns,

Figure 12 a-b. Roller stamp
and stamp seal.

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often associated with burials but in this case containing offerings. These were aligned in front
of a small stone foundation that may have supported an above-ground shrine or altar. Human
skeletal remains were also scattered in the area, as were small offering vessels. This context is
unique in the annals of Nicaraguan archaeology, and would support the idea that El Rayo also
served as a ritual center.

Archaeological research in Nicaragua is undergoing a revival; until recently it was dominated by
looters supplying beautiful pottery to the illicit antiquities market. It is frustrating to visit the
many regional museums and private collections filled with pieces collected from prehispanic
cemeteries, now virtually devoid of cultural significance. Ethnohistorical sources describe the
complex social organization of indigenous Nicaragua at the moment of Spanish contact,
including a multicultural mosaic along the shore of Lake Nicaragua. Through the controlled
excavation of sites such as Santa Isabel, Tepetate, and El Rayo we are assembling a rich data
base of the material culture of these communities, and discovering intriguing distinctions in
artifact classes such as objects of adornment that undoubtedly represent important attributes of
social identity. Hopefully as more sites are investigated, especially involving well-preserved
mortuary contexts, we will be able to make better and more detailed interpretations of the rich
tapestry of indigenous society in Pacific Nicaragua.

References Cited
Abel-Vidor, Suzanne
1981 Ethnohistorical Approaches to the Archaeology of Greater Nicoya. In Between Continents/
Between Seas: Precolumbian Art of Costa Rica, edited by Elizabeth P. Benson, pp. 8592. Harry
N. Abrams, Inc. Publishers, New York.

Bovallius, Carl
1886 Nicaraguan Antiquities. Serie Arqueologica No. 1, Swedish Society of Anthropology and
Geography, Stockholm, Sweden.

Chapman, Anne C.
1974 Los Nicarao y los Chorotega Segun los Fuentes Historicas. Ciudad Universitaria, Costa
Rica.

Day, Jane S.
1988 Golden Images in Greater Nicoya. In Costa Rica Art and Archaeology, edited by Fred
Lange, pp. 201213. University of Press of Colorado, Niwot, Colorado.

Espinoza P., Edgar, Ramiro Garca V., and Fumiyo Suganuma
1999 Rescate Arqueolgico en el Sitio San Pedro, Malacatoya, Granada, Nicaragua. Instituto
Nicaraguense de Cultura, Museo Nacional de Nicaragua, Managua, Nicaragua.

Helms, Mary W.
1993 Craft and the Kingly Ideal: Art, Trade and Power. University of Texas Press, Austin,
Texas.


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Joyce, Rosemary A.
2005 Archaeology of the Body. Annual Review of Anthropology 34:139158.

McCafferty, Geoffrey G.
2008 Domestic Practice in Postclassic Santa Isabel, Nicaragua. Latin American Antiquity
19(1):6482.

McCafferty, Geoffrey G. and Sharisse D. McCafferty
2009 Crafting the Body Beautiful: Performing Social Identity at Santa Isabel, Nicaragua. In
Mesoamerican Figurines: Small-Scale Indices of Large-Scale Social Phenomena, edited by
Christina T. Halperin, Katherine A. Faust, Rhonda Taube, and Aurore Giguet, pp. 183204.
University Press of Florida Press, Gainesville, Florida.

Miller, Daniel
1982 Structures and Strategies: An Aspect of the Relationship Between Social Hierarchy and
Cultural Change. In Symbolic and Structural Archaeology, edited by I. Hodder, pp. 8998.

Oviedo y Valdes, Gonzalo F. de
1976 Nicaragua en las Crnicas de Indias: Oviedo. Fondo de Promocin Cultural, Serie
Cronistas No. 3. Banco de Amrica, Managua, Nicaragua.

Reischer, Erica and Kathryn S. Koo
2004 The Body Beautiful: Symbolism and Agency in the Social World. Annual Review of
Anthropology 33:297317.

Salgado Gonzlez, Silvia
1996 Social Change in the Region of Granada, Pacific Nicaragua (1000 B.C -1522 A.D.).
Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, State University of New York, Albany, New York.

Wilke, Sacha
2005 Spatial Analysis of Ceramic Objects from Santa Isabel, Nicaragua. Unpublished BA
Honors Thesis, Department of Archaeology, University of Calgary, Calgary, Alberta.

Wilke, Sacha and Sharisse McCafferty
2009 A Tale of Two Cities: Ceramic Objects from Nicaragua. Poster presented at the Annual
Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Atlanta, Georgia.


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Who was that Masked Man: Iconography and
Identity in the Middle Classic Maya Ballgame

Priscilla Mollard
The California Academy of Sciences, San Francisco, CA 94118 (PMollard@calacademy.org)

ABSTRACT. This work focuses on the role of the ballgame as a ritual performance that is
intended to reinforce the spiritual identity of the Middle Classic Period Maya. The iconography
associated with the ballgame is examined, as is its implementation, which would have served not
only to strengthen the identification of the Maya with the natural world they inhabited but also,
through repetition of emically practiced themes, would have symbolized the supernatural identity
of the Maya as described in the Popol Vuh. Representations of the ballgame in Middle Classic
Period painted ceramics are of particular focus as are the correlations that can be drawn
between these images and depictions of the Middle Classic Period royal court.

A New Perspective on the Maya Ballgame

Although the ballgame is regularly analyzed by way of its architectural remains, the earliest
indications we have of its presence in Mesoamerica come, rather paradoxically, from sites in
which masonry ballcourts have yet to be found. Central Mexican cemeteries at Tlatilco have
yielded figurines from as early as 1000 B.C. that depict individuals in what is thought to be
ballplayer costume (Weaver 1953). These figurines, which appear to have been quite widely-
dispersed, have also been found in other coastal sites such as San Lorenzo (Coe and Diehl 1980)
and Guerrero (Griffin 1972). The earliest figurines to date come from a tomb at El Openo in
Michoacn, Mexico, and have been radiocarbon-dated to 1500 B.C. (Day 2001).

Temporal and Geographic Parameters
The ceramic figurines which comprise the earliest evidence of the ballgame give us a very
different impression of that game than do painted ceramics from the Classic and specifically the
Middle Classic Period. These, in turn, feature an entirely different visual grammar (Jackson
2009), concerning the symbols and iconography specific to the ballgame, than do stone murals at
Terminal and Postclassic sites such as Tajn and Chichn Itz. For the purposes of the current
work, a major distinction will therefore be drawn between earlier and later versions of the
ballgame and that of the Middle Classic Period.

The figurines we find from Formative Period sites such as those named above as well as from
San Lorenzo, La Venta and a variety of sites in western and northern Mexico, feature a
comparably large number of individuals in gaming scenes who are usually interpreted as
members of a team. While very few actual ballcourts have been recovered from these early sites,
certain shaft tombs in the modern state of Nayarit, Mexico have produced several ceramic
models of ballcourts. These have been dated to the Late Formative through Protoclassic periods
(400 B.C A.D. 300). All but one feature complete assemblages of players, balls and spectators

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(Day 2001). An example from Ixtln del Ro features a scene in which at least five players are
watched by a crowd of at least fourteen.

Such a crowd would have seemed no crowd at all at the Great Ballcourt at Chichn Itz, to name
but one example of a Postclassic court, which contains a playing alley measuring 316 by 98 feet,
or 80,788 square feet. To say that this court is larger than most of those found at Middle Classic
Period sites does not quite convey the appropriate scale. These dimensions would allow for the
insertion of 93 ballcourts of the smallest of those found at Middle Classic Tikal, which measures
only 52.5 by 16.5 feet, or 866.25 square feet.

The Tikal court would have been hard put to accommodate the relatively small crowd alluded to
in the Ixtln del Ro scene, let alone even a sparsely populated Chichn Itzn game. Of course
beyond the immediately apparent limitations of size, there are also major differences in both
Preclassic and Postclassic iconography as compared to that of the Middle Classic Period. This
delineates and justifies a narrowed interpretational focus for the purpose of the current work.

The ceramic figurines from the Formative and Preclassic Periods depict individuals in heavily
padded clothing; they look as one would expect a ballplayer to look and yet, ballgame-related
iconography from these early periods is sparse. In contrast, ballgame scenes can be found in a far
greater variety of media during the Terminal and Postclassic Periods, most notably in stone
murals carved into the architecture of the courts themselves. Significantly, however, these scenes
allude to a very different type of game than that of the Middle Classic. Representations of the
game from both its earliest and latest forms are similar in that it would appear the ballgame
during these stages was a larger, more physical and more team-based endeavor than was the
Middle Classic ballgame. The symbolic meanings of these earlier and later games were therefore
of a very different nature.

While many iconographic elements are shared between ballcourts at later sites such as Chichn
Itz and those of the Middle Classic, particularly in terms of those symbols and images
connected to the Popol Vuh, there is a striking imbalance when it comes to images depicting
decapitation and human sacrifice. This discrepancy exists in both time and space with Middle
Classic lowland ceramics portraying an iconographic vocabulary more concerned with images of
the ball surrounded by players arranged in similar positions to those of dancers (Cohodas 1991),
while Terminal and Postclassic murals in the highlands typically depict either the ball in play or
the post-game sacrifice. Of course the decapitation element is central to the Hero Twins myth in
the Popol Vuh. This theme is definitely present in Middle Classic ballgame scenes, but it is
usually alluded to indirectly rather than made the focus of the narrative scene. In the Terminal
and Postclassic highlands it is the act of decapitation itself, whether of Hunahpu, his
impersonator, or of a prisoner of war, that is the main iconographic focus (Cohodas 1991).

Of course there are multiple factors which shaped the evolution of the ballgame from its Middle
Classic lowland expression to that of the Terminal and Postclassic highlands, time and space
being quite possibly the least significant. Sufficed to say, at some point between the former and
the latter, the set of shared and ritually implemented beliefs surrounding the ballgame, which
many authors have referred to as the ballgame cult (Cohodas 1991; Day 2001; Ekholm 1991),
was superseded by that of a warrior cult (Cohodas 1991) which utilized the ballgame for an

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entirely different cultural and religious purpose. Knowledge of and concordance with its
mythological identity seems to have been preserved.

The focus of this work is the Middle Classic ballgame as it was experienced in the lowlands.
This time period produced a game that was less a physical sport, as it would seem was the case in
the early stages of its development, and more a religious or spiritual ritual. That being said, the
data suggests that this ritual had more to do with the identity of the players as part of a cohesive
group, as a product of both the natural and supernatural environments, than it did with militarism
or political machinations between one group and the next which seems to have played out in later
ballcourts. Most Middle Classic courts were too small to have facilitated larger teams of players
and their architecture shows none of the wear we would associate with multiple people jockeying
for control of a nine pound solid rubber ball (Cohodas 1991; Nadal 1991). Of course this is not to
argue against the ballgame having been played by groups of people in their own time and for
their own enjoyment in the Middle Classic. I would argue, however, that these games were not of
the type that were being played in the masonry courts we find, with significant frequency, in the
dead-center of lowland civic-ceremonial centers. Establishing the nature of these ballgames or,
more appropriately, these ballgame performances is the goal of this paper.

The Ballgame Ritual

Lvi-Strauss (1966:32) describes a game as having a disjunctive effect. Groups of people who
are initially equal and non-differentiated become, through the outcome of a game, dived into
winners and losers. Given the visual dataset provided by painted ceramics from the Middle
Classic, this does not seem to have been the purpose of the Middle Classic ballgame. When we
examine ballgame scenes, the concept they seem to be expressing is that of cooperation, not
competition; something more analogous to Lvi-Strauss description of ritual:

it conjoins, for it brings about a union (one might even say communion in this
context) or in any case an organic relation between two initially separate groups,
one ideally merging with the person of the officiant and the other with the
collectivity of the faithful ( Lvi-Strauss 1966:32).

Under this model the ballgame would have served as an ideal conduit for the affirmation and
reaffirmation of Maya spiritual identity and symbiosis with both the natural and supernatural
worlds. The Popol Vuh describes a ballgame in the Underworld in which the Hero Twins
Huhnapu and Xbalanque battle the Lords of Death (Tedlock 1985). The myth is an allegory for
the cyclical nature of life, death and regeneration and is personified by the death of Hun
Huhnapu, the twins father, and his resurrection as the Maize God. The game itself, as the
vehicle of his rise from the Underworld, is thus a highly symbolic fertility ritual (Cohodas 1975)
which, as we see from its consistent iconographic repetition in Middle Classic ceramics, both
reflects and is reflected by an emic mythos.

Under this analysis the Middle Classic ballcourt, like the Classic Maya royal court, would have
functioned as both a social entity and a physical locus of power (Inomata and Houston 2001). By
participating in the ballgame ritual, the individuals on the court would have been performing the

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same ritual the gods had performed in the Underworld. The audience would have enabled the
success of both of these rituals by serving as their witness in both natural and supernatural space.

Ballcourts and Royal Courts
As Sarah E. Jackson did recently for her analysis of ceramic scenes featuring the royal court
(2009:73), I propose a reading of ballcourt scenes in this medium as idealized concepts of what
those courts should look like rather than as literal depictions (Reents-Budet 2001). Of course in
this case what they should look like would have been determined by a shared set of beliefs about
the ballgame and the ballgame myth, which would have been emically understood and reinforced
by the Maya witnesses of the ritual. The notion of identity, or the Maya place in the natural and
supernatural worlds, would have been key.

Parallels would have needed to have been drawn between the performers of the ritual and its
supernatural seat of power. The various padded garments we see on ballplayers in Middle
Classic ceramic scenes may have served a physical function, in that the protection they offered
the wearer may have been necessary given the physicality of the ritual, but I would also argue
that they served a symbolic function. These individuals may not have worn heavy padding solely
because they were competitors in a potentially injurious game, but because they were standing
before an audience with whom they shared a visual grammar (Jackson 2009) and were thus not
mere ballplayers but symbolic representations of The Ballplayer. Recall Lvi-Strauss assertion
that ritual unites an otherwise distinct population (1966:32); in the literal world that ballplayer
was an individual man (or woman?), separate and unequal to the other individual men and
women watching the performance. But when that individual donned the costume of The
Ballplayer, he would have united not only with the larger community of Mayas watching the
performance but with the myth itself.

In all ways but one Jacksons analysis of status and identity in ceramic depictions of the Classic
Maya royal court (2009) is applicable to the study of the Classic Maya ritual ballcourt. The
major difference lies in the fact that the ballcourt was the seat of a ritual that was supported by
the royal court, but was not subject to the same rules governing the operations of that royal court.
While hierarchies had to be rigidly maintained in the latter, the purpose of the former would have
been to create an enclosed moment of egalitarianism. We do not see a great deal of variation in
players costumes, nor do we see typical indications of status differentiation as are apparent in
royal court scenes. Players are typically depicted on the same plane, with no figure notably
higher or lower than any other. When vertical placement differences are present, they do not
seem to correspond to any other significant differences in costuming, gesture or positionality that
would place the individual in question in either a higher or lower status as compared to
surrounding figures.

Royal court scenes have a strict schematic in this regard. The vertical plane is given primacy,
with higher-positioned individuals having higher rank (Houston 1998). Additionally, these
scenes mandate that when two or more individuals are standing in association with each other,
the higher-ranking individual is the one further to the right (Houston 1998; Palka 2002). Ceramic
ballcourt scenes, in contrast, do not seem to suggest a right/left dynamic in terms of social status.
If any individual figure were to claim supremacy in a typical Middle Classic ballcourt scene it
would have to be the ball itself.

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Take, for example, Figure 1. (Photograph K1209 Justin Kerr). The central figure in this case is
the ball. The individuals flanking this central element are slightly differentiated in the vertical
plane, but even if we were to take this as indicative of status differentiation, the visual grammar
(Jackson 2009) is confused. Primacy is typically given to the right (Jackson 2009; Palka 2002),
but in this ballcourt scene we have the individual in the highest vertical position situated on the
left. It has been postulated that when ceramic scenes depict events occurring in the parallel
supernatural realm, established rules of direction and positionality are reversed (Myerhoff 1974;
Palka 2002). Since the ballgame performance is so closely linked to the Underworld and the
myth of the suns descent into Xibalba, this proposed mirror-effect could certainly explain a
left/right symbolic discrepancy. Were this the case, however, we would expect to see the figure
on the left iconographically elevated in status as compared to the figure on the right, which we
do not. What the figure on the right lacks in the vertical plane, as compared to the figure on the
left, is more than compensated for by the height of his headdress.

Figure1. Photograph K1209 Justin Kerr.

Figure 2. Photograph K1288 Justin Kerr.

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Status differentiation in royal court scenes is also typically demonstrated by virtue of rules
concerning eye contact (Jackson 2009), which stipulate that figures in the dominant right vector
do not meet the eyes of those in the subordinate left. With this in mind, consider Figure 2
(Photograph K1288 Justin Kerr). In this vessel the gazes of both the individuals to the left and
right of the central staircase image are locked. I would argue that this vessel is the visual epitome
of the function of the Middle Classic ballgame performance as ritual rather than game, as defined
by Lvi-Strauss (Lvi-Strauss 1966). The emphasis on this and similar scenes is not to reiterate
status differences or the superiority of any one individual or group but to portray a commonly-
understood myth in which all Maya, by virtue of their shared knowledge of the visual grammar
(Jackson 2009) of that myth, are equally witnesses and participants.

Individuals in positions of the highest power in royal court scenes typically have their eyes
locked on their own reflections in mirrors, so as to meet the gaze of no one save themselves and
to assert theirs as the highest authority (Palka 2002). I have previously spoken to the general
trend of egalitarianism in Middle Classic ballcourt scenes, in that each individual depicted
therein acts as both a physical and a mythological agent and is thus equally integral to the
meaning of the ritual itself. I would go one step further at this junction and suggest that in scenes
such as that in Figure 2, though both individuals are equal they are both in positions of power
and, as such, each figure serves as the mirror image of the other.

The vessels remaining figures and the visual narrative they create can be interpreted under the
same paradigm as mirror images not of each others physical forms, but as representatives of the
same mythical identity. On the left we see a scene in which the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and
Xbalanque, confront the aged God N who sits atop a cauac monster. The gaping maw of the
cauac monster, much like a cave, signifies the entrance to the Underworld (Brady and Ashmore
1999). Of course this is an allusion to the ballgame myth in the Popol Vuh, in which the twins
descend into Xibalba and avenge their father Hun Hunahpu by way of a ballgame. If we look at
the scene to the right of the central ballplayers we can again see this allusion to the ballgame
myth in the form of Hun Hunahpu himself, whose head was removed and placed in a calabash
tree (Tedlock 1985). This representation of the Hero Twins father stands surrounded by animals
whose domain was understood to be that of the Underworld. Interestingly, these animals are also
mirror images of each other.

Animals and the Ballgame
Many of the previously discussed concepts regarding the nature of the ballgame ritual are
apparent through an examination of animal iconography in Middle Classic ceramic scenes; most
notably that of the creation, within the masonry confines of the ballcourt, of a sacred and
egalitarian space. As this space was one designed to contain a supernatural ritual, and as the
supernatural world is both parallel to and a product of the natural world, it would behoove us to
apply an ecological approach to the study of the ballgame ritual. Hultkrantz enumerates four
fundamental principles upon which such an approach is based (Hultkrantz 1966). The first and
second of these stipulate that interaction with the natural environment provides the raw materials
from which religious concepts are derived, and stimulates the particular forms by which that
religion becomes manifest (Hultkrantz 1966:143145).


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A survey of those Classic Period ceramic scenes depicting the ballgame ritual quickly establishes
the deer as a significant iconographic animal. This scenario makes perfect sense from an
ecological perspective. As both a subsistence animal and one integral to concepts of elite status
and hierarchy as played out in feasting rituals, the deer should register prominently in Maya
religious thought. Even in non-ballgame related ceramic scenes we see again and again the
repetition of the deer-hunt motif. What is significant in these scenes, for the purposes of this
work, is the iconographic parallel that can be drawn between the hunt and the Middle Classic
ballgame ritual.

Both the hunter and the ballgame performer wear ceremonial deer headdresses. In fact, this
costuming element is so intimately linked to the identities of both the ballgame performer and
the hunter that its presence immediately defines either a ballgame or a hunting scene, should the
rest of the iconography be unclear or otherwise unknown (Cohodas 1991). Following the
ecological approach to religion, as defined by Hultkrantz (1966), the deer in this context must
have been a species so important to the Maya that its capture would have represented not only a
great physical achievement, but also a tremendously significant spiritual feat. In this latter
context, the hunter would not so much have been conquering the deer, and thus the natural
environment, as he would have been gaining access to the gifts of that natural environment
through its supernatural guardians (Lvi-Strauss 1966). The prime-mover in this scenario would
have been the hunting ritual. A properly performed ritual that reverberated through both the
natural and the supernatural would have resulted in a successful hunt; a successful hunt would, in
turn, have fed the populace and provided the elite class with the tribute its status required.

Like the hunting ritual, the ballgame performance during the Middle Classic was a ritual of
fertility (Cohodas 1975, 1991; Day 2001). If religion is inseparable from the natural environment
which both creates and shapes it, as is fundamentally mandated under an ecological approach,
profuse recurrence of deer iconography in ritual ballgame scenes should be of little surprise and
is, in fact, quite logical. Similarly, it is of no surprise that the jaguar, a highly-regarded status
animal in Mesoamerica since at least the Formative Period (Coe 2005; Coe and Diehl 1980;
Cohodas 1975; Grove 1969; Jackson 2009; Marcus 1974; Pasztory 1978), is also featured
heavily in Middle Classic ballgame scenes. What is perhaps most indicative of the supernatural
function that both the deer and the jaguar served for the ancient Maya is their symbolic unity in
the Hero Twin Xbalanque, whose name literally means Jaguar-Deer (Cohodas 1991). He is
recognizable in Classic Period ceramic scenes by jaguar markings at his mouth and jaguar skin
either fused to his own or worn about his waist. Very appropriately, the Popol Vuh attributes him
with two specific qualities: he is both a hunter and a ballplayer (Tedlock 1985).

The same dual identity is credited to Hunahpu, the second Hero Twin, whose presence in
ceramic scenes is also recognizable on the basis of his animal iconography. Hunahpu is typically
spotted, like his brother, but his are thought to be snake spots (Cohodas 1991). Hunahpu is the
twin more closely associated with the theme of decapitation and regeneration, as it is he who,
like his father before him, is decapitated in Xibalba. Hunahu is the sacrifice while Xbalanque is
the sacrificer. Neither twin is iconographically nor mythologically higher in status than the other.
This theme reflects the general trend in animal iconography in Middle Classic ballgame scenes
and the larger sense of egalitarianism therein.


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The deer is the animal most frequently featured in ballgame headdresses but this frequency does
not correlate to any other iconographic indications of superiority or dominance. Eagles are
frequently depicted in ballplayers headdresses, as are crocodilians and jaguars, but no single
species nor category of animal such as the predator, the prey or the status-symbol seems to have
held any advantage over any other in the sacred space created by the ballgame ritual.

The Ballgame Ritual and Middle Classic Maya Identity

This work has analyzed the Maya ballgame across dimensions of both time and space in order to explore
the performance of the game and the physical arena in which it was encompassed within the unifying
perspective of identity. The first step in this process was to establish the identity of the ballgame itself as a
ritual performance rather than as merely a game, in concordance with the divergent functions of the two
concepts as defined by Lvi-Strauss (Lvi-Strauss 1966).
Rather than having served a disjunctive function, as Lvi-Strauss defines the function of a game, the
iconographic representations we find from the Middle Classic period suggest that the environment within
the ballcourt was more unified, as is the goal of a ritual. We do not see portrayals of what we would
typically define as winners and losers; nor do we see any significant visual distinctions between
players. True, the corpus of Maya ballgame-related imagery does contain several examples of sacrifice,
but these are mostly products of the Terminal and Postclassic periods and are therefore by practical
necessity the expressions of a completely different ritual. When images of sacrifice are present during the
Middle Classic they are typically allusions to the mythical decapitation of Hunahpu in Xibalba. In this
way the decapitation event is portrayed not as much as what awaits the loser (or winner?) of the
game, but as the shadow of a supernatural event which has taken place before the performance of the
ritual game in the natural world and which serves to reinforce and reiterate those integral mythic elements
which sustained the cohesive identity of the Maya.

This is clear through examination of the visual grammar (Jackson 2009) present in Middle Classic
ballgame scenes, in which we see that the iconographic rules and regulations which are used to
differentiate between individuals in depictions of the royal court are completely absent from depictions of
the ballcourt. The strict hierarchy of vertical and right/left placement that we see in the former depictions
does not appear to be present in depictions of the ballgame ritual, even during action shots, when one or
more individuals are lunging or diving for the ball. What differences do exist are mitigated by the height
of the players headdresses, which restores balance and results in all players being essentially on the same
level. Likewise, the iconographic frequency of the different animals represented by these headdresses
does not seem to indicate any significant superiority or inferiority of any particular animal type. The
significance of these animals must therefore have lain not in their physical attributes, which would have
resulted in a natural relation of dominance and submission or predator and prey, but in their supernatural
identities within the ballgame myth.

Given these criteria, the ballgame ritual would have served not to divide players into winners and losers
but to unite the entire community participating in the ritual, including the spectators who would have been
performers in their own rite, as witnesses to the event, under a shared awareness of their own heritage
within the natural and supernatural worlds and a cohesive understanding of what it was to be Maya.

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Brady, James E. and Wendy Ashmore
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Continuity, Cultural Dynamics, and Alcohol: The
Reinterpretation of Identity through Chicha in the
Andes

Guy S. Duke
Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, 8888 University Dr., Burnaby, BC V5A
1S6 (gsd@sfu.ca)

ABSTRACT. Chicha has a long and varied history in the Andes. It was the official beverage of
the Inka court and has been used to assert indigenous identity through colonial times to the
present. The meanings and contexts in which chicha has been consumed have varied over time
and the connection to indigenous identity is not straightforward. How the social and political
status of chicha has changed over time, particularly in the transition period from Inka to Spanish
rule, is a key element in understanding the shifting, dynamic nature of indigenous identity in the
Andes.

Lo Andino, Chicha, and the Complexity of Identity

The consumption of chicha, or maize beer, is mentioned in most discussions of indigenous
religious and ritual life in the historical, anthropological and archaeological literature on the
Andes (Jennings 2005; Krggeler 1999; Weismantel 1991). The importance of chicha to Andean
identity is often tied to the concept of reciprocity, long held to be a cornerstone of Andean
culture (Paulson 2006). This reciprocal nature of Andean societies is evident in Andean rituals
and in the redistributive policies of both present-day communities and pre-Hispanic polities
(Hastorf and Johannessen 1993; Tolen 1999). A key element to reciprocity in the Andes is the
distribution of chicha at festivals and rituals (Jennings 2005). The ritual sharing of chicha at
festivals and ritual gatherings is integral to the maintenance of social life in many villages and
has been historically documented in the Andes since the early days of the conquest (Hastorf and
Johannessen 1993). During Inka rule in the Andes, the ideology of reciprocity through chicha
distribution was reportedly played upon to gain political power through such means as the
drinking of maize chicha to secure alliances and its distribution to workers in exchange for labor
(Bray 2003; Weismantel 1991). Today, as in the past, the host of a rural festival must supply
adequate amounts of food and chicha to guests, calling upon kinship ties and debts of goods or
labor to ensure this is achieved (Jennings 2005).

While all of the assertions in the above paragraph can be substantiated through the reading of the
literature on the Andes, the underlying assumption is that there is a single, unifying Andean
culture that exists today and has existed since well before the Spanish or even the Inka conquest.
In other words, the previous paragraph epitomizes a reductionist discourse, known as lo Andino,
that is often used in much of the literature on the Andes. Lo Andino is the conceptual
homogenization of Andean culture that presents indigenous Andeans as representative of the
unbroken continuity of Andean peasant culture from before the Spanish conquest to the present

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(Jamieson 2005:353). While useful in helping to note certain continuities, the danger lies in its
essentializing basis, as it simplifies a complex, multi-ethnic geographical area with vastly
differing regional histories and cosmologies into an easily defined, unified culture (Jennings
2003:436; Weismantel 1991:863).

In order to address indigenous identity in the colonial Andes, one must turn to the historical,
ethnohistorical, and anthropological literature. However, much of the past literature is centered
around the concept of lo Andino, creating an essentialized and generic interpretation of highland
Andean peasant culture fixated on the continuity with the pre-Hispanic past (Jamieson
2005:353). This idealized version of a fixed Andean identity that has remained constant since
well before the arrival of the Spanish is at odds with the more recent anthropological
observations of contextual identities (Orlove and Schmidt 1995; Paulson 2006). As well, the
historical and archaeological findings on the cultural adaptability and fluidity of the Spanish
colonists and the Spanish colonial system exemplify cultural dynamism as opposed to rigidity
(Rodrguez-Alegra 2005; Stern 1995), as do the colonial policies of the pre-Hispanic Inka and
the reactions to these policies by the groups they conquered (Bray 1992; Jennings 2003).

The complexity of studying identity in the Andes is heightened by recent resurgences in
indigenous cultural identification, asserted variously as local pride and autonomy (Beck and
Mijeski 2000), and by the various nation states as a means of highlighting their link to the past,
and thus their legitimacy (Paulson 2006), or as a means of promoting tourism through cultural
diversity (Butler 2006; Tolen 1999). That these assertions of indigenous identity are both
embraced and rejected by indigenous people, often within the same community (Lyons 2001;
Paulson 2006; Tolen 1999), is in itself a clear indicator of the complex and contextual nature of
identity in the Andes.

A major aspect of this complexity is the role of alcohol within the ritual and daily lives of
Andeans. The type of alcohol consumed, the place it is consumed, the amount consumed, the
company with whom it is consumed, among a number of other variables all contribute to how
individuals and groups identify themselves and each other. The following section will outline a
brief history of chicha in the Andes, specifically noting the ways it has shaped and been shaped
by notions of identity over time.

Chicha: A Brief History

The word chicha is of Taino origin and became a generic term used by the Spanish to define
any and all fermented beverages brewed by indigenous peoples in the Americas (Coe 1994:202;
Jennings 2005:242). Before the Spanish conquest and the subsequent introduction of European
crops, indigenous Andean crops such as peanuts, tubers, oca, yuca, algarroba, strawberry,
pineapple, maguey, manioc, molle-berries, quinoa, and maize have all been recorded as being the
main ingredient in various chicha recipes (Bauer 1996:327; Coe 1994:206; Hastorf and
Johannessen 1993:120; Jennings 2005:242). The use of introduced European crops such as fava
beans, wheat, barley, and even Quaker Oats, as well as the aforementioned indigenous crops, for
the brewing of chicha is documented today (Rick and Anderson 1949:411; Tolen 1999:31;
Weismantel 1991:871). Regardless of the era, the term chicha is most commonly associated as

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being specific to the Andes and with fermented maize beer (Jennings 2005; Hastorf and
Johannessen 1993; Weismantel 1991).

Arguably, chicha reached the pinnacle of its political importance in the Andes during the
expansion of the Inka Empire (Bray 2003; Hastorf and Johannessen 1993; Jennings 2003; Moore
1989). In particular, maize chicha was highly important in the economic, ritual, political,
military, and social functioning of both the elite, and common people of the Inka Empire (Bray
2003; Hastorf and Johannessen 1993; Stanish 1997; Zimmerer 1993).

The diversity of agricultural products used to make chicha noted above was an ethnic and
regional phenomenon in the pre-Hispanic Andes (Coe 1994:206), and thus the varieties of chicha
amongst the groups encountered by the Inka were extremely variable. As the Inka expanded,
they imposed their agricultural methods and economic system (Jennings 2003; Stanish 1997;
Zimmerer 1993), both of which had the production and distribution of maize at their core. As has
been noted in both the archaeological and ethnohistoric literature, a substantial portion of this
produced and redistributed maize was grown for the purposes of brewing maize chicha
(Zimmerer 1993). Thus, with the expansion of the Inka Empire came the predominance of maize
as the primary ingredient in chicha endorsed and distributed by the state to laborers and the
military (Bray 2003; Stanish 1997).

Akha mama, the name of the fermenting agent used to begin batches of chicha, was also another
name for Cuzco, the Inka capital (Hastorf and Johannessen 1993:118). This highly symbolic
alternate name shows the importance of chicha to the Inka on a number of different levels. On
one level it shows the centrality placed on chicha by the Inka to the very process of ruling:
without Cuzco, there would be no Inka and without chicha there would be no Cuzco. As well,
through the implication that chicha originated, or was born, in Cuzco, the Inka Empire
appropriated chicha and its social power as a means of establishing its legitimacy throughout the
Andes: those who control the chicha control the Andes. The power of chicha as a means of
legitimizing rule was apparent in the distributive and labor policies of the empire. These policies
were rooted in the tradition of reciprocity (Jennings 2005:243; Weismantel 1991:874). They
required that the empire supply state laborers with a certain amount of maize chicha in exchange
for the labor provided (Bray 2003:1819) and that the ruling elite sponsor feasts involving large
amounts of chicha to display their generosity (Stanish 1997:201) as well as provide to the elites
of newly conquered areas in order to gain their allegiance (Hastorf and Johannessen 1993:118).

When the Spanish arrived in the Andes, two imperial polities collided that, though obviously
different in many ways, shared a number of similar attributes. Among these were the
interconnectedness between state power and religion and the use of a particular fermented
beverage within religious rituals as well as for domestic use: maize chicha for the Inka and grape
wine for the Spanish (Butler 2006:5; Rice 1996). The position of chicha in the religious life of
the Inka Empire was similar enough to that of wine to the Spanish that in the early years of
Spanish rule in the Andes, due to the difficulty in importing wine from Europe and the hit-and-
miss nature of early colonial viticulture, chicha was briefly considered as a substitute for wine in
mass services (Butler 2006:6). While this idea was quickly quashed, it highlights the level of
social prestige associated with maize chicha in the Andes at the time of the Spanish conquest.


266 | P a g e

However, the decision not to use chicha in Catholic mass signified the end of chicha as the
official drink of the ruling elite in the Andes. The combination of the rise of non-indigenous
populations, the indigenous demographic collapse, and the expansion of viticulture in the Andes
marginalized the role of chicha in the Andes (Brown 1986; Butler 2006). In a relatively brief
time, chicha, formerly the royal drink of the Inka Empire, became solely the drink of indigenous
peasants and laborers (Butler 2006; deFrance 2003). This change in status, however, was less a
reflection of its changing importance to the indigenous peoples of the Andes than it was a
reflection of the Spanish colonial regard for its own grape wine (Butler 2006:5; Rice 1997), and
the social position of indigenous peoples in the Spanish colonial empire (Seed 1993).

However, the differences between Inka and Spanish worldviews, despite the similarities between
the roles of chicha and wine to their respective political, religious, and economic systems, were
too great to be ignored. The changing status of chicha following the Spanish conquest was not
solely determined by the taste for specific beverages by royal elites, or by demographic changes
or traditional religious uses. A central aspect to the change in status from elite to peasant
beverage can be seen in the differing attitudes towards drunkenness held by the Spanish and the
indigenous peoples in the Andes. These attitudes, originating within the respective religious,
social, and legal traditions of the Andes and the Iberian Peninsula, were highly influential in the
shifting view of chicha in the social discourse of the post-conquest Andes.

In Spain, while the drinking of grape wine, among other alcoholic beverages, had been a crucial
element to domestic and religious life of both the elite and non-elite, public drunkenness was
generally frowned upon (Butler 2006:56). While a regular feature of the daily lives of the
average resident of the Iberian Peninsula, alcohol was drunk in moderation and generally in
private residences or in designated drinking establishments. The use of grape wine in its religious
context was mostly symbolic and not drunk in quantities sufficient to induce intoxication (Rice
1995). Intoxication was never considered a path to God (Butler 2006:5).

In the Andes, public drunkenness was a central aspect to religious and social life (Butler 2006).
Intoxication was seen as a means of gaining a deeper connection to the spiritual realm and no
ritual took place without inducement of intoxication among the participants. Drinking to become
drunk during Andean religious observances was a tradition well documented in historical
literature (Weismantel 1991). The purpose was to drink as much as possible and to show ones
inebriation publicly as a sign of immersing oneself in the ceremony (Butler 2006:5). Not only
was ritual public drunkenness sought, in many cases it was mandatory (Bray 2003).

The official Spanish colonial attitude towards chicha very quickly hardened into a
condemnation of Indian drinking of corn beer as a behavior representing the primitive, and
possibly idolatrous, nature of the Andean people they were subduing (Butler 2006:6). However,
this linking of drunkenness and idolatry in the colonial Spanish worldview was not always so
simple. Frequently, indigenous Andeans would practice their religion, becoming publicly
intoxicated, but later deny any religious significance to the act in order to avoid punishment from
missionaries and colonial officials (Butler 2006:67). The differing interpretations of
drunkenness led the Spanish authorities to eventually see it as indicating an inherent weakness of
character among indigenous peoples rather than a threat to Christian ideology (Butler 2006:7;
Seed 1993:647).

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The tension between Spanish and indigenous views on drunkenness and chicha had become a
source of identification in the Andes. From the Spanish viewpoint, Indians were drunkards and
chicha was for Indians; from the Andean viewpoint, chicha drinking and ritual intoxication were
a means of maintaining their cultural identity (Butler 2006:67). According to Butler, this
dichotomy has been present [f]rom the early colonial period to the present (2006:7).

The obvious problem with such a simple dichotomy is that the Spanish world and the indigenous
world were not separate, but interconnected, interacting, and overlapping. As the Spanish
colonial era progressed, this became readily apparent with the rising population of those of
mixed Spanish and indigenous ancestry, or mestizos. In much of the literature, mestizos are
grouped amongst those of Spanish descent, as opposed to with indigenous groups (Brown
1986:1112). The proper placement of mestizos in this hierarchy was a constant concern to
colonial authorities (Wilson 2000:241). Mestizo identity was fluid and difficult to categorize on
an official level. A large number of mestizos identified themselves as either criollos or
indigenous depending on the particular context, causing confusion in a system designed with
clear division between colonists, indigenous people, and slaves.

Chicha and Identity in the Present-Day Andes

Questions of identity dominate the anthropological literature in the Andes (Butler 2006; Paulson
2006; Tolen 1999). What seems clear is that religion, alcohol, and identity remain inextricably
connected in the Andes today. Chicha remains the central alcoholic beverage in indigenous ritual
life, though its position has shifted and been transformed within this dynamic social world.

Although the Spanish/indigenous dichotomy has been complicated and rendered anachronistic
due to five hundred years of cohabitation and inter-ethnic/inter-racial unions, a striking
dichotomy between indigenous peoples and everyone else still appears to exist. While there is a
large spectrum of identities included in the everyone else side of this dichotomy, an overriding
identity of being not indigenous appears to be present and active in the Andes (Beck and
Mijeski 2000; Butler 2006). A similar spectrum is present within indigenous identities, but with
the indigenous aspect taking precedence over the others (Beck and Mijeski 2000).

Beck and Mijeski argue that, [r]egardless of how the indigenous peoples of Ecuador and their
descendents have perceived themselves, the colonial and modern state and its functionaries have
insisted that the only relevant means of identifying indigenous peoples was external to them
(2000:120). This is exemplified by the indigenous performances recorded by Tolen (1999) in
Pulucate. She discusses the rise of Evangelical Protestantism in the region and how this has
changed aspects of the community. In particular, dancing and the consumption of alcohol,
formerly integral aspects of the Catholic and indigenous identity in the region, are now seen as
sinful aspects of their Catholic past. To quote her, it is the drunkenness once associated with
costumed dancing that is denounced by believers (Tolen 1999:21). However, when the wife of
the president of Ecuador visited Pulucate, the community donned these very costumes and
enacted a dancing performance for her. This performance was put on despite the self-
identification of Pulucateos as Evangelistic Protestants. Instead, Tolen argues that the
performance was enacted to meet the official expectations of an indigenous community.

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However, throughout this performance Pulucateos still self-identified as being Evangelistic
Protestants and thus omitted the most pernicious aspect of this recreation of a past ritual: alcohol
(Tolen 1999:2838). Instead, they substituted Coca-Cola and a non-alcoholic barley chicha. The
use of non-alcoholic chicha by an indigenous community that denounces the use of alcohol
highlights the importance of chicha to indigenous identity. Even though Coca-Cola is also used
as a chicha replacement, that chicha is still made and used by the community is indicative of its
importance to identity, though whether this is part of the self-identity of Pulucateos or a means
of representing the state definition of indigenous identity is not discussed by Tolen.

Elsewhere, Orlove and Schmidt (1995) conducted a study comparing the relationship between
identity and the consumption of Western bottled beer and indigenous maize chicha in the Andes.
In their conclusions they shy away from class, regionalism, or ethnicity as being the primary
determinants of the consumption of one or the other beverage. They instead argue that
consumption is contextually based according to the social situation a particular individual finds
him/herself in when confronted with a choice between the two. However, if their findings are
taken within the context of the highly stratified racial, ethnic, and class structures documented in
the Andes (de la Cadena 1998), the conclusion is that beer, the more expensive of the two and
associated with urban living (Orlove and Schmidt 1995), is the beverage to drink when
identifying as being higher in the hierarchy, while chicha, being less expensive and associated
with rural living, is the beverage of choice when identifying as being lower in the hierarchy.

While I agree with their assertion that, in some instances, a food item can serve simply to reflect
an established identity, while in others, it can be used purposively to assert an identity that
otherwise would be challenged or denied (Orlove and Schmidt 1995:275), their conclusion does
not elaborate sufficiently on this theme. While consuming chicha does not immediately define
one as indigenous, just as drinking beer, or Coca-Cola, does not define one as not being
indigenous, an individual may drink chicha in a particular situation to either assert ones identity
as an indigenous person or as a means of connecting with people asserting an indigenous
identity. Orlove and Schmidt (1995:291) partially recognize this yet fail to note the indigenous
nature of chicha itself.

Paulson emphasizes in her discussion of food and identity that, Andean ethnic-racial-national
identities cannot be chosen at will (2006:652), an argument that is in direct contradiction to
Orlove and Schmidts concept of contextual identity expressed individually (1995:291).
Contextual identity implies that changing identity is akin to changing clothes: certain outfits
work in certain situations. What Paulson notes is that, in the Andes, identities are slowly built
into ones body through work, weather, clothing, postures, sex, and, of course, eating and
drinking, exercised in specific material contexts (2006:652). Identities, by this definition, are
absorbed. While Orlove and Schmidt hint at this, their definition of contextual identity lacks the
time depth of Paulsons. What Orlove and Schmidt seem to imply is that an indigenous rural
peasant immediately changes identity when consuming beer at an urban tavern. If we follow
what Paulson asserts, it would require a significant amount of time spent in the tavern drinking
beer, as well as wearing different clothing, undertaking different work, etc. before the identity of
indigenous rural peasant could be replaced by another identity.

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Orlove and Schmidt define chicha as inexpensive and rural, the drink of poor peasants
(1995:291). According to the academic literature, poor peasants tend to be predominantly
indigenous (de la Cadena 1998; Lyons 2001; Tolen 1999). As well, chicha is commonly thought
of, and often directly referred to, as being an indigenous beverage (Butler 2006; Paulson 2006).
Thus, the consumption of chicha must be viewed within a context of indigenousness. While the
variety of ways the beverages are used to express identity (Orlove and Schmidt 1995:291)
must be taken into account, the underlying understanding is that by drinking chicha, one is
engaging in an indigenous activity.

Conclusion

The idea that ones identity stems from the body, and that what one does, experiences, and
consumes creates identity (Paulson 2006) is at the root of the definitions of identity in the Andes.
This is evident today in the practices of indigenous communities, national lawmakers, and urban
centers (Paulson 2006; Tolen 1999). It is clearly evident that this is rooted in the history of the
region.

However, while the evidence points to continuity with the past, this continuity is not unbroken or
unchanging. In sharp contrast to the idea of lo Andino, which romanticizes the ancient past and
essentializes modern indigenous peoples (Jamieson 2005:353; Jennings 2003:436; Weismantel
1991:863), this continuity is shown to be dynamic and shifting. Instead of simply clinging to
bygone ways in a meaningless recreation of past lifeways, what occurs is a constant
reinterpretation and reconfiguration of so-called traditional practices at the local level, bringing
new meanings to them.

In the case of chicha, its use has been modified to fit the changing religious landscape in
Pulucate, Ecuador (Tolen 1999), and embraced as an integral part of the national ethos of
indigenousness in Bolivia (Paulson 2006). The central aspect to all of these, however, is that,
though not always compatible, these diverse methods of applying chicha to identity all assert that
identity as being indigenous.

Acknowledgements. I would like to thank Dr. Ross Jamieson for his helpful critique of the first
draft of this paper; Laura, for her unending support; Jennifer Jones, Kristina Hannis, and Sandy
Dielissen for their encouragement; RHHOTA; and the organizers of the 2009 Chacmool
conference for giving me a venue to discuss this topic.

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Distinguishing Socio-cultural Identity in the
Archaeological Record: The Toyah/Tejas Social
Field

John W. Arnn
Archeological Studies Program, Environmental Affairs Division, TxDOT, 125 E. 11th Street
Austin, Texas 78701-2483 (johnarnn@gmail.com)

ABSTRACT. At the time of European contact historical documents indicate Texas was home to
hundreds of distinct aboriginal groups and perhaps a dozen indigenous linguistic families.
However, the prehistory of this region reflects a rather homogenous archaeological record
characterized by hunting and gathering. Scholars frequently emphasize divisions and boundaries
in these types of pluralistic cultural settings when, in reality, groups are seldom isolated and
boundaries are often permeable. This paper presents historical, environmental, anthropological,
and archaeological (Toyah) evidence for a unique and indigenous social field that spanned 400
years of prehistory and history, and hundreds of square kilometers, and resolves the dichotomy
between historical and anthropological interpretations of this region. Archaeologists in Texas
(Black 1986; Creel 1990; Johnson 1994; Karbula 2003; Prewitt 1981, 1983; Quigg 1997; Quigg
and Peck 1995) recognize a Late Prehistoric material culture known as Toyah spanning
approximately 400 years (A.D. 1250 1650) and approximately 350,000 km
2
of the state that
vanished shortly after direct European contact (Figure 1). Alternatively, historic accounts from
this same region document more than 50 groups who spoke dozens of different languages during
the 15th and 16th centuries (Campbell 1988; Foster 1995; Hickerson 1994; Kenmotsu 2001;
Wade

Identity and Interaction

This dichotomy between archaeological and historical
interpretations of prehistoric and historic indigenous peoples
in Texas is viewed here as revolving around the core issues
of identity and interaction. Identity, as it is used here, refers
to how someone or something is distinguished from another
and borrows somewhat from Tajfels and Turners (1979)
social identity theory. In this sense identity is elementally
concerned with how people recognize similarity and mark
difference in everything and, as such, is one of the most
fundamental aspects of human existence and behavior.
Identity is never formed in isolation; instead it is always
constructed in interaction with someone or something else.
For example, we know that a beer stein is a beer stein
because it is not a bowl, a house, or a horse. In order to
establish identity some context involving multiple

Figure 5. The Toyah Region
including Johnsons Classic and
Shared Areas and the
approximate distribution of the
Perdiz arrow point (after
Johnson 1994: Figure 105).

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characters, historicity, or experience is required. Thus, the context in which all identities are
formed, maintained, and transformed is fundamentally interactive.

Although identity is often perceived in static terms as a sort of label or moniker, it may be more
precisely characterized by dynamic multi-dimensional social interactions at multiple scales
through time and space. As one anthropologist put it, to be German in 1995, for example,
involves emphasizing or de-emphasizing different things than being German before re-
unification; and both would be very different to nominally equivalent identifications in 1938, or
1916, or 1871 (Jenkins 1996:93). Humans pick and choose identities and specific ways of doing
things with specific people in order to avoid or mitigate problems, negotiate outcomes, and
achieve goals. Individuals, families, communities, cities, states, and whole civilizations rise and
fall, while retaining and discarding situationally relevant traits and practices from their histories,
creating new ones, adopting others in interaction, and passing some on to the emerging identities
that follow.

Nevertheless, specific practices, technology, interaction, and identities often coalesce into
patterned behavior long enough to form communities, traditions, cultures, empires, and of course
material cultures. Although the specific identities, interactions, and context in which they are
formed are different and will change through time, the process will not. Therefore, identity and
interaction play a fundamental thematic role in the transmission of practice and technology and
in the creation, distribution, and deposition of material culture.

Archaeological Data

Toyah material culture is distinguished primarily on the basis of lithic and ceramic assemblages
(Figure 2). The lithic assemblage is generally defined as a flake/blade technology (Hester 1995;
Hester and Shafer 1975; Shafer 1977) in which flakes and prismatic blades are struck off large
cores and then crafted into various tools (Johnson 1994:269). Toyah lithic artifacts consist of
unifacial and bifacial tools: Perdiz arrow points, endscrapers, beveled knives, and drills. The
Toyah ceramic assemblage consists primarily of bone tempered plain ware distributed across
most of Central and South Texas. Johnson (1994) subdivided the Toyah region as a whole into a
Classic Toyah Area and Shared Toyah Area (see Figure 1) acknowledging that Toyah material
culture occurs most consistently and in its purest form at sites in Central and South Texas. In
contrast, sites in the Shared Toyah Area often present artifacts from other cultures (i.e., Caddo or
Rockport Phase ceramics) along with various elements of Toyah material culture (Figure 3).

While archaeologists acknowledge some variation in Toyah material culture, diversity is often
overshadowed by the overwhelming emphasis placed on the association of Toyah artifacts with
bison faunal remains. Despite the fact that bison remains are not always found at Toyah sites in
large numbers and sometimes not at all, Toyah people are generally perceived as bison hunters.
Yet, bison abundance, range, and suitable habitat varied considerably across Texas. Moreover,
white-tailed deer are more abundant in the geographic center of the Classic Toyah Area than
anywhere else in North America (Teer 1984:265).


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The Toyah lithic assemblage is also considered a tool kit or techno-complex for hunting and
processing bison. As such it is considered an introduction from the Great Plains into Texas,
either directly by groups migrating south or indirectly through diffusion (Johnson 1994).
Thus, one of the most fundamental distinguishing elements of Toyah material culture is widely
perceived as a foreign import from the north devoid of local antecedents.

However, Central Texas sits atop an enormous Karst plateau yielding superb tool-grade chert and
it seems likely that natives of this region would be quite capable of their own lithic innovation. It
also seems likely that this toolkit would be useful for most broad-spectrum forager subsistence
pattern. As more sites are intensively excavated across Texas the local antecedents for this
technology are becoming increasingly apparent. Evidence for a flake/blade technology has been
recovered at several sites predating Toyah, including the Late Archaic and the Austin Phase.

Similarly, the Perdiz arrow point, once considered diagnostic of Toyah, is now recognized as
little more than a temporal diagnostic for a period of 400 years and a distribution spanning

Figure 6. Toyah Lithic Assemblage: A-D Perdiz arrow points, E-I scrapers, J-K blades, L-
M beveled knives (after Ricklis 1996: Figure 5) and the Toyah Ceramic Assemblage:
Various bone-tempered pottery forms from Toyah sites in Central and South Texas: a,
Bowl (41KM16); b, Jar with vertical brushing under horizontal rows of punctuations
(41HY209); c-e, Ollas (d has loop handles) (41LK201, 41RF21) (after Perttula et al.
1995: Figure 16 a-e, reproduced with permission of the Texas Archeological Society).
Also pictured are two bowls, the most common ceramic form known for the Edwards
Plateau (after Quigg and Peck 1995: Figure 5.38 and Johnson 1994: Figure 99).

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much of Texas south of the Red River into
southern Coahuila and Chihuahua, Mexico
and from the Davis Mountains of West Texas
into Louisiana. While most concede that
Perdiz points are not indicative of a single
group of people, no explanation for the
consistent replication and broad distribution
of this point, beyond its ability to kill bison,
has been offered.

Vessel forms in the Toyah ceramic
assemblage also reflect some variation. Bowls
appear to be the most common form on the
Edwards Plateau of Central Texas, whereas
most other forms appear to be confined to
South Texas, and the Blackland Prairie.
However, it should also be noted that Toyah
vessels are rarely recovered intact and what is
known about these ceramics comes primarily
from isolated sherds or pot breaks. Therefore,
it is possible that vessel forms were even
more diverse.

In addition, sites along the boundary of
Johnsons (1994) Classic Toyah Area and the Shared Toyah Area often show mixed assemblages
(see Figure 3) in which one or more artifact types from a completely different and/or adjacent
culture area are recovered in association with and/or coeval with Toyah deposits. Several sites
on the Lampasas Cutplain and Blackland Prairie immediately adjacent to the northeastern portion
of the Classic Toyah Area possess a Toyah lithic assemblage but Caddo or Caddo-like ceramic
assemblages. Alternatively, several sites on the northwestern frontier of the Classic Toyah Area
contain bone tempered plain ware and a predominantly Toyah lithic assemblage, but also present
several different types of arrow point as well as Perdiz points. Nevertheless, there is little
question that archaeologists have recognized a remarkably consistent pattern or tradition in
Toyah with respect to the widespread distribution of specific artifact types and assemblages
across this region during a specific period of time.

Environmental and Ethnographic Data

Environmentally, Texas is geographically diverse with no less than 56 ecoregions (Griffith et al.
2004). Texas grades from swamps, bogs, and pine forests in the east to high, dry, desert, and
mountains in the west and is bounded by plains to the north and brush country and the Gulf
Coast to the South. Floods are not uncommon and though short in duration may affect thousands
of square kilometers. Widespread and sustained droughts, lasting between two and five years,
may occur as often as four to five times every 75 years. These frequent and dramatic fluctuations
can significantly alter local as well as regional environmental conditions and are a very real part
of every individuals life.

Figure 7. Distribution of Late Prehistoric II sites
containing mixed assemblages along the
boundary of the Classic Toyah area (after
Johnson 1994: Figure 105).

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Ethnographers working among hunter-gatherers living in environmentally similar regions have
observed that they spend significant time interacting with individuals, families, and groups and
participating to varying degrees in long distance social, political, and economic relationships
(Kelly 1995; Lightfoot 1983; Yellen 1977). These types of interactions can serve to mitigate
some effects of a variable climate and offset constraints set by particular social or socio-
demographic environments (Lourandos 1997:2527). Several anthropologists (Godelier 1975;
Hardesty 1977; Kelly 1995; Lee 1979; Lightfoot 1983; Lourandos 1997; Sahlins 1972; Yellen
1977; Yengoyan 1968) emphasize social interaction beyond the community forming complex
social networks, such as extended kinship systems, long distance exchange relationships, and
alliances, as a key feature of hunter-gatherer settlement and subsistence patterns.

This has important implications for studying hunter-gatherers in Texas. For example, given the
north/south orientation of isohyet lines, generally wetter conditions in the east (Figure 4), as well
as the southeasterly flow of almost every major drainage basin in Texas, groups affected by
resource shortages (i.e., droughts) could move as little as 50 km downstream and reach
significantly better environmental conditions if they had access to such areas. One way to gain
access is through social networks and people are social creatures, particularly hunter-gatherers
living in marginal or variable environmental settings.

Social fields/networks facilitate the movement of people, materials, ideas, and practices across
more or less permeable cultural and geographic boundaries. In one region of the Kalahari
(roughly the same size as Central and South Texas combined) ethnographers documented
numerous bands of foragers who spoke four mutually unintelligible languages and shared 90
percent of the same material culture (Lee 2003; Wiessner 1983). T Thus, social fields may also
mask or homogenize distinct identities as people interact and distribute various elements of
culture across large areas. When Texas is considered as a large interactive region filled with
different environmental settings, peoples, languages, and customs connected through various
networks; the widespread distribution of Toyah material culture resembles a large social field. So
in terms of archaeological, environmental, and
ethnographic data there is compelling evidence
for the existence of a prehistoric social field in
which individuals, groups, and cultures
participated to varying degrees.

Historical Data

In terms of historical data, Native Americans
are often represented by little more than a name
for hunter-gatherer groups recorded by various
European chroniclers (Campbell 1988). The
Spanish generally referred to these groups as
naciones or nations and rarely distinguished if
they were referring to a group of families, a
hunting party, or some other configuration.
Despite some repetition, the shear number of
indigenous groups recorded is impressive and

Figure 8. Average annual Precipitation in
Texas.

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speaks to the diversity noted above. Some names were almost certainly mispronounced or
misheard and it is difficult to judge precisely how a seventeenth century French or Spanish
speaker heard and transcribed group names given to them in various Native American tongues.
Nevertheless, comparisons of French and Spanish lists from various expeditions (Bosque-Larios,
Mendoza-Lopez), LaSalles French attempt at colonization (Joutels journel), and ecclesiastical
and civil records between approximately A.D. 1675 and A.D. 1700 show significant overlap in
terms of recurring names (Foster 1995; 1998; Kenmotsu and Wade 2002; Wade 2002, 2003).

Perhaps the most detailed document concerning the groups that inhabited Texas at this time came
from Fray Francisco Casaas de Jess Mara in August of 1691, as one of the first Spanish
missionaries to work among the Native Americans of East Texas. Writing amongst the Asinai
Caddo Casaas stated the following:

The friendly tribes called the "Tejias" are: Nazonis, Nacan, Nabaydacho, Nesta,
Guaseo, Cataye, Neticatzi, Nasayaya, Naviti, Caxo, Dastones, Nadan, Tadivas,
Nabeyxa, Nacoz, Caynigua, Caudadachos, Quizi, Natzoos, Nasitox, and Bidey.
The five named last form a very large province to the northward, about fifty-five
leagues from this province.The others listed live toward the north and east. The
Guaza, Yaduza, Bata, Cojo, Datana, Chuman, Cagaya, and the Assenay- different
from the Asinai- live toward the south and west about eighty leagues from this
province. To say that the latter have become separated from the rest of the Asinai
is a mistake. The Caquiza, Quintanuaha, Coai, Canu, Tiniba, Vidix, Sico, Toaha,
Cautouhaona, and Nepayaya are located toward the southwest; the Canonidiba,
Casiba, Dico, Xanna, Vinta, Tobo, Caquixadoquix, Canonizachitous, and Zanomi
toward the southeast. All these I have named up to this point are allies. The
enemies of the Province of the Asenay are the following: Anao, Tanico, Quibaya,
Cauzeaux, Hauydix, Naviti, Nondacau, Quitxix, Zauanito, Tancaquaay,
Canabatinu, Quiguayua, Diu-Juan, Sadammo. This is a very large nation. Others
are called Apaches, Ca-au-cozi, and Mani. These are all enemies. Only three or
four of these tribes are located toward the southeast; the others live toward the
west. They communicate with the province of the Asinai, and they know that
some are friends and some enemies (Casaas translated by Hatcher 1927:2).

In this passage Casaas names 48 groups including various Caddo groups allied together, and he
is also very specific in terms of which groups are allied together as Tejas and which groups are
the enemies of the Tejas. Several non-Caddo groups are identified as members of Tejas (Guaza,
Yaduza, Bata, Cojo, Datana, Chuman, Cagaya, and the Assenay) inhabiting areas that clearly
place them in Central and South Texas. Moreover, many of these non-Caddo groups appear in
the lists of historical documents compiled in Central and South Texas at different and generally
earlier dates (Foster 1995, 1998; Kenmotsu and Wade 2002, 2003). But perhaps the most
revealing statement concerning alliances and friendships written by Casaas is the following:

I notice that this name Tejas includes all the friendly tribes. The name is common
to all of them, even though their language may be different. And, since this name
is a general term, it must be used for no other reason than to indicate the long-
standing friendship which they entertain towards each other. And, therefore,

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among all these tribes "Tejias" means friends.

These allied tribes do not have one
person to govern them (as with us a kingdom is accustomed to have a ruler whom
we call a king). They have only a xines. He usually has a subordinate who
gathers together four or five tribes who consent to live together and to form a
province or kingdom as it might be called- and a very large one, too, if all these
tribes had one person to rule other them. But such a head they have not, and I,
therefore, infer that this province which in New Spain is called "Tejias"- which
really expresses just what they are, because each tribe is a friend to all the others
cannot be called a kingdom (Casaas translated by Hatcher 1927:2).

These passages from the Casaas document were translated by Mattie Hatcher a student of
Herbert Boltons, from a copy at the Archivo General Nacional (AGN) in Mexico City nearly a
century ago. A similar, if not the same, copy, of that text is now archived at the Center for
American History in Austin, Texas. The document archived at the Center for American History
in Austin, with respect to the translation of the Tejas alliance as a long-standing friendship, is
written in Spanish as pax la amistad antiqua. Thus, a more literal translation of this text might
read: an ancient/old pact of alliance reflecting the fact that Fray Casaas, as a seventeenth
century Catholic friar, was familiar with Latin and that the phrase la pax amistad antiqua was
intended to convey that Texias/Tejas represented a pact of ancient alliance/friendship in a
specific and literal sense (e.g. pax Romanus) rather than simply a longstanding friendship. It
also seems reasonable to infer that Casaas use of the term antiqua (translated here as
ancient/old) was intended to convey significant time depth. If this was the case then the pax
Tejas described by Casaas in A.D. 1691 was almost certainly extant during the Toyah interval
of late prehistory.

Clearly this document provides historical evidence for a regional alliance (albeit a loose one)
consisting of dozens of culturally and linguistically distinct groups linked together through
various social, political, and economic relationships (Arnn 2007). The words la amistad
antigua also indicate that the Tejas Social Field (ca. 1691) extended in to the past (prehistory).

Putting it All Together

In addition to the historical data, there are also ethnographic and environmental precedents for a
large regional social field in similar environmental settings and among similar peoples that
support the existence of and also explain both the homogeneity and the diversity reflected in the
broad distribution of Toyah material culture. Nor does this reconstruction rely on the presence of
bison throughout a geographically diverse region or a sudden migration of people. But beyond
the broad distribution of a homogenous archaeological record is their a specific material correlate
for the Toyah/Tejas social field? In fact, the Perdiz arrow point, long perceived as little more
than a rather ordinary and common artifact signifying a broad temporal period, can also be
viewed as utilitarian, durable, and portable. These are precisely the criteria that would have
contributed to the spread of this artifact type among culturally diverse groups. It also seems
unlikely that the distribution of the Perdiz arrow point across the length and breadth of the same
region defined as the Tejas Alliance is merely a happy coincidence.


280 | P a g e

There is also little reason to doubt that the Toyah social field extended into the historic period.
Many recently dated Toyah sites reflect relatively late (AD 16501700) AMS dates and it is now
clear that, in hindsight, earlier conclusions that Toyah was strictly a prehistoric phenomenon
were premature. Furthermore, Perdiz points have been recovered at virtually every early Spanish
Mission in Texas and projectile points resembling Perdiz, but made from metal and glass; have
been recovered in the Toyah region.

It is also possible to reconcile dichotomous historical and archaeological interpretations by
modeling a regional social field based on identity and interaction and supported by multiple lines
of evidence (archaeological, historical, ethnographic, and environmental data). This model
accounts for both the homogeneity and the variation observed in the archaeological record and
regional environment and the concept of social field is consistent with ethnographic data
gathered among hunter-gatherers in environmentally similar regions.

Figure 9. Toyah/Tejas Social Field ca. A.D. 1250-1700.

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Conclusion

Identity and interaction, due to their flexible situational character, are often difficult to observe in
the archaeological record. In the same sense that one can never step in the same river or culture
twice (Sahlins 2002:7), the identities and interactions that generated and maintained the
Toyah/Tejas Social Field were constantly changing. Nevertheless, the broader context of social
field as a dynamic and multi-scalar phenomenon spanning individuals and groups, the local and
the regional, as well as prehistory and history can serve as a heuristic device for considering
identity and interaction in the archaeological record (Figure 5).

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Harmony and Conflict: The Balseria Feast and
Central Panamanian Chiefly Societies

MacKenzie K. Jessome
Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1 (kenzanth@interchange.ubc.ca)

ABSTRACT. Despite overlapping lines of archaeological, ethnographic and ethno-historic
documentation, few scholars have intensively investigated the consideration that the
ethnographically recorded balsera feast existed during pre-conquest time in the Central Region
of Panam. Drawing on potential archaeological correlates of the feast in the central region, I
explore one of the last accounts of this significant feast and ritual event to suggest the political
nature of the balsera may have been critical to obtaining social rank in the chiefly level
societies reflected in the archaeological record. The implication of this work is that we should
consider the relationship between the balsera feast and modes of political ascension in ancient
Panamnian chiefdoms in future archaeological investigations of socio-political development in
the Central Region of Panam.

Many anthropologists consider feasting a fundamental human experience that facilitates social
and economic integration, solidifies political alliances, and creates individual and collective
social identities (Clark and Blake 1994; Dietler and Hayden 2001a; 2001b; Hayden 1995; Hill
and Clark 2001; Mauss 1990; Sahlins 1963). Cross-culturally, feasting activities integrate social
groups, provide a public forum for social construction and reproduction, are accredited with
maintaining civil order due to public exchanges or sacrifices and, importantly, are the stage for
important social interactions with implications for social mobility and the development of
political structures (Clark and Blake 1994; Dietler 1996; Hayden 1995; Hill and Clark 2001;
Mauss 1990; Pauketat et al 2002; Sahlins 1963; 1972; Wesson 1999). This is, in part, because the
redistribution associated with feasts is often the responsibility of a single man, which allows him
to directly benefit from the mobilization of chiefly goods and services needed for social
aggrandizement, an essential mechanism in the development of social rank (Wesson
1999:146). This work considers ritual feasting events as a socially significant aspect of being
human and, as such, suggests that an examination of feasting rituals, with careful chronological
reconstructions, will allow us to apprehend many of the socio-cultural, economic, and political
processes in ancient societies (Dietler and Hayden 2001a:2). The material study of communal
feasting has become increasingly valuable to analyses of the evolution of social organization and
is now considered by most anthropologists as a crucial component in promoting, maintaining,
and challenging social and political authority in middle-range societies.

The pre-conquest chiefdoms reflected in the archaeological record in the central provinces of
Panam participated in feasting behaviour. The primary lines of evidence for this behaviour
come from ethnography and archaeology. For example, the Guaym of western Panam have
reportedly participated in feasting events reminiscent of rituals recorded hundreds of years earlier
by Spanish Missionaries (Young 1971). This is because large groups relied heavily on

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opportunities to publicly display their elevated status in a competitive environment. Feasting
provided this soapbox, as it usually entailed a large social event (such as a sport, marriage, or
shamanistic ritual) that attracted hundreds, sometimes thousands, of spectators and allowed
ambitious, potential leaders to display publicly their political aspirations (Earle and Ericson
1977; Jessome 2008; Sahlins 1972). The sponsorship of an annual feasting ritual (such as the
balsera in Panam) served to sanction existing social structures (ideology, warfare, economics,
etc), whilst providing a public arena for aggrandizers to display leadership qualities (Dietler and
Hayden 2001a; Hayden 1995). In depth archaeofaunal studies of a midden in central Panam
thought to be associated with elite feasting behaviour are under way (Locascio 2008, personal
communication). However, the contention that the balsera was practiced prehistorically in the
Central Region of Panam and served as a rite of passage for politically ambitious members of
society has yet to be thoroughly unpacked (Jessome 2008:78). Before explaining exactly what
occurred during the balsera feast, some description of the peoples who practice(d) the ritual is
warranted.

The Guaym (Ngb)

Guaym
1
is an umbrella term used to identify a cultural/linguistic group in Lower Central
America while the term Ngb (occasionally written Ngwb) specifically identifies a cluster of
Guaym villages located in the western provinces of Bocas del Toro, Veraguas and Chiriqu
(Steward and Faron 1959; Young 1970). The Ngb , among whom a number of anthropologists
have conducted field work, live a largely self-sufficient lifestyle but are confined to a 2500
square mile reservation in the remote mountainous regions of western Panam (Young 1970,
1971). Hamlets (locally known as caseros) are dispersed settlements located at various altitudes
and locations on the mountains, which peak at over 7000 feet above sea-level. However, the
majority of the Ngb population is located between 350 and 5000 feet above sea-level.
Traditional houses (called bohios) are typically wattle-and-daub rectangular structures with
conical thatched roofs, although other materials such as cinder blocks and sheet metal are
frequently being imported from urban regions (Figures 2-5 in Fuson 1964:193-195).

The Ngb are assumed to descendants (genetically, culturally, or some combination of both) of
the prehistoric chiefdom-level societies identified in the archaeological record of the coastal
plains of central Panam (Briggs 1989; Cooke and Ranere 1992; Haller 2004; Lothrop 1937;
Speilman et al 1979). If so, the Ngbs balsera feast may be reminiscent of the ethno-
historically recorded ritualized warfare/exchange ceremonies held by pre-conquest chiefdoms in
the Central Region of Panam (Haller 2004; Lothrop 1950). Below, a detailed description of the
balsera feast, based on a synthesis of ethno-historic and ethnographic data, is offered along with
a program of research aimed at confirming the presence of the balsera in pre-entanglement time
within the central provinces of Panam.

The Balsera (Krun)

Our knowledge of the balsera feast comes from ethnographic material produced primarily by
Dr. J Bort and Dr. P Young. Both have conducted decades of research among many different
Guaym communities in the western highlands of Panam, and Bort, along with Richard Cooke,
actually attended a balsera feast in 1974 (Richard Cooke 2009 personal communication). Also

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reviewed were the scant reports of feasting and ritual in ethno-historic documents left by the
early Spanish settlers. The best source of qualitative and quantitative information concerning the
balsera feast is Young (1970; 1971), who never actually witnessed a balsera feast, but did
record information about the four day ritual in 1968 from a Cerro Mamita informant who
attended a feast in 1953, more than 15 years earlier (Young 1971:202).

The first description of the balsera was offered by Fray Adrian de Ufeldre in A.D. 1682. The
Spanish Friar did not approve of these indigenous rituals, referring to the event as ye beastly
customs of ye savage (Adrian de Santo Toms 1682:98). In the three-hundred years since this
early encounter and description, only scant reports have been produced. Fray Blas Jos Franco
published an account of a primitive stick game during his visit to Panam in A.D. 1882. Three
years later, in 1885, A.L. Pinart visited the western regions, in present day Bocas del Torro,
Panam and recorded a game remarkably reminiscent of the modern balsera. Although these
early writings offer little concerning the social significance of the rituals or games, they have
proved useful sources of anthropological data whose content accords remarkably well with
ethnographic descriptions of the balsera (Young 1970, 1971).

The Ngbs balsera (also known as krun
2
in Ngawbre- a regional dialect of the Chibchan
language family) was an annual event typically held in March (Young 1976). The ritual feast
commenced when a politically ambitious man officially invited a neighbouring big man
(community member with significant social prestige) to the anticipated event. An invitation from
the host community was typically sent three months prior to the beginning of the balsera in
order to give the edabli (the man accepting the challenge) time to prepare for the journey
(Torres de Araz n.d.; Young 1970, 1971). The krun lasted four days and on the third day only,
the two neighbouring communities competed in a ritual stick game (with massive feasting and
drinking of chicha [fermented maize beer]). Only eight players (known as balseros) were
chosen by the primary aggrandizer (known as the kububu) from each community to participate in
the prestigious sporting event and only men who displayed, physical prowess, industriousness,
intelligence, and generosity were selected to represent their entire community (Young
1971:204). Even though entire families were involved in preparations and ritual feasting and
some young women were specifically selected to serve beverages and food stuffs to the balseros,
only men actually played the stick-game (Young and Bort 1976:76).

The success of the feast was the responsibility of the sponsor (Torres de Araz n.d:2) who relied
on the support of his kinsmen before sending a messenger to a neighbouring community. The
principle host (or aggrandizer, hereafter) would send an invitation to the neighbouring chief who
resided some distance from the territory of the host tribe. The messengers status was
unimportant although the kububu would never deliver the message of an upcoming balsera in
person, as this would have been below his dignity (Torres de Araz n.d.). Spanish documents
from the late 1600s mention a multi-stringed invitation known as a k bwa
. The k bwa

system ensured congruence between each communitys preparations by establishing the amount
of days before the feast began
3
. The messengers periodically blew on conch shells so their arrival
was well advertised to the village (Young 1976:43; Adrin de Santo Toms 1682). Acceptance
of the invitation was signified by the return of a k bwa to the kububu.


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Preparations began immediately after the invitation was officially accepted (Torres de Araz
n.d.). The wooden sticks used in the krun (called balsas) were cut and left to dry for several
weeks before the event. This was done in order to ensure that the sticks would not cause serious
injury when used in the krun. The balsas were made only from the ochromo lagopus tree, and
their preparation for both teams was the responsibility of the kububu. Typically about 3 inches in
diameter at the business end, the balsas were cut in 5-6 foot sections (Young 1971:205).
Neither end was pointed; instead, they were rounded to avoid seriously puncturing vital organs.
Chicha has been called the life blood of the krun (Young 1971:203) and the feasting of chicha
during the entire four day event in a competitively charged environment would have inevitably
led to some conflicts but these were certainly less violent than the ritualized warfare from which
the balsera may have evolved (Haller 2004:32).

The Four-Day Ritual: Krun

For the Ngb the number four is imbued with spiritual and social significance and represents
correctness, properness and pattern fulfillment (Young 1976:48). The number is entrenched in
the events surrounding the krun ritual as well as in the stick-game itself. Many ritual activities
are done in sequences and multiples of four. For example, the event lasted a total of four days
and eight men from each side participated in the game. Four players from each team lined up on
their side of the balsa rack and each player threw a balsa four times. This was followed by a
quick refill of chicha (generally in sequences of four gulps), and then four more throws each
(Torres de Araz n.d.).

Day One: Ni kede bda. The arrival of the rival edabli and his large entourage in the hosting
tribes territory was a much anticipated event. The visitors were easily detected, as they would
blow on conch shell horns as they approached (Torres de Araz n.d.). Once the rival tribe was
close to the village of the balsera, the kububu, decorated in his finest clothing, brightest metal
symbols and feathers, would head into the fringes of the jungle to greet the opponents and inform
them of their quarters for the night (Adrin de Santo Toms 1682:91). The visitors campsite was
always located near the ritual field (llano) where the balsera was to be played. The chief offered
his chicha and food to the people who were probably quite hungry from the long trek. The rest of
the day and night was known as ni kede bda in Ngawbre or the waiting time (Torres de
Araz n.d). The first day functionally served as a large meet and greet for new participants of
the balsera and allowed others to be reunited with their edabli from previous krun rituals.

Day Two: Nw)de n)ere. The next day was the first full day dedicated to krun activities. This
day was called the watching time, or in local dialect nw)de n)ere. The day began with the
kububu leading his edabli by the hand to a specially prepared place, directly opposite the
kububu and his closest followers. The leaders of each side publicly displayed their respect for
each other by holding hands for the entire presentation. Some men who had already established
their own edabli, perhaps from a previous balsera, followed the example of the leaders by
guiding their rivals by hand to the site (Young and Bort 1976). Large amounts of chicha and
food were constantly offered and by the end of this first complete day of ritual, most men and
many women became completely inebriated (Richard Cooke, personal communication 2008).
The second day of krun was one of ceremonial exchange and ritual, imbued with symbolism of
reciprocity.

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Day Three: Krun n)ere. This was the day of actual krun playing (Torres de Araz n.d.). The
third day required that balseros and their families begin preparations before the sun came up.
Face painting and last minute alterations to their finest garments were prepared (Young
1971:199). Specially prepared feather headdresses, beaded necklaces and stuffed animals skins
were all used on the third day, which was known as krun n)ere in Ngawbre or the playing
time (Torres de Araz n.d.). The decorations, particularly the stuffed animals, were important
elements for achieving an alternate ego, a desired state for proper performance in the krun ritual
(Young and Bort 1976).

Two balsa sticks distinguished by a large leaf wrapped on one end were reserved for the first
throw in the balsera (Young 1976). The balsas were on opposite sides of a rack of sticks and
only after a signal from the kububu could players commence throwing at their edabli. The
process was repeated four times at which point all men broke to drink chicha again.
Interestingly, the kububu had to appoint men to guard the balsa rack to ensure large weapon-like
sticks were not used to resolve a dispute fuelled by drunkenness on the days and nights prior to
the actual playing of krun (Young and Bort 1976). Men took their position on the llano (a flat
and grassy ceremonial space) and hurled large carved sticks at the ankles of their opponent.
During the game, careful aim was taken to hit only an ankle or calf of the leg of ones opponent.
A hit anywhere else on the body was considered a foul and usually caused a surge of anger
from the crowd (R. Cooke, 2010 personal communication). Injuries were common considering
the size of the sticks used and the amount of chicha consumed the day of the krun. After an
exhausting day of balsera playing, at approximately six in the evening, the primary aggrandizer
(kububu) gave the order to collect the ritual sticks, at which point, the game was officially over.
After the balsas were collected, ritual feasting and chicha drinking continued into the night
(Torres de Araz n.d.).

Day Four: Krun hondrin n)ere. On the fourth day, known as the departing time (Young
1976:47), the kububu again publicly led his edabli by the hand to his camp and publicly offered
him more chicha. This final brew was especially reserved for the fourth and final day and was of
higher quality (Young 1971:203; 1976). The rest of the visiting group consumed all but a
fraction of the chicha. Immediately prior to their departure, the visitors were provided with
cooked and uncooked food stuffs, including meat, rice, bananas, and beans, for the long journey
home. In a symbolic gesture of reciprocity, a portion of the food stuff and chicha was offered
back to the host tribe. Lastly, the remaining chicha was consumed and the teams respectfully
parted ways (Young 1971:212, 1976).

The krun was, by all accounts, a highly structured and strictly observed ritual that had probably
undergone very little change compared to other cultural traits such as social organization and
settlement patterns. The balsera was much more than a drunken party to vent anger and
aggression in a controlled environment. It was the last of a series of steps taken by the kububu to
be recognized as a man of political integrity and importance. The krun should be understood as a
ritual and, as such, the social significance of ritual should be considered in any explanation of the
event (Firth 1951; Young 1971, 1976). The balsera stick game and associated feast was imbued
with symbolic expressions of aggression and cooperation, harmony and discord, in a public
setting, making it an interesting space and place to consider socio-political models of cohesion
and competition.

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The Social Significance of the Krun

What was the significance of the stick-game to the Guaym? Why would aggrandizers organize
such massive, annual overproduction of food resources? By sponsoring a krun, both the kububu
and his community elevate their social status. The krun provided an ambitious individual in
Guaym society with an avenue to social mobility. It has been documented ethnographically that
a potential leader who wished to maintain and increase his socio-economic and political control
over his kin members would sponsor a balsera feast, and all men who wanted to be leaders had
to sponsor a balsera, but not all men who successfully organized a balsera became leaders
(Young and Bort 1976; Torres de Araz: n.d; Young 1971:202).
An exploration of the sheer magnitude of labour required to prepare for and execute a successful
feast clearly illustrates the social significance of the krun. To the Guaym the ritual served as a
rite of passage for potential leaders involved in the political economy. If a community member
happened to possess charismatic qualities such as strength, fortitude, intelligence, and leadership,
and was able to express them publicly (via the balsera), then his rise to prominence was
practically ensured. Even though the Guaym are an egalitarian society and social power is not
inherited, the son of an aggrandizer who exemplifies respected characteristics would be a likely
candidate to host a krun in the future. A kububu was respected to the day he died and some
individuals would continue to be revered by the society well after passing into the next-life as
indicated by the case of a Cerro Mamita man, who sponsored a balsera in 1948 and died three
years later in 1951. He was still widely respected and talked about, even venerated, by locals
nearly twenty years later, in 1968 (Young 1971:211).

Any socio-political leader requires a consistent mechanism to facilitate the accumulation of
wealth in order to help exert his/her control or influence over subjects. The balsera ritual, a
patterned and predictable public event, provided this mechanism a model of semi-democratic
political ascension. Ritual feasting at the regional level creates alliances, social debt, and a
surplus to be redistributed, which disproportionately concentrates control of these societal
elements in the hands of the organizers or the aggrandizers (Clark and Blake 1994). Not only
the leader or ruler will acquire social prestige from the sponsorship of a balsera but the entire
community will also gain some social prestige (Torres de Araz: n.d.; Young 1970, 1971),
particularly the kin who directly and publicly supported the feast.

Central Panamnian Cheifdoms

Most scholars accept that the Guaym are the descendants, culturally, genetically, or some
combination thereof, of the ancient Cocl chiefdoms that once dominated the landscape in the
Central Region of Panama. The empirical evidence to support this contention, however, is scarce
although ethno-historic sources and archaeological materials provide some insight. Ethno-
historical sources suggest that rank in the Central Region of Panam was based on socio-political
conditions and not on wealth status, which accords well with classic definitions of chiefdoms
(Steward and Faron 1959; Fried 1967:110; Service 1962:159). For example, the 1502 account by
Christopher Columbus son, Fernando, includes an encounter with a Quibio or chief of a
household of approximately 30 people and other men of note. This observation has been
interpreted as an indication of the presence of social ranking during early contact (Helms and
Loveland 1976). A later account by Fray Ufeldre in 1682 provides a list of the various chiefly

291 | P a g e

hamlets including Borosi, Yebeque, Manugo, Menena, Baga, Medi, and Negri (see Adrian de
Santo Toms 1682:24). The presence of ranked societies in central Panam has also been
established through mortuary excavations and, more recently, regional surveys (Cooke and
Ranere 1984; Haller 2004). Less is known, however, concerning how these chiefly leaders
established a permanent political office and what cultural processes were important to such
societal transition. Tracing out the exact relationship between ritual feasting and the development
of political office in central Panam will help inform discussions surrounding the emergence of
social complexity.

Youngs (1976) description offers a detailed account of how players were to behave, dress,
communicate, and actually play the krun stick-game. He describes in meticulous detail the
logistics of krun, including the organization of players on the llano before and after the game. A
diagram displaying the use of space on the llano (Young 1976, Figure 1:46), specifically the
linear formation each team of eight adopts during the krun, is reminiscent of the placement of
large statues of men and boulders around a large ceremonial space at El Cao in the Central
Region of
Panam (Figure
1). Further,
Richard Cooke
(2008, personal
communication),
who witnessed a
balsera in the
mountainous
regions of
western Panam,
noted an
interesting
correlation
between the
artistic depictions
of the prehistoric
stone statues at
El Cao and the
players chosen
decorations
during the
balsera:

I observed balseros [players of krun] wearing the following animals: cayman
(Caiman Fuscus), giant anteater (Myrmecophaga tridacla), tayra (Eire barbara),
ocelot (leopardus pardalis), and jaguar (Panthera onca). A stone statue found at
El Cao section of Sitio Conte complex depicts a person who wears an animal that
appears to be a monkey on his back. On another statue a thick-set male displays a
frog figurine dangling from a cord on his chest, which surely represents a golden
image as a status symbol (albeit of unreal size) [Cooke 2002:274].

Figure 1. Photo showing the delineation of ceremonial space at the El Cao
site, (photo by Kenzie Jessome 03-07-08).

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Although Cooke (2002:275)
goes on to state that the
monkey carved on the back of
the stone figure may simply be
a pet, the comparison with
ethnographically recorded
balseros and El Cao appears
valid, especially considering
the regional uniqueness of the
stone-lined ceremonial space.
Successful sponsorship of a
balsera meant that individuals
had earned considerable
prestige during their lives and
these men were well respected,
sometimes until death or even
after death. Recalling the case
of the Cerro Mamita man, we
may have evidence as to why
these megaliths were carved
and who they may represent.
Richard Cooke noticed that
these well respected men were
often the same men who wore
stuffed animals on their back
during the krun ritual ceremony, which they considered to be symbolic of their prowess
(Cooke 2002:274). The anamorphic stone statues at El Cao once displayed various animals on
their backs. Perhaps these stone depictions represent successful sponsors of the krun ritual
ceremony who became chiefs and were later immortalized at El Cao.

Additional evidence from in the Central Region of Panam concerns the He-4 site on the Parta
River. He-4 has long been recognized as an important place by local camposinos and the
academic community. Although heavily disturbed by modern grave robbers and careless
archaeologists, the spatial delineation of house mounds at the site as recorded by Bull (1965)
suggests that the primary residential area of the site was likely a cluster of domestic structures
"arranged in a circular pattern around a court or fiesta area (Haller 2004:90). This is significant
given that He-4 was the only site encountered during the regional survey that had indisputable
evidence for architectural features (Haller 2004:54). Further, a large midden excavated at He-4
was thought to be associated with feasting activities (Figure 2). The archaeologists from the
University of Pittsburgh conducting research in the region have stated that the artefacts
unearthed (animal bones and ceramics) are consistent with what one would expect if indeed a
balsera feast, or something like it, occurred at He-4 in prehistory (Locascio 2008, personal
communication).

Figure 2. Photo displaying large midden profile from He-4
site (photo and permission from William Locascio 13-07-07).

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The End of the Balsera?

The last recorded balsera feast was in 1976 when anthropologists Dr. Richard Cooke of the
Smithsonian Institute and Dr. John Bort took an outboard motor and skiff into the jungle in the
Bocas del Toro region of Panam.
4
Before that, Dr. Philip Young interviewed members of the
Ngawbe tribe in western Panam who had participated in a krun feast and ritual years earlier. It
is curious that a ritual that had been practiced for potentially centuries dissolved rapidly due to
globalization and recent Western expansion into western Panam (particularly Bocas del Toro).
The Mama Chi cult is a Christian sect that has gained growing support since its inception in
Guaym territory in the early 1960s. The Mama Chi has made considerable efforts to erase
indigenous systems of knowledge as indicated by community elders during conversations with
Young (1971:208). One man explained that bad things would happen if the people did not
follow the new religion while another informant felt that if people did not follow the Mama Chi
doctrine within a five year period, then life-ending destruction of their community would occur
(Young 1971:213). Mama Chis religious leaders pushed for social modifications by enforcing
the prohibition of ritual drinking events such as the balsera and chicheria as well as a general
ban on all alcoholic beverages.
It is probably no coincidence that the introduction of the Mama Chi cult within western Ngb
territory in September 1974 coincided with the banning of a spiritual and political ritual so vital
to the Guaym people and their culture (Young 1971:212). By placing churches on top of the
fields used to play krun (llanos), the Mama Chi cult symbolically and physically replaced the
socio-political functions of the balsera. Meetings of the shamans (sukias) and/or preachers
5
now
take place where the krun ritual used to be practiced (Young 1971:211). A faade with a return to
the old ways of the largely (and ironically) transformative Mama Chi movement has attracted
many followers among the Guaym (Young 1971:204). The movement presented itself as being
concerned with a return to a golden age; a time before western influences, the source of most
evil (Young 1971:209). Somewhat ironically, the Mama Chi had effectively banned ritual
ceremonies that were hundreds, potentially thousands, of years old as indicated by recent
archaeological evidence.
If practiced in prehistory, the krun would have integrated neighbouring chiefdoms by creating
useful alliances in a competitive environment characterized by chiefly warfare (Briggs 1989;
Haller 2004). The expression of these chiefly activities, namely competition, warfare, trade and
exchange, in a tightly controlled environment reduced the very real potential for a socially
disruptive escalation of hostilities. Thus, the krun was important to the society in general. If
leaders did not perform their duties and display constant evidence of this efficaciousness, their
leadership could be doubted (Young 1976:37). The ability to attract and hold the allegiance of a
large core of followers relatives, friends, and especially warriors through generous
distribution of food, trade goods, and loot won in battle was vital in order to attain political
ascension (Young 1976:37).

Conclusions

Archaeological research in Panam is rapidly unlocking many dimensions of ancient economic
and social activities. Recent work has focused on testing traditional materialist models for the
development of social complexity (Haller 2004; Menzies 2006). I have presented but a few ways
the krun ritual feast could potentially be an avenue for future investigations. Five suggestions

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have been offered to help archaeologists identify evidence capable of illuminating the processes
that fuelled the rise of social complexity. (1) The modern western Guaym have until recently
practiced the balsera in a manner similar to that of the prehistoric chiefdoms represented in the
archaeological record of central Panam. (2) The balsera ritual feast reduced hostility between
groups, facilitated trade, and served as a rite of passage for community leaders who sponsored
krun. (3) The prehistoric chiefdoms reflected in the archaeological record of central Panam
likely practiced an ancient version of the balsera sponsored by a charismatic leader of the
community who drew large populations into centralized areas to participate in ritualized warfare
and exchange. (4) The ritual and communal nature of the feast allowed potential leaders to
engage in politicking and eventually organize the required food stuffs to cement their superior
position. Effectively this promoted social cohesion in a tightly controlled environment while the
redistributive role of the balsera reinforced relationships of debt and served as a method for elite
to convert wealthy surpluses into social power. (5) Lastly, the empirical evidence presented
above provides a starting point. However, only future archaeological investigations that consider
the importance of sport, feasting, and ritual to cultural evolution can establish the role of the
balsera in the emergence of social complexity in central Panam.

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W.D Halls. University of France Press, Paris.

Menzies, Adam C.J.
2006 The Role of Craft Specialization in the Development of the Chiefly Central Place
Community of El Hatillo (He-4), Central Panam. Propuesta doctoral entregada a la National
Science Foundation. The University of Pittsburgh, PA.

Pauketat, Timothy R., Lucretia S. Kelley, Gayle. J. Fritz, Neal H. Lopinot, Scott Elias and Eve
Hargrave
2002 The Residues of Feasting and Public Ritual at Early Cahokia. American Antiquity 67(2):72-
81.

Peebles, Christopher S., and Susan M. Kus
1977 Some Archaeological Correlates of Ranked Societies. American Antiquity 42(3):421-448.

Potter, James M.
2000 Pots, Pans, and Politics: Communal Feasting in the American Southwest. American
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Sahlins, Marshall D.
1963 Poor Man, Rich Man, Big-Man, Chief: Political Types in Melanesia and Polynesia.
Comparative Studies in Society and History 5(3):285-303.

Service Elman R.
1962 Primitive Social Organization: An Evolutionary Perspective. Random House, New York.

Sinclair, Frederick G.
1988 Proceso de Cambio en la Sociedad Ngbe (Guaym) de Panam. Serie Realidad Nacional
No.2, Departamento de Sociologa. University of Panam Press, Panam.

Spielman, Richard S, Ernest C. Migliazza, James V. Neel, Henry. Gershowitz, Reina Torres de
Arauz, B.K. Averill, Joseph B. Birdsell, M. H. Crawford, Richard Cruz-Coke, C.C. Curtain, P.P.
Majumder, Newton E. Morton, Maria Julia Pourchet, Alcida Romos, and Philip D.Young
1979 The Evolutionary Relationships of Two Populations: A Study of the Guaym and the
Yanomama [Comments and Reply]. Current Anthropology 20(2):377-388.

Steward, Julian H., and Louis C. Faron
1959 Native Peoples of South America. McGraw-Hill, New York.

Torres de Araz, Reina
n.d. La Balseria: Deporte Indigena. Instituto Nacional de Cultura y Deportes, Direccin de
Patrimonio Histrico, Panam City.

Wesson, Cameron B.
1999 Chiefly Power and Food Storage in Southeastern North America. World Archaeology
31(1):145-164.

Young, Phillip D.
1970 Notes on the Ethnohistorical Evidence for Structural Continuity in Guaym Society.
Ethnohistory 17(1 & 2):11-29.

1971 Ngawbe: Tradition and Change among the Western Guaym of Panam. Illinois Studies in
Anthropology, No. 7. University of Illinois Press, Urbana.

1976 The Expression of Harmony and Discord in a Guaym Ritual: The Symbolic Meaning of
Some Aspects of the Balsera. In Frontier Adaptations in Lower Central America, edited by
Mary W. Helms and Franklin O. Loveland, pp. 37-53. Institute for the Study of Human Issues,
Philadelphia.

Young, Phillip D., and John R. Bort
1976 Edabli: The Ritual Sibling Relationship Among the Western Guaym. In Ritual and
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Notes

1
The term Guaym means men or people in Muoi, a now extinct dialect of Central
America (Young 1971). Since about the 1950s, the term Guaym was been adopted by
anthropologists to distinguish the Muoi branch of the Chibchan language family. The term
Ngawbe is also written as Ngb, both of which are used frequently in this work.

2
Although the actual playing of the stick game is called the balsera (a.k.a. krun) and played
only on the third day of ritual, the entire four-day ritual is also commonly known as the balsera
or krun.

3
The phonetically and functional similarity to the famous Incan string-writing system, quipus,
should be noted, although it may be coincidental. It should also be noted, as per current studies
on the quipus system, that the k bwa knotted string system may have carried much more
information than the early Spanish Friars may have recognized (and not just length of days until
the feast).

4
Interestingly during a presentation of this material at Chitr Museum, Chitr, Panama, I was
approached by a cultural anthropologist of INAC who informed me he had known of a
sociologist from Panams national university that witnessed a feast as recently as 2004; this is
hearsay and unfortunately has not yet been confirmed by further research.
5
Also known as predicadores, a Spanish term that designates the new leaders of the religion;
the Ngawbre term kugwe donggaw means the same, but is rarely used.


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Architecture and Social Identity: Observances from
Two Historic Sites in Calgary

Dale Boland
Stantec Inc., Calgary, Alberta

ABSTRACT. Between 1998 and 2003 two historic sites were investigated as part of the
Programme for Public Archaeology with the University of Calgary in Fish Creek Provincial
Park. Initially settled in the late 19
th
century, the sites comprised a dilapidated log structure and
a stone chimney with associated dugout, in addition to subsurface remains. Research into the
standing architecture, photographic evidence, and excavated architectural artifacts at the sites
revealed aspects and expressions of social status, agentive power, and ethnicity.

This paper examines aspects of social identity discernible through particular understandings of
architectural stylings at two historic sites in Fish Creek Provincial Park, Calgary. A link between
ethnicity, gender, and socioeconomic status and architecture is demonstrated through research on
the historic occupants and builders of the structures and an analysis of the material culture
associated with the sites. The building discussed in the study is a log cabin outbuilding
constructed by or for John and Adelaide Glenn in the 1870s; its construction style is remarkably
comparable to Mtis vernacular houses first defined by Burley and Horsfall (1989) that were
constructed later, between 1882 and 1940 along the South Saskatchewan River. The second site
includes remains from two discrete occupations, the earlier by a French-Canadien family, the
Bebos, and is represented only by subsurface remains, and the later by an Irish immigrant family,
likely of some substance. The Hones residence burnt to the ground in the 1960s and today
survives as a stone chimney and associated stone-lined dugout.

The first site in the study is a log cabin constructed by or for the Glenns. John was a forty-year
old Irish immigrant when he met and married 21 year old Adelaide Belcourt in 1873 (Calgary
Herald [CH], 23 January 1886:2; Grant 1873:275; Jameson 2000:16); he had been travelling and
working across the United States and western Canada for more than twenty years at this point.
Adelaide was of mixed Cree or Stoney heritage (Doll et al. 1988:1112) and was born and raised
in Lac Ste Anne, a French-Canadien Catholic Mtis settlement north of Edmonton (Doll et al.
1988:12; Layzell 1966:3; Morin 2001:125; Nevitt 1974:68). They moved immediately to the
Calgary area following their wedding. By 1875 they had built themselves a modest farmstead
near the confluence of the Bow River and Fish Creek, where they had built two log cabins and
raised acres of market vegetables (Great Plains Research Consultants 1982:63). They sold this
farm in 1879 to the Dominion Government and relocated their farmstead farther upstream along
Fish Creek, near todays Midnapore. It is believed that the cabin in the current study was the
second of the two original buildings on their original homestead, not their home or residence.
Officially it is part of the Bow Valley Ranche site, EfPm-90.


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The small one and a half storey log cabin stood at the base of a steep north valley wall for over
120 years (Figure 1). Its 1998 demolition was necessitated by its unfortunate deteriorated
condition. Prior to its disassembly, a full range of scaled drawings and photographs were
recorded and it is from these that the following description has been garnered. Built of
consistently large, squared logs the cabin provided 313.7 square feet of interior space, with an
equal amount of floor space in the second storey. The walls of the cabin were constructed of
horizontal logs, built upon a foundation of largely unmodified local cobbles. Bearing adze marks,
the logs were likely squared or boxed by hand, and while several logs were noted to be
imperfectly boxed, these round-cornered logs were predominantly found on the interior,
suggesting a utilitarian use for the cabin.
The walls stood eleven courses high, cut-outs for ceiling joists were made at eight, and the
ceiling when measured above a wooden plank floor, was approximately six feet seven inches
high. The ceiling joists were also squared timbers and were placed east-west into cut outs in the
exterior walls. Projecting joists were cut flush with the exterior walls.
The means by which the corners were constructed proves to be an interesting supplement to the
cabins construction. Joined with dovetail notching, one of the most difficult to construct, but
likely the strongest and most long-lived of all log joining styles, dovetailed joints are tight fitting
and self-draining and create stable walls with little tendency to bulge or warp (Rempel 1980:11,
43). The practicality of a dovetail corner lies as much with its self-locking ability as with its
tightness and self-draining characteristics. As the logs shrink and/or their combined weight pull
against the joints, a dovetail corner will tighten, further aiding in the stabilization of the structure
(Burley et al. 1992:133). Inasmuch as these corners determine the stability of the structure, the

Figure 1. The Glenns cabin in 1912 (circled), EfPm 90. Note gable roof, possible stovepipe near
north end of roof ridgeline, balanced front facade, and lean-to addition against its north end.
Glenbow Archives NA-1511-1.

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builders decision to utilize dovetail corners entails a consideration of the life expectancy of the
building (Burley et al 1992:134). That the Glenns cabin was built with dovetail corners,
therefore, attests to the carpentry skills of its builder, as well as his intentions to erect a long-
lived and useful structure.

The Glenns cabin was topped with a gabled roof with a relatively steep pitch of 49.4
o
. The
rafters were round logs secured with machine cut nails, and paired rafters were joined at the
ridge with a wooden pin through a tenoned lap joint. The gabled ends were framed and covered
with board and batten siding. While no evidence of a fireplace or chimney was noted, the 1912
photograph (Figure 1) hints at a stovepipe jutting through the ridge line near the north end of the
building.

Evidence of wooden flooring was found in excavations inside the Glenns cabin. Historically,
free-floating hewn or split logs spanning the floor were common prior to the availability of
lumber mills, and similar floors were known in Mtis settlement housing at Lac Ste. Anne and
St. Albert and at hivernant Mtis sites through the 1870s (Burley et al. 1992:104; Callihoo
1953:21).

The extant openings in the walls include one doorway in the middle of the west wall and a
window in the east wall. A lean-to addition with a shed roofline once stood against the north wall
of the cabin and is seen in Plate 1. It appears to have been a framed structure covering
approximately half to two-thirds the area of the cabin, and with its own separate entry.
Foundation stones and post footings uncovered during excavations in the lean-to attest to its
framed construction.

Comparisons between this physical data and published historical/architectural data (Table 1)
turned interesting: knowing John and Adelaides backgrounds, research focused on typical
Irish and Mtis construction styles, while other structures that may have influenced their building
decisions were also researched. In many ways the Glenns cabin resembled an average or typical
log house built in the Nineteenth Century in North America. Squared horizontally-stacked logs
joined at the corners, for example, had become common by the 1700s (Dennis 1986:20; Rempel
1980:48). While nearly every ethnicity contributed their own influence to building styles, as log
house construction spread west and north across the continent (Rempel 1980:2932; Wade
1971:36), it was the Irish who, allegedly with no architectural tradition of their own, are credited
with the westward spread and surge in popularity of the log house (Rempel 1980:3132).
In western Canada, the log cabin arrived in two waves first with European fur traders and
later with the settlers. Characteristics of these early log-built structures, including French-
Canadien traders portable Red River Frame technology and hivernant Mtis buffalo hunters
houses (typically single winter occupied round logs with saddle-notched corners) are not
reflected in the Glenns cabin. Mtis houses in the 1860s at Lac Ste. Anne (Adelaides home)
were also different: typically one-roomed single-storey log houses with a mud fireplace (Calihoo
1953:21). Any influence Adelaide might have lent to the planning or construction of their
outbuilding cabin did not derive from her homeland traditions. Comparisons to Ukrainian homes
(Lehr 1976) are in some ways similar and the Cochrane Ranche managers house (Heitzmann
1980) bears resemblance on the exterior. Commonalities can be found between probably every
style of log house and the Glenns cabin with one detail or another.

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Table 1. Related traits associated with late nineteenth century log buildings in Alberta.
Traits
Glenns'
Cabin
Mtis
Vernacular
Mtis
Hivernant
Mtis
Mission
Settlement
Ukrainian
folk
Cochrane
Ranche
Manager's
House
Typical
Western
Canadian
log
square hewn
logs
X X X X X
dovetail joints X X X X X
gable roof X X X
1 1/2 storeys X X
steep pitched
roof
X X
centrally-
placed door
X X X
stone
foundation
X X X X X X
cellar
(internal)
X X X X X X
stove X X X
fireplace X X X X
interior
partitions/walls
X X X X X
lean-to
addition
X X
wooden
flooring
X X X X X X
lathe-and-
plaster
X X
orientation
West
South or
toward
road
unstructured unknown south south
to road
frontage
construction
date
1870s 1882-1940 1870s 1870s
1890s-
1915
1881
1898-
1930s

Until now I have purposely omitted another building tradition that was found, albeit rarely and
not until a decade later, in the Canadian prairies the Mtis Vernacular House Type, first
defined by Burley and Horsfall (1989) in agricultural Mtis communities along the South
Saskatchewan River. These houses break from earlier Mtis styles and are generally described as
one and a half to two storeys high with medium pitched gable roofs. They were built of squared
logs secured with tight-fitting dovetail notched corners, were generally square to slightly
rectangular in plan, and had shed roofed lean-to additions on the back or side. Importantly, the
front faade was symmetrical, with the front door positioned centrally, and the interior plan was
an open single room. These houses were typically built upon a foundation of isolated field
stones, usually had an interior dug cellar, wattle-and-daub exterior treatment, and a metal stove

303 | P a g e

placed centrally and vented by a chimney pipe through the roof ridge line. Second floor joists
were typically tenoned into notches cut through the exterior walls, and then sawn flush (Burley et
al. 1992:129, 139, 143). The Glenns cabin style aligns exceptionally well with the Mtis
vernacular house and not nearly as well with other contemporary log structures found in the
West (Table 1).

Not to discredit Johns influence, it is interesting to note the similarity in changing lifestyles seen
in Fish Creek/Calgary and along the South Saskatchewan River. In both cases, Mtis peoples
were adapting to a more sedentary agricultural life, and both constructed similar buildings to
accommodate this life change. A look at the second Glenn house following their 1879 relocation
(Figure 2) reveals a continuity of style from the earlier cabin that similarly foreshadows the
South Saskatchewan River vernacular style; both cabins predate those observed by Burley et al.
(1992). This second house, judging by the photographic evidence, is textbook Mtis vernacular,
save a few unknowns in the interior and other minor discrepancies. Unfortunately, remains of
this building have long since been erased and no archaeological investigation has been possible
or attempted.

Whether or not the Glenns cabin is
the progenitor of the Mtis
Vernacular Style is not as relevant
as the fact that the cabin stood as a
symbol of a re-enlivened Mtis
lifestyle, pronouncing their identity
upon the landscape. This symbolic
display, noticeable outside and
inside the cabin, communicates
ideas regarding social
differentiation of its inhabitants and
anticipated uselife of the cabin
(McGuire and Schiffer 1983:278,
283). One can see an expression of
agency through decisions made
prior to construction when, for
example, an open floor plan with
no dividing walls, becomes the
chosen means of interior space utilization. The open floor plan is believed to be deeply
significant and culturally symbolic to the Mtis worldview: it reflects their egalitarian and
consensual social organization, and non-hierarchical, unbounded division of labour (Burley and
Horsfall 1989:29). Said worldview is intrinsic to Mtis habitus where this lack of boundaries and
segmentation guides them in their interactions with and comprehension of their social and
natural worlds (Burley et al. 1992:120). A non-segmented interior space is shared and flexible in
utility; a direct reflection of Mtis habitus is, therefore, recognizable in their use of space within
the built environment. What I have interpreted as open interior space in the Glenns cabin,
similarly represents a non-segmented worldview and its builders habitus.

Figure 2. The Glenns second home, Midnapore, circa
1885. Glenbow Archives NC-12-1.

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Identities of gender at this site are seen in the ethnic correlates of Adelaides heritage, as she was
the only resident Mtis on record who might have had influence in the cabins design. Whether
the architectural Mtis traits seen in the cabin represent an issue of household power or an
exertion of an egalitarian, non-hierarchical belief system cannot be reasonably speculated. This
may well be one of those instances that can best be interpreted through a combination of historic
and archaeological sources. That Adelaide was both a woman and a Mtis settler may be
simultaneously represented in the design of the Glenns cabin; these two facets of her social
identity may not be separable in this respect.

Socioeconomic position, another characteristic of social identity, can also be investigated as part
of the symbolism communicated through architecture. The Glenns exerted their agentive powers
(they built in their chosen style, with selected building material, and select location), as a means
to symbolically declare their position and permanence upon the land. And while the decision to
erect a log cabin was often the only choice a homesteader had (Roe 1958:12), the condition of
the Glenns cabin is not suggestive of an expedient house meant to suffice until things improved.
A well-built log house is warmer and generally more comfortable than a framed house (Roe
1958:1), and the latitude afforded to one building with logs allows the end product to speak more
to the skill and agency of the builder than to his socioeconomic status. That the Glenns cabin
remained standing after some 120 years is testament to the craftsmanship with which it was
designed, constructed, and maintained. It is also worth remembering that the Glenns built their
second house in the same manner.

Symbolically, then, the Glenns cabin may have been among the earliest in the western Canadian
Prairies to express a re-enlivened sedentary and agricultural Mtis ethnicity. That it was built of
logs is not so much an expression of lesser means as it is a reflection of a proximity to suitable
timber during the 1870s; additional decisions imparted during construction reflect the Glenns
expected long uselife of the cabin and the expertise with which they were able to build it.
Upstream from the Glenns is the other site in the study, where both the Bebos and the Hones
once farmed. The Bebos (after whom this section of the Park is named) were from Qubec, and
Nelson Bebo purchased his quarter section in 1892 through the Railway Land Grants system
(Provincial Archives of Alberta, Edmonton, Township Registers, Acc. No./Item Nos 74.32/Item
217 Roll 144); Bebo was one of the estimated half of those newly settled in the west who had
purchased their land (Martin 1973:147). It is possible the Bebos were here as early as 1889, but
no later than March 1898, when they both died in Rossland, B.C. in a rockslide (CH, March 28,
1898:4). Unfortunately, any details of buildings from the Bebo years are non-existent. It was not
recorded as to when or why the Bebos left this quarter, but it was purchased later (in 1905) by
Addison Hone (Reeves 1975). Addison and his wife Isabel were Irish immigrants who had been
in the country for approximately ten years, living and working with Addisons brother on his
homestead near Priddis (Rees 2000:36). The Addison Hones lived together, at the site now
known as EfPm-43, with a daughter and two resident servants for approximately thirteen years,
in 1918 returning to Ireland. And while fairly humble farmers were known to hire resident help,
that this small immigrant family found necessary and could afford such help offers an indication
of the familys perceived status and wealth. Little else is known of the Hones, but for the
brothers prowess and trophy-winning status on the polo field; between 1903 and 1911 the Hones
formed the core of Millarville, Pine Creek, and/or Fish Creek polo teams (Millarville, Kew,
Priddis, and Bragg Creek Historical Society 1976: 304). In turn-of-the-century Alberta, there

305 | P a g e

were many farmers and cowboys playing polo; it was not reserved solely for the moneyed elite
(Rees 2000:18). The Hones successes on the polo field coupled with their employment of
resident servants provides an indication of a heightened standing for the family.

A standing stone chimney and stone-lined dugout are all that remain of the many buildings that
once stood at Bebo Grove. The chimney measures approximately 27 feet tall, five feet wide, and
three and a half feet deep, and was built of a variety of river cobbles or fieldstones. The chimney
is lined and the opening of the flue indicates a stove, rather than an open fireplace, was vented at
this position. Near the top of the stack remnants of iron flashing sits at a height of approximately
16.5 feet. Its position is indicative of the height of the eaves if not the roof peak, and is an
indication of the builders skill or craftsmanship at the site, as flashing acts as weatherproof
insurance against internal water damage. A mantle-type ledge sits at a height of five feet and is
likely the upper edge of the interior portion of the chimney. This is a likely position for the stove,
sitting with its back to the chimney in the southwest corner of the house. Above the mantle the
east face of the stack bears horizontal impressions, siding scars, as it were, from the original
exterior of the house. Below the mantle, unfortunately, many of the stones are missing and the
masonry work has suffered.

The dugout is 9.5 feet north-south by 10.5 feet east-west and at least four feet deep and was built
of dressed and mortared field stones. Although it has collapsed in on itself along the east and
south walls, a roughly rectangular plan is evident, with the likely staircase located at the
southwest corner.

There are 9.5 feet between the chimney and the dugout, and the two are connected sub-surficially
by a line of sandstones or bricks; essentially what remains of the west wall foundation of the
house. The dugout likely sat beneath the northwest corner of the house with an outside entry.
From aerial photographs, the Hone house appears square in plan, perhaps with a porch on its east
faade and with either a hipped-gable or pyramidal roof. The mound upon which the chimney
and dugout sit today is approximately 28 feet square, and may represent an approximate footprint
of the house, covering 784 square feet per storey. It is believed, based on the height of the
chimney and flashing that the house stood one-and-one-half or two storeys high, making this
house quite sizeable with 1,568 square feet of living space.

The evidence is more indicative of a framed house than any other style; a brick and stone
foundation wall provided a level base for the sills of framed structures while keeping the timbers
off the ground (Rempel 1980:104). Framed houses began appearing in Alberta in the late 1870s
(Dennis 1986:51), but for Calgary builders, it required the establishment of a local sawmill
before they were built in any great number. The Eau Claire and Bow River Lumber Company
became established in what is now downtown Calgary in 1886 (Hawkins 1987:37). After this
date, anyone with the financial capacity (for even these early houses could cost upwards of
$2000) could build or have built a framed milled lumber house (Dennis 1986:58). A very
common style built by newcomers and established settlers alike, and what I believe best fits the
evidence at this site, was the one-and-one-half storey cube. These houses were usually
shingled, covered with wood siding, and sported pyramid roofs with dormer windows (Dennis
1986:55); very similar to what is indicated by the aerial photographs, the extant chimney, and the
archaeological remains at Bebo Grove.

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The construction of a framed house signified prosperity and achievement in the new territory
(Dennis 1986:55): it was a symbolic declaration of capital investment upon ones property, a
notification that this landowner was able to erect a purchased house and did not have to rely on
sod or local timber for his personal dwelling. It is possible that the successes Hone experienced
while working on his brothers farm for more than a decade helped pave the way for the
construction of a large framed house when he moved to his own farm. The new house announced
to all observers that the Addison Hones had been successful in this newly settled land and that
they were able and willing to invest further by thusly improving their parcel and their livelihood.
There is little else that can be stated regarding social identity and this house. Traces of ethnicity
have been blurred: the prefabricated, predesigned stylings of framed houses obliterate personality
and identity from ones home. Smith (1985:1517), purports that this universalizing of
construction detail has destroyed the recognizable regionalisms of vernacular architecture.
Joanne Lea wrote her MA thesis on ethnicity and vernacular architecture in 1985. Set against her
research (Lea 1985:8395) the Hones house is reflective of British styles in Alberta. The partial
basement (dugout), wood frame, and single centralized hearth with a stove were characteristic
preferences of British house builders around the turn of the century. Not all British
characteristics apply, however, and not all characteristics could be discerned from the remaining
ruins; stone-built chimneys, for example, are not attributable to any one ethnicity in Leas study.
The two-storey framed cube that Hone built for his family may have reflected his heightened
social status, but it speaks only a little to his ethnic heritage. I could not establish any particular
linkages with gender or engendered relationships within their household based on the
architectural findings.

West of the house site, Ive relied largely on archaeological tests to investigate the architectural
remains. Where reports from the 1970s had noted alternatively a collapsing partial log barn
(Anderson 1975), and log structures dating to an estimated 1905 construction (Fish Creek
Management Committee 1976:470), nothing was left standing by the 2002 start to my research.
A total of ten 50 cm x 50 cm test units were opened along one transect within the west field.
And, while each of these was positive for a variety of cultural materials, two of them revealed
post moulds, believed to be associated with the earlier barns.

The post moulds were approximately 20.3 m (66 7) apart east-west, and it is likely that they are
remains from two different buildings in this field. While it remains possible these were fence
post moulds, no other evidence of a fence across the field is indicated. The moulds may mark the
position of supportive wall posts that were set into the ground without underlying footings and
may be clues to the construction style of the log barns at the site.
Poteaux-en terre (post in ground) construction, wherein upright framing posts are driven into the
ground (Wonders 1979:195), predates the post-on-sill or pice-sur-pice style commonly
associated with Canadian fur trade buildings (Rempel 1980:140141). Post-on-sill (Red River
frame) or horizontal log framed construction did not customarily utilize support posts in holes in
the ground.

Associating social identities to the outbuilding architecture at Bebo Grove was, perhaps not
surprisingly, rather difficult. Reports that the buildings were log-constructed are not corroborated
by the archaeological evidence, but given the two post moulds that were uncovered, may have
been constructed with a poteaux-en terre timber framing or a variation of the pice-sur-pice

307 | P a g e

style. While a larger number of machine cut nails recovered may suggest an older relative age for
these buildings than the main house (Rempel 1980:100), this says little about the builders
identity. Information that could forward interpretations in this regard (such as log treatment or
corner jointing) is unavailable. It could be argued that the barns were erected earlier by Bebo and
merely inherited by Hone a decade or two later and, although there is little to support or refute
this, their relative antiquity may of itself support their construction by the earlier farmer. If
indeed the two post moulds are representative of the poteaux-en terre or pice-sur-pice building
style, there is a greater likelihood that they were built by Bebo, who had relocated here from
Qubec in the 1880s or 1890s. The post-in-ground style had its Canadian origins in Qubec
(Rempel 1980:140) and may have originated in northwestern France earlier than the seventeenth
century (Wonders 1979:195). It would be anomalous to expect a vertical post log structure to
have been built by an Irish immigrant in Alberta.

With so little structural information regarding these outbuildings, interpretations as to symbolism
or identity expression communicated therein are difficult and remain tenuous. Based on two post
moulds and a large quantity of machine cut nails, it has been suggested that the outbuildings
were constructed by Bebo during his tenure on this land in the last decades of the nineteenth
century. They may have been built using a French-Canadien style that could have left such
residual post moulds or scars in the underlying ground. Bebos adoption of this ethnic building
tradition may have been his intentional declaration of heritage upon the landscape, a constructed
symbol of his French-Canadien ancestry. The Bebos socioeconomic status, as determined by
their choice of log construction, can only be ascribed as low or better. Where most penniless
settlers constructed their first homes from logs or sod bricks, so too did more affluent ones
(Dennis 1986:1920). What hints at a heightened status for the Bebos is that they purchased this
land from the CPR, making them independent of the free homestead government program and its
associated obligations; they may have entered their quarter section with better financial backing
than some homesteaders. Bebos decision weighing the proximity and cost of harvesting his own
timber against a certain level of construction expertise may have been a simple one.
Unfortunately any architectural characteristics that may be, even loosely, attributed to gender
were taken away when the outbuildings were likewise removed or taken down.

The current study has demonstrated that connections can be drawn between construction styles
and the builders social identity during the historic settlement period in the Calgary area.
Although dependent on such things as availability of materials and construction skills, building
styles also developed independent of material requirements: building styles may both reflect and
infer aspects of the builders social identity within the built environment, while concurrently
making symbolic pronouncements upon the landscape. Where details such as proximity to timber
stands or a local saw mill may predetermine ones choice between a log cabin and a wood frame
house, agency and facets of ones social identity, including socioeconomic position, gender, and
ethnicity are also details that can be teased from what remains today, whether as standing
architecture or as subsurface archaeological evidence.


308 | P a g e

References Cited
Anderson, R.
1975 Archaeological Site Inventory Data Form: EfPm 43. Archaeological Survey of Alberta.
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Burley, D.V. and G.A. Horsfall
1989 Vernacular Houses and Farmsteads of the Canadian Mtis. Journal of Cultural Geography
10(1):1933.

Burley, D.V., G.A. Horsfall, and J.D. Brandon
1992 Structural Considerations of Mtis Ethnicity: An Archaeological, Architectural, and
Historical Study. The University of South Dakota Press, Vermillion, South Dakota.

Calgary Herald, Calgary Weekly Herald, Calgary Daily Herald [Calgary, Alberta]
1886 An Old Timer. 21 October:4. Calgary, Alberta.

1898 Society column Local and General mentioning the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Bebo in
Rossland, B.C. 26 March 26:4. Calgary, Alberta.

Calihoo, V.
1953 Early Life in Lac Ste. Anne and St. Albert in the Eighteen Seventies. Alberta Historical
Review 1(3):2126.

Dennis, T.B.
1986 Albertans Built: Aspects of Housing in Rural Alberta to 1920. University of Alberta
Printing Services, Edmonton, Alberta.

Doll, M.F.V., R.S. Kidd and J.P. Day
1988 The Buffalo Lake Mtis Site: A Late Nineteenth Century Settlement in the Parkland of
Central Alberta. Human History Occasional Paper No. 4. Provincial Museum of Alberta, Alberta
Culture and Multiculturalism, Historical Resources Division, Edmonton, Alberta.

Fish Creek Management Committee (FCMC)
1976 Fish Creek Provincial Park General Plan; Volume 1: Inventory and Analysis. Alberta
Recreation, Parks and Wildlife, Edmonton, Alberta.

Grant, G.M.
1873 Ocean to Ocean: Sandford Flemings Expedition Through Canada in 1872: Being a Diary
Kept During a Journey From the Atlantic to the Pacific With the Expedition of the Engineer-in-
Chief of the Canadian Pacific and Intercolonial Railways. Sampson Low, Marston, Low, &
Searle, Toronto, Ontario.

Great Plains Research Consultants
1982 Bow Valley Ranche Site: Historical and Architectural Study. Manuscript on file, Fish
Creek Provincial Park, Calgary, Alberta.


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Hawkins, W.E.
1987 Electrifying Calgary: A Century of Public and Private Power. The University of Calgary
Press, Calgary, Alberta.

Heitzmann, R. J.
1980 The Cochrane Ranche Site. Occasional Paper No. 16. Archaeological Survey of Alberta,
Alberta Culture Historical Resources Division, Edmonton, Alberta.

Jameson, S.S.
2000 John Glenn Biography. In Dictionary of Canadian Biography, pp. 16. On file Glenbow-
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Layzell, D.
1966 Calgarys Early Goodwill Ambassador. The Calgary Herald, pp. 3, Calgary, Alberta.

Lea, J.A.
1985 House and Heritage: A Study of Ethnic Vernacular Architecture of 1880-1920 in Rural
Alberta. Unpublished Masters Thesis, Department of Archaeology, University of Calgary,
Calgary, Alberta.

Lehr, J.
1976 Ukrainian Vernacular Architecture in Alberta. Occasional Paper No. 1. Historic Sites
Service, Alberta Culture Historical Resources, Edmonton, Alberta.

Martin, C.
1973 Dominion Lands Policy. The Carlton Library Number 69. McClelland and Stewart
Limited, Toronto, Ontario.

McGuire, R.H. and M.B. Schiffer
1983 A Theory of Architectural Design. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 2(3):277303.

Millarville, Kew, Priddis, and Bragg Creek Historical Society
1976 Our Foothills. Millarville, Kew, Priddis, and Bragg Creek Historical Society and the
University of Calgary Press, Calgary, Alberta. Electronic document,
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Morin, G.
2001 Mtis Families: a Genealogical Compendium, Vol. 1. Quintin Publications, Pawtucket,
Rhode Island.

Nevitt, R.B.
1974 A Winter at Fort Macleod. Glenbow-Alberta Institute, McClelland and Stewart West,
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1975 Heritage Resources Fish Creek Provincial Park Site Inventory and Preliminary Evaluation.
Consultants report on file, Fish Creek Provincial Park, Calgary, Alberta.

Rempel, J.I.
1980 Building with Wood and Other Aspects of Nineteenth-Century Building in Central Canada.
University of Toronto Press, Toronto, Ontario.
Roe, F.G.
1958 The Old Log House in Western Canada. Alberta Historical Review 6(2):19.

Smith, L.
1985 Investigating Old Buildings. Batsford Academic and Educational, London, United
Kingdom.

Wade, J.
1971 Log Construction at Red River. Canadian Antiquities Collector 6:3638.

Wonders, W.C.
1979 Log Dwellings in Canadian Folk Architecture. ANNALS of the Association of American
Geographers 69(2):187207.


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Social Memory and Identity as Reflected in the
Reuse of a Residential Group at the Maya Site of
San Bartolo

Diane Davies
Department of Anthropology, Tulane University, New Orleans ddavies@tulane.edu

ABSTRACT: The Preclassic Maya site of San Bartolo was reoccupied around A.D. 600, and
there is evidence that abandoned structures and monuments were reused by these later settlers.
Abandoned structures were venerated, caches were left, and rituals were carried out. The
structures then became a medium of expression for later peoples to redefine the past in order to
identify themselves with their ancestors and to create a sense of individual or community
identity. This interest in the past may also represent a conscious effort to exploit the ancient
structures for political advantage, in order to naturalize or legitimate authority. Recent
excavations in a residential group at the site show how the reuse of architecture, associated
features and artefacts can shed light on how the past was manipulated to express the needs and
values of later peoples.

The culture history of the Maya civilization was interrupted by several collapses. Sites were
abandoned and later reoccupied the earlier structures being covered by later buildings. The
abandonment of a site/structure is often viewed as the end process, with any further activity
presumably carried out by squatters (Canuto and Andrews 2008:257), not worthy of study in
their own right. Yet, the study of the reuse of abandoned structures can tell us about the practical
considerations that were involved in constructing buildings, such as energy invested, the type of
building materials used, and the engineering efforts in remodelling and levelling earlier
structures. The decision to reuse a structure or monument was also a meaningful action and must
be understood in its cultural context; that is, ritual, political, and social considerations also
played a role in determining which structures were reused, which ones were left alone, and
which ones were demolished.

The ancient Maya, like all peoples, used the past to serve the needs and interests of their present
lives and the creation and recreation of social memory was an active and ongoing process (Van
Dyke and Alcock 2003:1). Social memory appeared to be used in two main ways among the
Maya: in directly connecting to ancestors in a remembered past to create a sense of individual or
community identity, or to naturalize or legitimate authority. The social prestige associated with
certain buildings and thus their reuse could reinforce or create a cultural patrimony, linking the
later peoples to a past heritage (Lorenzen 1999:101).
Burials and mortuary rituals were instruments of social memory (see Gillespie 2001; Joyce 1999,
Chesson 2001). By commemorating the dead in ancient monuments, the monuments themselves
become a medium of expression linking the local remembrance of a glorious past with the
present. This interest in the past may also represent a conscious effort to exploit the ancient

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structures for political advantage in a period where perhaps new political structures were taking
shape.
This form of political propaganda prevailed also amongst inscriptions during the Late Classic
period with present rulers affiliating themselves with past elites to provide legitimacy for the new
political order (Joyce 2003; Marcus 1995). Excavations carried out in a residential group at the
Maya site of San Bartolo give insight to its reuse and provide a glimpse into how the later Maya
settlers perceived and identified with their predecessors.

The Site of San Bartolo

San Bartolo is located
in the northeastern part
of the Department of
the Petn, Guatemala,
and was occupied
between 500 B.C.
A.D. 200 before it was
abandoned (Figure 1).
The site was
reoccupied around
A.D. 600, and there is
evidence that
abandoned structures
and monuments were
reused by these later
settlers. The San
Bartolo
Archaeological
Project, under the
direction of William
Saturno, Boston
University, has carried out investigations since 2001 at the site and in the surrounding area.
Survey and mapping has revealed that the site covers approximately 3 km and contains more
than 240 stone structures (Urquiz and Saturno 2005) (Figure 2). San Bartolo is organized into
four principal architectural groups. The Jabal Complex is a small triadic pyramid group to the
northwest. The Ventanas Complex is located on top of a small natural elevation and is the site's
centre. The group consists of a pyramid (Las Ventanas), a large central plaza, a palace
compound, a small ballcourt, a number of residential mounds, and a causeway (Saturno and
Urquiz 2003). To the east of the Ventanas complex lies the Pinturas Complex, also a triadic
pyramid group. The Pinturas pyramid contains polychrome narrative murals concerning themes
of creation and rulership for which the site is known. Lastly, 400 m southwest of the Pinturas
complex is the largest group at the site, Los Saraguates. Its architectural layout follows that of an
inverse E Group, consisting of a large pyramidal structure to the east and three smaller
structures to the west. The residential group under investigation (Group 38) (Figure 3) is located
to the east of the central plaza, the heart of the civic-ceremonial centre, and adjacent to the
causeway.

Figure 1. Location of the archaeological site of San Bartolo.

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Figure 2. Map of the site of San Bartolo highlighting the residential group under investigation
(Group 38).

Figure 3. Plan of Group 38
showing Structures 36 through
40.

Figure 4. Plan of Structure 38 showing Rooms 1 through 18.

314 | P a g e

Group 38 consists of five structures though the focus of this paper will concern Structure 38, the
largest of all the buildings (Figure 4). The final occupation (Late Classic) of Structure 38
revealed a height of over 3 m. The building was vaulted and contained 20 rooms of which 16
contained benches. Preliminary analysis shows that the majority of the rooms functioned as areas
for sleeping or receiving guests.

Dedication Rituals

For the ancient Maya the house was animate and had a soul. Thus if they wanted to reuse an
abandoned building the Maya would enact a dedication ceremony to reawaken the house
(Gillespie 2000:136). The ceremony entailed placing, within the structures themselves, material
items such as flint eccentrics, pottery filled with perishable goods, and even sacrificial victims
buried beneath the floors. Not only were the Maya reawakening the house but subfloor burials
could also create permanent links to deceased members of the household, activating the house as
a specific, meaningful locus within the landscape, one maintained in social or historical memory
(Hendon 2000).

In a room on the south side of the structure (labelled room two) a simple crypt (Burial Six) was
recovered in the northwest corner below the Late Classic floor. The Maya had cut through four
floors to reach the Late Preclassic floor on where the crypt was constructed. A fine, light-
coloured, damp soil had been poured on the Late Preclassic floor and a male between 20-30
years of age was then placed on this surface lying in a flexed position, looking east, with his
hands behind his back and without his head. Two layers of tomb stones were then vertically
arranged around the individual, one circling and one acting as a capstone. Before the burial was
closed the same fine soil was poured on top of the individual. No offerings were found which
lends credence to the idea that the body itself served as a dedicatory offering to the structure,
perhaps as part of the latest rebuilding episode, which included the placement of a bench on top
of the Late Classic floor.

It appears that the Late Classic Maya did not stop at the Late Preclassic floor. This floor
appeared to have been broken and replastered. Just below much ash and carbon was found, and
chemical analysis revealed that this area contained extremely high levels of both organic
materials and burning of the soil. Perhaps the floor was broken to leave an offering which was
not preserved or had been removed.

More intrusive burials, again without grave goods, were unearthed in Room 9 at the south corner
of the structure. This room was one of the largest in the building its interior length measuring 5.5
m. Four individuals were found in this room below the Late Classic floor, again sitting on the
Late Preclassic floor. Shintaro Suzuki, University of Yucatan, has been working with me on the
analysis of these burials and was able to confirm the sex and age of these individuals. The
remains of an individual (sex undetermined) between 20-23 years appearing to be in a seated
position were discovered in a capped pit (Welsh 1988:17). What remained was the left foot in
anatomical position and the ulnae which were isolated and not with the radii. The teeth were also
dispersed. The pit was tube-shaped and contained just two capstones. Through time these stones
collapsed and crushed the skeleton allowing debris to enter.


315 | P a g e

To the west another grave was excavated which revealed two more individuals one inside a
simple crypt, one outside. A skull belonging to a baby of approximately six months old, was
placed to the east of the crypt. The crypt consisted of two rows of vertical tombstones placed
around an individual and sealed on top. Unfortunately the capstones had collapsed slightly and
so fill had fallen in damaging the skeleton. Individual one, a female between 30 45 years old,
was lying on her right side, oriented north to south in a tightly flexed position. Individual two
was found outside the crypt on the west side in the northwest corner of the room. The individual
appeared to be a female aged between 30 45 years. She was highly flexed on her right side and
in a poor state of preservation. Whether this individual was buried later in time is difficult to say.
Though these deposits were physically hidden within the residential structure they were
obviously retained within social memory.

A final example of a dedication offering at the group is a cache of three skulls (Burial 7) found in
Structure 40. The cache was sealed by a floor which had traces of burning and a wall was
constructed on top running from north to south. To support a second storey of rooms above, the
room was then filled in with construction debris from a Middle Preclassic structure. Two of the
skulls were found face down and the other was found on its right side. The three skulls appear to
pertain to males over 30 years old. Thirty-five centimetres to the north a cache of teeth was
found, most of which, due to the colour, condition of the roots and number, appeared to belong
to the three individuals. A fine chert biface knife was recovered with the cache. This cache was a
secondary burial because the skulls were taken from elsewhere and the teeth were swept up and
placed nearby. This was an act of dedication to initiate the Terminal Classic building episode.

Termination Rituals

In contrast on the abandonment of a structure the Maya carried out termination rituals to
deactivate the spirit of the structure. While dedication offerings usually lay at the basal layer of
a construction that subsequently covered the deposit, termination offerings generally are found
on top of or intruding into a destroyed construction episode. Deposits produced during
reverential termination rituals often exhibit extensive destruction of material culture, including
architecture and ceramics. These deposits often reflect the ritual destruction or termination of
one construction phase before an ensuing construction phase may begin. Furthermore, ritual
destruction of architecture and material goods linked to site or structure abandonment may also
indicate reverential activity by prehistoric inhabitants. These rituals are associated with the
cyclical Maya belief system in which one cycle of life must be terminated before the next may
begin (Pagliaro et al. 2003:76-77).

Room 3 gives insight into the types of termination rituals which were carried out by the Late
Classic Maya. On abandonment of the group, a Late Preclassic Sierra Red bowl placed at the
southwest side of a bench along the west wall of the room was left as an offering. Unfortunately
the bowl was broken due to roof fall though all the pieces were collected and the bowl was
reconstructed. This was likely an heirloom which was deposited long after it was first made as a
marker of house prestige (Gillespie 2000:19).

Beginning at the east door jamb of Room 2 and continuing past the entrance of Room 3 several
artefacts had been placed along the exterior wall. A complete metate, three chert bifaces all

316 | P a g e

pointing west, a fibula, a complete mano, and ceramic vessels dating to the Late Classic were all
recovered.

In addition, the remains of two vessels were left upon abandonment by the Late Classic Maya at
the inside corner of Structure 38. One vessel, a Zapote striated pot with a burnt exterior and bits
of carbon on its body, was dated to the Late Preclassic. The second vessel was a Late Classic
Encanto Striated pot. Though these were simple utilitarian vessels they must have been objects
that held importance in the everyday lives of the residents and may have been significant
heirlooms. The evidence of burning may have resulted from fire rituals common in termination
events at Classic Maya period sites (Stuart 1998).

Lastly both Rooms 11 and 14 on the east side of the structure show evidence of burning. Samples
were taken from the rooms and tested for both phosphate and potassium. The phosphate levels
were average but the potassium levels were extremely high indicating that the floor had been
burnt. This result, combined with the findings of burnt stucco, patches of burnt floor, and much
carbon, supports the hypothesis that the Maya enacted a termination ritual on the abandonment
of the building. Along the northwest side of Room 14 a hole cut through the floor revealed an
empty pit. Whatever lay there was removed by the Late Classic Maya, probably on
abandonment, and a large stone placed inside. Several human bones belonging to a child were
found amongst burnt sherds inside the pit.

Structure 37 is located on the east side of a patio group and is a high small structure measuring
10 m in length by 7 m in width. It was dated to the Late Preclassic and could possibly have been
a shrine. Both the architectural style and the fill were very different from that of Structure 38.
The external wall contained two rows of thick stone blocks and along the east side there were the
remains of a talud. It appears that the Late Classic Maya destroyed part of the exterior west wall,
broke through the interior floor and dug to its base and then the entire interior was filled initially
with earth and then large stones. Stones were also placed along the break in the west wall to
close the building. Perhaps there was something inside, such as a burial that was removed and
placed elsewhere. I cannot confirm whether items were removed, but I can say that these later
settlers expended much energy in closing the structure and enacting a termination ritual to
deactivate it. Though the structure lost its importance in the group during the Late Classic, the
settlers still felt the presence of their predecessors and needed to deactivate the soul of the
structure.

Remodelling

Although the Classic Maya settlers recognized and respected Group 38 they also added their own
distinct identity. At one time in Room 5 there was access along the south side to the adjoining
room. Later a wall was constructed and this passageway was closed. Room 14 also had a
passageway into Room 13 that was later closed by a wall and Room 13 was given its own
separate entrance.

Rooms 15A and 15B, rooms on the northeast corner of the structure, were later additions. The
external north wall of Room 5 was used as the interior south wall of room 15 and the exterior
east wall of Room 16 was used as the interior west wall of Room 15. Two poorly made walls

317 | P a g e

were added to the east and north to form a room. Likewise in Room 15B the exterior walls of
Structures 37 and 38 were used as interior walls of the room. The Late Classic Maya used the
exterior north wall of Structure 38 as the interior south wall of Room 15B, and the exterior south
wall of Structure 37 as the interior north wall of the same room. Unlike the other rooms in
Structure 38 there were no internal stuccoed walls, no vaulted ceilings and no features such as
benches.

Room 15B was excavated down to the Late Preclassic floor on which the exterior north wall of
the building stood. Whatever its initial function during the Terminal Classic, this room was used
as a refuse heap (midden). An extensive amount of ceramics was found with artefacts of worked
bone, figurines, and much carbon. The remains of a child between three to five years old were
also recovered.

The furthermost room on the north side of Structure 38 (Room 18) is a good example of the sorts
of remodelling that were carried out during the Late Classic. Initially a rectangular bench
running east to west was placed in the room and an arm rest was constructed on top of the bench.
Later the width of the bench was extended by 15 cm. Thereafter another layer of stucco was
placed on top of the bench running along the east side of the room making a square bench that
reached the interior north wall.

Finally preliminary ceramic analysis suggests that that during the Terminal Classic the Maya
constructed a second level of rooms on the north side of Structure 40. This second level
consisted of one large room and one if not two smaller rooms. In the first room, the interior floor
and south wall with a niche were preserved. A stuccoed wall and floor is all that was preserved
of the second room.

Interpretations

The abandoned site of San Bartolo was reoccupied during the Late Classic period and Group 38,
among other structures, was reused. The later settlers were not merely squatters; rather they
carried out a variety of extensions and remodelling to the original foundations. The choice of
building used and the nature of the remodelling were structured by the social and political
conditions of the time.
Refurbishing in this group was often accompanied by dedicatory and commemorative rituals for
both the new and old constructions respectively. The burials in Structure 38 and the cache of
skulls in Structure 40 can be seen as reflective of a major construction phase of the room or
building, the burials themselves being the offerings to the ancestors. Not only were the people
linking themselves with the ancestors of the site and continuing the lifecycle of the structure but
they were also legitimating themselves with these ancestors. This behaviour actually was
extremely reverential and indicative of the continued interaction of the lowland Maya with their
ancestors and the places where the ancestors were interred. The dedication and termination
rituals that were carried out were also prime targets for political manipulation for influencing and
forging identities (Kyriakidis 2007:302). In doing so, they were associating themselves with
powerful forces and with a distant past that may have served to legitimize political strategies in
the present (Williams 1998:103).


318 | P a g e

People remember or forget the past according to the needs of the present. The construction of
social memory can involve direct connections to ancestors in a remembered past, or it can
involve more general links to a vague mythological past, often based on the re-interpretation of
monuments or landscapes (Van Dyke and Alcock 2003:3). The reuse of structures and
monuments might then reflect later peoples redefining the past in their own terms in order to
identify themselves with their ancestors (Hingley 1996:241). As Lowenthal aptly states, every
relic is a testament not only to its initiators but to its inheritors, not only to the spirit of the past
but to the perspectives of the present (Lowenthal 1985:412).
Acknowledgements: This material is based upon work supported by the National Science
Foundation (Grant No. 0853329), the Middle American Research Institute, and the San Bartolo
Regional Archaeological Project. I would like to thank my great team of excavators and
assistants in the field who were indispensible to the completion of my work and keeping me in
such good spirits.

References Cited
Canuto, Marcello A., and Anthony P. Andrews
2008 Memories, Meanings, and Historical Awareness: Post-Abandonment
Behaviors among the Lowland Maya. In Ruins of the Past: Use and Perception of
Abandoned Structures in the Maya Lowlands, edited by Travis W. Stanton and Aline Magnoni,
pp. 257-273. University Press of Colorado, Boulder.

Chesson, Meridith S. (editor)
2001 Social Memory, Identity, and Death: Anthropological Perspectives on Mortuary Rituals.
Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association Number 10, Arlington,
Virginia.

Gillespie, Susan D.
2000 Maya "Nested Houses": The Ritual Construction of Place. In Beyond Kinship: Social and
Material Reproduction in House Societies, edited by Rosemary A. Joyce and Susan D. Gillespie,
pp. 135-160. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia.

2001 Mortuary Ritual, Agency and Personhood: A Case Study from the Ancient Maya. Journal
of Anthropological Archaeology 20(1):73-112.

Hendon, Julia A.
2000 Having and Holding: Storage. Memory, Knowledge and Social Relations. American
Anthropologist 102(1):42-53.

Hingley, Richard
1996 Ancestors and Identity in the Later Prehistory of Atlantic Scotland: The Reuse and
Reinvention of Neolithic Monuments and Material culture. World Archaeology 28(2):231-243.


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Joyce, Rosemary A.
1999 Social Dimensions of Pre-Classic Burials. In Social Patterns in Pre-Classic Mesoamerica,
edited by David C. Grove and Rosemary A. Joyce, pp. 15-47. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington
D.C.

2003 Concrete Memories: Fragments of the Past in the Classic Maya Present. In Archaeologies
of Memory, edited by Ruth M. Van Dyke and Susan E. Alcock, pp. 105-125. Blackwell, Malden,
MA.

Kyriakidis, Evangelos
2007 Archaeologies of Ritual. In The Archaeology of Ritual, edited by Evangelos Kyriakidis, pp.
289-308. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California, Los Angeles.

Lorenzen, Karl J.
1999 New Discoveries at Tumben-Naranjl: Late Postclassic Reuse and the Ritual Recycling of
Cultural Geography. Mexicon 21:98-107.

Lowenthal, David
1985 The Past is a Foreign Country. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Marcus, Joyce
1995 Maya Hieroglyphs: History or Propaganda? In Research Frontiers in Anthropology, edited
by Carol R. Ember, Melvin R. Ember and Peter N. Peregrine, pp. 2-24. Prentice Hall, Englewood
Cliffs.

Pagliaro, Jonathan B., James F. Garber, and Travis W. Stanton
2003 Evaluating the Archaeological Signatures of Maya Ritual and Conflict. In Ancient
Mesoamerican Warfare, edited by M. Kathryn Brown and Travis W. Stanton, pp. 75-89.
AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek.

Saturno, William, and Mnica Urquiz
2003 Proyecto Arqueologico Regional San Bartolo: Resultados de la Segunda Temporada de
Campo 2003. Paper presented at the XVII Simposio de Investigaciones Arqueolgicas en
Guatemala (July 15 to 19, 2002), Museo Nacional de Arqueologa y Etnologa de Guatemala,
Guatemala.

Stuart, David
1998 "The Fire Enters His House": Architecture and Ritual in Classic Maya Texts. In Function
and Meaning in Classic Maya Architecture, edited by Stephen D. Houston, pp. 373-425.
Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, D.C.

Urquiz, Mnica, and William Saturno
2005 Sintesis de la Cuarta Temporada de Campo del Proyecto Arqueolgico San Bartolo. In
Proyecto Arqueolgico San Bartolo: Informe Preliminar No. 4, Cuarta Temporada 2005, edited
by Mnica Urquiz and William Saturno, pp. 625-632. Report to the Instituto de Antropologa e
Historia de Guatemala, Guatemala.

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Van Dyke, Ruth M. and Susan E. Alcock
2003 Archaeologies of Memory: An Introduction. In Archaeologies of Memory, edited by Ruth
M. Van Dyke and Susan E. Alcock, pp. 1-13. Blackwell, Malden, MA.

Welsh, W. Bruce M.
1988 An Analysis of Classic Lowland Maya Burials. BAR International Series 409. British
Archaeological Reports, Oxford.

Williams, Howard
1998 Monuments and the Past in Early Anglo-Saxon England. World Archaeology 30(1):90-108.


321 | P a g e

Everything Necessary for a Comfortable
Existence: Colonialism and Identity in the Petit
Nord, Newfoundland

Jennifer Jones
Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, B.C.

ABSTRACT. Gardiens were anglophone settlers hired by French fishermen in Newfoundlands
Petit Nord to protect their supplies and fishing structures overwinter, and as such guard their
interests in a valuable resource base. France had fishing rights in Newfoundland but could leave
no settlers on the island after 1713. Gardiens, then, were subjects of the British Empire acting as
colonizers in the name of France. Excavations at Genille (EgAw-07) focused on the household of
an Irish Catholic gardien, Patrick Kearney, and his family. This paper focuses on the material
culture recovered from the Kearney household, as well as archival findings regarding the
Kearney family and the settlement at Genille. The identity of the Kearney family relative to other
settlers in northern Newfoundland is considered with regards to intercultural interactions and
the act of differentiation. Interactions with the French proved at the very least economically
beneficial to the Kearney family, especially when compared to the lifestyle available to most
Irish Catholic families in the 19
th
century.

Introduction

Over the past five to ten years there has been a call for the re-examination of colonial
archaeology as it tends to be modeled on European colonial expansion after the Enlightenment,
or Roman Empire building (Lyons and Papadapolous 2002; Silliman 2010; Stein 2005). This
often includes the assumption that one group, the colonizer, arrived and imposed its will upon
others. More detailed studies show that colonization is a complex, variable process which has
occurred widely over time and space and is dependent on negotiations and renegotiations of
power and identity. With the reworking of the concept of colonialism, many authors are
addressing and questioning the means by which intercultural interactions influence the identities
of the groups and individuals involved, as well as how this is reflected in material remains
(Martindale 2009; Silliman 2009, 2010).

Colonial situations do not always result in subjugation and struggles for power; there are also
instances of alliances (Stein 2005). This is not to downplay the negative impacts of many
colonial situations. This paper will illustrate the case of the Newfoundland gardiens, Anglo-Irish
settlers working for French fishermen in northern Newfoundland during the nineteenth century.
They existed within two distinct colonial frameworks which together worked heavily in their
favour in terms of material, economic success. As British subjects (both as Irish persons and
settlers in a British colony) settling in northern Newfoundland on behalf of the French (who
perceived them as French subjects), the gardiens would have been differentiated from other
settlers in the region. This is reflected in both the material culture located at a gardien homestead

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excavated, historical accounts of their interactions with the French, and archival findings. The
data outlined below are based on excavations of a gardien homestead at EgAw-07 (Genille) near
the town of Croque in northern Newfoundland. This was the homestead of the family of Patrick
Kearney and Mary Pyne, locally known as Kearneys Cove.

The French Cod Fishery

The cod fishery began in Newfoundland as early as the start of the sixteenth century. Several
groups were involved in the early Newfoundland cod fishery, including the Portuguese, Breton,
Norman, Basque, and English. This fishery was seasonal, with fleets of fishing vessels departing
their home countries in May, arriving in Newfoundland in June and fishing until they departed in
September. The Petit Nord is a region in the northeastern coast of Newfoundland extending from
Pointe Riche east to Cape St. John on the Northern Peninsula. The boundaries of the French
Shore, a region where France had exclusive fishing rights as defined by international treaty,
shifted several times while the Petit Nord represents the only region of that shore consistently
fished by the French. The French seasonal fishery on the Petit Nord existed from 1504 to 1904.
The Petit Nord was fished mostly by Breton crews, while other ships from French Basque
country and Normandy would occasionally work in the region. By the nineteenth century the
seasonal fishermen on the Petit Nord were almost exclusively from Brittany, France.

Each ship had a specific fishing room, a harbour where the ship would anchor for the season
and the base from which crews would fish in shallops, smaller boats crewed by three men. At the
end of the day a crews catch would be unloaded onto a stage, a large, covered wooden wharf
which extended far enough out into the water as to ensure a safe landing for the shallops even
during low tide. Within the stage the fish were processed by removing the heads, backbones, and
entrails. The fish were then covered in salt and laid to dry on galets, large cobble beaches which
either existed naturally or were purposely constructed by the fishermen. At times fish were also
dried on flakes, wooden structures traditionally used by English fishermen that maximized the
use of available space. Additional structures common to French fishing rooms include cook
rooms, cabins for ranked officers, crosses, and bread ovens (de la Morandire 1967; Pope 2009).

Fishing rooms and the maritime cultural landscape were of great significance to the French
fishermen in Newfoundland. The migratory fishery in Newfoundland acted as the training
ground for the French navy, as a farm worker could be prepared to serve in the navy after three
or four seasons in Newfoundland (de la Morandire 1967; Hiller 1996). In terms of the rooms
themselves, although the coast of Newfoundland spans a large area, a very small portion of it is
suitable for situating fishing rooms. Several features are necessary for a site to be considered
feasible for use as a fishing room: proximity to productive waters, a place to moor the ship, land
boats, room for stages and flakes, wood to build these structures, fresh drinking water, cobbled
beaches, and a supply of bait species. Places where these features occur together naturally are
relatively rare, and with the investment involved in building the necessary structures the ability
to return to the same spot yearly was extremely desirable (Pope 2009).

In 1713, by the Treaty of Utrecht, France and Britain agreed formally that French fishing vessels
could utilize a portion of the Newfoundland coast on the northern Peninsula (known as the
French Shore), but that they must vacate their fishing stations for the winter. During the

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French Revolutionary Wars (1792 1802) and the Napoleonic Wars (1799 1815), French
fishing vessels were mostly absent from the region. Population expansion and crowding in
southern Newfoundland found Irish and English settlers slowly developing towns further to the
north, eventually encroaching on regions where the French had seasonal fishing rights. To
prevent the plundering of their fishing structures and supply stores by local Indigenous and
British populations and to secure their stakes in a valuable resource base, the French began hiring
gardiens to protect their fishing rooms and related outbuildings in the early nineteenth century.
For this service, gardiens were paid in supplies which were to help them survive the harsh
conditions of the region (Rompkey 2003). Since the gardien was often the first permanent
European settler in communities in the Petit Nord, the settler population grew within the
framework of the French migratory fishery (Pope 2009). These persons were the ancestors of
many people in local communities along the French Shore of Newfoundland today (Casey 1971;
Pope 2009). The French fished in the area until 1904 when France and Britain signed the Anglo-
French Convention, or entente cordiale, by which France traded its fishing interests on the shore
of Newfoundland for concessions elsewhere (Hiller 1996; Janzen 2007).

The Kearney Family at Genille

Excavations at Genille (EgAw-07) in the town of Croque, Newfoundland, focused on the
household of the gardien Patrick Kearney and his family (see Jones 2009 for a more detailed
account). The Kearney family was Irish Catholic. Patrick Kearney himself was from Ireland
while his wife Mary Pyne was a first or second generation Newfoundlander of Irish descent. In
the nineteenth century, the Irish were colonial subjects of the British Empire (as were many other
groups). The vast majority of the population consisted of peasant farmers, some of whom left to
find work elsewhere, often as poverty-stricken landless labourers. The British did not exist as a
homogenous group oppressing the Irish. The liberal element in Britain had more sympathetic
views towards poverty among the Irish Catholic. These different stances made Ireland a divisive
issue in British politics (Lengal 2002). British perceptions of Irish identity were fluidly
constructed and varied to meet the social, political, and economic needs of the colonial
government. The British colonization of Ireland is part of the context for the interactions
between merchant, planter, and servant classes in Newfoundland, since British attitudes towards,
and perceptions of, the Irish Catholic persisted, even as they crossed the Atlantic. During the
eighteenth century merchants and established land-owners in Newfoundland were predominantly
Protestant, while the Irish Catholic were most often members of the servant class (Bannister
2003).

In northern Newfoundland, France had valuable resource rights but could leave no settlers of
their own to protect their interests. Although they could exert no direct physical manifestation of
their colonial rights, Rompkey (2006) notes that French journals, magazines, and travel accounts
conveyed a sense of ownership, as well as a paternalistic concern for the well-being of their
Anglo-Irish settlers. As Irish individuals living in a British colony, for all intents and purposes
the gardiens were British subjects. Although settlement was relatively sparse in the Petit Nord,
the British Navy still maintained a presence, cruising along the coasts. The gardiens were British
subjects but were settlers in the name of France, specifically for resource extraction and as such
existed simultaneously within two overlapping, distinct colonial frameworks.


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Examinations of identity in colonial situations tend to favour questions of change and continuity,
particularly when addressing interactions between Indigenous and European groups (Silliman
2009). This examination of the influence of colonialism and identity in the Petit Nord is not a
study of change and continuity but is rather a study of differentiation. This attempts to tie in
Steins (2005) intercultural interactions, or the idea of the colonial encounter, which draws on
notions of practice, agency, and identity. Identity markers, such as gender, ethnicity, sexuality,
age, class, occupation, etc. are relational to one another and their significance is fluid and
dependent on context (Geller 2009; Meskell 2002). To examine concepts of practice, agency, and
identity, this discussion of gardiens in the Petit Nord looks at constructions of identity as
difference, whether that be through practice and material culture, or through perceived and
enacted social differences found in the archival record. The material culture, historical accounts
and archival records relating to the Kearney family indicate ways in which they were
differentiated both from other settlers and other gardiens.

The practice and use of material culture in daily life is said to have a great influence on ones
identity as it affects how you interact with and perceive the world; it is the material basis with
which you act out your daily life (Meskell 2002). Various items were recovered in the
occupational layers of the Kearney household at Genille which have very clearly defined, limited
French contexts. Although goods from around the world were available during the nineteenth
century, certain French artefacts are rare at British settlements in both Newfoundland and
elsewhere in the British Empire. Looking at the occurrence of these artefact classes at the
Kearney homestead should help illustrate which goods were provided to the gardiens by the
French fishermen as opposed to which goods were purchased from merchants based in St.
Johns.

Normandy coarse stonewares have been recovered from sites in Quebec dating from the
seventeenth century through to the start of the eighteenth century, although their use extended
into the nineteenth century in the Petit Nord (Brassard and Leclerc 2001; Chrestien and
Dufournier 1995). Outside of historical remains in Montreal, Normandy stoneware is found only
in French maritime contexts (Chrestien and Dufournier 1995). Jars and salting tubs are the
dominant forms of Normandy stoneware on the Atlantic coast, with preserve pots, ointment pots,
and medicine bottles being the next most common varieties. The importance of storage
containers is especially notable for fishermen, who would be relying on preserved supplies as a
key form of sustenance; butter and salt meat were staples in French seamens diets. Coarse
stoneware vessels were used as commercial shipping containers for things such as raisins, oils,
pickles, honey, soap, butter, and conserves in the eighteenth century. This use has been linked
with the consumption of standardized, pre-packaged goods which would have been especially
enticing to military and naval personnel (Jones 1993).

Newfoundland gardiens were provided with foodstuffs such as flour, salted lard, biscuits, wine,
cider, and spirits by the French in return for their services (Rompkey 2003). Since in this period
the French were relying heavily on Normandy stoneware to store and transport commodities, the
Normandy stoneware vessels (a third of the stoneware assemblage) in the household occupation
layer at Kearneys Cove would have contained supplies provided to the Kearney family by the
French. In contrast, the contemporaneous settlement of seasonal English fishermen at Saddle

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Island, just across the Strait of Belle Isle in Labrador, contained no Normandy stoneware sherds
(Burke 1991).

Tin-glazed earthenwares recovered from the Kearney home at Genille were also likely provided
by the French fishermen, as with the introduction of British refined earthenwares in the
eighteenth century the production of British and French tin-glazed earthenwares had decreased.
Faience, French tin-glazed earthenware, still played an important role in French foodways
through later periods even as production decreased (Blanchette 1981). The presence of French
faience in the Kearney homestead indicates at the very least that it was purposefully gifted to
them by the French fishermen. This ware type was used primarily for food service or
preparation, falling outside the realm of the supplies necessary for basic survival. Serving and
preparing food with these dishes would also have differentiated the Kearney family from other
local settlers, as faience not something commonly found at nineteenth-century British
settlements, particularly rural homesteads.

Even some of the refined white earthenware in the Kearney house is French in origin. Miller
(1980) states that refined earthenwares from nineteenth century sites are almost always British,
but his experience is mostly with sites in the United States. A surprising quantity of French
refined white earthenwares have been recovered at EfAx-09 (Dos de Cheval), another French
fishing station located not far south of Genille (Pope, personal communication 2009). One sherd
found at Genille has the makers mark Choisy-le-Roi. This was a town about 12 km upstream
from Paris which blossomed into an industrial production centre in around 1790. Potters at
Choisy-le-Roi produced most of the ceramics used by metro Parisiens until the end of the
nineteenth century, as well as crystal and glasswares (Granger 1923). Multiple sets of decorated
white earthenware vessels were found at Genille. The lone sherd with a French makers mark has
no decoration on it, and as it is a portion of a flatware base it is impossible to determine if the rim
was decorated. This prevents being able to attribute it to one of the ceramic sets recovered, which
would help illustrate what portion of the overall whiteware assemblage at Genille may be French
in origin.

Serving dishes from just outside of Paris, as well as objects of adornment, are outside of what
one would consider supplies necessary for minding French fishing stations. Historic accounts
exist of French captains establishing close ties with gardiens, even at times dining with gardien
families; as a result of these more intimate interactions a few of the gardiens themselves were
bilingual (Casey 1971; Rompkey 2003). Tales of French fishing captains bringing gifts of
clothing, textiles, and patterns to the female settlers may be reflected in the objects of adornment
recovered. Accounts describe settlers in these remote regions attending mass led by the ships
priest wearing the finest fashions from Paris (Rompkey 2003). An example illustrates these
accounts is the discovery of white metal buttons with French text embossed on them at Genille.
As well, two naval buttons with a fouled-anchor motif matching those found at nearby French
fishing sites were also recovered in the context of the Kearney home at Genille. It is uncertain
whether these reflect the presence of French officers inside the house or the distribution of old
uniforms for re-use. A French coin dating to 1855 with Napoleon III on it was also recovered.
The material culture resulting from the gardiens interactions with the French would have, even
if inadvertently, differentiated them from other settlers and affected how they acted out their
lives.

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The amount of goods provided to the gardiens by the French may have allowed the settlers to
stay outside the constraints of the truck system used in Newfoundland, at least until the end of
the French fishery in Newfoundland. Truck is a semi-barter relationship between settlers and
merchants in which the merchants advance the settlers supplies on credit with the expectation of
exclusive rights to the seasons furs and fish to pay off the accrued debts. The relationship is
defined as semi-barter as only goods are exchanged, but the accounts are recorded in terms of
monetary value. This system created an asymmetrical relationship in favour of the creditor, who
set the prices for both the merchandise sold to the planters and the price of the fish and furs later
purchased from the settlers. Settlers often remained indebted to the merchants since they were
paid so little for their goods (Rompkey 2003). The merchants themselves were also involved as
debtors in a chain of credit relationships; they often held accounts with suppliers, who were in
turn often indebted to financing firms in Britain (Hiller 1990; Price 1990; Thornton 1990).

Interestingly, the ledgers for merchant Joseph Bird, a merchant based in Forteau Bay, Labrador,
who often dealt with settlers along the French Shore, the names of almost all the settlers in the
Petit Nord except for the gardiens appear (Thornton 1990). Perhaps this reflects the selection of
different merchants by some of the gardiens, or possibly their lesser reliance on the truck system
and merchant credit due to the payment in goods they received from the French for their services
as caretakers. Sanger (1978) notes that British settlers living along the French Shore enjoyed a
relatively high quality of life, turning to agricultural pursuits alongside fishing and sealing for
additional income. The ceramic assemblage from Genille would have been moderately expensive
at the time of purchase, indicating some degree of economic success. The supply of materials to
the Kearney family by the French includes both basic supplies and more luxurious, non-
utilitarian items. The material remains from Genille assist in clarifying the economic advantages
of dealing with the French for the gardiens, as well as the interactions and actions of daily life
which are often unrecorded in historical documents (Brumfiel 2003).

With regards to concepts of agency and identity, individuals negotiate their identities and
experiences within the recursive framework of their social structure and their actions, wants,
needs, and decisions as independent agents. Access to historical records helps clarify the actions
of agents, be they members of the Kearney family or French fishermen. Several trends in the
archival evidence illustrate ways by which the Kearney family was set apart even from other
gardien families in the region. This speaks to their unique relationship with the French. The
Kearney family only appears peripherally in local church records, even when a Roman Catholic
parish opened in 1880 not ten miles away by sea (Casey 1971). Members of the Kearney family
appear only as witnesses to marriages and as godparents to children; they never appear in the
church records as the ones being married, dying, or having children although historic accounts of
the Kearney family describe their devout Catholicism (Rompkey 2004). There are several cases
where female members of the Kearney family are paired with French men, such as Captain
Blanslot or Franswau Auges (likely Francois spelled phonetically). Baptism records post-
dating 1904, when the French fishery ceased in Newfoundland, also illustrate the adoption of
French names for children at Genille, such as Adlaide and Francois (Jones 2009).

The absence of church records relating to the Kearney family indicates that the familys
marriage, birth, and death records are likely held in France. The Kearney family is nearly absent

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from all church records in the Newfoundland parishes until the 1900s. The only record found for
the Kearney family in Croque pre-dating this is the baptism of Patrick Kearney and Mary Pynes
son Michael Anthony which was initially conducted in 1856 by Father Deloupy. This birth was
back-dated and recorded in the local Roman Catholic parish records in 1910. Father Deloupy
was likely a visiting French priest as none of the Roman Catholic parishes in Newfoundland had
a priest with this name. Historical accounts describe the gardiens waiting for the French to arrive
in the late spring to baptize infants born over the winter and properly bury the dead. Bodies of
the deceased were even stored on ice to ensure the individual in question received the proper
burial rights (Rompkey 2003). If these rites were overseen by a French priest attending with the
seasonal fishermen, one would assume that he would bring the records back to his home parish
in France.

The names of several other known gardien families in the region do appear in the church
registries: records of the Hope, Casey, and McGrath families are relatively abundant. The lack of
church records for the Kearney family seems to indicate a more intimate relationship with the
French fishermen, as they seem to have relied on the services of a French priest to marry their
family members, baptize their young, and bury their dead.

The intimate relationship the Kearney family held with the French is also visible by the presence
of material culture which would be unique to gardien families, particularly the less utilitarian
objects which may reflect the giving of gifts or tokens. Other gardien families are noted to have
existed outside the constraints of the truck system as well. The excavation of the Kearney
homestead was the first excavation of a gardien habitation site, and as such acted as a case study
to add insight to the lives of persons living in such a unique situation. An exciting area for
potential future research would include the excavation of other gardien homesteads to provide a
point of comparison for the Kearney family to see if the same level of economic success and as
favourable a relationship with the French played out at other sites.

Conclusion

Receiving supplies from the French as well their access to fishing rooms, hunting and farming,
left the Kearney family in a better economic standing than many others in the region. The
economic scaling of the ceramics recovered, as well as the presence of several matching sets,
indicates a reasonable level of affluence for the Kearney family. The Kearney family did not
have the heavy debt load carried by most other settlers in the area, as they received supplies and
gifts from the French. They Kearneys eventually hired labourers of their own to help with the
fishing and farming. This illustrates in many ways a shift in socioeconomic class as Patrick
Kearney went from being a landless labourer to someone with established land rights and
servants of his own (Jones 2009).

The house at Genille most resembles in shape and size that of an Irish peasant farmer; a one-
room structure that was relatively small even when compared to those surveyed in nineteenth
century Ireland (Gailey 1984). Given Patrick Kearneys background, this is likely what he
conceptualized as a proper home. One French traveler to Genille, even after commenting on how
dismal living conditions were in the Petit Nord, described the Kearney cabin, with its new

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American cast iron stove as having everything necessary for a comfortable existence (Rompkey
2004).

The intercultural interactions between the Anglo-Irish settlers at Genille and the French
fishermen would have had tangible effects on the identities of the settlers. Their situation and
experience was different than that of other gardien families, and definitely different than that of
other settlers in the area. These differences would have been acted out through the use of
different forms of material culture, different means of religious worship, and reduced reliance on
the merchant credit system. As Irish Catholics in a British colony in the nineteenth century, the
odds for material success faced by the Kearney family would generally have been quite low. In
this case, the colonial encounter between the Kearney family and French fishermen proved
advantageous, and as one French traveler noted they truly seemed to be in possession of all
necessary comforts (Rompkey 2004).

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A People for All Seasons: Expressions of Inuit
Identity over the past 500 Years in Southern
Labrador

Lisa K. Rankin
Department of Archaeology, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John's, NL A1C 5S7
(lrankin@mun.ca)

ABSTRACT. About 500 years ago, a group of Inuit moved from the eastern Arctic, the classic
homeland of both the Inuit and their Canadian Thule ancestors, southward along the coast of
Labrador. In the process, they moved into areas that were progressively less like the eastern
Arctic and more socially complex, encountering along the way forests, long hot summers, as well
as Amerindians and Europeans. It is possible through a combination of archaeology,
ethnography and traditional knowledge to explore the ways in which the people who became the
Inuit Mtis of southern Labrador have maintained, re-negotiated, questioned and proclaimed
their Inuit identity over centuries of cultural change, and into the present day.

At first glance identity seems a simple concept used by archaeologists to recognize an individual
or group in the past. In reality, this term is anything but simple, as it envelopes a series of diverse
ideas about how people represent themselves to one another and to the world at large, and how
archaeologists untangle the diversity of representation from the fragments left behind. Like other
key cultural concepts, identity results from generalities and particular histories, it is constructed,
denied, abandoned and changed in reaction to the events and processes of time and engagements
with others (Felser and Franklin 1999; Loren and Beaudry 2006). Therefore, it has variable
archaeological signatures that may be related to the diachronic scale from which it is examined.
In this paper I will use archaeological and historic data in attempt to understand the many
identities of the Inuit of southern Labrador over several centuries as they colonized new territory,
settled into a place, and engaged with a variety of other ethnic groups.

In order to discuss the identity of the southern Labrador Inuit it is first necessary to confront
long-held perceptions of Inuit culture. In the prelude to the Last Imaginary Place Robert
McGhee (2005) juxtaposed the popular and imaginary vision of the inaccessible Arctic world
peopled by hardy hunters that stepped directly from the stone-age, with the reality of a landscape
peopled with human communities with human ambitions and concerns that are much more
familiar to us. Yet, the mythology of Inuit identity transcends our contemporary archaeological
perceptions of who these people were. All archaeological work is obviously influenced by
contemporary values, and therefore we must be wary of the ways that iconic images of Arctic
Inuit identity have shaped, and even prevented an archaeological understanding of their history.
Perhaps nowhere is this more true than southern Labrador, where the forested landscape and
long, hot summers of the sub-Arctic zone run counter to the imagined identity of a people linked
with an ice and snow-infested, polar world. So ingrained are these beliefs about the identity of
the Inuit that as recently as 30 years ago the Inuit presence in southern Labrador was questioned

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by archaeologists and historians alike, even though the Inuit of the more traditional landscapes of
northern Labrador were clearly accumulating European goods that could only have been
accessed in the south (Martijn and Clermont 1980).

More recently, archaeological work has challenged these assumptions by demonstrating that the
Inuit have had a significant presence in southern Labrador since the late 1500s (Auger 1991;
Brewster 2006; Rankin 2004, 2006; Rankin et al. 2010; Stopp 2002). However, interpreting the
identity of the southern Labrador Inuit is not simply a matter of recognizing their presence, but
of understanding how they maintained, re-negotiated, questioned and proclaimed their identity
over nearly five centuries of cultural development and into the present day outside of the
traditional Arctic world. Over this 450-year period the Inuit explored, colonized, occasionally
retreated from, and re-settled the warmer, forested landscapes of southern Labrador. That they
did this helps us to re-define our understanding of who the Inuit of the south were. That the Inuit
colonization and settlement of southern Labrador took place alongside similar ventures by other
populations including the Innu, Basque, French, English and Americans defines just how
complex this process was.

Understanding the Past to Build the Future

In the summer of 2009, interdisciplinary research, involving a team of historians, cultural
anthropologists and archaeologists began a five year project supported by a Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council of Canada Community University Research Alliance (SSHRC
CURA) initiative aimed at interpreting the history of the Inuit in southern Labrador. At its core,
the project called Understanding the Past to Build the Future hopes to explain: the initial
settlement of the Inuit in the south, the effects and processes of the cultural interactions between
this population and the various other ethnic populations that they encountered in this region over
time, and ultimately the development of the Inuit-Metis identity which defines the contemporary
population of the region. At each stage of this research we will be faced with issues of identity,
and at each stage the scope or scale of the question will require us to define and use the term
identity in a different manner as we move from the basic archaeological recognition of the Inuit
in the south, though the establishment of this group as a regionally-based population, and finally
as a people who have chosen to self-identify as Inuit-Metis a term reflective of the contingent
circumstances of the history of this population in this place.

The Sandwich Bay Inuit Case Study

Our research spans the southern Labrador coast from the Strait of Belle Isle where Labrador
meets Quebec, north to Sandwich Bay where much of my archaeological work takes place
(Figure 1). The Sandwich Bay region is unique within Labrador. The Bay proper is the second
largest on the Labrador coast. Two major salmon rivers, still used today for fishing and as major
travel routes to the interior, drain into its base. The heavily forested Bay is flanked by islands and
opens up into several diverse eco-zones ranging from the rocky headlands of the outer coast to
the sand dune beaches of the 60 km long Porcupine Strand located immediately north of the Bay.
It is this beach which links the Sandwich Bay region to Groswater Bay the area formerly
believed to be the southern extent of Inuit settlement (Jordan and Kaplan 1980). There are
diverse food resources present here including several species of seal and whale, caribou, black

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bear, polar bear, small fur bearers, 250 species of birds, a wide variety of fresh water and marine
fish, and several varieties of edible berries and lichen (King 1983; Peterson 1966; Speiss 1993;
Todd 1963). Most of these resources are abundant between spring and fall, but several major
polynyas, and substantial near-land ice-edge would have created abundant opportunities for sea
mammal hunting during the winter months. Thus, Inuit traveling to, and settling, this region
would have encountered a rich ecosystem, which apart from large swaths of forest, was similar
to those the Inuit had encountered elsewhere in the Arctic and Labrador.

No doubt our perception of the Inuit
identity as northern people inhabiting a
northern landscape has been detrimental
to our recognition of the Inuit presence
here, but it would be flippant to place all
the blame on one issue. In fact, other
issues of identity may well have played a
role. By the time the Inuit began to
explore the southern reaches of Labrador
Basque whalers were already using the
region seasonally. French and then the
English populations who both claimed
this territory as their own in turn followed
these whalers. As a result southern
Labrador achieved a European identity in
written history while the more northern
reaches of Labrador were considered the
Inuit homeland. Furthermore, the copious
records left behind by Moravian
missionaries, detailing Inuit life and their
conversion to Christianity, reinforced the
idea that the Inuit were northern settlers,
while the Europeans in the south chose to
record little of Inuit life. Instead, their
records outline ongoing skirmishes with the Inuit who would actively plunder European
settlements for goods and who hampered the success of European fishing, sealing, and settlement
in the region (Stopp 2002). In both cases the European documentation has masked Labrador Inuit
identity in the economic, political and religious motivations of the European writers who did not
often reflect on the fact that they were in direct competition with the Inuit for prime sealing
grounds, or that the Inuit were purposely re-settled in northern Moravian communities to keep
them from disrupting European expansion in the south. As a result, the overall effect of the
written record has been to suggest that the Inuit only traveled south on missions to trade and
plunder at European sites and quickly return north to distribute these goods among their kin.

In the past decade this perception has finally begun to change as historians have taken a more
critical view of the documentation and archaeologists have finally begun to systematically search
for and locate Inuit settlement in the south. A thorough analysis of early historic maps, Inuit
toponyms and early European documents has turned up many references to the Inuit in southern

Figure 1. Location of Sandwich Bay.

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Labrador (Rankin 2008; Stopp 2002). For example, the 1694 voyage of Louis Jolliet noted
camps on Inuit in Sandwich Bay (Delanglez 1948). While it is possible that these were simply
camps of Inuit venturing south to trade, by 1743 Sandwich Bay was firmly located within the
territory referred to on maps as La Coste des Eskimaux a region considered distinct from that
occupied by the French and Jersey fishing stations (Stopp 2002:76). By 1773, Sandwich Bay was
identified on the Lieutenant Roger Curtis map by its Inuit name Netshucktoke, or the place
where there are many jar [ringed] seal (Handcock 2008:2331; Wharram 2008:97). Inuit births
and deaths recorded by the Moravians between 1773 and 1820 suggest that many Inuit were born
and died in Netsektok at this time, and identified themselves as the people from that place (Hans
Rollmann personal communication, 2009). A similar term, Netcetemuiut, was used to identify the
Inuit of Sandwich Bay (Hawkes 1916), through the early twentieth century only to disappear for
decades and re-emerge in association with the contemporary Inuit-Metis political movement in
the south.

Archaeology has also made many
advances in recognizing the Inuit in
Sandwich Bay. There are now 29 sites
in this region that have been
tentatively identified as Inuit. In
reality, only 15 of these sites have
been explored in enough detail to be
sure of this classification (Figure 2),
but these sites point to an early and
year round settlement of the region.
This is in keeping with the year-round,
multi-activity use typical of their
northern, mobile forager kin, and
distinct from the seasonal special-
purpose sites that one might expect of
a trading and raiding party (Rankin et
al. 2010; Stopp 2002).

The rapid and long-distance colonization of the Arctic by the Inuits Thule ancestors has both
helped and hampered the classification of these sites. According to the most recent assessment of
radiocarbon dates, the Thule colonized the Arctic world between the thirteenth- and fifteenth-
centuries spanning the Arctic in less than 200 years (Freisen and Arnold 2008). Their arrival in
Labrador, most likely via Baffin Island, occurred before the end of the fifteenth-century, and we
can now place them in Sandwich Bay within 100 years of the initial Labrador occupation
(Rankin 2009:26; Rankin et al. 2010). The rapid movement of these people has meant that many
key elements of architecture, material culture and foodways, which are readily used to identify
archaeological cultures, remained intact over the course of the colonization. Features such as
semi-subterranean dwellings with entrance passages, cold traps, and lintel entryways; stone fox
traps; boulder burials and cache systems; material culture including soapstone vessels, carved
whalebone, and ground stone endblade technology; and a subsistence economy based largely on
the acquisition of seal are all present in the earliest sites in Sandwich Bay, and ensure the
identification of early Inuit peoples in this region.

Figure 2. Inuit sites in Sandwich Bay.

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But as the Thule and Inuit colonized the northern world they underwent a process of rapid
regionalization as segments of the population settled into distinct landscapes with their own
historical trajectories (for an example see Schledermann 1971). In Sandwich Bay, where we have
only recently identified the Inuit in the archaeological record, we are now striving to understand
the ways in which these Inuit might have formed a distinct southern population over time and
this will be the focus of much of the next five years of research.

What we know to date suggests that the southern Inuit of Sandwich Bay appear to have a
regional identity that separates them as distinct from their northern relations. Again, it is a matter
of the scale of analysis, but also one based on the contingencies of history. We now know that
the Inuit arrived in the region at approximately 1570 (Rankin 2010). At this time they chose to
occupy sheltered island enclaves between fall and spring as is demonstrated by the site that I am
currently excavating at Indian Harbour. At Indian Harbour up to 40 Inuit resided in two sod-
walled houses that shared the same entryway. These houses look much like the houses used
during the Thule colonization of the Arctic except for the fact that local lumber was used to build
the super-structures rather than whalebone. Throughout Sandwich Bay, the Inuit positioned their
winter dwellings close to polynyas for seal hunting in the winter and inhabited tents on the
nearby beaches of the Porcupine Strand, and larger islands in the warm season, to take advantage
of the caribou stocks in the region. Even the earliest Inuit in Sandwich Bay had access to
European material. Indian Harbour is laden with Basque material including clay roofing tiles,
iron spikes, nails and whaling implements, as well as other iron fragments salvaged from such
diverse European material culture as tankard handles and the spigots of water jugs. Nevertheless,
most of this European material was re-fashioned into recognizably Inuit items such as ulu blades,
whetstones and endblades. It appears that the first Inuit of Sandwich Bay procured these
materials from abandoned European whaling stations largely for their own consumption and that
the incorporation of these materials into their toolkit did not immediately alter their social
practice or identity.

Within the following 50 years the Inuit shifted their settlements to the outer islands, perhaps to
take advantage of increased European boat traffic. Here, in sites like Snack Cove, they occupied
smaller houses in individual family units (Brewster 2006). The Inuit continued to use traditional
tools sometimes made with local materials and sometimes with European wares, but aside from
the size of the houses and the family units they defined, the sites are now laden with European
items that have been purposely processed for trade to other Inuit populations. For example, iron
was often hammered flat, and the heads have been removed from most nails and spikes
(Brewster 2006), suggesting that the Inuit of Sandwich Bay had increased contact with
Europeans and could be identified, at least by other Inuit, as traders.

Many Inuit appear to have settled even further south than Sandwich Bay by the mid to late
seventeenth-century to take advantage of the growing trade with the French, but following the
Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, which allowed French land-based settlement, many Inuit appear to
have moved further north. In 1763, the Treaty of Paris ceded southern Labrador to the English
making it even more difficult for Inuit to remain in the south. Yet the Inuit of Sandwich Bay
were well positioned to deal with the changes in governance that would ultimately see many
southern Inuit expelled to trade among the Moravian missionaries in the north. Because English
exploitation of the Labrador coast had not yet reached Sandwich Bay, many Inuit chose to stay

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and continue efforts to trade among the European ships that now regularly traversed the Bay
instead of converting to Christianity in the north. In 1774 Captain George Cartwright established
several fishing and trading premises in the Bay. He befriended the local Inuit, traded with them
and he and his men may well have fathered children with Inuit women (Kennedy 1995:44),
further enhancing the relationship between the two populations. It should also be pointed out that
several eighteenth-century Inuit from the region gained broad experience of the world, traveling
with Cartwright to England in 1772 and 1773. Unfortunately, this resulted in the deaths of many
Inuit due to smallpox both in England and upon return when the Inuit woman Caubvik secreted
her shorn, but infected locks back to Labrador (Kennedy 1995:44), and may have reduced the
Inuit population in the region significantly.

Unfortunately, the archaeological trail ends temporarily during this important period in the
development of the local Inuit identity. However, excavation is scheduled for 2010 and 2011 at
several of Cartwrights premises and associated eighteenth-century Inuit sites. For now we must
rely on history to suggest that the eighteenth-century Inuit of Sandwich Bay were still living in a
largely traditional manner although they were actively trading and interacting with Europeans.

Further evidence related to the Inuit in southern Labrador is slim until the mid-nineteenth-
century when the English began to establish permanent settlements along the coast (Kennedy
1995:7273). At this time Inuit identity altered once again as British men began to take Inuit
wives, and a mixed population emerged blending both Inuit and British traditions (Beaudoin
2008). The excavation of a single Inuit-Metis dwelling in Sandwich Bay has demonstrated that
Inuit traditions were maintained and transmitted through the generations via the Inuit wife who
was responsible for the daily maintenance of the household. Nevertheless, British traditions were
also identified (Beaudoin 2008). In the coming years, we hope to expand the archaeological
investigation of these nineteenth century blended households to ensure that this trend is actually
representative of a new identity, and establish the archaeological signature of Inuit-Metis
population.

The twentieth century saw first the strong denial of Inuit ancestry among the Metis populations
of Sandwich Bay, which was followed by a re-emergence of pride, an acceptance of their Inuit
history and a desire to know much more about their history. To that end, it was the southern
Labrador Inuit-Metis that first convinced me to develop this research, and they are community
partners for the duration of the project.

Conclusion

So what has the exercise of finding Inuit identity in Sandwich Bay accomplished to date? Most
importantly, the Inuit of the south are no longer lost to history. Not only can we identify them in
the archaeological record, but we can show that they are and were a complex and dynamic
people constantly re-negotiating their own identity in light of new environments and new
relationships. The earliest Inuit to reside in Sandwich Bay had much in common with their
northern ancestors, but archaeologically there are differences as well though most of these can
be related to new technologies developed for settlement in forested world. Over time, the Inuit of
Sandwich Bay acquire their own regional identity as traders of European goods desired by other
Inuit populations to the north. By the nineteenth century Inuit identity shifts again as Inuit

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women marry and raise families with European settlers. Yet, the archaeological record shows
that an Inuit identity, altered through time and relationships with other populations, transcends
the archaeological record as the Inuit wives and mothers teach their families older traditions.
Throughout the centuries the Inuit no doubt expressed themselves and viewed their own identity
in many ways, but looking back one might choose to best describe the Inuit of Sandwich Bay as
resilient.

References Cited
Auger, Reginald
1991 Labrador Inuit and Europeans in the Strait of Belle Isle: From Written Sources to the
Archaeological Evidence. Centre dtudes Nordiques, Universit Laval, Collection Nordicana
no. 55, Qubec.

Beaudoin, Matthew
2008 Sweeping the Floor: An Archaeological Examination of a Multi-Ethnic Sod House in
Labrador (FkBg24). M.A. Thesis, Department of Archaeology, Memorial University, St.
Johns.

Brewster, Natalie
2006 The Inuit in Southern Labrador: The View from Snack Cove. Occasional Papers in
Northeastern Archaeology No. 15. Copetown Press, St. Johns.

Delanglez, Jean
1948 Life and Voyages of Louis Jolliet, 1645-1700. Institute of Jesuit History, Chicago.

Felser, Garrett and Maria Franklin
1999 The Exploration of Ethnicity and the Historical Archaeological Record. In Historical
Archaeology, Identity Formation and the Interpretation of Ethnicity, edited by Maria Franklin
and Garrett Felser, pp. 110. Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Dietz Press, Virginia.

Freisen, T. Max and Charles D. Arnold
2008 The Timing of the Thule Migration: New Dates from the Western Canadian Arctic.

Hancock, Gordon
2008 A Review of the 1771 Curtis Map. In Toponymic and Cartographic Research Conducted
for the Labrador Metis Nation, edited by Lisa K. Rankin, pp. 2132. Report on file with the
Labrador Metis Nation, Goose Bay.

Hawkes, Ernest W.
1916 The Labrador Eskimo. Geological Survey of Canada Memoir 91.

Jordan Richard and Susan Kaplan
1980 An Archaeological View of the Inuit/European Contact Period in Central Labrador.
tudes/Inuit/Studies 1980(4):3545.
Kennedy, John C.

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1995 People of the Bays and Headlands: Anthropological History and the Fate of Communities
in the Unknown Labrador. University of Toronto Press, Toronto.

King, Judith E.
1983 Seals of the World. 2
nd
Edition. British Museum of Natural History, Oxford University
Press, Oxford.

Loren, Diana D. and Mary Beaudry
2006 Becoming American: Small Things Remembered. In Historical Archaeology, edited by
Martin Hall and StephenW. Silliman, pp. 251271. Blackwell Publishers, Malden, MA.

Martijn, Charles A. and Norman Clermont, (editors)
1980 Les Inuit du Qubec-Labrador Mridional / The Inuit of Southern Qubec-Labrador.
tudes/Inuit/Studies 4 (1 & 2).

McGhee, Robert
2005 The Last Imaginary Place: A Human History of the Arctic World. Oxford University Press,
Oxford.

Peterson, Randolph L.
1966 The Mammals of Eastern Canada. Oxford University Press, Oxford.

Rankin, Lisa K.
2004 The Porcupine Strand Archaeological Project: Interim Report on the 2003 Field Season.
On File, Provincial Archaeology Office, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation, St.
Johns.

2006 The Porcupine Strand Archaeological Project: Interim Report on the 2005 Field Season.
On File, Provincial Archaeology Office, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation, St.
Johns.

2009 An Archaeological View of the Thule/Inuit Occupation of Labrador. Report on File with
the Labrador Metis Nation, Goose Bay.

2010 Understanding the Past to Build the Future: Interim Report on the 2009 Field Season. On
File, Provincial Archaeology Office, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation, St. Johns

Rankin, Lisa K. (editor)
2008 Toponymic and Cartographic Research Conducted for the Labrador Metis Nation. Report
on file with the Labrador Metis Nation, Goose Bay.

Rankin, Lisa K., Matthew Beaudoin and Natalie Brewster
2010 Southern Exposure: The Inuit of Sandwich Bay, Labrador. In Settlement, Subsistence and
Change Among the Inuit of Nunatsiavut, Labrador, edited by David Natcher, Larry Felt and
Andrea Proctor. University of Manitoba Press, Northern Studies Series, Winnipeg. (In Press)
Schledermann, Peter

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1971 The Thule Tradition in Northern Labrador. M.A. Thesis, Memorial University of
Newfoundland, St. Johns.

Speiss, Arthur
1993 Caribou, Walrus and Seals: Maritime Archaic Subsistence in Labrador and Newfoundland.
In Archaeology of Eastern North America: Papers in Honour of Stephen Williams, edited by
James B. Stoltman, pp. 73100. Archaeological Report No. 25, Department of Archives and
History, Mississippi.

Stopp, Marianne
2002 Reconsidering Inuit Presence in Southern Labrador. tudes/Inuit/Studies 26(2):71106.

Todd, W.E. Clyde
1963 Birds of the Labrador Peninsula and Adjacent Areas. University of Toronto Press, Toronto.

Wharram, Douglas
2008 Translations of Some Inuit Tribal Names and Toponyms. In Toponymic and
Cartographic Research Conducted for the Labrador Metis Nation, edited by Lisa K. Rankin pp.
95100. Report on file with the Labrador Metis Nation, Goose Bay.


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A Theory of Complexity, Archaeological Data, and
the Ouroboros Problem: A Critical Analysis of
Archaeological Practice on the Northern Plateau,
British Columbia

Lucille E. Harris
1
and Michael Wanzenried
2

1
Department of Anthropology, University of Toronto, 19 Russell Street Toronto, ON M5S 2S2
Canada (lucille.harris@utoronto.ca)
2
Department of Anthropology, University of Montana, Missoula, MT 59812

ABSTRACT. Equifinality is an ever present problem in archaeology because archaeological
data does not and cannot speak for itself. It is through the adoption of theoretical frameworks
that we are able to imbue our data with meaning. Yet this creates a pattern of circular and self-
fulfilling reasoning that can railroad data into inappropriate interpretations. In this paper we
critique the circularity of reasoning underlying the interpretation of socio-economic complexity
on the Northern Plateau through an examination of the history of argument construction upon
which those interpretations are based. We argue that no simple correlation between material
culture and wealth or status exists and that current interpretations dont just simply misrepresent
the nature of past societies, but create and reinforce dangerous narratives of power that at best
undervalue poor sectors of society and at worst deny any level of religious or social
sophistication to non-socially stratified hunting and gathering societies.

The Ouroboros is a symbol depicting a serpent eating its own tail. This symbol has come to
represent both circularity in reasoning and self-reflexivity. In both regards, the Ouroboros is an
appropriate metaphor for the subject of this paper in which we attempt a critical self-reflexive
analysis of the history of argument construction in archaeological interpretation on the Plateau of
southern British Columbia. We premise our work on the understanding that archaeological data
cannot speak for itself; that it is interpretively mute in the absence of theoretical frameworks. In
this paper we are concerned specifically with the ways theoretical frameworks structure or
constrain perception of archaeological material remains and ethnographic data and the
inadvertent corollary this has for what and who is written into archaeological narratives. It is
vitally important to understand this relationship and to confront it head on because it has
profound ramifications for our (inadvertent) representations of past social and ethnic identities
which have the power to play out in contemporary socio-political contexts. This paper will
proceed in two stages. First we wish to demonstrate the theory dependent nature of
archaeological data by reviewing the history of argument construction on the Northern Plateau,
highlighting particular ways which theoretical frameworks have both structured and constrained
interpretation. Following this we will explore the ramifications of this process on identity
construction in archaeological narratives.


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Background

The Mid-Fraser region (Figure 1) has become
the most intensively studied area of the
Northern Plateau due to the presence of a
number of impressively large prehistoric winter
villages, the most famous being the Keatley
Creek site (EeRl-7). Though representing
temporary aggregations of people, these
villages are believed to have been occupied by
socially stratified communities to which
particular households returned year after year
after year (Hayden et al. 1996). Therefore,
these villages and the individual households
that compose them represent communities in
the sense that they are stable groups of people
with a shared identity. Economically, these
winter time aggregations of people were
supported by an intensive delayed return
economy based on the mass harvest and storage
of salmon, berries, roots, and various land
mammals for consumption during the winter. Socioeconomic inequality in this context is
consistently linked to control of resources by powerful corporate groups with the ability to
manipulate social, political, and economic contexts to their favor or, more benignly, by the
ability of larger households to simply out compete smaller ones. But how did our interpretations
reach this state and what is the basis for the evidence underlying these arguments?

History of Archaeological Research and Argument Construction

Though archaeological research began in earnest in the region in the 1960s, this discussion
begins in the mid-1980s with the Fraser River Investigations into Corporate Group Archaeology
(FRICGA) Project directed by Brian Hayden as this project marks the advent of theory driven
research on the Plateau. Prior to this time, research was primarily culture-historical in nature and
so was not particularly prone to the issue we seek to investigate.

Hayden came to the Plateau with an established interest in residential corporate groups (Hayden
1977; Hayden and Cannon 1982; Hayden and Spafford 1993:108), a notion which in previous
publications he had tied to issues of emergent social stratification based on resource control. The
prehistoric winter pithouse settlements in the Mid-Fraser region seemed an excellent context in
which to explore aspects of corporate group organization and social stratification because they
met several of the theoretical criteria that had been outlined for residential corporate groups
(Hayden and Cannon 1982:152; Hayden et al. 1985), including the presence of structures large
enough to house multiple families, dependence on key resources which have the potential to be
controlled by individuals or groups, and evidence of trade. This proposition stood in stark
contrast to existing knowledge of Plateau societies which understood social stratification as an
historic period introduction derived from trade and intermarriage with coastal societies during

Figure 1. Map of British Columbia
highlighting the study area.

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the fur trade (Jenness 1960 [1932]:351353; Ray 1939:2430; Teit 1909:581, 1914). Hayden
(Hayden et al. 1985) critiqued this body of ethnographic work as being heavily dominated by the
outmoded diffusionist paradigm and suggested it was more parsimonious to see social
complexity as an in situ development and to see the complexity described for several Lillooet
and Shuswap bands ethnographically as a diminished representation of what was potentially
present in the pre-contact past. Then, drawing on the uniformitarian-esque trait lists popular with
archaeologists in the 1980s and early 1990s, he drew comparisons between gross aspects of the
archaeological record and traits identified as characteristic of chiefdom level societies including
the wide diversity in house sizes in many settlements indicating wealth differentials, the presence
of a few large settlements within a background scatter of many smaller settlements indicating the
possibility of site hierarchies, and the presence of at least some rich burials, including several of
children (Hayden et al. 1985; Hayden 1997a, 1997b, 2000b).

In 1986 the FRICGA project began excavations at the Keatley Creek site (EeRl-7) with the goal
of excavating one large, one medium, and two small housepits. Though other houses were tested,
these four have formed the main body for interpretation of social organization. The point that we
want to emphasize at this juncture is that before excavation at this site began, a theoretical
orientation was in place that made fundamental assumptions about the social meanings behind
specific variables such as village size and house size and which had already made the link
between these variables and resource control. It was through this theoretical filter which
subsequent data was interpreted.

It is not surprising, therefore, that in the final analysis socioeconomic standing was directly
linked to house size, with the largest houses being the wealthiest and most powerful and the
small residential houses the poorest, on the basis of richness and diversity of faunal assemblages,
frequencies and diversity of items argued to represent wealth or prestige, and a host of subsidiary
variables more indirectly linked to wealth including cache pit volume. Despite the fact that the
two small houses (Housepit 12:1550 50 cal B.P. [SFU-721] and Housepit 90:1410 70 cal
B.P. [SFU-723]) in this sample predated the larger houses (Housepits 7 and 3:1080 70 cal
B.P.[SFU-?/SFU-1001 respectively]) (Hayden 2000c) by 400 years and that the interpretation of
the assemblages was clearly anticipated by the pre-existing theoretical structure with no attempt
to control for such issues as change through time or length of occupation, these analyses have
rarely been critically examined. Haydens body of work (Hayden and Ryder 1991; Hayden and
Spafford 1993; Hayden et al 1996; Hayden and Schulting 1997; Hayden 1997a, 1997b; 2000d,
2000e) has continued to be cited as definitive proof that inequality existed, pushing researchers
to find ever more novel ways of identifying indicators of prestige and inequality (Hayden 2000a;
Prentiss et al. 2007; Prentiss et al. 2009). In the absence of critical self-reflexive approach, data
has validated theory and from this point forward we begin to see the self-reinforcing aspect of
the data and theory relationship.

The Self Reinforcing Process: Filling in the Details

With the basic theory of inequality established, subsequent work explored aspects of the
identified basis for inequality: control of key resources. Key resources can be broken into three
main but overlapping categories: economic, material symbolic, and knowledge/ritual.
Economically, elites have been argued to control access to basic resources such as salmon

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fishing stations, hunting grounds, and lithic procurement sites, and even other peoples labor
both as managers and slave owners (Hayden 1997b). Archaeologically, none of these
characteristics are identifiable directly and so a variety of indirect measures have been
developed, some of which rest solely on theoretical laurels. For instance, control of labor is
inferred through the presence of technologies such as ground nephrite adzes and cut slate tools
which are argued to be time consuming to create and thus a marker for disposable labor, even
though these items were produced and used on the Plateau long before inequality emerged.
Similarly, sectors of houses with little in the way of material remains are argued to represent
commoner or slave quarters (Hayden and Spafford 1993:128) and variation in lithic raw
materials between houses is seen to be reflective of control of upland resource areas (Hayden et
al. 1996).

Symbolically, key resources are those objects that serve as social signifiers of status and have
been argued to include long distance trade items such as marine shell and obsidian as well as
nephrite adzes, forms of ornamentation such as stone, bone, shell and native copper beads, and
specific types of imagery (iconography) including most geometrically incised objects and more
formally representative carvings. Also, exploitation of rare or mythologically significant animal
species has been cited as indicative of status (Hayden 2000a). These materials and objects are
proposed to be circulated throughout the Plateau in an elite interaction sphere (Hayden and
Schulting 1997). In this way, possession of such materials becomes a social signifier of wealth or
status.

Specialized knowledge and ritual are the final form of key resource that can be controlled. This
includes specialized activities such as hunting (Hayden 1997a, 1997b, 2000a; Romanoff 1992)
and various forms of ritual, shamanistic as well as life cycle related (Hayden and Adams 2004;
Romanoff 1992). Because hunting is viewed as a specialized activity with learned and
transmitted forms of knowledge, all hunting related materials become indirectly reflective of
wealth and of prestige. This includes bifaces and projectile points (Hayden 2000a; Romanoff
1992), bow and arrow technology (Hayden 2000a), hide scrapers for the preparation of skins for
clothing, blankets, and other items, as well as bone and antler tools which are presumed to have
wooden counterparts for the less wealthy. Similarly, it has been argued that elites were more
likely to undergo coming of age ceremonies as a form of social signaling due to the lengthy
period of preparation required (Hayden and Schulting 1997:65).

More recently, Prentiss has approached these social issues more obliquely from an evolutionary
perspective, preferring to discuss emergent inequality in broad strokes with a focus on
understanding long term economic and ecological changes that provide context for the
development of inequality. Though her work has contributed significantly to our understanding
of the occupational histories of large villages (Prentiss et al. 2003; 2007; 2008), it has not
fundamentally examined the issue of complexity, what is meant by the term, or how we go about
identifying it. In short, her work continues to be based in the same set of starting assumptions
with emphasis placed on economic markers that are assumed on the basis of the foundational
theory to have specific social meanings such as types and proportions of resources consumed by
a household, storage capacity as measured only by cache pit volume, the amount of fire cracked
rock (as an indirect measure of the number of people in a house), in addition to the presence and
abundance of items considered to represent prestige. Each of these measures is problematic in

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their own right and without further critical analysis the only justification for continuing to
interpret these materials in this way is that we persist in laboring under the same starting
assumptions that imbue these variables and materials with this particular brand of social
meaning.

The approach then taken by Plateau researchers is strongly influenced by a theoretical orientation
that presupposes material based inequality and which constrains interpretation of all material
culture to issues of status and wealth. This point is easily illustrated by counter-posing it against
a theoretical orientation which presupposes equality. In this context the presence of non-local
trade items would be assumed to be indicative of a) mobility b) down-the-line trade or c)
expansive social networks and time-intensive technologies would be understood through
concepts such as reliability, maintainability, and efficiency (Bamforth 1986; Kelly 1988; Shott
1986; Torrence 1983). In short, people would put the time into creating particular technologies
because it was the best solution to a particular suite of problems.

We hope to have demonstrated with this discussion that how we approach our data is strongly
influenced from the outset by our theoretical frameworks as they provide a structured way of
thinking about the world and once the initial circularity of data verifying theory occurs,
everything from that point proceeds in a self-reinforcing way. Without a critical look at the
nature or sufficiency of the data or the appropriateness of our starting assumptions for a
particular context, we railroad interpretations in ways that potentially misrepresent the nature of
past societies. It is to the issue of how our interpretations construe past identities that we would
like to turn next. We will focus discussion on three aspects of identity: elite, non-elite, and
ethnographically defined group identities and their implications for use in archaeological
narratives.

Representation of Social Identities

The elite-centric orientation of the socioeconomic theory underlying archaeological
interpretation on the Northern Plateau focuses on elites as individuals, devoid of any pre-existing
or continuing broader social context. Elites are portrayed as being uniformly motivated by self-
interest and the generation of wealth through the control and manipulation of resources and
people (Hayden 1995, 1996; Hayden et al. 1996; Hayden and Schulting 1997). Elite identity
transcends household, community, and band structures to amalgamate in some form of pan-
regional identity that allows them to act in concert to exclude non-elites from access to resources
while simultaneously vying with each other for wealth, status, and control of resources at inter
and intra-community levels (Hayden and Schulting 1997). Elites are construed as being both the
source of innovation and change as well as the guardians of culture, ceremony, and ritual
(Hayden 1998; Hayden and Schulting 1997).

In contrast, and more by implication than direct interpretation due to the lack of interest in
discussing poor people, non-elite identity is constructed as one of powerlessness; powerlessness
to obtain basic resources needed for survival (Hayden and Spafford 1992:117; Romanoff 1992),
to change circumstances, or to affect the direction and structure of society (Hayden 1998;
Hayden and Schulting 1997). This creates a picture of non-elite being destitute and wholly
disenfranchised from participation in their own culture because there are no avenues open to

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them to improve their lot other than attaching themselves to elite households as unequal partners.
The escalating self-reinforcing nature of interpretation has created a situation where all material
culture becomes potentially significant in terms of prestige or wealth which means that to look
for non-elite or poor people is to look for the absence of things. Thus we have written the non-
elite into near invisibility archaeologically. Yet, the presence of at least some material markers of
wealth or prestige in nearly every house suggests that the theoretical black and white nature
of the elite/non-elite dichotomy is not a perfect representation of the prehistoric social reality.

Two issues related to the construction and use of ethnographic identities need to be addressed:
the quasi-fictional nature of the ethnographic record itself and the filtering affect of answering
archaeological questions with ethnographic data. Both of these issues deeply underscore the
problematic nature of ethnographically identified/constructed identities for archaeological
interpretation. Reichwein (1988:1922) identified six potential filters through which
ethnographic data passes before reaching the literature to become the representation of a culture.
Two of these filters, fieldwork setting and manuscript preparation, are critical to understanding
the quasi-fictionalized nature of ethnographic accounts. As Reichwein observed for the
Columbia Plateau, all data collection for the primary ethnographies was conducted on reserves in
the late 1800s and early 1900s after a hundred years of heavy interaction with Euro-American
culture. Coupled with historians documentation that as early as the mid 1850s many groups in
the study region were heavily involved in wage labor at the expense of traditional economic
practices (Lutz 2008:17376), it becomes clear that informants were being asked to remember a
lifeway they had no full or direct experience with and that those remembered accounts were
being understood through the lens of contemporary cultural context. The end result is a
document that presents Euro-American interpretations of Native interpretations of a remote past.
Add to this the additional filter of manuscript preparation where editors add, remove, and
synthesize information to produce a cultural average, a homogenized identity representing a
diverse collection of people, and the fictionalized nature of ethnographies begins to come clear.
This problem is aggravated by the western practice of grouping native cultures on linguistic
grounds. This creates fictional identities like the Lillooet, the Thompson, and the Shuswap which
had no basis in social reality because Interior Salish groups recognized no formal social or
political groupings above the level of the band (Teit 1900, 1906, 1909).

With this in mind we can broach the issue of archaeological applications of ethnographic data on
the Northern Plateau. The variability in social organization documented ethnographically stands
in stark contrast to the underlying similarity in material culture among Interior Salish Groups.
This means there is no reason to prefer one ethnography over another for aiding archaeological
interpretation on the basis of the material evidence alone. Nor should tribal boundaries defined
during the historic period be taken as representative of group distributions 1200 years in the past,
particularly given the evidence for recent tribal boundary shifts on the Northern Plateau (Hill-
Tout 1978 [1905]:102; Matson and Magne 2007; Teit 1906:253, 1909:462463). Yet a review of
citations of the three most relevant ethnographies (Teit 1900, 1906, 1909) from major published
articles on Northern Plateau archaeology indicates bias towards the Lillooet ethnographic culture
(Table 1). Not surprisingly, Lillooet bands were among the handful of Northern Plateau groups
that had more complex forms of social structure (Ray 1939; Teit 1906). It is important to note
that after 1992 the citation strategy shifts away from primary ethnographic documents to a high
proportion of citations of a secondary source, Haydens 1992 edited volume on traditional Fraser

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Table 1. Ethnographic citations counts for maor published articles.
Articles Thompson Lillooet Shuswap
Teit
1900
Teit
1912
a
Teit
1898
Teit
1906
Teit
1912
b
Hayden
1992
Nastich
1954
B-K
a
1977
B-K
a

1973
H-T
b
1905
Teit
1909
B-K
a

1990
Hayden and
Ryder 1991
- - -

8 - - - - - -

1 -
Hayden and
Spafford 1993
1 - -

6 - - - - - -

- -
Hayden et al
1996
- - -

2 - 5 - - - -

- -
Hayden 1997 - - - 1 - 3 - - - - 2 -
Hayden and
Schulting 1997
9 3 -

11 - 5 3 - - -

7 -
Hayden 2000b 13 3 3 24 3 63 5 - - - 34 -
Hayden 2000c 39 7 10 28 12 29 19 2 2 - 24 4
Prentiss et al
2003
- - -

- - 5 - - - -

- -
Prentiss et al
2007
2 - -

5 - 7 - - - 1

1 -
Prentiss et al
2008
1 - -

4 - 3 - - - 1

- -
Subtotal 65 13 13 89 15 120 27 2 2 2 69 4
Total 91 257 73
a
B-K = Bouchard and Kennedy
b
H-T = Hill-Tout

River Lillooet resource use. This is problematic in so far as archaeologists typically read
ethnographies with particular questions about the archaeological record in mind. This creates an
immediate filter that highlights particular types of information at the expense of others. In a
sense every act of reading an ethnography is an exercise in interpretation influenced by our
theoretical orientation and research questions. Therefore, the uncritical use of this volume has the
potential to further the self-reinforcing process underlying archaeological interpretation and is
tantamount to using an interpretation of an interpretation of an interpretation to understand the
remote past. Finally, the bias towards the Lillooet is also apparent from our use of the term
Classic Lillooet occupation (Hayden and Ryder 1991) to refer to the large prehistoric villages.
With this term we are effectively projecting a constructed identity back in time beyond our
current ability to differentiate between such groupings archaeologically and assigning a tacit
ownership or control of that past to only one group out of the many who are responsible for
creating it.

Conclusion

The goal of this paper was to look at the consequences of theory driven research in archaeology
when theory is applied uncritically. Because archaeological data do not have any inherent
meaning outside of the theories we use to interpret them, it is important to recognize that any
given data set can always be interpreted in more than one way. This means that part of our
responsibility as those who have taken it upon ourselves to write the history of prehistory is to
approach our subject matter critically, to be open to alternative interpretations, to be aware of
how our interpretive strategies have the power to represent, over-represent, or disenfranchise
groups of people, and how they have the power to play out in contemporary socio-political
contexts. Without this awareness and without approaching what we do critically we may find
ourselves caught in a circular and self-reinforcing interpretive trap creating narratives of the past
societies that are incomplete and badly skewed because they serve a single theoretical agenda.


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Our intent with this paper was to open up an academic dialogue on methods and routes to
interpretation in archaeology. We have used the history of argument construction on the
Northern Plateau as a case study with which to illustrate an issue that we feel is of central
concern to archaeologists everywhere. This was decidedly not an attempt to discredit other
researchers. We offer this critique in the spirit of constructive criticism in the hopes of building
better more solidly grounded interpretations in the future.

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An Anthropology of Third-Wave Mayanism: Emic
Rationales Behind New Age (Mis)appropriations of
Ancient Maya Calendrics and Symbology

Marc Blainey

ABSTRACT. The term Mayanism designates groups of Euroamerican people identifying with a
range of beliefs related to ancient Maya culture. With a special focus on the Mesoamerican
calendrical system and various elements of ancient Maya iconography, followers of Mayanism
anticipate an imminent renaissance of ancient Maya cosmological principles that will disrupt
modern life. However, what is branded by archaeologists as misguided charlatanism can also be
appreciated anthropologically as a religious movement that must be viewed on its own terms,
apart from its unscrupulous reconstructions of Maya belief. Without defending incorrect
reconstructions that are proffered as truth in the many publications on Mayanism (for indeed,
they are nowhere near reputable as archaeological scholarship), I emphasize an emic approach
to the modern veneration of 2012. I propose that while the Mayanism movement fails to divulge
any reliable information about ancient Maya culture itself, the beliefs and writings of these New
Age adherents reveal much about contemporary spiritual strivings, and a broader discontent
with traditionally secular standards of modern Euroamerican culture.

This paper is intended as an impartial treatment of the acute dissonance that exists between
professional scholars (archaeologists, iconographers, epigraphers) and amateur gurus of the
Mayanism movement. The term Mayanism is used here to encapsulate a myriad of philosophical
systems assumed by groups of modern Euroamerican people who identify with a range of
esoteric convictions they attribute to ancient Maya culture. Professional Mayanists, on the other
hand, see cultural remains of the ancient Maya as artifacts which must be approached from
scientific perspectives that have been developed by academic experts. With their diplomas and
years of research experience, Mayanist scholars spurn the Mayanism 2012 movement as
criminal, a hoax, fabricated (Pawlawski 2009), a crock, ignorance and misinformation
(Rivet 2008), insulting remarks that fail to take sociocultural considerations into account. The
fact is that the theoretical priorities shared by professional scholars are at odds with the
interpretive schemes of Mayanism enthusiasts, who promote the virtues of employing personal
intuitions and numinous insights. In assessing various examples of recent third-wave Mayanism
literature, I propose that this discord between professionals and amateurs is evocative of a deep
ideological divide within modern Western culture, having more to do with the inconsistent
acceptance of scientific dogma and less to do with ancient Maya culture itself. Rather than
instinctively snubbing these intellectual outsiders, I contend that the Mayanism movement of
today is best characterized as the manifestation of Millenarian yearnings. Moreover, followers of
Mayanism are exoticizing a cultural Other in order to satisfy unorthodox spiritual goals that are
at odds with modern Euroamerican norms of secularism.


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The History of Mayanism
1
as a Euroamerican Fad

Prior to the Nineteenth Century, there were certainly people in the Western world with an
awareness of Pre-Columbian civilizations in Mesoamerica, but their attention to Mesoamerican
indigenous culture was secondary to concerns with complex societies of the Old World (see
Hamann 2008). Popular interest in ancient Maya culture for its own sake was not provoked until
John Lloyd Stephens (1841, 1843) Incidents of Travel books, a series of travel narratives
published in the mid-Nineteenth Century accompanied by Frederick Catherwoods exquisite
drawings of archaeological sites in the Maya Lowlands. The wide distribution of Stephens
books, among the great bestsellers of the nineteenth century (Schele and Miller 1986:20), is
said to have established the publics fascination with lost cities in the jungle, a romantic
characterization of the Maya as enigmatic and unique among ancient civilizations that persists
today (McKillop 2004:41). While the popularization of the ancient Maya brought about by
Stephens fostered a niche for professional scholars to conduct research at universities, amateur
studies of ancient Maya culture were concurrently emerging.

What we might call first-wave Mayanism (as contrasted with later forms) consisted of well-
meaning adventurers accumulating and interpreting ethnographic, ethnohistoric, and
archaeological data before the respective academic disciplines of the same name had fully
matured. In fact, many of the great discoveries now heralded as historic breakthroughs in
understandings of the ancient Maya were the achievements of individuals who were driven by
unscholarly agendas. Practitioners of first-wave Mayanism include Count Jean Frdric
Maximilien Waldeck. A habitual deceiver, his writings about the Maya and supplementary
illustrations of sculpted monuments are discredited by his emphatic belief that Maya civilization
had been derived from the Chaldeans, Phoenicians, and especially the Hindoos, and he felt it
necessary to include elephants in his neoclassical renderings of the Palenque reliefs, not only in
the subject matter but in the hieroglyphs as well. (Coe 1992:77). Additionally, we can classify
Abb Charles tienne Brasseur de Bourbourg as a model of first-wave Mayanism in that, despite
his deserving accolades as one of the first translators of the Kiche Popol Vuh and as the
discoverer of Diego de Landas Relacin De Las Cosas De Yucatn, his translations and writings
are littered with suppositional pretences (Coe 1992:99101). For example, de Bourbourg was
convinced through his translation of the Popol Vuh that the Caribbean region was the location of
the fabled Atlantis civilization, and that folklore of living indigenous people like the Maya
preserved the details of the Atlantis legend (Short 1880:498499). However, this first-wave
lacked later Mayanisms focus on the researchers personal identification with cosmological
beliefs they simultaneously claim as those of the ancient Maya.

A subsequent escalation of popular interest in the mystical qualities of ancient Maya culture,
what is labelled herein as second-wave Mayanism, appeared as an amateur parallel to
professional Maya scholarship, which was well-established by the mid Twentieth Century. These
self-appointed practitioners of Mayanism put even less emphasis on scholarly rigor than their
first-wave forebears, resulting in a substantially weakened status relative to the professionals.
The prototypical character of second-wave Mayanism, which not surprisingly coincided with the
emergence of the beat and hippie generations, is William S. Burroughs. After 1950, when he had
engaged in formal Maya archaeology and linguistics training at Mexico City College, Burroughs
began to include references to the ancient Maya in his short stories, such as The Mayan Caper

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(1998[1962]). According to Hamann (2008:35), Burroughs discussions of Maya hieroglyphs
show remarkable conformity to dominant interpretations of Maya writing and culture in the
1950sinterpretations that, in that same ten-year span, were subjected to revolutionary
critiques. Hamann (2008:35) further notes that Thompsons mystical approach, which had
then dominated professional epigraphy for decades, was comparable to the intuitive methodology
of Mayanism before it was replaced by a concentration on an effective phonetic reading of
glyphs. Another prominent figure in second-wave Mayanism is Erich von Dniken, whose
Chariots of the Gods? (1999[1968]) was an international bestseller. In this book, von Dniken
details his theory that the technological achievements of the worlds great ancient civilizations,
like the Maya, were the result of these peoples communing with extraterrestrials.

Finally, what is labelled here as third-wave Mayanism is the most topical variety of this
movement, having gained ascendency of late as the 2012 Baktun end-date approaches. Its
foundations can be traced to two books: Frank Waters Mexico Mystique: The Coming Sixth
World of Consciousness (1975) and Jos Argelles The Mayan Factor (1987), both of which
will be discussed more explicitly below in a section that addresses Mayanisms calendrical
claims. The origins of the third-wave are clearly rooted in the fertile soil of folkloric conjecture
that had been amassing public interest since the mid-19th century, especially amongst what are
termed New Age groups. Paul Heelas characterizes the New Age as Self-Spirituality. New
Agers share this monistic assumption that the Self itself is sacred (Heelas 1996:2), as well as
the belief that the earth is a conscious, living organism (Hanegraaff 1996:157). Thus, New Age
Mayanism encourages individuals to focus on their personal links with like-minded ancient
Maya selves.

Much of third-wave Mayanism is loosely based on actual artifacts and scholarly publications
pertaining to the ancient Maya. It is unfortunate that the writings of professional Mayanists have
been irresponsibly co-opted for the purposes of making otherwise invalid allegations about the
ancient Maya appear more authentic. For instance, the commendable efforts of Linda Schele to
reach popular audiences, which resulted in a series of engaging if less than academic
publications (Freidel et al. 1993; Schele and Freidel 1990; Schele and Miller 1986), are by far the
most abused resources in Mayanism publications. Schele and her colleagues, in their quest to
provide a stimulating (i.e., less dry) introduction to ancient Maya culture, ended up creating
fodder for Mayanism writers eager for a foothold in debates usually limited to the professional
academy
2
. However, in acknowledgement of the prevalent hearsay floating around in popular
thinking about the ancient Maya, Schele and Freidel (1990:82, 430:note 39) state explicitly that
the 13.0.0.0.0 (4 Ahau, 3 Kankin) Baktun completion date on December 23, 2012 (Gregorian
calendar) was never conceived of by the ancient Maya as the end of this creation nor the
beginning of a new creation.

In desiring to have it both ways, Mayanism writers like John Major Jenkins cherry-pick from the
work of scholars like Schele to support their own premises while at the same time criticizing
these scholars as nave:

Ballgame symbolism clearly refers to the alignment that occurs on the 13-Baktun
cycle end-date in 2012. Despite the overwhelmingly clear picture that leads to this
conclusion, my theory about the deeper meaning of the Maya ballgame is

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completely new. Scholars have narrowly skirted around putting the pieces together,
but, strangely, they avoid making the connection...It seems, then, that academia is
either biding its time or has overlooked an extremely important facet of Maya
cosmology. As a result, I have done all my pioneering work on this question in the
face of almost total academic silence [Jenkins 1998:135136].

This undoubtedly resonates as infuriating propaganda to most professional Mayanists. But it is
crucial that kneejerk tempers do not make scholars end up looking like they are protesting too
much, for the public may perceive angry dismissals as evidence that Jenkins is like Galileo;
ultimately correct but attacked for proposing unsanctioned ideas. The 2012 end-date pretence
was likewise lent unintended legitimacy by a sloppy statement in the first edition of Michael D.
Coes The Maya (1966). Coe (1966:149) wrote that the ancient Maya believed that the present
universe would have been created in 3113 BC, to be annihilated on December 24, AD 2011,
3

when the Great Cycle of the Long Count reaches completion. In a popular book, this kind of
idle insinuation that the ancient Maya attributed apocalyptic connotations to the completion of
the current Baktun cycle only fuels speculative Mayanism further.

2012: Millenarian Themes in Third-Wave Mayanism

Regardless of how proponents of Mayanism have embezzled scholarly literature, it is imperative
that an objective anthropological perspective is maintained. The fact is that followers of
Mayanism remain aloof to scholars derision, and it behoves the professional Mayanist
community to reorient its criticism accordingly. A suitable starting point would be to recognize
that there is a large segment of modern Western society that does not trust the scientific
worldview. Whereas science ideally proceeds according to the notion that knowledge about the
world can only be gained through empirical demonstrations, the physicalist metaphysic
underlying such a model (Stoljar 2006) makes the world too mundane for some peoples taste.
Instead, supernaturally-inclined people feel more comfortable believing that there is a miraculous
intelligence permeating the universe. This predisposition towards conceiving reality as inhabited
by unseen paranormal forces is definitely a foundational opinion of Mayanism, so that the need
for physical evidence to support claims about the ancient Maya is absent.

With this emic point of view in mind, it will be instructive to address directly what solicitors of
Mayanism assert are the transformational implications of the 2012 end-date. While all forms of
third-wave Mayanism suppose that the year 2012 denotes some sort of impending change for
humanity and/or the universe as a whole, there is variation in the forecast details
4
. For instance, a
dominant theme in third-wave 2012 predictions is the expectation that the end of the Thirteenth
Baktun portends a colossal shift in human consciousness:

By 2011 the dominance of the dualist mind will wither, and all the conflicts of
humanity originated in lower levels of consciousness will be resolved. From the
perspective of the enlightened state, the old order will no longer be real. The
advanced technologies developed by the dualist mind will find the place they were
always meant to have, in service to humanity and the living cosmos, not as tools
of domination. By then not only the old monarchic rule, but also democracy, will
be a thing of the past (if everyone lives in unity and harmony with the Divine,

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why elect someone to rule them?). All hierarchies will have crumbled. With the
end of duality, the dominance of one soul over any other will naturally come to an
end [Calleman 2004:217].

According to this utopian view, the relationship of humans with intelligent forces of the living
cosmos will be facilitated by a psychological evolution event allowing our entire species to
achieve enlightenment more readily. Alternatively, other strains of third-wave Mayanism
accentuate biblical notions of the coming of a false prophet or Antichrist, associating the Baktun
end-date in 2012 with the Book of Revelations (Pinchbeck 2006; Powell and Dann 2009).
Similarly, Lawrence E. Josephs provocatively titled monograph Apocalypse 2012, takes as
given that the ancient Maya astronomers had foreseen a catastrophic event coinciding with a time
when human beings would become a nuisance to the Earth, thus his environmentalist tone:

We must appease Mother Earth, cravenly and immediately. No way by 2012 can
we reverse global warming, ozone depletion, and the other ecological cataclysms
already in progress. The most we can hope for is to soften the impact a bit. So we
are reduced to praying that Mother Earth somehow exists in a sentient enough
form to appreciate our symbolic attempts to turn over a new green leaf [Joseph
2007:225].

Apart from the disparity between utopic and apocalyptic predictions, all forms of third-wave
Mayanism share the common conviction that something of great magnitude is going to happen in
2012. Whether humans can influence this or not, it is considered inevitable that life as we know
it will be revolutionized. This intuitive prognostication is characterized here as a form of
Millenarianism.

Millenarian (relatively synonymous Millennial, Messianic, and Apocalyptic) is an adjective that
designates religious affiliations that arise in special historical circumstances, involving usually a
strong sense of social deprivation in their adherents (Lienhardt 1966:136, cited in Woodhead
and Heelas 2000:199). Hence, the heaven-on-earth belief in the immanence of a perfect ,
earthly realm of peace and plenty, without injustice and suffering (Hanegraaff 1996:99) becomes
popular as general feelings of disaffection pervade segments of a population. I am certainly not
the first to draw the connections between classic Millenarian movements and the Mayanism-
2012 groups. Robert K. Sitler, a professor of Hispanic Literature at Stetson University who
studies the 2012 movement as it is expressed by both the modern Maya and on the internet,
proposed the same link in a recent journal article with regard to some modern Maya groups:

While there is no evidence that Maya [Christian] fundamentalists will embrace
the 2012 date, the fact that in specific parts of the Mayan world they literally
share the streets and paths of their communities with New Age 2012 adherents
makes it virtually unavoidable that the two millennial currents will eventually
come into contact with one another [Sitler 2006:33].

Thus, the escalating fervour surrounding the Baktun end-date, attracting Christians and non-
Christians as well as Maya and non-Maya, is mirroring globalization where previously discrete
social groups are finding common ground in 2012 for indulging their Millenarian strivings.

357 | P a g e

Mayanisms (Mis)Appropriations of the Ancient Maya Calendar

While the discussion has thus far paid heed to the emic beliefs of third-wave Mayanism, it is
impossible to ignore the reasonable gripes of Mayanist scholars. It is possible to objectively
scrutinize third-wave Mayanism according to how its appeals to astrological phenomena
compare with scientific astronomy and archaeologists renderings of how the ancient Maya
tracked the movement of astronomical bodies. However, such false construal of the calendar
does not excuse Mayanist scholars from appreciating the wider anthropological import of the
Mayanism movement.

Fundamentally, all third-wave Mayanism writers are indebted to the pioneering imaginations of
Frank Waters and Jos Argelles. In dealing with Waters, one begins to see how he established
the template of later third-wave Mayanism texts, where he submits that because of their genius,
the ancient Mesoamericans knew that something would happen in 2012:

While the interpretation is purely speculative, it is based on sound research.
5
The
astronomical configurations of the planets on these two dates have been
mathematically calculated in a study included as an appendix; and two
astrological interpretations of their possible effectsone physical and one
psychologicalhave been given by reliable authorities in their respective fields
[Waters 1975:ix, emphasis added].

By confidently emphasizing the mathematical calculations given by reliable authorities,
6

Waters subtly manipulates the uncritical reader into accepting his millenarian conclusions, since
it is expected that most readers will yield to presumed experts about topics with which they
themselves are not adept. It is now assumed in Mayanism circles that the Ancient Maya calendar
system (culminating in 2012) expresses this cultures cognizance of astrological properties
inherent in physical phenomena like sunspots, solar magnetic flux, the Earths magnetosphere, as
well as planetary axes and mutual alignments (Gilbert and Cotterell 1995
7
). I will leave it to
archaeoastronomers to evaluate astrology and for the purposes of space focus squarely on
calendrical, iconographic, and epigraphic discrepancies of Mayanism.

In The Mayan Factor (1987), Argelles synthesizes a plethora of features of ancient Maya
iconography and glyphic elements into a dizzying account of the Maya calendar, coherent only
to readers already predisposed to believing his declarations. With a Ph.D. in Art History from the
University of Chicago and a writing style that is both fluid and erudite, he wields an authoritative
charisma that no succeeding Mayanism specialist has yet emulated. His credentials and
persuasiveness have bolstered his status as the most influential advocate of third-wave
Mayanism. For instance, his personal version of the 260-day Mayan ritual calendar commonly
known as the tzolkin (Sitler 2006:26), which has functioned as a seminal archetype upon which
ensuing Mayanism proponents have based their own writings, does accurately comprehend that
the tzolkin is an eternally repeating cycle, and consists of the numbers 1 through 13,
permutating against a minicycle of 20 named days (Coe and Van Stone 2001:4142). However,
Argelles (1987:101) conceives that with tzolkin elements in their glyphic, iconic, comic-book

358 | P a g e

simplicity, the twenty Signs
describe the destinal
adventure as the Mayan
navigators have successfully
charted it in their light-
crafted explorations of the
galactic field. This theory
has been embraced by the
next generation of third-
wave Mayanism which
celebrates Argelles for
showing that the seemingly
simple 13-by-20 matrix of
the Tzolkin functioned as the
basis of Mayan science and
space-time travel, allowing
them to receive and transmit
informationas well as
themselvesbetween star
systems (Pinchbeck
2006:201).

It is very rare to come across
a direct reference to any
ancient Maya texts in the
Mayanism literature.
Usually, the only mentions
of physical artifacts are in
whimsical interpretations of
iconographic images. This
eccentric methodology is best exemplified by Jenkens (1998:17) phenomenological
interpretations of Izapan iconography, which he feels is too important to be left to the
iconographers. Yet, while Mayanism devotees believe that academic Mayanists cannot be
trusted to interpret ancient Maya remains properly, scholarly work is conveniently employed
when it reveals data that is unobtainable through the intuitive methods of Mayanism.

Hence, the zeal spreading on the internet about a recent reading by David Stuart of the Right
Panel of Tortuguero Monument 6 (see Figure 1, glyph blocks O2P5), where there is an overt
statement mentioning the end of the Thirteenth Baktun: Tzuhtz-(a)j-oom u(y)-uxlajuun pik (ta)
Chan Ajaw ux(-te') Uniiw. Uht-oom ? Y-em(al)?? Bolon Yookte' K'uh ta ? [The Thirteenth
Bak'tun will be finished (on) Four Ajaw, the Third of Uniiw (K'ank'in). ? will occur. (It will be)
the descent(??) of the Nine Support? God(s) to the ?] The term following uht-oom is the main
puzzle, and largely effaced

(Stuart 2006)
8
. While he cannot read hieroglyphs and relies heavily
upon the work of professional scholars (Eberl and Prager 2005; Gillespie and Joyce 1998;
Houston and Stuart 1996), Jenkins (2006) still believes he has the expertise to translate the

Figure 1. Drawing of Right Panel of Tortuguero Monument 6;
courtesy of Sven Gronemeyer.

359 | P a g e

question marks (?) in Stuarts decipherment:

Although some scholars have commented that the incomplete text on Tortuguero
Monument 6 doesn't tell us much, they have overlooked the obvious: Bolon
Yoktes mere presence suggests that 2012 was thought of as a Creation, a
worldrenewal that, after all, makes perfect sense in the context of a World Age
doctrine that sequences forward in intervals of 13 Baktuns. This may seem to go
without saying, but in fact my work has been criticized for characterizing 2012 as
a cosmogenesis. Here the scholars are one step closer to understanding 2012 for
what the Maya knew it to be: a rebirth and the beginning of a new World Age
[Jenkins 2006].

So when it comes to the critical phrase in the text of glyphs O4P4, ? will occur,
9
the effaced
glyph that supposedly indicates an event that would occur on December 23
rd
, 2012 leaves a
window open for millenarian speculations by Mayanism enthusiasts. This discrepancy between
how Tortuguero Monument 6 is interpreted, illustrates the unbridgeable gap between
professional scholars scientific focus on empiricism and Mayanisms predilection for
embellishing and segregating their evidence.

Discussion & Conclusions: Scholarly Prejudice vs. Mayanisms Emic Logic

The hasty dismissal of Mayanism, so common amongst professional Mayanists, is like focussing
on the wood that makes up the Christian cross and how little most Christians know about the
molecular and cellular structures of which the cross is composed; the narrow concentration on
the bad scholarship of the Mayanism 2012 spiritual movement means that we miss the overall
symbolic rationale for its growth in popularity. In our increasingly secularized society that is
undergoing exponential increases in technological complexity at the same time that
environmental degradation seems to threaten the future, there is a natural tendency for some
people to become wary of these changes. All it takes is a small group of inspirational leaders to
articulate the comforting notion that there is a deeper meaning to the ostensible rise in chaos. In
the case of Mayanism, the notion of the ancient Maya as a mysterious, yet enlightened culture
has been popularized, providing the perfect enticement for people craving proof of mystical
wisdom in confusing times.

When we consider the contradictory approaches to ancient Maya cultural remains practiced by
professional Mayanists and amateur followers of Mayanism, we are confronting a fundamental
distinction between two mutually exclusive worldviews. Alas, there is no reliable way to
impartially critique the methods and theories of one from the viewpoint of the other since this
would require one to arbitrarily favour one worldview as a universal standard of human thought.
In order to put this review of Mayanism into perspective, this concluding discussion aims to
situate both amateur Mayanism and Mayanist scholarship as different resolutions for the same
central crisis of the human condition.

Every culture must make initial assumptions about the nature of reality, and how conscious
entities like humans can successfully discern said reality. In this way, human beings adapt
metaphysical presumptions about their personal conscious relation to external existence to the

360 | P a g e

normative principles espoused by their cultural surroundings. Jacques Derrida, the famous post-
structuralist thinker, recognized that no human thought-system is detached from basic cultural
presumptions:

Ethnologylike any sciencecomes about within the element of a discourse. And
it is primarily a European science employing traditional concepts, however much of
it may struggle against them. Consequently, whether he wants to or notand this
does not depend on a decision on his partthe ethnologist accepts into his
discourse the premises of ethnocentrism at the very moment when he is employed
in denouncing them [Derrida 1990[1970]:228].

I argue that professional Mayanists and followers of Mayanism are guided by discrete
epistemological discourses. While many professional Mayanists have been trained according to
the cultural-relativist stance of anthropological theory, it would appear that when they are
presented with unconventional Mayanism beliefs expressed by groups of fellow Euroamericans,
cultural relativism is supplanted by scholars personal loyalty to the secular discourses of
empirical science.

According to Clifford Geertz, the anthropological problem of incompatible worldviews (what
Derrida termed discourses) is marked sharply in comparisons of scientific and religious
methods of reasoning. It is for this reason that I turn to Geertzs (1968:27) notion of cultural
systems as a suitable explanation for the lack of mutual understanding between scientific
Mayanist scholars and the Millenarian-New Age beliefs motivating much of third-wave
Mayanism:

The religious perspective differs...from the scientific perspective in that it questions
the realities of everyday life not out of an institutional scepticism which dissolves
the worlds givenness into a swirl of probabilistic hypotheses, but in terms of what
it takes to be wider, non-hypothetical truths. Rather than detachment, its watchword
is commitment; rather than analysis, encounter [Geertz 1968:27].

Thus, while science proceeds by indiscriminately testing theories against the empirical evidence,
Mayanism spurns such diagnostic restraints and prefers to study Maya cultural remains by first
intuiting a truth and then deliberately selecting evidence to corroborate that truth. In fact, the
cultural system of Mayanism is completely rational when considered on its own terms. It is
only when professional Mayanists refuse to transcend their own ideological biases that the
intuitive claims of Mayanism appear irrational. But it is not ignorance drawing modern people to
the relics of ancient civilizations like the Maya. Rather, there are religious people whose respect
for pre-modern achievements extends to a faith that there once existed ways of thinking about
reality superior to what is fashionable today.

Whatever does or does not happen at the decisive moment of the Thirteenth Baktun completion,
there will be ample opportunity for anthropological reflections about the subsequent fallout for
believers in Mayanism. We know from history, as with the Christian Millerites who
experienced the Great Disappointment of 1844 when Christ did not show up, that there is a
window of time following the debunking of a prophesized end-date where many believers give

361 | P a g e

up their Millenarian beliefs (Fuller 2004:74). Professional Mayanists who truly want an
increased public interest in their scientific reconstructions of ancient Maya culture should seize
upon 2012 as an opportunity to rectify their standing with the general public. In the end,
someone will get to say I told you so. If by chance it is the followers of third-wave Mayanism,
then the immensity of the 2012 transformation will render any further debate pointless. But, if
Mayanist scholars disbelief is confirmed in 2012, their response should not be so arrogant that
they continue to alienate themselves from the public even further.

References Cited
Alexander, Dennis
1999 Practical Mayanism: A New Look at an Old Religion. Sentient Temple Press, Pinellas
Park, Florida.

Argelles, Jos
1987 The Mayan Factor: Path Beyond Technology. Bear & Company, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Burroughs, William S.
1998 [1962] The Mayan Caper. In Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader, edited by
James Gauerholz and Ira Silverberg, pp. 193199. Grove Press, New York, New York.

Calleman, Carl Johan
2004 The Mayan Calendar and the Transformation of Consciousness. Bear &
Company, Rochester, Vermont.

Coe, Michael D.
1966 The Maya. Thames and Hudson, New York, New York.

1992 Breaking the Maya Code. Thames and Hudson, New York, New York.

Coe, Michael D. and Mark Van Stone
2001 Reading the Maya Glyphs. Thames and Hudson, New York, New York.

Derrida, Jacques
1993[1970] Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences. In A Postmodern
Reader, edited by Joseph P. Natoli and Linda Hutcheon, pp. 223242. State University of New
York Press, Albany, New York.

Eberl, Markus and Christian Prager
2005 Bolon Yokte K'u - Maya Conception of War, Conflict and the Underworld.
In Wars and Conflicts in Prehispanic Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by Peter Eeckhout and
Genevive Le Fort, pp. 2836. BAR International Series 1385, Oxford, United Kingdom.
Freidel, David, Linda Schele and Joy Parker

1993 Maya Cosmos: Three Thousand Years on the Shamans Path. HarperCollins, New York,
New York.

362 | P a g e

Fuller, Robert C.
2004 Religious Revolutionaries: The Rebels Who Reshaped American Religion. Palgrave
Macmillan, New York, New York.

Geertz, Clifford
1968 Ideology as a Cultural System. In Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion,
edited by Michael Banton, pp. 146. Tavistock Publications, London, United Kingdom.

Gilbert, Adrian and Maurice Cotterell
1995 The Mayan Prophecies: Unlocking the Secrets of a Lost Civilization. Element Books,
Rockport, Massachusetts.

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1998 Deity Relationships in Mesoamerican Cosmology: The Case of the Maya
God L. Ancient Mesoamerica 9:279296.

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Hamann, Byron Ellsworth
2008 How Maya Hieroglyphs Got Their Name: Egypt, Mexico, and China in Western
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Hanegraaff, Wouter J.
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Heelas, Paul
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Blackwell, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Houston, Stephen and David Stuart
1996 Of Gods, Glyphs, and Kings: Divinity and Rulership Among the Classic Maya. Antiquity
70:289312.

Jenkins, John Major
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Company, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

2006 Comments on the 2012 Text on Tortuguero Monument 6 and Bolon Yokte K'u. Electronic
document, http://alignment2012.com/bolon-yokte.html, accessed online January 27, 2009.


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Joseph, Lawrence E.
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Lienhardt, Godfrey
1966 Social Anthropology. Oxford University Press, New York, New York.

McKillop, Heather I.
2004 The Ancient Maya: New Perspectives. ABC-CLIO, Santa Barbara, California.

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2009 Apocalypse in 2012? Date spawns theories, film. Electronic document,
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Pinchbeck, Daniel
2006 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl. Penguin, New York, New York.

Pinchbeck, Daniel and Ken Jordan (editors)
2008 Toward 2012: Perspectives on the Next Age. Penguin, New York, New York.

Powell, Robert and Kevin Dann
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Rivet, Ryan
2008 The Sky is Not Falling. Tulane New Wave. Electronic document,
http://tulane.edu/news/newwave/062508_maya.cfm, accessed online January 27, 2009.

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Stephens, John Lloyd
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Notes

1
The term Mayanism is adopted here in reference to Alexander (1999).

2
For an example of some scholars sympathy with anti-science views similar to those of
Mayanism, see Freidel, Schele, and Parker (1993:3358).

3
In 1966, Coe was not using the updated calibrations of the Maya long count.

4
see Pinchbeck and Jordan (2008) for a review of topics associated with 2012.

5
This sentence exemplifies what Mayanists consider the absurd logic of Mayanism.

6
The reliable authorities Waters is referring to are astronomers whose work is misappropriated
by the author of his Appendix, Roberta S. Sklower, who is described as a professional
mathematician, but whose expertise is better characterized as that of an astrologer.


365 | P a g e

7
The real reason for professionals dismissal of Cotterells specious theories is explained as
having nothing to do with his science but that he wasnt an acknowledged astronomical
academic (Gilbert and Cotterell 1995:5657).

8
This is from an earlier translation by David Stuart found on a scholarly discussion webpage at
http://www.famsi.org/pipermail/aztlan/2006-April/001978.html
An updated translation is available from Gronemeyer and MacLeod (2010:8). This more recent
publication promises to be a significant contribution to the epigraphic discussion about 2012.

9
The recent publication by Gronemeyer and MacLeod (2010:1115) employs updated
photographic imagery to show that the glyph block P4 might indicate what they translate as a
seeing, so that glyph blocks O4P4 would now read and it will happen a seeing. These
authors highlight the fact that the mirror glyph, which functions phonetically and
logographically as il (meaning to see), is scarcely discernible on the left side of this part of
the monument.


366 | P a g e

Chacmool Archaeological Association
University of Calgary
Department of Archaeology
2500 University Drive NW
Calgary, AB T2N 1N4 Canada
Email (chacmool@ucalgary.ca)

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