David Pacifico (dpacifico@uchicago.edu)
Presentation to 2008 Annual meeting of the AAA, San Francisco, CA.
DRAFT COPY – PLEASE DO NOT CITE OR CIRCULATE
“Archaeology is more than Stones and Bones:
Giving Back to Communities near Archaeological Sites in Peru”
Since at least the 1970s archaeologists have developed archaeologies directed at increasingly practical ends in hopes of bringing greater social relevance to the field. Two dominant forms of archaeology which aim to generate broadly socially relevant work, Public Archaeology and Community Archaeology, propose to do so through the democratization of archaeology. But what if democratization of archaeology does not appropriately address local issues?
This article presents a case study of the interrelationship between archaeology and the communities near the site of El Purgatorio, Peru. Here I argue that understanding communities near excavation sites can help archaeologists practice a science that is socially relevant in locally appropriate ways. My research near El Purgatorio in 2007 and 2008 uncovered several possibilities for archaeologists to “give back” to these villages. The possibilities to collaborate with locals in community projects span a range of types. Some are simple, such as organizing public presentations of recent research. Some are complex and costly, such as assisting in town reconstruction projects.
By discussing local notions of history, self-ascribed constructions of identity, and local legends I explain how archaeology has a potentially contentious relationship to the communities near El Purgatorio. However, by reconsidering exactly what it is that archaeologists do, as well as redefining the limits of what constitutes archaeological work, researchers can create space in their projects to “give back” to communities near excavation sites. Thusly archaeologists can mediate possible conflict between archaeology and local communities and also greatly expand the practical benefits and positive local effects of research projects.
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Introduction:
At the 2005 Annual Meeting of the AAA, I picked up a flier that said something to the effect of “you got involved with anthropology because you want to save the world...”
“
I did
!” I thought, “but doesn’t everybody?”
As a graduate student, optimistic illusions like this – that all anthropologists are activists oriented towards improving the world – have been summarily erased. Still, I am very much personally invested in the idea that the work of anthropologists - and perhaps academics in general – can and should have a positive benefit on a community wider than the one seated here this morning. To that end I would like to share my experience investigating this notion, perhaps commitment, to a small community on the north coast of Peru.
So let’s move forward in time a little bit. In 2007 I traveled to Peru in order to continue my training in archaeological field methods, but also to conduct an ethnographic investigation as the subject of my Master’s Thesis for the University of Chicago. The site I was studying was a small rural village near Casma, Peru which is neighbored by several archaeological sites ranging from a few thousand to several hundred years old. One of these sites is called El Purgatorio
(Purgatory), and is the place where I am conducting archaeological research for my dissertation as part of the Proyecto Arquiológico El Purgatorio, run by Dr. Melissa Vogel of Clemson
University (Vogel and Vilcherrez 2008).
My ethnographic question in 2007 was simple “What are the interests of the people living near the site and how do these interests relate to archaeology”? With this knowledge, I intended to practice archaeology in a way that directly addressed local interests in a way that would be socially relevant and locally appropriate.
Challenges to Traditional Archaeology
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So, anthropologists have been dealing with the social relevance of research for a long time. In her now classic book Anthropology and the Public Interest , Peggy Sanday (1976) suggests that the traditional paradigmatic form of anthropology has come “under severe challenge” since the 1960s (Sanday 1976: xviii). She suggests that these challenges come from three places. First, from foreign governments and citizens who have increasingly objected to being studied “under conditions of one-sided advantage to American anthropologists” (Sanday
1976: xix). Second, challenge has come from a “movement of socially concerned students and others to influence the academic disciplines to adopt practical issues,” and finally from grantawarding organizations which have increasingly emphasized “practical payoff” as a required component of research design (Sanday 1976: xix) .
Archaeology has addressed social relevance for a long time and in various ways.
However, I argue that two categories of archaeology have emerged in response to these challenges which prescribe action to address them. They are Public Archaeology and
Community Archaeology. In practice, these two terms tend to be interchanged, which causes some measure of confusion. As a result it is sometimes unclear exactly how archaeologists can do broadly socially relevant work. So a short a review of the literature on these approaches may be useful.
Public Archaeology is a term coined and expanded upon by Charles R. McGimsey III in his 1972 book Public Archaeology (King 1983: 143). It refers largely to publicly-funded municipal works and falls largely under the purview of cultural resource management.
McGimsey felt that knowledge of the past is critical to survival, and so “the right to that knowledge must be considered a human birthright” (McGimsey 1972: 5). As a result he determined that, “no individual may act in a manner such that the public right to knowledge of
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the past is unduly endangered or destroyed” (McGimsey 1972: 5) It emerges that for McGimsey the public’s interests are the completeness of archaeological data and access to that data
(McGimsey 1972: 6). So he goes on to write a set of standards that archaeologists should follow to address those interests.
Community Archaeology takes a more radical approach. Yvonne Marshall asserts that its defining feature is that “at every step in a project at least partial control remains with the community” (Marshall 2002: 212). This requires professional archaeologists to relinquish some control over each stage of project design, execution, and analysis to the local community
(Marshall 2002:211). Furthermore, Community Archaeology “is a specific approach to all aspects of archaeological practice and…seeks to transform the nature of the discipline in fundamental ways” (Marshall 2002:215).
Both of these approaches prescribe action. But each challenges traditional archaeology in fundamentally the same way : by attempting to democratize it, by making the archaeological science an inclusive one available to non-archaeologists. Reviewing the literature, it was clear that this has been a very successful strategy in a number of projects, especially in North America.
But would this approach work near El Purgatorio?
In 2007 I decided to investigate just this question. As a young graduate student, it wasn’t clear to me exactly how you discover the relationship between a community and archaeology. So
I divided my research question into three subtopics. I investigated history, identity, and local perceptions of archaeology near El Purgatorio.
When I started asking people about history the answers I got at first shocked me. If I asked “what’s the history of this town” or “how did you come to this town” almost everyone started reciting a story about catastrophic climatic events. The El Niño events of 1997 and 1972
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figured prominently, as did the earthquake of 1970. This didn’t make sense to me. But what I later realized was that the villages near our site were populated in large part by people who had had their previous residences destroyed by natural disasters. Most of the people in the village traced their ancestry to somewhere else on the coast of Peru, and if they went back a couple of extra generations, to the mountains. A composite story would be as follows: “My grandparents lived in Yungay, in the mountains. In 1970 they had their fields and house destroyed. So my mother came down and lived in Moro, on the coast. She married my father there and they had a small farm. In 1972 El Niño came and destroyed their fields. I moved to the other side of the river from here, but in 1997 flooding destroyed my fields. So I came to this village in 1998, and
I’ve been here ever since.”
The village isn’t a pueblo joven , however. People have lived in there for generations, but the story is usually the same. If it’s not the 1997/1998 El Niño cited, it’s the 1972 or even 1925
El Niño. So I realized that what allows people in the village “to maintain a collective historical memory which binds them together by reinforcing common perceptions” is a series of disasters
(Fischer and Hendrickson 2003: 64). Little by little, natural disasters formed a village at the base of a mountain near the Casma River, where the land appeared in some respects empty – perhaps better stated as “unused” – and ready for the taking.
I addressed identity in a straightforward manner by asking people what made the area’s people unique. Some explained that the poverty and their country way of life made them unique.
But time and again I was told that their tranquil nature and propensity to share was the defining characteristic. One man explained that things are stable in this part of Peru because even if people are poor, everyone gets fed. If you need something - food, water - your neighbor gives it to you. These are typical answers, but it doesn’t make them untrue. And the physical articulation
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of the village with the archaeological site reinforces their veracity. As it happens, lots of people like to mine the archaeological site for stones and sand. They’re even kind enough to ask the archaeologists permission when we’re around. Unfortunately, under Peruvian law this is strictly prohibited, and has lead to a few heated conversations.
So the perceived abundance of sand and stones that the archaeological site possesses, which could be used to make adobe houses, and space, which could accommodate those houses simply cannot be shared. What this leads to is a conflict of values. People in the village value sharing and common wealth, while archaeological law values preservation and protection.
Regarding local perceptions of archaeology, my research revealed that it articulates with the locals in various ways. On the one hand, most people suggested to me that they don’t even think about archaeology. “That’s for scholars, and we are farmers,” they might say. But folklore and local legends suggest something quite different. I heard terrifying stories about the nearby sites producing cadavers that chased people through the desert, a headless bear that wreaked havoc in the valley, and a story of disappearing gold. What this suggests to me is that archaeological sites play a role in creating an active and potentially threatening landscape.
After all, archaeological sites also have the power to displace entire villages. As is the case in many villages in Peru, the villages near our site were partially on the site itself. Applying for development grants or even house titles comes with the risk of having this fact discovered by local authorities, leading to removal.
In short archaeology articulated with the locals by being yet another force, like El Niño, with the power to displace. It presented a set of values contrary to those popular in the village.
And archaeology contributed to a potentially threatening landscape. And there was a more pressing issue. The village had received a grant to install running water. In order to receive the
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funds, they needed house titles, and for house titles they needed to demonstrate the nonexistence of archaeological remains below their houses. Certainly some were atop archaeological data.
Accepting the grant would mean risking some of those houses, or worse.
Despite this delicate situation, people were generally friendly to us archaeologists and curious about our work. Yet I concluded that democratizing archaeology near the site would not be the best way to employ archaeology in a socially relevant and locally appropriate way. Now what?
The villagers themselves suggested several ways for archaeologists to bring benefit to their community. They suggested that archaeologists hire more locals. As a local official once put it, if one person gets paid, a whole family eats. Indeed hiring locals is a strategy we pursue in earnest, one shared by many projects. Various people suggested we buy goods in town, for even a little bit of business can have a significant economic impact. It was even suggested that we base our project in the town that borders our site. And as I reviewed my notes from the summer I noticed a pattern: on several occasions I was asked to practice or teach English to locals.
So, when I returned in June of 2008 to begin archaeological survey at El Purgatorio, I was determined to implement some of these suggestions.
Apart from hiring locals, we indeed bought snacks in town, and continued with our program of giving tours of the site to locals, as well as meeting with local leaders regularly about a variety of issues.
One new strategy that both
Dr. Vogel and I considered was housing the project in town. The rising prices in Peru and failing dollar made this option attractive. However, Dr. Vogel wisely considered the difficulty this would pose for undergraduate researchers, some of whom had never left the country before. I considered this idea further, and intended to live in the village for a number of reasons. But for an equal amount of reasons, I decided not to. One pressing issue was that trouble-shooting some
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of our mapping equipment required a regular source of electricity and consistent access to the internet, two things unavailable in the village.
Another strategy I had planned was to organize and teach English classes in the village.
This, too presented some issues. Even though I had discussed this possibility with town leaders ahead of time, the first day I arrived to teach classes there was no key to the school building.
However, after organizing with the teacher - who does not live in the village - and various village officials it was arranged that the teacher would drop the key off with a woman in town, and on
Saturdays I would open up the classroom to give a lesson.
Other problems arose, but they didn’t ruin the experiment. There were no lights in the building, so we had to stop class by dark. The students ranged in age from about 5 to 45, which meant a diversity of learning abilities and strategies. I also had to assume that people didn’t necessarily know how to read. Sometimes the students didn’t have pens or paper. However, with a little bit of preparation, these obstacles were overcome.
And the results were successful, I believe. I taught every Saturday for an hour and then some, and every time all of the available seats were filled.
Conclusion :
There are a few points that I would like to close with. There have been a number of projects that involved local or descendent groups in various stages of the research process and they have been relevant, successful, and locally appropriate. While this strategy seems to be a dominant one, my case study indicates that other strategies are necessary. I am recommending that projects proactively seek out the interests of the towns in which they work and that projects evaluate whether or not they can address those issues. The second point – which I see as the unique point here - is that if those issues do not directly involve research concerns, projects
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should not shy away from addressing them. In other words, things that appear to be marginal to research, like teaching English, are a legitimate part of archaeological research strategy. After all archaeologists consider lots of things that don’t involve direct research central to “archaeological work.” Grant writing, training undergraduates, dealing with bureaucracy, filling holes with dirt when a project is through – these are all things archaeologists willingly accept as part of the job.
I’m suggesting we add a new dimension of community outreach and involvement to that list. In
Peru people in the village by our site weren’t as interested in the information we were digging up as they were interested in our roles in a network of social relations. I believe I was more valuable as an English teacher than as someone who could explain the nuances of site formation processes. People wanted to know how to get house titles while living near archaeological sites much more than they wanted to know about emic vs. etic analysis of ceramic styles. I was of more use to the town when I connected them with local government officials and explained bureaucratic channels to them, than when I identified the genus and species of a seashell.
Addressing local issues requires that we expand our notion of legitimate archaeological work. So what not-so-ancillary activities could you add as an ethnographer to your research design? The
AAA statement on ethics has already approved activism as a legitimate part of research, although it is not a requirement (AAA 1998).
In any case, to those who may consider this strategy, I will make a practical point.
Smaller may be better because even small activities can turn out to be big commitments. My advice would be to take on those not-so-ancillary activities, but keep in mind that smaller jobs are perhaps more successfully completed.
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Works Cited
American Anthropological Association
1998 “Code of Ethics of the American Anthropological Association” http://www.aaanet.org/committees/ethics/ethcode.htm
Faulkner, N.
2000 Archaeology from Below. Public Archaeology 1(1):21-33
Fischer, E. and Hendrickson, C.
2003 Tecpán Guatemala: A modern Maya town in global and local context
. Westview
Press, Cambridge, MA.
King, T.
1983 Professional Responsibility in Public Archaeology. Annual Review of
Anthropology 12:143-164.
Marshall, Y.
2002 What is Community Archaeology? World Archaeology 34(2):211-219.
McGimsey, C.
1972 Public Archaeology . Seminar Press, New York.
Sanday, P.
1976 Introduction. In Anthropology and the Public Interest, edited by P.R. Sanday, pp xv-xxvii. Academic Press, New York.
Vogel, M. and Vilcherrez M., P.
2008 Informe Final (Temporada 2008) Proyecto Arqueologico el Purgatorio Valle de
Casma. Submitted to Instituto Nacional de Cultura, Lima, Perú.
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