CHAPTER EIGHT
STOREHOUSE OF SEASONS AND MOTHER OF FOOD: AN ANDEAN RITUAL-ADMINISTRATIVE SYSTEM
Frank Salomon, Gino de las Casas, and Víctor Falcón-Huayta
Introduction1
Until the mid-twentieth century, the village of Rapaz (Peru) managed its communal sector (fields, canals, terraces, pastures, and herds) through a ritual-administrative complex seated in a walled precinct. One of the precinct’s two buildings is called Pasa Qulqa (‘Storehouse of Seasons’). The other is a still-used sacred building, the home of a collection of quipus, where traditional authorities govern the common sector. It is called Kaha Wayi, ‘Treasury House’ Ethnographic information clarifies the relationships among storage, governance, ritual, and communal economy. This chapter emphasizes harvest collection and disbursal through the storehouse, an administrative system with a marked feminine symbolic association.
Here we take a route that starts with architecture and ends with song. Rapaz is known for its singular ‘quipu house,’ an old structure containing a collection of cord records seemingly related to the Inka data medium (Ruiz Estrada 1981; Salomon, Brezine, and Falcon Huayta 2006: 59–92). The ‘quipu house,’ however, needs to be understood as part of a larger unit: a complex of storage and redistribution that it once served to control. We demonstrate how in Rapaz, administrative and political work was fused with ritual service to wakas (Andean deities, many of which are deified mountains). The ‘quipu house’ and the storehouse Pasa Qulqa are colonial to modern in chronology. Since the former still operates, and the latter operated within the lives of people still living, Rapaz offers ethnographic and ethnohistoric clues to the forms of ‘vertical’ political control, storage, and redistribution that ethnohistorians associate with Inka rule.
From a broadly anthropological viewpoint we attempt something more. The large literature deriving from the idea of vertical ecological diversity has told us much about the adaptive and technical agenda of productive zones (Mayer 2002) and their articulation, but it comes only part way toward showing how each zone’s particular cultural ethos—the range of feelings and questions that arise from behavior in it, and the symbols that express them—contributes to the articulated set of symbols we call Andean culture. The exceptions that do attempt this connection (Rivera Andía 2005: 129–156) suggest that a regular flow of expressive objects—songs, stories, emblems, recipes, to which one could add ledgers, quipus, tokens, and so on—constitutes the cultural counterpart of material ‘complementarity.’ The actual work of managing complementarity is often conducted by manipulating these emblems. The Rapaz precinct was a storage facility, but also a place for working symbols and information to organize the economy.
State storage is, of course, a classical topic in Inka and Middle Horizon archaeology (D’Altroy and Earle 1985: 187–206; Hyslop 1990: 377; Morris and Thompson 1985: 97–108; Sanders 1973: 379–428). Much less is known about community-level storage than about state storage. According to John V. Murra, the state warehousing that underpinned both armed Inka might and Inka ritual generosity redeveloped ‘an institution which had probably existed long before any state had appeared,’ and Murra thought it ‘possible that the [prehispanic] village did have some sort of community storage facility for emergencies’ to which each household contributed time or even the goods (Murra 1956: 210, 224). Murra notes that Blas Valera and Garcilaso Inka took this view, but chroniclers less indebted to Inka ideology do not confirm it. At Torata Alta numerous storage cells are interspersed among colonial reductión houses (Van Buren 1996: 343), but no central storage place is evident.
The Spanish colonial and following Republican transformation of the Andean storage system thus bears on the origin of Rapaz’s temple-quipustorage complex. The ‘Indian chronicler’ Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala around 1615 applied the term Sapçi o comun to the community’s economic nexus: the storehouse, the fields supplying it, and the labor (including such specialties as dyeing) applied to them (Guaman Poma de Ayala 1980: 754). Guaman Poma was intensely interested in sapçi, mentioning it fifty-five times and idealizing it as an exemplary institution. His interest in sapçi far outweighs his interest in Inka state storage. He saw sapçi as a resource for reforming colonial inequities:
Your majesty should know that they should have communal capital (hazienda) which they call sapçi, of maize and wheat fields, potatoes, hot pepper, dry greens, cotton, seed, workshop, dye shop, coca, fruit groves. And in [it] the young ladies and the widows should spin and weave, ten women one unit of clothes in one term of the community sapçi, and they should have Castillian cattle and native ones, of the land of community and sapçi. (1980: 898)
Guaman Poma, unlike writers on the Inka state, emphasizes the importance of sapçi in relieving the poor and sick. Spalding (1984: 131) judged that in the first decades after invasion, ‘most of the profits gained by the kurakas from their activities went, at least initially, into the community stores or sapsi, to be used to meet the demands of their encomenderos and … priests’
The case presented here relates to an earlier study about a village with a storage complex that retained sapçi-like functions well into modern times (Salomon 2004). That complex belongs to the village of San Andrés de Tupicocha, in the Huarochirí Province (Lima Department), in the upper Lurín River drainage. A review of its basic properties clarifies the new findings from Rapaz.
In Tupicocha, as in several nearby villages, storage was fused with civic ritual space in a large walled courtyard called collca (‘storehouse,’ a Hispano-Quechua usage) or casa de costumbre (‘house of customary law’). The modern collca is a large walled precinct, containing a rectangular central plaza, along whose longer sides stand raised platforms. The outer part of each platform in turn supports a line of rectangular roofed chambers that formerly served as storage cells. The inner edge of each platform today functions as raised seating for spectators, but probably was designed as space for handling stored goods. The precinct has only one gate, but each cell has a separate door.
The collca is home to the annual Huayrona or ‘town meeting,’ January 2 and 3. At that meeting officers mark out its sacred space with a shrine and perimeters traced by bunches of puna grass. During the Huayrona all authorities are held to account and then yield office to their successors (Guillén de Boluarte 1958: 92–93). The authorities include officials of the modern hierarchy, but also the camachicos (‘order-setters’ in Hispano-Quechua) or presidents of the constituent ayllusas well as the varayos or staff-holding traditional officers. The village’s patrimonial quipus are displayed in the Huayrona as regalia of the ayllus, and as a memento of the quipu accountancy formerly practiced there. Tupicochans say that the goods formerly stored in the collca were harvested in community fields (rather than contributed by members) and earmarked for community expenses, notably the major festivals. The whole ‘town meeting’ is a matter of civil customary law framed in an ethos of the sacred, part Christian and part Andean.
In the pages that follow, we study a sapçi-like complex from several river valleys north of Huarochirií. The complex has a different architectural structure and a somewhat different ritual regimen but shares with the Tupicocha complex the basic purpose of controlling production for communal use, storing it, and ritually convening the authorities responsible for it. As in Tupicocha, the precinct unifies sacred space, plaza, warehouse, and quipus. Rapacinos, unlike Huarochiranos, do not use the term Huayrona, but similarities of practice justify using the term Huayrona as a generic term for this complex.
The Village of Rapaz and the Rapaz Research Project
The village of San Cristóbal de Rapaz with its Comunidad Campesina (corporation of the commons) bearing the same name is located on the west slope of the Sierra de Raura, in the upper Huaura River drainage (Province of Oyón, Department of Lima). Its nucleated center occupies a spur high above the uppermost reach of the Checras River, at 4,000–4,050 meters above sea level (Instituto Geográfico Nacional [del Perú] 2000: 1549 [22-j]). The densely built ‘reduction’-style village stands a little below the boundary between spacious high-altitude pasturelands and restricted farmlands (many terraced). The farmlands include a band of dry-farmed fields under sectoral fallowing (Guillet 1981: 139–156) and an irrigated lower band near the river. The 2007 census registered 436 inhabitants (Peru Instituto Nacional de Estadistíca e Información 2010). A variety of Quechua resembling the ‘Ancash-Huaylas’ described by Parker (Parker and Chávez 1976b) coexists, in decline, with Spanish.
In 1972 the Polish archaeologist Andresz Krzanowski heard of Rapaz’s remarkable patrimony, including its quipus (personal communication, 2006; Krzanowski 1977: 137; 1978: 201). Arturo Ruiz Estrada (1981) of San Marcos University was the first visitor to publish scientific reports. In 1995 Pablo Macera published, with Ruiz, a photographic book about Rapaz’s remarkable painted church (Macera et al. 1995).
The corporation of the commons owns the Rapaz patrimony and protects it earnestly. Although some parts, including the quipus and the storage chambers, are no longer used in their original functions, the precinct as a whole forms a cherished ritual space. Only the community vice president, in his role as kamatsikuq, or head of the traditional agro-pastoral authorities, is privileged to give access. The ‘quipu house’ is especially sacred. Nobody may approach without a legitimate reason. Any visit requires coca offering and invocations. Nearly all Rapacinos (with evangelical converts in dissent) firmly believe that the complex is their vital channel of communication with the animate mountains, whose gift of rain is their greatest need. At the same time, Ruiz’s work has made villagers aware that outsiders are interested, too. Because they regard scientific interest as legitimate, and because they see the quipus as a glory of their village, villagers do allow the vice president to show visitors around. In 2005, one mass visit organized by a Lima NGO brought some three hundred.
The Rapaz complex therefore presented novel and delicate issues of research practice. In 2003, when Salomon began negotiating terms of scientific access with the community officers and the assembly, they expressed concern about the poor condition of the quipus (damaged by moths, fungus, smoke, and physical stress). Twenty years earlier they had tried to make a protective case. In 2004, they offered study access in return for conservation work that would allow uninterrupted dual use. Because living cultural practice is a large part of the site’s value, our project was framed to include ethnographic and ethnohistoric research by Salomon, as well as study of the precinct. The conservation architect Gino de las Casas designed the repair and stabilization measures for the buildings, and a restoration technician, Edgar Cento Farfán, carried them out. The archaeologist Lic. Víctor Falcón Huayta studied the immediate surroundings of the buildings. The textile conservators Rosalía Choque Gonzales and Rosa Choque Gonzales cleaned the quipus and cooperated with Carrie Brezine in describing them. Renata Peters, a museological archaeologist, designed the protection measure for the ‘quipu house’ and worked with the architect Nelly Faustino to build a quipu case. At all times the work was supervised by community vice president Víctor Gallardo Encarnación or other members of the community directorate. The village’s official ritualist, D. Melecio Montes, carried out the community’s mesas calzadas (rites of offering to the divine mountains) to ask permission. Two village women received special training in basic textile conservation.
The Architecture of the Patrimonial Buildings
The ritual-administrative precinct of traditional governance (Figure 8.1) occupies an area of 346.17 square meters, close to the eastern edge of the village, on the same block as the famous painted church. One side of it lies along the boundary between the two traditional moieties, Allauca and Lamash. The precinct is surrounded on two sides by a recently rebuilt fieldstone wall with one large gate and a small lateral entrance, later filled in, and on the other two by rammed-earth walls backing onto private residences. It contains two buildings: Kaha Wayi, the ‘quipu house’ (upper left in Figure 8.1) and the storehouse Pasa Qulqa (upper right in Figure 8.1). The two are roughly aligned, facing each other along a northeast-southwest axis that forms an angle to the street grid. The walled plaza is unpaved and empty save for two electric utility posts, but excavation showed signs of heavy use both recent and historic.
The name Kaha Wayi consists of a Spanish root, caja, ‘treasury,’ and a Quechua one, wayi, cognate to wasi in southern Quechua, meaning ‘house.’ As for Pasa Qulqa (Figure 8.3), Qulqais is cognate to southern qullka, ‘warehouse.’ The adjective pasa, cognate to pacha, means ‘time, season, weather.’ Asked to translate the name, villagers render Pasa Qulqa as depósito del tiempo (‘storehouse of time’ or ‘of weather’), or else depósito estacional (‘seasonal storehouse’). A few call it misia qulqa (‘lady storehouse’).
Kaha Wayi, the ‘quipu house’ (Figure 8.2), is the more frequently used part of the patrimony. It functions as the meeting place of the traditional authorities, particularly for the important New Year’s meeting described below, and for the mesas calzadas in which the designated ritualist (awkin, vendelhombre) communicates with the owners of rain. It is rectangular, with walls of irregular stone and earth mortar, and with adobe gables. A single northwest-facing door gives access to the main chamber. A smaller opening in the southwestern gable 2.8 meters above the inside floor level opens into the now-empty attic. The endwalls project past the main fa$ade to form two buttresses. A low stone bench of a type common in regional prehispanic architecture runs along the base of the façade. It afforded seating for officers whose low rank allowed hearing but precluded seeing the rituals within Kaha Wayi. The main entry, a Dutch door, allowed sound and the ritually valued smoke of incense to reach these persons while precluding entry. Long eaves sheltered the outer bench.
Figure 8.2 Kaha Wayi, the ‘Quipu House,’ 2004.
Figure 8.3 Pasa Qulqa, the old community storehouse, 2005.
The floor of the main chamber is compacted earth. Thick trunks of quinual (Polylepis racemosa) sustain the upper floor, seventeen centimeters thick, whose top surface was finished with a layer of smoothed clayey earth. A small cross made of puna straw was discovered sealed under this layer.
All around Kaha Wayi’s interior in the main or lower chamber run adobe benches about thirty centimeters above floor level, for the officers and ritualist. A niche high on the northwest wall holds candles and remains of flowers.
Kaha Wayi’s furnishings are highly sacred. The collection of quipus was in 2003 and 2004 draped in seeming disorder over a stick, which was in its turn hung from the woodwork of the upper floor (Figure 8.4). This hanging rack lay parallel to the southeast or rear wall. Contrary to often repeated assertions about a giant quipu, it is in fact an assembly of 263 discrete cord objects. They are of a different basic design from Inka quipus, having no pendants, but rather a single ‘monoquipu’ cord along which significant objects such as wool tufts, pompoms, rawhide tags, and figurines, are attached. Even more important in the eyes of Rapacinos is the altar or offering table, which stands in the more westerly part of the chamber. Covered with a double cloth, it permanently holds three small gourds for liquid offerings (jurka), a coca bag (walki), and a small lime gourd for consuming coca (Figure 8.5). A large pile of coca leaf deposited by visitors obscures most of the surface. From the ceiling hang twenty-six diverse objects dedicated as past offerings. New ones are occasionally added. A large broken pot on the floor serves as a censer for burning llama fat. Dry plant remains under the altar attest to the Raywan ceremony described below.
Pasa Qulqa (see Figure 8.3) is a robust building made to sustain great weights. The storehouse resembles Kaha Wayi in its overall shape and size but is constructed differently. It contains no furnishings now considered sacred, nor does it function any longer for storage. It is, however, still used frequently for nighttime community rituals.
Pasa Qulqa’s exterior shows traces of having been plastered with earthen mortar and lime. It is rectangular with three levels. Its foundations are forty-two centimeters to fifty-six centimeters thick and about a meter deep. The walls are of like thickness, 2.86 to 3.25 meters tall, and made entirely of stone, including the gables. Around all four walls runs a projecting cornice of flat stones at 2.86 meters in height. This feature is also common in local Late Intermediate villages, whose ruins are numerous all over the district. Indeed Rapaz seems to stand atop one such. The masonry is less than regular, but stones are consistently placed flattest side outward. There are no exterior buttresses or benches.
Two of Pasa Qulqa’s three openings are on the side facing Kaha Wayi. The lower of these two openings gives access to a floor today sixty centimeters below exterior ground level, with a ceiling height of 1.3 meters. Heavy trunks of quinual seated on reinforced wall sustain the middle floor, which retains its surface of smoothed earth. Unlike the upper floor of Kaha Wayi, it is reinforced with stone. The access to the middle floor is through the higher of these two openings. The middle floor had 1.25 meters of headroom. Both of these openings had double stone lintels and thick stone thresholds. The upper floor was built like the middle one, but it has collapsed. Access to it was through an opening in the gable at 2.73 meters above the exterior present ground level. It was formerly reached by an exterior stairway of which nothing now stands. It is usual for prehispanic storage buildings to have small openings with obstructed access, as does Pasa Qulqa, perhaps to facilitate regulating entry.
Figure 8.4 The quipu collection with 2004 vice president (kamatsikuq) Toribio Gallardo.
Figure 8.5 The altar or offering table in Kaha Wayi.
The Productive System, Community Governance, and Pasa Qulqa
The productive system controlled from the precinct was and still is a typical central Andean agro-pastoral system, with strong communal controls. Rapaz does not allow any private holding of land, only use by community permission. Warehousing in Pasa Qulqa was formerly another central element of that control. Other rules of communal control have persisted, primarily concerning pasture use and land use under sectoral fallowing. Although the community now controls production much more than it does distribution or consumption, lively ethnographic memories of the old system allow a fuller reconstruction of what was still, not so long ago, a redistributive economy reminiscent of sapçi.
Only members of the recognized peasant community have usufruct rights, apportioned annually. The member unit is the household, as represented by one inscribed member. Surface improvements (e.g., houses, walls) built by households are property and may be sold. Users may rent or delegate their use rights for finite periods, but the community retains authority to revoke or reassign them.
Villagers draw a fundamental distinction between the chacras (planted fields) of the comunero and those of the community. The traditional form of the principle was that in every production zone, the community reserved at least one portion of land resources as capital for its collective or ‘supra-household sphere of production’ (Guillet 1978: 89–105). The fruit of these reserved lands was reserved to support or improve capital goods in common use, such as irrigation canals, roads, pasture fences, lodging for visitors, meeting spaces, including the Kaha Wayi-Pasa Qulqa precinct itself, and, more recently, schools and vehicles. These communal sectors also underwrote ceremonial expenditures used on faenas or collective workdays. The same sectors also supported the rituals conducted by the contracted community ritualist, the patron saint’s days, and some other festivals. Proceeds of its sales backed self-defense, whether through litigation or through peasant ronda patrols. The common sector similarly financed travels by delegates of the community, hospitality to its guests, such as technicians, and emergency relief in case of famine or family hardship. Kaha Wayi administered and consecrated all these applications. Pasa Qulqa contained its products and controlled and disbursed what they required.
Pasa Qulqa had one other sapçi-like function: it was the seed repository. From harvest to sowing, Rapaz depended on it to store seed for the collective sector and, optionally, for households.
The application of the sapçi principle varied by production zone or vertical tier. It has been better preserved in some zones than in others.
Rapaz’s main wealth is high-altitude herding of sheep, cattle, and camelids. The pastoral sector occupies all of Rapaz’s extensive puna holdings. At present the larger share of the puna is available as open range to householders. However, the community as such reserves large puna tracts for animals held as collective endowment. It owns a herd of each species (llama and alpaca, sheep, cattle, goats). The community annually chooses an officer, the mayordomo or mayor, to manage community herds, and he in turn names one herder for each of the species. The Mayor together with his herders takes responsibility for rounding up, curing, mating, marking, milking, shearing, slaughtering, and keeping records of the herd, including records of cash transactions. Transactions involve animal transport, veterinary services, purchase or sale of stock, and so on. These officers also conduct the rites for animal fertility (Aranguren Paz 1975: 103–132; Flores Ochoa 1976: 115–134) at a subsidiary ritual house on the heights. Pasa Qulqa’s bottom or ground story is associated in popular memory with animals, buried animal sacrifices (qarakuna, ‘feeding,’ is still practiced there), stuffed trophy skins (puma, vicuña), and certain tame animals that reputedly lived in or near it. It may be that products from the herds were stored there.
As for agriculture, Rapaz also has a substantial band of lands for dry-farming at village-center altitude and partway down toward the Checras canyon. The regimen is at present an eight-sector raymi or sectoral fallowing system (Hervé, Genin, and Rivière 1994; Orlove and Godoy 1986), one sector of which was among the lands Rapaz won back from a latifundium during the agrarian conflicts and reform of the 1960s. Potatoes are planted in each sector (anqi) in its first year of use; oca, mashua, and ulluco in its second; and barley or quinoa in its third. Each is then fallowed five years, with stubble grazing permitted. Each comunero is allotted one or more plots in each sector, so each household uses at least eight plots. These assignments today occupy all the arable land.
But in the traditional order, at least one large parcel in each sector was reserved as Kumun chakra, or community field. Some recall that the ideal was two, perhaps corresponding to moieties. The community levied festive labor days for their plantings, cultivation, and harvests. The songs (juywa) and costumes for these occasions are well remembered. These occasions entailed strict control of attendance and of products. The harvest was counted while being bagged at the fields and counted again on delivery at Pasa Qulqa, where it was stored. Seed tubers were set aside from consumables and stored separately, in Pasa Qulqa’s third or uppermost story. Seed from Pasa Qulqa was sometimes made available to households. The main bulk of the crops was reserved for the community expenditures listed above. These expendables were stored in the second or middle story.
The lowest production zone is an irrigable band at the lower edge of Rapaz’s territory. Today it is used mostly for feedlots. A portion of this water-rich strip is reserved for communal use, so that cattle from the communal herd on the high pastures can eat an enriched diet before milking. The ritual complement of this irrigation sector was, as in many Andean villages, the canal-cleaning cycle yarqa aspiy, often translated as ‘water festival.’ Its climax, the welcoming of the new water, took place in Kaha Wayi. It is no longer practiced because PVC tubing obviates the need for cleaning.
In the 1970s and early 1980s Pasa Qulqa and Kaha Wayi were neglected, and at one point, in 1981, Pasa Qulqa was almost reassigned as a house site. Ruiz Estrada’s visits strengthened the will to defend them, at least as patrimony, and since the 1990s they have been jealously guarded.
The peasant community today elects the usual ‘constitutional’ hierarchy of officers, and practices nationally normative bookkeeping, taxpaying, and legal registry. At the same time it maintains within its own bosom a traditionalist inner government that continues to enforce the abovementioned regime of usufruct rights. This inner government is officially called the Comité Agropecuario (‘Agro-Pastoral Committee’), and the community vice president, in his capacity as kamatsikuq, functions as its head. The vice president-kamatsikuq thus forms the hinge between state-defined law and a traditional varayo-style hierarchy.
Members of the Agro-Pastoral Committee are known as balternos. They wear Andean formal clothes (brown poncho, coca bag, hat with floral ornament) to meet in Kaha Wayi or to attend assemblies where they represent Kaha Wayi. While they no longer administer kumun chakra nor Pasa Qulqa warehousing, they do still administer both rituals and rules for agriculture. They are responsible for patrolling the anqi sectors to monitor correct use, for impounding stray animals, for supervising the usufruct plot system, for consulting with the various NGO visitors on agricultural matters, and for supporting the ritualist in his communications with the deified mountains. They also monitored the present research. The hierarchy of balternos varies slowly to meet changing needs. The llavera, or guardian of the livestock pound, and the rematista responsible for collecting fines on impounded animals are usually women. They are today the only women with rights to sit inside Kaha Wayi, but elder women say that in their youth all balternos sat with their wives in session. Almost all of the oral-traditional information about Pasa Qulqa contained here comes from interviews of past balternos.
Pasa Qulqa and the Ritualism of Administration
Kaha Wayi and Pasa Qulqa are not thought of as human cultural structures within a natural landscape. Rather they themselves count within one unified hierarchy of sacred places, including both natural and cultural ones. When asked about the sacred places one must invoke, Rapacinos mention at least the peaks called Yara Wayna, Qumpir Wayna, Saqsar Wanka, Waqrunchu, and Pilaw Qayán. But in the same series they also mention as places requiring veneration the spring of Tukapia, located on a hill right over the village, and both Kaha Wayi and Pasa Qullka within the center of the village. It is as if the last three represented ego’s own neighborhood within the society of powerful beings. The nearby ritual points are places for communicating with still greater powers. Tukapia and the remembered ‘well’ of Pasa Qulqa are seen as oracles conveying the ‘answers’ of the greater beings. The ritual precinct is one’s own virtual mountain, one’s proximate and approachable superior amid the wider and more awesome kindred of the jirka (‘sacred mountains’).
This tendency is notable in terminology. The ritualist contracted to act in Kaha Wayi is called awkin or vendelhombre by his human constituency. But he himself says awkin or vendelhombre when speaking of still greater beings. No dichotomy of natural and supernatural is in play, but rather a single society within which rain, the harvest, and life itself are transactions. When transactions go poorly (i.e., in drought, epidemic, and so on) the ritualist makes heroic fasts within the precinct, followed by journeys to the glaciated heights where he demands Rapaz’s interests.
Within the old regime of the balternos, therefore, the range of activities that we usually call ‘administration’ is fused with ritual. In the interest of developing a culturally richer idea of recent and perhaps prehistoric storage process, it is worth seeing how administration and worship meshed. For this purpose, the ‘ethnographic present’ is a date when the storage as well as the governance functions of the precinct was still in force. Elders with detailed memory of past cargos say the former had ended by 1945, but do not profess to know whether Ruiz was right in estimating 1931 as the end date of for active recording by quipu. Because matters of ‘custom’ are not noted in the community archives, we cannot be more precise than to say toward the middle twentieth century.
Potato planting in the common fields took place in October, cultivation and hilling from mid-February to March, and harvesting in May or June after the rains. The other crops had offsets from this schedule and lesser ritual emphases.
As preparation for the harvest, in May or June, the kamatsikuq and his wife, who had the title of ispinsira, set up a ritual apparatus for storage. Ispinsira means ‘steward’ with female gender inflection. It is fairly common in Andean villages for women to hold roles of fiduciary trust. The ispinsira was an official, but at the same time a splendid ritual figure. Speaking Spanish, some villagers call her mujer divina, ‘divine woman.’ When appointed she prepared brightly colored luxury clothes and two decorated potato sacks of wool. Each bag would serve as a standard measure to hold one hundred kilograms of tubers.
The ispinsira was to kamatsikuq as female to male, and likewise Pasa Qulqa was to Kaha Wayi as female to male. Rapaz people speak of their storehouse as female, hence ‘lady Qulqa.’ She is the nurturing ‘mother’ of the community when her goods are disbursed. Pasa Qulqa was also the belly, as it were, that gave birth to infant crops in the form of seed tubers. In ritual context tubers are called ‘babies.’
In preparation for harvesting, the kamatsikuq would name two persons to be alqasaku, the controllers of the harvest. The title means ‘bag-lifter.’ As they measured in the ispinsira’s special bags, they moved it from the male sphere of agricultural governance to the female one of storage and distribution.
On the day when the villagers were called out to harvest, the kamatsikuq and ispinsira would be the first to arrive at Pasa Qulqa and unlock it. They arrived in flower-decked finery (the ispinsira always barefoot). They would bring along a second couple, the ritualist or awkin and his wife, who had the tile chukkas ‘old woman,’ not in a pejorative sense but implying, as does the male title, ‘elder, senior.’ At Pasa Qulqa the four of them sang the tinya or ‘drum song’ of the harvest and took coca lavishly. A tinya singer is photographed in Rivera Andia (2005: 135, fig. 11.6).
As the villagers set out for the day’s work, one bag-lifter went to the field, the other to the precinct, so as to measure the crop in the two special, and equal-size, bags at both departure and arrival so as to prevent pilferage in transit. While villagers harvested the fields reserved for Pasa Qulqa, they enjoyed deluxe pachamanka lunches prepared at community expense by the balternos. Pachamanka is the earth-cooked feast, a sort of Andean luau. It was the duty of the mayordomo (herd master) and his herders to bring the animal ingredients, namely, meat and cheese on alternate days. The harvesters rewarded the herders with a sack of potatoes as if to underline the complementarity of herding and agriculture.
Each villager was responsible for transporting a portion of the crop. The load borne by a villager was called winaychaniy ‘my fulfillment’ (Parker and Chávez Reyes 1976a: 195). On arriving at the precinct plaza, the bearer presented it to Pasa Qulqa’s bag-lifter for weighing and, perhaps in a past time, quipu recording. As the crop in the patio increased, so did the pitch of music, drinking, and celebration. Villagers remember the reception as being loud, joyous, and showy. The male-and-female motif was underlined. In whatever role, people took part as couples, and the occasion was taken as a celebration of fertility.
Once the whole crop was in Pasa Qulqa’s patio, the bag-lifters separated it into three main parts, plus a fourth symbolic one.
The first category was seed: about four hundred to seven hundred kilograms. The best tubers were set apart as seed for the coming year, and the really special ones (raywana) as seed for the kumun chakra. Seed was kept in the top or third floor, called the ispinsa, under special care of the ‘divine woman.’ The second was expendable reserves: the officers stored an amount of tubers sufficient to cover community expenses and the feeding of the villagers themselves when engaged in faenas. It was saved in the middle floor. The remainder left after these were measured formed the third part, for redistribution. It was shared out in equal portions to the member households. A fourth category was the small bulk of symbolic tubers called pirwa ‘granary.’ The word is interesting because it is an archaism and a south Andean—perhaps Inka?—usage (González Holguín 1952 [1608]: 287). The few largest, prettiest, and most interesting tubers (e.g., double-bodied ones or ones that produced multiple above-surface plants) would be hung as pirwa, keepsakes of the harvest. Pirwa hung from the rafters of the topmost floor, the seed deposit. They were considered fructifying talismans, and were kept until the harvest of the following year. The bottom floor, as noted above, was apparently used for animal products and processes, not crops. It was decorated with animal skins. It was (and still is) the locale for animal sacrifices.
After the harvest, a major meeting took place in the precinct on June 24, a date probably representing the summer solstice and the midyear accounting and planning session characteristic of communities in western central Peru. This session included the rimanakuy or ‘conversation,’ a planning session for the second semester. At this season the kamatsikuq and his wife, the ispinsira, began the cycle of redistributing Pasa Qulqa’s contents. If the year was bad, the kamatsikuq and ispinsira might periodically announce disbursements for consumption. Another sequence of redistribution took place in October, when the kamatsikuq and ispinsira gave villagers portions of seed tubers. They were small, about three handfuls per comer. The main part of the deposited seed would be planted in the community plots.
As the Huarochirí Quechua manuscript observes, harvests attract visitors. A part of the harvest would be given away. The harvest especially beckoned people from the heights: herders eager to exchange their products (wool, thread, ponchos, dried meat, and so on) for vegetable foodstuffs. Some of the community’s part of the harvest was available for bartering. It was considered important to acquire an animal for sacrifice in this fashion, and this ‘outsider’ animal was sacrificed in the bottom floor of Pasa Qulqa. A popular memory says that if visitors left their animals unprotected, the hosts could take them and sacrifice them without fear of reprisal, because sacrificial use was not considered theft. This interchange, with its note of antagonistic interdependence, calls to mind Duviols’s (1973: 153–191) study of huari-llacuaz or herder-farmer relationships in central Peru.
Songs for Raywana, “Mother of Food”
A mystique of safety, plenty, nurturance, and enjoyment clings to Pasa Qulqa. ‘Pasa Qulqa is food; Pasa Qulqa is nourishment. If we roof Pasa Qulqa well, there’ll be food,’ said one worker during the reroofing that took place during the present research. This remark referred to the building’s magical potency to foster food, not its storehouse function, which had already ceased. As the rituals sketched above suggest, this nourishing power is related to femaleness. The ispinsira, leader in sharing out food from Pasa Qulqa, was the highest female authority. Together with the wife of the ritualist, she furnished a womanly counterpart to the ordinarily male face of authority.
In rituals that have to do with food, especially those connected with the precinct, food is never called by commonplace terms but rather by a term that means the crop as a living, female being. The term is Raywana. Raywan and raywana have been commonly translated ‘mother of food’ from the days of Peru’s idolatry trials (1609 onward) up to the present. A goddess called Raywana occurs repeatedly in ethnographies of the departments of Huánuco, Cerro de Pasco, and Ancash. She is often represented by a male dancer disguised as the beautiful, womanly ‘mother of the crop,’ but in other communities she is a female dancer. Male campesinos dance alongside Mama Raywana’s court and adore her (Cardich 2000: 69–108; Domínguez Condezo 1982: 29–33). Mythology about her is well documented (Domínguez Condezo 2003: 92–95) and was already captured by extirpators of idolatry in Cajatambo at various places and dates in the decade of 1650 (Duviols et al. 2003: 241, 290–291, 313, 345, 427–428, 597–598, 604). Rapaz’s preferred potato variety is called Raywana. Raywana potatoes are black on the outside with bright pink flesh inside and a whitish halo under the skin.
Rostworowski (1983: 72–75) sums up the gist of Mama Raywana’s myth. Once the sole owner of food, Mama Raywana conceded the basic Andean foodstuffs to humanity only under cruel coercion. Humans persuaded certain birds to blind her by throwing fleas into her eyes. While Raywana was blinded, rubbing her eyes, humans kidnapped her baby Conopa and thus forced her to give over the cultigens. Conopa is an old term for small fetishes or talismans that stand ritually for crops or herds and foster them. So Raywana is conceived of as an abundant mother, but one with a potential grudge. She must be cultivated with tact as well as with love.
At Kaha Wayi, one of the most crucial acts of the year is the transmission of office to new balternos at New Year. It is ritualized as an encounter with Raywana: an encounter that is at once technical and ritual. Teams of outgoing and incoming officers visit the fields in use and bring back fresh half-grown plants, which are called raywanes (see Figure 8.6). They reported on the health of the emerging crop. Then they deposited these crop tokens or raywanes under the altar to receive honors during a nighttime ritual. The raywan in Kaha Wayi functions as a talisman for the crops in the same way that ilas function as animal talismans. In older practice the raywanes were actually planted inside Kaha Wayi. Sprouting in darkness, they produced a ghostly, stalky indoor counterpart to the planted field.
The sentiments that attach to the growing field, a young incarnation of Mama Raywana, become poignantly clear in a tinya or drum song sung on the occasion of planting the kumun chakra. In prosody and music it belongs to a common central Peruvian style, consisting of semantic couplets for the most part (Mannheim 1998). In the Rapaz area, but not elsewhere, each line is sung with a marked caesura at mid-strophe.
Figure 8.6 Raywan entrego: village officials bring crop tokens to Kaha Wayi, January 2, 2004.
The emotional background to the lyrics of planting songs is the feeling that human relationships with fields and crops are touched with guilt. As the myth says, agriculture bears some likeness to injury and theft. The words appeal to Raywana to forgive the injury people will cause her with the stab of the digging blade, so that she can later on wear the glorious green of a mature crop. It assures her that her babies, the tubers, will be lovingly treated when the harvesters and bag-lifters come to take them to Pasa Qulqa. The song was recorded by Teodosio Falcon, an accomplished retired ritualist.
Salomon discussed both the Quechua and a neighbor’s Spanish rendering with bilinguals, but did not in that session work with a linguist to produce exact transcription or translation. The rough English rendering or paraphrase that follows is at least loose, and is intended only to suggest the content of the song. Proper linguistic treatment of Rapaz songs will appear in the forthcoming article ‘El arte verbal en las canciones rituales quechuas de Rapaz,’ by Luis Andrade Ciudad.
Potato plot, food mother, now is the time
The digging blade lodges in you
Mother of food, don’t forbid this,
That it now lodges in you,
For it was foretold, this lodging of the blade,
In front of everyone big and small.
Mother, no, don’t say no
Don’t say no to the growing shoot.
Soon your leaves will dance like wild grass on the mountain,
Though beasts stray through you, you’ll dance and dance,
When the villagers are to arrive in you,
When the villagers are to be seen in you.
You’ll spread yourself out like algae on water,
You’ll be smooth as algae on mountain lagoons,
Mother of food, little mountain of plenty,
You’ll spread yourself smoothly as algae on water,
Your leaves will wave like grass on the heights.
Long live, long live, the master of crops
Long live, long live, the master of herds!
How many hundred-pound sacks will you give?
With how many hundred-pound sacks will you load them?
You’ve already been chosen, you’re already called,
Young guy, watchman, you’re already named.
And old man, officer, you keep working
Old man, officer, you dig too.
We’ll plant the babies, we’ll lay them in
We’ll plant the babies, we’ll put them in place.
Let not one soul ever speak against it.
Field master, herd master, when you store the crop
You’ll lay up dozens of dozens of hundred-pound sacks
Dozens of dozens you’ll put in place.
Even if worms come, even if ice comes,
Even if worms come, even if ice comes,
[Field master] will fi ght off the freeze from the heights,
It is he who will beat back the ice.
The master of crops, he will defend
The field’s fruits from worms in the soil,
To serve your babies for his own babies.
Long live, long live, the master of herds
Long live, long live the master of crops.
He will defend you for your babies,
He will put the worms to rout,
He will beat back the freeze from the heights,
He will protect from the stalking chill,
From the frost that descends, and the fungus that kills.
This poem bears some commentary. Like many Rapaz tinyas, it is a two-part poem, double in its address. It first addresses the nonhuman beloved (Raywana at the time of planting) with praises and promises. Then it addresses the human attendants of the beloved, exhorting them to make good their promises. There is an underlying metaphor of marriage: the injury a groom does his bride by penetrating her is compensated for in the glory of her fertility.
This promise of glory is expressed from the viewpoint of the predominantly puna-oriented Rapacinos. The high slopes with their icy lakes and endless waving grasses seem to lowlanders wild and shelterless, but to mountain herders they are the paragon of beauty. Agriculture, in their eyes, emulates the heights by smoothing and dressing the rocky, muddy hillside to make it more like the undulating puna. If the field allows the potato plants to grow, she will be clothed as beautifully as the high slopes. Raywana is told that her foliage will ‘dance,’ that is, wave gracefully, using the verb waylay ‘to be leafy, verdant.’ Waylapa is a high-altitude plant known for this quality and for its lovely flower. In the complementary strophe, Raywana is told that her leaves will ripple like the algae (kushuru, Nostoc) on the high puna lakes. Algae are admired for their graceful motion, their greenness, and their fresh taste. From her green maturity, Raywana will have babies, the crop of potatoes. When these babies leave their mother, Pasa Qulqa will become their home. There they will be valued and protected.
The human addressee translated as ‘field master’ in the English rendering is the kamatsikuq (an Inka and colonial Quechua title) today equated with community vice president. The closing lines, about his promise to defend the mother of food against freezes and plagues, refer not only to mobilizing community work but also to the kamatsikuq’s alliance with his ritualist. Together they must repel danger, even to the extreme of upbraiding and fighting the mountain jirka should they torment Raywana by sending hail or strong wind. ‘Herd master’ refers to the mayordomo. ‘Bag-lifter’ is the alqasaku discussed above. The lines about laying in sacks refer proleptically to putting them on straw beds in Pasa Qulqa.
Five or six months later, when actually harvesting and bringing the crop to Pasa Qulqa, a different tinya was sung. This example was also performed by Teodosio Falcón. Like the October example, it is a love song to Raywana. However, in June, she is no longer praised as tender bride but as mature and nourishing mother. As with the foregoing verses, the following is merely a suggestive rendering, and readers are referred to the forthcoming work of Andrade Ciudad for a linguistic version.
Little Mother of Food, little mountain of plenty
Now it’s time, now we’ll carry you up
To Kaha Wayi, to Pasa Qulqa.
With the herd master, with the field master—
In their presence we’ll put you away,
In the presence of old and young.
Let not one person say ‘No’;
Let not one person say, ‘I can’t.’
For the year we’ve guarded you;
For the year we’ve put you away.
You will breast-feed us, old and young;
Pasa Qulqa, you’ll be our mother.
And now you’re already put in place
In the presence of old and young.
Long live, long live the master of herds.
Long live, long live the mistress of crops,
Long live, long live the master of crops,
And long live the man who takes the lead.
Well now, man, stand and talk to us,
Well now, man, stand and tell us something.
The form of this song, with its double address to Raywana and then to her human attendants, is like the first. The central metaphor, of course, is Raywana’s maturation and passage from the planted plot toPasaQulqa. Pasa Qulqa manifests Raywana as the nursing motherwho willfeedthe community at her breast by disbursements from the stores. The reference to Kaha Wayi concerns the dedication of the new harvest in the ritual chamber, that is, honors to the crop token Raywan that was taken inside at New Year and that represents the crop in its gestation. ‘Mistress of crops’ translates as ispinsira and alludes to her centrality as the personification of food supply. As noted above the herd master or mayordomo, who supplied animal products to the harvesters and who would oversee the animal sacrifice at the end of the storage work, is also honored. The song ends with an invitation to the authorities asking them to declare the beginning of the redistributive phase.
Conclusions
The archaeological and ethnohistoric record gives many reasons to see cycles of storage and redistributive disbursement as the very pulse of Andean political economy. These ancient records, however, are generally bare of the verbal and ritual culture that performatively guided people through these cycles. Exceptionally, Rapaz still practiced redistribution, ritual and all, through an active communal storehouse and Andean ritual precinct well into the twentieth century. These institutions resemble the colonialera sapçi or communal storehouse as described (or perhaps prescribed) by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala at the start of the seventeenth century. In Rapaz, we can glimpse through material culture and popular memory an integral system of agro-pastoral control, including its ritual nexus.
Rapaz in the early twentieth century had a supra-household sphere of exchange based on separate endowments of pastoral land and on ‘community fields’ in each of the agricultural sectors. From these came the consumable crops stored in Pasa Qulqa’s middle floor, the seed crops in its upper floor, and the animal goods in its lower floor. A hierarchy of annual agricultural officials controlled this sector ritual largely from the complementary ritual building, Kaha Wayi. A parallel hierarchy of herding officials also operated at cardinal dates inside the precinct. From the economic point of view, their function was to enforce correct sectoral fallowing and assign plots, to mobilize collective workdays (minka, faena) applied to the community lots, to feed those mobilized, and at harvesttime to organize the measurement, transport, storage, and gradual redistribution of the products. It is possible, but not certain, that the collection of patrimonial quipus held in Kaha Wayi contained the record of services villagers rendered to the supra-household sphere. In modern communal systems generally, documents of equitable contribution are crucial to villagers’ willingness to comply.
In the pastoral sector much of the old system is still in effect. The community hall (local) still functions as storehouse of animal products, and on holidays the community authority still sponsors meat feasts. In the agricultural sector, communal controls remain in force, but the common fields have been partitioned to supply additional household usufructs. This change liquidated the storage and tuber-redistribution system, leaving Pasa Qulqa empty of crops.
The local understanding of this regimen was economic, but economic action was itself seen as fused with ritual presentation. The entire productive environment was construed as a hierarchy of living beings, with single relational terms connecting villagers to higher-ranking humans, and humans to higher-ranking beings, such as the sacred precinct and the nearby oracle places. These in turn had as their superiors the great deified mountains. Any actor spoke of superiors in the idiom of seniority, using gender-bound relational terms. The villagers speak of superior officers, notably their contracted ritualist, as awkin, meaning ‘elder, old man’ (Parker and Chavez Reyes 1976a: 40) or vendelhombre (bien del hombre, ‘human welfare,’ in both Spanish and Quechua). But the ritualist in turn speaks of the superhuman beings to whom he is supplicant with the same terms. When the relation is female-focused, as in the case of the ritualist’s wife, one uses the corresponding female term chakwas (Parker and Chavez Reyes 1976a: 50). Awkin and chakwas do not imply seniority in descent, for which there exist separate, generational terms (Carranza Romero 2003: 248). They do, however, imply power, including the power to give or withhold the conditions of growth. So descent depends on awkin and chakwas.
Powerful senior beings are imagined in variable degrees as strict and demanding, even punishing. The more senior the power one approaches, the more danger is involved. A great ritualist is a veritable hero of the punas, because he roams the icy heights in states of ritual asceticism to face the mountains themselves. Such relations involve formal obeisance. But the powers also respect valor. Every power owes beneficence if served well. When relations turn bad, humans may defy them or fight.
The characteristic transaction with awkin/chakwas beings involves three requisites: token, invocation, and sacrifice. One must put into the power’s possession something that that stands as token for the good that is needed. For animals the tokens are amulets (ila), and for crops consecrated plants (raywan). As tokens receive the benison of power, the things they stand for will flourish. One must invoke the power in ritual speech, and if the occasion is public, with ritual songs (juywa, tinya). Speech is more confidential, pragmatic, and persuasive, while songs are more stereotyped, artful, celebratory, and public. Speech, the confidential medium, is answered with an oracle. Sacrifice is the gift given as goodwill or payment (voluntad, pago) for the benison. The ritual regimen that leads and regulates actual labor in the supra-house- hold sphere is a schedule of movements by the authorities to the economic sites where tokens are placed, powers invoked, and sacrifices given.
Within this general scheme, the logistics of planting, harvesting, and storing/redistributing the common crop form one of three concurrent cycles (the others being herding and irrigation). The agricultural cycle is distinctive for its female symbolism. The planting segment of the cycle (October) involved the invocation and feeding of the chakra (i.e., soil plus plants) as a sacred bride, Mama Raywana, ‘Mother of Food.’ Her fresh plants then became the tokens for the second segment, which is still practiced. It is the closed, nocturnal New Year ritual, following the main ‘town meeting’ at the public hall. At this time the outgoing officers hand off the governance of the commons to the incoming ones by jointly inspecting and installing in Kaha Wayi consecrated crop tokens (raywan). The invocations of and sacrifices for the precinct itself and for the rain-owning mountains are still practiced on this occasion. In the full older order, five or six months later, at harvesttime, the authorities led the villagers to the mature fields and then back to Pasa Qulqa for measurement, deposit, and partial redistribution of the crop. This episode involved the dedication of tokens in the form of pirwa, distinctive tubers taken as amulets of the stored (seed, reserve) crop. They were installed in Pasa Qulqa amid invocations that figured her as a female divinity, whose ‘breast’ would feed the village through the year. A major sacrifice, apparently including flesh, was given Pasa Qulqa at this time.
Considered as a symbolic drama, the Pasa Qulqa round seems to be a figuration of economy as female domesticity from nubile to motherly state, and finally into authoritative old age as the agricultural year wanes. (Long-stored wrinkly potatoes eaten toward the end of the cycle are called chakwas, ‘female elder.’) If the common-field agricultural economy figured as the female economy, what was the male complement? The common-herd pastoral economy is the likely answer. Kaha Wayi, the locale from which both sectors were directed, housed tokens from both. Indeed the interior of Kaha Wayi could be interpreted as a reunion of the tokens responsible for the varied sectors of the common livelihood. The symbolic control effected upon their progress by their rites within Kaha Wayi went together with practical management of their growth from the same locale.
While Rapaz’s integrated ritual and political-economic management of a crop seems to have prehispanic, even pre-Inka, antecedents, ethnographic analogy requires nuance. Inka deposits were located on the slopes immediately outside settlements, not in their center as in Rapaz and Tupicocha. And Inka deposits were architecturally different, consisting of numerous freestanding cells (D’Altroy 2002: 281) whose design hardly resembles Pasa Qulqa. Although Pasa Qulqa is sometimes called tambo, ‘way station,’ it does not architecturally resemble any of the archaeologically known storehouses at Inka way stations or tampu (Hyslop 1984: 289–292). Evidently some major changes, probably during colonial times, overhauled storage design. But in functional terms, continuity is not out of the question. A storage institution for intracommunal use would parallel rather than contradict the Inka model. Whether it pre- or postdated the latter, we cannot yet say.
As for the integration of ceremonial with economic work to form an axis of governance, the most striking thing about the Rapaz case is its degree of centralization. Most of the particular ritual modules and verbal genres noted here have counterparts in other Andean places. What is exceptional is to find them articulated in a central place with a building of their own. Kaha Wayi is the only functioning Andean temple of which the authors are aware.
The high centralization of Rapaz leads one to think that over some historical trajectory this village was able either to preserve or reconstruct templelike forms of worship. These include not only rituals proper but a ritually framed system of control over collectively held production and assets. The study of these practices may open an interesting view of postInka Andean authority in its Andean functions, literally above and beyond the colonial institutions through which we ordinarily know them.
Notes
1. The authors cordially thank the organizations that supported research: the National Science Foundation under grant no. 0453965, the Fulbright-Hayes Commission of Peru, Fundación Telefónica del Perú, Instituto Nacional de Cul- tura of Peru, and the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. We thank Centro Mallqui (Hilo, Peru) for participation by its staff. Above all we want to thank our hosts, the Comunidad Campesina San Cristóbal de Rapaz. (Fellow collaborators were Carrie Brezine, Luiís Andrade Ciudad, Edgar Centeno Farfán, Rosa Choque G., Rosalía Choque G., and Renata Peters.)
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