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Journal of Social Archaeology ARTICLE

Copyright © 2005 SAGE Publications (www.sagepublications.com)


ISSN 1469-6053 Vol 5(3): 383–408 DOI: 10.1177/1469605305057585

Dominant narratives, social violence and the


practice of Bolivian archaeology
DAVID KOJAN
Department of Anthropology, San Francisco State University, USA

DANTE ANGELO
Department of Cultural and Social Anthropology, Stanford University, USA

ABSTRACT
Recent social violence in Bolivia is examined in the context of that
country’s dominant historical narratives. The practice of archaeology in
Bolivia is intimately tied to the development of nationalism and a
history of colonialism. While the history of Bolivian archaeology has
seen multiple interpretations of the past, the dominant voices have
consistently emphasized understandings of the past that legitimize and
bolster Bolivian nationalism and contemporary social politics. In
particular, the Altiplano site of Tiwanaku has been formulated as a locus
of Bolivian national patrimony, while other regions have been margin-
alized as ‘peripheries’ or ‘frontiers’. This understanding of history is not
simply a matter of debate for archaeologists, but has very real con-
sequences in present-day geopolitics and the lives of individuals.

KEY WORDS
historical narratives ● nationalism ● politics of archaeology ● South
American archaeology ● Tiwanaku

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■ INTRODUCTION

In October 2003, protesters marched in the streets in La Paz and elsewhere


in Bolivia, eventually leading to the forced resignation of the country’s
president. Nearly 100 protesters were killed, and many more injured by the
Bolivian police and military. The immediate cause of the protests was the
government’s plan to export natural gas to the USA, but such conflicts,
often violent ones, are common occurrences in Bolivia. Perhaps the most
remarkable aspect of these recent demonstrations, in contrast to other such
events in Bolivia, was that they made headlines in the USA and the rest of
the world, forcing the resignation of the president.
At the time, the American press made much of the fact that the protest-
ers who brought the government to its knees were mostly Indians, many of
them poor miners and coca-farmers who traveled from rural areas of
Bolivia to make their voices heard.1 Now, 2 years later, the story of Bolivia’s
social violence has dropped out of any mention in mainstream international
press, though it is still very much part of daily life in the country.
In Bolivia, 75 percent of the population is Indian, though the political
and economic power of the country rests squarely in the hands of the
minority white and mestizo urban elites. But despite this fundamental
demographic reality of Bolivian society, there seemed to be a sense of
surprise on the part of the news media, the multinational corporations
involved in the gas conflict and even the Bolivian government officials, that
these Indians, whose voices are not commonly heard in the affairs of
national and international politics, could effect such dramatic change. It was
as if these protesters were emerging out the depths of history, directly onto
the streets of La Paz.
Since the early days of colonialism in western South America, when a
small number of Spanish conquistadores were able to subdue and later
control the lives of the majority Indian population, racial politics in this part
of the world have been of central concern. And as with other parts of the
world, one of the central strategies of colonial control has been the creation,
manipulation and dissemination of historical narratives. Archaeology, as an
important interlocutor of Bolivian history, has played a central role in nego-
tiating this fundamental, and in many ways defining, aspect of Bolivian
history and society.
Discourses of colonialism, indigenousness, violence, race and cultural
evolutionism are all brought to bear in these conflicts. When we are able to
observe, as in the recent events in Bolivia, narratives of history playing out
in the lives and deaths in the contemporary world, it becomes evident that
archaeological interpretations are far from esoteric academic debates about
the deep past, but are rather very present politically and emotionally
charged issues. In this sense, we argue that understandings of the past need
to be seen as part of the wider political, social and economic context in
which archaeological discourses and research are produced.
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 385

This article explores the recent violence and social upheaval in Bolivia
in relation to the historical narratives that are employed by archaeologists
and that, in many ways, define Bolivia as a nation. In particular, we examine
the archaeological site of Tiwanaku, which has become the symbolic and
literal focal point of the dominant narrative of Bolivian history. We will look
at the role Tiwanaku has played in the overlapping narratives of colonial-
ism, nationalism and archaeological research. We will also present a reading
of alternative historical evidence that can help us better understand the
ongoing violence in Bolivian society, and which points to the importance of
recognizing and creating space for multiple understandings of the past to
emerge.

■ THE NATIONALIST NARRATIVE OF TIWANAKU

By any measure, Tiwanaku is an important archaeological site. Located on


the Bolivian Altiplano at an elevation of almost 13,000 feet above sea level,
it is physically impressive both in the large area that it covers and in the
scale of the structures that comprise it (Figure 1). It is argued from arti-
factual evidence that the site was part of a large sphere of influence that
ranged from the Pacific coast of southern Peru to the southern Altiplano
of Bolivia (Albarracín-Jordán, 1996a, 1996b; Janusek, 2002b; Kolata, 1993,
1996; Vranich, 1999). The early date of its fluorescence – approximately 500
AD, or nearly 1000 years before the rise of the Inca Empire and the arrival
of the Spanish conquistadores – further marks the site’s importance.
The archaeological site of Tiwanaku is primarily composed of a variety
of monumental structures, including a large constructed pyramid known as
the Akapana, a large raised platform adjacent to a sunken temple, and
another massive raised structure called Pumapunku. The central part of the
site and the section most photographed and visited by tourists is actually a
‘reconstruction’ of dubious fidelity that was undertaken by the Bolivian
government in the 1960s under the direction of Carlos Ponce Sanginés. This
monumental portion of the site was surrounded by many smaller structures
that may have housed the thousands of permanent or transient residents
who once occupied the site (Kolata, 1996). The archaeological site of
Tiwanaku is located next to the modern town of Tiwanaku and other
modern villages scattered throughout the valley.
At least since the arrival of the Inca into the southern Titicaca Basin in
the fifteenth century, the decaying site of Tiwanaku has been of interest to
students of the past. The Inca rulers appropriated the symbol of Tiwanaku,
along with other large sites, as a primordial birthplace of their own creator
deity, Viracocha (Urton, 1999). By the early twentieth century, Tiwanaku
had become a focus of the young field of archaeology. Adolf Bandelier
(1911), Arthur Posnansky and Shearer (1945) and Wendell Bennett (1934,
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Figure 1 Gateway at cemetery – rear view (from Squier, 1867)

1936) conducted work at the site and became the early authors of the
archaeological narrative of Bolivia.
As with archaeological narratives around the world, the early studies of
Tiwanaku were closely linked with the history of European colonialism.
The cultural evolutionist theories that framed early archaeological narra-
tives were in large part created as explanations and legitimizations of the
control of people and resources in the European colonies (Lyons and
Papadopoulos, 2002; Mamani, 1996; Pratt, 1992). Monumental sites like
Tiwanaku came to be seen as physical evidence of the progress of history,
as increasingly complex and hierarchical civilizations replaced their more
primitive antecedents – the implication being that European colonial
powers were the inheritors of this lineage of progress and domination that
derives from the natural flow of history (Posnanksy, 1957). This view
became further cemented with the publication of Julian Steward’s (1948)
Handbook of South American Indians (Bennett, 1946), a magnum opus of
neo-evolutionary anthropology that squarely places Tiwanaku as a key
milestone in the development and advancement of Andean civilization.
In many ways, however, Steward’s overarching work merely formalized
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 387

a narrative that had been under development since the early days of
Spanish colonialism. As a kind of microcosm of the colonial world, the early
missionaries, mercenaries and administrators mapped a political geography
onto the South American landscape in which the central Andes and Pacific
Coast were seen as a region of rapid cultural advancement associated with
monumentality and social stratification, at the expense of other regions that
were seen as culturally primitive, historically stagnated, and closely tied to
the natural world (Kojan, 2002; Pagden, 1982). In spite of other interpre-
tive frameworks, as the culture historical approach used by Ibarra Grasso
(1953), Stig Ryden (1947) and others, such narratives of domination persist
right up into the present scholarship, only strengthened by the consolida-
tion of positivist and evolutionary frameworks. Current archaeological
debates about the cultural history of the Amazonian lowlands, for example,
continue to focus on the ability (or inability) of people to form ‘complex’
societies in the tropical forest (Heckenberger et al., 2001; Meggers 1971,
2001). Stanish (2001: 41) succinctly captures the conventional wisdom about
the central Andes in his description of this as a ‘culturally precocious
region’, making a clear reference to an evolutionary model of culture.
The contemporary upshot of these longstanding historical narratives is
that Andean archaeology has become synonymous with the study of the
development and dynamics of the state. In Bolivia, this focus on the state
has become almost exclusively targeted at the site of Tiwanaku, especially
in the wake of nationalist ideology following the social revolution of 1952.
Most of the major archaeological research projects conducted in Bolivia are
contextualized in relation to Tiwanaku – they are investigating the site itself,
looking at the development of the ‘Tiwanaku state’ in the Titicaca Basin,
or the impact of Tiwanaku across other parts of the Andes. Until quite
recently, very few archaeological projects were conducted in Bolivia that
were not explicitly directed at understanding some aspect of the Tiwanaku
state.
Aymara historian Carlos Mamani (1996) insightfully argues that the
mestizo elites of Bolivia realized quite early on in their nation-building
efforts that Tiwanaku provided a local symbol to reinforce the notion of a
national patrimony. Tiwanaku, with its proximity to the capital city of La
Paz, its monumental scale, its antiquity, and its remarkable assemblage of
large statuary and decorative artifacts make the site seem eerily pre-
ordained to serve the role of a national symbol. Although today the most
prominent parts of Tiwanaku are recent (and not very faithful) construc-
tions designed by archaeologists, the site now provides an ideal embodi-
ment of Bolivia’s narrative of indigenous heritage.
We recognize that this focus on the Tiwanaku state has, without question,
produced some important archaeological research. From this work, we
know a great deal about, for example, the socioeconomic formation and
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political integration of the Tiwanaku state (Albarracín-Jordán, 1996a,


1996b; Janusek, 1994, 2002b; Kolata, 1993, 1996), the dynamics of population
and community growth and intensification (Albarracín-Jordán, 1996a;
Bandy, 2001; Hastorf, 1999; Hastorf et al., 2001), agricultural production
(Erickson, 1993, 2000; Hastorf, 1999; Kolata, 1989, 1993, 1996), monumen-
tality (Protzen and Nair, 2000; Vranich, 1999), as well as many other subjects
of importance. Following Ponce’s work at Tiwanaku, many scholars have
contributed to our understanding of the social, political and economic struc-
ture of the site (Albarracín-Jordán, 1996a, 1996b; Erickson, 2000; Kolata
et al., 2000; Stanish, 2001). While some archaeologists have argued that
Tiwanaku should be seen as a politically hierarchical state, other research
points to a more complex and less centralized form of social, political,
economic and ideological organization (Albarracín-Jordán, 1996a; Janusek,
2004). Despite much recent discussion of multiculturalism and diversity in
relation to the development of Tiwanaku, most of these interpretive models
revolve around an explicitly cultural evolutionary reading of history that
prioritizes state development.
We would argue that the position that Tiwanaku occupies in both these
archaeological narratives as well as in the national consciousness of Bolivia
goes far beyond its architectural or artifactual importance. Tiwanaku has
come to symbolize and embody the evolutionary rise of ‘complex societies’
that are seen as emerging out of the primordial depths of Andean history,
and has ultimately come to play a key role in the creation of Bolivia’s
national patrimony.2
The symbolic imagery of Tiwanaku as the primordial embodiment of the
Bolivian state is ubiquitous both within archaeological narratives, as well
as in public life. The image of the Gateway of the Sun, with its distinctive
central figure, can be seen on the 200 Boliviano note, on the front of govern-
ment offices and banks, as well as on less official public spaces of corner
stores, tailors, internet cafes and butchers. Many of the largest and best-
preserved statuary from Tiwanaku were transported the 60 km to the
capital of La Paz and placed in one of the most prominent squares of
the city – directly across from that other potent symbol of national pride,
the football stadium.
The construction of this sense of nationalist history is closely tied to the
concept of the indigenous – a presence which is hard to ignore given
Bolivia’s 75 percent majority Indian population. As with other Latin
American countries with sizable Indian populations, Bolivian nationalism
has incorporated and appropriated the concept of the indigenous for its
own aims (Almaraz, 1967, 1969; Rivera, 1987). In the nationalist rhetoric of
the country, particularly following the 1952 land reform, Bolivia was formed
as a modern, multicultural, multiracial union that embraces the diversity of
its past and present. In this formulation, the history of one segment of its
population can be proudly shared by all Bolivian citizens. Thus, the
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 389

pre-Hispanic history of the country is seen not as the heritage of the


majority Indian population, but as the national patrimony of the country as
a whole.
This project of homogeneity essentially places the majority Indian popu-
lation of Bolivia as a kind of historical remnant from a remote past that is
no longer theirs (Mamani, 1996). In this national narrative, there is little
room for the cultural persistence and the independent voice demonstrated,
for example, by the October uprisings. The presence of poor, rural Indians,
among others, educated about the international politics and economics of
the policies of globalization, and demanding that their voices be heard and
accounted for in the twenty-first century, is simply incompatible with this
homogenizing narrative. The image preferred by the supporters of Bolivia’s
nationalist narrative is that of the winter solstice celebration at Tiwanaku
in which Indians, mestizos and tourists perform an invented ‘ancient’
Aymara ceremony complete with royal processions, public oration and
other rituals more rooted in Bolivian nationalist practice than in the poorly
understood ritual life of Tiwanaku 1000 years ago.
These rituals are carried out within the imaginative ‘reconstructions’ of
Tiwanaku implemented in the 1950s and 1960s by Carlos Ponce Sanginés,
an avowed nationalist who views archaeology as an important tool in
developing a sense of national pride for Bolivia.

The fact cannot be ignored by anybody that the indigenous farmers of


Bolivia, Peru and Mexico are connected to the high pre-Hispanic cultures. In
spite of the changes that have occurred since the conquest, many
characteristics have persisted. Despite the intense introduction of foreign
patterns, a pre-Columbian cultural nucleus remains solid as a traditional
continuity. For that reason, the archaeologist of the countries of native
ancestry must decipher to the deepest roots of the nation and the foundation
for nationhood. (Ponce Sanginés, 1978: 5–6)

Tiwanaku is now seen largely as a symbol of Bolivia’s monumental and


primordial roots, rather than a place where long ago people (Indians, to be
specific) lived out their lives, and continue to do so. In this sense, the
physical site of Tiwanaku is constantly being naturalized, reproduced and
reaffirmed in contemporary Bolivia.

■ ALTERNATIVE NARRATIVES

One of the implications of the narrow focus on the site of Tiwanaku is that
other parts of the country are somehow devoid of the same rich archaeo-
logical heritage. From a casual, or even a careful examination of Bolivian
archaeology, one might reasonably be left with the understanding that its
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390 Journal of Social Archaeology 5(3)

deep history is synonymous with the history of Tiwanaku (indeed, we will


ultimately argue that this is a specifically constructed understanding). But
such a perspective ignores the existence of significant archaeological
evidence not directly associated with Tiwanaku (Angelo, 1999; Brocking-
ton et al., 1995; Erickson, 1995, 1997; Kojan, 2002; Lecoq, 2001; Mamani,
1996; Nielsen, 2001, 2002; Rivera et al., 1993).
It is only when we begin to look beyond the dominant, Tiwanaku-
centered narrative that archaeological research becomes relevant to our
understanding of the contemporary social upheaval and violence, such as
that seen last year in Bolivia. We see these ‘alternative’ narratives not as
replacements for the focus on Tiwanaku, but as additions to it. These narra-
tives provide a more complex, even a more contradictory reading of
Bolivia’s past rather than a more parsimonious one.
The archaeology of other regions of Bolivia has been all but ignored by
Bolivian and foreign archaeologists alike. Readings of a more diverse (and
complex) past such as those provided by scholars working in other regions
such as the eastern and southern valleys (Byrne, 1981; Ibarra Grasso, 1953,
1960) were treated with contempt or assimilated into the dominant under-
standing of the past. Such histories have been relegated to the status of
‘peripheral’ or ‘frontier’ zones as compared with the Tiwanaku ‘center’. For
example, since the early days of Bolivian archaeology (Bennett, 1936), it
has been clear that other regions, such as the eastern and southern Andes
and the western Amazonian uplands, contain significant evidence of pre-
Hispanic occupation, and this evidence has only been strengthened in the
intervening years (Brockington et al., 1995; Erickson, 1995, 1997; Kojan,
2002; Ponce Sanginés, 1957).3 Recent research indicates that the eastern
Andes was occupied from at least the early Formative period (approxi-
mately 2000 BC) (Brockington et al., 1995) right up to the arrival of the
Inca (Janusek, 2002a) and later the Spanish (Klein, 1993; Larson, 1988).
Evidence from paleoethnobotanical studies indicates that many of the
earliest cultigens grown in the Andes and the Pacific coast, such as two
species of bean (Phaseolus vulgaris and P. luantus), chile peppers
(Capsicum spp.), sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas), manioc (Manihot escu-
lenta) and Canna edulis were likely domesticated in the eastern Andean
foothills and western Amazon (Pickersgill, 1969; Pearsall, 1992: 177). There
is good ethnohistoric documentation (Assadourian, 1995; Oberem, 1974)
and iconographic evidence from other parts of the Andes (Lathrap, 1973)
that suggests there was a long-term pattern of trade and exchange between
the Andes and the Amazonian lowlands, which by geographic necessity
would have made the eastern and southern Andes an important trade route
(Angelo and Capriles, 2000). Yet, the story of this region’s past remains well
outside the canon of Bolivian history.
When we begin to interrogate this peripheral position further, we see that
this understanding of regions such as the eastern and southern Andes was
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 391

quite deliberately manufactured. While the former is the main cocoa-


growing region of the Andes, and the latter has been a main source of
mineral resources, both regions have been conceptualized as empty frontier
zones.4 In order to gain control of these regions the Spanish Crown, follow-
ing on the heels of population displacements and social realignment enacted
by the Inca (D’Altroy, 2001), implemented a program of forceful relocation
of the original occupants of this region – many of whom were sent to work
in the infamous silver mines of Potosí – and brought in foreign laborers from
other parts of the Andes and the Amazonian lowlands (Klein, 1993; Larson,
1988; and see Werlich, 1968 for a Peruvian study).5 In this sense the colonial
powers were recreating, through discursive practice, some of the conceptual
models with which they had come to understand Andean societies, and
which continue to be used by scholars, as part of an essentialist construction
of the Andino (Van Buren, 1996).
Of all of the encomiendas, the large estates granted to the Spanish
conquistadores, those of the coca-producing eastern Andes were by far the
most profitable (Klein, 1993). By forcibly removing the local inhabitants
and thereby detaching the workers of the coca plantations from a sense of
ownership, the colonial elites were able to very efficiently skim the profits
from the eastern Andes for their own benefit. This pattern of resource
exploitation in the eastern Andes is an ongoing one, and has been one of
the chief complaints of the recent ‘anti-globalization’ protests in Bolivia.
We can see in this colonial history of regions like the eastern and
southern Andes the deliberate construction of a ‘marginal’ or ‘empty’ space
– much as the American West was constructed as an empty space to be
colonized and exploited by the expanding dominant American society
(Klein, 1997). In this sense, the archaeological narratives that inform our
current understandings of Bolivia have been significantly derived from, and
actively created by, the colonial powers beginning in the sixteenth century.
Different parts of the country that do not fall within the focus of the
Bolivian nation-state, or its ruling elites, have been displaced to a marginal
status and brought into a historical system derived from an evolutionary
paradigm with its center at Tiwanaku (Angelo, 1999).
Archaeological and ethnohistoric investigations away from the Tiwanaku
‘core’ have without doubt contributed to our understanding of the histories
of other regions, not only in Bolivia (Julien, 1978; Murra, 1975; Tarragó,
1977). However, many of these works reproduce the historical construction
that defines peripheries and marginal regions through archaeological
discourse, presenting these places and their inhabitants as the outcome of
the evolutionary process of the rise and decline of the Tiwanaku state
(Bandy, 2001; Kolata, 1993; Ponce Sanginés, 1978). As seen in the recent
protests in Bolivia, this conceptualization ultimately supports the represen-
tation of these regions as sources of extractable resources in whose lands
the Inca state, the colonial regimes, the republican governments, and most
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recently, the proponents of globilization became interested – a narrative


fashioned in a strict evolutionary perspective, and the economic practice of
extraction and maximization of resources (D’Altroy et al., 2000; DeMarrais
et al., 1996).
Archaeology has founded much of its authority on the construction of
systems of classifications and explanations derived from questions about
whether or not South American Indians were civilized. A genealogy for
these hegemonic systems and discourses is traced by Castañeda (1996: 138),
who argues that the sixteenth-century ideology of the conquest was defined
in terms of ‘civilization’ and the capacity to transform and dominate nature.
The invention of the ‘Other’ was driven by questions about the presence or
absence of the classic markers of advancement: systems of urban and
socioeconomic organization, political hierarchy, agriculture and technology,
writing and religious moral values (Pagden, 1982); needless to say, these
markers were usually categorized and measured in Western terms.
The view of the Altiplano as the core of Bolivian civilization, while other
parts of Bolivia are seen as peripheral frontiers, is a form of orientalism, in
the sense that it is an ontological distinction that defines and reinforces
power relations (Said, 1978). The dominant Tiwanaku-centered narrative
simultaneously positions the urban elites of Bolivia at the axis of Bolivian
society and history, and paves the way for the efficient and continued extrac-
tion of labor and resources from other regions of the country.
Despite the vast wealth extracted from the southern and eastern Andes,
these regions continue to be seen as remote ‘hinterlands’. Since the disman-
tling of the encomienda system in 1952, coca has been produced mainly by
poor small-scale farmers, some of whom marched and died in the October
protests, and whose crops mainly benefit those further down the line in both
the legal and illegal coca trade. In a similar vein, the infamous mining
regions of Potosí and Oruro became depopulated after the fall of the mining
economy in the international markets, causing extreme economic recession
for its former inhabitants and forcing them to leave for other parts of the
country. Most of Bolivia’s electricity, which powers the cities of La Paz,
Cochabamba, Sucre and others, is produced in the massive hydroelectric
plants of the eastern Andes, yet many of the local communities there have
poor electrical infrastructure, or none at all. The natural gas project that
was the catalyst for the October demonstrations was designed to exploit
gas reserves in the eastern Andes and western Amazon with little benefit
to the communities of those regions, and in some cases causing devastating
environmental problems. This pattern of the simultaneous creation and
exploitation of the ‘hinterland’ is one that has been underway since the
early days of European colonialism.
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 393

■ THE PRESENCE OF THE PAST

We argue that this case study illustrates one of the principle sources of
power that dominant narratives, such as that of Tiwanaku, wield in the
world. The real power of the Bolivian national narrative derives from its
selective manipulation and exclusion of other histories, particularly those
that point to contemporary issues of social and political discordance, such
as the history of the eastern Andes or southern Bolivia. The histories of
these areas have not simply been forgotten, or displaced in favor of the
more compelling Tiwanaku-centered history. They have, for 400 years, been
actively manufactured as narratives of emptiness (Kojan, 2002).
One of the most fascinating aspects of the national historical narrative
of Bolivia is that in many ways it defies reason – it does not take much
consideration to realize that the white/mestizo elite’s claim to authority is
not reasonably validated by an appeal to prehistory. In fact, we might say
that one of the only features of Bolivian history that everyone can agree
on is that the Spanish colonialists did not arrive in South America until
1524. The idea that Tiwanaku represents the cultural heritage of all
Bolivians may in some ways be a pleasant idea of national unity, but it is
empirically problematic to say the least. Yet, in the absence of publicly legit-
imate alternative histories, this Tiwanaku narrative flourishes.
This process of primordialism can be found at work in many other ways
and in other parts of the world (Kohl, 1998; Kohl and Fawcett, 1995). An
even more far-flung appeal to a national primordial past are the references
to the standard core of Western primordial history of Egypt, Greece and
Rome on the part of other New World nations. We would argue that the
Greek revival architecture of Washington DC national monuments (Reps,
1991), the pseudo-Egyptian motifs on US currency and the proliferation of
Roman symbols in modern Brazil (Funari, 2003) are all part of the same
pattern. Seen in this context, the romanticized fixation on Tiwanaku seems
almost reasonable, that is, were it not for the impact this narrative has on
the lives of people today.
In his critique of Bolivian archaeology and its paradoxical exclusion of
indigenous identity, Mamani writes of the advocates of the nationalist
history:
All the nationalist denunciations of outside domination, all their stress on
internal development, have only led to the development of a sort of Monroe
Doctrine: they take possession of what is not theirs in order to lay the
foundations of their ‘nation’ in a past which does not belong to them and
whose legitimate descendants they continue to oppress. (Mamani, 1996: 634)
Although Mamani’s binary ‘Us vs. Them’, ‘Indigenous vs. Mestizo’ formu-
lation is problematic in its own homogeneity, the focus of his critique is right
on target. The nationalist historical narrative of Bolivia, with its roots in the
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ideology of colonialism, is fundamentally a tool of social control. It is a legit-


imization of the status quo in that it lends authoritative historical support
to the idea that the contemporary elites of Bolivia are the beneficiaries of
a long and inevitable history of progress and ever-increasing social stratifi-
cation.
The dominance of official narratives that legitimize the Bolivian nation
state can be understood as part of a much wider global pattern of nation
formation that has recently been well documented (Bernbeck and Pollock,
1996; Blakey, 1990; El-Haj, 2002; Fawcett, 1995; Gathercole and Lowenthal,
1990; Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983; Klein, 1997; Kohl, 1998; Patterson,
1995; Schmidt and Patterson, 1995; Trigger, 1984, 1995; Trouillot, 1995;
Wylie, 1995). As many of these works identify, the construction of narra-
tives is as much about exclusion of other histories as it is about arguing for
one particular story. In order for Bolivia (or any other nation for that
matter) to create a common sense of national identity where none previ-
ously existed, a narrative of the nation’s history must be written, while all
others are excluded. Nation-states that are seeking to subvert older, more
established forms of identity often work to actively suppress those other
histories. The founders of the Bolivian nation, for their part, faced the chal-
lenge of creating a unified national identity while maintaining the mestizo-
dominated colonial power structure in a country with a vast Indian majority.
The protests of October 2003 were ostensibly about the exportation of
natural gas, and more generally about the economic and political policies
of globalization. But at a deeper level, it could be argued, these protests
were about history and identity. It is no coincidence that the main instiga-
tors of the demonstrations, and consistently the most vociferous opposition
to the actions of the government and large corporate interests, are the coca-
farmers and miners from the eastern Andes and southern Bolivia, two of
the groups that have been erased from the standard historical narratives
of the country (Almaraz, 1967; Barrios, 1993; Platt, 1982). These are groups
of people who have been disenfranchised at the very deepest level – it is
not simply that their voices are not given the full consideration that they
should in the affairs of the country, but rather that every attempt has been
made to erase their voices out of existence.
In the last three decades Bolivia has experienced some of the worst
violence and social upheaval in its already tumultuous history (Rivera and
Barrios, 1993). Following the de facto military regimes of the 1980s, and the
election of a former military dictator, Hugo Banzer, as president in the
1990s, the turn of the twenty-first century found Bolivia at the epicenter of
struggles related to the political and economic trends of globalization
(Finnegan, 2002). In April 2000, in the ‘War of the Water’, protesters took
to the streets of La Paz and Cochabamba to object to the privatization of
the latter city’s water supply, which had been essentially given over to a
subsidiary of the Bechtel Corporation. Bechtel instituted hefty price
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 395

increases for farmers to use water, which in some cases came from their
own wells (Finnegan, 2002). The Bolivian military, in defense of these
corporate interests, clashed with and killed many of the protesters. Bechtel
was eventually forced to relinquish its position in Bolivia and later
attempted to sue the country for breach of contract.
In October 2003, protesters again clashed with the Bolivian military and
made headlines in the USA and around the world in the so-called ‘War of
the Gas’. In both cases, the context of much of the media coverage, and the
wider discourse surrounding these events was as an indigenous rebellion
against the forces of modernization. This movement was generally charac-
terized by national as well as international media as a clear indicator of the
indigenous vs. white division of the country.6 This dual essentialism opened
the door for other dualistic narratives to come into play. In the discourses
of both Bolivian nationalism and globalization, the recent social and politi-
cal conflicts are portrayed as a clash between the forces of modernity and
progress on one hand, and those of an irrational traditionalism on the other.
In this sense, the conceptualization of Bolivia’s indigenous population as
representing a stagnated and more primitive social order both sustains and
echoes wider discourses of colonialism and globalization, in which poor
countries like Bolivia are viewed as detrimentally resisting the movement
of progress.
As with many other post-colonial nations, the social inequality and
poverty in Bolivia has commonly been carefully disguised and reworked
into a failure on the part of the indigenous communities to recognize and
comply with the progress of modernity (Abercrombie, 1998; Thomas, 1991).
These conceptualizations then become part of the legitimization for the
continued exploitation of Bolivian people and land, although such ideas are
usually translated and euphemized into more progressive notions of stew-
ardship and the utilization of natural resources. At present, despite almost
2 years of ongoing protest and a recently approved law on agrarian reform
that recognizes the communal rights of indigenous peoples to control their
land and its resources, claims by workers’ groups and indigenous com-
munities are still disregarded. The Guarani people, for example, have been
trying to gain a measure of determination over the oil drilling that is taking
place against their wishes, on their land. Despite the legal recognition of
this land by law (INRA, 2000) as part of the Ancestral Communities Lands
(Territorios Comunitarios de Origen or TCOs), the oil companies that
signed contracts with the national government continue to drill with devas-
tating social and environmental consequences. These and other protests
receive very little attention in the international, or even Bolivian media, but
the coverage that is presented often nostalgically presents these conflicts as
part of an emergent and redemptive expression of cultural resistance.7
Such highly reified readings of the recent violence in Bolivia derive from
a similar misrepresentation of the uprisings. In these cases, the conflicts
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396 Journal of Social Archaeology 5(3)

have been portrayed as ones between the forces of progress and modernity
on one side and an antiquated traditionalism on the other. And both of
these readings result in the same outcome for the people of Bolivia by
providing the basic elements for the dominant discourse to reconstitute its
power. The dominant narrative of Bolivian nationalism, as well as the
underlying ideology of oppression and exploitation, relies on homogeneous
and essentialized understandings of the indigenous ‘Other’. Whether the
oppressed group is seen as playing the role of the ignorant primitive or the
heroic aborigine matters very little in this regard. In Bolivia, as with many
other parts of the world (El-Haj, 1998; Schmidt and Patterson, 1995),
archaeology has been complicit in the creation and reaffirmation of this
formulation of the indigenous as a subaltern category (Mamani, 1996).
The distillation of a diverse, complex, contradictory and fragmentary
material record into a strikingly homogeneous and linear narrative of
monumentality and progress, as embodied by the site of Tiwanaku, has
played a key role in marginalizing contesting voices in contemporary
Bolivia. Given an extensive and growing body of scholarship on the politi-
cal motivations for, and applications of, archaeological research (Hodder,
1991; Politis, 2003; Shanks and Tilley, 1992[1987]; Trigger, 1984, 1989; Wylie,
1995), it should come as no surprise that archaeology in Bolivia is closely
linked to its wider social and political context.
The question then becomes how to understand the seeming uniformity
in the conceptualization of Bolivian history, and how to create space for
alternative voices to emerge into this conversation. Here the concept of
multivocality and its implications for archaeology assert themselves quite
strongly. Archaeologists find themselves in a delicate position in relation to
the proposition of multivocality. If we hold firm to our role as the official
interpreters of the past, empowered by the authority of science and
economic privilege to write our narratives of history, then we will continue
to reinforce the power dynamics derived from the movements of colonial-
ism and nationalism. However, if we as archaeologists position ourselves as
a kind of clearinghouse for multiple understandings of the past, we risk
either abdicating our responsibility about our own understandings about
the past – and thus implicitly denying or evading accountability – or worse,
we risk transforming the proposition of multivocality into yet another
stratum of authority whereby the archaeological narratives can be seen as
emerging victorious from among the dozens of alternative interpretations.
Either way, we have not removed the issues of authority, power, or privi-
lege from the equation.
This is precisely the point we wish to emphasize here. We can never
remove ourselves from the social, political or economic context in which
our work is conducted, nor would it be at all desirable to do so. Quite to
the contrary, we would argue that part of the lesson of multivocality is that
we must strive to identify, expose, critique and generally immerse ourselves
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 397

and our work in the contemporary social context in which we find ourselves.
An understanding of archaeology, and the historical narratives that it
produces, as inexorably embedded in a contemporary context of social and
political actors, has fairly dramatic implications for the concepts of multi-
vocality. Rather than being a largely sterile debate about the objectivity or
subjectivity of archaeological interpretations, the potential emergence of
alternative narratives of the past is of very real importance in the lives of
people today. As Joyce, in her discussion of Bahktin, makes clear:
. . . the requirement to evaluate words (and actions) is a moral imperative
which cannot be evaded. In his [Bahktin’s] view, communication matters, it
has serious consequences, it shapes ongoing social reality. These aspects of
his arguments resonate with recent claims that archaeological discourse must
be taken seriously because of its social consequences. (Joyce, 2002: 31)

Or, we might ask, from a slightly different perspective, if our work did not
have social consequences then why should we practice archaeology to begin
with?
If we agree with the proposition that there are multiple legitimate narra-
tives of the past, then our efforts are best spent in trying to make space for
these narratives to emerge. Because historical narratives are so closely
linked to ideas about identity, nationalism, race, citizenship and other highly
charged and powerfully influential arenas of human existence, simply
acknowledging the plurality of understandings of the past, while surely an
important undertaking, is not enough. We might say that asking for another
party’s understanding of the past is necessary, but not sufficient. This is
particularly important where there are descendant communities that
identify a connection to the archaeological materials under study. Unless
these efforts are matched with an actual interest in living communities, such
an approach becomes merely a professional nicety at best. To ask the
Aymara, for example, for their story of Tiwanaku as an exercise in multi-
vocality, while ignoring the wider social, political and economic environ-
ment in which archaeological research takes place, is ultimately an empty
and cynical gesture.
Multivocality should not be seen as a theoretical perspective to be
adopted or discarded according to one’s theoretical proclivities, but is closer
to a truism of historiography. There are always multiple perspectives of the
past because there are always multiple observers and interpreters of its
evidence, each of them similarly embedded in his or her own social environ-
ment. Of course, how such different voices are heard or accepted in the
wider world is a very different matter. Although the concept of multi-
vocality, as a theoretical tool of the humanities and social sciences, has most
recently been articulated within the context of the academy, anthropolo-
gists and academics in general have in many ways been dragged kicking and
screaming to an acknowledgment of pluralism and multivocality.
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398 Journal of Social Archaeology 5(3)

The necessity of acknowledging multivocality and pluralism has been


largely advocated by those who have been historically estranged from main-
stream academia, for instance from feminist and post-colonial scholars
(Joyce, 2002; Spivak, 1988; Visweswaran, 1997). Within American archaeol-
ogy in particular, the positioning of Western positivism as the authoritative
means of understanding history rests specifically on the rejection of
multiple voices and multiple truths (Gnecco, 1999; Watkins, 2000, 2003). In
many ways multivocality is antithetical to the aims of traditional Anglo-
American archaeology, and we think it would be fair to say that many
archaeologists in this tradition view the proposal of multivocality with a
good deal of skepticism.
At a more local level, an openness to multiple narratives of the past is
critical in understanding the fragmentary and often contradictory archaeo-
logical evidence of Bolivian history. The history of Bolivia is not synony-
mous with the evolution of the Tiwanaku state, and only the consideration
of alternative stories will elucidate that history. But more importantly, such
historical narratives play a very tangible role in contemporary Bolivian
communities.
The recent events in the streets of Bolivia also raise an ethical concern
involved with the destabilization of a sense of national identity, even one
based on a problematic understanding of the past as we have tried to outline
here. We must remind ourselves that there is no simple, two-dimensional
‘indigenous vs. mestizo’ power structure at work here. Poor countries,
particularly poor Latin American countries such as Bolivia, are under
immense political and economic pressure to capitulate to the desires of
powerful American and European corporations such as Bechtel and others.
As problematic as Bolivia’s official, Tiwanaku-centered patrimony may be,
it has served a role in bolstering a sense of national identity, often in oppo-
sition to colonialist ambitions, of both the eighteenth century Spanish
variety, as well as the twenty-first century American one. With the argument
that we should strive to contextualize archaeological research and histori-
cal narratives in their present social context comes a responsibility for the
impact that these narratives have in the world. We must ask ourselves if, in
critiquing the historical and ideological legitimacy of Bolivian nationalism
as based on highly problematic and exclusionary narratives, we risk making
the people of Bolivia further vulnerable to the forces of neo-colonialism
and globalization.
The application of multivocality without a keen awareness of the social
and political context and consequences of our archaeological narratives
also has another potentially dangerous pitfall. Currently, the advocacy of
multivocality and the critiques of modernity and empiricism within archae-
ology are largely being used to argue for a more democratic understanding
of the past (Hodder, 1989; Joyce, 2002; Shanks and Hodder, 1995).
However, we should not lose track of the fact that some ‘alternative’
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 399

narratives of the past can also be used to argue for more reactionary claims
(Arnold, 1990). In this regard, multivocality in archaeology cannot be
simply understood as a diversity of voices, but rather needs to be under-
taken as part of a larger project of interrogating and discussing the contem-
porary uses of the past and, primarily, acknowledging accountability with a
past that is inextricably tied to a present. It is impossible to take responsi-
bility for every unforeseen implication that our work may have – even the
best-intentioned research can be used and applied in ways that we may not
support. This is precisely the point. There is apparently no limit to the ways
that the past can be used, manipulated, ignored and elucidated in the
contemporary world. But through the historical narratives that we write,
we can try to make space for multiple understandings of the past (even
those that question our own academic authority) to be heard and more
flexible and equitable concepts of citizenship to emerge.
Such a proposition raises some challenging ethical questions for archae-
ologists and the work that they do. For example, is it ethically viable for
archaeologists to continue to explore and reinforce narratives that are often
specifically utilized to substantiate structures of dominance and social
oppression? In the case of Bolivia, we have argued that the dominant state
narrative of Tiwanaku and the exclusion of other historical narratives have
been used as tools of disenfranchisement and arguments for the continued
exploitation of Bolivian resources and communities. The widely-employed
archaeological tropes of ‘state development’ or the ‘rise of complex
societies’ are inherent value judgments tightly linked to discourses of
colonialism and, more recently, globalization. The continued recreation and
reinforcement of the Tiwanaku narrative is also a reinforcement of official
Bolivian state ideology. Although we do not believe this represents the
intentions of many research archaeologists, the narratives that are produced
by this work nevertheless have concrete impacts on the lives of people.
Nadia Abu El-Haj (1998), in her analysis of the practice of archaeology
in Jerusalem, makes a keen observation that in addition to studying material
culture, archaeology also produces its own material culture. The structures
and features that archaeologists uncover, and the historical narratives that
archaeologists help create, are used in very tangible ways in the real world.
El-Haj argues that the architecture and monuments of Jerusalem tell a story
of the primordial roots of the dominant state identity, while the physical
manifestations of alternative stories of the city are left as silent ruins. These
stone and concrete markers have effects on the lives of people today. They
provide persistent cues to the citizens and visitors of Jerusalem about who
belongs there and who does not. Simply the act of walking through the
streets of the city, admiring the architecture, or stopping to read about a
recent archaeological discovery serve as a reminder and reaffirmation of
present-day social hierarchies and dominance.
The persistent emphasis on the rise of the Tiwanaku state and the erasure
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400 Journal of Social Archaeology 5(3)

of alternative or even contesting narratives of history similarly has impact


in the world. The miners and coca-farmers, who regularly protest and
occasionally die on the streets of Bolivia are conspicuously absent in histori-
cal narratives of their own country. Narratives that complicate the dominant
story of the rise of the Tiwanaku state, or more specifically, narratives that
shed light on present-day issues of racism, oppression and exploitation
remain historical silences (Trouillot, 1995).
A further question that arises from this case study is: what responsibility
do archaeologists have to respond to the contemporary social and political
unrest that they encounter? In the months of increasing political tensions
and social violence leading up to the October 2003 ousting of the president,
many archaeological research projects encountered significant obstacles.
Strikes prevented archaeological teams from buying food and supplies, road
blocks halted transportation to field sites, government closures interfered
with work permits, not to mention the more visible signs of physical
violence, yet it seems that few if any of these research projects took such
events into account in their research. The focus on conducting empirical,
‘unbiased’ research, the pressures of granting agencies and professional
development, as well as the personal and intellectual attachment to particu-
lar archaeological research questions no doubt all conspired to distance
these research projects from the surrounding social upheaval. But in the
words of Orin Starn, this is quite literally ‘missing the revolution’ (Starn,
1991). In his study of Peruvian ethnography, Starn writes that despite years
of careful fieldwork across the Peruvian countryside, anthropologists failed
to foresee the rise of the Sendero Luminoso and other revolutionary groups
because of a myopic focus on questions of ecological complementarity,
cultural symbolism and other important but politically detached anthropo-
logical themes. In a similar vain, many Andean archaeologists purport to
be interested in the development of Andean culture, but the explicit detach-
ment from contemporary social and political concerns leads to an abstract
and fundamentally ahistorical form of knowledge production. If as archae-
ologists we are not interested in the contemporary social reality of the
region we are studying, then exactly what social phenomena are we trying
to understand?
As authoritative agents in the contemporary world, archaeologists are
by necessity invested in and responding to political, social and economic
conditions of reality, whether we do so in an intentionally critical manner
or as an acceptance of inherited narratives. We would argue that an uncriti-
cal acceptance of dominant voices and an aversion to the social movements
going on around us is in itself a tacit reinforcement of existing power
dynamics.
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Kojan and Angelo The practice of Bolivian archaeology 401

Acknowledgements
The authors would like to thank Junko Habu, Clare Fawcett and John Matsunaga
for inviting us to participate in their 2004 SAA panel. They would also like Ian
Hodder and Orin Starn for their feedback on early drafts of this article.

Notes
1 In this way, the media coverage echoed the stories of the Zapatista revolution in
Mexico in the mid-1990s and the violent revolutionary movements of the
Sendero Luminoso and other groups in Peru in the 1980s (Patterson, 1995).
2 It is interesting to draw a comparison between the role played by Tiwanaku in
Bolivia, and that played by the monumental Incan sites, such as Saqsaywaman
and Macchu Picchu in neighboring Peru. In many ways, what the Incan sites are
to Peru, Tiwanaku is to Bolivia. However, unlike the Peruvian case, in which
heritage and identity heavily relies on the temporal proximity to Incan history,
from which primordial links are drawn and incorporated into notions of
national pride, the case of Tiwanaku renders a different situation. The national
narrative of Tiwanaku emphasizes the antiquity of the site as opposed to a sense
of uninterrupted continuity. As a monumental site, Tiwanaku provided the
cornerstone to nationalistic claims that, because of its remoteness in time, are
rooted in a much stronger way to a primordial past (Mamani, 1996).
3 Even by the materialist and evolutionary standards often used to argue for the
supreme importance of state societies like Tiwanaku, the eastern Andes, with its
evidence of dense occupation, heavily constructed agricultural terracing,
monumental structures, and extensive networks of roads and irrigation canals,
should be viewed as an important part of Bolivia’s past.
4 Coca is an integral part of the daily and ritual lives of every adult in the Andes,
and no wedding, funeral or birth would be complete without the distribution
and consumption of copious amounts of coca. The most desirable coca grows
only on the steep, semi-tropical slopes of the eastern foothills of the Andes, and
the Spanish, like the Inca before them, did not waste any time in seizing control
of this valuable resource. The most desirable species of coca, Erythroxylum coca
coca, can be grown only along the eastern escarpment of the Andes between
1700 and 500 meters above sea level (Plowman, 1984). Coca is also the main
ingredient in cocaine, but requires significant refining for its production. The
raw coca leaf, usually mixed with an alkali material to release the alkaloids, is a
mild stimulant that serves to suppress hunger and counteract the physiological
effects of high altitude.
5 The Spanish hacienda owners also imported African slaves to work in the coca
plantations. Today many of the main coca-producing villages of the Bolivian
eastern Andes are populated by black Indians – the descendants of these slaves.
6 The reductionist image of two polarized repúblicas, that is the república de
indios and the república de blancos (the Indian’s and white’s republics), was
used as a means of making diversity a tool of power and domination. After the
declaration of independence, the colonial administrative power over land and
the inhabitants of the newly created country was relinquished to the new
white/mestizo elites who were, by then, in charge of creating a new legal and
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402 Journal of Social Archaeology 5(3)

economic system. Bolivian democracy and its institutions were based on


arguments of the Enlightenment and modernity of the nineteenth century and,
later, the notion of the nation-state. Gradually, and usually violently, indigenous
peoples were compartmentalized and institutionalized as social minorities by
the nation-state apparatus.
7 The October 2003 protests and social unrest were contradictorily presented in
the mainstream media; while most of the conservative media tried to
emphasize, almost histrionically, the protests’ negative effects on the economy,
the ‘alternative’ media presented leading titles such as El alzamiento popular de
Octubre que estremeció a Bolivia culminó con la destrucción del modelo
económico neoliberal [The popular uprising of October thrilled Bolivia and
ended with the destruction of the neoliberal economic model]
(http://bolivia.indymedia.org/es/2003/12/4829.shtml).

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DAVID KOJAN is an adjunct professor of Anthropology at San Fran-


cisco State University. He received a BA and PhD in anthropology from
UC, Berkeley. His main research interests are the creation of historical
narratives and the politics and ethics of archaeology, with a geographi-
cal focus on western South America and California.
[email: david@chancho.org]

DANTE ANGELO’s work focuses on the socio-politics involved in the


uses and conceptions of the past, and the relationship between archae-
ology and society, and how past and present history is produced from
and around things. His interests also include the economics of cultural
heritage and the past at large, especially that framed within post-colonial
and nationalistic discourses.He is currently conducting a research project
in the Quebrada de Humahuaca, northwestern Argentina, towards his
PhD dissertation. He has published ‘La importancia del uso de plantas
psicotrópicas para la economía de intercambio y las relaciones de inter-
acción en el altiplano sur andino’, Complutus 11: 275–84, co-authored
with J. Capriles.
[email: dangeloz@stanford.edu]

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