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Inti Raymi; ritual vs. theater

I’m going to use this blog post as a sort of exercise – or practice round – for my position paper. In Indigenous Mestizos, De La Cadena pulls a quote from a guy named Turner (I forgot his first name and I don’t have the page number, but this is a blog post so I hope it’s ok!) that highlighted a concrete difference between ‘rituals’ and ‘theater’ within a context of Indigenous perf0rmers in 20th-century Cuzco. In his words, “Ritual unlike theater does not distinguish between audience and performers” (1982, quoted in De La Cadena, 2000). To expand on this, rituals involve spectators to the point of absorbing the spectators into the ‘participant’ bubble; in a way, there are no spectators in ritual. Theater, on the other hand, makes a clear distinction between its performers and its audience members. I was instantly reminded of the Inti Raymi we witnessed a few days ago, which could arguably fall into either of those categories (or perhaps both at once?). Ritual may be a reductive category in which to place Inti Raymi, but let’s apply it rather generally for the purposes of this blog post. As audience members, we were very much segregated from the ‘performers’ of Inti Raymi. Adam brought up a great point about the person dressed as a jaguar that snarled at us, which perhaps implicated some sort of audience role within the festival. At the same time, there was absolutely no chance any of us audience members could have been pulled into the festival and performed it appropriately. We were undoubtedly spectators, oo-ing and aa-ing at the boom of the drum, the shake of the hip, and the glance of an Inka. If we accept this, Inti Raymi was theater; it was a grand, theatrical performance. What may be the implications of this? Would someone with Inka heritage be offended at the chalking-up of Inti Raymi as theater as if it could be replicated on Broadway, Hamilton style? Perhaps it can be understood as a theatrical ritual. But again, this just does not sit right with me. It may have been my tourist gaze, but Inti Raymi did not feel like theater. I also may be using a small lens regarding ‘theater’; maybe Turner meant it in a much broader manner? Though I can’t say I know the breadth of what can be called theater, and what can’t be. Grace, help! Do people feel the same way as I do about labeling Inti Raymi as theater? 

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Shining Path and their unique form of violence

I think while everyone – or rather most of us – were reading Indigenous Mestizos, I got drawn into How Difficult it is to be God, a translated analysis of ‘the people’s war’ in Peru waged primarily by Shining Path and the Peruvian military. Since our visit to the LUM in Lima and Jon’s fiery yet somewhat cryptic response (I still haven’t gotten his specific critique), I’ve been fascinated by the conflict and, more importantly, how it ties into our discussions on Indigeneity in the Andes. Much of my reading was concentrated on the preface by the translator Steve Stern, so I’m quite excited to get into the meat of the text created by the anthropologist (heart eyes) Carlos Degregori. However, the preface itself contained some information that caught my eye; more specifically, this morbid fact about the unique aspect of the violent toll on Peru’s citizens during the conflict. “Unlike the overwhelming responsibility (well over 90 percent) by state agents and aligned paramilitary agents in dictatorships and wars elsewhere in Latin America in the 1980s, the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission would find that Shining Path had inflicted about 54 percent of deaths suffered in the conflict” (Stern 2012). This is a tragic statistic that is quite ironic when we consider that most of the deaths in this conflict were suffered by Indigenous peasant communities living in rural areas. The Shining Path’s Marxist-Leninist-Maoist roots would lead one to believe that they’re fighting on behalf of the proletariat, the economically abused, and the most oppressed; much of our discussions, especially around Mariategui, have framed the rural, primarily Indigenous groups of Peru as embodying a large part of its exploited proletariat. So, what the fuck? Ok, to be honest, it’s not that much of a ‘what the fuck’ moment. In any sort of violent conflict, the most vulnerable groups generally suffer the most. With Peru’s colonial past and present, Indigenous Andeans were and remain an oppressed group that renders them more vulnerable to many forms of violence. So it’s more of a ‘what the fuck’ of disgust than anything else. I’m sure I’ll find this out later in the reading, but I am wondering about what made Shining Path’s contribution to the overall violence so much greater when compared to other contemporary violent conflicts in Latin America. Was it simply ideology, such as being quicker to violence? Perhaps the answer to this will tie into Andean Indigeneity as well.

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Fifth Sunday reflection; Don Abelino!

For those who rode in the car with Don Abelino this morning from Pisac to Cusco (there would’ve been eleven of us), you may not have overheard the conversation between Don Abelino, Emma, and I (kind of) happening in the front seat. Emma was inquiring about words in Quechua, the towns we were passing through, and the general landscape of the Sacred Valley. Don Abelino was being his chatty self, dolling out incredibly interesting information like it was chicha morada. One such morsel especially piqued my interest; until about the 1970s or 80s, many of the mountains that surround the Sacred Valley received snowfall! While I had not put much thought into why the mountains weren’t snowy, I had presumed they’d lost their snow long before that; perhaps thousands of years ago, even. But no, it was only 40 or 50 years ago! Don Abelino added that this high volume of snowfall gave the Sacred Valley an abundance of waterfall and, therefore, very fertile soil. Apparently, this fertility is what gave the Sacred Valley its name. In the moment, it was hard to process this rather tragic story in full, especially since Don Abelino’s cheery tone was setting quite a light mood. But as I’ve had time to sit with it, I’ve become quite saddened by what he said. Growing up in North America as a privileged white man – particularly in the moderate climate of the Pacific Northwest – is an incredible environmental privilege that I often take for granted. It has undoubtedly sheltered me from the contemporary realities of climate change, which are so incredibly real for so many people around the world. Sometimes, climate change is just a concept, a possibility; a bad dream, even. Don Abelino’s story is a great example of climate racism; the pollution of nature brought about by the wealthy, white-dominated West who reap the economic benefits while the rest of the world faces the consequences. Many of the activities that uphold and partake in likely had direct, palpable impacts on the Sacred Valley. I am often shocked by how I can be ignorant of things like this, especially since I am so often trying to be aware of them. Anyway, this post ended up being quite morbid. I’m feeling rather dreary now (read that in Jon’s voice). I’m surprised that this is the first time I’ve addressed climate change on this trip, especially given our focus on Indigeneity. I wonder how Indigenous Andeans have experienced the effects of the Sacred Valley’s loss of snow?

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The Andes: a sanctuary within the horrors of the Industrial Revolution?

That’s a loud title isn’t it! But cool it, this is just my interpretation of what Pablo Neruda may have meant by this beautiful verse of poetry in The Heights of Macchu Picchu. Here is said verse: “What was man? In what layer of his humdrum conversation, among his shops and sirens — in which of his metallic movements lived on imperishably the quality of life?” (Neruda, translated by Tarn, 1966). The use of diction in this verse feels highly meaningful; “humdrum” and “metallic” stick out in particular, invoking the sights, sounds, and feels of industrialism. Neruda is questioning the meaning of life within these industrial senses, as if some intrinsic qualities that ‘life’ owns had been lost within a world of humdrum and metal. This implies that the true aspects of life are found in nature, or in spaces devoid of mankind’s industrialism. I do wonder if Neruda had a more specific, or targeted, aspect of industrialism in mind when he wrote this. Industrialism, while born in Europe, was not solely a Western phenomenon, and plenty of non-Western nations had long begun the humdrum by the time Neruda was writing this. So, is this a more direct critique of Westernism? Perhaps modernity? This interpretation is given more fuel when we consider Neruda as a self-proclaimed spokesperson of Andean Indigeneity. Of course, this is a self-given title that is total bullshit. However, it provides reasoning for this questioning of life’s contemporary quality being an attack against Westernism. Given this interpretation, it means that Neruda is framing Andean Indigeneity as opposite to industrialism (or maybe Westernism). Maybe he’s saying that Indigenous Andes have suffered a drop in the quality of life at the hands of the colonial West, which is symbolized by its industrialized character. Side note; I think I may be using ‘the West’ too loosely, as I’m not sure the Spanish Empire would fall into that category. Many Western nations have exploited and oppressed Indigenous Andeans since conquest, but the Spanish did it too and I don’t wish to generalize. Let me know, please! Anyway, I think that Neruda has a fantastic point, but I worry he is somewhat sensationalizing Andean Indigeneity at the same time, especially given the position from which he writes. His notion of nature’s purity, or being ‘one with nature’, echoes certain Western stereotypes of Indigeneity. Of course, much is true about the relationship between, for example, Indigeneity on the Northwest Coast and nature being far more careful and intentional compared to Western capitalism. But I wonder whether Neruda is crossing the line between appreciation of Indigenous ways and stereotyping them.

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Andean Lives and Marx’s ‘lumpen abuse’

In one of our conversations about Andean Lives (I believe it was at the Florencio), Jon mentioned the multiple, distinct forms of abuse that Gregorio and Asunta faced throughout their lives. It is absolutely true that these forms of abuse are intrinsically linked and feed off one another, so I don’t wish to label them as distinct phenomena. However, our discussions of the subaltern in this course have reminded me of Marx’s ‘lumpen abused’, a rather problematic categorical term for the ‘most abused’ group of people in a society. Integral to this concept is the idea of multiple forms of abuse converging to structurally suppress a group. As such, I think Marx would absolutely label the experience of Gregorio and Asunta documented within Andean Lives as an example of ‘lumpen abuse’. Take this quote, for example: “That’s justice for you—with mistis, the law looks the other way. So I was falsely and unjustly put in jail for having sipped some stew a friend offered me”. I believe Jon referred to this as state-sponsored abuse (or something along those lines), emphasizing it as distinct from the other forms of abuse and violence documented in the book, such as the inter-personal abuse (both physical and emotional) Asunta faced at the hands of her partners, including Gregorio. Again, I do find the idea of ‘lumpen abused’ to be problematic and, frankly, a bit redundant within contemporary discourse. But I do wish to contrast it against our concept of the subaltern; a concept that reminded me of lumpen abuse as soon as I heard it. Firstly, I have a question for any experts on the subaltern that might be reading this: how, if at all, is the concept of the subaltern better than Marx’s lumpen abuse? This is a question of curiosity, not a critique. What does using subaltern do not just differently, but better? Given that using the term lumpen abuse can trap people within a lens of trauma, highlighting their experiences of abuse but also sensationalizing them and reducing them to products of that trauma instead of human beings, I’m curious to see if the subaltern has the same effect. And if using subaltern has this effect as well, or one similar to it, I would love to know more appropriate terms for framing our discourse around groups of people who do face structural abuse. It feels like a safe bet to just avoid generalizing at all times, but I’m going to be in an academic setting for at least the next few years and will almost certainly encounter discourses around this again, so I’ll see what comes up. Maybe we’ll come up with a better label (lol – someone totally said this about lumpen abuse and look where we are!) someday if using subaltern isn’t adequate.

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Fourth Sunday reflection; my Western intestines

For many of us, including me, this last week was (largely) an absolute nightmare. When I would empty the contents of my stomach, experience five minutes of ‘euphoria’, lay around writhing while I waited to exorcise more of myself, and eventually do so, I had a lot of fucking time to think. Among the memorable trains of thought was my fever-dream-esque vision about medicine; more specifically, Andean medicine. Slumped against my porcelain throne, I became curious about treatments used for more extreme cases of nausea (the coca leaf could be an example), vomiting, and uncontrollable pooping. Especially as Pepto Bismol, extreme-strength 500mg Tylenol, various sleeping pills, and Gatorade failed to alleviate my suffering, I questioned the effectiveness of the Western medicine that I’ve been raised on. Of course, assuming that someone from the Andes would get food poisoning like I did from eating an Andean diet is a bit dumb. But surely they’ve had bouts of food poisoning before, just as I’ve had it at home. What were their forms of caring for and eventually healing someone with a nasty case of food poisoning? This is probably research I could’ve done on my own, but oh well. I like to ask questions in my blog posts. In fact, writing this post about sickness and the Andes has got the gears in my brain turning. Before conquest, how did Indigenous societies in the Andes deal with epidemics? Were epidemics commonplace? My impression of European societies around this time is tainted by the bubonic plague, so perhaps I’m holding other societies of that time to the same standard of ‘coping with epidemic’. There is the obvious epidemic of smallpox and other European-borne diseases that decimated countless Indigenous populations, but what about before that? As a side note, I’m really glad I didn’t think about the bubonic plague while I was ill. Regarding my non-ill spells this week, I had a wonderful time. The soccer game against the staff of the Pisac Inn was an absolute joy and one of my favorite moments of this trip so far. Apparently, they’ve nicknamed me Messi! I like that one more than ‘Kid’ (Jon). And, while the only reason I can include this is because of the tardiness of this post, I have to mention how much I enjoyed ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’. I love the actor who played Che Guevara and I found the story to be so very interesting, especially because it was largely truthful; I’m sure there were some dramatizations. Hopefully, the next time I go backpacking I’ll be inspired to start a revolution as well.

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Inca communism; a slight revision of my last post!

Jon brought the hammer down on me during the England-Serbia football match earlier today. Reading my recently uploaded post, he remarked that I clearly had not been to the class on Mariategui – which was true, I was ill. In attacking his generalization of socialism, I was unaware that Mariategui highlighted forms of the Incan government as communist, which does take some wind out of the sails of my previous point (but not all of it). Reinforcing this is a line from the Silverblatt reading: “…the institutionalized generosity that bound chiefs to provide tools, seeds, and festivities during labor exchanges, denied them any rights over the peasantry’s personal production, and required chiefs to sponsor lavish celebrations for communitywide benefit” (2004, 191). I can see the elements of what Jon called ‘despotic communism’. Is this what it’d be like if the U.S. government, for example, required the wealthiest classes (maybe like the 1%?) to use personal wealth to provide social services for the working class? Obviously, there are vast contextual differences between chiefs of the Inca Empire and the wealthiest class of Americans today, but it’s really interesting to analogize that within a system I’m more familiar with. It’s sort of just super awesome taxes! Another aspect of it is the emphasized generosity of these chiefs, which adds an interesting dimension to the whole system. Were these rules in need of enforcement by the Inca elite, or did chiefs generally abide, perhaps even enthusiastically? I’m sure it varied greatly, as did general attitudes throughout the vast territory of the Incas that combined countless different Andean cultures. Furthermore, I wonder if a contemporary socialist revolution in the West would, at least temporarily, take a form similar to this ‘despotic communism’? The dissolution of the West’s centralized personal wealth into the hands of the workers could maybe borrow some Inca strategies: a strong executive with the people’s goals in mind, exerting legislative influence to redistribute wealth. If it doesn’t go as smoothly as that, we can still just eat them! And lastly, I do contend that my lack of knowledge on Mariategui’s viewpoints entirely negates my argument in the previous blog post. While Indigenous Andean and other Indigenous societies in North America (who had certain ‘communalist’ practices) had communist-esque economic and social practices, is it ok to generalize all of that as simply socialism? While it wasn’t meant in the way I interpreted it as, what does it say about other Indigenous cultures that may not have socialist-esque ways of being? I could be projecting a fear of generalizations, so this may be going too far. What do you, my faithful reader(s), think of Mariategui’s statement in the context of Indigenous ways of being?

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Mariategui and the inevitability of socialism

While I mostly resonated with Mariategui’s analysis of the “Indian’s problem” (could it be both an economic and racialized issue?), I did raise my eyebrow at this claim he made toward the end of the chapter: “Socialism appears in our history not because of chance, imitation, or fashion, as some superficial minds would believe, but because it was historically inevitable” (1971). Positing that socialism was historically inevitable has large implications, one of those being the framing of our globe’s distinct societies and cultures through a European lens. There is no uniform development in terms of societal modes of production, which varies strongly across different societies. Just because it happened in Europe doesn’t mean it has to happen everywhere else. Even if Mariategui is correct and socialism would be highly beneficial for the Indigenous Andeans living in Peru (which I do think it would, to a large extent, but he is far more of an expert so ignore my qualms), this notion of Western inevitability is very colonial and marginalizes Indigenous forms of resistance. Ah yes, Indigenous Andeans would be doomed without enlightened Western thinkers! I hope this doesn’t read as a critique of socialism, because it’s not. I’m a socialist! But acting like it’s the end all be all for every society is ignorant. And as for the important question, what do Indigenous Andeans want? I’ve been racked by this question for days, particularly while I was vomiting! I read a really interesting article from Black Agenda Report that theorized how the relationship between communism and Indigeneity might look (though they were writing mainly about Indigenous communities in the United States and Canada, not in Latin America, so it would likely be different). Communism, as a Western theory, should take a backseat and adapt, in some ways, when it comes to Indigeneity. An emphasis on a communal whole while also raising Indigenous voices, thouughts, processes, and ways of being into the fray to avoid a harmful homogenization. I’m not explaining it nearly as well as they are, so I highly recommend going to check that article out; it’s a bit long but so so interesting (I’ll link it at the bottom of this). But with this theorization, it’s rather evident how saying socialism (capital S) is inevitable can be harmful; even if it’s not capitalism, it can still marginalize Indigenous ways of being. Again, I wonder how Indigenous Andeans would feel about Mariategui’s statement. To his credit, discourse in 2024 is very different than it was when he made that claim, and I’m not sure he meant it in the way I’m interpreting it. I am being rather harsh. But whether or not he meant it, it’s still a bit of a harmful idea. 

Here’s the link to that interesting article:

http://blackagendareport.com/decolonization-and-communism

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Third Sunday reflection; Pisac and its hippies

Pisac is situated within one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. Being from a mountainous region (as a good portion of us are), it’s quite fun to compare the mountains of home to the Andes. As much as it pains me to say it, these staggering peaks may take the cake. At least when it comes to the mountains near Vancouver. Mount Rainier and the view I get of it will always be my number one. They are so striking, surging up seemingly out of nowhere and filling the sky with shrubbery. I love their greenness; it feels more gentle than the snowy, rocky faces I’m used to looking at. It also helps that the sun has been out the entire time we’ve been here, which I could totally use more of back home. I’m very charmed by Pisac itself as well. The people that I’m assuming represent Pisac’s townfolk are so kind and chatty; they also love sharing potatoes. The town feels sleepy, especially the square, and I love it (especially after the Cusco street noise. Soooo brutal). My favorite part is the beautiful carvings and sculptures adorning the sidewalks. Adam and I saw this incredibly cool sculpture of a snake’s head rearing out of the sidewalk, its mouth serving as the opening to a rainwater/storm drain. The food is also so so sooooo good, and let this serve as a recommendation to the few that read this: the smoothies in the market are nuts. Like, the best I’ve ever had. And I really love smoothies so take that with no grains of salt. The only stain on this beautiful place is the one lots of us have been shitting upon already: the hippies. Walking around here feels like an international Burning Man festival. The amount of bare feet and gnarly dreadlocks on white guys is really getting to me, and we’ve got quite a bit of time left. I especially cannot stand the coworking spaces where the Santa Cruz hippies can migrate to and meet on Zoom with their coworkers back in the States to discuss a new start-up idea that appropriates even more culture than we can imagine. It could very well be that the locals do not mind the hippies that much and, in fact, find me far more annoying. While I’d be very sad if that were true, it may not be that far-fetched. I’m just as white as these hippies are! This was more of a personal piece rather than a ‘voice for the people’ kind of thing. Does anyone else detest their presence like I do?

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Garcilaso versus Guaman, and other thoughts

I was absolutely fascinated by Garcilaso’s commentary on the Inkas! I’d read bits and pieces of the text in other courses, but never as extensively as this. It was so awesome. As I read, I was subconsciously scanning for elements of Guaman Poma, as they are somewhat similar (chronicling from a mestizo perspective); pushing Catholicism, confusion as to where he belonged, etc. Unlike Poma, Garcilaso seemed to be quite assertive about his place. Unless to validate his royalty, Poma referred to the ‘Indians’ and the ‘Spanish’ from a third-person point of view. Garcilaso seemingly embraced his Indigenous roots, incorporating his uncle’s oral account with heaping praise and the utmost attention to detail. This contrast in belonging raises some interesting questions; was there any particular reason why Garcilaso had a stronger sense of belonging to either group? Of course, Garcilaso later moves to Spain and becomes Catholic. But he was sure of his place in either sphere. It seems that Guaman Poma never had that sense of security, and I wonder why. Perhaps it was just their personalities? I also loved how the two chroniclers had drastically different rhetoric, and viewpoints for that matter, in terms of the Inka. Poma frequented the words ‘infidel’, ‘heathen’, and ‘idolatrous’; this isn’t to say he also didn’t heap praise onto the Inka. But Garcilaso had no such words for the Inka; instead, he glorified almost every aspect of their reign. This may be an oversimplification of their viewpoints, but I wonder which perspective (Catholic-leaning v. Inka-leaning, so to speak) more accurately reflects the beliefs of mestizos during the earliest decades of conquest? It would be ignorant to discount the role power would have played in the formation of these beliefs, as Spanish domination could have forced the Inka-leaning viewpoints out of the mainstream discourse. Furthermore, assuming that any Indigenous Andeans didn’t maintain an Inka-leaning sentiment – or that it is such a clear-cut question – is harmful. Structural oppression and domination play enormous roles in shaping the ‘approved’ discourse of the oppressed; that is, what becomes representative, or what may be recorded. Thus, I pose my question of Garcilaso versus Guaman within this framework, not wishing to simplify or generalize the views of Indigenous Andeans facing an oppressive colonial system. Maybe a better way to word this would be Garcilaso or Guaman. Or both? I would be very interested to hear other interpretations of the similarities/differences between these two chroniclers. Are they more alike then I have given them credit for?

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