Anderson, Clark, and Anderson, Editors

Constructing Legacies of
Mesoamerica: Archaeological
Practice and the Politics of
Heritage in and Beyond Mexico
David S. Anderson, Dylan J. Clark, and J. Heath Anderson, Editors

Contributions by
David S. Anderson
J. Heath Anderson

Constructing Legacies of Mesoamerica

Alejandra Alonso Olvera
Dylan J. Clark
Ronald K. Faulseit
Lilia Fernández Souza
Pamela R. Frese
Sarah Lyon
Geoffrey McCafferty
Carmen Muñoz-Fernández
Nancy Peniche May
Marijke Stoll
Margarita Vargas-Betancourt
Marcie L. Venter
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli

AP3A No. 25

2015
Archeological Papers of the
ISSN 1551-823X American Anthropological Association, Number 25

APAA_25_1_cover.indd 1 6/1/15 11:21 AM

Constructing Legacies of
Mesoamerica: Archaeological
Practice and the Politics of
Heritage in and Beyond Mexico
David S. Anderson, Dylan J. Clark,
and J. Heath Anderson, Editors
Contributions by
David S. Anderson
J. Heath Anderson
Alejandra Alonso Olvera
Dylan J. Clark
Ronald K. Faulseit
Lilia Fernández Souza
Pamela R. Frese
Sarah Lyon
Geoffrey McCafferty
Carmen Muñoz-Fernández
Nancy Peniche May
Marijke Stoll
Margarita Vargas-Betancourt
Marcie L. Venter
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli

2015
Archeological Papers of the
American Anthropological Association, Number 25
[Correction added on 4 June 2015, after online publication:
‘Dylan C. Clark’ was changed to ‘Dylan J. Clark.’ This
change has also been made in the Table of Contents.]
 ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS
OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION

Lynne Goldstein, General Series Editor

Number 25

CONSTRUCTING LEGACIES OF MESOAMERICA

2015

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ISSN 1551-823x (Print)
ISSN 1551-8248 (Online)

APAA_25_1_cover.indd 2 6/1/15 11:21 AM


In December 2013, I took over as Publications Director of
the Archeology Division of the American Anthropological
Association. Cathy Costin, my predecessor, did an excellent
job, and I hope I can maintain her high standards. In an
attempt to publish on time and remove some backlog, I have
instituted a series of changes and additions.
First, it has been brought to our attention that recent
print volumes of Archaeological Papers of the American
Anthropological Association were published with incorrect
volume years on the covers.
Below, we summarize the incorrectly numbered vol-
ume years along with the volume numbers and ti-
tles and provide the corrected volume years along with
the appropriate volume numbers and titles. The vol-
ume years for Volumes 20–22 have been corrected on
AP3A’s journal homepage on Wiley Online Library: www.
wileyonlinelibrary.com/journal/apaa.
Volumes 20–22 of AP3A were published as volume
years 2011–2013, skipping volume year 2010:
2011: Volume 20, Residential Burial: A Multiregional Ex-
ploration
2012: Volume 21, Beyond Belief: The Archaeology of Re-
ligion and Ritual
2013: Volume 22, Territoriality in Archaeology
Volumes 20–22 have been corrected to show the correct
subscription years, 2010–2012:
2010: Volume 20, Residential Burial: A Multiregional Ex-
ploration
v
From the Editor
2011: Volume 21, Beyond Belief: The Archaeology of Re-
ligion and Ritual
2012: Volume 22, Territoriality in Archaeology
I took over my editorial role with Volume 23. Al-
though both volumes 23 and 24 were actually published
in 2014, Volume 23, The Inalienable in the Archaeology
of Mesoamerica, is the 2013 volume, and Volume 24, Re-
silience and Vulnerability of Ancient Landscapes, is the
2014 volume.
Readers may be aware that the AAA is moving to online-
only publication of its journals. This transition will be com-
pleted in 2016. For AP3A, Volume 25, the current volume,
is the first volume of AP3A that is published online only; all
subsequent volumes will also be online only. If readers want
a hard copy of a volume, one can be printed on demand for
a minimal cost. Also in 2015, we will publish Volume 26,
completing our catch-up efforts.
Although I know that online publishing does not make
everyone happy, the volumes are searchable, it allows for
color photographs, and you can request a print-on-demand
copy if desired.
Please feel free to contact me if you have questions
about AP3A.
Lynne Goldstein
Publications Director for AP3A
 1
Past is Present: The Production and
Consumption of Archaeological Legacies
in Mexico
Dylan J. Clark
Harvard University
and
David S. Anderson
Roanoke College

ABSTRACT
The material expressions of the powerful symbols and cultural traditions of ancient Mesoamerican civilizations
have long played vital roles in constructing social and political discourses, collective identities, and worldviews in
the Mexican present. In this chapter, we provide the theoretical background for this volume, highlighting the early
history of archaeological representation and patrimony in Mexico prior to the 20th century and situating these studies
within the current phase of anthropological research in the related areas of public archaeology, heritage studies, and
community (engaged) archaeology. [public archaeology, heritage, identity politics, community archaeology, tourism]

I n this volume, we explore the contemporary life of Mex-

ico’s ancient cultures at home and abroad by bringing
together fourteen essays that examine the multiple uses of
archaeological heritage in the realms of identity narratives,
politics, education, cosmology, economics, sustainable de-
velopment, sport, media, tourism, migration, museums, and
participatory research—all of which contribute to crafting
the social landscape from which material legacies are mar-
shaled to shape the present and future.1 Broadly positioned
within the field of public archaeology, this volume repre-
sents an interdisciplinary forum that cross-cuts perceived
theoretical and methodological boundaries in anthropology,
archaeology, history, and cultural studies to bring multi-
ple approaches and perspectives to bear on the complex
dialectic employed in the production and consumption of
the pre-Hispanic past in current contexts. As archaeological
practice has become more applied and collaborative with
local communities, and archaeological–historical represen-
tation increasingly important vis-à-vis the prominence of
cultural tourism in economic development strategies, we are
challenged by the need to consider the wider dimensions
of our research, critically assess our strategies of commu-
nication and engagement with stakeholder groups and the
new directions in which public and social archaeology are
moving in Mexico.
Monumental Heritage: Public Archaeology
and Mexico
There is nothing new in the observation that modern
archaeology is an inherently public enterprise—it is always
conducted under the gaze of various stakeholders who have
a vested interest in the past. It is most often conducted
under the auspices of governmental bodies who, in theory,
protect public interests (McGimsey 1972). Archaeology is
also an expensive undertaking and is typically funded by

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 1–18, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12042.
2 Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
governmental bodies, private donors, or other interested
parties. As a result, archaeologists have a responsibility to
report the results of their work to these funding sources,
and to the public writ large (Zimmerman 2003).
The phrase public archaeology means many things
to scholars, ranging from public works, e.g. contract
archaeology conducted to comply with federal legislation
and/or by federal institutions (Ford 1973), to public
education and public rights to access, interpret, and identify
with archaeological data (Skeates et al. 2012). Beginning
in the 1990s, public archaeology developed as a subfield
within archaeology concerned with the “processes by
which meaning is created from archaeological materials
in the public realm” (Merriman 2004:5), as well as the
method and means by which archaeological information is
communicated to non-archaeologists through educational
programs, museum exhibitions, site tours, and other
forms of interpretation. One of the most broadly inclusive
descriptions from the SAA’s Archaeology for the Public
website refers to “the theory and practice of reaching out”
(Society for American Archaeology n.d.).
This subfield was born out of postmodern critiques
prevalent in the social sciences and humanities in the 1980s
and 1990s that called for archaeologists to be more explicitly
self-reflexive about our position in the interpretive process
and our relationship with stakeholders (Carman 1995; Hod-
der 1999; Shanks and Hodder 1995). Public archaeology,
concomitantly with museum and heritage studies, developed
steadily through the next two decades, most predominately
in the United Kingdom (Carman 1995, 2002; Holtorf 2005;
Lowenthal 1985; Merriman 1991, 2004; Schadla-Hall 2006;
Skeates 2000; Smith 2006; Smith and Waterton 2009; Walsh
1992) and in historical archaeology of the U.S. (Jameson
1997; Leone 2010; Potter 1994).
In Latin America, the social commitment and political
dimensions of archaeological practice have been more ex-
plicit in response to the colonial and neocolonial historical
contexts in which the discipline evolved. Latin American
social archaeology is partly rooted in Spanish colonialism
and an effort to construct and provide public access to a
shared heritage in extremely culturally diverse countries
where, for centuries, indigenous and African cultural
traditions have been suppressed (Funari and Berraza
2012:110; Politis and Pérez Gollán 2007). In Mexico and
other Central American countries, archaeological research
was carried out primarily by state-sponsored agencies or by
foreigners, and influenced by nationalism and socialism in
the early years of the professionalization of the discipline
(Vargas Arenas and Sanoja 1999). A critical and reflexive
consciousness, related to Marxist philosophy and V. Gordon
Childe’s perspectives, inclined research towards questions
of social organization, production, and economy, while
critiquing the theoretical hegemony and asymmetrical
relationship with European and North American archaeol-
ogy (Politis and Pérez Gollán 2007:358–60). Even as the
“scientific objectivity” of Processualism was integrated into
archaeological praxis in Latin America, the production of
archaeological knowledge was always positioned to affect
social change and align with public interest.
In Mexico, all archaeology is carried out under the
auspices of the Instituto Nacional de Antropologı́a e
Historia (National Institute of Anthropology and History,
hereafter INAH), the federal agency charged with the
investigation, protection, and public dissemination of
archaeological patrimony since 1939 (Olive Negrete and
Castro-Pozo 1988). INAH continues to be a world leader
in archaeological research, conservation, and museology,
reaching out to a variety of specialist and non-specialist
audiences alike. The historically close tie between state
archaeology and the changing sociopolitical goals of the
nation means that public education considerations have been
integral to prioritizing archaeological projects, particularly
the consolidation and restoration of monumental architec-
ture. In this public context, the past has traditionally been
presented and consumed as a complete, final product—it
is not the process but the results that are socially relevant.
Also, public archaeology and heritage studies were not
taught as specific sub-disciplines within archaeology in
Mexico, where “educational diffusion” was already part of
the mission of larger state institutions, including museums,
and the National School of Anthropology and History
(ENAH) (Funari and Bezerra 2012:111).
In contrast, other public archaeology programs have
been established as components of archaeological projects
where multiple stakeholders could learn about or even par-
ticipate in the process of excavation and interpretation as a
means of social engagement (e.g., Hodder 1999; Jameson
1997; Potter 1994). Both theoretical and practical consid-
erations hindered the development of these kinds of ap-
proaches in Latin America (cf. Errington 1998; Garcı́a Can-
clini 1995). Thus, Mexican projects rarely appeared in the
“public archaeology” literature of the 1980s–1990s, which
dealt primarily with practical methods and critiques. In-
stead, the emphasis of critical social archaeology at this
time was the complicity between state sponsored archae-
ology and nation-building in the post-Mexican Revolution
20th century (Bonfil Batalla 1989; Kohl and Fawcett 1995;
Lorenzo 1981; Patterson 1995; Robles Garcı́a 1996; Schmidt
and Patterson 1995; Trigger 1984; Vázquez León 2003).
Indigenismo philosophy promoted in anthropology and pub-
lic education in Mexico beginning in the 1920s relied, in part,
on ancient cultural patrimony to acknowledge and celebrate
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico
the contribution of “the Indian” to a national mestizo (mixed
race) culture (Gamio 1916). An exalted indigenous past and
continuing folk traditions fit well into a national narrative of
identity featuring an idealized blend of two great ancestral
civilizations, the European and Mesoamerican, that unified a
diverse Mexican citizenry (Bonfil Batalla 1989; Florescano
1994, 1997; Gamio 1916; Garcı́a Canclini 1995; Vasconce-
los 1925). Aztec culture, in particular, became the symbol
par excellence of this Mesoamerican legacy, while historical
contributions of Africa and Asia to mestizaje were expunged
from the discourse. At the same time, the nationalist indi-
genist project explicitly promoted the assimilation of mod-
ern indigenous communities into the dominant (Western)
cultural, linguistic, political, and economic paradigm. The
hegemony of Aztec culture in Mexican heritage politics has
generated significant critical analysis and debate in the liter-
ature (Errington 1998; Garcı́a Canclini 1995), and features
in some of the cases discussed in this volume. Anthropolo-
gist Guillermo Bonfil Batalla (1989:41) cogently argued that
the use of cultural patrimony in this way contributed to de-
Indianization, or the denial of Native American (as well as
African) identities in the present in favor of a homogenizing
mestizo identity.
Over the past two decades, new archaeological practices
and participatory research models, eco-and cultural tourism
strategies, increasing commodification of culture, heritage
ideologies, and emigration have altered both the sociopol-
itics of the Mesoamerican past and scholarly approaches
to understanding them. Research from Mexico positioned
within the genre of public archaeology from a world ar-
chaeology perspective, emerged out of two related phenom-
ena: the rise in cultural tourism as a means of sustainable
economic development (Giraudo and Porter 2010; Loewe
2010; Mortensen 2001; Nash 1981; Pi-Sunyer et al. 1999)
and post-colonial calls for community collaboration and co-
management in archaeological research (Derry and Malloy
2003; Pyburn 2003, 2004; Robles Garcı́a and Corbett 2006).
INAH is no longer the sole source of archaeological
representation and heritage discourse in Mexico. The min-
istries of tourism in individual state governments now play a
significant role, funding and managing tourist infrastructure
and performances in archaeological zones, and in at least
one case, purchasing the land on which an important ar-
chaeological site is located. Private investors also purchase
and alter archaeological landscapes, creating tourist theme
parks and private museums where cultural patrimony and
simulacra are exhibited in ways quite distinct from exhibi-
tion strategies employed by INAH museums.
Some indigenous communities have successfully nego-
tiated for the right to interpret the archaeological past and
indigenous present in community museums and at archae-
3
ological sites that form part of larger eco-tourism routes.
The professional archaeological community employed by
INAH and in Mexican Universities are also increasingly
multicultural with some archaeologists speaking indigenous
languages and/or self-identifying with the descendant com-
munities directly connected to the archaeological resources
they study, adding an insider’s voice to the dialogues between
the various stakeholders (Robles Garcı́a 2010:283).
Increasing multivocality in archaeological research
and interpretation indicates that identity politics have not
remained static, even since the first critical analyses of the
sociopolitics of archaeological resource management in
Mexico appeared in the literature in the 1980s. Heritage dis-
course at the national level in Mexico is moving away from
assimilation narratives and toward pluralistic recognition of
cultural difference within a broader concept of mestizaje,
emphasizing multiethnic transculturation. While the most
common ethnic self-identification in Mexico continues to
be mestizo, it is not necessarily the automatic or sole way
people conceptualize cultural identity or historical descent.
It is clear today that a critical analysis of nationalist agendas
in Mexican archaeology is no longer sufficient when the
dialectic of the production and consumption of archaeo-
logical heritage in the contemporary world is “not vaguely
national, [but] instead, tangibly local” (Morehart 2012:270).
Past is Present
We organized the chapters of this volume thematically
into five sections. In the first section, Enduring Legacies of
Mexico’s Ancient Cultures, we situate the volume in the theo-
retical and historical context of public archaeology and trace
the early history of archaeological heritage representation in
Mexico. Following this introductory chapter, Nancy Peniche
provides a historical analysis of how the archaeological past
was integrated into nationalist projects and discourse during
the three decades of rule by Porfirio Dı́az. The use of ancient
ruins and material culture in identity politics has a deep his-
tory that pre-dates the Revolution and even the formation of
Mexico as a nation. This early historical context is important
for understanding how narratives of identity and concepts
of patrimony have developed and continue to evolve over
time and the ramifications for indigeneity and strategies of
archaeological practice and representation in the present.
Nestor Garcı́a Canclini (1995:108) argues that for
Mexico, cultural patrimony is “central to the construction of
modern identities” and that through public commemoration,
cultural patrimony generates a “metaphysical, ahistorical
view of the ‘national being’, whose superior manifestations,
deriving from a mythical origin, supposedly only exist today
4 Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
in the objects that recall it.” At least as early as the colonial
period (Table 1), people made regular visits to the ruins of
monumental Mesoamerican cities, and as Peniche points
out, Porfirio Dı́az made the investigation and restoration of
pre-Hispanic architecture a priority for public ceremony.
Visitors touring ruins or museums consume “sensually
stimulating heritage” (Skeates et al. 2012:6), just as archae-
ologists who excavate, interpret, restore, and exhibit the
material remains of the past “transform” this heritage (Pace
2012:279), producing new representations for further con-
sumption (Holtorf 2005:295). In this sense, specialists and
non-specialists alike can both be producers and consumers
of archaeological knowledge. Thus, a complex dialectic
is at work between the production and consumption of
archaeological interpretation, whereby significations of the
past are shaped by the present, while the past simultaneously
plays roles in shaping the present and building the future.
We echo our colleague Traci Ardren’s (2006:34) suggestion
that it is increasingly important to examine processes
of archaeological knowledge production and patterns of
consumption among the various stakeholders—specialist
and non-specialist—that ultimately influence not just how
ancient cultures are perceived, but how the archaeological
past was, is, and potentially may be used in modern social,
cultural, economic, and political contexts.
In the second section, four chapters address Ar-
chaeological Heritage and Narratives of Contemporary
Mexican Identity by bringing multiple perspectives and
analytical methods to bear on the continuing social life of
the Mesoamerican past. Cultural anthropology recognizes
the inherently social and political nature of archaeological
practice (Castañeda and Matthews 2008; Edgeworth 2006;
Mortensen and Hollowel 2009). Mexico has been at the
forefront of the development of the ethnographic study of
archaeology, analyzing the positions of researchers, descen-
dant communities, and other stakeholders vis-à-vis material
culture (Breglia 2006; Castañeda 1996; Geurds 2007;
Pyburn 2008; Robles Garcı́a and Corbett 2006). The
authors of these four chapters utilize ethnographic and
ethnohistorical approaches to analyze the relationship
between Mesoamerican traditions and collective identity at
the local level, which in many ways is more tangible in a
globalized context than any national identity affiliation.
In Chapter 3, Marijke Stoll’s ethnographic study ana-
lyzes the cultural meanings of the famous Mesoamerican
ballgame as both sport and tradition in Mixtec communities
of Oaxaca as well as migrant Mixtec communities. While the
modern ball game is most commonly studied as an analog for
the ancient game, this essay focuses on how understanding
and playing the game reifies ethnic identity in the context
of labor migration outside of Oaxaca. Only very recently
have anthropologists and historians considered the use of
Mesoamerican cultural symbols and traditions in the con-
text of transnational migration. This is an important issue
just beginning to be explored in the literature and has yet
to be thoroughly developed in public archaeology (cf. Car-
rasco 2006). This chapter thus makes a significant contribu-
tion to a growing area of study.
Two additional essays in this volume grapple with the di-
aspora of Mexican archaeological legacies and their roles in
constructing identities and affecting social change outside of
Mexico. In Chapter 4, Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli examines
the importance of narratives of migration in building and
maintaining Mesoamerican communities past and present.
He argues that immigrants unite around communities of
origin and destination, and in doing so bridge distances be-
tween social groups and homelands to protect interests and
human rights. Migration stories inspire people to identify
with indigenous Mesoamerican heritage or reify a cultural
or ethnic identity previously suppressed. Later in Chapter
12, Geoffrey McCafferty returns to this issue, examining
how archaeological interpretation influences and is influ-
enced by migration narratives that have been integral to the
construction of shared heritage in Nicaragua. It is interest-
ing to compare these cases to the historiography presented
in the first section to consider how conceptions of indigene-
ity are affected by migration, and how narratives of identity
in the “center” are juxtaposed with those emerging beyond
Mexico.
An important foundational concept in the study of the
contemporary public life of the archaeological past is the
fact that archaeologists are also storytellers who produce
narratives that are consumed by various publics and uti-
lized by them to produce their own (hi)stories (Ardren 2004,
2006; Holtorf 2005; Joyce 2002; Meskell 2002; Morehart
2012:268; Wylie 1995). In Chapter 5, Margarita Vargas-
Betancourt examines one such narrative in the form of the
mythical figure of Tepozteco, who is celebrated in the annual
patron festival of the town of Tepoztlán, Morelos. This study
shows how a transculturated figure related to an Aztec deity
and sacred place is, over time, adopted by community mem-
bers as a sacred ancestor, a symbol of unity used to mobilize
resistance to outside forces threatening local identity.
In Chapter 6, Lilia Fernández explores how children
attending a secondary school in San Antonio Sihó, Yucatán
conceptualize the Maya past as a result of formal and in-
formal education, as well as their experiential relationship
with a Maya archaeological site (Sihó) located near their
homes. This reminds us that educators, parents, and children
are consumers of archaeological and cultural narratives of
the ancient past, but also producers who pass on percep-
tions to subsequent generations. Again, indigeneity comes
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico
to the foreground in this chapter as differential perceptions
of descent affect how Yucatec children perceive their rela-
tionship to Maya archaeological resources. The proximity
of archaeologists to the community influences these percep-
tions, as it is in their interest to encourage local residents
to embrace descent and promote stewardship. This chap-
ter makes clear that modes of archaeological representation
are culturally situated and determined, and meaning is gen-
erated through the “social practice of discourse,” which is
also affected by culturally embedded “signifying practices”
(Skeates 2012:82).
In the third section, Tourism, Development and the
Commodification of Mexican Heritage, three chapters ad-
dress how archaeological sites and museums “constitute part
of an ‘exhibitionary complex’ in which spectacle, discipline,
and state power become interlinked with questions of enter-
tainment, education, and control” (Appadurai and Breck-
enridge 1992:51). With the growth of heritage-tourism, in
contrast to beach-tourism, archaeological sites are touted as
economic resources with broad potential impact. Anthropo-
logical interest in tourism and heritage has generated criti-
cal ethnographic and sociological analyses of the multiple
meanings and values of cultural patrimony in various con-
texts (Breglia 2006; Castañeda 1996; Mortensen 2001, 2007,
2009; Pi-Sunyer and Thomas 2005; Walker 2005, 2009). In
Chapter 7, Carmen Muñoz carries this forward from a cul-
tural studies perspective, analyzing the ways in which Maya
cultural heritage has been transformed into a commodity
drawing on the iconography, architecture, and dress of Maya
archaeological patrimony and ethnic identity to create what
she calls a “Maya imaginary” to fuel the tourism industry.
Since most archaeological sites are located near,
if not directly beneath, modern communities, “the re-
lationship between the past and the present immediate
and intense” (Pyburn 2003:179). When sites are restored
and restructured for tourism in their dual roles as both
archaeological space and performance space, we consider
how this process contributes to the commodification of
culture. In Chapter 8, Marcie Venter and Sarah Lyon
address the politics of Mesoamerican heritage in the
growing tourism industry of the Tuxtla Mountains of
Veracruz. Here historical narratives are multivocal and,
at times conflicting, as a result of the various motivations
and strategies of representation that diverse interest groups
employ in managing, promoting and conserving archae-
ological resources. The authors compare and contrast the
approaches to representing heritage of professional archae-
ologists, municipal government, and private entrepreneurs
with local residents’ interpretations and narratives of iden-
tity. In contrast to the case of Sihó, Yucatan, the added layer
of touristic promotion and discourse in the Tuxtlas brings
5
another external mode of heritage construction into dia-
logue and conflict with local perceptions and management,
though not completely obscuring it, as seen in Cancun.
In Chapter 9, Alejandra Alonso’s ethnographic work
with the Yucatec Maya communities near the archaeolog-
ical zone of Ek Balam focuses on how local residents’
participation as employees in a long-term archaeological
project affects the various meanings the associated site and
the pre-Hispanic past have for them. This work highlights
the significant impact that participation and collaboration in
archaeological projects has on public conceptualizations of
cultural identity and community members’ relationship to
the site and its conservation (cf. Derry and Malloy 2003;
B. Fash 2011).
The emphasis of Alonso’s work on the impact of archae-
ological practice on Mesoamerican peoples’ experiential re-
lationship with material heritage serves to transition the vol-
ume to Section IV, in which three chapters engage with
the Role of Archaeological Practice in the Construction of
Heritage and Cultural Patrimony; each examining how col-
laboration and conflict with the producers of the past affect
public perceptions of that past. As archaeological knowl-
edge production and communication are integrated into the
politics, economics, and management of heritage, what can
and should professional archaeologists be doing ethically in
the arenas of social justice and cultural empowerment?
The professionalization of archaeology in Mesoamerica
during the 20th century created a hierarchical structure in
which control over data, practice, interpretations, and the-
ory was restricted to those few credentialed professionals,
mostly considered outsiders in the locations in which they
worked (Yaeger and Borgstede 2004:270). At the same time,
local community members, many of whom were laborers on
archaeological projects, were used as analogs for interpret-
ing the archaeological record (Gamio 1923; Redfield 1934;
Sullivan 1989).
The past decade has seen community archaeology
projects throughout the world attempting to disman-
tle these power inequalities through collaboration and
co-management with various publics in the process of
archaeological knowledge production (Ardren 2002; Derry
and Malloy 2003; Little 2012; Marshall 2002; McAnany
et al. 2006; Pyburn 2003, 2004; Pyburn and Wilk 1995;
Robles Garcı́a and Corbett 2006; Smith and Waterton 2009).
Community involvement in the archaeological production
process promotes accessibility and multivocality, moving
from critical theory to practice (Little 2012:398; McGhee
2012:214). This has also been termed “participatory action
research” (McGhee 2012:213) and “action archaeology,”
when the focus is on applying archaeological practice
and insights from within contemporary communities to
6 Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
face current challenges such as sustainable development
(Sabloff 2008; cf. Little 2012:403).
The growing dialogue between archaeologists and pub-
lic stakeholders elucidates the multiple roles the archaeolog-
ical process and interpretations play in local communities
with regard to economic development, land tenure issues,
identity politics, and ownership claims, along with archaeol-
ogists’ responsibilities to these communities (Ardren 2002;
Geurds 2007; Magnoni et al. 2007; Morehart 2012; Pérez
Rodrı́guez 2002; Stephen 2002). In Chapter 10, J. H. An-
derson discusses the seven decade tradition of collaboration
between local residents living near the archaeological site
of Tula, Hidalgo, emphasizing the early cooperative rela-
tionship between the archaeological project under Mexican
archaeologist Jorge Acosta and the multigenerational con-
tinuity in participation by several local families. As an ar-
chaeologist from the most recent generation of researchers
at the site, J. H. Anderson identifies several factors involved
in how collaboration between local residents and archaeolo-
gists at Tula evolved into a relationship of mutual benefit and
support. He further demonstrates that ethnography and oral
history can give voice to the local community’s experiential
relationship with the ruins.
The state of Oaxaca is at the forefront of commu-
nity archaeology and heritage studies in recent years and
is a major draw for cultural tourism. Several archaeological
projects have sought collaboration with local communities
to mitigate potential conflicts stemming from differences
in how various stakeholders conceptualize the value and
appropriate use of archaeological heritage (Geurds 2007;
Matadamas 2002; Rivera 2002). Recognition of the multiple
and, at times, competing values that various social groups
within the same community may attribute to archaeologi-
cal resources is now essential in order to effectively manage
these resources over time and communicate the methods and
results of archaeological research (Pérez Rodrı́guez 2002;
Robles Garcı́a 2010:283). In Chapter 12, Ronald Faulseit
provides a case study of the development of a community
museum in the town of San Mateo Macuilxóchitl, Oaxaca.
Community museums are open to the public and permit-
ted by INAH, but managed independently at the local level,
such that the thematic content, design, financing, curation,
and staffing is controlled by members of the community
(Hoobler 2006:443). Faulseit’s experience as a foreign re-
searcher asked to consult on the curation of archaeologi-
cal materials at this communitarian museum illuminates the
on-going challenges in negotiating co-management between
the national institute and the descendant community seek-
ing control over how their heritage is presented, exhibited,
conserved and displayed.
The final chapter of this section by Geoffrey McCaf-
ferty discusses challenges archaeologists face when the in-
terpretation of archaeological data does not corroborate the
historical record or popular origin narratives embraced by
the public. In this case, a widely held belief that indigenous
ancestors of the contemporary population in Nicaragua were
Nahua-Mexica (Aztec) in origin and migrated from central
Mexico in the 15th century. There are several points of in-
terest in this case study in terms of contemporary issues in
public archaeology. One thematic thread running through
the chapters of this volume is looking beyond nationalism
in heritage studies to consider the local and the global con-
texts (Olsen 2001). Globalization affects how heritage is
perceived with sites that meet certain criteria deemed to
have significance, not just for the culture that produced them
or the nation in which they are located, but for the whole
of humanity. Site status designations such as UNESCO’s
World Heritage list elevate sites to “humanity’s patrimony,”
increasing the stakes and stakeholders involved. Of the his-
torical/archaeological sites on the World Heritage list, 26 are
located in Mexico and represent intellectual cultural heritage
and creativity at the scale of all humanity—a level that super-
sedes any particular historical or cultural context (Hermann
1989:33). This opens the door for a broader “international
community” to directly engage with heritage management
at sites that were previously conceptualized only in terms of
local and national patrimony.
One might ask “Why is an Aztec ancestral origin
preferred in Nicaragua’s national heritage narrative?” The
ancient Aztecs have long been characterized in popular
mythology as a New World analog to the Roman Empire,
and their historical movements and modern prestige have
carried their ideological and symbolic weight well beyond
the Basin of Mexico. In this case, McCafferty shows how
archaeologists often must navigate between the global and
the local, investigating questions of broad anthropological
significance with material culture that has salient implica-
tions for local identity. This requires careful negotiation
between multiple stakeholders. Like Christopher Morehart’s
(2012) recent study from the community of Xaltocan in
central Mexico, McCafferty’s project demonstrates the
importance of evaluating archaeological data, historical
sources, and local identity constructs together as a way of
integrating public interests directly into research questions
and practice. Here the focus of the long-term research
project by “outsider” archaeologists on questions of
ethnicity and population movements accomplishes this, but
is complicated by the results of the archaeological analysis,
which challenge established understandings about Aztec
ancestors, not just in the popular imagination and public
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico
interpretations, but also among Nicaraguan scholars with
whom McCafferty’s team regularly collaborates.
One of the foundational assumptions of this volume is
that archaeology and the production of historical narratives
consumed by the public never occurs in a vacuum. This is
true in terms of the sociopolitical context in which the ar-
chaeological past is interpreted, as well as the relevance of
the material past for other areas of research in the social
sciences and humanities. While the volume emphasizes the
material (i.e., archaeological), the chapters represent the in-
terplay of a variety of perspectives and methods that bring
different aspects of the “on-going social life” (Jones 1997)
of archaeological heritage in Mexico to the foreground, in-
cluding ethnographic interviews and participant observa-
tion, historical analysis, museology, sociology, literary and
cultural studies’ perspectives on text and image, tourism
studies, and ethnohistory.
The Legacy of Archaeological Heritage
Representation in Mexico
Archaeological representation has a very long history
in Mexico. Ancient places and objects have always been
active and integral parts of community life and the public
presentation of the past a key force in driving archaeologi-
cal knowledge production and conservation. While heritage
scholars such as John Carman (2012:14) draw a sharp dis-
tinction between the curation of archaeological relics by
ancient cultures and modern “archaeological practice” or
“heritage management,” the idea of conserving and using
ancient objects within a particular cultural context in the
present always involves the instilling of social meaning and
value to these materials. The signification is culturally and
historically contingent, but there is commonly a delineation
of these objects as meaningful. As renowned Mexican his-
torian Enrique Florescano (1994:58) points out, unlike the
western historical tradition that considers the past as some-
how disconnected from the present, Mesoamerican societies
have always represented the past “as a living past, a reality
that is constantly reactualized in the present.”
In Table 1.1 we summarize a selection of key histori-
cal benchmarks in archaeological heritage representation in
Mexico. This is in keeping with our effort to situate this vol-
ume before and then after 20th century nationalism, which
has been the primary period in which Mexican archaeol-
ogy is otherwise considered in the public archaeology and
heritage studies literature. As D. S. Anderson echoes in his
discussion of conflicting views in Chapter 13, Mexico’s com-
plicated cultural history has created numerous stakeholders
with vested interests in archaeological heritage, as well as
7
various modes of marshaling the pre-Hispanic past to affect
social change in the present, many of which are directed
toward entirely different ends.
Arguably the first Mesoamerican archaeologists were
ancient Mesoamericans themselves, especially the Aztec
from whom we have the most evidence, who excavated ru-
ins of earlier societies and carefully curated antique material
culture. They also recreated past events in ritual, song, and
dance amidst a powerful spatial-material setting, and in this
way “reconstituted themselves” by unifying disparate identi-
ties, traditions, and remote origins, encoding material traces
of the past with significance (Florescano 1994:57; Appadu-
rai 1986). This is not so different in form or function from the
collective performances that take place in restored archae-
ological zones today (Castañeda 1996; Clark and Muñoz
2009; Muñoz this volume) and the incorporation of sacred,
animate artifacts into contemporary religious practices in
Mesoamerican communities (Brown and Walker 2008).
Even in the early colonial period, visits to ancient ruins
were common, and among the earliest historians of New
Spain, Carlos Sigüenza y Góngora (1645–1700) and Fran-
cisco Javier Clavijero (1731–1787) incorporated material
culture and architecture into their studies and archival col-
lections, combining them with written records to promote a
shared historical consciousness and refute European social
and political domination. Sigüenza excavated portions of the
Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacan to investigate construc-
tion techniques and linked culture with place, cultivating a
form of territorialism that downplayed cultural, linguistic,
and ethnic differences between Creoles and Mestizos for a
shared and uniquely Mexican remote cultural past, rivaling
that of Europe (Bernal 1980:77). Clavijero combined his-
torical information from various sources including books,
papers, indigenous painted manuscripts, hieroglyphic texts,
and descriptions of archaeological monuments to write the
Historia Antigua de México (1780) and dismantle Enlight-
enment criticisms of the Americas as innately inferior to
Europe as expressed in such ideas as the “Black Legend.”
This represents an explicit re-casting of native cultural pro-
duction as something both valuable and pertaining directly
to Creole society. This is, perhaps, the earliest form of what
Pamela Frese in Chapter 14 refers to as archaeological lega-
cies of knowledge used to bolster collective identity and
empower subaltern groups to resist, in this case, colonial
hegemony.
The year 1790 was pivotal in the history of archaeolog-
ical representation in Mexico when two monumental (and
today iconic) Aztec sculptures, the Aztec Sun Stone and
the image of Coatlicue, an Aztec goddess, were discovered
in the main plaza of Mexico City. Spanish Viceroy Revil-
lagigedo called for the monuments to be displayed at the
 8

Table 1.1. Benchmarks in the History of Archaeological Heritage Representation in Mexico. (References: (1) Bernal (1980); (2) Lorenzo (1981); (3) Umberger (1987); (4)
Florescano (1994:58); (5) Appadurai (1986); (6) Florescano (1994:57); (7) Florescano (1994:33); (8) Bernal (1980:8); (9) Bueno (2010:61); (10) Bernal (1980:50); (11) Bernal
(1980:61); (12) Bernal (1980:60); (13) Clavijero (1780) Historia antigua de México; (14) Bernal (1980:70); (15) Lorenzo (1981:195); Nalda (2005:33); (16) Nalda (2005:32);
(17) Florescano (1993:84); (18) Nalda (2005:33); Politis and Pérez Gollán (2007:355); (19) Wauchope (1965); (20) Florescano (1993:86–89); (21) Clark (2008:212); (22)
Lorenzo (1981:201); (23) Bueno (2010:58); (24) Gamio (1923)

Heritage Activities and

Year Key Agents Benchmarks
? – 1519 Indigenous cultural actors, e.g., Curation; and caching of material
Culhua-Mexica (Aztecs), Maya, remains of earlier cultures in new
Zapotec, Mixtec, Olmec contexts of display and ritual.1,2, 3
Scribes Painted manuscripts and writing on
other media.
1519–1600 European and Mesoamerican nobility, Ruins at Teotihuacan and other deserted
missionaries, antiquaries, Juan de cities, painted manuscripts, finely
Torquemada (1564–1624)8 crafted objects.
1600–1700 Fernando de Alva Cortés Ixtlilxochitl Brought historical manuscripts and
(ca.1570s–1648), Carlos Sigüenza y relics into archival collections;
Góngora (1645–1700) Sigüenza y Góngora drilled into the
Pyramid of the Sun (Teotihuacan) to
examine its manner of construction.
Diego López de Cogolludo (1613–1665), Published descriptions of
Augustı́n de Vetancourt (1620–1700) archaeological ruins in different
regions, including the Yucatan
Peninsula.
1700–1750 Lorenzo Boturini Benaduci (1702–1753) Amassed a large collection of
indigenous painted manuscripts in
Mexico.
Social Significance
Delineation of ancient objects as socially and
religiously meaningful. Objects are used to
evoke the past and legitimize present
actors.4 Material traces of the past are used
to make disparate identities, origins, and
traditions common. 5, 6
Written records of past events are
commissioned, recovered, reinterpreted,
and/or defamed by governing groups.7
Ruins are regularly visited9 and material
culture shipped back to Spain as treasure
and/or curiosities; Indigenous nobility use
as records of sociopolitical status and
territory, historical information collected for
Church and Spanish crown.
Creoles and mestizos begin to systematically
collect and conserve historical documents
that demonstrate the antiquity of human
settlement in New Spain; excavations
conducted to resolve historical questions.10
Drew European attention to less
acknowledged indigenous cultures outside
central Mexico; recognized continuity of a
local past that pre-dated Spanish rule.11
Promoted Mesoamerican civilizations as on
par with, if separate from, Old World
civilizations and integrated into the whole
of human history.12

(Continued)
Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
Table 1.1. (Continued)
Year Key Agents
1750–1800 Francisco Javier Clavijero (1731–1787)
Antonio Bernasconi, Captain Antonio del
Rı́o (ca.1745–1789)
José Antonio Alzate y Ramı́rez
(1737–1799)
Viceroy Revillagigedo, Royal and
Pontifical University of Mexico, Antonio
de León y Gama (1735–1802)
Colonial elites of the Enlightenment period
(ca.1650s–1800)
1800–1810 King Charles IV (1748–1819), Captain
Guillermo Dupaix (1750–1818), José
Luciano Castañeda
Heritage Activities and
Benchmarks
Combined various sources (papers,
painted manuscripts, books,
descriptions of ruins, and
hieroglyphic texts) to write Ancient
History of Mexico (1780).13
Bernasconi (in 1784–85) and del Rı́o (in
1786–87) conducted the first formal
excavations at Maya site of Palenque.
A student of Clavijero, Alzate published
a descriptive study of the ruins at El
Tajı́n (1788) and Xochicalco (1791).
Aztec Sun Stone (depiction of the fifth
age) and Coatlicue (Aztec mother
goddess) sculptures are discovered in
Mexico City (1790).
Historical documents, archaeological
objects, and monuments recast as
collective patrimony
Dupaix’s and Castañeda’s Royal
Antiquities Expeditions in central
and southeastern New Spain
(1805–09).
Social Significance
Attempted to dismantle Enlightenment
criticisms of the Americas as innately
inferior to Europe, connecting culture with
place (country).14 Cultivated an incipient
form of nationalism by re-casting Native
cultural production as valuable and
pertaining to Creole society of New Spain.
Goal was not strictly collection, but to learn
about past construction techniques.15
His observations were used to infer site
function, and he explicitly related material
remains to culture as expressions of
Mexico’s early inhabitants’
activities—similar to modern
archaeological methods.16, 17
Monuments immediately put under protection
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico
of Viceroy Revillagigedo and displayed to
the public. Documents from the Boturini
collection exhibited in the Royal and
Pontifical University courtyard, the first
public museum in Mexico. León y Gama
publishes a study of the monuments in
1792.18
Mesoamerican material culture is integrated
into the formation of symbols of a shared
historical consciousness, increasingly
juxtaposed with European identity.
Visual and scientific documentation and
collection of ancient monuments in Mexico
patronized by Spanish authorities; first
drawings of Maya architecture are
published.19
(Continued)
9

Table 1.1. (Continued)
Year Key Agents
Spanish colonial authorities
Alexander von Humboldt (1769–1859)
1810–1821 Mexican War of Independence
(1810–1821)
1821–1831 The Mexican Empire, Triumvirate
government, and later federal republic
1831–1860 Juan Galindo (1802–1839), John Lloyd
Stephens (1805–1852), Frederick
Catherwood (1799–1854)
Heritage Activities and
Benchmarks
Council of Antiquities (Junta de
Antigüedades) is created in 1808.
Expedition to Central and South
America, resulting in Views of the
Cordilleras and Monuments of the
Indigenous Peoples of the Americas
(1810).
Pictorial depiction of the founding of
Tenochtitlan; the apparition of the
Virgin of Guadalupe at the sacred hill
of Tepeyac: both incorporated into
insurgent military standards and
flags, among other symbols.
First federal law passed prohibiting the
export of antiquities and historic
monuments; University antiquities
collection converted into the
Mexican National Museum (1825)
and instated by congress in 1831.
Expeditions by foreigners to
archaeological ruins in recently
independent Mexico and Central
America document and illustrate
cultural resources in these new
nations.
10
Social Significance
Council charged with stewardship and study of
ancient monuments and historical
documents, demonstrating that cultural
resource management and the concept of
patrimony pre-dates the nation of Mexico.
Helped introduce Mesoamerican antiquities to
a European public; first of travel accounts to
gain international fame. He argued for the
existence of ancient civilization in the
Americas on par with the Classical World
and Egypt, but preferred diffusionist
theories to connecting them with
contemporaneous indigenous peoples.
Pre-Hispanic iconography, especially Aztec, is
appropriated for visual symbolism of the
nativism movement propelling the armed
revolution against Spain.
By 1827, the National Museum had
professorships in antiquities and natural
history and began publishing studies. The
newly established federal government made
the continued protection, collection, and
exhibition of cultural resources one of the
legal priorities of the new nation.20
Following Humboldt and others’ explorations
in the late Colonial period, Galindo’s
descriptions of Copán and Palenque (1834)
and Stephens and Catherwood’s expeditions
in 1839–40 and 1841–42 in Central
America and Yucatán popularize
Mesoamerican culture history in Europe
and the U.S.A., generating foreign interest
in visiting and studying these cultures.
(Continued)
Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
Table 1.1. (Continued)

Heritage Activities and

Year Key Agents Benchmarks
Désiré Charnay (1828–1915) Visited ruins and collects
archaeological material from several
sites in Mexico 1857–61, 1880–83.
1860–1876 The French Scientific Expedition Combined study of ruins with natural
(1862–67) history in Mexico during the French
Intervention.
Social Significance
These publications also presented the idea that
contemporary indigenous people were
descendants of the ancient civilizations,
rather than disconnected from the past.21
Inspired by Stephens and Catherwood, his
travelogues and expedition reports were
published in French. He promoted the
diffusionist view that Mesoamerican
civilizations were Asian in origin.
Would help establish some of the positivist
principles upon which the discipline of
archaeology would be built, and Mexico is
at the forefront of the professionalization of
this science in the late 19th and early 20th
centuries.
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico

Archduke Maximilian and the Napoleonic
imperial government
1876–1911 Prior to and during the presidencies of
Porfirio Dı́az (1876–1911)
National Museum and its collections
separated from the University in
1867 and combined with the archival
library collection; physically moved
to the main plaza in Mexico City next
to the National Palace.
Public tours of pyramids and
monumental architecture at
archaeological sites become very
popular activities among elites.23
The strong connection between archaeological
heritage and raising shared historical
consciousness as part of nation building
continued, even in the political context of
foreign intervention.22
Public interest in and engagement with ruins
and material culture of the Mesoamerican
past were integral to shifting identity
politics prior to the Mexican Revolution. It
was also instrumental in the
professionalization of archaeology in
America, prompting the first formal
scientific excavations of sites like
Teotihuacan, Monte Albán, and Cempoala
in the early 20th century.24
11
12
Royal and Pontifical University of Mexico, essentially cre-
ating the first public museum exhibition in Mexico (Politis
and Pérez Gollán 2007:355). Here we see that prior to the de-
velopment of the formal discipline of archaeology and even
the formation of Mexico as an independent nation, histori-
cal interpretation and the public presentation of the ancient
material remains were intertwined en route to the valoriza-
tion of the past in a present social and political context. Not
long after it was installed in the courtyard of the university
building, the Coatlicue statue was reburied after offerings
were presented to the image of the goddess, drawing the
ire of the Catholic Church which feared that the indigenous
population would return to their pagan practices (Florescano
1993:86; Nalda 2005:33). This is indicative of the multiple
roles archaeological materials play within different social
groups. On the one hand, these objects are active agents in
continued religious practice (Brown 2004) and, on the other,
they were symbols appropriated by the aspiring dominant
culture as collective patrimony stemming from an exalted
history.
These early developments underlie the character of pro-
fessional Mexican archaeology as it evolved out of the
projects undertaken at Monte Albán, Cempoala, and Teoti-
huacan by Manuel Gamio (1923). By the late 19th century,
public tours of pyramids were popular activities that at-
tracted and inspired future professional archaeologists and
non-archaeologists alike (Bueno 2010:58). As José Lorenzo
(1981:201) explains, Mexican archaeology has always been
characterized by its “historical and social commitment” to
“the formation of historical awareness” in contemporary so-
ciety, drawing on ancient textual sources, material culture,
and ethnography to integrate the public into a shared history.
The public presentation and consumption of archaeo-
logical heritage in Mexico goes beyond what some call mere
educational entertainment. The audiences are greater in
number than ever before and growing, and material culture
and symbols are being routinely transmitted virtually over
great distances and integrated into on-going social and
political struggles, as well as international politics. As
Frese (this volume) explains, archaeological knowledge
production is, therefore, positioned and engaged, tacitly or
explicitly, in these struggles. While this volume features
critical analyses and reflections about the various ways
in which the production of heritage as a public enterprise
shapes people’s beliefs, understandings, experience, and
engagement with the Mesoamerican past, we also en-
courage moving on to the logical next step, namely the
integration of new approaches into archaeological practice
that facilitate conservation, community collaboration, and
social empowerment. Interrogation is necessary regarding
what scholars’ roles and responsibilities are, who deter-
Dylan J. Clark and David S. Anderson
mines what kinds of heritage discourse are appropriate
or beneficial, and what stakeholders, if any, should be
privileged (D. S. Anderson, this volume). We present this
volume not as the definitive answer to any one of the many
research questions posed here, but rather a next phase in
the on-going transition in archaeological discourse from
critical awareness of theoretical and methodological issues
in public and community archaeology in Mexico, toward
the inclusion of pragmatic applications in research designs.
Archaeological practice is not a passive activity detached
from processes of heritage-patrimony-identity construction,
representation, and use. Rather, these are dialectically
related processes that influence and build upon each other
to enrich the discipline and its impact as a whole.
The practice of archaeology and the historical interpre-
tation of the material past may or may not be consciously
directed toward the construction and maintenance of
heritage-based ideologies, historical narratives, or identity
claims, but it is always implicated in these processes. By
bringing the material traces of Mesoamerican ancestors
back into the present social world of stakeholders and
publics who incorporate these legacies into their lives in
distinct manners, archaeology is actively involved in the
contemporary social life of the distant past with significant
potential to empower and impact the future. The next step
is to consider how the producers and presenters of the past
can best accomplish this. The authors of the subsequent
chapters offer many compelling paths to doing so.
Acknowledgements
We are grateful to a number of people who have con-
tributed to making this volume come together. First, we
thank Cathy Costin and Lynne Goldstein for their support
and patience in the process of transforming this from a con-
ference session into print. We would also like to thank Aline
Magnoni, Victoria Beltrán Kuhn, Travis W. Stanton, and
Alanna Cant who participated in the Legacy of Mesoamer-
ican Ancestors AAA session and discussion in 2011 and
subsequently provided invaluable input as we began to put
this volume together. Even though they were unable to sub-
mit to the publication, their insights are greatly appreciated.
We also benefited from the advice of Charles Golden in
developing the conference session. Dylan Clark would also
like to thank Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collec-
tion, Victoria R. Bricker, J. Heath Anderson, and Bayla Os-
trach. Two anonymous reviewers provided valuable insights
to guide us, and any shortcomings here may be attributed
solely to the authors.
The Production and Consumption of Archaeological Legacies in Mexico
Note
1. We use the terms “heritage” and “patrimony” in-
terchangeably, acknowledging the inherent complexities of
both (Carman 2002, 2012; Pace 2012:285; Smith 2004;
Smith and Waterton 2009, 2012) and the fact that patrimony,
or patrimonio, is preferred in Mexico.
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 2
Arqueologı́a Patria: Mexican Archaeology and
the Nation-Building Process during the
Nineteenth Century
Nancy Peniche May
University of California, San Diego

ABSTRACT
It is currently accepted that state-sponsored archaeological practice in Mexico falls under the rubric of
nationalist archaeology. The Mexican state supports archaeological research and displays its results, which include
archaeological remains, in order to strengthen a sense of national pride and unity. Traditional narratives have held
that this practice began after the Revolution (1910). Nevertheless, the institutionalization and professionalization of
archaeology dates back to the period known as the Porfiriato (1879–1911). This chapter describes the process through
which archaeology was institutionalized during the Porfiriato and how this nationalist archaeology contributed to
constructing a Mexican national identity. [Nation-building process, nationalist archaeology, Mexico, Porfiriato]

S tate-sponsored archaeological research in Mexico can

be considered a clear example of nationalist archae-
ology. Historically, the government has both supported ar-
chaeological practice and displayed its results, which in-
clude artifacts and other archaeological remains, in order to
strengthen a sense of national pride and unity (Earle 2007;
Kohl 1998; Trigger 1984). Traditional narratives have held
that this practice began after the Mexican Revolution (1910).
Nevertheless, the process of institutionalizing and—perhaps
more importantly—professionalizing archaeology overseen
by the state actually began in the 19th century, during the
period of the Porfiriato (1876–1911) (Bueno 2004). During
the Porfiriato, archaeology and archaeological remains were
appropriated by the country’s intellectual elite to construct
a national identity, invoking ideas and myths formulated on
the eve of Independence. This chapter describes the process
through which archaeology was institutionalized during the
Porfiriato and how this nationalist archaeology was used as
a nation-building tool and contributed to creating a Mexican
national identity.
The Porfiriato: The Enduring Link between
Archaeology and State
From 1876 to 1911, Mexico was ruled by General Por-
firio Dı́az. One of the main goals of his regime was to consol-
idate the Mexican state. During that process, the intellectual
and political elite sought to demonstrate that Mexico could
become a stable and civilized nation. The Mexican terri-
tory was inhabited by a diverse population with different
historical, cultural, and linguistic backgrounds. The intel-
lectual elite realized that they needed to forge a national
identity to erase differences among the Mexican popula-
tion and to awaken a nationalistic sentiment (Earle 2007).
In order to construct the national identity they required a
comprehensive, homogeneous, and continuous narrative that
reconciled multiple pasts and dilemmas of the present. With
this in mind, from the 1880s on, the intellectual elite that
surrounded General Dı́az started a centralized program of
state-sponsored education (Bueno 2004; Earle 2007:105;
Florescano 2006:290; Rodrı́guez Garcı́a 1996:86).

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 19–25, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12043.
20
As part of this educational program several works were
published, such as Lecciones de historia patria (Lessons in
National History) written by Guillermo Prieto (1896) and
Catecismo de historia patria (Catechism of National His-
tory) by Justo Sierra (1894). But the best-known example
is México a través de los siglos (Mexico Through the Cen-
turies), a five-volume compendium written on government
commission by a team of liberal authors headed by Vicente
Riva Palacio (1887) and including Alfredo Chavero, Julio
Zárate, Juan de Dios Arias, Enrique de Olavarria y Fer-
rari and José Marı́a Vigil (Tenorio-Trillo 1996:68). México
a través de los siglos presented the history of Mexico as
a fully integrated vision, linking pre-Hispanic times to the
evolution of the modern nation and ascribing to Mexico a
lengthy and cohesive past.
The intellectual elite of the Porfiriato also incorporated
the Conquest and Colonial eras into the national heritage of
Mexico. In fact, according to this argument, both the pre-
Hispanic and the Colonial eras were inherent components of
the Mexican nation: beginning with the Spanish Conquest,
people of mixed heritage or mestizos emerged as a natural
fusion between the European conquerors and the conquered
indigenous peoples (Earle 2007:105; Florescano 2006:294;
Lombardo de Ruiz 1993:37; Tenorio-Trillo 1996:69). By
fusing indigenous and Spanish heritages, the Porfirian elite
presented the solution to the long-standing conflict implicit
within Mexico’s Creole identity (Tenorio-Trillo 1996:66).
This newfound sense of pride in a pre-Hispanic past was
also manifested at the international level. For instance, dur-
ing the Universal Exposition held in Paris in 1889, Mexico
housed its exhibition in an Aztec-style palace—apparently,
an idea historically supported and inspired by the narrative
of México a través de los siglos (Tenorio-Trillo 1996:70).
According to Antonio Peñafiel, one of the architects who
designed the Mexican pavilion, adornments, symbols, and
allegoric figures of the building were authentically taken
from Mexican archaeology with the goal of reviving the
true national civilization—that of the Aztecs (Lombardo de
Ruiz 1993:38). This emphasis on the Aztecs, or Mexicas,
over other ancient Mexican cultures was also present in the
volume of México a través de los siglos written by Alfredo
Chavero (1887), which was dedicated to the pre-Hispanic
era. It is worth mentioning that this exhibition at the in-
ternational level had the purpose of presenting Mexico as
a sovereign nation-state with a lengthy and sophisticated
past, but at the same time as a modern state that was eager
to participate in the international economy (Tenorio-Trillo
1996:64).
The birth of a sense of pride in the pre-Hispanic past
led to a process of reevaluation of pre-Hispanic remains, a
process in which archaeological practice took an important
Nancy Peniche May
role. In turn, archaeology was deeply affected by this pro-
cess. Legal and institutional measures taken by the regime
of Dı́az profoundly changed archaeological practice in Mex-
ico, forging a link between this discipline and the study of
the past and the state—a link that Leopoldo Batres called
“arqueologı́a patria” (Bueno 2004:174).
The late nineteenth century witnessed increasing in-
ternational interest in archaeological research on ancient
Mexican cultures. Foreign archaeologists and institutions
typically requested permits to export pre-Hispanic artifacts
recovered during their explorations in order to exhibit them
in their museums. Nevertheless, some foreigners exported
artifacts without the consent of the National Congress.
On October 28, 1880, a heated debate was held in the
Mexican National Congress about the attempts by French
archaeologist Desirée Charnay to export archaeological ar-
tifacts recovered during his excavations at Palenque (see
Gallegos Tellez Rojo 2001; Rutsch 2001). Some national-
ist intellectuals such as Vicente Riva Palacio alleged that
the exportation amounted to treason (Gallegos Tellez Rojo
2001; Rutsch 2001). The debate prompted the promulga-
tion of the Law of 1880, which was aimed at protecting and
keeping pre-Hispanic remains within the national territory
(Earle 2007:137; Rutsch 2001:311). The permit requested
by Charnay was denied and the artifacts were delivered to
the National Museum (Gallegos Tellez Rojo 2001; Rustch
2001).
The National Museum had been inaugurated in 1825
by Lucas Alamán during the government of President
Guadalupe Victoria (Bernal 1980:138). During its first years
of existence, only a few artifacts had made their way into
the institution. This situation changed during the Porfiriato,
when the National Museum underwent several reforms as
part of the nationalistic program of the Dı́az regime. Through
these reforms, it acquired an extremely important role in the
construction of national identity by exhibiting archaeologi-
cal remains coming from diverse areas of the national terri-
tory (Earle 2007; Florescano 1993; Rutsch 2001). In fact, it
was stated that the National Museum was the nation’s “his-
tory book” where national memories were put on display so
that citizens could visualize the national past (Earle 2007;
Rutsch 2001).
In 1882, a special section of Archaeology and History
was inaugurated in the National Museum. This section was
tasked with exhibiting the pre-Hispanic artifacts recovered
during the increasingly frequent explorations sponsored by
the federal government. In 1887, the Galerı́a de los Monoli-
tos (Gallery of Monoliths) was inaugurated with the aim
of displaying the sculptural achievements of the ancient
cultures of Mexico (Rico Mansard 2002:21). Nevertheless,
the room was dominated by items associated with Aztec
Mexican Archaeology and the Nation-Building Process during the Nineteenth Century
culture, reinforcing the idea that Mexican identity was an
Aztec identity. Soon some of the monoliths exhibited in
the room would become the symbols of Mexican identity
(Florescano 1993:154). For instance, the huge carving
known as the Piedra del Sol or Aztec Calendar Stone
appeared regularly on commemorative medals during the
Porfiriato and was especially prominent in school history
manuals, where it was presented as evidence for the high de-
gree of civilization achieved by the Aztecs (Earle 2007:140).
Apart from its functions of storage and display of ar-
chaeological monuments, the National Museum was also
the first scientific institution with a full complement of aca-
demic resources: collections, docents, researchers, and a
printed journal. Most importantly, it was the institution in
charge of conducting archaeological explorations (Bueno
2004). The functions of the National Museum as the center
of archaeological practice were disrupted in 1885 when the
Porfirian government enacted a law to create the Inspección y
Conservación de Monumentos Arqueológicos (Office of In-
spection and Conservation of Archaeological Monuments)
with Leopoldo Batres as its permanent chief (Gallegos Tellez
Rojo 2001; Lombardo de Ruiz 1993).
According to the law, the inspector’s task was to monitor
all of the archaeological and historical sites and monuments
of the nation. In addition, the inspector had as his duty to reg-
ulate excavations and the moving of monuments, as well as
taking written evidence and inventory of antiquities remitted
to the National Museum and those confiscated at customs.
Finally, it was the inspector’s prerogative to appoint guards
for archaeological sites (Lombardo de Ruiz 1993:39–40).
From the Office’s inception, the personnel of the National
Museum and Leopoldo Batres had serious conflicts, which
reached their peak in 1896 and 1897, when the law of Pro-
tección de Bienes Arqueológicos e Históricos (Protection of
Archaeological and Historical Goods) and the Ley de Monu-
mentos (Law of Monuments) were enacted (Bueno 2004:87;
Gallegos Tellez Rojo 2001).
With these laws, Inspección y Conservación de Mon-
umentos Arqueológicos assumed absolute control over the
exploration of archaeological sites, the removal and restora-
tion of archaeological monuments, and permits given to for-
eign and national archaeologists to conduct excavations. In
addition, the law established that excavations carried out by
foreigners had to be supervised by a special government
agent. Most importantly, through this law, all pre-Hispanic
ruins and artifacts become federal property. In doing so, the
government prohibited the trade and export of pre-Hispanic
artifacts and declared the right of the government to ex-
propriate particular pieces of land if they were occupied by
pre-Hispanic sites. The law also established that archaeolog-
ical findings had to be turned over to the National Museum,
21
after undergoing classification and inventory by the Inspec-
tor (Bernal 1980:140; Rico Mansard 2002:23).
Although the research functions of the National Mu-
seum were undermined by the promulgation of the 1897 law
(Lombardo de Ruiz 1993:39–40), the museum did acquire
new functions. With the 1901 appointment of Justo Sierra
as the Secretary of Public Education, and in 1905 as the
Secretary of Public Instruction and Arts, the National Mu-
seum found a champion who would support its status as an
academic institution (Rutsch 2001). In 1910 an agreement
was signed between the National Museum and Columbia
University, Harvard University, and the University of Penn-
sylvania, as well as the governments of the United States,
France, and Germany in order to create the Escuela Inter-
nacional de Arqueologı́a y Etnografı́a Americana (Interna-
tional School of American Archaeology and Ethnography),
which was inaugurated by General Porfirio Dı́az (Lorenzo
1981). The main archaeologists of the Revolutionary and
post-Revolutionary periods, such as Manuel Gamio, were
educated at this school. Sierra supported the study of the
ancient history of Mexico and, therefore, archaeological
knowledge. Sierra thought that the ancient past gave Mex-
ico a special dignity that other Latin American nation-states
lacked (Rutsch 2001:311). Aztec culture was emphasized in
the School’s educational program. The study of Nahuatl, the
language of the Aztec empire, was mandatory, and the ar-
chaeology, anthropology and ethnography of Aztec culture
were recommended as primary topics of research (Bueno
2004:116).
Inspección y Conservación de Monumentos Ar-
queológicos nearly monopolized archaeological practice in
the first decade of the twentieth century. In performing
his constitutional functions, Leopoldo Batres conducted
over 40 explorations at sites located mainly in the Mex-
ican Highlands—the heartland of “true” ancient Mexican
culture—and Oaxaca, the birthplace of General Dı́az. He
visited many sites across the nation and supervised the ex-
plorations of many foreign researchers as well as those of
Mexicans archaeologists working for the National Museum.
Batres’ activities were sponsored by the federal government,
which was interested in promoting archaeological practice
(Lombardo de Ruiz 1993). As Earle (2007:139) has stated,
the exploration and reconstruction of archaeological sites
were aimed to turn them into national monuments to be ad-
mired by the public and to demonstrate the magnificence of
the Mexican past.
From 1906 to 1910, Batres conducted explorations at
Teotihuacan, a site that was incorporated into the calendar
of national events in 1905, when the commemoration of
the Battle of Puebla (May 5th) was performed in this
site (Bueno 2004:162). The archaeological explorations
22
carried out at Teotihuacan had the goal of clearing and
reconstructing the Pyramid of the Sun for the celebration of
the centennial of Mexican Independence (Lombardo de Ruiz
1994:283). In addition, Batres proposed turning the site into
an open-air museum for education and tourism (Gallegos
Tellez Rojo 2001). The importance of Batres’ works in
Teotihuacan lay in the fact that the federal government
expropriated the lands on which Teotihuacan rests (Gallegos
Tellez Rojo 2001:266). According to Gallegos Tellez Rojo
(2001:266), through the expropriation of those lands the
federal government declared its control over the past of the
nation and asserted its authority over local governments.
The National Museum was also reformed in preparation
for the celebrations. In 1909, the Museum of National His-
tory was divided into two different institutions: the Museum
of Archaeology, History, and Ethnology and the Museum
of Natural History (Earle 2007). In 1910, a few months
before the revolutionary movement started, the new Mu-
seum of Archaeology, History, and Ethnology was finally
re-inaugurated by Porfirio Dı́az (Bueno 2004).
In summary, the celebration of the centennial of Mex-
ican Independence symbolized the culmination of the in-
stitutionalization of archaeology as a function of the state
and the ideological exploitation and appropriation of pre-
Hispanic ruins and artifacts by the Porfirian elite (Bueno
2004; Lombardo de Ruiz 1993; Rodrı́guez Garcı́a 1996:86).
Metanarrative of Mexican National Identity
Like any nation-state, the intellectual and political elite
in Mexico had turned to the past to construct national
identity—a common component of nationalism (see Earle
2007; Kohl 1998; Morris 1999; Trigger 1984). “Construc-
tion of national identity” is the correct phrase here in the
sense that, although the past was not invented, it was manip-
ulated to fit with the political purposes of the elite.
The Creole elite without any indigenous background
appropriated the Aztec past—one Postclassic culture among
the myriad of Mesoamerican and Aridoamerican cultures
that inhabited the national territory. They presented them-
selves as heirs of the Aztecs in order to have a past other than
the European one, and thus to allege a lengthy occupation
of and rights over the Mexican territory. This was the
rhetoric they used to justify their claims of independence.
The neo-Aztec element of Creole patriotism can be clearly
observed in the choice of the name for the modern nation
itself. The name Mexico was derived from the Nahuatl term
mexica—the ethnic group that the people we call the Aztecs
self-identified with. After the independence movement,
however, other narratives continued to exist. Regionalism
Nancy Peniche May
prevailed in many parts of the country along with a diverse
population in terms of language, culture and historical
background.
The Porfirian elite realized that they needed to sup-
press regionalism and cultural diversity in order to cre-
ate an integrated nation. The education program spon-
sored by the federal government supported the creation of
a historiography designed to erase regional memory and
unify the multiple contradictions that had divided the na-
tion (Bueno 2004:59 Lombardo de Ruiz 1994:34). This
narrative used the pre-Hispanic past as an ideological and
political resource to be shared by the entire Mexican pop-
ulation. From the perspective of this narrative, both the
pre-Hispanic and Spanish past became inherent compo-
nents of Mexican national identity, solving in this manner
the problem of conflicted Creole identity. Mexicans were
neither indigenous nor Spanish, but Mestizos—mixed peo-
ple. Thereby, as descendants of past indigenous people, the
Mestizos had rights over the pre-Hispanic past and its re-
mains. In this way, the Porfirian elite claimed legitimacy
before the diverse groups of Mexican population and the
world. Like any appropriation of the past, the Porfirian
elite did not use the pre-Hispanic past in a straightfor-
ward manner but manipulated it according to their political
purposes.
The Porfirian elite selected certain memories to con-
struct the national past, choosing the elements to be remem-
bered and forgotten. They emphasized Aztec culture as the
national ancient culture, claiming that the true Mexican na-
tion was Aztec in nature. The Porfirian elite deliberately
picked some Aztec elements as national symbols, such as
the national seal on the Mexican flag that was copied from
a Mexica symbol; the Piedra del Sol on which the Aztec
cosmos is depicted; and Teotihuacan, thought to be the
Mexican archaeological site par excellence (Bueno 2004;
Florescano 2006; Fowler 1987:234). The Porfirian narrative
intentionally neglected other Mesoamerican cultures, deny-
ing their role in the formation of the modern Mexican culture
(Lombardo de Ruiz 1994:38). The selection of the Aztec
past as the national past was completely political, in the
sense that it gave power to the political elite that inhabited
central Mexico.
Likewise, the Porfirian elite transformed contemporary
ideas about the Spanish heritage of the nation. They did not
claim to be Spanish in origin but they alleged that the impor-
tance of the Spanish background lay in the fact that it per-
mitted the emergence of Mestizos, the true Mexicans. Like
the choice of Aztec culture as the Mexican national past,
the selection of mixed people as true Mexicans was also
political. Most of the Porfirian elite were Creoles. Nonethe-
less, as stated above, the Porfirian elite defined themselves
Mexican Archaeology and the Nation-Building Process during the Nineteenth Century
as Mestizos in order to claim rights over the pre-Hispanic
past and obtain legitimization.
While archaeology helped to debase contemporaneous
indigenous groups, representing them as lacking historical
traditions and a past (Bueno 2004; Earle 2007), it helped
in the process of the re-valuation of pre-Hispanic material
remains. Archaeology and its findings began to be promoted,
controlled, and institutionalized by the federal government
in order to achieve integration of the Mexican population
through the construction of nationalism and legitimiza-
tion. Integration of the Mexican population through the
construction of nationalism was achieved through two
main mechanisms: (1) recovering monumental architecture
and “special” pre-Hispanic objects and (2) displaying
pre-Hispanic remains to demonstrate the roots of national
identity (Bueno 2004). Legitimation was accomplished by
showing that Mexico had as great and sophisticated a past
as any European nation. Likewise, Mexico was presented
as a modern, scientific, and sovereign nation that was
concerned with the study and protection of the past.
The educational program enforced by the intellectual
elite during the Porfiriato gave Mexico the first unified
archaeological policy in its history. Through this policy,
archaeology became inseparable from the nation-building
process. That is why Mexican archaeology has been con-
sidered as an example of nationalistic archaeology (see
Trigger 1984). The Porfirian state controlled all aspects of
archaeological practice in Mexico. All Mexican archaeolo-
gists worked for federal institutions—the National Museum
or the Inspección—and foreign archaeologists had to work
under the supervision of federal agents. Moreover, the ed-
ucation and training of new professionals was at the be-
hest of the National Museum. Even the type of the remains
explored was controlled by the Porfirian regime. Official
archaeologists only explored monumental ruins located in
central Mexico and Oaxaca. Finally, the selection of arti-
facts for exhibition in the National Museum was a political
decision—Aztec remains that showed the greatness of the
past of Mexico were preferentially displayed.
Epilogue
The Revolution started in November, 1910, culminat-
ing with the overthrow of General Dı́az in May of 1911. The
changes in the political environment also brought changes in
the intellectual elite. In the arena of archaeology, Leopoldo
Batres was removed from the office of Inspection and Con-
servation of Archaeological Monuments. Although the peo-
ple in charge were replaced, the diverse institutions cre-
ated by the Porfirian elite—such as the National Museum
23
and the Inspección y Conservación de Monumentos Ar-
queológicos—were left untouched and laws enacted by the
Porfirian congress to protect and control pre-Hispanic re-
mains were enhanced.
During the post-Revolutionary period, the archaeologi-
cal policies originally formulated by the Porfirian elite were
also enhanced. Archaeology remained under the control of
the state and continued to be geared towards the reinforce-
ment of national identity. In fact, the archaeological past
began to be systematically studied, especially through the
efforts of Manuel Gamio, Alfonso Caso, Jorge Acosta, and
Ignacio Bernal (Fowler 1987; see J. H. Anderson, this vol-
ume). Teotihuacan, Monte Alban, Tula, Chichén Itzá, and
other major pre-Hispanic sites were the focus of numerous
archaeological explorations in order to increase the knowl-
edge and public awareness of the pre-Hispanic past and to
integrate the diverse groups of the population through the
construction of a national identity. In addition, archaeology
was to aid in the construction and dissemination of the cul-
tural distinctiveness of Mexico to the rest of the world. In the
same vein, the model of major archaeological sites as open
air museums for the entertainment and education of Mexi-
cans and tourists begun by Batres in Teotihuacan also con-
tinued during the post-Revolutionary period (Bernal 1980;
Lorenzo 1981). The exploration of pre-Hispanic sites even
came at the expense of the nation’s colonial heritage. For in-
stance, the state-sponsored exploration of the Aztec Templo
Mayor destroyed part of the colonial center of Mexico City
(Kohl 1998:235).
The difference vis-à-vis the Porfiriato lay in the fact
that contemporaneous indigenous peoples were re-valued
through the indigenism movement started by Manuel Gamio
during 1920s (see Earle 2007; Gamio 1916; Lorenzo
1981; Urı́as Horcasitas 2002). Following the indigenism
movement, the national myth of miscegenation or mesti-
zaje constructed during the Porfiriato was strongly echoed
during the post-Revolutionary period, though it under-
went some modifications. Indigenous people were to be-
come Mexicans through integration (Urı́as Horcasitas
2002). By the mid-1930s, the mestizo had been en-
throned as the cultural icon of the Mexican Revolution.
They were the true Mexicans or the cosmic race, as José
Vasconcelos named them (Earle 2007; Urı́as Horcasitas
2002).
Porfirian institutions still endure today, although with
different names (Lorenzo 1981). For example, the office
of Inspection became the Direction of Archaeological and
Ethnographic Studies in 1917. In 1939, the legacy of the
inspection finally took shape as the Instituto Nacional de
Antropologı́a e Historia, the institution that today offi-
cially oversees archaeological practice in Mexico and sets
24
guidelines about the protection and display of archaeological
remains (see Faulseit, this volume).
In summary, this paper describes how nationalist ar-
chaeology began in Mexico as early as the Porfiriato, instead
of the subsequent post-Revolutionary period. Archaeology
was institutionalized in order to control and manipulate ar-
chaeological practice and the pre-Hispanic material vestiges
in order to exalt the pre-Hispanic past, a vital component of
Mexican identity. Through the creation of a national iden-
tity, the Porfirian elite sought to bring together the diverse
Mexican population and thereby to build a nation.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank D. S. Anderson, D. J. Clark, and J.
H. Anderson for their kind invitation to participate in this
volume. I also express my gratitude to R. A. Fagoaga
for his assistance on the search of pertinent bibliographic
references. Raquel Pacheco and Beniamino Volta deserve
special recognition for their comments on the grammar of
this paper. Any mistake, nevertheless, is my responsibility.
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 3
Es nuestra tradicion: The Continuing
Importance of Ballgames among Migrant
Mixtec Communities in the United States
Marijke Stoll
University of Arizona

ABSTRACT
The pre-Hispanic ballgame was integral in the lives of ancient Mesoamerican communities. Today, modern
ballgames closely resembling their pre-Hispanic antecedents are still played in different states throughout Mexico.
Here I explore the links between the modern ballgame pelota Mixteca (Mixtec ball) and ethnic identity in Mixtecan
communities in Oaxaca and the United States, using data from ethnographic interviews with pelota Mixteca players.
I conclude that because cultural traditions are important influences in the (re)shaping of identity, participation in
Oaxacan traditions like pelota Mixteca is critical to the creation of a pan-Mixtecan identity among migrant Mixtec
groups in the United States. [ballgames, ethnicity, Mixtecs, Oaxaca]

The pre-Hispanic ballgame was an integral part of the so-
cial lives of Mesoamerican communities. Though primarily
associated in the popular imagination today with grand re-
ligious ceremonies and sacrifice, the ballgame also served
critical social purposes for elites and commoners alike. The
tradition of ball playing did not disappear with the Spanish
conquest—modern versions of these ancient games are still
played even now in Mexico. Although less religious in tone,
the duration of these games suggests that they continue to
play a critical role for many communities. For indigenous
Mixtec players in the Mexican state of Oaxaca (Figure 3.1),
the ballgame can arguably be considered a part of their com-
munal identity.
What happens when these ball players leave Oaxaca
and enter into migratory labor circuits? I argue here that as
Mixtecos move out of their home communities, temporarily
or permanently, to Mexico City, northern Mexico, and the
United States, the ballgame continues to be an important part
of their communal identity. For many of these migrants, play-
ing the modern ballgame known as pelota Mixteca (Mixtec
ball) takes on an ethnic dimension. As a community of prac-
tice, ball playing strengthens the ethnic differences between
Mixtecos and other Mexican migrant communities.
Ethnic identity, as a subjective construct, is the result
of particular sets of relationships that play out through hu-
man interactions (Chan 1998:39). Different cultural mark-
ers, which are created, invoked and manipulated as needed
by individuals and communities, are perceived as belonging
to specific groups. Extreme changes in residence, such as
transnational migrations from home to host communities,
often force participants (migrants) and observers (residents)
to reevaluate their understandings of personal and collec-
tive ethnic identity as they encounter each other in social
situations.
The performance of “ethnic” traditions serves to high-
light intra-ethnic cohesiveness and inter-ethnic difference.
Pelota Mixteca, as a uniquely Oaxacan sport, sets Mixtec
migrants apart from other Mexican migrant groups, even
as it draws those Mixtecos from disparate home commu-
nities together (Figure 3.2). Ethnographic data demonstrate
that the game itself is linked in the minds of the players to
community creation and maintenance. In this chapter, I show

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 26–37, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12044.
The Continuing Importance of Ball Games among Migrant Mixtec Communities in the United States 27

Figure 3.1. Map of Mexico and Oaxaca, the site of the ethnographic study and the state from which
Mixtecos migrants originate (map by author).

Figure 3.2. Players and spectators observe the game play at the informal court in Buena Vista,
June 21, 2009.
28
how pelota Mixteca continues to play an important role
in these migrant communities as they negotiate their new
sociopolitical environments. I argue that participation in
specifically Oaxacan traditions like pelota Mixteca is linked
to 1) the maintenance of the Mixtec identity in the face of the
dominant hegemony; and 2) the creation of a pan-Mixtecan
(and Oaxacan) identity among migrant Mixtec and Oaxacan
indigenous groups in the United States.
Ethnic Identity and Tradition
Ethnicity is but one of many identities that a human
individual can hold at any given moment. Within the latter
half of the last century, studies of ethnicity have made im-
portant intellectual advancements in how self-defined ethnic
communities are analyzed, shifting towards a view of ethnic
identity as the product of specific cultural and social con-
texts that are in turn influenced by the actions of the social
actors that live them (Velasco Ortiz 2005; Poyer 1988; Vidas
2008). This shift has allowed scholars to take into account
the historically contingent contexts in which ethnic identity
is formulated and performed.
Ethnicity or ethnic identity involves the creation, in-
vocation, and manipulation of different markers or cultural
behaviors such as language, dress, social customs, ideology,
and traditional customs. Social actors deploy, adopt, enforce,
manipulate, or even shed these cultural markers depending
on the context in which they find themselves. Individual or
group ethnic identity is affirmed and reinforced in relational
situations, most especially in encounters with neighboring
populations (Coggeshall 1986:179; Poyer 1988:472; Velasco
Ortiz 2005:8).
For cultural markers to demarcate one particular group
from another, there must be recognition that these “traits”
or practices are ethnically distinctive. Cultural markers need
not be radically different—in cases where ethnic groups
share certain cultural traits, they will often use subtle dif-
ferences to assert marked and meaningful group distinc-
tiveness (Chan 1998:42). Traditional customs are one such
class of cultural traits that serve as distinguishing mark-
ers. Through their performance, traditions are continuously
negotiated, manipulated, and reinterpreted by the members
of the practicing group, in turn becoming critical parts of
the creation, negotiation, and maintenance of distinct ethnic
identities (Douglas 2013; Keen and Zeitlyn 2007). Ethnic
traditions and cultural celebrations are therefore important
arenas through which ethnic communities express their self-
defined senses of cultural distinction (Poyer 1988:480), serv-
ing as critical sources of legitimacy in the political sphere
(Velasco Ortiz 2005:145).
Marijke Stoll
Given a history of conquest and colonialism, how
do Mixtecos define themselves ethnically, particularly in
contrast to the national Mexican identity created and im-
posed by the Diaz regime (1876–1911) as described by
Peniche (this volume)? For many Oaxacan indigenous
groups, including Mixtecos, the primary sense of group
identity is localized, i.e. the natal community. People from
the Mixtec village of Nuyuu, for example, identify first as
Nuyutecos (Monaghan 1995). From one town to another, the
customs, traditions, patron saints, and even language vary
considerably.
While many indigenous Oaxaqueños recognize their
status as citizens of Oaxaca and the Mexican national state
on a conceptual level, they see themselves in contention
with these larger, outsider entities. This hostility between
indigenous Oaxaca and the Mexican national state is due
to the characterization of indigenous identity as a “product
of subordination” to the previous colonial and nation-state
regimes (Velasco Ortiz 2005: 20). As Peniche (this volume)
points out, the Mexican national identity, while referencing
the pre-Hispanic past, emphasizes the Mestizo as the true
Mexican citizen. Indigenous groups in Mexico such as the
Mixtecos were not included in the construction of a national
identity by the Diaz regime.
Cultural Traditions and Ethnic Identity under
Transnationalism
Globalization has greatly affected the international
movement of migrants. Under globalization, the significance
of nation-state boundaries and frontiers in relation to the
production and distribution of ideas, objects, and people has
clearly diminished (Schiller et al. 1995:49). Because of this
significant change in the migration process and how mi-
grant communities are incorporated (or not) into their host
societies, anthropologists have a renewed interested in how
culture and populations flow across national boundaries.
Transnationalism encapsulates the idea that immigrants
not only form ties to their host country but also maintain
important relationships to their home communities—a
clear departure from previous theories of immigration that
emphasized assimilation (Kearney 1995; Schiller et al.
1995:48; Velasco Ortiz 2005:12–15). Ties to the homeland
remain an important part of self-identity, even as migrants
modify these identities to accommodate themselves to the
new community (Mendoza 2006; Striffler 2007). This is
made possible through transformations in transportation
and communication technologies such as the Internet, which
have profoundly impacted the interconnections between
immigrants. Thus, transnational migrants can have “mul-
tiple senses of community membership” (Chavez 1994:56)
The Continuing Importance of Ball Games among Migrant Mixtec Communities in the United States 29

feeling themselves to be members of the origin community
and the host community simultaneously, and are not re-
stricted at all by either/or classifications (Chavez 1994:68).
What happens to ethnic identity when people undergo
transnational migration? Changes in residence often force
participants and observers to reevaluate their understandings
of both personal and collective ethnic identity (Bernardini
2005:36; Velasco Ortiz 2005:16). The entrance into a new
community, particularly one with a rigid ethnic hegemony
such as the United States (favoring White Anglo-Saxon
Protestants), requires negotiation on the part of prospec-
tive immigrants to clarify their social position and ethnic
identity relative not only to other immigrants but also to the
host community (Hale 1997:571; Tsuda 1999:146; Velasco
Ortiz 2005:16). In the host countries, immigrants encounter
new social and cultural pressures to which they must adapt to
in order to survive, often becoming new “ethnic minorities”
(Tsuda 1999:146–147).
The severe economic problems that have confronted
Mexico since the late 1960s have pushed increasing num-
bers of individuals northward to the United States in search
of the work and security unavailable to them in Mexico
(Macias 1990:293). Furthermore, processes of privatiza-
tion, including the loss of indigenous land rights, have been
undermining the relationship between indigenous popula-
tions and their territories (Velasco Ortiz 2005:34–35; Pastor
1987:262; Perkins 2005), and have been particularly harm-
ful to community integrity for Mixtecos as well as other
Oaxacan indigenous groups. The end result is that immigra-
tion is often the only way Mixtec communities can survive
economically (Velasco Ortiz 2005:35).
Increasing industrialization and urbanization in the
early 20th century dramatically intensified Oaxacan out-
migration—first to Oaxaca City, then onto Veracruz and
Mexico City (Figure 3.3; Velasco Ortiz 2005:36). With the
growing agribusiness industry in Mexico, Oaxacan migrants
were drawn further north to Sinaloa and Baja California
states. By the early 1980s, indigenous migrant flows had
reached California, Oregon, and Washington (Figure 3.4),
and Mixtec migrants have since settled in a wide area stretch-
ing along both sides of the border region (Fox and Rivera-
Salgado 2004:9; Velasco Ortiz 2005:28–39). Currently, the
most populous communities of Oaxacan migrants are lo-
cated in the San Joaquin Valley of Central California, the Los
Angeles metropolitan area, and northern San Diego county
(Fox and Rivera-Salgado 2004:9; Velasco Ortiz 2005:52–
53).
Mixtec immigration is certainly transnational (Cohen
2001:954; Velasco Ortiz 2005:28)—important relationships
to their home communities are maintained through active
participation in the political and social affairs of their home-
towns (Fox and Rivera-Salgado 2004:17; Gullette 2009:236;
Velasco Ortiz 2005:34, 113). This occurs primarily through
the cargo system, a system of offices with incumbent re-
sponsibilities that includes mayordomı́as (the town steward),
cofradı́as (a Catholic association), and civic cargos related to

Figure 3.3. A map of the main migration destinations for Mixtecos in Mexico. Many migrants
began their journey first in Veracruz, later moving to Mexico City and, with the development
of the agribusiness in northern Mexico, Sinaloa and Baja California (map by author).
30
Figure 3.4. This map shows the main migration destinations for Mixtecos in the United States.
Most Mixtecos settle in California, with San Diego, Los Angeles and Fresno having the greatest
populations of indigenous Oaxacans (map by author).
the duties of the town council. Positions within the cargo sys-
tem represent a commitment to the community, and as such
are a way of earning recognition and acceptance (Velasco
Ortiz 2005:33–34). These civic-religious cargo systems are
an important part of ethnic identity for all of Oaxacan in-
digenous groups (Diskin 1990; Kearney 1994; Monaghan
1990, 1995), including the Mixtecos.
Performing Community and Ethnic Identity:
Oaxacan Cultural Traditions and the
Ballgame
Mixtecos nurture their ties to the homeland by support-
ing and celebrating indigenous Oaxacan traditions in the
United States. Ethnic cultural traditions, expressed through
performance and material culture, are often strategically ma-
nipulated by actors in social situations (Clark 2005:441;
Fitts 2002:1). Involving both objects and symbols, mate-
rial culture and performance become important parts of the
transnational migration process, whether groups actively re-
sist or participate in acculturation. These cultural traditions
act as mechanisms of inclusion by linking the migrant to
their ancestors as well as their home territory of belonging
(Velasco Ortiz 2005:139). Like their counterparts back in
Oaxaca, Mixtecos in the United States participate in pub-
lic celebrations of religious holidays and sporting events
including music and dance festivals traditional to the state
such as the Guelaguetza (Fox and Rivera-Salgado 2004:10).
Marijke Stoll
Because it is seen as a specifically Oaxacan cultural tradi-
tion, the Guelaguetza becomes a way to participate in the
transnational community and a part of the ethnic identity.
As another cultural tradition that both outsiders and
insiders identify as specifically Oaxacan, pelota Mixteca
figures prominently in the ethnic identity of Mixtec mi-
grants. Here I present the archaeological, historical, and
ethnographic evidence on the pelota Mixteca ballgame gath-
ered over the course of two field seasons from 2009 to 2010.
During that time, I interviewed several ball players in Oax-
aca, many from the area but some of whom had traveled from
the United States to play in village tournaments.1 The inter-
views suggest that for many, pelota Mixteca is an enduring
tradition played for reasons of settling disputes, maintaining
relationships with other communities, and above all having
fun. Particular individuals were especially informative and
helpful to the investigation: Don Gustavio, Don Claudio,
Don Jóse Angel, and Don Jorge, true campeones (champi-
ons) whose love for the sport was evident in the way they
spoke and the stories they shared.
The ancient ballgame has long been a subject of
heated debate among archaeologists. Scholars recognize that
the ballgame was an important cultural institution in pre-
Hispanic Mesoamerica (Cohodas 1975; Day 2001; Fash and
Fash 2007; Hill 1999; Taladoire 2000), and that it proba-
bly served different purposes and held different meanings to
participating communities (see Day 2001; de la Garza 2000;
Fox 1996; Gillespie 1991; Hill and Clark 2001; Koontz 2008;
Kowalewski et al. 1991; Taladoire 2000, 2001; Uriarte 2001;
The Continuing Importance of Ball Games among Migrant Mixtec Communities in the United States
Whalen and Minnis 1996; Wilkerson 1991 for alternative in-
terpretations of the game).
Hill and Clark (2001) argue that the ballgame was
linked to the development of Mesoamerican rank societies
and early government, facilitated through the sponsorship of
and participation in game matches, gambling, and the bond-
ing effects of playing team sports. Physical activities such
as sports contribute to a sense of communitas (modifying
Turner’s [1969] term) or community identity among social
members, which would have been particularly important in
the initial development of formally ascribed leadership in
early Mesoamerican village communities (Hill and Clark
2001:331).
Far from disappearing during the subsequent colonial
and nation-state periods, ballgame traditions survived. Mod-
ified versions are still played today by both indigenous
groups and mestizo campesinos (Stern 1948). The Mexi-
can government officially recognized the games’ cultural
importance with the formation of the Federación Mexicana
de Juegos y Deportes de Origen (the Mexican Federation of
Original Games and Sports) in 1988. Today known as the
Federación de Deportes Autóctonos y Tradicionales (Feder-
ation of Indigenous and Traditional Sports), the organiza-
tion’s membership includes thirteen state associations and a
multiplicity of local groups (Turok 2000:59). In all, thirteen
different versions of the ballgame are currently played in
Mexico, varying in the rules of play, game equipment, and
point-scoring systems.
The modern ballgame played today in Oaxaca is pelota
Mixteca. Known previously as pelota a mano frı́a (literally
“cold handball”) when players used only their bare hands,
today the game is known as pelota Mixteca de hule (rubber).
Using a heavy leather glove, players strike a vulcanized
rubber ball (Figure 3.5) back and forth between opposing
sides of a dirt court. The gloves are brightly painted and
often feature Mitla-inspired greca (step fret) motifs and the
ballplayer’s apodo or nickname (Figure 3.6).
A continuing subject of debate is whether the game is
pre-Hispanic in origin, or if it was introduced by Spanish
monks. Many authors have commented on the similarity
between pelota Mixteca and several handball games from
Spain, including boce lucea and the game de largo y re-
bote (Turok 2000:65). Colonial-era dictionaries, on the other
hand, list a ballgame played with the hand in several different
indigenous languages, indicating that this type of game was
probably fairly widespread and may not have been an entirely
foreign import (Taladoire 2003). While European influence
is possible, the players I interviewed insisted strongly that
the game is a long tradition with pre-Hispanic roots. While
the balls and gloves used in the game are localized inven-
tions that developed in the early 20th century, several play-
31
Figure 3.5. A vulcanized rubber ball used for pelota Mixteca, fea-
turing the name of the Colonı́a Buena Vista. The coime or custodian
of the local court keeps the ball in his house.
ers claim that an indigenous handball game already existed
when the Spanish arrived in the 16th Century. Many of the
men view pelota Mixteca as part of their history, and cited
this as a motive for playing. For Don Gustavio, pelota Mix-
teca was “toda la tradición de la familia” (the tradition of
all [his] family), a common sentiment among players. Don
Claudio stressed to me that we have to take care of the game
and ensure its survival because it is “nuestra tradición” (our
tradition).
Pelota Mixteca games are typically held on Sundays.
The time and location for that Sunday’s game is often passed
via word of mouth, particularly if there are multiple courts
in one area, such as Oaxaca City. Like the pre-Hispanic
ballgame, pelota Mixteca matches are also included in the
sponsored celebrations for important religious or political
events. Some of the important religious festivals include the
community’s fiesta patronal, or patron saint festival, and
other special holidays on the Catholic calendar. Like fes-
tivals on the pre-Hispanic sacred calendar, these holidays
occur annually and create a cyclical rotation of teams trav-
eling to different towns around the state. Don Jóse Angel
also mentioned that, aside from religious festivals, games
are often played to celebrate weddings or for political par-
ties (“para celebrar bodas . . . partidos politicos”). The local
political or religious leaders of communities, such as the
presidentes municipales (a political office similar to a town
mayor) or mayordomos (local cargo officers), often spon-
sor the games and offer premios (prizes) to the winners.
Tournament matches or torneos, where multiple teams from
many different towns will participate in ranked rounds, are
especially popular for these kinds of celebrations.
32
Figure 3.6. These are the heavy leather gloves used for striking the ball. They typically weigh
between five and six kilograms (est. 11–14 lbs). The glove on the right-hand side belongs to a
player nicknamed “Lento” or Slow.
When the communities host torneos, they invite teams
from other towns to play. Invited guests are expected to
attend and, in turn, can expect to be hosted and fed. Accord-
ing to the players, this is how one pays respect to the visitor
(“este es el respeto al visitante”). The respect accorded to the
visitor by their hosts is critical to convivencia (coexistence).
Subsequently, the invited guests are expected to reciprocate
by inviting hosts, allied villages, and rivals to play in their
community. This idea was expressed by one player as “amor
con amor se paga” (you pay love with love). Refusing an
invitation to play or failure to show up for a prearranged
game often has consequences for both players and hosts.
Players who decline invitations to compete may find their
own future invitations rejected. One informant told me that
teams who fail to show up lose some of their calidad moral
(social reputation) among other players.
It is evident that the players view pelota Mixteca as
an important tradition. Part of this importance lies in its
perception as a pre-Hispanic custom, whereas other sports
such as soccer or basketball, though popular, are foreign im-
ports. Pelota Mixteca, which stresses community network-
ing and friendly competition, continues to be an important
part of the Mixtec identity even under the conditions of
migration.
Marijke Stoll
Pelota Mixteca and Mixtecos in Oaxaca,
Mexico City, and the United States
Migration has had a profoundly transformative effect
on the ethnic identities of indigenous Oaxacans like
the Mixtecos. The discrimination and exclusion, both
race and class-based, that migrants experience in their
travels between northern Mexico and the US (Fox and
Rivera-Salgado 2004:19; Velasco Ortiz 2005:69) has led
to reassessment and reconfiguration of ethnic identity
(Velasco Ortiz 2005:95). While I would not describe this
as a “new” ethnic identity, it is certainly an altered version
of indigenous identity in Oaxaca, one that has to confront
social interactions with a wider range of other ethnic groups
within a distinct hegemonic discourse. Clearly, as more
and more Mixtecos continue their migration out from
the mountains of Oaxaca to California, the appeal to a
pan-Mixtec identity increases as a way to build intra-ethnic
solidarity and combat ethnic discrimination.
Based on the preceding evidence, I argue that the tra-
ditional emphasis on reciprocal obligations, cooperation,
and community relationships in pelota Mixteca lends itself
to recreating and extending community solidarity among
migrant Mixtecos as they travel to Mexico City, northern
The Continuing Importance of Ball Games among Migrant Mixtec Communities in the United States
Mexico, and into the United States. By building commu-
nity solidarity and bringing Mixtecos from different towns
and villages together into a (mostly) cohesive migrant com-
munity, pelota Mixteca strengthens Mixtec ethnic identity,
making it better able to adapt or assert itself in host societies.
The historical and material ties that bind Mixtecos to-
gether are based on four critical cultural elements (Velasco
Ortiz 2005:29): shared language, territory, kinship, and the
civic-religious cargo system. Though these elements were
extremely affected by the Spanish invasion, the subsequent
centuries of colonial rule, and the promotion of the model
Mestizo citizen, the Mixtecos have maintained their cul-
tural traditions. Above all, I see the cargo system as one
of the most significant elements in the cultural reproduc-
tion of Mixtec communities. The schedule of religious hol-
idays and celebrations structures the routines of daily life
in many ways. The indigenous reckoning of time is mate-
rialized through the sacred rituals, both extraordinary and
quotidian, that are linked to the cycle of nature and religious
festivals (Velasco Ortiz 2005:107). Through their inclusion
in religious celebrations, the pelota Mixteca games are an
important part of this civic-religious system.
From the interviews, it was clear that pelota Mixteca is
linked in the minds of the players with exchange and recipro-
cation through the invitations to play, the competitive nature
of sport, and the gambling that is frequently present. Exam-
ples of reciprocal relationships exist in other areas of life for
majority-indigenous communities. The saa sa’a system in
the Mixteca Alta involves the cyclical exchanges of goods
and wealth via the participation in the hosting and attending
(or not attending) of village fiestas (Monaghan 1990, 1995).
The word guelaguetza, for which the Guetlaguetza festival
is named, comes from the Zapotec guendalizaá meaning
“to cooperate.” As a concept, guendalizaá represents the
feeling of communitas, cooperation, and reciprocity among
Zapotec community members (Toussaint 2014). For both
Mixtecos and Zapotecos, the related word tequio, like com-
munal corvée labor or tributary community labor (Velasco
Ortiz 2005:32–33), refers both to assisting fellow commu-
nity members with labor needs, and the community working
together on communal projects.
Saa sa’a, guelaguetza, and tequio all encapsulate the
idea of communal obligation tied to cooperative behavior.
Implicit in each is the threat of social consequences for
those who refuse to participate. Like the cargo systems, par-
ticipation in tequio, for example, demonstrates one’s com-
mitment to the community and the principle of common
wealth. These ideas can be traced back to the pre-Hispanic
era, when the primary mode of social organization was the
extended family linked to communal lands (Forde 2002:8;
Furst 1990:123; Kowalewski et al. 2009:312; Velasco Ortiz
33
2005:32–33; Pohl 1994:63; Spores 1967:94, 1984:68–69).
Though it is a competitive sport, the pelota Mixteca ball-
game is one way through which these traditions play out.
The men I spoke to make this connection themselves. Don
Jorge, a player from the Mixteca area, directly described the
game as being like guelaguetza, because, he said, it is about
giving and receiving, “si me das, te doy” (if you give to me,
I give to you). Don Jorge expounded further by saying that
playing the game is “para vivir y para compartir, el juego es
parte de esta tradición [guelaguetza]” (to live and to share,
the game is part of this tradition [guelaguetza]).
Traditions of reciprocal and sometimes asymmetrical
obligation are important in the formation of alliances and
rivalries among Oaxacan communities. Such systems aim
for cooperation, but they can also lead to conflicts and mo-
ments of contention as well as the reproduction and/or nego-
tiation of status divisions. Like the pre-Hispanic ballgame,
pelota Mixteca is a competitive sport that is also cooperative
and clearly fits within the larger moral framework operat-
ing within indigenous and mestizo communities today. This
framework centers on particular notions of how individuals
and communities should interact with each other.
Another link between pelota Mixteca and community
solidarity through cooperative competition can be seen in the
origin stories told by some of the older men, which present
the game as the invention of a priest to unite warring commu-
nities. In these stories they stressed the game’s importance
in maintaining community relationships not only in the past,
“se usó para unir los pueblos . . . el juego fue anteriormente
para politicos” (it was used to unite the towns . . . the game
was previously for politics), but today as well, “para unir a
los pueblos, hoy en dı́a también” (to unite the towns today
too). The men also mentioned that in the past ballgames were
played to settle disputes. In fact, Don Jorge said directly that
the games weren’t just for diversión (fun) but also to main-
tain amistades (friendships) and relations between commu-
nities. Games are opportunities to compete and gain, regain,
or lose social and economic power. Because inter-village
conflict is still a strong force in inter-community relations,
playing pelota Mixteca becomes a way to bring Mixtecos
from different towns and regions together into one, semi-
cohesive community through both the reciprocal obligations
inherent in the game and via friendly rivalries.
Given this aspect of building community relationships
through cooperation, friendly competition, and reciprocal
obligation, the ballgame can also be used to bring migrants
from disparate communities together. Mixtec immigrants in
the United States come together over a friendly game and
build relationships, an important process since there is a
need to cooperate and coordinate to protect the interests
of the migrant community vis-à-vis the dominant culture.
34
Figure 3.7. A ball player wearing a Fresno shirt. He had recently
returned to Oaxaca after having lived in the United States for
almost ten years.
Like the public celebrations of Oaxacan traditions such as
the Guelaguetza festival, playing pelota Mixteca has also
become another critical way of demonstrating and strength-
ening Mixtec identity in the United States (Figure 3.7). Evi-
dence of the importance of pelota Mixteca in Mixtec ethnic
identity can be seen in the annual tournament that takes
place in San Diego that both Mixtecos and Zapotecos par-
ticipate in together. Every year in late August, teams from
Oaxaca, Mexico City, and the United States gather to play
against each other over the course of an entire weekend.
The matches, sponsored by local Oaxacan community orga-
nizations in the United States as well as the Oaxacan state
government and Mexican federal government, serve to bring
together both those who have left and those who have stayed
behind, bonding them into one transnational community.
Interestingly enough, both scholars and players them-
selves have observed a resurgence of the game among the
migrant communities in the United States (Fox and Rivera-
Salgado 2004:25). This renewed interest in pelota Mixteca
among these migrant communities is especially noteworthy
because fewer people are playing the game in Oaxaca, where
young people are choosing instead to participate in more
modern sports, and the open spaces necessary for games are
increasingly disappearing.
One glaring issue that I was unable to address within
the scope of the ethnographic study is the role of women in
ballplaying communities and their relationship to the ball-
game. Women do not play pelota Mixteca, and rarely at-
tended the regular games I observed, except for a mother and
daughter who prepared food for the players. The one game
in Oaxaca where women were present was a special tourna-
ment match in San Magdelana Jaltepec that was part of the
Marijke Stoll
town’s patron saint festival activities. Women’s attendance
at games in Mexico City and the United States is also fairly
low, though it seems in the latter area that one is more likely
to see women in the audience. Pelota Mixteca may not form
a large part of a Mixteca woman’s identity, or it may form an
incidental part through her association with ballplayers as
family members and/or acknowledgment of pelota Mixteca
as an indigenous Oaxacan practice on par with the Gue-
lagetza. Future research should focus on migrant women’s
attitudes towards pelota Mixteca and ballplaying in their
families and communities.
Though migration has caused a geographic dispersion
of communities, it is clear that a symbolic center is pre-
served in places of migration through the communal and
cultural practices that reproduce family and community
links, including playing pelota Mixteca (Fox and Rivera-
Salgado 2004:10; Velasco Ortiz 2005:144). As Velasco
notes, the “continuity of rites beyond the original territo-
ries may rearticulate the fragmented experience of terri-
tory and function as temporal line of connection linking
brief periods with cosmogonic time” (2005:107). For mi-
grant Mixtec groups, playing pelota Mixteca is carrying out
a long-cherished tradition—as they explain it, they play for
the sheer pleasure of the game, and because it is their custom
to do so.
Conclusion
Migration from a homeland to a host country clearly
affects the identities of immigrants who must navigate
new sociopolitical and cultural contexts while confronting
other ethnicities. Particularly for Mixtecos, moving to the
United States causes a reevaluation of their ethnic, indige-
nous identity because they are often viewed, incorrectly,
as being simply another Mexican migrant community by
the dominant majority community, or as “dirty Indians”
by other Mexicans. This reevaluation also generates a new,
broader ethnic identity that brings together migrants from
Mixtec, Zapotec, and other indigenous communities that
would not necessarily have shared identities back in Oax-
aca (Fox and Rivera-Salgado 2004:17–19; Velasco Ortiz
2005:83).
It goes without saying that the indigenous suffer from
much ethnic and racial discrimination, both in Mexico and
the United States (Velasco Ortiz 2005:69). While the Chi-
cano movement has promoted the idea of “La Raza” in an
effort to bridge together Mexican origin and migrant com-
munities, in Mexico there is a clear distinction, and tension,
between Mestizos and indigenous groups. Ethnic groups
such as the Mixtecos and Zapotecos do not identify as being
The Continuing Importance of Ball Games among Migrant Mixtec Communities in the United States
part of “La Raza” or a Mexican race; instead they define
themselves in contrast to the Mestizos. Thus, the interethnic
alliances represent a new step forward in the political mo-
bilization for the Oaxacan indigenous. What was formerly
a community with a defined territorial space has now, be-
cause of transnational migration, become a dispersed com-
munity sustained by a common historical origin (Velasco
Ortiz 2005:83).
Because having power over their own identity is an
important political issue for many migrant groups like the
Mixtecos, rural customs and ritual celebrations are critical
for the construction, negotiation, and regeneration of eth-
nic identity. Festivals and other traditional activities, such as
pelota Mixteca games, are a means of not only celebrating
ethnic identity, but also a way of asserting their political
rights and social positions as ethnic communities. The com-
munity life of Oaxacan migrants living in the United States
is thus sustained by the reproduction of the civic-religious
system and cultural traditions practiced by indigenous com-
munities in Oaxaca (Velasco Ortiz 2005:113), such as pelota
Mixteca. While modern ball games like pelota Mixteca may
not hold the same ritual or political significance as their
pre-Hispanic counterparts, they clearly still play an impor-
tant role in creating and sustaining home and transnational
communities, forging shared alliances and identities across
national borders for generations to come.
Note
1. All interviews, photographs, and videos were con-
ducted after consent had been obtained from the partici-
pants following guidelines established by the Internal Re-
view Board (Project # 09028702).
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 4
The Role of Migrations in Creating Identities
among Mesoamerica Peoples from Pre-Hispanic
to Modern Times
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli
Tulane University

ABSTRACT
Migration stories abound in pre-Hispanic Mesoamerican history. After the Conquest, indigenous groups
continued to migrate as part of Spanish imperial expansive and within the cultural bounds of their own migratory
tradition. In spite of state consolidation, people of Mesoamerica have continued moving between borders regardless
of how they identify themselves. As these migrant groups have encountered hostility in the U.S. and Mexico, in recent
history they have become activists, challenging traditional definitions of what an indigenous community is. A theme
in their activism is a migration narrative that echoes those used by their ancestors from pre-Hispanic to present
times. [Mesoamerica, migration, trans-border, territoriality, Chicano]

I n recent decades Mesoamerican descendants have orga-

nized politically along ethnic lines forging an identity
within the structure of American society. The La Raza Unida
Party and the Chicano Movement of the 1970s were early
grassroots efforts. More recent organization has included
labor, human, and immigration rights that has also created a
common identity among immigrants of Mesoamerican de-
scent. Organization often comes as a response to diverse
factors including growing anti-immigrant sentiment and so-
cioeconomic ones tied to race and lack of opportunities.
A common theme in these organizing efforts is the role of
migration in constructing identities. Migration is not a new
theme in Mesoamerica. Stories there harken back to the pre-
Hispanic past, while events in the Colonial, national, and
modern periods have all contributed to validating the con-
cept of migration in identity construction. Some migrants
come from indigenous communities in Mesoamerica, and
some have recently begun constructing an indigenous iden-
tity, but most draw on narratives of migration to organize
along communities of origin and destination.
These strategies are not a new phenomenon, but form
part of a continuing and evolving cultural practice by
Mesoamerican peoples and their descendants. They have
used this strategy as they fight for political and economic
rights as colonizers, laborers, and activists. In the process,
they have recreated their identity accommodating to differ-
ent social and economic situations straddling their sending
communities and those formed abroad. I go beyond push
and pull factors of migrations, focusing instead on the mi-
grant identity created as part of this diaspora in the last
decades. Years of exploitation and trampling on the human
rights of ancient Mesoamericans descendants have fostered
this shared identity, marshaled to unify people to demand
those rights.
In the process, indigenous identity has been adopted
by individuals who did not previously identify as such,
and moved past the territorial confinement that defined
indigenous communities in previous centuries thus creating
transborder communities (Stephen 2007). These commu-
nities exist beyond borders indigenous peoples historically

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 38–49, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12045.
The Role of Migrations in Creating Identities
and indigenous rights groups now have seen as arbitrary
(Adelman and Aron 1999; LaDow 2001; Tezcatlipoca
1999). Further, activism has grown from the streets to the
web, as these tools allow communities to form and organize
online, later taking their protests to the streets. Identities
based on an indigenous, pre-Hispanic past have given voice
to demands for the right of indigenous people to move
freely through their ancestral lands.
Historical Background
I begin with a brief historical survey of the role mi-
gration has played in Mesoamerican culture history from
pre-Hispanic times to the National period and into recent
history. These narratives lay the groundwork for the politi-
cal activism on the part of these migrants as the migration
experience becomes more transnational than unidirectional
in the 21st century.
Pre-Hispanic Accounts
The ethnohistoric record for Mesoamerica is rich in mi-
gration accounts detailing the travails of different groups
moving across the landscape. Whatever the pull and push
factors associated with migration in the distant past, these
stories found their way into the cultural stock by the time of
Spanish Conquest and colonization. For Nahuatl-speakers
of central Mexico, this migration formed a strong identity
in the political context of the time and space they occupied.
Migration stories also form part of the K’iche’ of Guatemala
and the Pipil Nicarao of Central America. Often, these sto-
ries include outrageous claims about the ability of groups to
move great distances. In other instances, the narratives speak
of cultural filiation, although none have been corroborated
using modern anthropological research methods. Whether
their veracity can be attested or not (e.g., McCafferty, this
volume), these stories of migration were present throughout
Mesoamerica. The ethos in these narratives places migra-
tion stories in the cultural resources from which partici-
pants and their descendants drew to make sense of their
world.
In highland Mesoamerica, stories abound of Nahuatl-
speakers migrating into central Mexico from their myth-
ical home of Aztlán in the early Postclassic period (ca.
C.E. 1100–1300) emerging from Chicomoztoc, Place of the
Seven Caves. The Historia de la Nación Chichimeca (ca.
1640) states that the founders of Tollan (Tula) hailed from
as far north as California, from whence they sailed landing
in Huatulco and trekking north until they settled at Tolantz-
inco. This narrative adds that the same people who founded
39
Tollan were responsible for establishing Teotihuacan and
Cholollan (Alva Ixtlixochitl 2003:64–68). Diego Muñoz
Camargo and Chimalpahin are among the chroniclers re-
mitting the migration story to the northern Chichimec desert
lands (Chimalpahin 1997, 1:31; Muñoz Camargo 1892:19–
28). The Florentine Codex and the Historia de la Nación
Chichimeca claim these settlers came by the south coast
and then moved north (Sahagún 1950–1982, 10:189–191).
These stories were set down on paper in the Latin alphabet,
and in some instances written on bark paper or cloth using
native information techniques, depicting events through the
use of established image representations of landscape, move-
ment, and place names such as those seen in the Mapa de
Cuauhtinchan and the Tira de la peregrinación (Figure 4.1).
The K’iche’ Maya of highland Guatemala also have an ori-
gin migration story where the K’iche’ leave Tula following
their leader, Tohil (Tedlock 1996:152–158).
Other examples of migration stories come from the
Pipil and the Nicarao. While original native sources tell us
these stories once existed, they have unfortunately been lost
(Figure 4.2). However, Fr. Juan de Torquemada was able to
record some of this information in his Monarquı́a Indiana
completed around 1615. The Pipil claimed descent from
the Cholullans, while the Nicarao claimed to be Mexicans
from Anahuac. Their story, however, begins in Soconusco,
on the Pacific coast of Chiapas and Guatemala, where
the Pipil and Nicarao were under the rule of the Olmeca,
likely the ethnohistoric Olmeca-Xicalanca who, according
to Torquemada, exploited, tortured, and killed the Pipil
and Niacarao until their religious leaders held council with
their deities and were told to prepare to flee. Before dying,
one of these leaders told each of the groups where they
would settle (Torquemada 1975–1983, I, 3:452–454), much
like the Mexica narrative. The veracity of these stories has
also been recently challenged. However, as in pre-Hispanic
times, myths tend to hold fast (McCafferty, this volume).
Regardless of the veracity of these claims, Mesoamericans
use and reshape these myths to claim an identity tied to
migrations as cultural tools, depending on their needs.
While the aim of those strategies remains unknown, they
had real value for 16th century indigenous groups.
Colonial Period
During the colonial period, the Spanish colonial en-
terprise created the conditions for Mesoamerican people
to venture and migrate farther, often as soldiers in con-
quests in other parts of Mesoamerica. Examples abound
with the War of the Mixtón in 1541, the Huasteca, and
the conquests of Guatemala and El Salvador (Altman 2007;
40
Figure 4.1. Detail from Tira de la Peregrinación illustrating the Mexica Migration from Aztlan-Chicomoztoc. Drawing
by author.
Figure 4.2. Pre-Hispanic Migration stories discussed in-text.
K’iche’ migration according to the Popol Vuh is included although
it likely did not take place. Map by author.
Chávez 1984; Martı́nez Baracs 1993; Matthew 2004:76–77).
Migrants went as soldiers, but also established themselves
as settlers in areas they had helped the Spaniards subdue.
One such case is that of a group of four hundred Tlaxcalan
families who formed part of a colonizing expedition to the
Gran Chichimeca in the 1590s to serve as model agricultural
communities for local indigenous groups (Martı́nez Baracs
1993; Kessell 2002:66).1 Many indigenous soldiers from
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli
Figure 4.3. Mesoamerican migrations discussed in-text taking
place during the Colonial period. Map by author.
throughout central and southern Mexico including Choul-
tec, Mixtec, and Zapotec went with Pedro de Alvarado to
help in the conquest of Guatemala. Later, the K’iche’ joined
these groups in the ensuing conquests of Honduras and El
Salvador. In El Salvador, some of these groups established
their own settler community at Ciudad Vieja (Figure 4.3;
Matthew 2004:72–80).2
Thanks to their military help, these indigenous settlers
received special privileges in 1532 similar to those granted
The Role of Migrations in Creating Identities
the Tlaxcalans who aided Cortés against Tenochtitlan.
Rights included owning encomiendas, a colonial labor sys-
tem in which individuals of certain status were given control
of land and the labor of indigenous populations on that land
while charged with procuring the Christianization of those
populations. Other rights included tribute payment exemp-
tion, and status of vecinos, or neighbors, a term reserved for
Spanish settlers. With time, a sense of connection developed
among those Mexican indigenous groups who had fought
alongside the Spaniards. When their special status was
challenged a half century later, they presented a complaint
as “los mexicanos, tlaxcaltecas, cholultecas, y zapotecas
indios conquistadores” Mexican, Tlaxcaltec, Cholultec,
and Zapotec Conqueror Indians (Matthew 2004:92–93).
Identified as indios conquistadores, or conqueror Indians,
this allowed them to mark their identity with a migrant
narrative that granted them special privileges.
Spanish northward expansion likewise spurred indige-
nous migration to the North American Southwest. Spanish
settlement into these areas included a number of Mesoamer-
ican peoples like Tlaxcalan, Aztec, and Tarascan soldiers
accompanying Francisco de Coronado to New Mexico in
the 1530s. In 1542 the colony was in disarray and it re-
treated back closer to the center of New Spain. Some of
the Mexican indigenous men chose to stay among the Pueb-
los and marry local women. When recolonization resumed
forty years later, these men were encountered still living
within the local indigenous societies (Chávez 1984:21–22;
Gonzales 1999:52; Kessell 2002:33, 45).
More forceful and intense were indigenous migrations
through repartimiento, the apportionment of indigenous la-
bor to Spanish conquistadors and settlers, and reducción,
the forced resettlement of indigenous people from different
villages into a new location more conveniently located for
encomenderos, individuals entrusted with the encomineda
system. Much of repartimiento labor went towards cop-
per and silver mining operations throughout New Spain in
Guerrero, Zacatecas, and Guanajuato in the 16th century.
After the 17th century the repartimiento was replaced by a
competitive wage system that served as a strong pull factor
for various individuals throughout New Spain (Brading and
Cross 1972; Martin 1996). The 1702 silver strike near San
Felipe el Real, Chihuahua resulted in the same process of
repartimiento labor later replaced by various sources includ-
ing inquisition prisoners and work crews recruited in other
mining centers (Martin 1996:47–51).
New States, New Borders
New countries emerged in the 18th and 19th centuries
in the Americas, with the United States followed by Haiti,
41
Colombia, Argentina, Mexico, and much of the rest of the
Spanish colonies. In the 19th century these new countries’
frontiers became borderlands and well-defined borders in the
early 20th century, a long and violent process, often fueled
by xenophobia.3 However, people and identities continued
to move between borders. With the expansion of U.S. power
and its exerting influence on all of Latin America through
the 19th and 20th centuries, new circumstances pushed and
pulled new generations to migrate from Central America and
Mexico to the U.S., as well as within ancient Mesoamerica.
Chief among these were the Mexican Revolution (1910–
1917) and the Guatemalan Civil War (1960–1996) (Castillo
2006; Gonzales 1999:118–119; Marquardt et al. 2011:32;
Orme 1987). Along the Mexico and U.S. border, even as
borderlands became borders, the unobstructed crossing of
both Mexicans and Native Americans continued (Adelman
and Aron 1999:838).
A similar process took shape within Middle America
as often indigenous peasants moved forcibly or willingly,
between and within newly formed states in search of labor
wages to Mexico City, Guadalajara, Monterrey, and Puebla
in Mexico between the 1930s and 1940s (Gauss 2010:8–19).
In Central America seasonal wage labor to haciendas con-
tinued until economic integration began to take shape in the
1950s (Torres Rivas 1993:91–102). The explosion of these
trends increased the number of Middle American migrants to
the United States between 1900 and 1930 when an estimated
one million Mexicans joined nearly half a million already in
the U.S. (Castillo 2006; Hamilton and Chinchilla 1991:79–
81). While violence played a part in these migrations, it
alone does not explain the influx of people moving north
early last century. In addition to the Mexican Revolution
and the Cristero Rebellion of the 1920s, arable land scarcity
became a push factor, coupled with the pull of economic
growth in the U.S. in mining, transportation, and agriculture
sectors (Gonzales 1999:113–128; Calderón 2000).
Within the context of this migratory history Mexican
Americans took the concept of Aztlán and adopted it as
their claim to legitimacy in the U.S. Taking after the Civil
Rights Movement, Mexican Americans declared the U.S.
Southwest their homeland in the Chicano Youth Liberation
Front and the Plan Espiritual de Aztlán, the Spiritual Plan
of Aztlan based on the Aztec migration story and intermar-
riage in the Spanish colonial period between Mexican and
Southwest indigenous peoples. At times, this reconceptual-
ization took a separatist tone, in one case arguing for the
creation of Chama, a Chicano homeland in northern New
Mexico (Figure 4.4) and a complete restoration of ancestral
lands to Chicanos in another (Chávez 1984:21–22; Gonzales
1999:203–205). More importantly, they pursued a cultural
regeneration based on central Mexico’s pre-Hispanic culture,
42
Figure 4.4. Mesoamerican migrations discussed in-text taking
place between the 19th century and 1950. Map by author.
claiming a new identity as Chicanos. The Aztlán movement
was not without its critics, namely for legitimizing an in-
digenous colonization from central Mexico while favoring
Mesoamerican culture over those of the Southwest (Barrera
1988). However, for a generation of Mexican Americans it
reframed their place in U.S. society, not as immigrants, but
as legitimate settlers back in their ancestral homeland. This
ethos is reflected in mural paintings in San Diego and Los
Angeles that retell the Mexica migration story with vivid
images of Coyolxauhqui and Coatecuhtli.
In another example, at the height of the genocidal
Guatemalan Civil War, Mayas sought refuge in Yucatan to
escape the massacre in highland Guatemala. The state of Yu-
catan built a refugee camp for the Guatemala Maya called
Maya Balaam in the state’s southeastern. As time and war
wore on, refugees were unable to return home. While some
of the Maya expressed their intent to stay, others wanted to
return home rather than be assimilated into Mexico (Orme
1987:A19). Among those who fled from Guatemala to the
U.S. a group settled in Florida found accommodating cir-
cumstances enabling members to stay and apply for politi-
cal asylum. In Jupiter, Florida, a group of Guatemala Maya
migrants created a neighborhood labor and migrant center
where the community organized a parallel celebration for
their patron saint in Jacaltenango. Through these facilities,
Jacaltecos can help other immigrants without the benefit of
an adjusted migratory status. There, immigrants were able to
maintain their ethnic identity and recreate a traditional event
from home in the host community (Marquardt et al. 2011:32;
Palma et al. 2009:73; Steigenga and Williams 2009:107).
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli
Although borders became more firmly defined from the
19th through the 20th centuries, initially people moved be-
tween these borderlands with relative ease to live, work, and
escape duress. As these borders hardened, Mesoamerican
migrants continued to move across with the help of the so-
cial networks established by previous migrations of friends
and relatives. While there has been recently some migra-
tion within the limits of ancient Mesoamerica, the most
common migration takes place from these countries to the
United States. Over the last decade, this situation has led
to a reactionary nativist response from some groups in the
host country. Rather than stemming immigration, these re-
sponses have spurred political activism from authorized and
unauthorized immigrants (after Marquardt et al. 2011).
As states consolidated and expanded over these two
centuries, fluid borders became well-defined cartographic
boundaries while lived realities belied the map. The U.S.
expansion into the Southwest and Central America’s loss
of Chiapas to Mexico were accompanied by subsequent at-
tempts at forging national identities where there were still
none (Adelman and Aron 1999; Lewis 2005:4–6; Peniche
May, this volume). The new borders created by ruling oli-
garchies and appetites for land divided groups, including the
Maya Mam, Yaqui, and Tohono O’odham, making them for-
eigners in their own land (Leza 2009; Nash 2008). Thus be-
gan a de-territorialization process continuing to the present.
Crossing Borders: Transnationalism and
Identity
Migration from and within Mesoamerica, including that
today, has been the result of different causes, with violence
and the economics figuring prominently among them. As
sending communities are thrust into the global economy,
its members find that they need to build social and eco-
nomic capital in order to thrive. Thus, migrations do not
just happen, but are the result of carefully thought out eco-
nomic strategies in which individuals seek to maintain and
improve their households. This situation creates a “culture
of migration,” in which migration is an integral part of so-
ciocultural development and which participants are able to
make sense of in terms of local practices (Cohen 2004:27–
29, 148; see also Brettel 2003; Hamilton and Chinchilla
1991; Marquardt et al. 2011). As a result, migrants are en-
meshed in transnational migration and, far from becom-
ing completely assimilated into the receiving country, they
maintain links with their communities of origin, sending re-
mittances, contributing to local development projects, and
investing in small businesses (Marquardt et al. 2011:35–38;
Steigenga and Williams 2009:115).
The Role of Migrations in Creating Identities
In this sense, the Mesoamerican migrant resembles the
Portuguese migrant to France: more concerned with building
a house in Portugal, and with upward social mobility in Por-
tugal (Brettel 2003:123). It is often claimed that the differ-
ence between the European migrant and the new immigrant
from Middle America is that the new immigrant does not
assimilate, as the European immigrant severed his ties with
home versus Middle American immigrants who, because
of the proximity between the two communities, can return
home seasonally (Gonzales 1999; Hamilton and Chinchilla
1991). It is estimated, however, that a quarter of European
immigrants to the U.S. in the early 20th century also returned
to their countries of origin (Gmelch 1980). The proximity be-
tween sending and receiving communities does play a part in
the continuing interaction between the actors involved, how-
ever, and I wish to emphasize the role that both social dis-
tance (Hipp and Boessen 2012) and geographic distance play
in establishing transnational and transborder communities.
Transnational migration, then, forms part of migrants’
economic strategy as they adapt to changing global eco-
nomic processes occurring since the end of the 19th cen-
tury. While transnational immigrants are often accused of
‘divided loyalties’ (Marquardt et al. 2011:96; Schiller et al.
1995), transnationalism remains a viable option of social
and economic support when the receiving society is openly
hostile or the immigrants’ status is uncertain (Marquardt
et al 2011:96–97). Often, immigrants’ children, despite en-
joying U.S. citizenship, feel like second-class citizens, living
transnationally, facing discrimination and exclusion from
school events because of their parents’ status (Machado-
Casas 2006:256).
De-territorializing Communities
Transnational immigration has resulted in the de-
territorialization of communities. While de-territorialization
has often been equated and used interchangeably with
transnationalism and globalization, this practice divorces the
importance of space and place in human interaction (Elden
2005; Ericksen 1980; Wilson 1999). De-territorialization
links the de-bordering of human spatial interaction to the di-
minished power of the nation-state, although hard-bounded
territorial affiliation is a relatively new concept imposed
by European colonization. This reversal allows such com-
munities to imagine themselves unconstrained by national
borders, yet unified by a shared culture. Discussion of de-
territorialization often accompanies the process through
which capitalism frees human interaction and materiality
from bounded space but re-territorializes them into cap-
ital (Houtum 2010). In this process, capitalism’s search
43
for cheaper labor incorporates workers into a transnational
production process in which labor is either outsourced or
acquired through vulnerable immigrant workers (Wilson
1999:11).
De-territorialization here, however, does not separate
human actions from space and place. Even with globaliza-
tion, territory continues to be important, although it is no
longer bound within a single state (Elden 2005:16). De-
territorialization here thus refers to communities on the
move, re-creating themselves and adapting their responses to
changing social environments. The use of the term is linked
to events dating back to the early 20th century. Beginning
in the 1920s, Oaxacan wage workers became a “deterri-
torialized community” (Besserer 2004:35–41; Elden 2005;
Ó Tuathail 1998) because community members traveled to
where there was work available, first in southern Mexico,
later to northern Mexican states picking cotton and toma-
toes. Between the 1940s and 1960s the United States and
Mexico reached an agreement known as the Bracero pro-
gram allowing Mexican men to work in the United States.
Many people from Oaxaca migrated there to work in the
agriculture industry. Between 1960 and 1980, an explosive
migration to the United States took place, but the end of
the Bracero program turned many of these migrants back
into traveling workers as they returned home looking for
work. At the same time, trans-generational migrants born
in the U.S. to parents from one of these small communities
continue to identify with the origin community in Oaxaca
(Besserer 2004:35–41; Stephen 2007).
De-territorialization in Mesoamerica, however, began
in the 16th century with the use of indigenous auxiliaries
and colonial settlers as described above. The case of in-
digenous residents seeking permission from the viceroy to
flee the abuses of the local cacique and then asking for per-
mission to remain in their new location (Besserer 2002:33)
represents an early example of de-territorialization. Terri-
toriality forms part of the experiences in which we have
some continuing interest. Given certain territorial and so-
cial conditions we behave and create perspectives accord-
ingly (Ericksen 1980:38–39; see also Alonso this volume;
and J. H. Anderson, this volume). When these conditions
exist in an unstable state our actions and perspectives adapt
to recreate an old place in a new social and physical space.
Consequently, whereas an indigenous identity in Mexico
and Guatemala has traditionally been tied to an indigenous
language-speaking community, the continuous movement
of people across territory and borders and the recreation of
their communities in new spaces have removed this limita-
tion (Fox 2006).
Similarly, migrants who left their native Chamácuaro,
Guanajuato in Mexico in the 1970s and made their way to
44
Immokalee, Florida contribute with other Chamacuareños
established all over the United States for the annual town
fiesta back home (Steigenga and Williams 2009:116–117),
as do the Otomı́ from Hidalgo living also in Immokalee
(Loret de Mola et al. 2009). Thus while physically removed
from its place of origin, the de-territorialized community
traces its identity back to a place of origin, even if what it
means to be Zapotec, Mixtec, Maya, or Otomı́ in Oaxaca,
Hidalgo, and Guatemala differs from what it means to be so
in Baja California, Oregon, or North Carolina. Similarly, the
Mexica, generations after establishing Tenochtitlan, contin-
ued to refer back to their origins in Aztlan (Durán 2002,
I:268–278).
Indigenous Identities, Migrant Activism
Unbounded by borders, de-territorialized communities
are free to act as their own advocates. New generation of Mix-
tepequenses, people of Mixtepec, born in the United States
continue to feel an attachment to Mixtepec while Mixtepec
accepts them as full members. This and other similar com-
munities have ceased to be bound by borders. Additionally,
because these migrant groups have often been the object of
open hostility, a common response has been a reactive ethnic
identity, where hostile reception by the dominant society in-
cluding threats, persecution, and exclusion leads to forging
a stronger ethnic identity with an aversion to the dominant
society’s institutions (Portes and Rumbaut 2001:148–149;
Steigenga and Williams 2009:117–122).
Reactive ethnic identity has contributed to many immi-
grants’ continued self-identification with a common origin.
Moreover, a segment of second generation immigrants born
in Oregon has embarked on a continued migration to places
east such as Virginia, emphasizing what Besserer (2004:41)
calls their temporal and non-localized traveling condition.
Whether or not Mixtepequenses continue to move trans-
generationally, the role of migration remains an important
cultural tool for migrants moving between places of origin
and new destinations. Mesoamerican immigrants exercise
agency across space, centered on migrants’ issues and uses
the language of migration to pursue its goals. The song
“Canción Mixteca,” for example, written in 1915 by Oax-
aca migrant worker José López Álvarez in Mexico City, has
become an echo for those same feelings of loneliness expe-
rienced by Oaxacans and Mexicans migrating farther else-
where in Mexico and the United States (Cohen 2004:2–3).
One hundred years after it was first strummed, the “Canción
Mixteca” has retained its cultural significance as a wit-
ness to the important role migration plays in Mesoamerican
identity.4
Nezahualcoyotl Xiuhtecutli
Other aspects of migration have worked their way into
the activist ethos of Mesoamerican migrants. While it is
true that economic advantage also plays a great role in the
decision to migrate, shared experiences have helped turn
migration into an empowering cultural tool with which to
challenge negative stereotypes Mesoamerican immigrants
and their children face, helping them bridge the social and
political boundaries they cross. Beginning in the 1990s,
some organizations took a different approach to the situ-
ations that had driven them and their ancestors to migrate
across political boundaries and raised a consciousness based
on indigenousness and their place between national borders.
There, activists have used their knowledge of Mesoamerican
indigenous practices and history to organize in a discourse
centered on their positions as transnational immigrants.
A group of Chalchiteco and Aguacateco Maya from
Guatemala organized to fight unfair labor conditions at a
meat packing plant in Morganton, North Carolina. They
drew from pan-Maya consciousness to create a unity based
on their ancestral homeland in spite of ethnic differences
between both communities. They also used the Internet to
connect to information about the ways their ancestors wor-
shipped and to other Maya with similar interests at con-
ferences. With these tools they were able to draw support
from other Maya and from their hometown. Drawing on
these resources also served as a springboard for a new eth-
nic consciousness. In spite of their long physical distance
from home, the Morganton Maya were able to connect to
one another in Morganton and at home, appealing to their
unity as both Maya and immigrants (Fink 2003:192).
Likewise, indigenous peoples of Oaxaca organized to
combat racial oppression they faced as migrants in north-
west Mexico and California forming the Frente Indı́gena
Oaxaqueño Binacional (FIOB) in Baja California. Break-
ing away from the notion of territorial claims to indigenous
rights, the FIOB has shifted the argument to redress social
injustice based on racial discrimination, class oppression,
and human rights. This approach challenges the traditional
link in Latin America between ethnic identity and territory to
seek legal recourse for past injustices, as indigenous activists
form a de-territorialized community through their migration
from Oaxaca to California (Fox 2006).
Again in Immokalee, Florida, farmworkers organized in
the 1990s against abuses by growers and unfair wages. They
founded the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW), whose
accomplishments and lasting presence in one community is
all the more impressive given the fluid nature of farm la-
bor. A 2004 survey found that the Immokalee farmworker
population was quite diverse with people mostly from Oax-
aca, Chiapas and Guanajuato, Mexico, as well as Huehuete-
nago, Guatemala (Steigenga and Williams 2009:105–106).
The Role of Migrations in Creating Identities
The CIW also includes Haitians and African-Americans
(Drainville 2008:359). The CIW began organizing in 1993
when a group of workers met to find solutions to improve
their community and their lives (Coalition of Immokalee
Workers n.d.). In November of 1995, Immokalee workers
organized a protest against falling wages with the help of
the non-government organization Proyecto de Trabajadores
Agrı́colas del Sureste de la Florida, paralyzing 90 percent of
agricultural production. A year later they organized protests
again after a foreman struck a worker when the worker
stopped to get a drink of water.
These protests gave birth and momentum to the CIW
campaign “Stop Modern-Day Slavery.” Receiving little re-
sponse from growers, the CIW switched strategies taking
their campaign to companies who bought tomatoes from the
growers. Among the most notable companies that agreed
to the conditions of the Fair Food Program are Taco Bell,
McDonalds, Burger King, and Whole Foods. Some gro-
cers, however, have proved more immune to this kind of
pressure (Coalition of Immokalee Workers n.d.; Drainville
2008; Steigenga and Williams 2009). The 2004 survey re-
vealed that 60 percent of Immokalee workers had lived else-
where in the United Stated before arriving in Immokalee,
and 32 percent frequently traveled to other states. This is
in contrast to the community in Jupiter, where only 34 per-
cent had lived in another part of the U.S. and nine percent
traveled frequently to other states (Steigenga and Williams
2009:105). Both self-identification as immigrants and the
continued movement of members of the community demon-
strate the strong role migration plays in identity construction
for Immokalee workers.
A more dramatic response to a hostile environment
surrounding the immigration debate over the last decade
includes organizations challenging the idea that Mesoamer-
ican descendants are “illegal immigrants.” Following the
Chicano Movement, groups in the U.S. Southwest have
completely rejected the Hispanic and Latino labels and
the imposition of European borders. In their view, all
people of Mexican, “Central American,” and “Native
American” descent are the true owners of the land, sharing a
common history and culture. One group specifically rejects
the concept of Aztlán, focusing instead on the right of
indigenous people to move freely throughout the continent.
Although there are a number of similar indigenous-rights
organizations, the Mexica-Movement has been most
effective in broadcasting its message through the use of the
internet to organize protests in Los Angeles and Phoenix to
challenge the rhetoric of those who oppose Mesoamerican
immigration (Mexica Movement n.d.; Tezcatlipoca 2002).
As migrants, Mesoamericans and their descendants
have moved across the landscape for centuries seeking
45
higher status, livelihood, or escaping violence. The role that
immigration played in the identity of Mesoamericans be-
fore the Spanish conquest is substantially corroborated in
the ethnohistorical record that chronicles the Chichimec mi-
grations from Aztlán to central Mexico, the Pipil of El Sal-
vador and Nicaragua, and the K’iche’ of Guatemala. This
strong component of their identity spills into the new colo-
nial order following the Spanish conquest, as indigenous
auxiliaries participate in more conquests in Guatemala and
El Salvador (Altman 2007; Matthew 2004:76–77), Zacate-
cas and the Huasteca (Chávez 1984; Martı́nez Baracs 1993).
In those excursions they sought to gain social standing in
the colonial order. The examples included in this essay sug-
gest that, given the role it played in their Mesoamerican
ancestors’ identity, descendant populations have recognized
both the mobility inherent in their social experience and the
usefulness of incorporating this mobility into their identity
to advocate for their causes, even as these have changed
depending on the social processes at play. Likewise, both
migration and its adoption as an identity component have
formed part of a number of conscious decisions taken to
gain social or economic advantage.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank the three editors of this
volume for organizing the session The Legacy of Mesoamer-
ican Ancestors at the 2011 Annual Meeting of the AAA in
Montreal, and whose helpful comments greatly improved
this draft. Special thanks to Dr. Philip Williams, Director of
the Center of Latin American Studies at the University of
Florida; to Margarita Vargas-Betancourt for her encourage-
ment to write about this topic; and to members of the Mexica
Movement. Additionally, I want to thank two anonymous
reviewers whose comments improved this draft. All errors
remain my own.
Notes
1. I use Tlaxcala to refer to the colonial city and modern
state of the same name and Tlaxcalan for the people of either
of these entities. I use Tlaxcallan to refer to the pre-Hispanic
polity. Tlaxcalteca is the Nahuatl identifier for people from
Tlaxcallan and it is also used in modern Mexican Spanish to
refer to the people of Tlaxcala. Here I reserve Tlaxcalteca
for the people of pre-Hispanic Tlaxcallan.
2. Military central Mexican presence in eastern
Mesoamerica, of course, is known to have taken place be-
fore the arrival of Europeans, as early as the Early Clas-
sic (Brasswell 2003), but also during the Late Postclassic
46
when the Aztecs made incursions in the Soconusco (Hassig
1988:217–218, 231).
3. Not the least reason for borders becoming more rigid
in North America was the adoption in 1924 by the U.S. of the
Johnson-Reed Act which limited immigration of the U.S. to
a quota system that largely discriminated and favored im-
migrants based on their national origin (Daniels 1990). I
thank one anonymous reviewer for bringing this to my at-
tention. Additionally, a xenophobic outbreak along Mexico’s
northern border in the 1930s forced Chinese-Mexicans to or-
ganize and petition for equal treatment before the Mexican
government (González 2013).
4. See Stoll, this volume, for an example of how identity
is recreated beyond territorial limits by Mixtec migrants
playing Pelota Mixteca, Mixtec Ball.
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 5
Continuity and Transformation in Central
Mexico: “The Legend of Tepozteco” and the
People of Tepoztlán
Margarita Vargas-Betancourt
University of Florida

ABSTRACT
This chapter takes an ethnohistorical approach to the study of cultural continuity in the town of Tepoztlán,
Morelos. During the course of history, the people of Tepoztlán have maintained social cohesion by reenacting
a historical legend, the “Legend of Tepozteco,” which brings together pre-Hispanic and colonial mythologies with
contemporary performance art at the base of an ancient temple. This social cohesion produced through performance
and place has allowed the community to resist economic projects that have threatened the ecological, cultural, and
social identity of their town, such as a movement against the construction of a golf course in 1995. [Tepoztlan,
Mexico, indigenous peoples, ritual, resistance]

I n 1995, the people of Tepoztlán, a town located to the

northeast of Cuernavaca, organized a successful move-
ment that opposed the construction of a golf course. It
ethnohistorical sources, the modern festival dedicated to the
patrons of Tepoztlán, and social resistance.

is likely that the endurance of certain pre-Hispanic tradi- The Festival

tions played an important role in this victory. Continuity in
Tepoztlán has been an important object of study since Robert
Redfield (1930). The people of Tepoztlán have, in fact, used
pre-Hispanic figures to maintain their social cohesion and
to resist economic projects that have threatened the cultural
identity of their town.
The most important traditions in Tepoztlán revolve
around the figure of Tepozteco. Tepoztecans use his figure
as a symbol of communal power. In this way, they revital-
ize a Mesoamerican practice. The word tepozteco refers to
Tepoztecatl, the pulque god whose temple is on top of one
of the mountains that surround Tepoztlán, but it also de-
notes the mountain itself, and it can be used to refer to the
wind. Additionally, Tepozteco stands for a mythic charac-
ter who appears in several legends that circulate amongst
town residents. The purpose of this chapter is to discuss
the connections among this pre-Hispanic figure, colonial
On September 7 and 8, 2002, Jorge Vargas-Betancourt
(the author’s brother) went to Tepoztlán to record the festival
dedicated to the Virgin of the Nativity and to Tepozteco, dual
patrons of Tepoztlán. The description below comes from
the author’s observation of the resulting footage (Vargas-
Betancourt 2002). On the afternoon of September 7, several
men from the community raised a wooden arch decorated
with a mural made with seeds (portada de semillas) and
placed it on the gate of the Ex-convento de Tepoztlán, the
sixteenth-century friary located in Tepoztlán’s downtown.
The mural included precontact symbols, such as Quetzal-
coatl, Tepoztecatl, the renowned Tepoztecan teponaztli (a
horizontal drum made from a hollow log), as well as con-
temporary symbols, including the emblems of the differ-
ent barrios (neighborhoods) of Tepoztlán, a brass band,
and scenes from the modern festival. While the men were

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 50–58, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12046.
“The Legend of Tepozteco” and the People of Tepoztlán
doing this, women sold flowers inside the church’s atrium,
a brass band played, and people strolled in the midst of the
festive environment. After the wooden arch was up, people
started climbing the mountain known as Tepozteco, where
the temple to Tepoztecatl is located. Vargas-Betancourt fol-
lowed them, and by sunset he and the rest of the people
reached the top of the temple where they placed an offer-
ing to Tepozteco. The people of the town had decorated the
edges of the building with light strands to accentuate its
outline in the darkness. When night fell, people descended
back to Tepoztlán.
Next morning, on the actual day of the feast of the Na-
tivity of Virgin Mary (September 8), dancers dressed in loin-
cloths, feathers, and rattles (concheros) moved to the rhythm
of the beat of a huehuetl (hollow drum) and a teponaztli in
the atrium of the ex-convent. A brass band played at the en-
trance to the church, and crowds moved around enjoying the
spectacle. In the afternoon, people started walking towards
a definite direction: a round quarry monument located at
Axitla, a spring at the base of the slope of the Tepozteco
Mountain. There, they witnessed a reenactment of the bap-
tism of Tepozteco by Fray Domingo de la Anunciación.
According to popular legends, the pre-Hispanic Tepozteco
was conceived in Axitla when a bird stood on a Tepoztecan
princess.1 It is likely that modern day Tepoztecans chose
this site to symbolize the two facets of Tepozteco: the pre-
Hispanic deity and the ruler that accepted conversion.
In the reenactment, the character of Fray Domingo ex-
plained that the baptism of Tepozteco was important because
it signified the transition from paganism to Catholicism. He
added that on that day, the Virgin of the Nativity became the
adoptive mother of the Tepoztecans’ ruler. Although the friar
addressed Tepozteco in Spanish, the young man who imper-
sonated Tepozteco answered in Nahuatl. After his baptism,
Tepozteco received the accoutrements that characterized the
pre-Hispanic Tepoztecatl: a headdress, an ax, and a shield.
Wearing them, he walked down the hill. Women and men
attired in a pre-Hispanic manner, a group of men dressed as
indigenous warriors who played the teponaztli, the friar, and
his altar boys followed Tepozteco.
In the rain, to the sound of crowds, fireworks, trumpets,
and the teponaztli, the procession reached the zócalo
(main plaza) of Tepoztlán. There, Tepozteco and his fellow
warriors climbed the stage, which was made to look like a
Mesoamerican temple. Afterwards, the narrator explained
that the purpose of this reenactment was to preserve the
town’s roots. This was followed by the performance of a play
known as El Reto del Tepozteco (“Tepozteco’s Challenge”),
a dramatic presentation performed every September 8 that
celebrates the conversion of Tepozteco. Four indigenous
rulers—that of Cuernavaca, Oaxtepec, Yautepec, and
51
Tlayacapan—defied Tepozteco. They challenged him in
Nahuatl, and the narrator translated their lines to Spanish.
Tepoztecans not only bring together pre-Hispanic and
colonial narratives, but take the effort of learning lengthy
dialogs in Nahuatl, a language they no longer speak.
Each of these lords threatened to destroy Tepozteco
because he had converted to Catholicism, but he reminded
them of how he had stolen their symbol of power: Cuer-
navaca’s teponaztli. Tepozteco added that he was celebrating
the Virgin’s feast because she strengthened him. After danc-
ing, he entreated his counterparts to convert to Christianity.
Tepozteco explained that this was the only way to eternal
happiness. The four rulers agreed to convert, and they asked
forgiveness for their former blindness. The play ended with
the five rulers moving to the beat of the teponaztli.
Although the rituals that make up this festivity are em-
bedded in a colonial context, through them Tepoztecans re-
vitalize pre-Hispanic symbols. El Reto del Tepozteco can be
interpreted as an example of the theatre that the friars de-
veloped in the sixteenth century to evangelize natives. Like
many of the colonial Nahuatl dramas, the main theme of this
play is the necessity for conversion to Catholicism. However,
Tepozteco continues to wear the symbolic accoutrements
that characterized Tepoztecatl, one of the precontact deities
of pulque (an alcoholic drink made from maguey). Fur-
thermore, the reenactments of his baptism and of the Reto
reinforce his position as patron of Tepoztlán and connect
modern rituals to pre-Hispanic mythology.
Ethnohistoric Sources
The continuous representation of Tepozteco in the fri-
ary’s mural and in the performance staged every September
8 highlights the permanence of precontact narratives. One
way to identify such continuity is to compare Tepozteco’s
present-day accounts with ethnohistoric ones to understand
how the conceptualization of Tepozteco has changed (or not)
in the centuries after the Conquest.
The most important references to Tepoztecatl appear in
the Codex Magliabechiano (Nuttall 1903:49) and in the Flo-
rentine Codex (Sahagún 1997:612). The information they
provide is neither abundant nor orderly. Nonetheless, both
sources connect the figure of Tepoztecatl with symbols of
fertility. In the Codex Magliabechiano, Tepoztecatl is one
of the pulque deities. Although the ancient editor put the
wrong text with the wrong figure, it is still possible to dis-
cern the information pertinent to Tepoztecatl. The text that
accompanies his image, though it describes another of the
pulque gods (after Boone 1983:29), is the following:
52 Margarita Vargas-Betancourt

This feast is for a demon who here is called Pa-

paztac, who was one of the four hundred drunken gods
that the Indians had with diverse names. But together
they were all called Totochtli, which means rabbits. And
when the Indians had harvested and gathered their corn,
they became drunk and danced, invoking this demon and
others of the four hundred. Thus, for the figures that
follow, they did the same.2 [Boone 1983:203]

The text that should go with the illustration of Tepoztecatl

is the following:

This is a figure of a great roguery that a town called

Tepoztlán had for a rite. And it was that when some Indian
died from drinking, the others of this town held a great
feast with copper axes in their hands with which they
cut firewood. This town is equal [in rank] to Yauhtepec
[being] subjects of the Lord Marques del Valle.3 [Boone
1983:203]

Eduard Seler (1993) believed that the four hundred

deities in the first text was a reference to a group of deities
known as the Four Hundred Rabbits, and that Tepoztecatl
was part of this group. These deities were also known as the
pulque gods, and their calendric day was Ome Tochtli (Two Figure 5.1. Mayahuel, plate 12 (Dı́az and Rodgers 1993:66).
Rabbit) (Nicholson 1971:435). The figure of the rabbit was
the symbol of the pulque gods. Rabbits connoted fertility
because they reproduced themselves in great numbers and
because of their connection to the moon (Anawalt 1997).
According to a Nahua legend, when the fifth sun was cre-
ated, two suns rose from the fire at Teotihuacan. The gods
threw a rabbit to dim the light of the second sun. Since then,
the image of a rabbit has been visible within the disc of
the moon (Sahagún 1997:431–433). Mesoamerican peoples
linked the moon to fertility and to creation because lunation
evoked the menstrual cycle (Anawalt 1997). At the same
time, the moon was related to growth and regeneration be-
cause its waxing and waning and then its revival represented
the cycle of death and resurrection (Seler 1993:267). The
connection between the rabbit and pulque is also evident in
Gisele Dı́az and Alan Rodgers’ Codex Borgia (Figure 5.1;
Dı́az and Rodgers 1993:66). Mayahuel, the pulque goddess,
is depicted gesturing at the day-sign Rabbit, and a vessel
with pulque is pictured over her. In this manner, she is repre-
sented as the patron deity of the day-sign Rabbit. The figure
of Mayahuel brings together the concepts of pulque, fertility,
Figure 5.2. Tepoztecatl in Codex Magliabechiano (Nuttall 1903:
and agriculture, for she was represented as the epitome of
folio 48 verso).
fecundity.
The Codex Magliabechiano (1983) exemplified the
connection between the pulque deities and the moon. The (Figure 5.2; Nuttall 1903: folio 48 verso), Tepoztecatl wore
elements that made up the iconography of the pulque gods a yacametztli, a headdress with a pleated fan (tlaquechpa-
were the yacametztli (representation of the moon as a nose nyotl), a shield decorated with a yacametztli, and a stone
ring with a moon shape), the headdress with a pleated ax (itztopolli). These elements symbolized water, fertility,
fan, the shield, and the stone ax. In the Magliabechiano mountains, rain, and pulque. In the 2002 performance
“The Legend of Tepozteco” and the People of Tepoztlán
described above, the costume of Tepozteco included the
iconographic elements of the pulque deity Tepoztecatl as il-
lustrated in the Magliabechiano: the headdress with a pleated
fan, the shield decorated with a yacametztli, and the stone ax.
An important part of the modern celebration to
Tepozteco is the placing of an offering in his temple La
Casa del Tepozteco. Since the temple is located on top of
a hill, this rite recalls another aspect of the pre-Hispanic
devotion to Tepoztecatl: the mountain cult. According to
Richard Townsend, mountains represented the “sexual act
and a symbolic act of creation” (Townsend 1992:180) be-
cause they were the sites where rain (water) fell into the
earth through the caves that represented the opening to the
womb. They represented at the same time the male act of
creation by producing rain and the “female earth and pro-
creative entity” (Townsend 1992:180). The relationship be-
tween pulque and mountains is highlighted in the Florentine
Codex, Book 10, Chapter 29. In it, the creation of pulque
was a climactic point in the Mexica migration. The mythical
figures of Mayahuel and Patecatl discovered how to make
pulque, and Tepoztecatl was among the other four hundred
gods that aided in the creation of pulque. They prepared it
in the mountain Chichinauhia (Sahagún 1997:612).
The name “Chichinauhia” probably referred to the
Chichinautzin ridge where the Tepozteco Mountain is lo-
cated. Sahagún’s account explained the relationship between
the pulque deities and fertility in terms of the association of
each of these elements with mountains (Sahagún 1997:612).
Nahuas believed that mountains were the entities that gen-
erated rainfall, as seen in the cult to Mount Tlaloc. Nahua
people believed that all hills were related to this mountain,
which they considered as the source of rain. Consequently,
they were all represented as water providers (Townsend
1992:175, 179). The modern day procession to the temple
and the offering to Tepozteco made on the eve of the main
festivity recall the veneration that Tepoztlán’s Mesoameri-
can ancestors had to mountains, and specifically to the hill
known as Tepozteco.
The Temple
The reliefs that decorate the temple of Tepoztecatl (Fig-
ures 5.3 through 8), located on the summit of one of the
hills that make up the Chichinautzin ridge, coincide with
the themes identified in ethnohistoric sources: pulque and
fertility. Until the mid-twentieth century, the economy of
Tepoztlán was based primarily on agriculture. For this rea-
son, pre-Hispanic agricultural rituals as represented in eth-
nohistoric sources and archaeological sites continued to be
significant.
53
The temple consists of a rectangular structure placed
over a pyramid platform (Pasztory 1998:134). The stairway
that leads from the platform to the temple is on the west side,
and the entrance also faces this direction (Seler 1993:271).
A stone bench-like structure ornamented with reliefs runs
along the wall of the vestibule and the inner room. Originally,
there were eight reliefs in the vestibule: four are located on
the north wall (see Figure 5.3), and only three are still found
on the south wall (Figure 5.4). In addition, eighteen separate
symbols on the face of the bench adorn the inner room.
As mentioned above, the themes that underlie these
reliefs relate to those that characterize Tepozteco in
ethnohistoric sources: pulque and fertility. In addition to
the orientation of the temple, some of the reliefs found in
the vestibule (see Figure 5.3a and Figure 5.3d) and in the
inner chamber (see Figure 5.5c, Figure 5.6b, Figure 5.7b,
Figure 5.7c) recall the iconography of the pulque gods.
Seler believed that the first relief on the north side of the
vestibule was a paper crown (amacalli) decorated with a
folded-paper neck bow, and “above the crown” with “a ball
of down and waving feathers (quetzal or heron feathers)”
(Seler 1993:278). Paper crowns and bows connoted moun-
tain, rain, water, and pulque deities (Seler 1993:278; see
Figure 5.3a). The headdress relief on the vestibule also re-
calls that worn by Tepoztecatl in the Codex Magliabechiano
(see Figure 5.2). Both consist of a band from which two
tufts of feathers come out. Small feathers make up the first
one, whereas longer ones compose the one above it. There
is a paper bow to the side of this band. It is pleated and flat
on the relief, and conical in the manuscript painting.
The next pulque motif is found in the fourth relief on
the north side (see Figure 5.3d) and on two reliefs in the
inner chamber (see Figure 5.6b and Figure 5.7c). According
to Seler, the three reliefs represented the stone ax, one of the
accoutrements of the pulque gods. From the three reliefs,
the one that most closely resembles Tepoztecatl’s stone ax
as depicted in the Codex Magliabechiano is the one on the
south half of the east side of the temple (see Figure 5.2 and
Figure 5.7c).
The yacametztli or moon nose ring, another of the
iconographic elements of the pulque deities, is found in
two reliefs in the inner chamber. One is the third figure on
the north side (see Figure 5.5c) and the second one on the
south half of the east side (see Figure 5.7b). Seler believed
that the first of the two is a pulque vessel, while the second
is Tepoztecatl’s shield. It has a definite square form, a ya-
cametztli in its center, and a fringe at the bottom, probably
of feathers, that recalls the feathered border on the underside
of Tepoztecatl’s shield (Seler 1993:276).
The reliefs discussed above suggest that the iconog-
raphy of Tepoztecatl as represented in the Codex
54 Margarita Vargas-Betancourt

Figure 5.3. Reliefs on the north side of the vestibule (Seler 1993:274, fig. 19).

Figure 5.4. Reliefs on the south side of the vestibule (Seler 1993:274, fig. 20).

Figure 5.5. Reliefs on the north side of the inner chamber (Seler 1993:273, fig. 15).

Magliabechiano, went back to at least the beginning
of the sixteenth century. The themes that underlied
these reliefs seem to be the same that characterized
Tepoztecatl in both the Codex Magliabechiano and the
Florentine Codex: the moon, pulque, and fertility. Their
relationship with the agricultural cycle was pertinent
because, as mentioned above, from the precontact era to
the first half of the twentieth century the main economic
activity in Tepoztlán was agriculture.
On the other hand, the location of the temple brought
together the mountain cult, as illustrated in ethnohistoric
sources, and that of fertility. According to Emily Umberger
(1981:70), pyramids in general embodied the cult to moun-
tains: as a mountain, a pyramid represented the earth and the
caves that led to the underworld. The temple to Tepoztecatl
was a literal representation of this concept, for it is located
on the summit of a mountain, a mountain famous for its
caves and its cave paintings. The orientation of the temple
also seems to reinforce the connection between pre-Hispanic
structures and agriculture.
Mesoamerican people oriented their buildings to the
astronomic events that marked the stages of the agricultural
cycle, for instance, the time to plant, the passing from the dry
to the rainy season, and the time to harvest (Broda 2001:225).
The temple to Tepoztecatl is a good example because it faces
the West (Aveni and Gibbs 1976:512). Seler believed that the
western orientation of the temple was significant because the
west was the region where the sun set and “the new moon
“The Legend of Tepozteco” and the People of Tepoztlán 55

Figure 5.6. Reliefs on the north half of the east side of the inner chamber (Seler 1993:273, fig. 16).

Figure 5.7. Reliefs on the south half of the east side of the inner chamber (Seler 1993:274, fig. 17).

Figure 5.8. Relief on the south side of the inner chamber (Seler 1993:274, fig. 18).

was visible in the sky” (Seler1993:271). Perhaps for this
reason, the west was considered the home of the moon and
the pulque gods, and it was also related to “Cincalli, the
house where the maize god was born and from where the
fruit of the maize was brought to man” (Seler1993:271–
272). Modern observation of astronomical events seems to
confirm the relevance of the west. According to Ivan Šprajc
(2001), the orientation of Mesoamerican constructions had a
ritual and/or public significance when it corresponded to the
east-west axis, which was in turn related to the sunrise and
the sunset, and that it was associated to the positions of the
sun at the horizon. Temples were also oriented to a horizon
marked by prominent mountain peaks, for they would serve
as markers for celestial happenings (Šprajc 2001:33, 35).
Based on the measurements that Anthony Aveni and
Sharon L. Gibbs (1976:510, 512) made of its orientation,
Šprajc as well as Aveni have pointed out some of the celestial
events that could be observed from La Casa del Tepozteco
during the contact period (ca. C.E. 1550). According to
Aveni, five hundred years ago in the last half of March,
and today in the first half of April, from the entrance to the
temple but looking outwards along the axis perpendicular
to the doorway of the building in the direction 25 degrees
north of west (azimuth 295 degrees) one could observe that
in the evening, the Pleiades set exactly on the axis of the
temple and just to the west of the sunset point. This event
coincided with the beginning of the agriculture cycle (Aveni,
personal communication, January 29 and 30, 2013), which
56
suggests that for Tepoztecans, as well as for the Quichés,
this constellation symbolized seeds, and its evening setting,
the time to start planting. In the Popol Vuh, the seeds were
personified by Four Hundred Boys (Tedlock 1996:35). It is
likely that the Four Hundred pulque gods not only referred
to a ridge of mountains, but also to the Pleiades and to seeds.
Aveni (personal communication, January 29 and 30,
2013) also pointed out that on October 18, at sunrise, when
the sun was about to come up in the east, the Pleiades set
exactly along the axis of the temple. In the modern state of
Morelos, October signals the approach of harvest time and of
the Day of the Dead. In this state, it is popular belief that on
October 18, “Mictlan is opened and the souls leave to begin
their way back to their ancient homes” (Grigsby and Cook
de Leonard 1992:116).4 Perhaps the Pleiades symbolized
the souls that left Mictlan and that started their journey to
the earth, which would be completed on November 1 and 2,
as well as the death of vegetation, which preceded harvest.
By building the temple of their main god with an orientation
that coincided with the cycle of celestial bodies such as the
Pleiades, Tepoztecans very likely prepared the setting for a
rite that commemorated the dawning and the sowing of the
death and the life cycle, reenacted in the beginning and the
end of the agricultural cycle.
Conclusions
Tepoztlán is now very different from the town that
Robert Redfield and Oscar Lewis observed. However, the
veneration to Tepozteco still continues. In their murals and
performances, Tepoztecans depict Tepozteco with the icono-
graphic elements of the pre-Hispanic deity. Every year, they
take an offering to Tepoztecatl’s temple, and they start their
performance at the base of the mountain where La Casa del
Tepozteco is located.
Up to the mid-twentieth century, the continuity of the
pre-Hispanic cult to Tepozteco was probably the result of the
durability of cultural beliefs and rituals related to the agricul-
tural cycle. In rural areas of central Mexico, like Tepoztlán,
precontact agricultural cults persisted despite conquest and
colonization because agriculture continued to provide their
sustenance.
In Tepoztlán, the celebration of Tepozteco and of the
Nativity of the Virgin on September 8 and the celebration of
the archangel San Miguel (Saint Michael) on September 29
also seem to correspond to events related to the agricultural
cycle. According to Thomas L. Grigsby and Carmen
Cook de Leonard, the festivities of September 8 signal the
“initial flowering of maize” and, thus, fertilization (Grigsby
and Cook de Leonard 1992:121). These celebrations also
coincide with the highpoint of cyclonic activity in Morelos.
Margarita Vargas-Betancourt
For this reason, their purpose might also have been to
control the wind (Grigsby and Cook de Leonard 1992:127).
Tepoztecans believed that if they did not conduct an ade-
quate celebration on September 8, Tepozteco would unleash
harsh winds that would damage crops and break down trees.
In the mid-twentieth century, as the economy of
Tepoztlán shifted from agriculture to tourism, the meaning
of Tepozteco and of its festivities, changed. Inocencio
Rodrı́guez Flores, an inhabitant of Tepoztlán, complained
that by the 1970s young people only reenacted the Reto
to promote tourism (Rodrı́guez Flores 1975:16). However,
Tepozteco and its rituals acquired a new significance in
the 1990s when the corporation KS (after the last name
of the president: Kladt-Sobrino), tried to open a golf
club in Tepoztlán (Rosas 1997:15–24). The inhabitants of
Tepoztlán organized a social movement to oppose the golf
club. The Tepoztecans dissolved the municipal government
that had supported the project, and they called elections for
an autonomous municipal council. They used Tepozteco as
a symbol of their resistance. In fact, the ceremony of the
installment of the president of the autonomous municipio
(municipality) evoked the enactment of the Reto and the
staff as a symbol of power. An impersonator of Tepozteco,
attired with a feathered headdress, a shield, and a wooden
ax, administered Lázaro Rodrı́guez’s oath of office as the
elected president. The transmission of authority was com-
pleted when Tepozteco presented Lázaro with the wooden
ax, which symbolized the staff of office (Corona Caraveo
and Pérez y Zavala 1999:58–60). By referencing their con-
nection to a pre-Hispanic Mesoamerican past, Tepoztecans
succeeded in empowering and legitimating their communal
resistance to present-day political challenges.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Victoria Reifler Bricker, Anthony F.
Aveni, and Elizabeth Hill Boone for their guidance and en-
couragement during the research for my master’s thesis on
the legend of the Tepozteco. I also want to thank Marcela
Tostado Gutiérrez, Pacho Lane, and Albert Wahrhaftig for
their interest in my research. I want to especially recognize
my brother Jorge Vargas-Betancourt for going to Tepoztlán
on September 7 and 8, 2002 to film the festivities. I cannot
express how grateful I am for his effort and for the risk he
took climbing the mountain to witness the rituals described
in this chapter.
Notes
1. For further information on the Legend of Tepozteco
see Vargas-Betancourt (2004).
“The Legend of Tepozteco” and the People of Tepoztlán
2. “Esta fiesta es de un demonio q esta aqui q se llama
papaztac q era unos de quatrocientos dioses. borrachos. q
los yndios tenian de diversos nonbres. pero en comun. se
llamavan todos totochti quiere dezir conejos. y quando los
yndios tenian segado y coxidos sus mahizes se enborracha-
ban y bailavan invocando a este demonio. Y a otros destos
quatrocientos ansi de las figures q van adelante hazian lo
mismo.” [Nuttal 1903:48 verso].
3. “Esta es una figura de una gran vellaqueria q un
pueblo q se dize tepuztlan. tenia por rrito y era q quando
algun yndio moria borracho. los otros deste pueblo hazian
gran fiesta con hachas de cobre. con que cortan la leña en
las manos. este pueblo es par de Yautepeque. Vasallos del
señor marques del Valle.” [Nuttal 1903:49 verso]
4. In modern Tepoztlán, October 18 is San Lucas’ day:
San Lucas’ festivity marks the end of the growing season.
For this reason, he is associated to death. According to pop-
ular belief, on October 18 the dead start their trip to the land
of the living. The trip culminates with the Day of the Dead
[Grigsby and Cook de Leonard 1992:116.]
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Verlag.
Umberger, Emily Good
1981 Aztec Sculptures, Hieroglyphs, and History. Ph.D.
dissertation, Graduate School of Arts and Sciences,
Columbia University.
Vargas-Betancourt, Jorge and Margarita Vargas-Betancourt
2002 Festival to the Virgin of the Nativity and to
Tepozteco (Tepoztlan, September 7 and 8, 2002).
http://ufdc.ufl.edu/IR00001383/00001.
Vargas-Betancourt, Margarita
2004 Legend of El Tepozteco: Popol Vuh and
Catholic mythology. Human Mosaic 35(1):41–49.
http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00014164/00001, accessed
on November 4, 2012.
 6
Of Ancestors and Books: Perception of the Past
among Children in a Contemporary Yucatec
Maya Community
Lilia Fernández Souza
Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán

ABSTRACT
This chapter explores the preconceptions held by Yucatec children about the Maya past. The research was
developed in the secondary school of San Antonio Siho, a community located 97 kilometers from Merida, the capital
city of Yucatan, Mexico, and situated next to an archaeological site. I present and comment upon the results of
observation, interviews, and surveys about topics such as the relationship of children with Yucatec Maya language,
traditional clothing and ceremonies, the nearby archaeological site, and the pre-Hispanic Maya. Finally I discuss
how formal and informal education creates the frame for different modernities in contemporary Yucatan. [Mayas,
ancestors, children, past]

T he Mexican state of Yucatan has seen a great deal of

research focused on a number of different topics regard-
ing children (Alonzo 2006; Baños 2002; Evia 2011; Gask-
ins 2000; Lara 2011; Lara and Reyes 2012; Reyes 2011;
Villanueva 1997, 2011). The goal of this chapter is to ex-
plore how Yucatec children from a community situated near
Siho, an archaeological site of the Classic period, perceive
the Maya past. I am interested in three key topics: (1) the
perception that boys and girls might have about the Maya
past; (2) if and how they associate this past with contem-
porary Yucatan; and (3) how these opinions are acquired
from socialization at home and through formal education at
school.
Conceptualizing a Yucatec childhood is a difficult mat-
ter, as it is not possible to find something that can be de-
scribed as a standard lifestyle, at least not in a generalized
pattern of behavior or a unified conception of the self. In this
chapter, I will make reference to childhood and youth in a
rural community. Even when economic, social, and educa-
tional aspects vary in the different regions of the state, I con-
sider that rural Yucatec childhood offers marked differences
from that of the city: for example, Yucatec Maya is spoken
in many communities and agricultural and familial practices
sway backward and forward between tradition and change.
The Scenario: Multiple Modernities in
Yucatan
I agree with Ayora and Vargas (2005:19) when they
state that modernity is an inexorable process; however, it
exhibits local deviations according to social peculiarities,
making it possible to note multiple or alternative modern
aspects. Tradition does not have to be opposed to modernity
through time or praxis: while it is a result of the past, it is
also dynamic and ever changing (Ayora and Vargas 2005:19;
Baños 2002:150; Rabinow 2008). This can be seen in our
case study, as childhood and the daily life of children are
constructed both with conservative, ancestral precepts that
adapt to new circumstances and with practices and knowl-
edge coming from the globalized world.
Ayora and Vargas (2010:15) point out that there is no
singular representation of what is Yucatec, even though it

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 59–67, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12047.
60
is frequently presented as a kind of homogeneous category,
which can include or exclude European, Maya, or mestizo
components, based on context. Additionally, this general
category is comprised of groups such as “Maya,” “urban” or
“rural,” “poor,” “rich,” etc. For the purposes of this chapter,
I will use “Yucatec” as the general category and “Maya” and
“rural” as more specific categories, since the students in the
rural communities discussed here tend to live in contexts
with a relatively high incidence of Maya speakers and are
believed to have descended from Maya populations.
In the state of Yucatan, which is located in the northern-
most territories of pre-Hispanic Maya cultures, modernity
is the result of multiple social, political and economic
changes that date back to the pre-Hispanic era, and partic-
ularly to more recent processes that developed during the
Spanish Conquest and the colonial period, along with
Mexico’s independence, its revolution, and post-
revolutionary period. Productive systems such as the
henequen hacienda (plantation)—the agave monoculture
which was the most profitable Yucatec industry during
second half of 19th century and first half of the 20th
century—led to deep changes in labor relationships be-
tween Maya, Spanish descendents, and mestizo groups. As a
result of these historical developments, along with the milpa
(swidden agriculture) system crisis, the Maya social order
in rural communities experienced profound modifications
that varied according to economic circumstances within
the state’s various regions. In brief, while there are shared
cultural characteristics, there are also strong differences
between Mayas from the henequen zone, the southern and
eastern corn production areas, as well as between those
from coastal regions and the city of Mérida along with
its peripheries (Baños 1993, 2002; Lara and Reyes 2012;
Ramı́rez 2006).
Aspects that have been considered “traditional” in
reference to Yucatec Maya populations are an agricultural
subsistence strategy; clothing; the use of the Yucatec Maya
language; the solar (garden-plot) household pattern; and an-
cestral ritual practices related to agricultural and life cycles,
as well as religious ceremonies acquired from the catholic
cult, such as gremios (brotherhoods), and fiestas (celebra-
tions) dedicated to patron saints.1 Most of these features can
still be observed in Yucatan but many authors emphasize the
loss of their practice, especially in localities economically
tied to Merida by virtue of their geographic proximity
(Baños 1993, 2002; Lara and Reyes 2012; Ramı́rez 2006).
Baños (1993:433) states that, particularly in the
henequen zone, impoverished as it was after the decline of
henequen industry, most youths were no longer accustomed
to agricultural work and as a result found employment out-
side their communities of origin in economic sectors such as
Lilia Fernández Souza
construction, the service industry or commerce. Both family
organization and division of labor has also changed, since it
is now common for young women to go to work in the city
(Baños 1993:438).
Nevertheless, these changes do not occur on the same
level in every region. Authors like Lara (2011) and Evia
(2011) explore how tradition is transformed and adapted
to new circumstances. Agrarian ceremonies like the cha’a
chaak (a request for rain), life cycle ceremonies like the hetz
mek, (a gender oriented ceremony for babies), and the cele-
bration for the Dead on the first days of November are still
present in many communities of the state (Guzmán 2007;
Novelo 2012). On the other hand, some familial responsi-
bilities such as caring for younger siblings are also part of
children’s daily lives (Lara and Reyes 2012; Reyes 2011).
Language is one of the stronger aspects tied to tradition and
identity. In the case of Yucatec Maya, the number of speakers
has diminished but, even so, Yucatan is one of the Mexican
states with the greatest number of native language speak-
ers. According to the census of 2010 (INEGI 2011), Mexico
has 112,333,538 inhabitants, of which 6,913,362 inhabitants
that are at least three years old (6.15%) speak an indigenous
language. By contrast, Yucatan has 1,955,577 inhabitants,
of which 544,927 are over three years of age (27.48%) and
speak an indigenous language (Yucatec Maya).
The development of lives, worldviews, identities and
expectations of young generations is not exclusive to family
or community, as school, or the state’s educational system,
is also extremely influential.
An Approach to Formal and Non-Formal
Education
According to Robins (2003:16), the concept of educa-
tion makes reference to any learning process, both conscious
and unconscious. In general terms, it can be categorized as
(1) informal or non-formal education, transmitted in a non
specialized way, mostly by the family and immediate so-
cial group; and (2) formal education, deliberately executed
by professionals in specialized institutions (Aguirre 1990;
Robins 2003). As Aguirre (1990:12) states, education is a
process in which contrary forces coexist, some of which tend
to preserve tradition while others strive for renovation and
change.
The role of formal education in Mexico, especially as
directed toward the indigenous population, has a long his-
tory of debate. According to Korsbaek and Sámano Renterı́a
(2007:200), public education policy throughout the 19th
century regarding indigenous populations was eradication
or “blanqueado” (to turn them “white”). In the years follow-
ing the revolution, indigenism—a movement incorporating
Of Ancestors and Books
the Mexican Native population into National unity and
modernity—became the cultural and political focus. Indi-
genista intellectuals such as Andrés Molina, José Vasconce-
los, Manuel Gamio, and Alfonso Caso supported mestizaje
as the preferred method of bringing indigenous people
to modernity for the good of the Mexican nation. They
advocated uplifting native people, improving their living
conditions, and making them part of the culture of the
nation as a whole. As mentioned by Peniche (this volume),
nationalism permeated through to academia during this
period, and even into archaeology. An important critique
of the nationalist program is that it sacrifices cultural and
linguistic diversity of the numerous ethnic groups in the
name of mestizaje, whose language was expected to be
Spanish (Aguirre 1970, 1990; Ayora and Vargas 2010;
Korsbaek and Sámano Renterı́a 2007; Sámano Renterı́a
2004; Villanueva 2011).
Decades later in 1992, during President Carlos Salinas
de Gortari’s administration, senators and representatives of
the nation’s congress recognized México as a multicultural
nation and emphasized the crucial importance of indigenous
populations (Sámano Renterı́a 2004:152; Villanueva 2011).
Villanueva (2011:78) suggests that, at least in discourse and
legislation, Mexican state educational policy has made a
complete, 180-degree turn. Currently, there is a tendency
to promote cultural, linguistic and ethnic diversity. In the
particular case of Yucatan, recent state administrations have
used public service messages and slogans to promote Maya
culture, both ancient and contemporary. State education pol-
icy has also put more emphasis on bilingualism. Even so,
authors like Villanueva (2011:79) remain skeptical about
the possibility of reversing so many years of repression and
disqualification of indigenous cultures.
One example of the inclusion of local indigenous sub-
ject matter in formal education is the book Yucatán: Patri-
monio Histórico y Geográfico (Loyo et al. 2010) designed
for secondary school students. The book focuses on Yu-
catan’s natural, cultural and historical heritage and Unit 3
is dedicated to the “Maya cultural heritage” (Loyo et al.
2010:64).
Education in a multicultural context is a complicated
process. As Robins (2003) maintains, teachers face the dif-
ficulty of teaching a national curriculum containing cul-
tural assumptions that may not be shared by all students.
In Yucatan, the proportion of the population with access to
formal education has greatly increased during the last five
decades. Attending school clearly influences children’s inter-
ests, worldviews, behaviors, and interactions (Baños 2002;
Lara and Reyes 2012; Reyes 2011; Villanueva 1997; 2011),
but some authors stress the strong dissimilarities between
formal and non-formal education, and rural Yucatec fami-
61
lies make use of different means of transmitting knowledge
and practices. Lara and Reyes (2012:8), for example, em-
phasize observation, imitation, demonstration and relation
of anecdotes as the most common strategies at home, while
Evia (2011) mentions oral tradition and stories as means of
teaching values and rules.
San Antonio Siho
A number of authors have recently discussed the re-
lationship between modern Mexicans and Mexico’s arche-
ological past (Ortega 2010; see also Alonso this volume).
Villanueva (2011) focused on primary school Maya descen-
dent children from Huhı́, a Yucatec locality. She found two
concepts that the children in this community consistently
assumed and re-elaborated: (1) that pre-Hispanic or early
colonial Maya are no longer existing people; and (2) that
local contemporary populations are defined as descendents
of the ancient Maya, based on ancestral practices such as
Maya language or specific forms of dress. Something simi-
lar occurs in the community of San Antonio Siho.
San Antonio Siho (Figure 6.1) is a rural village situated
97 kilometers from Mérida and has a population of 1,566
(INEGI 2011). It is situated near an archeological site that is
also named Siho, whose main occupation was during Clas-
sic period (C.E. 600–900). In colonial times, the area was
used as an estancia, a property mostly dedicated to rais-
ing cattle, and the center of the village maintains the aban-
doned facilities of a late 19th century henequen hacienda.
The site has been archaeologically investigated in the 20th
and 21st centuries by the Universidad Autónoma de Yucatán
(UADY) and the Instituto Nacional de Antropologı́a e Histo-
ria (INAH) (Cobos et al. 2002); archaeological projects hire
San Antonio’s men and women so there is a direct interaction
between archaeologists and the community.
At San Antonio Siho, a 2005–2007 ethnoarchaeological
investigation revealed (Fernández 2008, 2010) that some
ancestral practices are still carried out, such as the hetz
mek and the burial of the umbilical cord. The hetz mek is a
labor and gender oriented ceremony in which babies receive
objects that are expected to be useful in the infant’s future
life. Traditionally, baby girls receive kitchen implements or
other “feminine” things, while baby boys receive agricultural
or hunting tools. Currently, pencils and notebooks are also
common gifts for both girls and boys, as they are expected
to go to school. The placement of the umbilical cord is also
gender oriented: a girl’s cord is deposited in the ashes of the
hearth, so she can become a good housekeeper, and that of a
boy is taken to the forest, so he will not be afraid in case he
needs to work far from the village (Fernández 2008, 2010).
62 Lilia Fernández Souza

Figure 6.1. San Antonio Sihó, the old hacienda building (photo by the author).

Figure 6.2. Celebration in honor to San Antonio (photo by the author).

Traditional clothing, especially the feminine hipil, is The prevalence of Mayan language use in the com-
still seen in the community, but is mostly worn by older munity is remarkable. According to the 2010 census (IN-
women. Young girls are usually seen wearing their school EGI 2011), 1,082 individuals, aged 3+, speak Mayan, or
uniforms, dresses, skirts, pants or shorts (Figure 6.2). 69 percent of the total population, most of whom are
Of Ancestors and Books
bilingual. This is higher than Yucatan’s overall ratio (28
percent) and much higher than the national average of 6 per-
cent. Nevertheless, teachers and other adults in the commu-
nity expressed concern about the loss of the Mayan language
amongst younger generations.
At Siho, there are three schools: kindergarten, primary
school for children approximately 6–12 years of age, and a
telesecundaria (a secondary school in which lesson content
is delivered via television) for children between the ages of
12 and 15–16.
Contemporary Children at San Antonio Siho
and the Maya Past
The research on which the present chapter is based
was carried out between May 2011 and June 2012 at
the telesecundaria named Benemerito de las Americas. It
was conducted in conjunction with a project overseen by
Dr. Ileana Lara, myself and students of the Universidad
Autonoma de Yucatan which was focused on the use of
school orchards. Information was compiled through direct
observation that was performed weekly at the school; it en-
tailed open-group discussions with the students, and three
different written surveys, with yes/no and open-ended ques-
tions. Schoolteachers kindly agreed to be part of open in-
terviews. During the academic year 2011–2012, the telese-
cundaria had about 80 students. In order to achieve the in-
vestigation’s main objectives, observations and questions
focused on the following topics: (1) ties between students
and the Yucatec Maya language; (2) knowledge and per-
ception regarding the archaeological site nearby; (3) their
insight pertaining to ancient Maya and contemporary Yu-
catec people; and (4) knowledge and associations between
students and Maya or Yucatec traditions.
During my initial visits, when I asked the children how
many of them spoke Maya, very few of them raised their
hands. But after some months, I applied an anonymous writ-
ten survey to 73 children and results were different: only two
of them (3%) reported that they did not speak or understand
the language at all, while forty percent declared they could
fully understand it and speak it. As mentioned before, teach-
ers expressed their concern about what they considered to
be a reduction in the number of Maya speakers; one of them
noted that there might be a tie between children’s loss of
the language and the death of grandmothers, some of whom
were still monolingual.
My second topic regarded the knowledge and percep-
tion of the neighboring archaeological site (Figure 6.3).
At the beginning of the investigation I developed a diag-
nostic survey that was applied to 40 children. One of the
63
questions asked if they knew who occupied the nearby site
and what its purpose was. Sixty-five percent of the stu-
dents answered that the site was occupied by “the Maya”;
ten percent said “the Ancient Maya”; thirteen percent de-
clared they did not know; five percent did not answer; and
three percent answered either that there were “men who
took care of the ruins,” “Indian people,” or “Mayas or
Spaniards.”
In reference to interaction with the archaeological site,
a survey conducted among 73 children showed that 3 per-
cent said they had never been there; 46 percent of them
asserted having been there once or twice; 40 percent an-
swered that they had visited the site many times; and only
11 percent said they visited it frequently. Another question
solicited the place they would like to visit outside of San
Antonio Siho. Interestingly, 56 percent of the children men-
tioned archaeological sites: 27 (39%) said they wanted to
go to Chichen Itza; six (9%) named Uxmal; five (7%) re-
ported that they would like to visit “ruins”; and one (1%)
reported wanting to visit Oxkintok. Clearly Chichen Itza
was the most mentioned site; this is perhaps unsurprising
since it has received a great deal of attention and promotion
from the state government and tourist enterprises in recent
years.
On my first survey, during the beginning stage of
the project, I asked 40 children about the relationship
they thought existed between the Maya and contemporary
Yucatec populations. Thirteen of them mentioned ties
through Maya language; nine stated that there was a con-
nection between ancient and modern traditions. Five said
they shared the same civilization and two said they shared
the same culture. Only one explicitly claimed direct descent:
“La relación que tenemos con los antiguos mayas es que ven-
imos de ellos, somos sus descendientes y hablamos maya”
[The relationship we have with the ancient Maya is that we
are their descendents and we speak Maya]. A similar an-
swer, though not as explicit, was: “Somos la versión nueva
de los mayas” [We are the new version of the Mayas]. A very
interesting answer addresses a sense of change: “Nosotros
éramos mayas pero como hubo una lucha entre los españoles
casi todos usan la lengua española” [We used to be Mayas
but since there was a fight with Spaniards nowadays almost
everybody speaks Spanish]. In this last case, it is clear that
the student gave preeminence to language as a sign of iden-
tity. On the other hand, seven children (18%) claimed not to
know or did not answer.
In the same survey, I asked what they would like to
know about the Yucatec past. Answers were generally about
the ancient Maya; they wanted to know what they did and
how they lived. Some answers were particularly interesting:
seven children asked “Why the Maya disappeared?” and one
64
Figure 6.3. Two structures of the archaeological site (photo by the author).
asked if the Maya had had communication with aliens from
other planets.
Students wear traditional clothes on special occasions.
The school has a folk dancing group that has won prizes
in festivals held in Mérida. Their dance teacher trains them
to dance the traditional Yucatec jarana, and folk music and
dance from other Mexican states such as Jalisco or Tamauli-
pas. All of the clothing is made in San Antonio. In some fes-
tivals, they re-create what they consider to be pre-Hispanic
dresses.
One of the surveys inquired about traditions with which
the students were familiar. No doubt the most frequently
mentioned practice was hanal pixan, “meal for the souls,”
performed on the Day of the Dead (November 1st and 2nd).
This celebration, ubiquitous throughout Yucatan, includes
preparation of special food, visits to the cemetery and plac-
ing household altars dedicated to the deceased. At Siho,
children are exposed to and play roles pertinent to this prac-
tice both at home and at school. At the secondary school
they also prepare traditional mucbilpollos (a special kind
of big tamale cooked in a ground oven), while parents and
teachers guide them through it.
Other practices the children mentioned, although not as
frequently, included the matan cool and the hetz mek; the
first of these is a ceremony preformed in the agricultural
fields, while the second is performed at home. They also
mentioned gremios and vaquerı́as, cerebrations dedicated
to patron saints.
Lilia Fernández Souza
Among the supernatural entities that the children men-
tioned in open-group discussions and written surveys, there
were aluxes, a kind of imp that it is believed to live in the
forest and the ruins and takes care of milpas. Interestingly,
another supernatural entity that was mentioned in an infor-
mal group talk was the Santa Muerte, a being represented
as a dressed skeleton. The Santa Muerte is not of frequent
presence in Yucatan. In some parts of Mexico it has been
associated with drug dealers, but this is not the case at Siho.
The mention was not in the sense of a cult, but that some
people had seen the Santa Muerte stalking the village.
Children are also part of a global youth culture. When
asking them about their favorite actors, singers or ath-
letes, they mentioned international singers or groups (e.g.,
Eminem, Selena Gómez or Justin Bieber; Mexican singers
like Luis Miguel, or Paulina Rubio), football players (e.g.,
Lionel Messi), and Mexican soap opera actors. One of the
students composed a hip hop song, uploaded it to You Tube,
and recently mentioned that he kept in touch, via the inter-
net, with one Mexican and one South American boy, who
wished to collaborate with him musically.
Discussion and Concluding Remarks
The children of telesecundaria Benemerito de las Amer-
icas are immersed in a world of complex modernity. They
have been born and raised in a rural community which
is a place of ancestral practices resulting from Maya and
Of Ancestors and Books
Spanish syncretism. Children play roles in celebrations to
the patron saints, prepare and enjoy mucbilpollos dedicated
to the deceased, support the Barcelona soccer team, dance
jaranas, watch TV soap operas, listen to Justin Bieber’s mu-
sic, eat panuchos and handmade tortillas, while also loving
pizza. Some of them have been part of traditional practices
such as the hetz mek and take pictures of such events with
their cell phones. Most of them are Catholic and also speak
about aluxes and astronomers’ black holes. Their percep-
tions about the ancient Maya and their relationship with
what is considered to be Maya are the result of interactions
with their family and community (informal education), their
schools (formal education), and from other media sources
such as movies and television.
Many of the results obtained at Siho are similar to
Villanueva’s (2011) study at Huhı́. At Siho, Yucatec Maya
language is considered a key criterion to identify what is
Maya or as something that connects the pre-Hispanic Maya
to modern Yucatecans. A common “civilization” or “cul-
ture” between ancient Maya and modern Yucatecans was
mentioned by seven of 40 students (18%). It is worth not-
ing that these terms are part of their school curriculum, are
mentioned in textbooks and they are also frequently used in
state sponsored and private print advertisements and maga-
zines, television and radio spots, or touristic slogans about
the Maya. On the other hand, the spectrum of information
that Siho’s children have access to include much local infor-
mation, acquired in the community. Students also mentioned
Maya ceremonies like the hetz mek and the matan cool, pre-
sumably early in origin: 34 of 73 students (47%) claimed to
have attended a hetz mek at least once. Celebrations to the
patron saints appear to be more common components in a
child’s perception of tradition, but this needs further study. It
is important to say that some of the local ceremonies, such as
hanal pixan, are reinforced at school, as they prepare muc-
bilpollos in a pit oven with their teachers during the days
dedicated to the deceased.
The answers relayed to Villanueva’s (2011) question
“Do the Maya still exist?” let her conclude that, in Huhı́,
children affirm that they do. At Siho, relatively few children
(seven) made reference to the disappearance of the Maya,
at least explicitly. On the other hand, there are some clear
references to certain perceptions of continuity, in answers
like “we are their descendants,” “we are the new version of
the Maya,” or the idea that we share culture and language.
The phrase “We used to be Maya” deserves particular men-
tion in reference to the Spaniards conquest and the modern
use of Spanish as the common language, stressing again the
relevance of language as a criterion of identity.
According to Villanueva (2011:89), Huhı́’s children re-
formulate oral tradition and ancestral practices; however,
65
these have been affected by educational policies that have
continually changed, especially during the 20th and 21st
centuries. During part of 20th century there was a tendency
to promote a strong national culture in detriment to local
indigenous cultures, whereas contemporary education em-
phasizes the value of regional culture and traditions. I think
a similar situation can be seen in Siho.
In sum, at Siho there does not seem to be just one mono-
lithic perception of the pre-Hispanic Maya or their ties to the
modern Yucatec. The interviews elicited both affirmations
of Maya descent and questions about their alleged disap-
pearance. It was more common to conceive the Yucatec past
and present by keeping, discarding and re-formulating tra-
dition in a fast-changing national and global framework. It
is very hard to say whether these children will continue to
perform ancestral ceremonies, if the number of Maya speak-
ers will be more prevalent, or if the students will develop
greater interest in archeological research within their own
community. While this investigation is still underway, it is
clear that we have a fascinating subject matter to pursue in
the coming years, not only in this particular community, but
in the different regions that comprise the modern state of
Yucatan.
Acknowledgments
Sincere thanks to Dr. Genny Negroe, Dr. Ileana Lara,
Dr. Alfredo Dájer, Dr. Raúl Godoy, M. C. Roberto Bustillos,
Psic. Mariel Domı́nguez, Antrop. Amı́lcar Cobá, M.C.
Carlos Evia, and all Mexican and foreign students and
volunteers that so generously have contributed to the project
at Siho: Gabriel González, Mashelli Contreras, Laura Valle,
Luis Ernesto Chiesa, Marı́a Jesús Novelo, Daniel Herklotz,
Ali Ramı́rez, and Jorge Fernández Mendiburu. Thanks also
to Dr. Guadalupe Reyes and M.C. Cecilia Lara for their
bibliographic help and to Alexandra Navarro and Sidney
Hollander for their priceless support in revision of the
manuscript. Special thanks to the teachers of Telesecundaria
Benemerito de las Americas: Principal Santiago Cobá, José
Antonio Rosado, Miriam Vázquez and Raymundo Centeno.
And, particularly, to all girls and boys of the school at Sihó
for their time, generosity, and inspiration.
Note
1. The fiesta patronal is a sacred and ludic way to
celebrate the patron saints in Yucatán; vaquerı́as are tra-
ditional dances frequently performed in the fiestas, and
gremios are some of the communal groups that organize
fiestas (Fernández Repetto 1995:54–56)
66
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 7
Sun, Sand, and . . . Sacred Pyramids: The
Mayanization of Cancun’s Tourist Imaginary
Carmen Muñoz-Fernández
Phillips Academy

ABSTRACT
From its construction in the early 1970s, Cancun has gone through a rapid demographic change accompanied
by a transformation in the tourism industry, from having 117 inhabitants in 1969 to over 734,000 in 2014, being
visited by more than 3.3 million tourists per year. As a result, Cancun has had to offer up something other than its
original Caribbean advertising of “sun, sand, and sex,” now it is offering its Maya heritage. This paper analyzes the
origin, development, and evolution of the “Mayanization” of Cancun—the use of Maya imagery and iconography in
advertisements, architecture and souvenirs—and the promotion of a “Maya imaginary” through the laborers who
fuel the tourism industry, turning cultural, archaeological, and historical patrimony into a commodity. [Cancun,
Maya, tourism industry, Mayanization, archaeology]

Cancun is a place like no other. White sandy
beaches. Clear turquoise waters. Small hotels and expan-
sive resorts. Fine dining and festive entertainment. The
wonders of nature and the marvels of the Mayan civiliza-
tion. Add some of the world’s most exquisite snorkeling
and diving, a full range of water sports and championship
golf, and you have a location that will delight your group.
Welcome to Cancun. [www.cancun.info, Cancun’s offi-
cial page]
Caribbean tourism and a Mecca for so-called “Spring Break-
ers.” However, in the past two decades, the tourism industry
in Cancun and the Yucatan Peninsula has changed signifi-
cantly. Tourists are no longer interested only in the “Three-
Ss”—sun, sand, and sex—they also seek cultural encounters.
Cancun has had to offer a new commodity: Maya heritage.
Cancun has received social criticism along two main
fronts stemming from both its creation as a generator for
foreign currency that lacks “local” roots and its reputation

C ancun, situated in the northeastern tip of the Yucatan

Peninsula, is one of the few places in the world created
exclusively for a specific public: foreign tourists. Its forma-
tion in the early 1970s was strategically planned to attract
foreign currency to help Mexico’s unstable economy. The
city has gone from having just 117 inhabitants in 1969 to
over 734,000 in 2014 and is visited by 5.2 million tourists
per year, generating more than 5 billion dollars annually
(SEDETUR 2014). The heart of Cancun’s tourist infras-
tructure has always been fueled largely by Maya laborers
from different communities in Yucatan and Quintana Roo
who are attracted to the job opportunities the city has to
offer. Cancun has become one of the main destinations for
as a liminal place, where social rules are relaxed and the
mixing of cultures, races, religious traditions, moral val-
ues, and lifestyles takes place within a cross-cultural con-
text. Among the most reiterative criticisms, not only by
scholars, but also by much of the population in Quintana
Roo, is that Cancun represents mimicry, a simulacrum, or
a kind of artificial reproduction (Daltabuit and Pi-Sunyer
1990; Taylor 1996:178, 217; Torres and Momsen 2005,
2006). In particular, a common criticism is that Cancun
“doesn’t seem Mexican” (Bartlett 1998; de Fuentes 1979,
Martı́ 1996, Torres and Momsen 2005, 2006). Upon arrival,
the traveler familiar with the rest of Mexico discovers a
city marked by a dissonance of architectural styles (Maya,

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 68–73, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12048.
Sun, Sand, and . . . Sacred Pyramids
Colonial, Western, Asian, rural, and urban). In this city
there are hotels shaped like Maya pyramids inscribed with
pseudo-hieroglyphics next to restaurants built as palapas, or
thatched-roof structures commonly used in Maya commu-
nities in the Yucatan Peninsula since Pre-Hispanic times.
These architectural references to Yucatecan culture are
juxtaposed with cement skyscrapers and fast food fran-
chises, like McDonald’s, located right next door in what
historian Fernando Martı́ (1996:15) refers to as “an aes-
thetic chaos.” To this architectural tutti-frutti is added the
palimpsestic layers of a multiethnic population, a sort of
cultural cocktail where one finds Yucatec Maya speak-
ers, indigenous Tzotzil from Chiapas, “ladinos,” or white
Yucatecans, Mexicans from other regions of the country,
American and European ex-patriots that permanently re-
side in the port, and tourists that visit Cancun from all
over the world. In this sense, Cancun has been compared
to Brasilia (Martı́ 1996); Acapulco (Martı́ 1985, 1996);
Cuba (Mugerauer 2004); Montego Bay, Jamaica, Puket, and
Thailand (Maerk and Muller 2000), among other cultural
crossroads.
The most common comparison of Cancun, however,
has always been with the United States, an analogy that
has its roots in the city’s original conceptualization. The
Bank of Mexico, the original creator of Cancun, sought
an ideal location for the promotion of mass tourism and
needed a place that would attract a specifically American
clientele and market. Thirty years after its construction, the-
orists have analyzed Cancun’s similarity to the U.S., includ-
ing Johannes Maerk and Ian Boxill (2000:79) and Maerk
and Muller (2000:181), who describe what they call the
“McDonaldization” of Cancun. According to Maerk and
Muller (2000), modern tourism has motivated the prolifer-
ation of similar environments at tourist centers across the
world, environments that appear practically interchangeable
and that all share a western feel, making certain kinds of
travelers “feel at home.” Rebecca Torres and Janet Mom-
sen (2005, 2006) provide a somewhat similar perspective,
referring to Cancun as “Gringolandia,” or a transnational
space of conversion that most closely reflects the character
of the United States, the country they argue was the most
significant transnational force investing in the development
of the tourist center. I believe that these characterizations
of Cancun as either a McDonalization or Gringolandia have
limitations and do not accurately describe the phenomenon
because they are too centered on the effects of external,
American influence on the city. A better term might be Can-
cunlandia (literally the “land of Cancun”), a term that sug-
gests an autochthonous Mexican phenomenon developed
from within the border state of Quintana Roo. Cancun is
not influenced socially and culturally solely by the United
69
States. Its touristic, economic, and migratory flows come
from all over the world. There is significant European (par-
ticularly Spanish) and Japanese investment in the city, along
with that coming in steadily from other parts of Mexico. The
term “Gringolandia” focuses on one aspect of this process—
the fact that most of the tourists that arrive on spring
break are from the U.S.—but this overlooks the fact that
Cancun was carefully planned by a Mexican organization,
built by Mexican workers, and funded through Mexican in-
vestment. Studies carried out by SECTUR (Mexico’s Secre-
tary of Tourism) confirm that in the 1970s, 90 percent of the
investment in Cancun hotels came from domestic sources
(Clancy 2001:140) In 2005, 86.7% of hotel owners in Can-
cun were Mexican, 3.3% Spanish, 1.7% Japanese, and 1.7%
Dominicans, with 5% a combination of different nationali-
ties (Torres and Momsen 2005:324).
Cancun is its own peculiar place. Rather like a theme
park, it could be considered a themed city in the sense that in
order to attract tourism, it promotes two different, but con-
verging narratives: Caribbean location and Maya heritage.
Cancunlandia requires a cohesive theme that supplies an at-
tractive cultural, historical, and exotic element, and Maya
heritage and cultural patrimony serve this purpose. The city
is plastered with Maya symbolic motifs, ranging from the
names of hotels (like Hotel Casa Maya, Maya Caribe, Aku-
mal Beach Resort, Barceló Maya Palace, Casa Ixchel, Casa
Ticul); restaurants (Restaurante Labná); waitresses dressed
in huipiles (the traditional female Maya dress); Yucatec
Maya foods, such as poc chuc and cochinita pibil; and names
of streets such as Playa Chac Mool or Playa Nizuc. Para-
doxically, the actual presence of a significant indigenous
Maya population in Cancun has fallen into what MacCan-
nell (1999:94) refers to as “the back region,” or the hidden
spaces that the tourist is not permitted to see.
Following the same pattern of Yucatan’s colonial his-
tory during which Mayan-speaking people built churches,
cathedrals, and palaces for the main cities of the Penin-
sula, Cancun was also constructed by Maya laborers. By
the second week of the construction of Cancun, there were
already 80 indigenous Mayan-speaking people working on
the project. Most of them were chicleros (collectors of chicle
used to produce rubber or gum), and only three spoke Span-
ish (Martı́ 1985:75; Walker 2005). Maya workers served as
cheap labor that propelled the rapid transformation of Can-
cun from a small, coastal fishing village to the port city
that it is today. By 1973, there were more than 6,000 Maya
workers living in the camp created for laborers that would
eventually become Cancun city (Martı́ 1985:51).
By the end of the 1970s, the labor force of Cancun went
through a significant transformation. Once the massive con-
struction of hotels and basic infrastructure was complete,
70
demand for non-specialized labor dropped, replaced by a
need for employees in the service and administration sectors
(Bosselman 1978; Torres Maldonado 2000). Many indige-
nous migrants returned to their towns of origin, replaced
by employees from other parts of Mexico who successfully
competed for better jobs (Bosselman 1978; Frueh 1986.
By 1985, 750,000 tourists were arriving at 48 hotels in the
beach hotel zone, while 35,000 workers lived in the nearby
provisional community (Castellanos 2003:184). Indigenous
laborers have continued participating in temporary work
projects constructing Cancun’s infrastructure and still form
the labor base for the city’s development.
Most of the migrant workers originally came from
the states of Quintana Roo, Yucatan, Campeche, Chiapas,
and Oaxaca with fewer coming from Guatemala (Taylor
1996:76). Temporary work may last a day, a week, or a few
months and is considered by these workers as remuneration
to supplement milpa agriculture in their towns of origin—a
traditional Mesoamerican subsistence farming practice that
often structures the timing and extent of labor migration
(Taylor 1996:76). These migrations are generally made by
men, while wives and children stay behind tending to the
house and milpa. More permanent work in Cancun is mainly
carried out by a younger generation of Maya workers of
both sexes. They speak Yucatec Maya and Spanish (and
increasingly English). They also have a higher degree of
specialization and a desire to leave the agricultural con-
text in which they grew up (Maerk and Boxill 2000:77).
Thus, the sociocultural spectrum of the Maya population in
Cancun includes, on the one hand, traditional Maya agri-
culturalists, whose roots are deeply embedded in interior
towns and new generations that are moving further away
from these (pen)insular traditions, participating in central
Mexican and global cultural networks, customs and tastes.
As Alicia Re Cruz (1996a, 1996b, 2003, 2006) points out,
traditional Maya migrants tend to treat Cancun as if it were
a milpa, literally translating both the knowledge and process
of milpa into this new urban context. Cancun is often re-
ferred to as a kind of milperio—an extension of land with a
high concentration of milpas—referring to a kind of produc-
tive labor system that serves as the primary subsistence base
for the Maya (Re Cruz 2003:497). Maya migrants who de-
cide to settle out in Cancun to provide a more economically
lucrative life for their families face a decision that causes
them to re-interpret both their local and urban identities.
They are now responsible for two different types of milpas:
their agricultural milpa near home villages, and Cancun,
their urban milpa. These people live two realities simultane-
ously: on the one hand their inland community that expects
them to maintain traditional roots, come back to farm the
land periodically, and maintain the Yucatec Maya language;
Carmen Muñoz-Fernández
and on the other hand, the globalized lifestyle of the coastal
tourist center that is replete with foreign customs, intercul-
tural interaction, and the cash economy. In this environment
it is expected that they speak either Spanish or English, but
not Yucatec Maya. Their children experience the contrast
and tension between the traditional and transpositional in an
even more powerful way, as they seek to be included in this
new urban, technological, and globalized world, shedding
the traditional cosmology of their parents’ generation.
Through the commercialization of Cancun, Maya her-
itage is transformed from a legacy of land and labor into a
manufactured tourist commodity, designed to attract foreign
capital. Today Cancun’s commercialization requires some-
thing beyond the previous sun, sand, and sex; it demands
what Valene Smith calls the “four H’s” of indigenous cultural
tourism: habitat, history, handicrafts, and heritage (Smith
1996:287–300; Walker 2005:64). This demand affects Yu-
catecans all along the social spectrum previously described.
The same bi- or trilingual Maya speaker that travels every
day from her house to the hotel zone to work selling hand-
icrafts or working in one of the many luxury hotels, leaves
behind her iPhone and jeans de moda (fashionable jeans) for
a huipil in order to look more Maya. Exterior Maya heritage
in a mass tourism context is identified by two aspects: lan-
guage, and the huipil, the traditional Maya dress (for similar
cultural markers see also Fernández Souza, this volume).
Re Cruz (2003:498) argues that in the village context, some
Yucatec Maya identify with each other by means of both a
shared language and physical appearance; however, in the
Cancun tourist market, Mayas are only identified by their
clothing. Moreover, many of the people involved in the per-
formance of Maya heritage in Cancun are not Maya people
themselves, or even necessarily from the Maya region of
Mesoamerica.
Another example that may, at first, appear contradic-
tory is the widely reported incident of discrimination against
Rigoberta Menchú Tum, the 1992 Nobel Peace Prize win-
ner and Guatemalan indigenous rights activist, at the Fiesta
Americana Coral Beach Resort in Cancun’s hotel zone. In
2007, the then Guatemalan presidential candidate was in-
vited by President Felipe Calderón of Mexico to participate
in the annual meeting of the National Association of Potable
Water and Sanitation. It was reported that while wearing
the colorful embroidery of traditional Quiché Maya dress,
she was asked to leave by hotel security who mistook her
for an itinerate handicraft vendor entering a restricted area
(Pérez 2007). While there is significant controversy about
whether this incident actually occurred, within this narrative
direct association is made between a material expression
of Maya identity (traditional dress) and the act of selling
commodities to non-Maya people. Within the Cancunlandia
Sun, Sand, and . . . Sacred Pyramids
construct, the commodification and performance of Maya
heritage is controlled. It is restricted to particular times and
settings rather than emerging organically out of centuries-
old cultural roots, as one might observe in Mérida, Yucatán
or highland Chiapas and Guatemala. This is not to say that
the young city of Cancun does not have a Maya histori-
cal legacy—it does—but this legacy of coastal adaptation,
fishing, migration, and labor, is intentionally and system-
atically concealed in favor of the performance of different
Mayanized narratives of exotic Amerindians, sacred pyra-
mids, and tropical forest that provide a kind of local patri-
mony that better serves the larger economic enterprise.
This commercialized image of Maya culture—that of a
rich ancient history that includes impressive monumental ar-
chitecture, astronomy, written language, literary and artistic
production, as well as enlightened spiritualism (Castañeda
1996)—is crucial for the “exotic” narrative of Cancun and
its perceived cultural base. In the tourist zone the perception
is that Maya people of the 21st century must have nearly the
same characteristics as the “noble savage”: humble, hard-
working, and Other vis-à-vis Euro-America. There is a dis-
tant kind of contact, or engagement here. The irony is that
not only the tourists, but also the hotel owners, FONATUR,
the Bank of Mexico, and those involved in the mainte-
nance of Cancun’s economy often fail to recognize that the
contemporary Maya do not always self-identify with the
Pre-Hispanic Maya, the pyramid builders (Castañeda 2004;
Fernández Souza, this volume; Hervik 2003; Magnoni et
al. 2007:356; Sullivan 2000). Magnoni, Ardren and Hutson
(2007:359) point out that “Yucatec Maya people generally
do not consider themselves the descendants of the builders
of the ruins . . . they do not see themselves as survivors of a
lost civilization, but rather as modern people in a modern
nation.” The Maya agriculturalist that makes milpa today,
and the hotel zone worker required to wear traditional Maya
clothing at work, also wear Levi’s, listen to iPods, check
their e-mail on a tablet, and communicate by texting—but
this Cancun Maya legacy is not recognized within the Can-
cunlandia imaginary. In this context, cultural traditions are
commodities that are selectively displayed, a kind of cultural
currency within a capitalist system that is used to transform
people into “legitimate” living culture-bearers in support of
a particular narrative.
The selective promotion of certain customs as “Maya”
in Cancun could be compared to other forms of exoticism,
such as the role of Afro-Caribbean culture in the tropical-
ization of the island Caribbean. In an analysis of the com-
mercialization of tropicalism in the city of Miami, Juan
León argues that the tropics have been “orientalized” (us-
ing Edward Said’s term), or more specifically “tropicalized”
(León 1997:213; Said 1978). In tourist publicity for islands
71
like Cuba and the Dominican Republic, one finds images of
Afro-Caribbean women and men with voluptuous bodies,
wearing local clothing, playing music, and eating tropical
food.
Along the Mexican Caribbean, images of indigenous
pre-Hispanic and colonial symbols are intertwined with
the other principal theme of the Maya Riviera, that of a
Caribbean tropical enclave. In Quintana Roo in general and
Cancun in particular, there is little trace of a representative
Afro-Caribbean community, and thus the exoticized image
of a local “Other” consists of the Maya and their ancient ru-
ins. In the case of Cancun, however, tropicalization (Apari-
cio and Chávez-Silverman 1997) is not imposed by the First
World, but by power brokers within the subaltern (Spivak
1988) world itself. The imposition comes from the hege-
monic position of the Mexican government, the Bank of
Mexico, and elite investors in the city vis-à-vis that of the
Maya worker, who must conform to a particular representa-
tion of his/her cultural knowledge and customs.
As the tourist market has evolved along the Mexican
Caribbean, Cancun has come to require something more
than just a Caribbean location, white beaches, and a sexu-
ally charged tropical vibe. It needs an exotic native culture
through whose enactment, or performance, these other ele-
ments within the paradisiacal imaginary are activated. Just as
before, but in new and changing ways, Cancun benefits from
a Maya cultural legacy, and as the city and its touristic imag-
inary continue to grow and evolve over generations, it will
be interesting to document how the emergence of an organic
local patrimony and urban identity collides and/or merges
with the commodified Maya heritage promoted throughout
the Maya Riviera.
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Magnoni, Aline, Traci Ardren, and Scout Hutson
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Martı́, Fernando
1985 Cancún, fantası́a de banqueros: la construcción de
una ciudad turı́stica a partir de cero: una narración
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Mugerauer, Robert
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SEDETUR tiva. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de

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Indicadores%20Turisticos%20-%20Enero% 2005 Gringolandia: The Construction of a New Tourist
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Grossberg, eds. Pp. 271–316. Urbana: University y el porqué Quintana Roo, un infierno tropical
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 8
Configuring and Commoditizing the
Archaeological Landscape: Heritage, Identity,
and Tourism in the Tuxtla Mountains
Marcie Venter
University of Kentucky
and
Sarah Lyon
University of Kentucky

ABSTRACT
This paper explores how the burgeoning tourism economy in the western Tuxtla Mountains is shaping the
perception and presentation of archaeological heritage. We compare the divergent motives and representations of
three groups: professional archaeologists, municipalities, and private entrepreneurs. A struggling local economy
has contributed to inhabitants of the region increasingly perceiving the past as a potential economic stimulus.
Narratives of the past, however, are unregulated and diverse, and the translocal politics of heritage management
can have unintended by-products, including conflicts between externally represented cultural values and locally
imagined meanings and identities. The impact of this representational divergence on community and governmental
support for the protection of cultural patrimony and heritage education is uncertain. [archaeology, tourism, Tuxtla
Mountains, alternative livelihood strategies]

T he Nanciyaga Ecological Resort, located in the Tuxtla

Mountains of Veracruz, bills itself as an eco-tourism
resort at the juncture of the “northernmost tropical jun-
gle on the planet” and “the fresh mineral spring waters of
Lake Catemaco.” Nanciyaga caters to groups of middle class
Mexican mestizo tourists from nearby urban centers, such
as Veracruz, who pay at least US$120 a night to sleep in
primitive cabins that lack plumbing and electricity, and en-
joy “pre-Hispanic rituals” such as mud facials and temazcal
(indigenous sweat bath) saunas. A highlight of the touristic
experience is a guided walking tour of the resort’s property,
which features a “pre-Hispanic theater” and a re-creation of
the region’s archaeological heritage through the display of
replicas by commissioned local artisans.1
The success of Nanciyaga hinges on this mixture of eco-
tourism and spirituality, both of which are framed through
a celebration of the region’s pre-Hispanic past. As such,
it is a central component of the region’s cultural tourism
landscape. The U.N. World Tourism Organization estimates
that between 35 and 40 percent of tourism today is cultural
or heritage tourism (UNWTO 2009). As an alternative to
mass tourism, cultural and heritage tourism offer opportuni-
ties for place-based engagement with the “lived space” and
“everyday life” (Lefebvre 1974), past and present, of other
peoples (Lyon and Wells 2012:7). However, the politics of
heritage management and promotion often have unintended
byproducts, including conflicts between externally repre-
sented cultural values and locally imagined meanings and

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 74–82, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12049.
Configuring and Commoditizing the Archaeological Landscape
identity. In the Tuxtlas, the increase in regulated and unregu-
lated federal, community, and individual tourist destinations
incorporating or recreating cultural heritage is resulting in
a proliferation of diverse, and often conflicting, representa-
tions of the past.
The interplay between the archaeological past and
contemporary identity construction has received little
attention in anthropological and archaeological studies
of the southern Mexican Gulf lowlands (i.e., the Olmec
heartland). Most scholars who explore these themes in
the region focus on either the archaeological past or the
challenges facing contemporary communities, many of
which are increasingly linked to transnational migration
and economic policies. While archaeologists and anthropol-
ogists working in the Tuxtlas acknowledge that the social,
political, and economic processes of the past, especially
those transformed during the colonial era, directly influence
present-day reality, none have explicitly explored the
complex and often contradictory ways in which the region’s
current residents understand and represent these processes.
This chapter explores how the burgeoning tourism econ-
omy in the Tuxtla Mountains of the southern Gulf lowlands
is shaping the conveyance of archaeological heritage. Unlike
many other studies which have explored the complexity re-
sulting from cultural heritage and tourism development (see
for example Muñoz-Fernández, this volume), the present
case is unique in that Tuxtlas tourism is primarily domes-
tic. In other words, the region’s pre-Hispanic culture is on
display for present day inhabitants rather than foreigners
in search of “authenticity” and as such the archaeological
displays embody local traditions and meanings.
We present three specific examples in order to illustrate
the contested understandings and representations of the re-
gion’s archaeological past in the local tourism economy.
First, we explore the representations of pre-Hispanic iden-
tity found at the Nanciyaga eco-tourism resort located on
the shores of Lake Catemaco. We next contrast the messag-
ing of the past found at the INAH-managed Museo Tuxtleco
in Santiago Tuxtla and the community-run Museo Regional
de San Andrés Tuxtla in which the boundaries between the
region’s pre-Hispanic, colonial and recent past are blurred.
Finally, we briefly discuss the recent (July 2012) discovery
of pre-Hispanic ruins underneath a street in the heart of
Catemaco. Discussions with Catemaco residents and the ar-
chaeologists excavating the site revealed distinct fault lines
separating the preservationist goals of INAH and the eco-
nomic development priorities of a tourism-based economy.
It is uncertain what impact this representational diver-
gence has on ongoing community and governmental support
for the protection of cultural patrimony, heritage education,
and other related factors. However, we believe the issue is
75
worthy of further exploration. Tourism is a tool for economic
development and consequently competition for control over
both tangible and intangible heritage is fierce within and
among communities (Chambers 2000). Tourism becomes
synonymous with representation because a certain image
must be created and marketed—in some cases this image is
strong enough to change the community’s perception of it-
self, and therefore those in charge of that representation may
have greater power than it may seem initially. While many
investigations in Mexico conducted by anthropologists and
social scientists from related disciplines demonstrate the
negative impacts of tourism (Brenner 2005; Gullette 2007;
Torres and Momsen 2005 Wilson 2008), we maintain that
the present case is more complex in that tourism related
development is also coinciding with a heightened local ap-
preciation for the region’s heritage.
Background on Tourism in Mexico
and the Tuxtlas
Tourism is perhaps the largest scale movement of goods,
services, and people that humanity has ever seen and as a
result is a significant catalyst of economic development and
sociopolitical change (Stronza 2001). Building on the work
of Babb (2010), we conceptualize tourism as a set of cul-
tural practices under constant negotiation that may illumi-
nate broader social and historical processes. Since the 1970s,
Mexico has gradually become one of the most popular des-
tinations in the world and tourism is a significant component
of its economy (Clancy 2001). The Mexican government is
extremely international tourism-conscious: since the 1960s
it has made large investments in the development of vast
coastal resorts and more recently in the development of
cultural tourism in colonial cities and archaeological sites
(Berger 2006, Brenner and Aguilar 2002).
Despite its focus on international tourism, the Mexican
Ministry of Tourism acknowledges that domestic tourism is
a very important component of the economy and estimates
that in 2001 it represented nearly 84 percent of total tourism
consumption (SECTUR 2003). This reflects a broader trend
in lower income countries where domestic tourists, or any
person residing in a country who travels to a place within
the same country, are estimated to outnumber international
tourists one thousand to one (Gladstone 2005). Tourism des-
tinations in developing nations generally fall into two broad
categories: a relatively small group of sites featuring large
numbers of international-class hotels and well-developed in-
frastructures and a much larger group of destinations where
small, labor-intensive, locally owned and managed enter-
prises cater to budget and domestic travelers (Gladstone
76
2005). Most tourism in the Tuxtla Mountains falls into the
latter group, even though there is some localized federal
infrastructure in the form of INAH-regulated and run re-
gional and archaeological site museums. The smaller scale
of Tuxtleco tourism makes the region a more affordable des-
tination than many popular Mexican seaside resorts. Despite
efforts to attract foreign tourists, the majority of visitors to
the Tuxtla region hail from other parts of Mexico.
The Tuxtla Mountains are located in the southern Gulf
lowlands of Veracruz. The climate is hot and humid for most
of the year with a rainy season that begins in June. The Tuxt-
las are a volcanic massif dominated by two principal vol-
canoes. The terrain between these two peaks is dotted by a
series of smaller cinder cones, volcanic hills, rivers, streams,
waterfalls, and lakes. Lake Catemaco lies in the central Tuxt-
las. While the majority of land around the largest population
centers is privately owned, the region includes Los Tuxt-
las Biosphere Reserve, which was established by the federal
government in 1998 (Guevara S. et al. 2004). Attempts to de-
velop local tourism opportunities incorporating the region’s
pre-Hispanic heritage are partly related to the designation
of many areas of the region as protected forestlands. This
shift has made traditional land tenure practices like cattle
ranching nonviable options for economic livelihood. Other
contributing factors include the privatization of communal
lands throughout Mexico and increasing numbers of archae-
ological studies conducted in the region that have raised the
profile of the pre-Hispanic resource potential. These projects
(both foreign and domestic) have also increased the number
of artifacts available for display in federally and community
funded archaeological museums.
An estimated 500,000 tourists visit the Tuxtlas region
annually (including day trippers), 98 percent of whom are
Mexican citizens from cities like Coatzacoalcos, Veracruz
or Mexico City. The Mexican Ministry of Tourism identi-
fies the Tuxtlas as an area with growth potential, especially
for attracting domestic tourists interested in eco and ad-
venture tourism (Parks Watch 2004). Despite its apparent
strength, research indicates that the tourism market has de-
clined in the past decade due to the construction of a bypass
highway between Veracruz and Coatzacoalcos. In addition,
while there are a number of diverse tourism attractions,
the region lacks a cohesive regional tourism identity and
infrastructure.
The primary tourist activity in Catemaco is boat tours of
the lake featuring a visit to the Monkey Island inhabited by
a captive population of stump-tailed macaques cared for by
the University of Veracruz (Serio-Silva 2006). In addition,
Catemaco and the surrounding region offer “eco-tourism”
opportunities including bird watching in the biosphere
and visits to the popular Nanciyaga Resort; and religious
Marcie Venter and Sarah Lyon
tourism, in the form of pilgrimages to honor La Virgen del
Carmen and visits to the many local witches (the town is
best known throughout Mexico for its annual International
Witch Congress held every March). In Catemaco, tourism
is increasingly incorporating both natural and cultural
resources in hybrid eco-archaeological tourism. The
tourism entrepreneurs are sometimes private landowners
who happen to own property containing archaeological
sites, but some small communities are beginning to take an
interest in sustainable natural and cultural tourism.
One of the themes that best unites the region is its pre-
Hispanic heritage, which is on display in its museums, zoca-
los (public squares), and city sidewalks. This archaeological
infrastructure is concentrated in the town and municipality
of Santiago Tuxtla. San Andrés Tuxtla recently opened its
own museum, but it is not federally run and has narrow win-
dows of operation. There is no museum in Catemaco, despite
its several archaeological sites. Until the summer of 2012,
monuments from the Catemaco region sat unprotected on
the curb in front of the municipal offices. Now these monu-
ments sit on pedestals under the roof. Some communities and
landowners around the lakeshore are beginning to integrate
archaeological tourism with eco and adventure tourism, but
in Catemaco, the region’s and nation’s past receives the most
attention by way of the eco-resort Nanciyaga, profiled below.
In sum the Tuxtlas region is a heterogeneous and multifunc-
tional tourist space (Edensor 2000), which has emerged in a
more unplanned and contingent fashion in comparison to the
coastal Mexican resorts which cater to international tourists.
The Tuxtlas are perhaps best known outside of the re-
gion for their corpus of Olmec and Epi-Olmec sculpture
from the sites of Tres Zapotes, Cobata, and Pajapan. It is
this attention that has been promoted historically, in part
because of the sheer size and early dates of these Preclassic
monuments. Nevertheless, the Tuxtlas hosted several large
and complex, hierarchically organized states prior to Span-
ish arrival. Pre-Hispanic settlements in the Tuxtlas experi-
enced several transformations that were related to volcanic
activity, settlement incursion by outsiders, and both internal
and external political processes (Santley and Arnold 1996;
Stoner 2011; Venter 2012). We focus on the western Tuxt-
las because this part of the region has been the focus of
most archaeological investigations and because the modern
communities discussed in this article are located there.
The contemporary western Tuxtlas region is divided
into three municipal governments: Santiago Tuxtla, San
Andrés Tuxtla, and Catemaco. During the colonial era,
the entire region was incorporated into the municipality of
Santiago Tuxtla, the local seat of Hernán Cortés’ Tuxtla en-
comienda, but since Independence, the region has gradually
been divided into autonomous political units that probably
Configuring and Commoditizing the Archaeological Landscape
better reflect long term political dynamics. The largest pre-
Hispanic settlements in the municipality of Santiago Tuxtla
were Tres Zapotes in the Preclassic period, Totocapan in
the Classic period, and Totogal in the Postclassic. Mataca-
pan, followed by Ranchoapan, was the largest pre-Hispanic
settlement in the municipality of San Andrés. The largest
known sites in the municipality of Catemaco were Teotepec,
Matacanela, and Catemaco.
Commoditizing Pre-Hispanic Heritage
at Naciyaga
The Nanciyaga Ecological Resort is an excellent
illustration of how archaeological elements are being in-
corporated into the Tuxtlas’ growing tourism economy. The
resort’s grounds not only weave together the natural elements
and pre-Hispanic traditions like the temazcal, but also recre-
ate an imagined archaeological landscape. In fact, apart from
its rainforest setting, mineral waters, and spa treatments, it is
this reproduced pre-Hispanic experience that is the subject
of guided tours. While Nanciyaga is a destination that many
tourists seek out, it benefits greatly from agreements with the
boat taxi operators that offer tours with stops at the resort.
Nanciyaga has also benefitted from well-photographed vis-
its by celebrities filming movies in the area, including Sean
Connery and Mel Gibson. In addition to the archaeological
tour, Nanciyaga offers services such as mud baths and spir-
itual cleansings. Saldı́var’s (2009) study of religious prac-
titioners (known locally as “brujos”) in Catemaco suggests
that they represent a Mexicanized form of Santeria centered
on witchcraft, curing and spiritualism (2009:1). Nanciyaga
also has a small marketplace featuring beaded and crystal
jewelry and potted plants in imitation pre-Hispanic jars.
On a guided tour in 2011, Venter evaluated Nanciyaga’s
range of reproduced objects on display, the regional tradi-
tions represented in the reproductions and the archaeological
accuracy of the tour content. Replicas of Olmec and Epi-
Olmec monuments found at Preclassic Gulf lowlands sites
receive the most prominent display at Nanciyaga. The Tuxtla
Statuette was the first monument encountered on the guided
tour and it received the most extensive description. Since
2011 a colossal head replica has been added to the grounds.
A replica of Stela C from nearby Tres Zapotes is also de-
picted. Many other monuments replicated at Nanciyaga are
derived from styles most common in the central Mexican
highlands, including replica Texcoco Molded censers that
adorn the walking paths throughout the park.
With the exception of the Tuxtla Statuette and Stela C,
little information is presented regarding the original con-
texts where the represented monuments were recovered. In-
77
stead the presentation focuses more on the metaphysical and
mythological qualities attributed to the statuary—messages
seemingly tailored to tourists looking for the Catemaco “bru-
jerı́a” experience—and the mystical links (real or imagined)
to pre-Hispanic belief systems.2 This is especially the em-
phasis of the information presented on Aztec deities and
animal statues.
With regard to the statuary, the provided information
was generally accurate, albeit selective and generalized to
Mesoamerica rather than the Tuxtlas specifically. For ex-
ample, there is a roughly equal number of Gulf lowland
(especially Olmec–Epi-Olmec) and central highland (espe-
cially Aztec) reproductions featured in the Nanciyaga tour.
This ratio is not representative of the balance of architecture,
monuments, or especially archaeological sites attributed to
either tradition in the region. Therefore, the inclusion of the
Aztec themes in addition to the Olmec may be related to
the fact that the former are more easily recognized by both
the domestic and international tourists visiting the destina-
tion. This celebration of Aztec identity mirrors the process
of “Mayanization” which Dario Euraque (2004) identifies
as shaping the past century of tourism and development
in Honduras where tourism entrepreneurs have capitalized
on the geographic proximity of their well-known neighbors,
the Classic Maya, to name (and claim as “Maya”) every-
thing from handicrafts to entire buildings. As a result of
this process, non-Maya archaeological remains and cultural
patrimony are constantly being threatened and destroyed
on Roatán Island (Figueroa et al. 2012). At Nanciyaga the
pre-Hispanic past is conflated with spirituality and the nat-
ural world in an attempt to capture the interest of domestic
tourists who are willing to pay more than US$200 for temaz-
cal baths which include ritual cleansings and “pay homage
to Mother Earth’s womb.” The complexity of the region’s
archaeological past is glossed over and instead tourists are
urged to consider a generalized pre-Hispanic past in order
to “appreciate Mexico’s cultural diversity, other worldviews
and cosmologies” which will lead them to “reflect upon their
own current culture.”3 However, this potentially impedes a
genuine appreciation for actual, rather than imagined, cul-
tural diversity and in-depth knowledge of Tuxtleco cultures,
past and present.
The Case of Two Museums
The largest of the three cities in the Tuxtlas, San Andrés,
is a bustling commercial center with multiple car deal-
erships, a large Walmart-owned grocery store, and other
signs of economic development. The city’s “community
78
museum,” Museo Regional de San Andrés Tuxtla, is lo-
cated one block from the zocalo down a small, steep alley-
way. Approximately 100 people a month visit the museum,
including the occasional group of students. Based on infor-
mation provided in the visitor’s log, ninety percent of the
visitors are from Mexico. Many lived in the Tuxtlas but oth-
ers traveled from Veracruz and Mexico City. The artifacts on
display originated in residents’ private collections and their
contexts are unknown. While it is evident that the museum
organizers consulted with archaeologists in writing the ar-
tifact descriptions and designing the displays, on the whole
there is very little detailed information provided and some
of that information is heavily influenced by community rec-
ollections that sometimes contradict scholarly publications.
For example, in one display case a group of approximately
25 figurines are displayed with no identifying information
other than a plaque labeled “Figurillas Formativas y Olme-
cas Perı́odico Preclásico (600 a.C. – 100 d.C)” with a brief,
generalized description of “Olmec culture.”
What is particularly interesting about the Museo Re-
gional de San Andrés Tuxtla is the way in which it claims
ownership of the region’s pre-Hispanic cultures and attempts
to present historical continuity between present day cultural
traditions, such as Son Jarocho music and cigar production,
and those of the past. For example, the pre-Hispanic heritage
exhibits abruptly transition to a small grouping of photos of
wealthy residents from the late-19th and early to mid-20th
century. In the back corner there is also a display cataloging
the region’s Son Jarocho musical tradition and the Fandangos
for which San Andrés is well known. Included are faded pho-
tos of Son Jarocho groups playing violins and jaranas, the
eight-stringed, guitar like instrument traditional in southern
Veracruz. Surrounding the photos are several instruments,
including jaranas, violins, mandolins, and banjos. The back
room of the museum is dedicated to a “Fabrica de Taba-
cos” (tobacco factory) exhibit celebrating the puros (cigars)
which are produced in San Andrés. This exhibit includes
placards linking the pre-Hispanic past with the present, ex-
plaining the ritual use of smoking in the pre-Hispanic era.
The display highlights references to tobacco use found in
the Popul Vuh and at archaeological sites such as Palenque.
Much like the exhibits detailing the region’s pre-Hispanic
culture, the items found in the Fabrica de Tabacos are also
unlabeled and lacking in description.
The INAH-managed museum in neighboring Santiago
Tuxtla was founded in 1975 and offers significantly more
archaeological depth to visitors. The Tuxtleco Regional Mu-
seum is adjacent to the zocalo and its exhibits span 3,500
years of documented Tuxtlas civilization, ranging from the
Olmecs to the Aztecs. Included in the museum’s collection
are two large Olmec heads (one of which is placed in the
Marcie Venter and Sarah Lyon
town zocalo). The museum also contains colonial artifacts
and paintings pertaining to the town’s patron saint, Cortés,
the Inquisition, and the sugar industry. The museum’s ar-
chaeological exhibits are well labeled with insightful de-
scriptions of regional sites. There is a large atrium at the
rear of the museum that houses travelling exhibits. In the
summer of 2012 it featured one such exhibit detailing Al-
varado’s journey through Mexico and into Guatemala. The
second floor of the museum includes a large photography
exhibit with detailed placards exploring the museum’s his-
tory and the history of archaeological research in The Tuxt-
las. The space also includes large rooms for community
events.
An important difference between this museum and the
one in San Andres is that it more seamlessly uses archaeolog-
ical, documentary, and ethnographic information to weave
together the story of the region’s heritage. This inclusive-
ness is a relatively new addition. Before substantial renova-
tions occurred in 2004, the exhibits emphasized the region’s
Preclassic heritage. Most materials were derived from sites
within the municipality with a few artifacts from Classic pe-
riod Matacapan also on display. After the renovations, new
climate-controlled cases were added that allowed materials
from the broader southern Gulf lowlands to be included,
especially the wooden busts from the spring site El Manatı́
near San Lorenzo. Other changes resulted in a more bal-
anced perspective with regard to the late pre-Hispanic era
and the colonial heritage. The former was presented primar-
ily through murals depicting Contact era scenes between
Aztecs and Spaniards and a tile mosaic of the topoglyph
for Toztlan (pre-Hispanic Santiago Tuxtla [Venter 2012]),
as seen in the Codex Mendoza (Berdan and Anawalt 1992).
The region’s colonial transformation is depicted through the
mural noted above, but also the town seal (which includes
the symbol for the Hernan Cortés estate), Spanish suits of
armor, paintings depicting the brutality of the Inquisition, a
portrait of Hernan Cortés, sugar mill machinery, and Span-
ish weaponry. More recent ethnographic materials include
a liseres (jaguar) costume worn by young men during town
festivals. The Tuxtleco Regional Museum succeeds in weav-
ing together the many contributions to area heritage in a
cohesive narrative.
The Ruins under Main Street
Every small town, every group of campesinos (farm
workers) thinks that archaeological sites can be converted
into tourist attractions that are going to provide their eco-
nomic salvation but the reality is the campesinos don’t
benefit. The only people who benefit are the hotel own-
ers and the ambulatory vendors—even at Tajin, which is
Configuring and Commoditizing the Archaeological Landscape
the largest archaeological attraction in Veracruz. [INAH
archaeologist, July 2012]
In the process of digging up the streets in Catemaco
in July 2012, the municipal government discovered a site of
Late Preclassic occupation. They were putting in a new drain
one block northeast of the cathedral on one of Catemaco’s
main streets. The INAH archaeologists in charge of the
excavation reported that the site was in fact a temple
approximately four by two-and-a-half meters with some
evidence of red paint (Ramı́rez Dı́az 2012). Some pottery
sherds were found on the surface, but no complete vessels.
In addition, the site included a pit that had been dug on the
northeastern side with a ceramic vessel and brazier for fires.
Ash layers from repeated volcanic eruptions are also visible.
The excavation of the site was an obtrusive reminder of
the region’s pre-Hispanic heritage. Several local hotel own-
ers approached Catemaco’s municipality and INAH with the
idea of forming a patronato (sponsorship group) that could
be placed in charge of preserving and commercializing the
site. The hotel owners hoped to lay a thick block of plexiglass
over the street so that it could be displayed to tourists. This
would necessitate closing the street to vehicular traffic, an
idea that was not unanimously popular with the block’s oc-
cupants. For example, the owner of a convenience store near
the site was reportedly opposed to the idea on the grounds
that it would negatively impact his business from drive-by
customers.
While the archaeologists excavating the site sympa-
thized with the hotel owners’ desire to capitalize on the
discovery, they did not think that this proposal held much
merit for a number of reasons.4 First, the excavated area
revealed only a simple clay platform made of packed earth.
As one explained to us, “there’s not really anything to see,”
and therefore it would be of limited appeal to tourists with
only a passing interest in pre-Hispanic heritage. An INAH
employee explained that the only other successful example
of this type of archaeological development in Mexico is at
the Templo Mayor in Tenochitlan, located adjacent to the
zocalo in the center of Mexico City. This site is funded and
managed by INAH, which does not have the resources to
support a similar site in Catemaco. Furthermore, frequent
changes in the directors of the INAH regional office in Ver-
acruz also mean that there is little continuity in the vision for
archaeological development in the state. The hotel owners
countered these dismissals by claiming that they would work
with the municipal government to support the project finan-
cially. However, as a North American archaeologist who has
worked in the region for several decades explained, the issue
is that local politicians change so frequently and “maybe one
administration is interested but then the next isn’t . . . There
79
needs to be institutional support on a permanent basis to
maintain it.” Both the archaeologist and a tourism operator
we spoke with in July 2012 used the example of the “monkey
island” to illustrate the lack of sustained public support for
touristic attractions in the community: “they put the mon-
keys there and then abandoned them—they don’t support
them at all and then they become just another junky tourist
attraction.” From the archaeologists’ point of view the best
way to preserve a site like this is simply to cover it back up
after excavating and transferring the artifacts to an INAH
storage bodega in Tres Zapotes.
While we did not undertake a formal survey of resi-
dent opinions about the matter, we did speak with multiple
tourism entrepreneurs and community members regarding
the discovery and its development potential. People repeat-
edly voiced the concern that to them it did not seem fair that
the artifacts found at the site would be transferred to Tres
Zapotes. They felt that they belonged in Catemaco and not
to INAH and many shared a slightly inflated opinion of their
potential as a tourist attraction. One tourism operator went
so far as to tell us that people routinely did not report ar-
chaeological discoveries to INAH because they did not want
the artifacts to leave their community. She maintained that
this practice was particularly common in the nearby Nahua
and Popoluca communities. Similarly, the North American
archaeologist we spoke to thought that many Catemaco res-
idents would quickly cover up any archaeological sites they
discovered on their property because they simply did not
want to deal with the INAH bureaucracy.
Unfortunately, despite the hotel owners’ desires to cap-
italize on the archaeological discovery, without the active
support of INAH it is improbable that much will be achieved.
Existing research indicates that successful tourism develop-
ment often depends on alliances with external sources of
funding and public institutional support and that tourism
development based exclusively on local initiative is un-
likely to lead to considerable economic growth because
local brokers lack experience, capital and market access
(Brenner 2005; Sjoholt1999; Strasdas 2000; Vaccaro and
Beltran 2007). Furthermore, anthropologists note that terms
such as local, community, and participation are highly prob-
lematic (Li 1999; Stonich 2000; Tsing et al. 2005). For exam-
ple, the term “community,” commonly employed in tourism
impact studies, invokes a false sense of tradition, homo-
geneity, and consensus and evades definition (Richards and
Hall 2000). Similar concerns surround the term “local” as
it is often difficult to determine what the qualifications are
for inclusion in this category. In terms of the archaeological
discovery in Catemaco, it is difficult to determine whose
vision should prevail: the profit minded hotel owners, the
nearby property owners who fear an economic loss from the
80 Marcie Venter and Sarah Lyon

development of the site, or the preservation-minded INAH. Anderson, and the anonymous reviewers for their editorial
This speaks to the need for archaeology to “move beyond the suggestions.
labels of ‘applied,’ ‘community’, or ‘public’ archaeology’”
Notes
and to instead “be performed from a holistic anthropological
perspective that encompasses all of the characteristics that
1. Nanciyaga Resort (2012)
comprise these dimensions—economics, tourism, politics,
2. Catemaco Info (2012)
identity—that anthropology seeks to understand (Figueroa
3. Nanciyaga Resort (2012)
et al. 2012:55).
4. Due to the fact that in this case the archaeologists are
our interlocutors we here follow the conventions of cultural
Conclusions and Avenues for Future anthropology and are intentionally preserving the anonymity
Exploration of the archaeologists.

Over the last two decades, the representation of the past

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 9
Archaeological Conservation at Ek’ Balam and
its influence on the Perception of the
Pre-Hispanic Past and Cultural Identity in the
Maya Communities of Hunukú, Ek’ Balam, and
Santa Rita
Alejandra Alonso Olvera
Instituto Nacional de Antropologı́a e Historia

ABSTRACT
The Ek’ Balam Archaeological Conservation Project includes the participation of the local Maya communities
of Hunukú, Ek’ Balam, and Santa Rita, who have contributed their work to the project for more than ten years. This
chapter explores the diversity of meanings that the archaeological site has for the local population, the importance of
archaeology, and the participatory impact in the definition of cultural identity of these marginal groups. Following
Magnoni et al. (2007) I use Ingold’s model (2000:133) as a conceptual framework for understanding how the
contemporary Maya conceptualize the pre-Hispanic past and how this influences their own cultural identity. Ingold’s
model is a useful theoretical tool for determining the impact of archaeological work and conservation in modeling
the interaction between local communities and the archaeological past. [conservation, Ek Balam, community]

T he Ek’ Balam Archaeological Conservation Project

(EK-ACP) is financed by federal and state governments
and is directed by archaeologists from the National Institute
of Anthropology and History (INAH) of Mexico. Research
and conservation of archaeological sites is of national inter-
est, as they provide the Mexican government the opportunity
to restore their value as cultural resources (see Peniche, this
volume), which in turn facilitates their commercial exploita-
tion within the national and international tourist markets
(see Muñoz-Fernández, this volume; Venter and Lyon, this
volume). The EK-ACP promotes technical training for local
Maya in architectural conservation techniques to ensure the
site´s preservation. The project aims to help empower local
people to establish and maintain a connection with the past.
Their consistent participation in the project has contributed
to an emotional attachment and a sense of stewardship for
the archaeological site (Watkins 2000).
The EK-ACP enables exploration of the different mean-
ings the site has for the local people, and the perceptions
local people create and recreate of the past. One goal of the
project is to produce an alternative narrative of the archaeo-
logical site developed by local workers. This narrative will
serve to identify the connections local populations establish
with the site that modify or influence their own cultural iden-
tity. Ingold’s (2000:133) relational and genealogical model
is a useful conceptual framework for better understanding
how contemporary Maya identity is continually recreated.
As demonstrated by Magnoni et al. (2007:360), Ingold’s
model may be employed to distinguish how different ac-
tivities and levels of organization at work become effective

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 83–89, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12050.
84
vehicles to transform people’s interaction with the archae-
ological past once they become involved in the materiality
of preserving that past. The relational proximity becomes
cultural knowledge every time a concrete body of activities
takes place to recreate a sense of belonging and attachment
between people and a certain place (Ingold 2000:133). This
idea substantiates the notion that the perception of the past is
a dynamic action that recreates itself through practical activ-
ities carried out at the archaeological site. The genealogical
aspect of Ingold’s model indicates that the indigenous past
is transmitted as biogenetic substance through generations.
Such ancestral experience can be conveyed as part of a
cultural memory through language and tradition (Ingold
2000:33). These are elements that contemporary Maya also
experience through their cultural practices and languages.
Economic Activities in Local Maya
Communities Near the Ek’ Balam
Archaeological Site
The Ek’ Balam archaeological site is delimited by
communal land associated with three present-day Maya
settlements: Hunukú (pop. 2,659), Ek’ Balam (pop. 510),
and Santa Rita (pop. 286). During the Late Terminal Classic
period, Ek’ Balam and Santa Rita were integrated as part
of the kingdom of Talol (Hanson 2008). In C.E. (common
era) 1545, Ek’ Balam was declared an encomienda, with its
corresponding Franciscan capilla de indios. (Indian chapel)
Juan Gutierrez Picón (de La Garza 1983:135) referred to
the town as an important “indian” community. According
to the Relación de Tiquibalón (1898–1900 [1579]:153–163;
Quezada 1993), during the earlier Colonial period Ek’
Balam was still recognized as a cuchcabal, a place for
tribute collection from other towns. In post-Colonial times
these communities were eventually abandoned.
The current populations of these three communities are
mostly Mayan-speaking, the lands having been reoccupied
around the mid-19th and early 20th centuries. Social memo-
ries linked to the archaeological site stimulate land conflicts
and group confrontation produced by eviction, land tenure
disputes, and economic competition.
Residents of these three communities are involved in
multiple economic activities. This is one reason that it is
so difficult to ensure their permanent involvement in ar-
chaeological excavation and conservation. The tenacity of
this population in terms of managing various jobs and the
way they become involved in archaeological conservation
projects regardless of this interfering with more profitable
(better compensated) side jobs is remarkable. Side jobs are
usually complementary to permanent employment, which
Alejandra Alonso Olvera
is usually poorly compensated. All the participants per-
form complementary economic activities, but none of these
can be considered a permanent or full-time career (such as
ranch worker, tour guide, taxi or truck driver, or construction
worker) because they do not offer a satisfactory source of
income to make ends meet.
The vast majority of workers participating in the project
also engage in agricultural labors, which traditionally take
place in family plots and communal lands. This agricul-
tural population is predominantly made up of adult males
(between 35 and 50 years of age) and elders (between 50 and
70). Teenage youths (13 to 18 years of age) help their adult
relatives in some cases. The 19 to 35 age range is typically
involved in other activities related to tourism, the service
industry, and ranching. Local workers are also frequently
involved in craft production and sale within their commu-
nities as well as in neighboring communities. Such activity
is more diversified in the adult and youth population where
both men and women participate in hammock weaving, as
well as carving wood and plaster replicas of pre-Hispanic
artifacts.
The archaeological project participants who are also in-
volved in the tourism industry as official tour guides are
mainly young adult men between 20 and 40 years old. This
age group used to be an important task force in our project
specialized in preventive conservation treatments (mainte-
nance), direct conservation (such as making replicas to pre-
serve originals) and site presentation activities. Tour guide
positions, however, are limited by the academic requirements
necessary to obtain an official tour guide license granted by
the State Minister of Tourism (CULTUR). In addition, they
have to be able to afford the cost of learning a foreign lan-
guage to be competitive within the foreign tourism market.
For this reason, only males with the highest level of academic
training have access to employment in tourism. This group
has gradually abandoned participating in our project be-
cause it represents a less profitable activity. Becoming a tour
guide also involves increased interaction with people from
other regions, countries, and socioeconomic backgrounds,
in addition to the comparatively greater income generated
throughout the peak tourist seasons.
For younger people who never had the chance to fulfill
post-secondary studies, technical training and learning for-
eign languages are viable options to access greater economic
opportunity, or to migrate to other communities. Older men
and women do not generally show any particular interest in
tourist endeavors.
Pre-teen and teenage women from the region are re-
cruited for wage labor in maquiladoras (clothing manufac-
turing companies) (Castellanos 2007:3). However, in recent
years the clothing business is declining due to the growing
Archaeological Conservation at Ek’ Balam
prominence of Chinese imports. Maquiladoras are no longer
providing transportation from remote villages to nearby
towns where the factories are located (mostly in Temo-
zon and Valladolid) and most of the Santa Rita and Ek’
Balam women working for them were laid off. This group
has never been integrated into the archaeological project be-
cause its members were occupied in the textile industry in
earlier years, and presently they are occupied in the domestic
sphere. Participation in manufacture provided a permanent
and stable source of income, albeit lower wages compared
to other economic activities, but more recently pre-teen and
teenage women are increasingly reliant on crafting.
Tour guides and part-time workers show particular in-
terest in our archaeological project and comprise the main
group on which the present chapter is based.
Commodifying the Archaeological Past and its
Influence on Maya Culture
The federal and state governments of Mexico, includ-
ing that of Yucatan, manage the archaeological sites open
to the public. They also bilaterally sponsor archaeological
and conservation activities that are considered to be of na-
tional interest since they provide the basis for establishing
the value of cultural resources that are later commodified
and commercialized within the global tourist market. The
archaeological heritage of Yucatan has become particularly
commercialized as part of the expansion of the tourism in-
dustry; it is the third largest national industry and the primary
focus of foreign investment, as well as the second largest
employer after agriculture (Ardren 2004:103; Clancy 2001;
Ruiz Chávez 2008). In the process of commodifying the
past, cultural resources and social life become objects of
consumption (Baram and Rowan 2004:6). Visitors to ar-
chaeological sites have increased enormously in the last
40 years as a response to tourism development.
The commodification and commercialization of ar-
chaeological heritage have been implemented mostly by the
government of Mexico and private corporations, which also
aim to promote regional development (Ardren 2004:103).
State-sponsored commodification of sites includes the
engagement of local employees in two types of work: (1)
participation in the construction and expansion of the road
system to facilitate transportation; and (2) participation
in archaeological excavation and conservation activities
to restore the sites for tourism. This maintains patterns of
social and economic inequality within Maya communities.
Even local organizations, such as Maya cooperatives and
ecotourism initiatives, feature hierarchical organizational
structures, preserving social and economic inequality within
85
these communities and creating elite factions that benefit
directly from natural and cultural resource exploitation.
These exclude other social groups and create social conflicts
that, in turn, gradually empower hegemonic elites.
Certified tour guides from nearby Maya communities
are allowed to work at the site, but through an asymmet-
ric economic model. Their earnings are unregulated, and
tourists decide how much they will pay the guide, rather than
the government establishing controlled fees. Despite the in-
credible effort that Maya people make to enroll in academic
courses, learn foreign languages, and take examinations for
accreditation, they struggle to compete with foreign or non-
local tourist guides from the Riviera Maya corridor. The
inequality in the competitive relationship between local and
foreign tourist guides springs from a dynamic in which local
guides attract mostly small groups of tourists not included
in organized groups, whereas foreign and non-local guides
are paid by multinational resorts to conduct organized mass
tours and are provided with resources like transportation and
multiple destinations that local Maya guides do not have
access to (e.g., beaches, historical towns, nature reserves)
(Long 1991).
Being a Maya tour guide does not bring any material or
tangible benefit to the guide or the tourist. Tourism narratives
are mostly redundant and appear superficial to local residents
who do not identify with them. The exception to this rule,
however, is the guide’s ability to speak the Yucatec Mayan
language for Maya tourists visiting the site. Guides play a
stronger role among their peers, and they include additional
elements in their tours that are not offered to foreign visitors.
Very few foreign tourists insist on been taken to visit other
areas beside the archaeological site, such as nearby Maya
villages, or significant places like cenotes (sinkholes) or
natural reserves. It is important to note that there are no
incentives to diversify the tours as foreigners mistrust the
local guides, often because they lack support from corporate
tourism companies.
Despite the efforts of the government and the private
sector to generate sustainable regional tourism, local com-
munities are not directly included, nor do they benefit equally
from the increased flow of national and international tourism
in the region (Magnoni et al. 2007:361; Pi-Sunyer et al.
1999), as found in the goals outlined by the National Devel-
opment Plan 2007–2012 (Ruiz Chávez 2008). Brown (1999)
argues that even some sites that are significant for contem-
porary Maya communities are excluded from the tourist
routes (such as caves, cenotes, milpa and hunting lands,
and old ex-haciendas). Sites of real cultural significance for
the Maya go unnoticed by the mass tourist mostly because
local culture or ethnicities are not considered sufficiently
motivating.
86
Interest in Multivocal Narratives
The tourism industry has not only commodified archae-
ological heritage, but also, in a very real sense, reinter-
preted it in strictly commercial ways (Aplin 2002:57). Some
archaeologists and conservators have expressed concerns
that sophisticated marketing of the past might remove, or
negatively impact, a site’s authenticity (Baram and Rowan
2004:7; Davis 1997). Common interpretations of archaeo-
logical sites frequently result in two different types of nar-
ratives: (1) technical narratives, created by archaeologists
that investigate sites by addressing their own professional
interests and academic agendas; and (2) tourist narratives
created mainly by the media and tour guides without formal
archaeological training, which highlight ancient elite culture
and manipulate images of indigenous people for advertising
and economic purposes. Neither agenda is linked to local
interests or regional concerns, as they do not solicit local
involvement. This was demonstrated when a new road was
built to connect the archaeological site directly to the main
Valladolid-Tizimin highway and to facilitate tourist traffic
without passing through the villages of Ek’ Balam and Santa
Rita. The government was neither interested in improving
communication within local communities, nor enhancing
the old narrow road, which connects the main highway with
the archaeological site crossing throughout Ek’ Balam, and
Santa Rita.
The official narrative assumes that archaeological her-
itage is a direct, tangible cultural expression of ancient Maya
culture, conceived as culturally homogeneous and uninter-
rupted in time (Brulotte 2009:257; Magnoni et al. 2007:355).
Contemporary Maya people do not identify with that imag-
inary perception of the past (Hervik 2003:108), nor do they
necessarily consider themselves descendants of the ancient
Maya. Contemporary Maya people perceive themselves as
modern people of a modern nation. Biased, imaginary rep-
resentations of the Maya as primitive or isolated affect the
notion of affiliation and identity for contemporary Maya.
This is most visible in the social interaction between Maya
people and the foreigners who visit their communities.
The construction of an alternative narrative that encour-
ages a different perception of Maya identity and ethnicity
is part of our project goals. The Temporary Employment
Program (Programa de Empleo Temporal) developed by the
Federal government and projects like our own are considered
an alternative to create less aggressive and invasive ways
to increase opportunities for local people to work in their
communities instead of encouraging out-migration. Some
in the local population have no desire to interact with the
mass tourism industry, but show a genuine interest in getting
Alejandra Alonso Olvera
involved in the preservation and presentation of the site, as
this allows them to maintain a sense of territoriality, attach-
ment, and belonging to the land.
A Sense of Community and the Importance of
Archaeological Conservation Work:
Redefining and Re-creating the Past
The inhabitants of Santa Rita, Ek’ Balam, and Hunukú
maintain a strong sense of community and reciprocity, and
as a result, community identity is crucial. However, con-
struction and re-construction of cultural identity diverges
with each social group that comprises the community, as
Terrazas Merino (2008:142) has identified in several other
indigenous groups. Young adults experience contradictions
that include cultural empathy and indifference to their own
and foreign cultures, and this results in changing identity.
Adult females, children, middle-aged males, and the elderly
seem to have a strong attachment to their people, land, and
culture. Giménez (2000:60) points out that indigenous iden-
tities comprise basic components such as tradition, cultural
territory, language, kinship, and ritual culture. It is very dif-
ficult, however, to determine which of these elements holds
more weight in the reproduction of cultural identity.
Following Terrazas Merino’s observation, middle-age
males from Santa Rita, Ek’ Balam and Hunukú share all
of these basic components (language, sense of territoriality
and belonging, ritual culture, and tradition). The activities
they perform at the archaeological site help them redefine
and recreate their individual and group identity. Validating
their identity through technical activities the site becomes
an important arena for contention, which they use to nego-
tiate conflicts or disagreements associated with family or
community issues.
According to Ingold (2000), the actions and activities
people perform in certain spaces leave traces, unintelligible
to outsiders, that are recognized by the people that share a
way of life (Magnoni et al. 2007:362). The archaeological
site becomes a place where stories and memories are revital-
ized (Basso 1996). The physical space of the site becomes
a symbolic place of continuity between past and present
that emphasizes the sense of belonging to a specific cul-
tural territory. The materiality of the site becomes symbolic
to collective identity, created by communities that were de-
prived and dispossessed of their cultural identity in the past
(Giménez 2000:60). The archaeological site may be intrinsi-
cally relevant, conceptually speaking, or because of its own
antiquity and historical value, but also because Maya groups
make their own cultural imprint in this space annually. This
occurs by excavating, restoring, preserving, and taking care
Archaeological Conservation at Ek’ Balam
of the site. The place acquires value based on the dynamic of
work and social interaction that arises there. Other tangential
practices, such as preparing the milpa (fields for farming)
around the archaeological site, are symbolic, as they provide
meaning and transform the space into a significant place. In
this sense, workers’ practices revivify the archaeological
landscape and recreate ancient spaces, imbuing them with
value and meaning and at the same time confirming the cul-
tural reproduction of the workers themselves. This approach
stands in opposition to the commercial vision of the site that
sees a certain place as significant only in terms of the number
of consumers it attracts per year (Magnoni et al. 2007:362).
This conceptual distinction extends to the economic sphere
as well—Middle-aged and older male adults show great in-
terest in conservation practice and are motivated every year
to participate in fieldwork, even if that means sacrificing
some other jobs that are better paid than the ones INAH
provides.
Although people share a cultural background in the
community, not all social groups (i.e., groups based on
age, gender, or class) share the same cultural model. This
means that not everyone feels, practices, and experiences
culture and identity in the same manner (Terrazas Merino
2008:142). For example, women and children share simi-
lar criteria based on territorial and domestic organization,
closely linked to tradition and ritual culture, while young
adults self-identify with non-territorial cultural elements and
different cultural goods (usually commercial commodities).
Adults endorse ritual culture and economic activities, such
as agriculture, hunting, apiculture, ranching, and crafting to
validate their cultural model (Terrazas Merino 2008:142).
This dynamic is visible in the way each group makes use of
and creates attachment to the archaeological site. Women,
for example, are less connected to or interested in the site,
compared to men. In this sense, women usually do not cre-
ate any ties or internalize the site with their own personal
history or their daily life. Their daily work and ritual spaces
are located outside the archaeological site and more related
to domestic spaces.
I noticed that young adults in particular do not show any
interest in participating in archaeological practices or con-
servation, and they do not find it appealing to get involved
in practices embedded in group identity, or at least, not
within the symbolic space created by the archaeological site
that serves as a place for negotiation between middle-aged
adults and the elderly. Fieldwork represents an element of
reconfiguring the past, present and past connect and oppose
one another when participants reflect and compare the
past (conditions, life ways, and landscape) to their present
reality. Archaeological conservation intends to decolonize
the present and provide information about the past based
87
on an empirical approach. Experiencing the archaeological
built environment makes it possible to recreate the life of the
ancient Maya. This reconfiguration does not conflict with
the present, rather it creates a tolerance resulting in new
evaluations and explanations of cultural elements that
permit a closer look at the past and its material remains. The
practical exercise of recovering original materials, spaces,
and buildings helps to generate an understanding of how
they were conceived, built, and created, as well as questions
about how they were used and how people interacted in
such spaces.
The same model can be applied to a new group of arti-
sans who work on the project and who base their work on the
reproduction of ancient symbols and motifs of the site’s ar-
chitecture. Craft reproductions are commercialized and suc-
cessfully marketed. Ancient Maya symbols are appropriated
and reinterpreted by workers as relational references to their
natural habitat (animals, plants, characters) and the entities
of their ritual imaginary (mythological objects or symbols).
Final Considerations
The specific information that conservation assistants
seek to receive from, and provide to, this project has the
potential to assist them in their understanding of Maya life
in the past. Promoting local materials and techniques they
commonly use in conservation practice creates a special
pride amongst Maya workers, and provides them with con-
fidence as they identify and discuss the implications of how
to handle the properties of materials from the past. Respect
for their own organization and traditions that they establish
according to their personal experience, skills, and abilities
promotes a heterarchical organizational structure that
contributes to a better understanding of how they perceive
archaeology and conservation. Avoiding the imposition
of an external hierarchy that reinforces colonial patterns
allows candid social interaction. This stems from a mutual
recognition of balanced relationships between all the project
participants that allows them to reveal more aspects of how
they conceive of the archaeological past and its relevance for
their present. Furthermore, when tourists recognize the im-
portance of their work, they assess their own identity through
their work and participation with regard to those who are not
involved by opposition (peers that do not work at the site and
foreigners) (Magnoni et al. 2007:363). Social interaction
even grows with foreigners when local workers narrate their
own perception of the ancient city, its builders, and residents.
Perspectives on the past are continually invented, reinvented,
corrected, and even ridiculed when foreign tourist guides
fall back on fantasized readings that are distant from the
reality that the contemporary Maya might recognize.
88
Involvement in site conservation has particularly af-
fected the relationship stakeholders maintain with the pre-
Hispanic past. The participants’ identity now includes the
role of protectors of cultural heritage. The workers carry
these skills and responsibilities with great pride and are rec-
ognized in their home communities. The work they have
done over the last ten years has empowered them based on
the sense of respect among project participants, in contrast
to the marginal role they live within their communities. The
use of archaeological conservation to empower and give
voice to marginal groups has great significance. This leads
to the development of multiple alternative narratives that en-
gage with the past, including the multiple visions within the
local perspective that complement the reconstructions that
academic archeology produces. Considering that the past
is rhetorical, situational, and has ever-changing meanings
that have a direct impact on identity, perception, and culture
(Gnecco and Hernandez 2008), community involvement is
a powerful way to generate stakeholders for the continued
protection of archaeological heritage (Chirikure and Pwite
2008:483; see also J. H. Anderson, this volume).
Acknowledgements
The author thanks Gildo Ay Canche, Celso Tuz Mena,
Luis Canche Canche Cahum, Vicente May, Miguel May,
Rodolfo Gonzalez May, Fulgencio Pomol, Maria de la
Luz Canche, Norma May, and Juan Sebastian Canul, who
participate in the Ek Balam Conservation Project, and also
the Instituto Nacional of Antropologia e Historia for funding
the project since 2001. The author also thanks David Ander-
son, Heath Anderson, and Dylan Clark for organizing and
including this work in the session “Legacy of Mesoamerican
Ancestors: Archaeological Heritage in and Beyond Con-
temporary Mexico” included in the Montreal 2011 AAA
Conference. The author also wants to express her gratitude
to the anonymous reviewers and the editors of the volume
for English editing and insight to improve the original text.
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 10
Three Generations of Cooperation: Voices from
Tula, Hidalgo
J. Heath Anderson
Minnesota State University – Mankato

ABSTRACT
Tula is well known in the archaeological community and in popular consciousness as the capital of the Toltecs.
Less well known are the three generations of local residents who have devoted their labor to archaeological projects
in the Tula region over the past 70+ years. Since Acosta’s foundational work in the 1940s to the present day,
archaeologists working at Tula have enjoyed the local population’s solid support. This chapter uses interviews with
the inhabitants of Tula de Allende to illustrate the seldom-acknowledged backbone of local support that makes all
archaeology at Tula possible and suggests directions for future ethnographic research. [Tula, archaeology, local,
heritage, participation]

F ield archaeologists occupy a position that is simulta-

neously sharply limited and keenly advantageous for
advancing ethnographic understanding of local populations.
The daily realities of carrying out field projects share much
in common with the participatory observation methods that
have distinguished the ethnographic enterprise since Boas.
Hiring a workforce, coordinating field activities, navigating
local customs regarding scheduling and payment, and so
forth oblige archaeologists to become hip-pocket ethnogra-
phers in order to ensure a functional working environment
and accomplish project goals. Most archaeologists are no
doubt further intrigued to know what motivates their local
employees to participate in archaeological projects. Located
in the multi-stranded intersection of economic opportunity,
individual and collective interests, customary expectations,
and local and regional politics, archaeologists are perhaps
uniquely positioned to observe the kind of rich interactions
that are the bread and butter of their counterparts in socio-
cultural anthropology.
Despite the fact that their projects put archaeologists in
the thick of the ethnographic action, their position as em-
ployers, together with the considerable responsibilities that
come with carrying out field projects, virtually guarantee
that their observations and insights will fall short of full-
dress ethnographic study. They represent an extreme case of
the problems involved with compensation for participation
in ethnographic study. Ironically, the nature of archaeolog-
ical fieldwork gives archaeologists front-row seats for ob-
serving rich ethnographic detail, but ensures that they will
never be able to convert their observations into solid ethno-
graphic knowledge.
Archaeologists have responsibilities that come with
their unique position, however. These include sharing the
observations and experiences that are part of archaeological
fieldwork in a way that suggests possible research questions
for ethnographic work carried out by their socio-cultural
colleagues.
In this chapter, I share some of the observations, expe-
riences, and perspectives of key individuals I have come to
know in the course of carrying out archaeological research in
Tula, Hidalgo. It is the result of a small side project I carried
out in the summer of 2011 and is best described as an exercise
in exploratory oral history. Located just north of present-
day Mexico City, Tula was the capital of the Toltec state
from about C.E. 950 to 1150. Its restored civic-ceremonial
plaza exists within a 1.1 square kilometer federally protected

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 90–99, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12051.
Voices from Tula, Hidalgo
archaeological zone, and is a popular attraction for Mexi-
can and international tourists. Since the early 1940s, it has
been the focus of nearly constant archaeological investiga-
tion. During that time, the archaeological zone has been a
nexus of economic opportunity and social life for three gen-
erations of local Tula residents, who work on archaeological
projects of exploration and restoration and sell handicrafts
to tourists visiting the site. My primary focus is local in-
volvement in Tula archaeology through participation in ar-
chaeological projects and tourism. In general, the interviews
I conducted indicated a long tradition of close cooperation
between archaeologists and local populations.
Methods
I conducted the interviews on which the present work
is based in the summer of 2011. Since my main activities
in Tula were archaeological, not ethnographic, time con-
straints dictated that I limit my interviews to a few care-
fully chosen individuals who were especially well situated
to provide local perspectives on archaeological projects and
tourism within the archaeological zone over the past several
decades. After reading an informed consent statement in-
cluding permission to use their names and images, I used
five open-ended questions to structure our conversations.
The questions were designed to elicit accounts of the in-
terviewees’ earliest memories of the archaeological zone,
their own perspectives of the significance of Tula, their mo-
tivations for working in the archaeological zone, and their
interactions with tourists. These were the questions I asked:
1. What are your first memories of the Tula Archaeological
Zone? How did you first become acquainted with the
archaeological zone?
2. How would you describe the relationship between your
family and the archaeological projects carried out in the
zone over the years? Are there any particularly relevant
stories that you would like to share?
3. If you had to explain what the archaeological zone is
to someone, how would you do it? From your point of
view, what kind of place is it today? What kind of place
was it in the past?
4. Why did you decide to work in the zone? Was it primar-
ily an economic decision? What would you earn outside
the zone, compared to working in the zone (i.e., double,
half, the same, etc.)? Do you have other motives for
working in the zone? If so, what are they?
5. Have you interacted with the tourists who visit the zone?
Do you have any observations, perspectives, complaints,
stories, etc. that you would like to share?
91
The interviews were recorded with the interviewees’ consent
and I offered to share with them copies of the recordings and
a copy of the paper that would ultimately result. In total, I
spoke with four interviewees.
Agustin Suarez
Agustı́n’s father, Abundio, was in charge of security for
the archaeological zone from the 1950s to the 1970s and
supervised excavation and restoration projects for INAH
archaeologists. Abundio’s son, Agustı́n, is now retired and
gives site tours to tourists.
Maria Elena Suarez
Marı́a Elena is Agustı́n’s sister and works as an archae-
ologist in the zone and has been my colleague in excavation
and ceramic analysis for several years. After completing her
coursework at the Escuela Nacional de Antropologı́a e His-
toria (ENAH), she began working in the archaeological zone
and adjacent areas as a project archaeologist.
Florentino Jimenez
Florentino is a very well known and well-connected
member of the local community. Known to most as Don
Flore, he has been involved in restoration and archaeological
projects in the Zone since 1970. He worked as a tlacualero
(“go-fer” or general helper) in his youth during the late
1950s and for many years has acted as an important con-
tact between archaeological project directors in search of
workers and workers in need of employment. This nodal po-
sition, along with his family history in the zone, has made
Don Flore an important figure in Tula archaeology over the
past few decades.
Pablo Jimenez
Pablo is Florentino’s son and works alongside his father
on restoration projects in addition to manufacturing arte-
sanı́as (handicrafts) for sale to tourists.
I interviewed all participants in their own homes or
in one of the rooms of a building within the Archaeologi-
cal Zone known as the “Campamento Acosta,” which today
functions as a location for processing and storage of artifacts
unearthed by projects within the Zone and throughout the
Tula area. During the course of my interviews, it became ap-
parent that my interviewees’ reflections tended to coalesce
around one person and three locations. The first was Jorge
R. Acosta, the first archaeologist in the modern era to un-
dertake extensive exploration of Tula’s monumental center.
92
The Campamento Acosta, along with the site museum, also
emerged as important locations, as did the Archaeological
Zone itself, which encompasses the first two.
Jorge R. Acosta
Local populations have assisted archaeology projects
at Tula since Desiré Charnay’s 19th-century excavations
(Charnay 1885, 1887), but the story of modern archaeology
at the site begins with Jorge R. Acosta. Acosta was the first
to undertake large-scale archaeological explorations at the
site using modern-day excavation and recording techniques.
Beginning his first field season in 1940 and finishing his last
season in the 1970s, he left behind a wealth of field reports
(Acosta 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1945, 1956a, 1956b,
1956–1957, 1957, 1959, 1960, 1961a, 1961b, 1964, 1974).
Although each year reduces the number of people who
dealt personally with Acosta, those who still remember
him describe him as a larger-than-life figure, a “pioneer of
Mexican archaeology,” in the words of Agustı́n Suárez. He
and Don Flore first knew Acosta as the man who employed
their fathers. They described a formal man whose modern
field methods contrasted with his mode of dress, which in-
cluded knee-high leather boots, jodhpurs, and a pith helmet.
He spoke little but smoked incessantly. Agustı́n remembered
following Acosta as a boy, collecting and smoking his dis-
carded cigarettes.
Acosta’s projects realized much of the excavation and
restoration within the main plaza that produced the tourist-
friendly landscape that greets visitors today. For archaeolo-
gists, his work was foundational. Almost all conversations
about Tula archaeology among archaeologists eventually
find their way back to Jorge R. Acosta. One of the things that
struck me in the course of interviewing both of my senior
participants was the parallel reverence for Acosta in the ar-
chaeological community and amongst the local population.
Throughout the generations, linked by their common activi-
ties and interests in the archaeological zone, both groups
have curated and passed on information about its foun-
dational investigator. Agustı́n’s younger sister Marı́a Elena
never met the man who so impressed her brother, but remem-
bered clearly the black ribbon decorating the site museum
to commemorate his death in 1975. Today, that museum
(Figure 10.1) and the campamento (“encampment”; Fig-
ure 10.2) in the archaeological zone where the Suárez sib-
lings lived as children also bear his name.
The Archaeological Zone
The Tula Archaeological Zone can be considered unique
in Mexico in that it is the only site whose boundaries and
J. Heath Anderson
conditions for upkeep and management are set forth in a
presidential decree signed in 1993. In its heyday as the urban
center of the Toltec world, the main plaza that tourists visit
today was formerly the stage for the daily and seasonal rituals
that comprised the rhythm of life in the pre-Hispanic city.
Today, it continues to function as an economic and social
hub for local populations, archaeologists, and tourists, whose
comings and goings and onsite activities likewise conform
to daily and seasonal rhythms.
The annual INAH-funded archaeological project varies
in size from year to year, but maintenance of restored struc-
tures open to the public is a perennial necessity. Don Flore
and his crew are always in demand. Florentino has devel-
oped a close relationship with the ruins under his care, which
came through in our interview. He consistently returned to
extended reflections on experiments with the ingredients he
has tried out in the variety of mixtures of sand, lime, water,
and bonding agents used to keep the site in shape.
One point of which Florentino seemed particularly
proud was the resilience of his work to the volume of foot
traffic, which he mentioned included the damage inflicted by
ladies’ high-heeled shoes. He is a strong advocate of using
pre-Hispanic ingredients such as the gels found in the nopal
cactus and aloe vera succulents as bonding agents. This has
occasionally put him temporarily at odds with archaeolo-
gists, however. He told a story dating to the early 1990s in
which a restoration team led by an INAH archaeologist could
not manage to repair and restore a plaster floor. Don Flore
was asked to make samples of various mixtures to investigate
possible solutions to the problem, leading to his team taking
over the project. Florentino emphasized that he feels respon-
sibility for the success of the repairs ultimately falls to him,
not the visiting archaeologists hired to supervise the work.
After all, he reasoned, regardless of who directs this or that
restoration project, it is always Don Flore’s local team who
must deal with making repairs if anything goes wrong. He
also noted that credit for successes is not evenly distributed
amongst archaeologists and the locals who do the work. “My
father never got a festschrift,” he once archly commented.
Aside from occasional disagreements, Florentino empha-
sized the importance of cooperation to make sure restoration
work is done well, explaining simply, “It’s our patrimony.”
Conscious of his advancing age, he intimated with a
smile that the day would come when he would get a “swift
kick in the rear” and be compelled to retire, but added that
he felt content having always tried to do things as well as
possible. He drew explicit parallels between his career and
that of archaeologist Robert Cobean, with whom he has
worked since the beginning of the University of Missouri
projects in the 1970s, an enduring partnership that continues
today.
Voices from Tula, Hidalgo
Figure 10.1. The Jorge R. Acosta Museum, named after the eminent archaeologist who conducted the first systematic explorations at
Tula using modern field methods (photo by author).
Another important partnership for Don Flore is the re-
lationship he has with his son, Pablo, who works alongside
his father on restoration projects. Pablo reiterated his fa-
ther’s feeling of responsibility for the archaeological zone,
especially when asked about the importance of economic
gain in making the decision to work onsite. He intimated
that he earns more money making and selling handicrafts
to sell to tourists. Working outside the archaeological zone,
for example in the nearby PEMEX refinery, is many times
more lucrative. “But it means something to us to work in
the zone,” he explained. He added that it is easy to feel as if
the excavated remains and restored vestiges of Tula’s heyday
are in some sense ancestral, though he declined to draw too
direct a connection.
For Marı́a Elena and her brother Agustı́n, in their youth
the archaeological zone was a playground. After the tourists
left, their father Abundio allowed them to wander the ruins
and play hopscotch amongst the pyramids. At that time, the
93
archaeological zone was not fenced as it is today, and it was
up to custodios like Abundio and others to control entry to
the ruins and oversee their upkeep. During Acosta’s many
projects, Abundio was regularly left in charge of excavations
when administrative matters called the archaeologist away
from the site.
Today, Marı́a Elena continues her family’s involvement
in archaeology in the zone by supervising excavations and
ceramic analysis. At eighteen, she left Tula to study archae-
ology at the Escuela Nacional de Antropologı́a e Historia
(ENAH) in Mexico City. After completing coursework, she
returned to Tula to participate in several years of excavations
within the zone and in the salvage projects that are a constant
feature of managing the remains of the pre-Hispanic city in
the face of continued development.
Regarding her motivations for working within the zone,
she admitted that some other career could have been more
lucrative, but added that she valued the knowledge she helps
94
Figure 10.2. The Campamento de Acosta, which functioned as a residence and workspace for Jorge R. Acosta when in the field, and
for the Suárez family when father Abundio Suárez worked as caretaker for the archaeological zone (photo by author).
generate about the site more than money. When I gently
pressed on this point, she noted with a smile, “If I didn’t like
it, then surely I’d do something else that paid better!”
Agustı́n works in a much more public capacity than
his younger sister. After retirement, he began giving guided
tours of the archaeological zone for tourists. Agustı́n relishes
the opportunity to lead Mexican, German, French, Ameri-
can, and Japanese guests through the ruins where he and
his siblings played as children. He gave his first tourist talk
in 1966, based on his reading of some material given him
by Jorge R. Acosta himself, a fact he mentioned with con-
siderable pride. Over the years, he has accepted invitations
by journalists and businesspeople to give presentations to
groups in larger cities in Mexico and abroad, once traveling
as far as Milwaukee and Chicago. He was once interviewed
by a Mexican television station when an archaeologist in
charge of a local salvage project was unavailable. He remem-
bered the experience with a laugh and noted ironically that,
J. Heath Anderson
without a television, he had to rely on his friends’ accounts
of his performance when they saw it on the nightly newscast.
The Tula Archaeological Zone contains the two other
locations that featured prominently in my interviews: the
Campamento de Acosta and the site museum, both of which
now bear his name.
Campamento de Acosta
As in previous decades, the Campamento Acosta (see
Figure 10.2) is today the busy hub of all field archaeology in
and around the archaeological zone. It is a multi-use complex
located just adjacent to the main plaza of the reconstructed
ruins and is easily visible to visitors to the zone as they
make their way to the pyramids. Currently, it functions as
a storage space for tools and archaeological materials, a
laboratory for ceramic analysis, and a processing facility for
the lime plaster used in restoration projects. Occasionally,
Voices from Tula, Hidalgo
it still serves as a part-time residence for archaeologists
working in the zone, as it did for Acosta when it was built
in 1952.
The daily routine for archaeologists working on projects
in the zone involves walks from the site museum to the
campamento to assemble workers, equipment, and so forth
before beginning the day’s activities. At day’s end, excavated
material is deposited in the campamento’s storage spaces
to await washing and analysis. In its capacity as a main
gathering point for work crews, it is also the meeting place
at the end of each week for payday. Agustı́n remembered
that this practice has persisted since Acosta’s time, wherein
all the local workers would wait patiently in a single line to
sign the register and receive their week’s pay. He remarked
that the only difference in this practice is that now the
workweek is shorter, and workers are paid on Friday, rather
than Saturday.
Over the course of my conversations with Agustı́n and
Marı́a Elena, which were conducted in the campamento it-
self, it quickly became clear that they remembered the small
rear patio and the adjoining rooms as their home during the
1950s through the 1970s. As children, the eleven Suárez sib-
lings were generally confined to the campamento grounds
during the hours that tourists visited the site. Nevertheless,
often local school groups and foreign tours would enter the
larger front patio to picnic after visiting the nearby plaza
and pyramids. One of Marı́a Elena’s earliest memories fea-
tures groups of American tourists, who frequently barely
touched their boxed lunches. Marı́a Elena and her sisters
happily divided the leftovers among themselves, including
such exotics as fried chicken. At the back of the campa-
mento are lime tanks, where Don Flore and his son Pablo
along with other members of the restoration team produce
the lime plaster and mortar mixtures with which they keep
Tula in shape to withstand tourist traffic.
Museo Jorge R. Acosta
From a visitor’s perspective, the site museum (see Fig-
ure 10.1) is the first building encountered when entering
through the main gate. Today it is a repository for some of
the most noteworthy artifacts and sculpture recovered by lo-
cal hands throughout the past 70+ years of exploration in the
archaeological zone. It also brings together local workers,
tourists, and project archaeologists as they stream toward
heir parallel objectives.
Some of the earliest memories I collected over the
course of my interviews regarding the museum came from
Agustı́n, who remembered sleeping on a mat on the floor
of the museum. His parents arrived in Tula around 1950 to
95
work in the archaeological zone but had nowhere to sleep.
Agustı́n’s memory for the many archaeological projects that
have been undertaken within the zone and in the periphery
rivals that of professional archaeologists. He shared several
stories about the circuitous paths of wayward objects from
their archaeological context to the safety of the museum’s
collections. A recurring theme of these stories was the re-
lationship between cultural patrimony and politics, on both
local and regional scales.
One example was his account of the discovery of a
fragment of one of the carved stone serpent columns that
once adorned the top of Pyramid B at the site, atop which
now stand Tula’s famous Atlantes. It was found in a 1973
salvage excavation to make way for a new neighborhood
being built just south of the present-day archaeological site
to house workers at the local PEMEX refinery. Too large to
move immediately, it was temporarily left in place, and in
the meantime surreptitiously removed and taken to the Gulf
Coast town of Tampico, the home of a PEMEX boss. Upon
hearing of its removal, his father Abundio sent a letter to an
INAH archaeologist requesting intervention, and the frag-
ment was returned. Later, armed men came to recover it once
again, but his father refused. Although he did not provide de-
tails on the resolution of that incident, he concluded the story
by noting that the fragment rests in the site museum today.
Another example comes from a story about one of Tula’s
Atlantes, which according to Agustı́n was transported to the
state capital of Pachuca in the 1950s to be placed in front of a
government building. A local civic group Agustı́n referred to
as the “Grupo Amante de Tula” exerted pressure on the state
government for its return, which they eventually achieved,
and it was then replaced atop Pyramid B, where it can be
found today.
The museum was also a source of livelihood and a
gateway into a future career for Agustı́n’s sister, Marı́a Elena.
She reported helping her father Abundio during her middle
and high school years with the upkeep of the museum and by
selling magazines and books to tourists. Compensation was
not a direct salary, but came in the form of always having a
little money in her pocket to buy what she wanted throughout
her teenage years. It was her time behind the museum shop
counter that allowed her to watch the comings and goings of
archaeologists working on projects nearby, an observation
that ultimately inspired her to begin her own career as a Tula
archaeologist.
Generations
Marı́a Elena’s teenage daughter Diana sometimes visits
her mother in the campamento, where she sits and watches
96
archaeologists sort through piles of broken pre-Hispanic
pottery. If this sort of thing fires Diana’s imagination as
much as it fascinates her mother, it does not show. Her
mother assured me that Diana would probably not receive
the same admonition from her as Marı́a Elena heard from
her father about her career choice: “You’ll starve to death!”
Nevertheless, it appears that the generational ties will be
severed, or at least attenuated, between the Súarez family
and Tula archaeology, since she has opted to study graphic
design, not archaeology, when she moves to Mexico City to
begin her university studies.
Don Flore is entering the twilight of his career in restora-
tion work at Tula. The physical tasks he undertakes in the
field these days are somewhat lighter duty than they were in
his youth. His thoughts often turn to his son Pablo, who now
has a son of his own. Pablo hopes to continue his father’s
work, something Don Flore commented he would be grati-
fied to see. As for Pablo’s own son, he will be welcomed into
the Jiménez lineage of restoration work should he choose
to do so, but Pablo stresses that it should be interest-based,
first and foremost. Just as Marı́a Elena declined to dissuade
young Diana from taking up archaeology, Pablo is careful
to allow his son to make his own decisions about whether
to take up restoration like his grandfather Don Flore or seek
his fortune outside the archaeological zone. “Still,” he said,
“it’s not a bad job. I wouldn’t be disappointed if he chose to
work here.”
Comparison with Published Case Studies
A survey of literature since the 1990s on the topic of lo-
cal participation in archaeological projects and tourism puts
the Tula case in global context and highlights points of inter-
section that invite future research. In general, there has been
a strong interest in the often conflictual relationships among
local populations, national governments, and outside groups
who seek to develop archaeological resources for academic,
economic, and political purposes or various combinations
thereof.
Agbe-Davies (2009) presents a classic case of local
populations’ mixed reactions to the Barbadian government’s
plans to develop a heritage site including a house once owned
by U.S. president George Washington to promote tourism to
the island. Silverman (2002:883) similarly documents the
complicated interaction between international, national, and
local agents to promote and contest the importance and sig-
nificance of archaeological sites within a vast tourist project
in Cusco, Peru. Van der Spek (2008) notes that the only
“ethnographic” information on the local populations near
the Theban Necropolis and their perspectives on looting and
J. Heath Anderson
the sale of real and fake antiquities until his 2004 disser-
tation came from archaeologists working in the region for
200 years. Their primary concern for the integrity of archae-
ological sites resulted in a decidedly dim view of the locals,
whom they regarded as little more than cynical grave rob-
bers. This impression was pervasive in the anthropological
community until Van der Spek’s ethnography, which sug-
gested that locals may have promoted this reputation as a
strategy to promote their sale of faked antiquities.
Because Tula was the capital of a pre-Hispanic expan-
sionist state, and considering its current status as a tourist
destination, the Inca capital of Cusco presents an interesting
counterpoint regarding management of cultural patrimony.
Silverman (2002) highlights the importance of several scales
of analysis to investigate how international, national, and es-
pecially local agents create sometimes opposing representa-
tions of the past. She underscores a 2001 strike undertaken
by a wide range of groups to protest the lack of action
by city authorities to protect Cusqueño cultural patrimony
from the effects of foreign and local investment in construc-
tion projects that threatened archaeological sites (Silverman
2002:891).
The idea of “participation” as a curative for the un-
desirable side effects of development has come under some
scrutiny in the development field as an ironically disempow-
ering management tool to control local populations and their
cultural resources (Chambers 2001; Hailey 2001; Henkel
and Stirrat 2001). Nevertheless, case studies from Bolivia
(Lima 2003; Nielsen et al. 2003) focus on efforts to promote
participation of local communities in projects concerning
their cultural patrimony, in part to mitigate the negative ef-
fects of increased tourism. In a case study from China, Xu
(2009:152) highlights the importance of local people devel-
oping their own heritage management methods as a way to
“resist outside control.”
It is possible to delineate some substantial differences
between the perspectives on Tula expressed during my in-
terviews and those reported in published sources. First, the
70+ years of local participation in archaeological projects
and current involvement in the tourist market stands in stark
contrast to most of the literature. Far from the contentious
landscape Silverman (2002) describes for Cusco, no ac-
counts of strikes or other opposition between local people
and INAH officials came up in my interviews. While the
Mexican government has long promoted tourism through
research and restoration projects at Tula, none of my in-
terviewees reported the kind of ambivalence evident in
Agbe-Davies’s Barbadian case.
It is all the more curious that accounts of contentious
relationships between local residents and INAH repre-
sentatives should be totally absent from my interviews
Voices from Tula, Hidalgo
considering the INAH’s 1993 purchase of ejido (“commu-
nal”) lands to fulfill the requirements of the presidential
decree that brought the archaeological zone into existence.
Only Agustı́n’s accounts of the “Amantes de Tula” citizens’
organization resemble Silverman’s corporate opposition to
outside groups. Even so, the events he describes did not
involve opposition to INAH archaeologists.
Second, most literature concerning local participation in
archaeological research and tourism tends to focus on inter-
actions that have taken place over fairly short time periods,
usually no more than the past 25 years. Tula represents an
opportunity to study how this dynamic evolved in the con-
text of changing economic and social environments from its
beginning in 1940, through the construction of the PEMEX
refinery in the 1970s, to the present day. Additionally, the
Tula case could present a counterexample to cases in which
participation is necessary to mediate the negative effects of
archaeological research and tourism.
Van der Spek’s (2008) cautionary tale about archaeol-
ogists’ bias when reporting the relationship between living
populations and archaeological sites is particularly instruc-
tive, especially for an exercise like the present one. This can
reveal itself in a number of ways, from the formulation of in-
terview questions to the portrayal of the people themselves,
as Van der Spek showed. Accounts of mistreatment of sites
or artifacts that interviewees report will likely be amplified
in the resulting ethnography, perhaps to the detriment of a
critical examination of the multifaceted motivations of the
actors themselves.
Directions for Future Research
In the decades since Acosta’s first archaeological
projects, Tula has received a great deal of attention from
archaeologists as the capital of the Toltec state. By com-
parison, its potential as a site for ethnographic research has
been relatively untapped. I conclude with some avenues of
inquiry for future study.
Generational and Familial Participation
I selected all of my interviewees based on my knowledge
of their families’ participation in archaeological projects for
at least three generations. But how pervasive is this dynamic?
Some proportion of the workforce in the annual INAH ar-
chaeological project has relatives who have also worked in
this capacity. But how great is this proportion? It remains
unclear how important family relationships are as a pre-
dictive variable for participation in archaeological projects.
How many generations generally tend to return to the site as
a place to work?
97
Social Networks and Employment
Only a very small percentage of Tula’s population can
participate in archaeological projects during a given year.
This surely makes social networks a key factor in who can
participate and who cannot. Recommendations for employ-
ment by longstanding participants strongly contribute to the
opportunity to work onsite. How does this affect power re-
lationships within the community? It is easy to imagine that
key personalities within the community have emerged as
gatekeepers to the benefits that come along with working
in the zone. How individual agents accrue and deploy this
social capital and how networks and hierarchies change over
time are questions ripe for future ethnographic research.
Economics, Education, and Personal Interest
One common point all of my interviewees made con-
cerns the idea that people work in the archaeological zone
because it addresses their personal connection to the site
itself or because it excites their particular interests. The eco-
nomic benefit is never disavowed, but it is frequently cast
as a secondary factor in the decision to work onsite. I was
left wondering how many other economic opportunities are
open to local people who work on archaeological projects.
It is difficult to accept at face value the idea that the decision
is made purely on the basis of personal interest.
Access to and exploitation of educational opportunities
must play a role in the breadth and quality of employment
options open to Tula residents. I suspect that personal interest
in Toltec archaeology would reach its maximum expression
in individuals whose economic prospects are restricted by
a lack of formal education. Diana Suárez’s decision to exit
the Suárez tradition of archaeological work when presented
with a range of opportunities for study is emblematic of this
issue. In contrast, the odds that Pablo’s son will follow in his
great-grandfather’s footsteps seem far better.
How much of this contrast can be ascribed to the gen-
erational effects described above? How much is due to the
greater opportunities afforded by access to education (see
Fernandez this volume)? And, complicating the question
further, to what extent are generational effects responsible
for access to education and vice versa?
Conclusion
Anthropological archaeologists throughout the world
would agree that fieldwork is not just interesting because
of what they find in the ground. The nature of the ar-
chaeological enterprise involves rich interactions with local
populations comprised of individuals with a wide range of
98
backgrounds, perspectives, and affiliations. As people who
are dedicated to a critical understanding the human condi-
tion, it is impossible not to be intrigued by the complexity
of interactions that we observe and experience working with
local people.
Equally, it is crucial to recognize our particular role
in the anthropological enterprise. Archaeologists are espe-
cially well positioned to be expeditionary anthropologists,
identifying opportunities for ethnographic research amongst
populations that present prospects for fruitful inquiry.
Archaeologists are frequently not in the position to advance
that inquiry beyond the initial stages, but it is nevertheless
our responsibility to share what we observe to provide points
of departure for future investigation.
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1956a Resumen de los informes de las exploraciones
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 11
Managing Legacy in Oaxaca: Observations on
the Development of a Community Museum in
San Mateo Macuilxóchitl
Ronald K. Faulseit
The Field Museum

ABSTRACT
Since the 1980s, indigenous communities in Mexico have shown increased demand to control the narrative
associated with the archaeological remains found on their communal lands. Subsequently, the National Institute
of Anthropology and History (INAH) has initiated a program for the development of communitarian museums,
providing a means for people to present their heritage on their own terms, and therefore, establish the legacy
between the modern and ancient communities. In this paper, I discuss the background behind this movement, as
wells as my own experience curating the materials from archaeological investigations in the communitarian museum
of an indigenous community in Oaxaca. [Zapotec, community museums, Oaxaca, archaeology]

I n 1986, the Shan-Dany museum, a cooperative effort be-

tween Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology and
History (INAH) and the Zapotec village of Santa Ana del
Valle, opened its doors to the public (Holo 2004). For the
community, Shan-Dany is a means of resistance to the na-
tional narrative, which manifests through two mechanisms:
(1) it presents a local historic perspective; and (2) the com-
munity assumes ownership of the archaeological materials
located on its communal land. The museum is also good for
INAH, as it has empowered a communal sense of responsi-
bility among the local population, allowing them to take an
active role in the preservation and protection of those archae-
ological materials. To visitors, the museum provides context
for the legacy of the artisanal textile and ceramic industry
in the region, thereby generating economic stimulus.
Since INAH’s creation, Oaxaca’s indigenous communi-
ties have been petitioning the institute in increasing numbers
for more direct control of their cultural legacies, resulting in
a significant statewide expansion of the community museum
program. In that time, specialists have worked to establish
a system that satisfies both the demand for local control of
archaeological remains and INAH’s federal mandate to pro-
tect Mexico’s cultural heritage. These developments are al-
tering the relationship between archaeologists and the com-
munities they work in, as indigenous populations take on a
more active role in the decision-making processes concern-
ing artifact preservation, curation, and presentation. Con-
sequently, most new projects incorporate INAH-supported
initiatives of public outreach and education within the local
communities (Robles Garcı́a 2004). Although there is a pro-
tocol for archaeologists to follow in communities that have
already established official community museums, many vil-
lages do not have them, while others are in the process of
gaining official recognition. In this dynamic environment,
archaeologists often find themselves at the interface of ne-
gotiations between INAH and the communities.
In this paper, I discuss my experience directing an
archaeological project on the communal lands of San
Mateo Macuilxóchitl, located in the Tlacolula section of the
Oaxaca Valley, while community members were negotiating
with INAH to establish their own museum. First, I present
some background information on the community museum

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 100–109, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12052.
Development of a Community Museum in San Mateo Macuilxóchitl
movement in Mexico, as well as the archaeological site
and its legacy to the community. The goal is to help
archaeologists better understand INAH’s recent initiatives
and how they relate to the usos y costumbres (uses
and customs) system employed in the semiautonomous
indigenous villages of Oaxaca (Hernández Dı́az 2007). It is
my hope that through this narrative, archaeologists looking
to conduct independent projects on communal or disputed
land in Mexico will gain insight on how to satisfy the
demands of the local communities while also fulfilling their
responsibilities as principal investigators to INAH.
Background
The Mexican community museum movement was the
result of two related processes that occurred toward the end
of the 20th century. The first involved a philosophical sea
change among Mexican intellectuals, especially anthropolo-
gists, concerning the development of national identity and its
ramifications for the indigenous population. The second in-
volved various political initiatives and resistance movements
driven by indigenous populations with the goal of gaining
greater autonomy and inclusion in the national discourse.
Perhaps to a greater extent than any other country, an-
thropology has played a prominent role in the development
of Mexico’s discourse on national identity and the corre-
sponding official narrative presented to the public (Clark
and Anderson, this volume; Peniche, this volume). Accord-
ing to Lomnitz (2001:230), “the institutional infrastructure
of Mexican anthropology is one of the world’s largest and
its political centrality within the country has been remark-
able.” This is due, in part, to the post-revolutionary desire
by the Mexican government to unite the country’s diverse
population behind an inclusive nation building effort. This
task was initiated by Manuel Gamio, a student of Franz Boas
and the “first professional Mexican anthropologist” (Bonfil
Batalla 1996:115), who helped put in place the practices of
Indigenismo (nativism), aiming to “modernize” the coun-
try through the assimilation of its contemporary indigenous
populations into a westernized economic and political model
of government (Lomnitz 2001). Prominent and renowned
anthropologists like Julio de la Fuente, Aguirre Beltrán, and
Alfonso Caso aided in furthering the “Indigenista” policy in
the years between 1930 and 1970 (Bonfil Batalla 1996:119).
As part of this effort, Mexico’s identity was construed
as one of mestizaje (i.e., everyone has mixed background,
similar to the U.S. concept of the “Melting Pot”), which rec-
ognized and even glorified the accomplishments and con-
tributions of pre-Hispanic indigenous societies, primarily
the Aztec, while at the same time attempted to homoge-
nize its modern population, by suggesting contemporary
101
Mexicans were all part a single mixed community (Bonfil
Batalla 1996:108–120; Holo 2004:31; Lomnitz 2001:228–
262; Peniche, this volume). Similar to the American “melt-
ing pot” concept, Mexico’s citizens were viewed as a blend
of “prehistoric” indigenous and “modern” western traditions
(Chorba 2007). This message was realized by and delivered
to the public through several anthropological institutions be-
tween 1935 and 1970, including INAH, the National School
of Anthropology and History (ENAH), the National Indian
Institute (INI), and the National Museum of Anthropology
(MNA) (Lomnitz 2001:254). The mestizaje narrative also
filtered out from the capital through the parallel develop-
ment of related state agencies and regional museums.
Beginning in the late 1960s, however, members of Mex-
ico’s intellectual elite, including anthropologists like Arturo
Warman, began questioning the efficacy of Indigenismo
practices, even suggesting they had a negative impact on
Mexico’s indigenous population (Lomnitz 2001). One of the
most widely read books of that period, Mexico Profundo,
penned in 1987 by INAH anthropologist Guillermo Bon-
fil Batalla, put forward the idea that mestizaje represented
a false national identity that undermined the true pluricul-
tural one, which was more localized and deeply rooted in
Mesoamerican agrarian traditions. He further argued that
the implementation of Indigenismo reinforced the racist idea
that western practices were superior to Indian traditions.
This movement ultimately resulted in a philosophical
reconstruction, when in 1992 “the Mexican government rad-
ically changed its official position on the nation’s ethnic and
cultural makeup” (Chorba 2007:2), and amended the con-
stitution of 1917 not only to accept the pluricultural rather
than mestizaje concept, but also to provide for the protec-
tion and promotion of diverse cultural traditions. Perhaps as
a result of this shift, the long held demands of indigenous
communities for greater autonomy and recognition became
widely publicized throughout Mexico, and even beyond. Or-
ganized movements, such as the well-known Zapatista re-
bellion (Collier and Quaratiello 1994), were emboldened by
the constitutional changes as indigenous groups seized the
opportunity to air their grievances on an international stage.
Most of these concerned such basic needs as access to food
and clean water, land rights, and self-determination, but they
also expressed the desire to preserve their indigenous tra-
ditions through bilingual education and greater control of
their cultural heritage.
While the National Museum of Anthropology was con-
sidered to honor Mexico’s rich cultural traditions, Bonfil
Batalla (1996:54–55) pointed out that its layout and displays
both drove and reinforced the post-revolutionary mestizo
narrative, in that “the spatial design of the museum empha-
sized the prehistory of Mexico on the ground floor, and all
102
references and exhibits having to do with indigenous cul-
ture are segregated to the second floor” (Ardren 2002:380).
Bonfil Batalla (1996:55) further noted that in general “the
Indian presence as depicted in murals, museums, sculptures,
and archaeological sites, all open to the public, is treated es-
sentially as a dead world” (Bonfil Batalla 1996:55). It is of
little wonder that anthropologists working at the museum in
the 1980s “expressed concern about the general absence of
visitors from the indigenous pueblos” (Holo 2004:36).
Unsatisfied with this situation, museum anthropologists
like Miriam Arroyo developed programs of public outreach
that would eventually lead to the creation of the first commu-
nity museums in Mexico (Holo 2004). Unfortunately, this
initial effort took a top-down approach, where professional
anthropologists made all of the decisions, including in which
villages to place the museums and the themes that were to
be presented. They received little input from the communi-
ties themselves and, consequently, communities did not take
ownership of the museums and they were not maintained,
resulting in their eventual failure (Holo 2004:37).
In Oaxaca, however, the initiative came from within
the communities themselves, when members of the town
of Santa Ana approached INAH specialists Teresa Morales
and Cuauhtémoc Camarenas with their plans for the
Shan-Dany museum (Holo 2004:38–47). Since then, these
two anthropologists have been at the forefront of INAH’s
community museum effort, and today, there are over 85
Oaxacan communities that have either petitioned INAH
for assistance, are in the process of preparing a museum,
or already have museums in operation. This effort has
been successful, in part, because rather than presenting
INAH-driven narratives, the villages construct the message
they wish the museums to tell, turning them into tools
“meant to directly address issues of their civic identity”
(Holo 2004:39). In this way, the community museum is
a source of civic pride, with much broader purpose than
merely a means to attract tourists or even display and
maintain their cultural heritage. They become focal points
for rejuvenating and continuing local indigenous traditions.
In Teotitlan del Valle, a village bordering Macuilxóchitl,
the community museum not only houses and displays arti-
facts from recent archaeological projects, but also contains
videos and dioramas explaining colonial and modern tradi-
tions, including dances and ceremonies that are open to the
public. It also presents the history behind the local artisanal
weaving tradition, as the town is well known for its beau-
tiful hand-woven wool rugs. Beyond the physical displays,
the museum has become a focal point for cultural events
and educational programs designed to reinforce the town’s
Zapotec identity. For example, museum officials have coor-
dinated with anthropological linguists to develop Zapotec
Ronald K. Faulseit
language textbooks, so that students can learn math and sci-
ence in their native language. The museum committee has
also sponsored events such as the maize festival, designed
to attract tourists to sample traditional meals prepared in the
village. The festival also featured lectures by INAH archae-
ologists on the pre-Hispanic development of maize, as well
as other specialists who discussed the effects of NAFTA on
maize production in the Valley. Despite the fact that Teotit-
lan is one of the most affluent and modernized communities
in the region, it has managed to maintain much of its Za-
potec heritage, and the museum is at the center of this effort.
This success story has not gone unnoticed by neighboring
communities like Macuilxóchitl.
Unlike the Teotitlán and Santa Ana, Macuilxóchitl does
not have an artisanal craft industry, and it is noticeably less
affluent. Its inhabitants are also not accustomed to interact-
ing with foreigners or tourists, and they are more suspicious
of and less inviting to them than their neighbors. Addition-
ally, its roads are not paved, making travel from the Pan
American highway to the town’s center difficult, especially
in the rainy season, the peak time for tourism. For these
reasons, attempts by the town’s authorities to attract tourists
have not been very successful, and their festivals and other
cultural events are not well attended by outsiders. What
Macuilxóchitl does have is one of the largest, albeit relatively
unknown, archaeological sites in the Valley of Oaxaca.
Dainzú-Macuilxóchitl and its Legacy to San
Mateo Macuilxóchitl
Although Dainzú-Macuilxóchitl covers an area of four
square kilometers, it is best known for the small portion
that encompasses the Dainzú Archaeological Zone, where
Bernal and Oliveros (1988) excavated several monumental
public structures and elite residences dating to the Early
Classic period (C.E. 200–500). Most notably, they uncov-
ered numerous large stones carved in low relief that depict
individuals taking part in what has been alternatively de-
scribed as either a ballgame or ritual combat (Bernal 1968;
Bernal and Seuffert 1979; Orr 1997). As regional INAH di-
rector, Bernal decided to open this zone to the public and
create a site museum to protect and display artifacts from his
excavations. An access road and parking area were prepared
and salvage excavations were conducted in the region where
the museum was to be built (Fernández and Gómez 1993).
Construction began soon afterward, but it was never com-
pleted and the weathered foundation is all that remains today.
Older inhabitants of Macuilxóchitl who worked with Bernal
recall that the artifacts ended up in the regional storage fa-
cilities some 25–30 kilometers away. Since then, INAH has
Development of a Community Museum in San Mateo Macuilxóchitl
maintained the zone, permanently employing a few mem-
bers of the village for site security and administration,
whose ranks grow periodically to assist in reconstruction
and preservation projects.
More recent projects have occurred outside of the ar-
chaeological zone, including independent small-scale ex-
cavations (Markens 2008) and a large salvage effort along
the highway corridor that runs through the site (Markens
et al. 2008; Winter et al. 2007). During that time, several
monumental structures were excavated and consolidated, but
nothing was opened to the public. While these projects pro-
vided temporary employment opportunities, the archaeolo-
gists’ initiatives to share their findings with Macuilxóchitl’s
residents were generally not well received. The materials
from these projects are also stored in the regional facilities.
Between 2007 and 2010, I directed a project focused
on a hilltop settlement located immediately west of
Macuixóchitl (Faulseit 2013). This mountain, known as
Cerro Danush (“old mountain” in Zapotec), is an important
part of the landscape for the local population, who are
likely the ancestors of its ancient inhabitants (Figure 11.1).
Archaeological evidence and historical documents show
that Macuilxóchitl was the seat of a powerful cacique in
the sixteenth century (Whitecotton 1983). The inhabitants
of the archaeological settlement probably migrated to the
location of the modern town in the Early Postclassic (C.E.
900–1300), when the ruling family established their dynasty
(Oudijk 2000).
Figure 11.1. Cerro Danush viewed from the Dainzú Archaeological Zone. Photo by the author.
103
Around 1580, the authors of the Macuilxóchitl’s
Relación Geográfica created a map of the region that
depicts Cerro Danush in the center in oversized proportions.
Every year, during the Festival of the Cross, members of
the community make a pilgrimage to a small shrine at
the summit (Figure 11.2), where they conduct overnight
rituals and prepare offerings to petition for a healthy
rainy season and bountiful maize harvest (Markens et al.
2008; Orr 2001). Having observed similar Festival of the
Cross ceremonies in the neighboring state of Guerrero,
Johanna Broda (2001) suggests they are the products of
syncretism between the Catholic liturgical calendar and a
pre-Hispanic festival calendar. During surface collections
at the summit, I recovered evidence of ritual offerings,
suggesting that ceremonies of this kind extend back into
the late pre-Hispanic era (Faulseit 2013).
In the Late Classic period (C.E. 500–900), the entire
peak of the mountain was transformed into a large pyramidal
temple with walled-in patio and central altar. The contempo-
rary shrine sits on top of this pyramidal platform. Artifacts
recovered in this area suggest they were the center of feast-
ing ceremonies related to the Zapotec rain deity, Cociyo
(Faulseit 2013; Markens et al. 2008). These data demon-
strate the significant and lasting role of the mountain within
the community. Residents describe Cerro Danush as “buun
zhab,” which signifies that the mountain is possessed. One
man even warned me not to go there seeking gold, as I would
end up lost inside a cave as others have in the past. This idea
104
Figure 11.2. The small shrine at the summit of Cerro Danush. Photo by the author.
stems from a widely held belief among highland Mesoameri-
can communities that an ambivalent trickster spirit inhabits a
sustenance-providing mountain, protecting its treasure from
would-be thieves (Barabas 2003; Lipp 1991; Villa Rojas
et al. 1975; Vogt 1969). The fact that Cerro Danush is con-
sidered to be such a place underscores its importance, and
my plans to conduct archaeological investigations there drew
suspicion and rumors that I had come seeking the treasure.
Of Community Museums and Archaeological
Projects
With a permit and letter of support from INAH, I went
to the weekly meetings of the town’s mayor and the commit-
tee that manages communal lands to ask their permission
to conduct the project. The authorities were supportive, but
expressed their desire to maintain control of all artifacts re-
covered. They announced they were preparing a space for a
community museum, and that the materials from my project
belonged there. As principal investigator, however, one of
my primary responsibilities was to document and turn over
the artifact collections to the regional INAH authorities, who
would then register and store them. I explained this obliga-
tion to the town’s officials, emphasizing that under Mexican
law, I did not have any authority over the project artifact
assemblage. Understandably, this explanation was met with
Ronald K. Faulseit
a somewhat hostile response, and people aired grievances
concerning previous archaeological projects on their land.
They argued that the people of Macuilxóchitl, having no ac-
cess to the artifacts or reports from those projects, received
no lasting benefit. They accused me of wanting to steal their
patrimony, and unanimously decided that the project could
not go forward unless they had a contract with INAH to
retain all of the project materials within the town.
At the time, Macuilxóchitl did not have an official com-
munity museum, meaning they did not have the means to
take possession of the artifact collections in a way that would
satisfy INAH’s mandate. They had, however, obtained fi-
nancial resources through Oaxaca’s state government and
a private company to restore a colonial period annex to
their church (Figure 11.3), which they intended for this pur-
pose, and they wanted me to curate the project artifacts
there. Consequently, I was allowed to begin the mapping
portion of the project, but had to wait to collect artifacts
while INAH officials negotiated with the town’s authorities
over the collection. When it became evident that the project
assemblage would consist solely of fragmented artifacts re-
covered from the surface, however, the town agreed to hand
over the materials to the regional INAH office. Afterward,
I submitted copies of my project report, along with reports
from other previous excavation projects, to Macuilxóchitl’s
authorities.
Development of a Community Museum in San Mateo Macuilxóchitl
Figure 11.3. The restored church annex of San Mateo Macuilxóchitl. Photo by the author.
For the excavation component of my project, which had
higher potential to yield artifacts that could be displayed in
the church annex, the town was adamant about keeping the
project materials. To demonstrate their conviction, the mayor
presented me with a letter to the regional INAH director,
which quoted directly from the United Nations’ Declaration
on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2008):
1. Indigenous peoples have the right to practise and revital-
ize their cultural traditions and customs. This includes the
right to maintain, protect and develop the past, present
and future manifestations of their cultures, such as ar-
chaeological and historical sites, artefacts, designs, cere-
monies, technologies and visual and performing arts and
literature.
2. States shall provide redress through effective mecha-
nisms, which may include restitution, developed in con-
junction with indigenous peoples, with respect to their
cultural, intellectual, religious and spiritual property
105
taken without their free, prior and informed consent or in
violation of their laws, traditions and customs. [United
Nations 2008:6]
Although this declaration does not carry legal authority
in Mexico, or any sovereign nation, this action indicated
that the community was both aware of and taking part in the
broader movements described above.
They were further empowered by the restoration of
their church annex and its public presentation as a “true
community museum” in a ceremony attended by the
governor of Oaxaca (Ruiz Ortı́z 2010). While the annex
was professionally rebuilt, complete with an alarm system
and display cases containing artifacts donated by the town’s
residents, INAH had not been part of the process and none
of the materials were inventoried. Additional unregistered
artifacts were stored in boxes inside the museum, and the
town’s authorities wanted the materials from my project
stored there as well. INAH regulations, however, do not give
106 Ronald K. Faulseit

archeologists authority to partake in the development or

augmentation of unsponsored museums. Instead, specially
trained personnel fulfill this role and follow a specific set of
guidelines for incorporating them into the official registry
of community museums.
Zapotec towns in Oaxaca are semiautonomous entities,
administered through a system commonly referred to as
usos y costumbres (Hernández 2007), where members of
the town rotate through civic-religious positions of author-
ity. In this system, committees, whose members are elected
periodically (usually at 1–3 year intervals) through a gen-
eral assembly, are charged to carry out all of the functions
of the town government. The guidelines for the community
museum program in Oaxaca were designed to create a mech-
anism that works within the usos y costumbres system and
ensures that archeological resources are properly maintained
and protected.
First, the initiative has to come from the community.
Local authorities must petition INAH to start the process,
because the museums require a significant commitment
from the community, and lack of interest would result in
poorly maintained museums, as experienced in the initial
community museum program. Since INAH must meet its
mandate to protect and preserve the resources, it is essential
that the towns are committed and accountable. I informed Figure 11.4. Items on display in the church annex. Photo by the
the town authorities of this, and helped bring them in con- author.
tact with the appropriate INAH officials. Several meetings
ensued, and their church annex received temporary official people volunteered and the committee was unable to amass
status with the condition that town authorities work to meet the requisite ten members. Regardless, the authorities were
the INAH regulations. This agreement satisfied the town adamant that the artifacts would remain in the town and be
authorities, and I was able to conduct the excavations, but displayed in the museum.
a few obstacles remained before I could register and curate As the project was winding down with no agreement
the project materials. evident, I worried that I might not be able to both fulfill my
The most important step for developing a community obligations as principal investigator to INAH and maintain
museum is the formation of a museum committee, which the relationship that I had worked hard to foster with the town
becomes a permanent part of the civic-religious hierarchy. officials. Fortunately, all of the parties involved wanted the
This is required, because it establishes a body within the usos museum to become official and see my collection stored and
y costumbres system responsible for the operation, mainte- displayed inside, and an agreement was finally reached. A
nance, and official inventory of the museum. These duties member of the town who had worked with INAH in the past
and responsibilities are passed on to the replacement com- agreed to take personal responsibility for both the museum
mittee after each election cycle, providing a permanent local operation and its collection, and a team of INAH archaeolo-
institution with which INAH officials can work to properly gists registered all of the materials already on display in the
maintain the museum. Unfortunately, the development of museum. I was responsible for documenting the artifacts and
a new committee creates a burden for the inhabitants of a developing the inventory list for my project collection, and
small, poor town like Macuilxóchitl, as there are already ensuring that all the items were properly stored and signed
many civic-religious charges (e.g., water, electricity, land over to the authorities.
use committees). Service is unpaid and requires a lot of INAH has since initiated a program of public outreach
time, including weekly meetings that take up precious hours in Macuilxóchitl to raise awareness of the importance of the
in the evenings and on weekends. Additionally, the museum archaeological site and the community museum. This effort
committee carries the added burden of being responsible aims to increase interest among residents enough to estab-
and accountable for the materials. For these reasons, few lish the requisite museum committee. INAH archaeologist
Development of a Community Museum in San Mateo Macuilxóchitl
Jorge Rios invited me to take part, and I had the pleasure of
climbing Cerro Danush with a few dozen members of the
community. At the summit, I discussed the results and inter-
pretations from my project, and learned about the Festival
of the Cross ceremonies from them. Additionally, I had the
opportunity to talk about the archaeological contexts and
the significance of materials from my project on display in
the museum. In the future, I plan to incorporate these types
of shared learning experiences on all of my archaeological
projects. The high attendance suggests that the INAH initia-
tive is working, and I am optimistic that the church annex
will soon be a certified community museum.
Concluding Remarks
The community-driven, INAH-supported museum pro-
gram has altered both the physical and political landscape
in Oaxaca with respect to the protection and promotion of
cultural heritage, which contributes to a growing sense of
cooperation between archaeologists and indigenous commu-
nities and establishes a framework for positive interaction
moving forward. Although the road is not always smooth, the
process of negotiation is both professionally and personally
rewarding as it provides insight into the civic-religious cargo
(required civic duties) and usos y costumbres structures that
is not available through coursework. Through this experi-
ence, I gained a deeper sense of appreciation for Zapotec
cultural tradition that informs my archaeological research. I
am grateful to have been entrusted by INAH to register and
curate the materials from the project, proud that they are
on display for the public in the community museum (Fig-
ure 11.4), and I look forward to working more closely with
the people of Macuilxóchitl in the future.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the Foundation for the Ad-
vancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc. and the Middle
American Research Institute for providing funding for
these projects. I am very grateful to all of the members of
INAH that assisted me in this endeavor, especially Enrique
Fernández Dávila (director of INAH Oaxaca), Mauro
Méndez, Iván Rivera, Cuauhtémac Camarenas, Jorge Rios,
and Jorge Bautista. I would also like to thank the residents
of Macuilxóchitl for allowing me to conduct this project
on their lands, but I owe particular gratitude to Ramon
Martı́nez (agente of San Mateo Macuilxóchitl) and Joel
Pérez (presidente del Comisariado de Bienes Comunales)
107
for their assistance and support. Thanks to Heath Anderson
and David Anderson for their comments on a previous
version of this paper.
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 12
The Mexican Legacy in Nicaragua, or Problems
when Data Behave Badly
Geoffrey McCafferty
University of Calgary

ABSTRACT
Investigations over the past 15 years have sought archaeological evidence for Mexican migrants to Pacific
Nicaragua, as indicated in ethnohistorical origin myths and as embraced by contemporary popular culture. Extensive
excavations at three Postclassic sites have provided evidence of domestic architecture, foodways, mortuary remains,
and religious practices—all considered to be potential archaeological indicators of ethnicity, but none of which
provide strong evidence of Mexican identity. A larger theme is the contemporary reaction to challenging the identity
of the indigenous ancestors. This paper discusses the Mexican legacy in Nicaragua, and strategies for negotiating
popular ideology with badly behaved archaeological data. [Nicaragua, migration, ethnic identity, heritage politics,
political identity]

I nvestigations over the past 15 years have searched for

archaeological evidence for Mexican migrants to lower
Central America, as indicated in ethnohistorical origin
myths and as embraced by contemporary popular culture.
For example, Nicaragua itself is named after the chief of
the Nahuat-speaking Nicarao who the Spanish first encoun-
tered in 1522. Nahuat- and Oto-Manguean speakers were
the major indigenous groups in Pacific Nicaragua at contact
(Abel-Vidor 1981; Chapman 1960; Ibarra Rojas 2001), and
although they were largely exterminated during the Colonial
period they are still the groups most associated with the Pre-
Hispanic past (Newson 1987). Problems arise in the very
non-Mesoamerican lifeways of Postclassic (C.E. 900–1550)
inhabitants along the shore of Lake Cocibolca (also known
as Lake Nicaragua), supposedly the “Mexican heartland” at
the time of European contact, as demonstrated through in-
tensive excavations of three Postclassic sites supposedly re-
lating to these migrant groups (McCafferty 2008a, 2010a).
Extensive analyses have evaluated domestic architecture,
foodways, mortuary remains, and religious practices—all
considered to be potential archaeological indicators of eth-
nicity, but none of which provide strong evidence of Mexican
identity. A larger theme relevant to this volume is the reac-
tion to challenging the identity of the indigenous ancestors,
which is perceived by Nicaraguan scholars as a blow against
entrenched concepts of ethnic origin and political identity.
This paper will discuss the Mexican legacy in Nicaragua,
and strategies for negotiating popular ideology with badly
behaved archaeological data.
Historical Context
Imagine the surprise and wonder of conquistador Gil
González as he entered the indigenous town of Quauh-
capolca in 1522 (Figure 12.1). A “garden city” of thousands
of inhabitants stretching for miles along the shore of an in-
land sea now known as Lake Cocibolca, Quauhcapolca was
the capital of king Nicaragua’s territory, and home to a peo-
ple known as the Nicarao. Added to that was the discovery
that the native group spoke a dialect of Nahuat closely affili-
ated with the language spoken by the Aztecs of central Mex-
ico. Nahuat was a lingua franca of Postclassic Mesoamerica,
spoken by the long-distance merchants from ports-of-trade

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 110–118, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12053.
The Mexican Legacy in Nicaragua
Figure 12.1. Mural in Rivas, Nicaragua, depicting arrival of Gil Gonzalez in Quauhcapolca (photo by author).
such as Cholula in the Mexican highlands and Xicalango on
the Gulf Coast (Berdan 1978; Chapman 1957).
Following in the footsteps of González were other
Spaniards seeking gold, glory, and souls, as had been won
by contemporary conquistadores such as Hernán Cortés and
Francisco Pizarro. Chroniclers of these incursions, espe-
cially Gonzalo Oviedo y Valdés (1976; see also Abel-Vidor
1980), recorded the cultural attributes of the natives of Pa-
cific Nicaragua, including a calendar system identical to
that of the Nahuas of central Mexico, a similar religious
pantheon, the use of human sacrifice and screenfold pic-
torial manuscripts (León-Portilla 1972), and the economic
importance of cacao (Steinbrenner 2006).
The chroniclers also noted the “mythstorical” origins of
the group, who claimed to have fled south “7 or 8 ages of
an old man” prior, leaving Cholula to escape the “tyranny”
of the Olmeca Xicallanca (Torquemada 1975–83, Volume
1:353–354). While frustratingly vague, this date has been
interpreted at C.E. 800–900 based on the “age of an old
man” being two Mesoamerican calendar rounds of 52 years
prior to Torquemada’s publication date in the early 1600s.
This migration myth links the Nicarao with other refugee
groups along the Pacific coast of Central America, such as
111
the Pipil of El Salvador (Fowler 1989). Note, however, the
possibility that if an “old man’s” age was only one calendar
round of 52 years, then the “mythstorical” date would be
about C.E. 1200–1250, and would thereby correspond to
another archaeologically defined transition.
This “Out of Mexico” origin myth is a pervasive legacy
of modern Nicaragua—taught in schools from the earliest
grades, reified through Nahuatl toponyms on the modern
landscape, and replicated through popular naming elements
such as the Taquerı́a Azteca. Historically, Nahuatl was spo-
ken by traditional groups into the last century (Field 1998;
Newson 1987), and members of small communities such
as Veracruz de Zapotal still identify themselves as ethnic
Nahua (De Burgos 2006).
Archaeological Context
Art historians of the 20th century were intrigued by the
vivid polychrome pottery of the Postclassic period, finding
close parallels with the Mixteca-Puebla stylistic tradition
centered at Cholula (Day 1994; Lothrop 1926; McCafferty
and Steinbrenner 2005a). Consequently, there was little
112
reason to question the pervasive belief in a Mexicanized
Nicaragua (Coe 1962; Healy 1988; but see Lange 1992–93),
and it seemed like an ideal test case for considering an
archaeology of Nahua ethnicity—which is what drew me
to lower Central America after 20+ years of archaeological
research in Cholula.
So imagine my surprise when, upon excavating at the
purported Nicarao capital of Quauhcapolca, I found little to
suggest Nahua ethnicity! Beginning in 2000, my team from
the University of Calgary, with close collaboration from ar-
chaeologists from the National Autonomous University of
Nicaragua and the University of Costa Rica, spent four field
seasons excavating at Santa Isabel, the major Postclassic
center along the shore of Lake Cocibolca that has tradi-
tionally been associated with Quauhcapolca (Healy 1980;
McCafferty 2008a; McCafferty et al. 2006). We excavated
at five mounds, as well as conducting intensive shovel test
Figure 12.2. Map of excavated loci at Santa Isabel. Map courtesy of Larry L. Steinbrenner.
Geoffrey McCafferty
survey of about 5% of the 300 hectare site (Figure 12.2).
The low mounds appear to have been residential in nature,
lacking stone or even adobe masonry in favor of wattle and
daub. Most floors were of simple packed earth, though some
thin plaster was detected at Mound 3.
Preservation of organic materials was exceptional, par-
ticularly for a tropical climate, and we recovered an abun-
dance of faunal and carbonized botanical remains. This was
important since foodways are considered one of the most
resilient characteristics of archaeological ethnicity (Twiss
2012; Wing 1981). Numerous infant burials were found in
and around the domestic contexts, where they had been in-
terred in ovoid-shaped “shoe” pots (McCafferty and Mc-
Cafferty 2012a). An adult male and two adolescents were
buried directly in the earthen mounds.
Polychrome ceramics confirmed the Postclassic oc-
cupation of the site, but seventeen radiocarbon dates
The Mexican Legacy in Nicaragua
Figure 12.3. Mound 1 excavations at Tepetate (photo by author).
contradicted the Late Postclassic/Contact period dating and
instead ranged from C.E. 900 to 1250 (McCafferty 2008a;
McCafferty and Steinbrenner 2005b). This date range re-
lates to the local Sapoá period, traditionally associated with
the Oto-Manguean speaking Chorotega group that migrated
from southern Mexico but supposedly arrived some cen-
turies before the Nicarao.
Disappointed that we had not found the Nicarao
described in Colonial documents, I obtained a second gen-
erous grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Re-
search Council of Canada to move up the coast to the site of
Tepetate, the current name for the Contact-period Chorotega
capital of Xalteva, on the outskirts of the Colonial city of
Granada. Granada has been “spreading its skirts” in re-
cent years, and Tepetate has almost been completely cov-
ered by modern development. It has also been a favorite
hunting ground for looters, and the contextual integrity of
the last remaining mound was severely impacted. In 2008
we were able to reach an undisturbed floor in Mound 1
(Figure 12.3) and also excavate two poorly preserved burial
clusters. An extraordinarily high soil acidity destroyed or-
ganic remains, even eliminating most of the polychrome
decoration on the pottery, and therefore the results were not
particularly comparable with those of Santa Isabel. Two ra-
diocarbon dates again indicated Early Postclassic, Sapoá pe-
riod occupation—again we had missed the Contact period!
So we moved again, to the well-protected site of El
Rayo on the Asese Peninsula that extends into Lake Coci-
bolca. Our excavations began at an area where a recent road
cut had intersected a Pre-Hispanic cemetery featuring more
of the Sacasa Striated shoe-pots. Expanding our investiga-
tions to other parts of the site, we also explored a residential
113
area occupied from the Late Classic Bagaces period (C.E.
500–800) through the Sapoá, and a Sapoá period ceremo-
nial burial precinct (Figure 12.4). El Rayo again provided
exceptional preservation, and therefore a nice comparison
with Santa Isabel. It was probably a secondary center of the
Xalteva polity, but may have also had a specialized funer-
ary function since some of the richest burials ever found
(scientifically) in Nicaragua come from this small fishing
community.
One surprising development was that the shoe-pots held
miniature vessels and concentrations of fist-sized basalt cob-
bles, but human skeletal remains were rare. Isolated human
skulls were occasionally found beside the urns and were
occasionally associated with large red-chert knives simi-
lar to those depicted at sites such as Chichén Itzá and El
Tajı́n in decapitation rituals (McCafferty and McCafferty
2012b). Eight radiocarbon dates indicated continuous occu-
pation spanning the late Bagaces period until abandonment
at the end of the Sapoá period, thus offering unprecedented
ability to interpret the cultural transition associated with the
arrival of foreign groups (McCafferty and Dennett 2013).
But again, the site appears to have been abandoned before
the arrival of the final wave of Nahua Nicarao of the Late
Postclassic period.
Discussion
As the result of more than 15 years of research in Pa-
cific Nicaragua, searching for Mexican migrants in order to
evaluate processes of ethnogenesis, we have learned a lot
about the Early Postclassic occupants (McCafferty 2010a,
2011; McCafferty and Dennett 2013). For example, we now
114
Figure 12.4. Burial complex at Locus 3, El Rayo (photo by author).
know that they subsisted largely on wild foods from the
rich local ecology: fish, deer, armadillo, and turtle, supple-
mented with native fruits such as jocote. We have not found
evidence of domesticates typical of greater Mesoamerica,
such as maize, turkey, or dog. The Chorotega lived in sim-
ple houses of wattle and daub. Whereas the sites are fairly
extensive we have found no evidence of monumental archi-
tecture or site planning. The rich material culture includes
a tremendous variety of artifact classes that provide an ex-
ceptional window on past lifeways suitable for a wide range
of cultural inferences.
But almost none of it corresponds to expectations for a
Mexican material culture. With its distinctive foodways, lack
of monumental architecture, different burial patterns, re-
gionally specific figurine styles, Pacific Nicaraguan material
culture is well-developed and clearly non-Mesoamerican.
The complete lack of comales, the distinctive ceramic grid-
dle used for heating tortillas, was one of the first things that
I noticed, in contrast to about 20 percent comal fragments
from contemporary Cholula domestic contexts (McCafferty
2001). Another red flag in the Nicaraguan assemblage is
the lack of incense burners, again in contrast to expecta-
tions. Something was significantly wrong with the “Out of
Mexico” hypothesis!
There are, however, some material attributes that are re-
markably similar to Mexican expectations. Some of the poly-
chrome pottery is nearly identical to Gulf Coast and Cholula
Geoffrey McCafferty
styles—a piece that I saw shortly after starting my work in
Nicaragua could have easily been slipped onto a work ta-
ble in Puebla and no one would have noticed. Iconographic
elements relate to the Mixteca-Puebla religious pantheon,
including feathered serpents, the Tlaloc storm god, and Eh-
ecatl aspect of the Quetzalcoatl complex (Figure 12.5). Sim-
ilarities, no doubt, but merely window dressing compared
to more substantial evidence of past behavior such as food-
ways, architecture and site planning, and mortuary practices.
The conclusion from all this is that a dramatic pop-
ulation change did occur at the Bagaces/Sapoá transition,
about C.E. 800, with the arrival of new ceramic styles, fig-
urines, burial patterns, and other elements of material cul-
ture (McCafferty 2011; McCafferty and Dennett 2013). In
regional settlement pattern surveys there is also evidence of
site abandonment and relocation at the transition (Niemel
2003; Salgado 1996). This population change conforms to
expectations of the Out of Mexico hypothesis—the prob-
lem being that there is almost no evidence that the new-
comers were Mexican! Following the second suggestion
of the “age of an old man,” however, another dramatic
change seems to have occurred at about C.E. 1250 with the
abandonment of all the sites that we have tested, suggest-
ing the possibility of another influx of migrants, perhaps
the Nahua Nicarao. Until Late Postclassic sites have been
adequately tested this possibility remains open for further
investigation.
The Mexican Legacy in Nicaragua
Figure 12.5. Stylistic indications of a central Mexican religious pantheon: feathered serpent imagery
(left) and Ehecatl supports (right). Photo by the author.
More Discussion, or Dealing with Badly
Behaved Data
As satisfying as it is to say “nyah, nyah, you got it
wrong!” to the historians, there are real-world consequences
to overturning a country’s historical, and political, identity.
And this did not go unnoticed by Nicaraguan colleagues!
An important component of our research program is col-
laboration with experts from the region, with public and
professional presentations for all levels of the interested
stakeholders. In North American scholarship there is often
a stronger sense of the apolitical ivory tower than in Latin
America. So the gringo announcing that ‘the emperor has
no clothes’ was not taken with the amusement with which I
had hoped.
My first experience was at a museum presentation in
Rivas, near the Santa Isabel site, when I first expressed my
concern over the lack of comales and the implication that the
inhabitants may not have consumed corn tortillas. My close
collaborator Jorge Zambrana, the most senior Nicaraguan
archaeologist and a solid scholar, calmly rebutted that “of
course they ate maize and that [I] just hadn’t recognized
comal sherds.” It is now ten years later and there are still no
comal sherds.
A few years after that, and after numerous presentations
in Nicaragua, I attended an important conference on Central
American archaeology held every two years in El Salvador.
Ramiro Garcia, then of the National Museum, presented
on the beautiful polychrome pottery and came to the tra-
ditional conclusion that they present clear evidence of the
Mexican connection. I then presented a retrospective on the
Santa Isabel project (McCafferty 2005), entitled “Buscando
los Nahuas de Nicaragua . . . encontrando ??? [Searching
115
for the Nahuas of Nicaragua . . . finding ???], with a more
forceful speculation on the lack of Mesoamerican funda-
mentals. At the end of my presentation the irate Minister of
the Nicaraguan Institute of Culture leaped to his feet and
denounced me as a “chichimec,” a Nahuatl term for “bar-
barian from the north.” This is clearly a politically charged
topic that requires careful consideration.
One of my father’s sage expressions was “Don’t tell me
your problems, tell me your solutions.” So how should I ne-
gotiate these turbulent waters when my data behave badly?
My Nicaraguan colleagues are terrific, and I have learned
much through our collaboration. The educational system in
which they have been trained, however, does not emphasize
critical evaluation of data as much as it does recitation of
known “facts.” It also strongly emphasizes skepticism of
all things gringo—new additions to our team have openly
resisted new ways to excavate, record data, and interpret
evidence. This is a common problem in community-based
collaboration, and it can be both rewarding and frustrat-
ing. By including Nicaraguan archaeology students in the
research I am inviting them to consider new ways of envi-
sioning the archaeological past and their own histories while
also including them in the dialogue of co-creating that past.
I am also strongly committed to the ideas of presenting
and publishing in ways accessible to all stakeholders. We
have often published Spanish language articles in popular
newsletters and local journals accessible to residents of
Rivas and Granada. We have also presented results in
museum lectures, and exhibited materials in museums in
Rivas and Granada. We regularly appear on local radio
and television news. More academic presentations have
occurred in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and El Salvador, as well
as in English-language professional meetings, and I have
116
extensive project sites on the Internet (McCafferty 2008b,
2009, 2010b).
In these ways we attempt to get the message out on the
substantive basis of our interpretations, emphasizing tech-
nical studies such as radiocarbon dating and petrographic
analysis, and a more holistic approach to archaeological
data than is typically used when budgetary constraints rarely
allow analysis to extend beyond rudimentary ceramic clas-
sification. These strategies have been somewhat successful,
and Nicaraguan students and professionals alike are begin-
ning to reference these new ideas rather than rote recitation
of the traditional “Mexican” interpretation.
Identity politics can be a dangerous game, and chal-
lenging entrenched ideas is always dicey. I would like to
think that this new way of conceptualizing the past serves
to empower traditional peoples who might embrace a strong
autochthonous past. Unfortunately, the indigenous groups
that are most visible in the area self-identify as Nahuas, so
in fact I am also disenfranchising their traditional claims. At
present, my loophole is that we have still not found evidence
of the Late Postclassic leading up to European contact and
therefore most relevant to comparisons with ethnohistorical
evidence, and we hold out hope that when we do, it will in-
clude abundant evidence for Mexican migration. Until that
time we will continue to integrate Nicaraguan scholars in
the interpretive process in order to present a more empir-
ically based archaeological past that may serve to reshape
the present, with a more nuanced perspective on Mesoamer-
ican interaction and greater emphasis on indigenous
development.
Acknowledgements
Funding for these projects was provided by the Social
Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and
the University of Calgary. Work was done under permission
of the Instituto Nicaraguense de Cultura. These ideas have
been developed following many hours of discussion with
my Nicaraguan colleagues: Bosco Moroney, Oscar Pavon,
William Vasquez, and especially Jorge Zambrana; the opin-
ions expressed are my own.
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 13
Archaeological Positivism and Cultural
Plurality: Working with Conflicting Views of
Mesoamerican Legacies
David S. Anderson
Roanoke College

ABSTRACT
The complicated cultural history of the modern nation of Mexico has created a lengthy list of people who have
vested interests in the protection, promotion, and presentation of the pre-Hispanic past. In this paper, I wrestle with
my own attempts to understand the complexities of these competing narratives by examining who the stakeholders
are in this situation and why they consider themselves to be stakeholders. Ultimately I attempt to address how we
can approach conflicts between stakeholders when their interpretations of the pre-Hispanic past do not agree. These
problems unfortunately are not simple and do not have simple solutions, but they do form an important part of
understanding the contemporary legacies of ancient Mesoamerica. [heritage politics, archaeological stakeholders,
Mexican archaeology]

Archaeology is the search for fact, not truth. If it’s positivism, stakeholders, and archaeological truth. In this
truth you’re looking for, Dr. Tyree’s philosophy class is chapter, I will explore these concepts and question whether
right down the hall. [Dr. Henry “Indiana” Jones, Jr.] or not Dr. Jones is right in positing that archaeology, as a

T his volume grew out of my interest in the perpet-

ual prevalence and enduring influence of pre-Hispanic
Mesoamerican cultures in present day Mexico. Working in
Yucatan, I encounter examples of the living past around ev-
ery corner, whether it is in the form of municipal monuments
honoring ancient Maya ancestors, tourist vendors pushing
a variety of Maya themed trinkets, or even the neighbor-
hood “lightly-used” tire shop, Llanterı́a Maya. When I first
teamed up with my co-editors to arrange a conference ses-
sion on this topic, I never imagined the kind of response
that we would get. As the abstract proposals came in, we
were amazed by the diversity of perspectives that our col-
leagues had to offer on this subject. The resulting collection
of papers elucidates many ways in which cultural identi-
ties are actively formed in dialogue with the past and the
present within Mexico. The process of bringing this volume
together has challenged many of my core beliefs regarding
method of inquiry, is relegated to the realm of facts alone.
In the spring of 2008, I spent two months sitting alone
in a room surrounded by piles upon piles of pottery sherds. I
had to wash them, count them, weigh them, sort them, re-sort
them, and ultimately identify their typological significance
in order to answer the archaeological research questions I
had spent many more months devising. As a self-identified
anthropological archaeologist, I would proudly say that I was
studying the people who inhabited a long abandoned Pre-
classic Maya community. And yet, the day-to-day questions
I struggled with were focused on material matters. Which
Munsell color best fits this sherd? Is this an inward curving
neck sherd, or an outward curving body sherd? And, what
is the difference between the Joventud Red and Sierra Red
pottery types? Is there any difference at all?
Archaeology is deeply ensconced in the world of the
material, and it is in the world of the material that I feel most

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 119–127, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12054.
120
comfortable. I have long been drawn to positivistic schools
of thought where objective data are used to demonstrate that
we are not letting our own preconceived notions get in the
way of solid conclusions. While I was familiar with several
commentaries on “theory-laden” data (e.g., Hodder 1986;
Shanks and Tilley 1987; Trigger 1980), I was confident that
a well formulated research plan could avoid excessive prob-
lems along these lines.
As my involvement in public archaeology has grown, I
have become interested in the problems represented by alter-
native interpretations of the archaeological record. Regard-
less of how rigorous or objective my research methodology
is, others will still interpret the results of my research within
the context of their own worldview. I was not fully prepared
to appreciate the complexities of this issue when I began
working in Mexico. During one of my first archaeological
projects in Yucatan, I found myself speaking with a rural
Yucatecan. To my foreign eyes he represented a descendent
of the pre-Hispanic Maya populations. As such, he caught
me off-guard when he asked “What happened to the Maya?
Where did they all go?” Confused, I stammered out an an-
swer suggesting that their descendents still lived in Yucatan,
but my answer seemed to provoke a similar level of con-
fusion in my new friend. Only in retrospect did I begin to
understand that our mutual confusion arose out of my faulty
assumption that biological descent could be equated with
ethnic continuity, and the realization that Mexico’s national
educational program has molded the country’s indigenous
past into a tool of nation building favoring the Mexica and
not the Maya as the nation’s ancestors (e.g., Bonfil Batalla
1996; Florescano 1994; Peniche, this volume).
The nation-state of Mexico inherited a diverse ethnic
and cultural landscape from both the variety of pre-Hispanic
cultures found in the territory and the subsequent con-
quest and colonial occupation. This diversity alone creates
a lengthy list of people interested in the presentation, inter-
pretation, and preservation of the pre-Hispanic past (e.g.,
Robles Garcı́a 2010; Stoll, this volume, Vargas-Betancourt,
this volume). Ongoing economic development within the
nation, particularly in the tourism industry, has created even
more stakeholders in the pre-Hispanic past, which has be-
come a subject of commodification to be marketed and
sold to national and international tourists (Castañeda 1996;
Muñoz-Fernandez, this volume; Venter and Lyon, this vol-
ume; Walker 2009). Furthermore, as awareness of world her-
itage has grown following the efforts of UNESCO and other
agencies, more people around the world have embraced the
need to protect cultural remains. In a very real way, there are
more people today who are interested in the pre-Hispanic
cultures of Mexico than ever before.
David S. Anderson
Multiple Truths; Or, Conflicts Arising from
Multiple Stakeholders
In any situation that involves multiple stakeholders,
each bringing variant agendas and backgrounds to the
table, conflict is perhaps inevitable. From an archaeological
perspective, the growing tourism industry and its commodi-
fication of the pre-Hispanic past is an easy example. Mexican
archaeology is the outgrowth of a lengthy academic tradition
that prides itself on developing a complex and nuanced pic-
ture of pre-Hispanic cultures. As a result, there is nothing
that will more readily set archaeologists to grinding their
teeth than listening to a tour guide fielding questions from a
group of sunburned tourists. I will never forget overhearing
a tourist at the Postclassic Maya settlement of Tulum asking
his guide whether the inhabitants of the site had been a part
of the Chichén Itzá alliance against the site of Cobá. Setting
aside the basics of what archaeological data can and cannot
tell us about political relationships, any conflict that might
have occurred between the communities of Chichén Itzá and
Cobá would have occurred at least 200 years prior to the oc-
cupation of Tulum (see Andrews et al. 2003; Cobos Palma
2004; Shaw and Johnstone 2006; Suhler et al. 2004; Web-
ster 2001). I was taken aback by both the explicit intent with
which the tourist asked this question (that is, the tourist was
already well versed in the apparent existence of this alleged
alliance) and the tour guide’s unflinching answer that “Yes,
yes indeed, Tulum was a significant member of the alliance.”
The real world economics of the situation described
above necessarily make the tour guides working at
Tulum stakeholders in the pre-Hispanic past. Following
Morag Kersel (2012:256), stakeholders can be conceived
broadly as any individual who “believes that they have a
right to possess, or protect, or purvey (or any combina-
tion of these actions) archaeological artefacts.” Simply put,
archaeological stakeholders are those who have a vested
interest in the past. The tour guide at Tulum provides for
his family through the income gained from giving tours.
The pre-Hispanic past is as important to him as to any ar-
chaeologist. The tour guide’s income further depends on his
ability to give an entertaining tour, which requires narrative,
conflict, and emotion, all the elements of good storytelling.
And, whether we want to admit it or not, all good storytellers
sacrifice a fact or two on the altar of entertaining narrative.
Tour guides, however, are low-hanging fruit to the crit-
ically minded archaeologist. It is a simple matter to dismiss
the guide’s narrative as economically motivated, while ele-
vating our own academically motivated pursuits as reflect-
ing more noble issues of heritage and preservation. A recent
archaeological controversy in the United States, however,
Archaeological Positivism and Cultural Plurality
helps to make clear that archaeologists are subject to the
same economic motives. In 2011 Spike TV announced it
would air a new reality show entitled American Digger. The
show would feature host Ric Savage carrying out excava-
tions (occasionally with dynamite) in search of artifacts to
sell on the antiquities market (Tucker 2012). The show was
widely denounced by professional archaeologists as promot-
ing looting, the destruction of the archaeological record, and
committing the sin of being driven by economic motives
(Bartman 2012; Limp 2012; Mullings 2012). Amidst the
controversy, Ric Savage made a comment during an inter-
view that was simultaneously frustrating and deeply insight-
ful. Savage said,
I understand where the archaeologists are coming
from. You’ve got two groups of people who want to be
part of history, to dig it up and hold it in their hand. The
only difference is I’m doing it to make a living. They’re
doing it to write papers and make it to associate professor
and get tenure. [quoted in Carter 2012]
Savage’s statement accidentally illuminates the undeniable
reality that writing papers and (hopefully) getting tenure is
the archaeologist’s way of “making a living.” Archaeologists
can hold up as many ethical standards of the discipline as
they want, but if one does not qualify for tenure they will
be stuck looking for another job. As long as we live in
a capitalistic society, we are all economic stakeholders in
whatever subject we pursue.
Looking beyond economics, there are many other stake-
holders in the pre-Hispanic past, and thus many more con-
flicts to be found. Since its founding in 1939, the Instituto
Nacional de Antropologia e Historia (INAH) has been the of-
ficial government representative for the nation’s past (Bernal
1980). In spite of, or perhaps because of, INAH’s successful
management of archaeological resources, we have seen an
increasing number of communities interested in maintain-
ing control over archaeological materials. One of the main
outlets for this interest comes in the form of community
museums, which allow materials to stay where they were
found rather than being sent to state or national museums
(Ardren 2002; Camarena and Morales 2006; Faulseit, this
volume; Hoobler 2006). The rising popularity of commu-
nity museums has unfortunately placed INAH in occasional
conflict with community members. In these cases, both par-
ties are clearly devoted stakeholders interested in preserving
and promoting the pre-Hispanic past, but conflict arises over
local versus national interests.
As should be apparent from this volume, the concept of
descendent communities is notably complex in Mexico (see
also Castañeda 2004; Magnoni et al. 2007). In those cases
where contemporary communities view themselves as the
direct descendants of pre-Hispanic populations, community
121
members become powerfully motivated stakeholders, partic-
ularly in regards to how the pre-Hispanic past is presented
(see Vargas-Betancourt, this volume; Stoll, this volume). In
such a case, the conception of a relationship with the past is
of the greatest importance, not whether that relationship can
be explicitly demonstrated through archaeological or doc-
umentary evidence. As Stoll (this volume: Chap. 3, p. 31)
relates, it is conceivable that pelota Mixteca is derivative
of Spanish handball games, but the players she interviewed
“insisted strongly that the game is a long tradition with pre-
Hispanic roots.” One might imagine in this situation that
if an archaeologist or historian presented data demonstrat-
ing that the pelota Mixteca is in fact a Spanish game, their
research would not be favorably received by the players in-
terviewed by Stoll.
As it happens, we do not have to stretch our imagina-
tions too far for such a scenario. McCafferty (this volume)
presents an excellent example of this very situation. In his
efforts to document the presence of immigrant Nahua com-
munities in pre-Hispanic Nicaragua, McCafferty has been
unable to find any material correlates suggesting the pres-
ence of such a population. Given that the modern nation of
Nicaragua is named after an ethnohistorically attested Nahua
group, the Nicaro, McCafferty’s research has created notable
conflict with Nicaraguan officials who insist his results are
mistaken. This conflict brings us to the crux of my own per-
sonal conflict between positivism, stakeholders, and truth.
In conflicts between stakeholders, is truth a relevant point of
discussion? Can both McCafferty and the Nicaraguans be
right from their own perspective?
Returning to our example of the tour guide’s proposed
role of Tulum in the conflict between Chichén Itzá and
Cobá, I feel comfortable suggesting that archaeologists have
a more accurate conception of what happened in the past.
Does this mean, however, that we should privilege archaeol-
ogists as more deserving stakeholders? Or, should the people
of Nicaragua have a greater right to overrule McCafferty’s
findings? What is the importance of truth in these conflicts?
Data, Positivism, and Truth
I have long been drawn to archaeology’s ability to
unmask biases in written records. A classic example of
this phenomenon comes from William Rathje’s Garbage
Project (Rathje and Murphy 2001). As part of the study,
surveys were sent to homes in Tucson, Arizona, asking
members of the household to characterize their consump-
tion patterns. Rathje and his team members later sorted
the garbage that came from these households, examining
how the discarded material culture matched the answers
to the survey questions. The project found that “people
122
consistently underreport the amount of regular soda, pas-
tries, chocolate, and fats that they consume,” and that they
“consistently overreport the amount of fruits and diet soda,”
consumed (Rathje and Murphy 2001:70). These results are
not surprising, but they are illustrative of how the study of
discarded material culture can, at least in certain situations,
offer a more accurate picture of human action than records
written by motivated stakeholders. The Garbage Project’s
carefully constructed research design resulted in objective
data that could uncover the truth behind people’s patterns
of consumption, a truth that the consumers themselves had
an active interest in manipulating.
Studies such as this have reinforced my personal valua-
tion of positivistic approaches as the best method to under-
stand human behavior. Human beings are notorious for their
ability to present narratives that are to their own benefit. In
his letters to the King of Spain, Hernan Cortes had a vested
interest in presenting his actions in the best light possible
because the Governor of Cuba was trying to arrest him for
disobeying direct orders (Elliot 1986). The remaining Span-
ish chronicles depicting Mexico’s pre-Hispanic inhabitants
were written either by priests seeking to offer descriptions
to help their fellow missionaries convert the natives, or by
retired conquistadors seeking to demonstrate their service
to the Crown and thus gain a pension to support themselves
in their old age. Ethnohistoric sources on the pre-Hispanic
cultures of Mexico represent a veritable minefield of person-
ally motivated biases. For me, archaeology has represented a
dispassionate workaround to these problems. Discarded pot-
sherds do not care about pensions or converting the natives;
they represent only the fact of their manufacture, use, and
discard. Archaeologists themselves may be no less prone to
the biases that drove Cortes to write his letters, but the data
are still there for anyone to examine.
One may ask, however, what relationship those data
have to the “truth.” At the beginning of this chapter, the
good Dr. Jones informed us that archaeology is about facts
not truth. The quip clearly implies that truth is subjective
and fluctuating, not like solid and dependable facts (or data).
The quality of our data, however, is entirely dependent on
our own knowledge and the quality of our questions. Maya
archaeologists, after all, once firmly held that the magnif-
icent Classic Maya cities represented “vacant ceremonial
centers,” based on their observations which failed to note
the presence of domestic architecture (e.g., Brainerd 1956;
Morley and Brainerd 1956; Thompson 1958). Only as re-
search continued among these settlements did evidence for
domestic architecture gradually come to light. Perhaps indi-
vidual facts do not change, but our understanding of them,
and the bigger picture they represent, do. Careful interpre-
tations of accumulated facts represent our best attempt at
David S. Anderson
explaining what really happened in the past. If we constantly
restrict ourselves to the realm of facts, then it is difficult to
move beyond purely descriptive details, such as the number
of pot sherds found at a site or the character and style of
a site’s architecture. Archaeology, even strict positivistic
archaeology, always strives to reveal more than just facts.
Truth, however, further incorporates a concept of judg-
ment, a concept of right and wrong. I can comfortably say
that the Maya archaeologists who advocated for the vacant
ceremonial center model were wrong. Their hypothesis was
not true; new data demonstrate that these sites were home
to dense human settlement (Culbert and Rice 1990; Folan
et al. 1983; Haviland 1965; Kurjack 1974). The overturn-
ing of ideas in this manner is at the heart of the scientific
method. We must, above all else, be willing to see that our
interpretations were wrong when new data come to light.
But, what about the tour guide I overheard at Tulum? I can
comfortably state that he was factually wrong. Excavations
at Tulum have documented material culture demonstrating
it was occupied in the Postclassic period, after the collapse
of both Chichén Itzá and Cobá (Webster 2001). The answer
he gave to the tourist was not true, and to be honest, when I
heard his answer I thought about raising my voice and say-
ing as much. I decided not to interrupt, mostly because my
mother would have said it was rude, but I also knew that it
would appear to the tourist as if I was picking a fight over
small details. Looking back on the incident with the experi-
ence I have gained since, I also know that if I had challenged
the tour guide on his facts I would have been assaulting his
livelihood and his position as a stakeholder. For a tour guide,
truth lies in a reasonably accurate yet compelling narrative
of the pre-Hispanic past. His narrative was wrong, but the
tourist who asked the question is now interested in the Maya
due to that compelling presentation. If he had to listen to
me and my woes over distinguishing between Joventud and
Sierra pottery, he might have quickly lost interest. Still, the
conflict between truth and stakeholders exists.
The Validity of Stakeholders
The Maya recently found a new group of stakeholders
in the form of New Age spiritualists. As we approached
the conclusion of the 13th bak’tun of the Maya Long Count
calendar, their numbers swelled, and they are some of the
most impassioned stakeholders I have ever met. Many of
these spiritualists believed that the conclusion of the 13th
Bak’tun would herald a new awakening in human conscious-
ness foretold by the ancient Maya (see Argüelles 1987;
Calleman 2004; Jenkins 1998). In contrast to interrupting
a tour guide, I was more than happy to speak out on this
Archaeological Positivism and Cultural Plurality
topic; in fact, I went out of my way to seek out venues where
I could talk with people about the Maya and their calendars.
The Maya 2012 movement represented to me the hijacking
of an ancient culture by modern interests in spiritualism and
apocalyptic fervor (see Aveni 2009; van Stone 2010). People
were using (whether consciously or not) the ancient Maya
to forward their own Western interests. This crossed too far
across the line of truth for me to not object. Most of the
people that I spoke with were surprised by the hubbub sur-
rounding the calendar and generally interested in what I had
to say. But, on some occasions, I found myself talking with
believers. Their reactions to my positivistic and archaeolog-
ical approach ranged from polite acceptance of my lack of
faith to incredulity that I could not see the obvious.
The New Age spiritualism movement’s appropriation of
what they deem to be ancient Maya beliefs presents a point
to ask the question: are all stakeholders valid? Just because a
group is passionately devoted and interested in maintaining,
preserving, and promoting the pre-Hispanic past (or at least
their perceptions thereof), are they valid stakeholders in that
past? In this exaggerated case it is easy for archaeologists
to answer no. Unlike many of the stakeholders discussed in
this book, most of the people who embraced the New Age
perspective on the Maya calendar had no cultural, biologi-
cal, or even historical connection to the ancient Maya. And,
I would argue, their interpretations of pre-Hispanic Maya
culture represent distortions of that culture.
At this point, however, I would ask how I am differ-
ent from a New Age spiritualist. My family is of decidedly
mixed European ancestry, I grew up in the predominately
white Chicago suburbs, and I had never even been to Mexico
before I decided to make the pre-Hispanic Maya the focus
of my college studies. My claim to being a stakeholder thus
also lacks a direct historical or cultural connection. For me,
the difference lies in the realm of Dr. Jones’ facts. I have
taken up a career focused on learning as many possible facts
about the Maya. And I embraced an epistemological philos-
ophy where I must seek out all relevant facts on the topic in
question, and that I cannot lay aside any of those facts if they
do not fit with my desired interpretations. When faced with
the question of what the Maya believed about the conclusion
of the 13th bak’tun, I turned directly to their written records,
presenting and discussing those stelae that happened to men-
tion the date. For the spiritualists with whom I spoke, this
approach left them wanting. Sterile texts recording dates and
events do not epitomize thought, consciousness, or religios-
ity; besides, the fact that the texts were mute concerning
the more grandiose theories of apocalyptic catastrophes and
shifts in consciousness made for less than compelling nar-
ratives.
123
The central question remains, does simply being a stake-
holder make one’s perspective valid? While theoretical in-
terests in multivocality may encourage us to say yes, I would
argue that the answer is decidedly no. If we accept Kersel’s
(2012) aforementioned definition of stakeholders, even loot-
ers should be considered stakeholders in the pre-Hispanic
past. After all, these individuals are devoted to, and in some
cases dependent on, archaeological materials. If looters can
be considered stakeholders, we have a serious problem on
our hands. What then is the appropriate metric for deter-
mining valid stakeholders? Whose opinions, whose interest,
should be prized over “less valid” stakeholders?
As an archaeologist, I would note that most of what we
know about the people of pre-Hispanic Mexico has come
about as a result of archaeological research. The fact that
Chichén Itzá and Cobá were occupied during similar peri-
ods, and that they had at least a mildly antagonistic relation-
ship is only known because of detailed research by many
devoted archaeologists (Andrews et al. 2003; Cobos Palma
2004; Shaw and Johnstone 2006; Suhler et al. 2004). Our
tourist and tour guide at Tulum could not have had their
conversation without this research. Likewise, Maya archae-
ologists and their epigrapher colleagues were among the first
to document the Maya calendar and begin to decode its in-
terlocking cycles (Morley 1940). Without this foundational
work, the New Age spiritualists would have had no reason
to notice the passing of December 21, 2012. The creation
of this foundational knowledge must count for something in
the realm of stakeholder validity.
As stated above, however, many archaeologists study-
ing the pre-Hispanic past have no direct historic or cultural
tie to that past. Descendant communities can make a much
more visceral claim for their position as stakeholders in the
preservation, interpretation, and presentation of the material
remains created by their ancestors. Much of the literature
addressing the concept of stakeholders has focused on
descendant communities (e.g., Borgstede 2002; Davidson
and Brandon 2012; Parker Pearson and Ramilisonina 2004;
Robles Garcı́a 2010; Watkins 2012), including approxi-
mately half of this volume (see Stoll, this volume; Vargas-
Betancourt, this volume; Souza, this volume; Xiuhtecutli,
this volume; Alonso, this volume; Faulseit, this volume;
McCafferty, this volume). Descendant communities have
an obvious and important connection to their own personal
ancestors, and yet cultural identity within descendent
communities is constructed and contested in the modern
world, not the ancient past. As summarized by Fernández,
the children of San Antonio Sihó, Yucatan, construct
their identities from a diverse set of modern and ancestral
sources. These children
124
play roles in celebrations to the patron saints, pre-
pare and enjoy mucbilpollos dedicated to the deceased,
support the Barcelona soccer team, dance jaranas, watch
TV soap operas, listen to Justin Bieber’s music, eat panu-
chos and handmade tortillas, while also loving pizza.
Some of them have been part of traditional practices
such as the hetz mek and take pictures of such events
with their cell phones. Most of them are Catholic and
also speak about aluxes and astronomers’ black holes.
[Fernández, this volume: Chap. 6, p. 65]
Our understanding of the past is undeniably constructed in
the present. Descendent communities hold an important role
as stakeholders, but that role is neither simple nor immune
to bias.
Who is a valid stakeholder? Disappointingly, there is
no simple answer to this question, if there is a satisfac-
tory answer at all. I am comfortable stating that descendent
communities and archaeologists are valid stakeholders, yet
conflict regularly arises between these two groups (see Ata-
lay 2010; McCafferty, this volume). When it comes to tour
guides or former professional wrestlers turned pothunters, I
have no doubt that such individuals have a real stake in the
past, but the short-term nature of their goals and interests
makes their view of the past at times incompatible with the
more long-term perspectives sought out by other stakehold-
ers. But these disparate groups of stakeholders should not
avoid speaking to one another; as stakeholders, all parties
have shared goals that dialogue could help to forward. Out of
even the most contentious relationships some good may be
found. The 2012 spiritualists, for example, did more to make
the ancient Maya a common household topic of discussion
then any archaeologist or indigenous rights advocate has
ever been able to do, and public awareness is an invaluable
tool in the fight to preserve archaeological materials against
the ever-encroaching present.
Concluding Remarks
Muñoz-Fernández (this volume) eloquently describes
the multitude of ways in which the Cancún tourist market
has commodified the ancient Maya past. While the influence
of this tourist market is of great importance, we must also
recognize the influence of the well-meaning scholars arriv-
ing through the same gates as the tourists. Upon arrival in
the Cancún airport, I have a well-established pattern with the
primary goal of making it out of the tourist zone as quickly
as possible. When my plane arrives, I disembark keeping
my head down trying not to listen to the tourists eagerly
discussing varieties of tequila shooters and how weird it is
to see signs in Spanish. Once I make it through immigration
and customs, I make a beeline for my preferred taxi-van
service, which will take me to the bus station and away
David S. Anderson
from Cancunlandia. On one of these trips, I was confronted
with the reality of how I had become just as much of a
stereotype as the tourists around me. As I walked up to taxi-
van desk, I asked in my politest Spanish if I could please
have a ticket to the bus station. The young man working be-
hind the desk looked up at me and immediately asked, “Are
you an anthropologist?”
At the time, this encounter seemed primarily humorous,
but it has left a lasting impression on me in the form of a
reminder that we, the anthropological community, are creat-
ing the past through our studies in the present. This fact is
well represented in J. Heath Anderson’s (this volume) study
of the long-term social impacts of archaeological research
at the site of Tula. In asking people who work at the site
today about their own perceptions of Tula, one of the prin-
ciple topics to arise in their responses was the personality
of the site’s original archaeologist, Jorge R. Acosta. Acosta,
jodhpurs and all, created the site that they knew, as surely as
the Toltecs had done before him.
The dialogue between past and present is pervasive
throughout Mexico. It creates a constant stream of interac-
tion that keeps the past as alive as the people who remember
it. This relationship between past and present is what first
raised my interest in the legacies of Mesoamerica, but it has
been the experience of elucidating those legacies that has
had the greatest impact on me.
I will probably always fall back on data. Counting,
weighing, and analyzing pottery sherds may not tell us ev-
erything there is to know about the people who made them,
but I can feel more confident with the conclusions I am able
to draw from these scant remains. No matter what conclu-
sions I draw, however, others will have their own perspective
on those conclusions. People become stakeholders because
they have a vested interest in the past, and as a result they
will interact with the past based on that interest. Archae-
ologists have a professional responsibility to interact with
stakeholders, in all their myriad varieties. If we believe that
our interpretations of the past have any validity then we
should actively promote those interpretations among all in-
terested parties. Our facts may not represent the totality of
truth, but they shine a light back into the mists of time that
occasionally allows us to learn something new about the
legacies of ancient Mesoamerica.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank all of the participants in this vol-
ume. Their work has been profoundly influential on my own
thoughts regarding public archaeology in Mexico. When I
first proposed this project to my co-editors, I never imagined
how much I would learn in the process. Thank you all!
Archaeological Positivism and Cultural Plurality
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 14
Archaeological Legacies of Knowledge
Pamela R. Frese
College of Wooster

ABSTRACT
The scholars in this volume successfully illustrate that state and local governments, archaeologists, museums,
and the tourist industries actively manipulate “truth” about the past in ways that reflect both an “authentic”
heritage and contemporary ethnic, political and economic hegemonic structures. Overall, the volume contributes to
current issues of identity construction; to questions of authenticity and commodification of culture; and, to issues
surrounding tourism in Mesoamerica. Three significant themes are woven throughout the articles: the reliance
on the historical and archaeological past to empower subaltern groups to resist hegemonic structures especially
through forms of expressive culture, museums, and tourist venues; the active and powerful struggle for identity by
individuals relying on their connections to archaeological sites and rich historical traditions; and finally, the promise
of scholarship that incorporates a more holistic archaeological perspective in a four-field anthropology. [holistic
anthropology, advocacy archaeology, patrimony]

A rchaeological sites, and especially the stories told

about them, bridge the past, reflect multiple visions
of the present, and provide knowledge for the future. Clark
and D. S. Anderson frame the papers collected here as ex-
amples of “archaeological legacies,” a useful concept that
traces cultural heritage and patrimony across time and space.
The contributors to this volume address important dimen-
sions of the multilayered and multi-sited narratives that be-
gan with the original builders of archaeological sites and
incorporate the understandings that descendent populations
have about their past, which continue through generations
of archaeologists who rediscover other versions of the past.
These legacies involve multiple stakeholders including not
only archaeologists, but also community members, muse-
ums, local and national governments and other political or-
ganizations, as well as participants in local and global tourist
industries. Moreover, each of these stakeholders engages in
the re-visioning of an “authentic” heritage in the context of
contemporary ethnic, political, economic, and hegemonic
structures.
Three significant themes are woven throughout the arti-
cles: the reliance on the historical and archaeological past to
empower subaltern groups to resist hegemonic structures es-
pecially through forms of expressive culture, museums, and
tourist venues; the active and powerful struggle for identity
by individuals relying on their connections to archaeological
sites and rich historical traditions; and finally, the promise of
scholarship that incorporates a more holistic archaeological
perspective within four-field anthropology. These are impor-
tant issues in contemporary archaeology, issues intellectu-
ally rooted in traditional archaeological and anthropological
perspectives first articulated by Franz Boas and Alfred
Kroeber. The legacies that are discussed by the authors in
this volume help to create a more holistic perspective of im-
portant social and cultural phenomena that requires a more
reflexive archaeological stance in contemporary research.
Hegemony: Nationalist Archaeology and
Anthropology
Contributors to this volume discuss how archaeol-
ogy was initially used during the Porfiriato (1876–1910)
as part of an educational program intimately tied to
the nation-building process. Early professional Mexican

ARCHEOLOGICAL PAPERS OF THE AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION, Vol. 25, pp. 128–132, ISSN 1551-823X,
online ISSN 1551-8248. 
C 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/apaa.12055.
Archaeological Legacies of Knowledge
anthropologists, trained under Boas, helped to create the
mestizo as a blend of prehistoric and modern that was spread
through museums and state agencies. The articles explore
the continuing significant intersections of archaeology, mu-
seums, tourism, and migration with the construction of indi-
vidual, local, and national identities in Mexico and beyond.
Several authors include important discussions of the
role of representation through museums and other forms
of expressive culture in the construction and negotiation
of identity within larger political and economic systems.
Fernández illustrates the role that education plays in the
construction of identity for children through what they learn
at home, in a nationalized school curriculum, and from their
relationship to an archaeological site. Peniche describes how
mestizo elites appropriated an Aztec past through the con-
struction of an Aztec palace modeled on archaeological find-
ings at the 1889 Universal Exposition in Paris. Through “na-
tionalist archaeology,” this exhibition was designed to avoid
connections to Mexico’s European past in a crafted national
Mexican identity that also acted to elevate the Aztec over
other ethnic Indian groups in Mexico. Venter and Lyon seek
to understand identity construction through heritage man-
agement and explain that tourists today are still presented
with a glossed over Pre-Hispanic past, one associated with
Aztec and even Olmec themes that remain more popularly
connected to the “global Mexico” displayed in museums.
Both Alonso and Faulseit illustrate how local and national
governments negotiate the conservation of the past to craft
identity at multiple levels. Overall, most of the authors argue
that most contemporary visions of Mexico can be viewed as
multilayered stories rooted in archaeological legacies as sites
are rebuilt for tourism, history texts, and museums where
multiple versions of the past are articulated at national and
local levels.
Subaltern Resistance
Resistance to these hegemonic structures can appear
in museums, in schools, through oral histories, in festival
and ritual performances, through narratives of population
movements and creation myths, and through the creation
of “authentic artifacts” for sale to tourists. Resistance takes
many other forms as subaltern groups act to create their own
identity in resistance to a master narrative especially when
people move across state and national boundaries through
migrations and tourism.
Both Stoll and Xiuhtecutli illustrate that claiming
mythic connections to ancestral homelands and migra-
tion practices validates contemporary migration across bor-
ders today where descendants of Pre-Hispanic peoples are
129
re-visioned as transnational immigrants, where a legacy of
ancestral practices and collective memory can provide the
impetus for resistance to economic projects that threaten
a community. Vargas-Betancourt illustrates how the fig-
ure of Tepozteco is used as a symbol of resistance to the
introduction of a golf club in an indigenous community.
Faulseit illustrates how the Zapotecs of Santa Ana del Valle
act as active agents in preserving their artifacts and in the
stories attached to archaeological sites in a community show
of resistance towards Mexico’s dominant narrative. Mc-
Cafferty’s research exemplifies how data collected by re-
searchers can dispute the oral traditions of ethnic origin and
political identity. His argument highlights the importance
of presenting and publishing for all stakeholders, even if it
counters some narratives.
Two authors follow identity construction and resistance
to hegemonic narratives across time and space. Stoll ex-
plores the Pan Mixtecan and Zapotecan identities rooted in
the pre contact ball games; contests that today take on in-
creased significance as players negotiate different political
spheres across national borders. Xiuhtecutli also reveals how
“reactive ethnic identity” for deterritorialized communities,
based upon roots in common archaeological and historical
traditions, empowers contemporary Mesoamerican peoples
politically and economically.
Ancestral legacies attached to myths, artifacts, and ar-
chaeological sites are interwoven with family heritage as
well. J. H. Anderson shares the local perspectives on patri-
mony that generations of archaeologists at Tula have helped
develop with local workers since the first professional ex-
cavations. Today the local residents inherit the role of care-
takers for archaeological sites and help to restore the ruins
from damage caused by tourists as a vocation. Indeed, one
contributor interviewed by J. H. Anderson used her initial
employment at the archaeological site to expand her cultural
capital as she used the education gained from these wages
to become a project archaeologist on the site.
While many of the scholars in this volume include a
consideration of the role tourism plays in contemporary
Mesoamerican cultures, two articles reveal important di-
mensions of how tourism intersects with political activism
and with local understandings of the past and an indige-
nous identity. Vargas-Betancourt illustrates how the active
ownership of symbolic forms, myths, and festivals can em-
power a community identity that successfully counters out-
side development. And Venter and Lyon discover the how
ecotourism, archaeological tourism, and indigenous spiritu-
ality and religion can be crafted into a social force in the
Tuxtla mountains.
130
A Public, Holistic, Reflexive Archaeology
Contributors to this volume acknowledge that archae-
ology was intimately tied to nation building in the past and
that archaeologists continue to serve as an important dimen-
sion of how artifacts and archaeological sites are understood
today. But this collection speaks to the important and critical
perspectives in contemporary anthropological archaeology.
Eleanor Harrison-Buck (2014:344) identifies the most sig-
nificant lines of research in this field. One of the most impor-
tant dimensions of contemporary archaeology is what she
refers to as “Postcolonial critique and the politics of cultural
heritage management.” Harrison-Buck credits these schol-
ars with a commitment to “confront the tensions and rela-
tionships that exist between our knowledge production and
issues of social justice for underrepresented communities
in the management and protection of their ancestors, land,
resources, and cultural heritage” (2014:344). The authors
in this volume contribute in important ways her framing
of this conversation as these scholars certainly “share simi-
lar concerns with local knowledge production, conservation
and indigeneity, and the impact archaeology can have on the
local community” (Harrison-Buck 2014:345).
While acknowledging archaeologists’ early participa-
tion in nation building in Mexico, the contributors also ex-
plore the role that archaeologists can play in empowering
local residents who have a vested interest in nearby archae-
ological sites through community collaboration, in suggest-
ing ways in which archaeological sites might contribute to
sustainable economic development, and in facilitating the
sharing of knowledge through education in descendant com-
munities. In particular, archaeological heritage tourism can
provide social, cultural and economic capital for local stake-
holders that can contribute to their success in a changing
world. Underlying the empowerment of historically subal-
tern populations is a call for reflexivity and critical reflection
on the part of the researcher’s position in the interpretive pro-
cess as mediators for the future of archaeological heritage
in practice.
Clark and D. S. Anderson invest the volume with notions
of “public archaeology,” “action archaeology,” and “partic-
ipatory action research.” Indeed, “public” or “advocacy” ar-
chaeologists can take an active stance as mediators between
multiple visions of Mexico. These intermediary positions
require a critical stance on the archaeologist’s role within
the community, especially in terms of the knowledge that
emerges from the investigation of an archaeological site and
who controls the use of that knowledge. These articles incor-
porate holistic anthropological perspectives to understand
the complexities of ethnic identity and national politics and
how Mexican legacies appear on the global stage.
Pamela R. Frese
Conclusion
The contributors to this volume look at “legacies” in
several ways: those archaeological sites that serve as spaces
for contesting the past and the present, and the role of ar-
chaeologists in creating and perpetuating social and cultural
meanings related to archaeological materials. This volume
speaks to contemporary issues of power and hegemony,
globalization, indigenous rights, and tourism—all dimen-
sions of archaeological artifacts and tourist sites. These are
exciting contributions to an emerging dialogue that seeks
to understand the role of archaeology and archaeologists
in Latin America (see also Feder 2014; Gnecco and Ay-
ala 2011). New dimensions of the intellectual legacy left
by Boas and Kroeber are woven throughout these chapters,
even if it is likely that researchers in this volume would
argue for a more contemporary “five field” and “multi-
sited” approach to include Public or Advocacy Archaeol-
ogy. The contributors speak to the value of holistic views
of social and cultural phenomena as their research relies
upon ethnographic methods used by other anthropologists
including the use of surveys, interviews, participant obser-
vation, ethnohistory, and document analysis. And like their
socio–cultural colleagues, these researchers learn the lan-
guage they will need in the field. These archaeologists in-
corporate an understanding of myth, ritual, and symbolic
forms, music, games and popular culture, political and eco-
nomic institutions, formal and informal education. Clark
and D. S. Anderson acknowledge that this stretches beyond
traditional archaeological approaches into areas that a socio-
cultural anthropologist might initially be better prepared to
investigate, as J. H. Anderson suggests. But these kinds of
connections to contemporary social and cultural issues in
an inclusive anthropology are an important strength of this
volume. This is a rich offering that promises a dialogue
that Gillespie believes “could constitute the basis for the
revival of an integrated, multifield anthropology” (Gillespie
2003:93).
In the Introduction to this volume, Clark and D. S. An-
derson celebrate UNESCO’s World Heritage sites as im-
portant positions on the world stage as forms of “humanity’s
patrimony” that can be used to help preserve local “archaeol-
ogy legacies” while protecting legacies shared by all peoples
of the world. Websites also “sell” these heritage sites, and
those local residents who are savvier in the ways of the In-
formation Age use their cultural capital to actively redefine
sites and offer a unique tourist experience to world travelers.
Contemporary socio-cultural anthropologists are also very
interested in these issues, especially in debates surrounding
“authenticity” and the impact of tourism on the “toured”
(see Wearing et al. 2010).
Archaeological Legacies of Knowledge
I am especially interested in the relationship of tourism,
narratives about archaeological sites, and spiritual beliefs.
Since this volume explores possibilities for future research
on archaeological legacies, it is appropriate to share an ex-
perience I had on a trip to Yucatan in the summer of 2010 as
part of a group of colleagues from the College of Wooster
(including J. Heath Anderson, archaeologist and contributor
to this volume). Sponsored by the College’s Hale’s Fund,
the objective of the trip was to retrace portions of the route
traveled by John Lloyd Stephens and Frederick Catherwood
as part of their journey across the Yucatan peninsula. The
stories, photographs, and drawings of that journey appeared
in their “travelogue” of Maya archaeological sites published
in London in 1854 (Stephens and Catherwood 1854 [1843]).
One particular event from this trip offers a perspective that
resonates with several of the foci presented in this volume,
especially concerning the legacy of Mesoamerican ances-
tors, their religious and spiritual ties to archaeological sites,
and how these connections can play out for local communi-
ties, archaeologists, and participants in global tourism. This
excerpt is an edited version of one of my blog entries made
during this research trip:
Jorge our tour guide, led us through the Sian Ka’an
bioreserve, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Jorge was
born and raised in the area. His five hour tour features a
boat ride through a variety of environmental habitats, a
hike through an archaeological site, lunch in Maya ruins
at a spot that long ago served as a post to help control
trade through the canal, and finally a leisurely “float”
down the canal. His Maya grandmother still lives in a
village bordering the reserve, and it is through her that
Jorge retains the right to lead tours through the ancient
Maya canal that runs through the bioreserve.
I opted to stay in our boat with Jorge as my compan-
ions floated through the canal. I was interested to hear
more of his explanation for why tourists come to this, and
other Maya sites. I was especially intrigued when Jorge
turned out to be a passionate believer in a syncretized
New Age religion that resonates with many Neo-Pagan
believers in the United States. Relating his beliefs to the
ancient Maya Long Count calendar and the date of De-
cember 21, 2012, Jorge explained that the cycles of the
cosmos are coming to an end. The world will not end, but
enter a new phase when “cosmic power” will come down
and move all people to the next cycle. Those individuals
who vibrate on a higher “frequency” (the “good” more
advanced people who recognize the need to care for the
people and environments of the world) will move on to a
better and special place created for them that is different
from the place that those operating on a “low” frequency
(or bad people who take advantage of others and pollute
the environment) will find after the cycle changes.
His religious and spiritual beliefs connect to the
archaeological legacy he shares with others who live in
this area and the many tourists who come from all over
131
the world to appreciate the Maya sites he describes for
them. Jorge believes that many of these tourists are drawn
to this place, and indeed other Maya sites, for reasons
that they may not completely comprehend. It is possible,
he argues, that those tourists who seek out ancient Maya
sites are actually reincarnated Maya from the past, those
who may have lived here and return to find their legacy;
that these buildings are remnants of a civilization that
appear familiar to the tourists because of their previous
lives here. Jorge urges tourists who share and appreciate
this ancient connection to the land and Maya cultural
heritage to join with him in helping to preserve this
natural, sacred environment, our patrimony, when we
have so much to lose. [Frese 2011]
Archaeological sites can be liminal spaces that bridge
times and connect descendant communities with their an-
cestors to help protect a heritage important to all people
of the world. But Jorge finds himself at the intersection of
processes that include kin ties to local communities, a glob-
alized New Age religion, and local social and economic
conditions that enable/obligate him to work in the tourism
industry, an industry rooted in narratives of the archaeolog-
ical and historical past.
This is a wonderful collection of essays in which the
contributors locate themselves squarely in the best tradi-
tions of the holistic view of anthropology originally articu-
lated and practiced by Boas and his students. Overall, this
volume explores how present-day local populations intersect
with each other, with their past, with tourists, and with the
archaeologists and anthropologists who study it all.
References Cited
Feder, Ken, ed.
2014 Lessons from the Past: Ancient Knowledge, Con-
temporary Issues. San Diego: Cognella.
Frese, Pamela
2011 New Age Religion on a 1000 Year Old Canal.
http://yucatan.scotblogs.wooster.edu/, accessed
February 17, 2015.
Gillespie, Susan D.
2003 Teaching Archaeology as Anthropology. Theme
Issue, “Archaeology is Anthropology,” Archaeo-
logical Papers of the American Anthropological
Association, 13:87–97.
Gnecco, Cristóbal, and Patricia Ayala, eds.
2011 Indigenous Peoples and Archaeology in Latin
America. San Francisco: Left Coast Press.
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Harrison-Buck, Eleanor Chiapas, and Yucatan. London: reprinted in 2008

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