Archaeology is Just Another Origin Myth

According to Trigger, “All human groups appear to have some curiosity about the past” and he then proceeds to differentiate the formal search for origins from the tribal notion of supernatural myth [27].  What may make the West unique—even as encountered in the form of a professional archaeologist—is the desire to acquire, materially, the origin myths of others.   Who we are is predicated by who we were.  The definition of “we” is what makes things slippery.  The expansive notion of we/us/ours, initially appears inclusive:  everyone is just part of that great human family.   Who, and what, is worth discovering is determined by who we believe we are.  Our obsession with meaningful objects is a form of ownership and in the act of interpreting their meaning we lay claim.  There is the well-intentioned tendency to chip away at boundaries of cultural groups in order to acknowledge and appreciate a common humanity.  It is the sense of commonality that we perceive as license.

 

At what temporal point do we decide that an object, fossil or site has passed into the ownership of all human kind?    Where do the boundaries of individual cultures lie?   According to Childe, a “culture can expand and move  about in space; it may intrude in an area previously occupied different culture.  It may supersede these, or a sort of composite culture may arise, blending intrusive and native elements” [History, 198].  And this is perhaps the most basic definition of colonialism.  These acts of evolving, expanding and migrating blurred the definition of a group, perhaps most notably for the newest arrivals—aka the colonizers.   For the original inhabitants, there remained an understandable resistance to assimilation.

 Some of this may have been evident in the Soviet reaction to Childe’s development of Marxist archaeological theory, as described by Leo Klijn. [76] The singular culture of Soviet Archaeology in the mid-20^th century may have perceived Childe’s claims of affinity to be those of an interloper and colonizer. All cultural constructs, like more formalized tribes, clans or states, erect protective mechanisms to ward off the dilution of the primary ethos. 

For Childe, culture was a shared “social heritage”, which deviated from the idea that individuals form associations based on shared physical characteristics.  It’s a concept that seems obvious to us now, largely because of this work. But Childe was in the unfortunate position of straddling two epochs of cultural theory.  By abandoning the presumption that physical characteristics determine race and therefore heritage, he began thinking about the nature of humanness in terms of cultural overlaps.  In searching for linguistic history that, like a road map, would lead us back to a singular starting point, Childe, like the antiquarians who preceded him, continued to place the West at the hub of world culture

V.G. Childe, Antiquarianism, and Postcolonialism

Looking at the writings of V. Gordon Childe, one could assume that he represented a clean break from antiquarianism and a decisive step towards modern, even postcolonial, archaeology. While his theories were certainly advanced and contributed much to the development of the modern discipline of archaeology, I believe his theories and particular brand of Marxism represent instead a move from antiquarianism into colonialism, that perhaps foreshadows some postcolonial constructions but also retains other, important vestiges of antiquarian thought. 

Reading critically into Childe's description of archaeological Marxism in his article "Prehistory and Marxism," we can see several assumptions that carry a colonial perspective. One of the most fundamental of these is the value Childe places on the correlation between social complexity and technological progress. Working off the "logical series" of savagery, barbarism, and civilization defined by Morgan, Childe sees the work of archaeology as the uncovering of the technological progresses that guide societies through this series over time. While it is important that he takes into account the fundamentally changeable nature of society, thus defying traditional antiquarian models of society, this progression is still very Eurocentric, assuming that all societies will be forced by the primacy of technological efficiency to develop over time into variants of European society. It is only a small step from this position to the justification of colonial rule as an expedient in this technological development. 

On the other hand, some of Childe's Marxist constructions seem to challenge this colonial discourse. For instance, Childe's definition of dialectical materialism focuses on the interaction and adaptation that takes place between the various material realities of environment and society to create different societal forms. By doing so, Childe then comes to the conclusion that one cannot study contemporary preliterate societies as a direct analogy for prehistoric ones at the same technological stage, a clear refutation of Morgan's hypothesis. Yet, at the same time, this view also leads Childe to believe that it is almost impossible to understand the ideologies of prehistorical societies. This view echoes those of antiquarians who believed they could understand little of any society without written documentation. In addition, this view also puts the power of interpretation squarely in the hands of those with access to the most artifacts. Since Marxist archaeology is so materially based, its foundation lies in the accumulation and comparison of vast quantities of material evidence. Since colonial archaeology claimed so many significant artifacts for Western institutions, this understanding of archaeology privileges Western institutions and maintains a neo-colonialist concentration of knowledge, and knowledge production, in the academies of the Occident. Thus, Childe's Marxist archaeology occupies an important middle ground, an outgrowth of antiquarianism that retained some of its assumptions but also challenged many of its applications, and a ideology of colonialism that nonetheless established some principles that could created opportunities for challenging colonial hegemony. These theories can be still useful to postcolonial archaeology as long as their contexts are appropriately interrogated. 

Diachronous vs. Synchronous Colonization

The establishment of colonial narratives stemming from Said's Orientalism is quite apparent. However, Said was concerned with a synchronous form of colonization, one in which the West colonized upon its counterpart--the Orient--by a means of academic rhetoric via the subject of 'orientalism.' As he defines, "The Orient is...the place of Europe's greatest and richest and oldest colonies, the source of its civilizations and languages, its cultural contestant, and one of its deepest and most recurring images of the Other" (1). The definition of the colonized other deals with a contemporary, coexisting other, one which the West manifests through this academic discourse. Nevertheless, such critique begs the question of how might one avoid such colonialist narratives--is it even possible?

Archaeology is a western-designated discipline that is very much involved with this issue. Matthew Liebmann in "Introduction: The Intersections of Archaeology and Postcolonial Studies" is very much concerned with archaeology's ability to unveil itself of its 'theory lag' and its marked origins in the orientalist narrative. He dons this body of critique 'post colonialism.' But as he expresses, postcolonialism is a rather problematic term insofar as the current period could not be considered one that is temporally post-existing that in which colonialism manifested itself, for as Said argued, the effects of colonialism are still large and prevalent.

So what might a postcolonial narrative entail? Could archaeology become a postcolonial discipline? To this I make the suggestion that the archaeologist could never become naked of his/her colonizing garb. The archaeologist is inherently looking at an other, whether it be time or place. If the archaeologist is making an attempt to let a place speak for itself (however he/she might figure a way to do such), I argue that he/she could never avoid the colonizing of time that the profession endures. Seemingly, the past cannot speak for itself, nor can the object. As Said notes, "...there is no such thing as a delivered presence, but a re-presence, or a representation" (21). If the archaeologist is the interpreter and representer of the past, how ought one do so void of the colonizing rhetoric that Said is wary of? Archaeology is inherently colonial in its processes and effects; is it possible to have such a discipline analyzing an 'other' that could be inherently postcolonial? This begs the questions of whether it is even possible to be postcolonial?

Liberian suggests that "...postcolonial approaches challenge traditional colonials epistemologies, questioning the knowledge about and the representation of colonized 'Others' that has been produced in colonial and imperial contexts" (2). Nevertheless, in doing so is this process not creating another colonizing dynamic, whether it be of a different past, the imperially-influenced historian, or whatever subject of a postcolonial critique becomes? The act of critiquing, analyzing, and studying inherently involves a subject, which by being spoken for, is void of self-representation and therefore inherently being colonized. The creation of others is seemingly inherent within humanity, particularly the field of archaeology. Ought there be anyway to forego this issue, or might we accept an immortal sort of colonialism that functions both diachronously and synchronously? The act of being self-conscious of this dynamic that is formed through archaeological research is imperative to defeat colonial rhetoric, but might we also be conscious of the newfound colonizing dynamics created in doing so?

Hybridity within the Archaeological Record

            Based on Edward Said’s characterization of colonialist thought in Orientalism and Matthew Liebmann’s definitions of postcolonialism in the introductory chapter of Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, the primary difference to me between these two paradigms is the tendency to dichotomize versus hybridize the cultures of colonizer and colonized.

            According to Said, encounters of Western colonists with “the Orient,” which he defines in this book as India and the Levant, caused them to assert their distinctive Western-ness. Of course, the distinction of “Western” is vague and arbitrary and, by definition, can only be made relationally; something/someone can only be “Western” with respect to something/someone else. Therefore, “the Orient” is a concept developed by Western colonists as a foil for themselves. It existed only as an Other by which they could define the Self. Orientalism as a field of study, then, is problematic not only because of the outright racism expressed in some of the literature, but because it is inherently Eurocentric. Indian and Levantine cultures are studied as a means by which “the West” can be understood rather than as an end in of themselves. Said expresses the positive feedback cycle that dichotomization initiates:

            When one uses categories like Oriental and Western as both the starting and

            the end points of analysis, research, public policy…the result is usually to

            polarize the distinction – the Oriental becomes more Oriental, the Westerner

            more Western – and limit the human encounter between different cultures,

            traditions and societies (45-6).

            However, the act of colonizing did the exact opposite; rather than isolating the cultures of “East” and “West,” it brought them into constant contact. To me, refutation of this binary in favor of cultural interaction is one of the most important contributions of postcolonalism. Liebmann identifies this “investigation of hybridity in the constitution of postcolonial cultural formations” as one of the three major tenets of this theoretical framework (4). I am interested in how the archaeological record can be used to explore this notion of hybridity, which Liebmann defines as “the new, transcultural forms produced through colonization that cannot be neatly classified into a single cultural or ethnic category” (5). Thus, the whole is greater than the some of its parts and, as Liebmann emphasizes, these parts can be in constant conflict, resulting in instances of anticolonial resistance.

            A zooarchaeological study I am currently working on can be used as one lens through which hybridity can be identified archaeologically. The site of Dixon, New Mexico was first occupied by the Spanish in 1725; however, it had been inhabited by the Tiwa people for centuries prior to European arrival. The entire assemblage is believed to date from the post-colonial period, and yet there is evidence of traditional indigenous hunting techniques occurring contemporaneously with traditionally European domesticates such as sheep, goat, cattle and pig. It is unclear whether or not the coexistence of these two distinct subsistence strategies is due to Spanish appropriation of indigenous techniques, indigenous appropriation of Spanish domestication, or cohabitation, as all have seemingly occurred at other Spanish colonial sites in the area; likely, it is a combination of the three. Regardless, each is a form of hybridity that can be explored within a postcolonial theoretical framework.

            This is just one of the many ways in which archaeology can be used in combination with postcolonial theory to identify instances of hybridity and reconstruct the history of colonization in a non-binary fashion. In fact, in the second chapter of Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, Liebmann identifies additional material examples of hybridity from the Spanish colonial Southwest, focusing on the fusion of Catholicism with Puebloan traditions. All of these remarkable histories of confluence and conflict, much more interesting and varied than the colonial “East” versus “West” archetype, would be missed if not for the rejection of these binaries by postcolonial theory.

References:

Liebmann, M. and Rizvi, U. Z., eds. 2008. Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique. Lanham, MD: 

            AltaMira Press.

Said, E. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Random House. 

Captain Morgan and Colonial Panama

The ruins of Fort San Lorenzo, the Rio Chagres, and, 200 meters offshore, Lajes Reef (Captain Morgan Rum Co.)

When most people think of Captain Morgan, they think of cheap rum. However, Archaeology magazine published a fascinating article by Samir Patel, “Pirates of the Original Panama Canal,” about a major underwater archaeology site off of Panama’s Pacific Coast, that reinforces Henry Morgan’s reputation as one of the greatest privateers and naval strategists of his time, while showing that, even at its most single-minded, good archaeology can illuminate whole eras.

Rum Mascot Captain Morgan (wikipedia)

            The site in question is Fort San Lorenzo at the mouth of the Rio Chagres, the head of the old overland route across the isthmus that brought precious metals and the wealth of the Pacific to Spain – as Patel says it was once “the world’s most valuable river.” Morgan began his pillaging of Porto Bello, at the time the third-most important city in the New World, here, as he destroyed the fort before sailing north and looting and burning the city. Unfortunately rough waves and treacherous geography lost him five ships that foundered off Lajas Reef, 200 meters offshore.

Actual privateer Captain Morgan (wikipedia)

            The battle is well documented, but Texas State University archaeologist Fritz Hanselmann is still looking for the remains of the ships, especially Morgan’s flagship Satisfaction  - and his work has the financial backing of the Captain Morgan Rum Company. There has been some success – eight cannons, six of which were raised. If verified, they would be the only surviving material evidence of Morgan’s raid. This is difficult however, as small cannons such as these were extremely heterogenous, even on the same vessel, and were often bought and sold between ships.

            So it raises the question, at least initially, of what the point of the excavation is – certainly no one is denying that the battle of San Lorenzo occurred, and Henry Morgan is one of the most thoroughly documented pirates in history. Since his privateering was sanctioned by the British government it was perfectly legal, and he died wealthy and happy on a 400,000 acre sugar plantation in Jamaica. He had no reason to hide anything.

            The answer is around the edges of the histories. As Hanselmann notes, “If significant portions of ships are found, spatial analysis of their layouts or modifications might reveal some of these social dynamics, such as whether Morgan had his own cabin or shared quarters with his men, as some pirate captains had. The design of the ship itself could reflect its culture.” Similarly, discoveries of other wrecks around Lajas Reef, such as a merchant vessel already found, can tell us much about the nature of Panamanian trade and shipboard and colonial culture at the time. By conducting this sort of investigation under the easy to explain (and easy to obtain funding for) guise of “sexy” archaeology like finding Captain Morgan’s flagship, the archaeological world can benefit in all kinds of ways.

The ruins of Porto Bello today (wikipedia)

Link to original article: http://www.archaeology.org/issues/79-1303/features/543-pirates-henry-morgan-panama-city-raid

Businessweek Article on Captain Morgan Rum's branding and archaeological funding: http://www.businessweek.com/articles/2012-06-05/captain-morgan-s-search-for-the-real-morgans-brand-treasure

Saving the Vasa

   The 17th century Swedish warship Vasa set out on its maiden voyage as symbol of military power and a source of national pride. King Gustavus II Adolphus, in the midst of a troublesome conflict with Poland, needed his new weapon to revolutionize naval warfare in the Baltic. As a result of his interjections, engineers increased Vasa’s originally intended length and added an additional gun deck to hold heavy cannon, ensuring its place among the elite warships of the world. Measuring 69m in length and 52m in height, weighing 900 tons, and carrying 64 cannons, Vasa launched on August 10, 1628 before a massive crowd that had assembled to catch a glimpse of Sweden’s new floating behemoth. Roughly 1km into its first trip, a gust of wind blew the top heavy ship onto its side. Water flooded into gun ports that were open for ceremonial fire, quickly pulling Vasa and half of its crew 35m down to the bottom of Stockholm harbor.

oops

   Vasa’s sinking granted it a unique position in history. The doomed ship represents both an impressive logistical endeavor and a colossal economic failure. Designed to intimidate enemies and inspire allies, it was visually stunning and physically overwhelming, but its construction cost over five percent of the nation’s GNP and its loss was catastrophic. Perhaps this duality factors in Vasa’s ability to intrigue the public.

   After being rediscovered in 1956 and raised to the surface in 1961, painstaking efforts toward preservation were immediately undertaken. Oxygen deprived conditions at the bottom of the cold, polluted harbor kept Vasa well protected from destructive organisms, leaving it in remarkably good shape. However there was some degradation, which becomes a problem as the water logged wood dries and collapses around the compromised area. To prevent this shrinking and crumbling of the hull, it was sprayed with polyethylene glycol (PEG): a wax compound that absorbs into the wood and takes the place of water. This was done every 45 minutes for 17 years, after which the wood was allowed to dry for nine years. In 1988, Vasa was moved into a climate controlled building that both preserves the ship and presents it as a primary museum display.

Boarding Vasa is forbidden, but you can get pretty close

Note the elaborate designs. These carvings would have originally been pigmented quite colorfully

   The Vasa Museum, while nearly as visually impressive as its namesake, has not been the ideal environment for the aging warship it was intended to be. After a particularly rainy year of 2000, it was discovered that humidity levels needed to be more strictly regulated in the museum. The problem arose due to PEG’s tendency to absorb and desorb atmospheric moisture. If conditions are too humid, destructive micro-organisms can thrive and wreak havoc on the exterior. Additionally, the increased water weight could put overwhelming strain on a hull that wasn’t designed to support the weight of the vessel on land in the first place. If allowed to dry out, the wood could weaken and crack, endangering critical support joints. If that wasn’t enough to worry about, humidity fluctuations cause moisture to transfer throughout the wood. This moves sulfur, imbedded into the wood during its stay in the polluted harbor, to open air where it can react with corroded iron from bolts and fittings, creating an erosive acid compound. In order to keep the humidity at an appropriate, constant level and prevent all of this microscopic mayhem, a new, more effective climate control system was installed in 2004 and a vast array of sensors are constantly being monitored and upgraded. This has resulted in a far more stable environment for the delicate Vasa.

Vasa Museum

  Fittingly, Vasa’s new challenge is economic. All of this restoration and preservation is wildly expensive. Fortunately, people love the Vasa and its museum is the most widely visited maritime museum in the world. However, due to concerns with the limitations of the climate control system, the number of daily visitors is capped. Economically driven demands to allow entrance to larger numbers of paying customers are now pushing against fears that the building's climate will be compromised. This is the delicate balancing act that Vasa’s caretakers have to manage if Sweden’s most beloved naval disaster is going to survive half as much time above the harbor as it did below.

More Info:
Time Capsule from the 17th Century: Stockholm's Vasa Museum

Maintaining a Stable Environment: Vasa's New Climate Control System

The Chemistry of the Vasa 

The Welikia Project: Uncovering the Ecology of Pre-European New York City

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Believe it or not, New York City has not been around forever.  Though it has garnered a reputation as one of world’s largest and most important metropolitan areas, compared to many other major cities around the globe, New York is actually on the younger side.  In fact, if one were to look back a mere four hundred years, where we now see grids, asphalt and towering structures of stone and steel, we would actually see a rather unfamiliar picture: a lush, sprawling and diverse natural landscape. 

Such was the finding of the Wildlife Conservation Society’s Welikia Project.  Originally dubbed the Manhatta Project, this research initiative was an attempt by scientists to reveal the original 1609 ecology of the city’s largest borough, and has since expanded to include all five boroughs and parts of western Long Island (hence the name change).  The results of the study are actually quite striking, as evidenced by the interactive “Welikia Map,” essentially a Google Maps rendering of 1609 NYC.  A visitor to the Welikia Project’s website will find that the map renders a wholly alien New York, an ecologically rich landscape covered in streams, forests, marshes, hills and other natural phenomena, a fascinating look at a city that we so often take for granted. 

Map of "Welikia"

The Welikia Map even boasts an interactive feature that allows the viewer to more closely examine the wildlife and landscape of individual blocks, and then compare those features to its modern day manifestation.  From an archaeological standpoint, however, the most intriguing aspect of this feature is the tab that allows the viewer to explore the lifestyle and landscape of the Lenape people who inhabited the area before Europeans arrived.  When I first visited the Welikia Project’s website, I was actually worried that I would only find an ecological survey of 1609 New York, void of any reference to the humans who lived as a part of that ecosystem for hundreds of years. I was, however, pleasantly surprised, as the interactive Welikia Map allows for exploration of the landscape habitat of the Lenape, as well as the species of animals and plants they would have hunted and gathered.  For example, in the area where Columbia University currently stands, the landscape most likely did not allow for Lenape encampments or trails, but the ecology did include many animals that the Lenape hunted, including the Wild Turkey and White-tailed Deer, and plants that they gathered, such as the Lowbush Blueberry and Lyreleaf Sage.

Morningside Heights, 1609

As an archaeologist, one aspect of the Welikia Map that is a bit discomforting is the fact that the modern New York grid is mapped across the original 1609 ecology, not to mention the modern borders of boroughs, cities and states.  Though the interactive tabs do allow for a more direct experience of Welikia, I still feel that the map does not allow for a truly experiential study of the landscape.  How is one to truly understand the pre-European landscape if one is consciously aware of the fact that the meadow he or she is exploring is now on Fifth Avenue, or that the forested area he or she is interested in is currently home to the Spanish Embassy?  In addition, the stark change from diverse natural landscape to modern day grid dangerously borders on the territory of suggesting that European settlers mapped order onto an area in which none previously existed. 

Modern grid mapped onto 1609 ecology of Manhattan Island

Now, to be fair, this is not necessarily the responsibility of the Wildlife Conservation Society; their goals are almost purely ecological.  The study does, however, provide valuable tools for archaeologists and other researchers who would seek to expand upon this reconstruction of the 17^th century New York City landscape.  Some have already taken this opportunity, including Marguerite Holloway, assistant professor at the Columbia University School of Journalism, whose recently published book, Measuring Manhattan, centers on John Randel Jr., the man who, in 1808, set out to map the modern grid of Manhattan Island.  Originally charged with writing a piece on what was then the Manhatta Project, Holloway became fascinated by Randel, whose data scientists depended upon in their ecological reconstructions, and eventually turned that fascination into a full-length biography.

John Randel Jr., from nytimes.com

One final mission of the Welikia Project that could prove fruitful for further archaeological study is to turn to the “modern biodiversity” of the city, relating the landscapes and lifestyles of contemporary New Yorkers to those of the area’s pre-European inhabitants. 

Though these represent only a fragment of the possibilities afforded to us through the Welikia Project, they show the ways in which the Wildlife Conservation Society has opened the door to understanding the meaning of landscape and place in relation to the original ecology of a major metropolitan area; the effects of modern mapping on a diverse natural landscape, as well as the effects of that landscape on the mapping process; and, finally, a way of experiencing the cityscape as an unfamiliar space, as a vibrant ecosystem filled with a myriad of foreign habitats, just waiting to be explored.

Welikia Project website: http://welikia.org

Wildlife Conservation Society website: http://www.wcs.org

Article on Marguerite Holloway’s Randel biography: http://news.columbia.edu/grid