Bridging the Divide: Indigenous Communities and Archaeology into the 21st Century (One World Archaeology)

Bridging the Divide

One World Archaeology Series Sponsored by the World Archaeological Congress Series Editors: Joan Gero, Mark Leone, and Robin Torrence One World Archaeology volumes contain carefully edited selections of the exemplary papers presented at the World Archaeology Congress (WAC), held every four years, and intercongress meetings. WAC gives place to considerations of power and politics in framing archaeological questions and results. The organization also gives place and privilege to minorities who have often been silenced or regarded as beyond capable of making mainline contributions to the field. All royalties from the series are used to help the wider work of the organization. The series is published by Left Coast Press, Inc., beginning with volume 48. Previous volumes are available from Routledge. 60 59 58 57 56 55 54 53 52 51 50 49 48

Bridging the Divide, Caroline Phillips and Harry Allen (eds.) Archaeologies of Placemaking, Patricia E. Rubertone (ed.) Managing Archaeological Resources, Francis P. McManamon, Andrew Stout, and Jodi A.€Barnes (eds.) Landscapes of Clearance, Angèle Smith and Amy Gazin-Schwartz (eds.) Underwater and Maritime Archaeology in Latin America and the Caribbean, Margaret E.€Leshikar-Denton and Pilar Luna Erreguerena (eds.) Archaeologies of Art, Inés Domingo Sanz, Dánae Fiore, and Sally K. May (eds.) Archaeology and Capitalism, Yannis Hamilakis and Philip Duke (eds.) Living Under the Shadow, John Grattan and Robin Torrence (eds.) Envisioning Landscapes, Dan Hicks, Laura McAtackney, and Graham Fairclough (eds.) Rethinking Agriculture, Timothy P. Denham, José Iriarte, and Luc Vrydaghs (eds.) A Fearsome Heritage, John Schofield and Wayne Cocroft (eds.) Archaeology to Delight and Instruct, Heather Burke and Claire Smith (eds.) African Re-Genesis, Jay B. Haviser and Kevin C. MacDonald (eds.)

Bridging the Divide

Indigenous Communities and Archaeology into the 21st Century

Editors Caroline Phillips Harry Allen

Walnut Creek, California

LEFTCOAST PRESS, INC. 1630 North Main Street, #400 Walnut Creek, CA 94596 http://www.LCoastPress.com Copyright © 2010 by Left Coast Press, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. ISBN 978-1-59874-392-0 hardcover The illustration on the title and chapter opening pages is Kopinga Marae, built to reestablish a central base on Rekohu in which Moriori could meet, celebrate, debate and just be together. The design symbolises the hopo, the albatross with outspread wings, a sacred bird of the Moriori. The marae’s name—Kopinga—tells us of the ancient gathering place of Moriori amongst the groves of kopi trees on the island. (Based on a photo from the Hokotehi Moriori Trust.) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Bridging the divide : indigenous communities and archaeology into the 21st century / Caroline Phillips, Harry Allen, editors. â•… p. cm. — (One world archaeology series ; 60) Papers from the 2nd Indigenous WAC Inter-Congress, held Nov. 8–12, 2005, at Waipapa Marae, University of Auckland in Tamaki Makaurau/Auckland, Aotearoa/New Zealand. ╇ Includes bibliographical references and index. ╇ ISBN 978-1-59874-392-0 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Archaeology—Social aspects—Congresses. 2. Archaeology—Political aspects—Â� Congresses. 3. Ethnoarchaeology—Congresses. 4. Cultural property—Protection— Congresses. 5. Indigenous peoples—Social conditions—Congresses. 6. Indigenous peoples—Politics and government—Congresses. 7. Intercultural communication—Congresses. 8. Archaeologists—Congresses. I. Phillips, Caroline. II. Allen, Harry, 1944- III. World Archaeological Congress (Organization). Indigenous Inter-Congress (2nd : 2005 : University of Auckland) ╇ CC175.B75 2010 ╇ 930.1—dc22 2010010039

Printed in the United States of America ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992.

To the late Roger Curtis Green, Emeritus Professor University of Auckland, and Adjunct Professor Te Whare Wananga Awanuiarangi, who predicted that the archaeology of the first part of the 21st century in the Pacific will have to do with the anthropology of long-term history where the construction of the past are multi-faceted, the perspectives multi-ethnic, and the players multi-cultural and multi-disciplinary. (2000:135)

We hope that this forms part of the bridge that links some of the players in the discipline he devoted his life to. Green, R. C. 2000. Trigger’s holistic archaeology and Pacific culture history. In M. Boyd, J. C. Erwin and M. Hendrickson (eds.), The Entangled Past: Integrated History and Archaeology, pp. 127–137. Proceedings of the 30th Annual Chacmool Archaeological Conference, Calgary, Alberta. Calgary: The Archaeological Association of the University of Calgary.

Contents

List of Illustrations Preface

9 13

╇ 1. Maintaining the Dialogue: Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

17

╇ 2. “Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!” Joe Watkins

49

╇ 3. Agency and Archaeological Material Culture: Willing a Suspension of Disbelief? Bridget Mosley

61

╇ 4. Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and€Laura Roda

81

╇ 5. Taíno as a Romantic Term: Notes on the Representation of the Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

93

╇ 6. Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia Anne Ross

107

╇ 7. Working Together? Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today Caroline Phillips

129

╇ 8. The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management Harry Allen

157

╇ 9. The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands Lawrence A. Foana’ota

181

7

10. Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand: Why Do Maori Not Engage with Archaeology? Margaret Rika-Heke

197

11. Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

213

12. Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology George P. Nicholas

233

Appendix 1 World Archaeological Congress, First Code of Ethics Appendix 2 World Archaeological Congress, The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains Appendix 3 World Archaeological Congress, The Tamaki Makau-rau Accord on the Display of Human Remains and Sacred Objects Appendix 4 The Mataatua Declaration on Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples Appendix 5 What Are the Relationships between Archaeologists, Teaching Institutions, Heritage Organisations and Maori?

253

Glossary and List of Abbreviations List of Heritage Legislation, Documents and Organisations Index About the Authors

271 275 277 287

255

257

259

265

List of Illustrations

Figures Figure P.1

 elegates in front of Tane-nui-a-Rangi, the Maori D meeting house at Waipapa Marae, Auckland University, that was the venue for the 2nd Indigenous WAC Inter-Congress in 2005.

14

Figure P.2

Authors and conference organisers identified.

15

Figure 1.1

 arry Allen describing the findings of a joint H University of Auckland and Ngati Mutunga research project.

25

Figure 1.2

 aking a pollen core from a wet site in North T Taranaki, New Zealand.

26

Figure 1.3

 eorge Nicholas and Harry Allen working on a G salvage archaeological excavation at Athenree.

33

Figure 1.4

 aroline Phillips and Kate Hill excavating C the edge of a former stream that contained evidence of Maori occupation, now buried under Richmond Street, Thames.

34

Figure 2.1

The author.

51

Figure 3.1

 he road to Mutawintji National Park in western T New South Wales.

62

Figure 3.2

 he Mutawintji Cultural Centre at the T Mutawintji Historic Site, where the Aboriginal stone artefact collection is presently stored.

70

Figure 3.3

 erald Quayle, Baarkindji traditional custodian, G identifies a stone artefact in situ to a tour group at Mutawintji National Park.

71

Figure 3.4

 ontinuing long-term relationships with the C land at Mutawintji into the present day: Gerald Quayle at the gorge.

75

Figure 4.1

S antos Claudia Vázquez showing how to work with the stone spade from the museum.

86

9

Figure 4.2

 oster made by people from Antofagasta, P displayed on the wall of the Museum of Man.

87

Figure 4.3

 athering of the people from Antofagasta at G the Incahuasi site (an eighteenth-century mining place).

88

Figure 4.4

 nacleto Cháves’s “archaeological collage”, A displayed on the wall of the Museum of Man.

89

Figure 5.1

Map of Central America and the Caribbean.

95

Figure 5.2

 aíno cemí (representation of a divine force or T entity) made of granite.

99

Figure 5.3

 aíno anthropomorphic duho (seat for Taíno T chief) made of white marble.

99

Figure 6.1

 ocation of the Gummingurru site and other L places associated with the Bunya Mountains ceremonies.

114

Figure 6.2

 urtle motif at the Gummingurru stone T arrangement site.

115

Figure 6.3

Recording the Gummingurru stone arrangement site.

117

Figure 6.4

 raditional custodian Brian Tobane explains T the Gummingurru site to visitors from Kenmore Scout Group.

118

Figure 7.1

 raig Reidy of Ngati Maru working as part of C the archaeological team at the Totara Palms excavation in 2006.

135

Figure 7.2

 lan Bisson, iwi monitor for Ngati Rahiri, A working alongside the archaeological team at the Pohokura excavations, Taranaki, in 2004.

136

Figure 7.3

 ean Thomsen, iwi monitor for Ngati Tamatera, D and John Thomsen examining shell midden with the author at Te Mata.

137

Figure 7.4

 ukehue Pa excavation areas and the stabilisation P program, with inset showing locations of the three case studies.

138

Figure 7.5

 airua Ridge archaeological sites and the K proposed reservoir locations, with inset showing relation to residential areas and Tauranga.

141

Figure 7.6

 oplar Lane Quarry and the adjacent Papamoa P Hills Regional Park.

143

Figure 8.1

 s part of a coastal subdivision, half of a large A fortified Maori pa at Athenree was cut down to provide a platform for a palatial house under authority from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust.

162

Figure 8.2

S taff of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust at Urquharts Bay investigating a Maori settlement site partially damaged by a series of buried water pipes in the 1980s.

163

Figure 8.3

 rchaeological monitoring by David Rudd and A Margaret Rika-Heke of Turanga Hill, a Maori occupation site.

163

Figure 9.1

Map of Solomon Islands.

182

Figure 9.2

 ottery from the SE-RF-2 Lapita site in the Reef P Islands, excavated by Roger Green.

184

Figure 9.3

 xcavation at Roviana Lagoon in 2003 as part of E the New Georgia Project.

188

Figure 9.4

 isit of the 2007 Lapita Conference, held in V Honiara, to the site of Vataluma Posovi on Guadalcanal.

190

Figure 9.5

 xcavation at Manawoqwa Rockshelter, Santa E Ana, 2009.

190

Figure 10.1

S mall argillite adze from Ongari Point, North Island, New Zealand.

199

Figure 10.2

Kauri Point Pa, North Island, New Zealand, 1963.

200

Figure 10.3

Margaret Rika-Heke excavating a pit.

209

Figure 10.4

 argaret Rika-Heke excavating a trench with M other archaeologists.

210

Figure 11.1

Map of Rekohu and place-names mentioned in the text.

214

Figure 11.2

 oriori petroglyphs of seals and birds from Te M Ana a Nunuku (Nunuku’s Cave), Rekohu.

215

Figure 11.3

Kopinga Marae, which opened in January 2005.

216

Figure 11.4

Midden and occupation site, Taia coast, Rekohu.

222

Figure 11.5

 ultural survey work on Rekohu; Maui Solomon C and Mana Cracknell on the dunes at Lake Taia, east coast of Rekohu.

224

Figure 11.6

Cultural survey work on Rekohu.

225

Figure 12.1

 ert William, Bonaparte Band, Secepwemc First B Nation, Canada.

235

Figure 12.2

S ignpost at the entrance to Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, Australia, in 1996.

237

Figure 12.3

 he Ainu of northern Japan are currently seeking T greater participation in the protection and management of their heritage.

238

Figure 12.4

 ola Markey, O-Chi-Chak-Ko-Sipi First Nation, N Manitoba, supervising what may be the first archaeology project in Canada in which all of the field and lab participants were Indigenous persons.

239

Figure 12.5

 verlapping realms of interest in the contentious O issues involving ancient human remains.

245

Figure 12.6

Indigenous archaeologists, including Tautala Asaua.

247

Table 8.1

 he number of section 11, 12 and 18 Historic T Places Act authority applications to the New€Zealand Historic Places Trust lodged from 1999 to 2008.

161

Table 12.1

The diverse elements of Indigenous archaeology.

234

Tables

Preface

This volume is an outgrowth of the 2nd Indigenous WAC Inter-Congress, held between the 8th and 12th of November 2005 at Waipapa Marae, University of Auckland, in Tamaki Makaurau/Auckland, Aotearoa/New Zealand. We acknowledge the important contribution of Des Kahotea, who proposed the conference theme of The Uses and Abuses of Archaeology for Indigenous Peoples and was co-convenor with Caroline Phillips and Joe Watkins, aided by Stephanie Ford as Programme Chair and Margaret Rika-Heke as Administrator. The opening address by Linda Tuhiwai Smith was very valuable in setting the tone for the conference, and our hosts Ngati Whatua and staff of the Department of Maori Studies, University of Auckland provided both physical and cultural requirements. Over 170 delegates attended the conference, of whom a quarter were Indigenous student or heritage workers from 18 countries around the world, while another quarter were Maori tribal representatives. A number of foundational themes were expressed at the Plenary, which are worth repeating here: • •

• •

•

Universities need to provide appropriate training for students to deal with Indigenous issues in archaeology. The archaeological community must foster and support involvement and education of Indigenous peoples in archaeology and related cultural heritage fields. The archaeological community must raise awareness of the importance of Indigenous cultural heritage and cultural heritage values. Indigenous peoples worldwide must develop stronger networks to exchange information and provide support on issues related to archaeology and heritage management. Indigenous groups must take a proactive role in accessing these opportunities and creating strong support bases from which to operate.

Many of the papers at the conference revolved around the intersection between non-Indigenous archaeologists and Indigenous peoples. At the Inter-Congress, the latter clearly stated that they no longer wished to be passive in the processes of investigation, interpretation and housing of their cultural heritage. In particular, the delegates spoke around four main topics, which form the general themes of this publication: •

Cooperation towards heritage protection: there was an urgency expressed for collaboration between archaeologists and Indigenous peoples in order to conserve those places and objects of value that are under threat. 13

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 14 Preface •

• •

Decolonisation of archaeology: archaeologists have been challenged for some time to broaden their academic view and become more inclusive of other ideas, especially of those with whom they are studying and working. Reflective analysis: in-depth discussions of real experiences showed a more mature response to the subject of Indigenous archaeology. Present and future trajectories: the practice of archaeology has changed over the years, and clearly there is room for improvement through a thoughtful joint approach—bridging the divide.

Many of the contributors to this volume who were at the conference (see Figures P.1 and P.2) have prepared newly written chapters for this volume that have further developed these topics, while others have been invited to submit work that addressed the themes of this publication.

Figure P.1â•… Delegates in front of Tane-nui-a-Rangi, the Maori meeting house at Waipapa Marae, Auckland University, that was the venue for the 2nd Indigenous WAC Inter-Congress in 2005. (Photo credit: Robin Torrence.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Preface 15

Figure P.2â•… Authors and conference organisers identified. (Caroline Phillips.)

A number of people have assisted us in this volume. They include Elizabeth Pascal, who lent editorial expertise and insightful comments, with additional edits by Meri Low and Jocelyn Logan. One World Series editors, including Robin Torrence, Joan Gero and Mark Leone, have supported us in this endeavour. They and the anonymous reviewers made many pertinent suggestions. Mitch Allen and Left Coast Press, Inc., assisted us throughout the process.

Chapter 1

Maintaining the Dialogue Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

Dialogue: a conversation between two or more people … or a discussion directed towards exploration of a subject or resolution of a problem. (Soanes [ed.] 2005. Compact Oxford English Dictionary of Current English)

Introduction Across the world, Indigenous peoples have struggled with the discipline of archaeology, the meanings of the past and who has the right to assign such meanings. At times, it has appeared that the very survival of Indigenous communities was threatened, not by landgrabs as was the case formerly, but by those who controlled objects, places and ideas. These battles have been fought just as strenuously in New Zealand and Australia as in other parts of the world. While this volume focuses on these two countries, it also includes papers from North and South America and the Pacific to provide a global context for these issues. In this chapter, we concentrate not on the conflicts between archaeologists and Indigenous peoples, but rather, despite continuing difficulties, the degree to which archaeologists and Indigenous communities are now working together with a growing sense of common purpose that is transforming archaeology as we know it. Over the past 25 years, something remarkable has been happening within the discipline of archaeology. The opening up of a dialogue between archaeologists and Indigenous peoples began about the time of the 1st World Archaeological Congress (WAC) held in Southampton in 1986, which brought together archaeologists and nonacademic Indigenous delegates from around the world (Shepherd 2008:3; Ucko 1990:ix). Initially, this dialogue could be characterised as a one-sided 17

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 18 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

affair, where archaeologists and cultural resource heritage managers faced considerable criticism concerning the impact of their research on Indigenous communities. Archaeology was accused of colonialism, racism and imperialism, placing the discipline in an unenviable position between the emancipatory demands of Indigenous communities, on the one hand, and resistant governments and settler populations, on the other. Such criticisms initiated a moral crisis to which the discipline was poorly equipped to respond. While, in retrospect, it might seem inevitable that archaeology would find itself the subject of serious Indigenous criticisms at the Southampton Congress, in fact, this was a historically contingent outcome. In this chapter, we would like firstly to consider how and why these criticisms, and the changes that have since taken place in archaeology, were set in motion. Secondly, we intend to examine a number of issues that hold promise for advancing the dialogue between archaeologists and Indigenous communities and also identify factors that are acting as an impediment to it. Finally, we will introduce the collected chapters in this volume in terms of this extended discussion, which demonstrate the broadening focus of the debate. The ultimate aim of this chapter is to further the dialogue between archaeology and Indigenous communities in order that these relationships might be strengthened. The point of difference we would like to pursue is to make the dialogue itself the subject of inquiry, rather than the force of the Indigenous criticisms or the responses and nonresponses of the archaeological community towards them. Many archaeologists are now familiar with the literature and are broadly supportive of the aims of Indigenous communities who seek to take greater control of their cultural heritage. If the conversation is not to become an internal one between Indigenous peoples and the archaeologists who collaborate with them, and is to have real influence on the broader discipline of archaeology, then it has to traverse new territory to reach a much wider group of interested parties, including those archaeologists, heritage managers, government agencies, developers and the public who presently find the case presented to be less compelling. We would argue that further progress requires a greater degree of mutual understanding between both archaeologists and Indigenous peoples, and coordination with other organisations to form liaisons, networks and improved understandings. This will enable the changes that still need to be made to be precisely located. A major factor facilitating this is the increasing number of Indigenous archaeologists, including Sonya Atalay, Roger Echo-Hawk, Dorothy Lippert and Joe Watkins, just to name a few, who are able to engage in

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 19

the dialogue from both sides (for examples of their work, see entries in the References).

Factors in the Indigenous Critique of Archaeology Jung (2008:69, 71) notes that marginalised groups need to force open a political space where their concerns can be heard. We identify two developments that created such a political space for the Indigenous critique of archaeology. These were, firstly, the Indigenous rights movement and, secondly, the rise of cultural heritage management (CHM) as the major component of archaeological endeavour. Significant aspects that followed from these two developments were the critique of logical positivism fundamental to “New Archaeology” and the attempts to create an Indigenous archaeology.

The Indigenous Rights Movement In terms of resistance to the loss of land and Indigenous cultural values, there has always been an Indigenous rights movement and a considerable interchange of knowledge about the colonial process between Indigenous communities (Elder 1932:141; Paterson 2006:79–86). Decolonisation during the twentieth century saw the creation of sovereign states in Africa, Asia and the Pacific. This process, however, largely bypassed the Indigenous minorities resident in South America and the settler states of Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa (Jung 2008:155–156). Changes in many of those countries were initiated in concert with the civil rights movement in the United States (Curthoys 2002). A further turning point in terms of New Zealand and Australia occurred in 1981 over the question of sporting contacts with South Africa. The determination of the NZ Rugby Union and government to accept a racially segregated rugby team from South Africa exposed deep divisions within New Zealand society and led to violent confrontations between police and demonstrators (Webster 1998:30–31). Such tours provoked a similar response in Australia. The power of the Indigenous rights movement is that it is simultaneously ancient and modern; it is a contemporary form of political expression based on tradition and culture (Jung 2008:184–185). This articulation of the ancient and the modern cuts through the arguments of those who seek to classify the movement as either essentialist or constructivist (see discussion in Liebmann 2008a). Indigenous groups invoke the right to self-determination and reparation for the wrongs

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 20 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

done to Indigenous peoples through colonialism. As Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999:7) notes, The world’s indigenous populations belong to a network of peoples … [who] have been subjected to the colonization of their lands and cultures, and the denial of their sovereignty, by a colonizing society that has come to dominate and determine the shape and quality of their lives.

An important aspect of this struggle is contesting the positional superiority of Western knowledge, particularly the interpretation of colonialism as “progress” and the discounting of Indigenous forms of knowledge (McNiven and Russell 2005:181–190; Sheehan and Lilley 2008; Smith 1999:58–60). Indigenous groups are critical of archaeologists and anthropologists who define indigeneity as belonging to the past. Such a definition takes no account of the disruption to Indigenous cultures occasioned by colonialism and leaves contemporary Indigenous people in a state of limbo (Deloria 1969; McNiven and Russell 2005:38–49; Smith 2004:26–28). On their own, questions of Indigenous identity and the quest of the Indigenous rights movement for self-determination and justice are not sufficient to explain the strength of the Indigenous critique of archaeology. We would argue that this also required the emergence of CHM, which brought Indigenous peoples and archaeology into frequent direct interaction.

The Rise of Cultural Heritage Management While CHM archaeology is considered more fully later in this chapter, a number of points are relevant to the discussion here. During the late 1960s and 1970s, archaeologists put considerable effort into getting the state to take responsibility for the protection and preservation of heritage through legislation, with the United States’ Archaeological and Historic Preservation Act of 1974 and similar acts in Australia and New Zealand (Allen 2002:345, and this volume; Evatt 1998; Ross, this volume; Smith 2004:5; Watkins 2000:40). Archaeological rhetoric stressed the value of heritage conservation in terms of the national identity and, somewhat paradoxically, the importance of archaeological sites as contributing to a universal history of humankind. An important aspect of the legislation was that conservation decisions for endangered heritage places should be on the basis of their scientific value, particularly their ability to provide “evidence” about the past (Smith 2004:118). Despite the fact that much of the legislation in the United States, Australia and New Zealand was directed towards archaeological places associated with Indigenous communities, archaeologists were able to consider themselves as stewards,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 21

or guardians, of the past, working both for the “public good” and in defence of Indigenous cultural values (McNiven and Russell 2005:182– 190; Smith 2004:82–93). The recognition of Indigenous rights occurs at both an international and a national level (Jung 2008:181–187; Quesenberry 1999) and depends on the political acceptance of claims to indigeneity. Being accepted as the keepers of traditional knowledge, and as the guardians of ancestral places and the human remains associated with them, is central to the concept of Indigenous identity. Consequently, it was not long before the archaeological claims to be stewards of the past were contested. Not only was the right of archaeologists to speak for the archaeological past questioned, the Indigenous critique went further and linked the control of the archaeological resources by historians and archaeologists with the archaeologists’ claim that they should be considered reliable interpreters of Indigenous history (Allen 1988:87; Smith 1999:19–41). The Indigenous critique saw the practice of archaeology, and the use of Western knowledge based on science, as part of an ongoing process of colonial dispossession (Smith 1999:29–30). Racism, which had played a central role in European theories of colonisation, was now turned back on the archaeologists, whose policies and practices were identified as Â�racist. The treatment of human remains, which also appeared to have racist overtones, represented a significant area of conflict (Nicholas 2008:1663; Solomon and Forbes, this volume). Archaeologists were now faced with a powerful moral argument; as Ucko (1990: xx) pointed out, The problem confronting archaeology today is an acutely moral one. If the essential question about the nature of the past cannot be answered satisfactorily, how can the preoccupations, aims, and practices of archaeologists be allowed to prejudice those of others?

Why was WAC a Success? Given the strength of these criticisms, it must be asked how the 1st WAC Congress achieved so much, rather than descending into chaos. There are a number of answers to this question. Firstly, the Congress itself, and its split from the International Union for Prehistoric and Protohistoric Sciences (a member union of UNESCO), was firmly grounded in the struggle against racism (Smith 2007:1; Ucko 1987).1 Secondly, archaeologists, alongside powerful Indigenous voices, led the movement for change within archaeology. Finally, WAC, through its sponsorship of international meetings and the publication of their results, has been very successful in the ideological war for the heart of archaeology. WAC created a space in which a dialogue with Indigenous peoples and new forms of archaeology could simultaneously develop. Deep

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 22 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

Â� conversations regarding the nature of archaeology and its relations with Indigenous peoples have turned out to have agency, transforming the discipline in unexpected and creative ways. The effect of these discussions was to shift the archaeological gaze from the distant, objective past towards a more reflective consideration of the discipline’s role as one of the ideological props of colonialism. Archaeologists, their methods, theories and relations with Indigenous peoples became the subject of critical inquiry, as Ucko (1990:x) noted: One of the main themes of the Congress was devoted to “Archaeological ‘Objectivity’ in Interpretation” … the main aim being to focus attention to the way that evidence of the past—including archaeological evidence— has been used and viewed by particular groups (whether local, regional or national) at different times … The whole theme attempted, therefore, a unique mix of critical assessment of the basis of archaeological methodology with critical awareness of the social contexts of use (and possible manipulation) of the evidence of the past.

Discussions with Indigenous delegates highlighted a number of assumptions that contradicted their sense of the past and the fact that archaeological interpretations had ongoing effects in the present. It was argued that chronologies based on absolute dates were not the only way to record and comprehend the past, and that such approaches ignored the complexity of many cultural forms. Interpretations of cultural continuity or discontinuity had an effect on Indigenous land claims, including the right of access to sites and the care of human remains. Lack of control in relation to museum displays and the treatment of ritual objects had significant psychological and cultural consequences. Unsurprisingly, for many Indigenous peoples colonisation was a key aspect, and they regarded archaeology as an important part of the colonial system, one that continued to dominate Indigenous cultures and their heritage (Layton 1989a). In opening up a political space for the discussion of the impact of archaeology and archaeological theories on Indigenous communities, WAC also opened up a space for the emergence of new approaches to archaeology based on critiques of the New, or Processual, Archaeology (Zimmerman 2005:307). This postprocessual movement introduced debates about the necessity for self-reflection, allowing multiple interpretations, and an acknowledgement of the social and political context in which archaeologists worked, and hence, their ethical responsibilities to both the Indigenous and wider communities. Many writers argued that in order to proceed with new approaches to the study of archaeology, a clear understanding of the process of colonialism and postcolonialism was essential (Atalay 2006a,b; Gosden€2001).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 23

Atalay (2006b:295) added that archaeology can become part of a Â�decolonising process by acknowledging past exploitative practices, regaining lost traditions and undertaking a more ethical practice towards the concerns of Indigenous communities. An example of this approach is the work The Archaeology of Difference, edited by Torrence and Clarke (2000), in which it was acknowledged that colonial encounters began with the first meetings between peoples and continue to the present. Torrence and Clarke (2000:27–28) also observed that the study of crosscultural negotiations has important political ramifications for today, linking the recent past of Indigenous peoples with contemporary political and social issues. Challenges to the functionalism and neoevolutionism of the New Archaeology (Trigger 1989:244–319) were also challenges to the idea that there could be a single, objective history for all humankind. Postmodern and postcolonial approaches to archaeology argue that multiple histories should stand in place of the authoritative voice (Wylie 1995). Such approaches create a problem for the archaeology of the future, as does the question of how far it will be possible to generalise regionally or participate in comparative archaeology, goals of both postcolonial archaeology and “World Archaeology” (Gosden 2001:255; Ucko 1990). One of the strengths of postprocessual developments in archaeology is the emphasis on discourse and the dissemination of knowledge. Again, this relates back to Ucko’s experience with the 1974 AIATSIS conference (see Note 1), where he was able to ensure rapid publication of the conference papers (Ucko 1977:1). His ability to forge a relationship with Routledge, the original publishers of the One World Archaeology series, resulted in the publication of more than 20 volumes from the Southampton Congress (Ucko 1990:ix–x). These included Who Needs the Past?, Conflict in the Archaeology of Living Traditions, both edited by Layton (1989a, b), and The Politics of the Past, edited by Gathercole and Lowenthal (1990). The timely publication of these volumes ensured that the Indigenous challenge to archaeology was rapidly disseminated to the discipline. The extent of the archaeological literature on these topics is shown in the publication lists of AltaMira Press and Left Coast Press, Inc., and the number of articles on these topics in journals such as Public Archaeology, Archaeologies and American Indian Quarterly. The issues discussed above have been widely debated over the two and a half decades since WAC 1, and considerable progress made on understanding the intricate relationship between colonisation, archaeology and the effects of its interpretations on Indigenous communities. Archaeology has changed considerably over the past 20 years, and many of the approaches which seemed new at Southampton now find a recognised place within disciplinary meetings. Discussions of the nature of postcolonial Â�interactions

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 24 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

have had a flow-on effect in the debates concerned with collaborative, �community-based (versus academic-led) fieldwork and archaeological �ethics (Atalay 2006a; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008a; Liebmann and Rizvi 2008; Schroeder et€al. 2007; Swidler et€al. 1997; Watkins 2000; and other entries in the References).

Archaeological Ethics Discontent at how archaeologists commonly operated led to the formation of an Indigenous working group at WAC 2 in Venezuela, headed by Hirini Matunga, a New Zealand Maori. This working group developed a code of ethics, which was adopted by the World Archaeological Congress in 1990 (Zimmerman 1996; see Appendix 1). The WAC code is unique in that it demonstrates a shift of power and, most importantly, because it was drafted by Indigenous people in terms of how they would like archaeologists to behave (Zimmerman 1996). This code has since been supplemented by other ethical statements, including The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains 1989 and The Tamaki Makau-rau Accord on the Display of Human Remains and Sacred Objects 2005 (see Appendices 2 and 3). In essence these statements are similar in many regards to those proposed by various international organisations such as ICOMOS and UNESCO and are similar to one drafted by nine Maori tribes in New Zealand during the United Nations International Year for the World’s Indigenous Peoples in 1993, The Mataatua Declaration on Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples (see Appendix 4). In 1990, the passing of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) in the United States ushered in a new era, allowing archaeologists and Native American communities to come together as equals as they worked to achieve agreement and compromise (Downer 1997:32; Zimmerman 1996). All these serve to address the purpose of archaeological study and ensure that Indigenous peoples’ interests, experiences and knowledge are at the centre of archaeological research, where the results of research are negotiated and become the shared intellectual property of both the Indigenous peoples and the archaeologists (Jackson and Smith 2005:335; Smith and Wobst 2005:14). Ethics have been linked to the idea of using archaeology to work for social justice and as a way of mitigating the past effects of colonialism (Smith and Wobst 2005:392–394). In this process, scholars work towards a decolonised practice that is with, for and by Indigenous peoples (Atalay 2006a, b). Directions are made towards research ethics, public benefits, access to research and the ownership of knowledge. Dissemination of the results is also being passed on through field schools, training and

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 25

Â� education in collaboration with local communities. Ethics have also addressed the issue of the ownership, or control, of the resources of the past and how these might be used in the present. Two books published with the title Who Owns the Past? have discussed cultural property and material culture (McBryde 1985 and Fitz Gibbon 2005, respectively). Ethical statements have developed from the concept that archaeology has a role to play in the affairs of the world, one that demands archaeology maintains a morality and relevance (Ucko 1995:16). Many archaeological associations have subsequently adopted codes of conduct as guides for their members (Grigoropoulos and Pantazatos 2007:144–145). However, as they and Zimmerman (1996:303) note, codes of ethics are no panacea; they are meant to apprise people of key issues and should not be prescriptive. Nonetheless, the accords and codes discussed above have had a measurable effect on both archaeologists and archaeological practice (Figures 1.1 and 1.2) (see Foana’ota, Phillips, Ross, Solomon and Forbes, this volume). Over time, it is likely that attempts to impose rules on the discipline will be seen as a phase in the dialogue, one that will give way to a more genuine commitment to active involvement and collaboration.

Figure 1.1╅ Harry Allen (back to camera) describing the findings of a joint University of Auckland and Ngati Mutunga research project to the late Te Ru Koriri Whareoka, elder of Ngati Mutunga, and other members of Ngati Mutunga, landowners and researchers (Allen et€al. 2002). (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips 2003.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 26 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

Figure 1.2╅ Taking a pollen core from a wet site in North Taranaki, New Zealand, as part of a joint University of Auckland and Ngati Mutunga research project (Allen et€al. 2002). From left to right: Janet Wilmshurst, Caroline Phillips, Warwick Martin (landowner), Dilys Johns and Vince Neall. (Photo credit: Harry Allen€2002.)

Archaeologists and Indigenous Communities: The Contemporary Scene In their discussion of Indigenous archaeology “Down Under”, Claire Smith and Gary Jackson (2006:339) consider why Indigenous Australians, and we would add Indigenous Maori, appear to have more control over their cultural heritage than many Native Americans. They note that areas of such control include the fact that archaeologists investigating Aboriginal sites must obtain Aboriginal permission to conduct research, that Aboriginal communities have the ability to restrict access to sites and knowledge and that there is control over the publication

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 27

of secret or sacred knowledge and the portrayal of sacred artefacts. Finally, Indigenous communities now have input into representations of Aboriginal life and history. Such rights and responsibilities in these areas have not come without considerable cost to Indigenous peoples, struggles documented by a number of authors (Colley 2002; Du Cros 2002; McNiven and Russell 2005; Smith 1999; Smith 2004; WesleySmith 1994) in addition to Smith and Jackson themselves. Aboriginal advocacy has resulted in the return, lodgement in approved places, or reburial of Aboriginal human remains, and in many cases, artefacts. The most recent case in Australia has been the reburial of Ngarrindjeri human remains from South Australia (Hemming and Trevorrow 2005) and in New Zealand, the reburial of Maori human remains from the Wairau Bar site under the cultural control of Rangitane people on 16€April 2009.2 Negotiations for the return of human remains from overseas is now commonplace. One difference in Australia and New Zealand is that control over land-use planning extends to private lands, and hence, enables Indigenous groups to make cultural claims over lands lost through the colonial encounter. Another factor is that there are relatively few archaeologists and anthropologists involved in Indigenous studies in Australia and New Zealand, with the result that their influence over policy matters is limited and the views of the greater number of Aborigines and Maori on cultural matters are likely to carry more weight with politicians and bureaucrats.3 Watkins (2000:47–48), however, notes that Native Americans also no longer need to justify their positions relative to the reburial of human remains, the repatriation of associated grave goods or the repatriation of sacred or religious items, and that consultation is commonly required prior to any archaeological research in the United States. This suggests that the differences between Australia and New Zealand, on the one hand, and North America, on the other, are matters of degree—a notion that is borne out in Watkins’s comparative survey of North America, Australia, New Zealand and Scandinavia, which identified commonalities in the approaches of Indigenous peoples, archaeologists and institutions across these countries (Watkins 2000:155–168, and this volume). In his review of the changes in archaeology since the 1st WAC in 1986, Larry Zimmerman (2006:86) notes that archaeologists are no longer the primary stewards of the past and that this role has now passed to the Indigenous communities culturally affiliated with those pasts. While there have been important advances in the collaboration between archaeologists and Indigenous communities (Lilley 2000), many areas require further discussion; as Atalay (2006b:301–302) notes,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 28 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips If archaeologists and Indigenous people are to be successful stewards of the archaeological record, we must begin to explore ways of moving beyond posturings that pit science against religion or polarize interests of Indigenous people against archaeologists, and … advocate for a collaborative approach that blends the strengths of Western archaeological science with the knowledge and epistemologies of Indigenous peoples to create a set of theories and practices for an ethically informed study of the past, history, and heritage.

In the discussion that follows, we wish to examine factors likely to impede further dialogue between archaeologists and members of Indigenous communities involved with archaeology. Impediments we identify include, firstly, the tendency to collapse conceptual categories into a set of essential, and hence unresolvable, differences; secondly, the proposition of a new decolonised methodology; thirdly, the disconnection between oral accounts and the material world of archaeology; and fourthly, the role of CHM in relation to the conservation and archaeology of significant Indigenous places.

Collapsing Categories In their book, Talking Past Each Other: Problems of Cross-cultural Communication, Metge and Kinloch (1984) illustrated how difficult it is to avoid confusion when people are using similar language based on quite different understandings. Capturing the moment, when archaeology and the circumstances of Indigenous peoples are both moving through a period of rapid change, is never going to be an easy task. One source of continuing confusion occurs when related categories are collapsed into a single whole. Thus archaeology is commonly associated with Western knowledge systems and methodologies, which, it is claimed, privilege the material, scientific and observable as ways of categorising and interpreting the world (Atalay 2006b:280). Furthermore, the scientific view of the world is often conflated with both colonialism and acquisitive capitalism (Atalay 2006b:282; Liebmann 2008b:7; Smith and Jackson 2006:312–315). These categories are in turn contrasted with Indigenous epistemologies and conceptions that value the spiritual, experiential and intangible qualities of archaeological sites, ancestral remains and artefacts (Sheehan and Lilley 2008; Smith and Jackson 2008:178). The historical relationships between archaeology and colonialism are indisputable, as are Atalay’s (2006b:282) comments that the colonial past continues to exert a powerful, and largely negative, influence on Indigenous communities. If, however, as Atalay has noted above, it is recognised that there are multiple ways of seeing, interpreting

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 29

and understanding the past, then it would appear to be Â�unproductive to continue dividing the archaeological world into a set of conceptual oppositions. The implication of pitching Western thought and science against Indigenous knowledge would force practitioners to choose between science and Indigenous thought, as if these were mutually exclusive categories. In fact, the characterisation of science as “Western” denies the immense contribution of non-Western peoples to our current understanding of the physical world. In addition, recognising that archaeology is a historical science necessarily places it in a somewhat different category than the experimental sciences (Chambers 1999). Within the archaeological literature, the critique of essentialism and the use of oppositional/dualist terms is now well developed (EchoHawk and Zimmerman 2006; Green 2008; Liebmann 2008b:7). This critique has also had an impact on thinking about postcolonial forms of Â�archaeology—collaborative archaeology, community archaeology, Indigenous archaeology and postcolonial archaeology. While there may have once been a single category “archaeology” represented by a single research paradigm (Trigger 1989), Zimmerman (2006:86) notes that there are now many archaeologies. Some branches of archaeology continue to be defined by their subject areas, e.g., historical, maritime, classical or prehistoric, whereas other forms of archaeology vary radically in terms of their aims and methodologies. Atalay (2006b: 291) notes, Among other things, postprocessualism [and postmodernism] brought debates over self-reflexivity, multi-vocality, social context of archaeology, ethics, and multiple interpretations to the minds of archaeologists globally, particularly those educated or practicing in North America, Europe, and other Western contexts … one of the outcomes of these discussions has been the realization by many archaeologists that there are multiple ways of seeing, interpreting, and understanding the past, and attempts to grapple with issues of objectivity and subjectivity remain a critical topic of inquiry.

Like the discipline of archaeology itself, the postcolonial Indigenous world is now so diverse that there is unlikely to be a single Indigenous viewpoint within one country, let alone across the world. Instead, we see a future of negotiated and tactical alliances, sometimes with archaeologists, sometimes with government and sometimes with the wider community, in an effort to negotiate the complexities of life for modern tribal entities (Allen, Ross, Solomon and Forbes, this volume).

Decolonising Methodology Probably the most important idea to emerge from these debates over the past 20 years is that archaeology should strive to become a “Â�decolonising

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 30 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

methodology”, even a transformative practice (Atalay 2006b). There are two distinct aspects to this. Firstly, there must be a coming to terms with archaeology’s colonial history, and secondly, there must be an active engagement with Indigenous communities (Atalay 2006b:284; Liebmann 2008a:73; Preucel and Cipolla 2008). Such an engagement would vary in terms of the types of archaeology practiced and the wishes of the Indigenous community being approached. It is not necessary, however, for all archaeologists to become postmodernists (Preucel and Cipolla 2008:131–132), and Lonetree (2006:641–642) in fact criticises postmodern approaches as being opaque to Indigenous peoples. It has been suggested that a solution to these difficulties is the Â�creation of an Indigenous archaeology, defined as “archaeology conducted with, for and by Indigenous peoples” (Nicholas and Andrews 1997; however, see Nicholas, this volume, for an opposing view). Anne Clarke was pioneer in the Australia/Pacific region of a related approach, that of “community archaeology”, basing her doctoral research on Â�community-directed projects on Groote Eylandt, Northern Australia (1994; see also Torrence and Clarke 2000). Marshall (2002) discusses the concept, which ranges from research agreements with Indigenous communities, to projects where the community sets the aims and outcomes, to projects carried out by Indigenous archaeologists working with communities (Gosden 2001:255; Jackson and Smith 2005:335– 346, Ucko 1995:15). Given the requirement to consult with Indigenous communities about most archaeological research and heritage management projects as a condition before approving research applications or authorities (Atalay 2006a:271; Smith and Jackson 2006:324; Phillips, this volume), it might be concluded that all archaeology is collaborative, at least to this extent. However, the consultation process in the field of CHM is not always as transparent.4 There is now considerable agreement that Indigenous and collaborative forms of archaeology fall within a spectrum of approaches (ColwellChanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). Doing community archaeology raises issues that are yet to be resolved, particularly the plurality of community interests in the past and the political needs of the present (Gosden 2001:258; Zimmerman 2005:301–308). As a result of these complexities, Echo-Hawk and Zimmerman (2006:481) argue that the decolonisation of archaeology requires more than the insertion of Native, or Indigenous, into what is now regarded as “white” archaeology, and that the creation of a separate Indigenous archaeology would be counterproductive, possibly leading to further marginalisation (see also Jung 2008:286–287; Nicholas, this volume). Recognising this, Atalay (2006b:293) observes that one need not be an Indigenous person to engage in the practice of Indigenous archaeology.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 31

From a New Zealand perspective, it is interesting that Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s (1999) Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples is regarded as a key text in decolonising studies (Preucel and Cipolla 2008:132). In this work Smith argues that Indigenous research should be controlled by Indigenous peoples to ensure their cultural safety and that the methodology is grounded in the worldview of the people concerned. The results should benefit the Indigenous communities involved. Benefit, however, should not be seen as an immediate utilitarian outcome, as it is up to each community to decide what might be of benefit to them. It is clear that there is now a considerable and far-reaching debate in archaeology concerning its relationships with Indigenous communities, and a determination to address the issues raised by archaeology’s colonial history and contemporary practice as far as Indigenous communities are concerned. Confronting archaeology’s past and involving oneself with Indigenous communities will quickly bring the researcher against the question of Indigenous views and accounts of the past.

Oral Accounts of the Past (And Present) A number of authors argue that, in claiming to be an authoritative source of knowledge of the past, archaeology discounts traditional forms of knowledge, and hence, advances the colonial project (Atalay 2006b:280– 281; Smith and Jackson 2006:317). There have been calls for archaeology to make use of wider sets of information in its methodologies and interpretations, including traditional and oral evidence. It should be taken as axiomatic, however, that archaeologists cannot have unfettered access to oral and traditional forms of information. Such information is contextual and in many cases is recognised as the intellectual property of particular individuals and groups (Atalay 2006b:296–297). In their discussion of Native American oral traditions and archaeology, Anyon et€al. (1997) use the term “respect” as the manner in which archaeologists should approach the use of Indigenous knowledge in their work. Nonetheless, Indigenous communities have gone to great pains to draw the public’s attention to their traditions and their historical experience of colonialism. L. T. Smith (1999:33) notes that the telling of stories and reclaiming of the past provides testimony to past injustices and represents a powerful weapon in the Indigenous struggle (Sharp 1990:56–64). Indigenous communities in New Zealand are currently making claims against the government under the terms of the Treaty of Waitangi. Such claims involve the assembly of oral and other evidence concerning Â�traditional rights to resources and the history of legal and illegal government actions. This material, which fills entire library floors,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 32 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

will be a Â�priceless treasure to their descendants and, with appropriate negotiations, to historians and archaeologists (Ballara 1993). Maori historians have also published detailed accounts of tribal traditions over recent years (Cloher 2002; Jones and Biggs 1995; Sissons et€ al. 2001; Tau and Anderson 2008). In Australia, traditional knowledge has been made widely accessible through the medium of paintings that are available to the public (Bardon and Bardon 2004). Over the last decade, some archaeologists have comfortably incorporated historical and traditional information within the spectrum of archaeological approaches (Anderson 1998; Conkey 2005:30; McNiven and Russell 2005:242–245; Phillips 2004; Wylie 2002). The challenge lies now in demonstrating the power of the approaches advocated through archaeological practice and transforming the discipline, not by argument, but by example. As the Tasmanian Aboriginal Land Council suggested, By accepting our role in analysis and interpretation, you [archaeologists] may find that new questions are identified and the interpretations acquire a relevance that extends beyond the confines of your discipline. (1996:298)

Cultural Heritage Management The majority of archaeologists working in the United States, Australia and New Zealand are employed within the CHM field, either as archaeological consultants or as heritage managers (Figures 1.3 and 1.4) (Colley 2002:41–48; Patterson 1999:165; Walton and O’Keefe 2004). Indigenous spokespeople are more likely to interact with archaeologists working within these fields than they are with research archaeologists. Dialogue based solely on an academic approach to archaeology will miss those elements of CHM archaeology that may also involve government, planners or the courts, rather than Â�archaeology itself. Laurajane Smith (2004) argues, as we do in this volume, that archaeological discourse, practice, theory and the discipline’s sense of identity are now governed by the process of CHM. She continues, [CHM], which may be defined in Western contexts as the process concerned with management of material or tangible cultural heritage, is also ultimately about the management and governance of the meanings and values that the material heritage is seen to symbolize or otherwise represent. (2004:195)

Cultural heritage management, or historic preservation, now represents an entire field of archaeology with its own methods, culture and practitioners (McManamon and Hatton 1999). CHM incorporates policy making at various levels of government, management and the

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 33

Figure 1.3â•… George Nicholas and Harry Allen working on a salvage archaeological excavation at Athenree under an authority from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust (Phillips and Allen 1996). (Photo credit: Catherine Carlson 1996.)

Â� conservation of cultural heritage, as well as field archaeology and impact assessments. This broad subdiscipline is fragmented, with different literatures growing up around the interpretation of archaeological evidence, resource management, significance assessment, education and tourism. The growth of CHM over recent years can be gauged by a comparison of the situation in 1972 with that of today, where the majority of archaeologists are now employed in this field (McGimsey 1972; McManamon, Stout and Barnes 2008). One of the consequences of the failure of mainstream archaeology to acknowledge CHM is that it is undertheorised, and the discipline has yet to adequately engage with the cultural, social and political contexts in which applied archaeology is utilised (Smith 2004:197).5 Smith and Waterton (2009) have made a significant contribution to this task by developing the concept of “dissonance”, first introduced by Ashworth and Tunbridge (1996). One meaning of dissonance reflects the differences between Indigenous or local meanings attached to a place and those held by state heritage agencies, where the latter might wish to emphasise a unified and harmonious national identity. A second meaning of dissonance concerns “difficult” heritage places that reflect the darker side of human affairs, including massacre sites and places of persecution (Macdonald 2009). Dissonance is inherent in the heritage of Â�postcolonial countries.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 34 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

Figure 1.4â•… Caroline Phillips (left) and Kate Hill, working as consultant archaeologists under an authority from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust, excavating the edge of a former stream that contained evidence of Maori occupation, now buried under Richmond Street, Thames, where new stormwater drains were being laid (Phillips 2005). (Photo credit: Jocelyn Logan 2005.)

Chapters by Phillips, Ross, and Solomon and Forbes in this volume document aspects of heritage dissonance in Australia and New Zealand. As noted previously, CHM archaeology originated in heritage legislation developed in many countries during the 1960s and 1970s (Smith 2005). It did not, however, represent a break with current archaeological methods and theory. Laurajane Smith (2004:90) argues that the assumptions of Processual, or New Archaeology, were incorporated into the United States’ (and we would add New Zealand’s and Australia’s) heritage legislation and management practice. The legislation emphasised the materiality of the archaeological “record”, modelled on the natural sciences, where the aim was to understand the past in terms of universal laws applicable to all societies. When CHM legislation was being proposed, research archaeologists strongly advocated for the protection of archaeological sites, and they and their graduate students have been major beneficiaries of the legislation in terms of employment and the pursuit of archaeological goals. However, states passed heritage legislation for their own reasons,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 35

largely to do with relationships between historical symbols and the creation of a sense of national unity and identity (Smith 2006:48–53). As a result, most countries emphasise national as opposed to local interests, especially if the local are contesting voices. Smith (2005) also argues that archaeological significance is a central concept which underpins every aspect of CHM. Archaeological significance can be used by policy makers, in ways not intended by experts, to regulate social and political problems by incorporating them within the planning process. As a result, archaeological values have become inextricably tied into the technology of government (Ross, this volume; Smith 2005:82–83). As Ucko (1990:xv) pointed out, government funding or control of archaeology means that governments define what is, or is not, relevant in terms of national priorities, and this can override local interests. Heritage planners have attempted to compensate for this through creating a space for cultural significance, or social value, in assessments. However, in their survey of 72 local Â�government heritage reports from New South Wales, Canning and Spennemann (2001:459) found that social value was almost totally ignored in these studies, concluding, The methodologies currently employed in Australian cultural heritage management … cannot assess social value in anything but a cursory manner … [They] cannot accurately determine the depth of community feeling and attachment to cultural or natural environments—the very attributes that create a sense of place or identity.

As Darvill (2005) states, archaeologists are daily having to make complicated, rational and justifiable judgments on value and significance or importance. In many places recently, criteria for determining archaeological significance have been expanded to include factors such as period, rarity, representativeness, potential for research, group association, amenity and condition.6 These decisions impact on what will be protected, salvaged in face of impending destruction or allowed to be destroyed without record. By and large, heritage legislation offers longterm protection to only a small proportion of places. While ostensibly aimed at conservation, significance is usually measured in terms of the potential to retrieve information through salvage excavation prior to a place’s destruction, and the outcome of heritage management decisions is often the amelioration of effects achieved through salvage excavation, generally termed “mitigation” (Allen 2002). Indigenous peoples had little or no input when CHM legislation was written. Consequently, there are many points at which the process conflicts with Indigenous practice and authority regarding their places of significance and beliefs (Atalay 2006b:280). The language used within

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 36 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

CHM, in particular the use of terms such as “resource”, “mitigation” and “site”, reflect the underlying values and assumptions of archaeology (Mathers et€al. 2005). Indigenous thinking, on the other hand, is more often aligned with specific cultural associations and with heritage landscapes that reflect the continuous nature of human activities (Mathers et€al. 2005; Memmott and Long 1998; Zimmerman 2005:307). Williams (2002) documents Maori attempts to fulfill their obligations as guardians over cultural landscapes and the frustrations they have experienced through the New Zealand planning legislation, where many of their concerns have been regarded as being purely metaphysical. Moreover, Barber (2008:123; see also conference delegates to the Auckland InterCongress in Appendix 5) notes that Maori are critical of the emphasis on salvage archaeology, or mitigation, within heritage management practice in New Zealand: For Ngati Wai and Ngati Maru, in situ destruction of wahi tapu [sites of significance] separates contemporary customary communities from ritual and other obligatory descendant or historical relationships. Information recovery is not a relevant consideration, or mitigation.

In their attempts to assist Indigenous people to gain greater protection for places of heritage significance, archaeologists are often Â�frustrated by the legislation they are forced to work with. It is also the case that archaeologists who are contracted to carry out surveys and excavations rarely have control over the context or conditions under which these take place. Once a decision has been made, contract archaeologists often find themselves located uncomfortably between developers and Indigenous communities seeking to protect their cultural resources. On the other hand, Watkins (2000:93–115) and Swidler et€al. (1997) present case studies where archaeologists have worked successfully with Native American tribal organisations on historic preservation projects. Watkins (2000:177) noted that the hope for an indigenous archaeology rests on groups who know how to use the system to get the results they want as well as those who will push to modify the system to better fit the beliefs of indigenous people.

A recent study in New Zealand by Turner (2008) of two Maori organisations involved in heritage management found that one group, Ngati Kuri, was comfortable in identifying sites within the existing legislative framework. By contrast, the Manawhenua Ki Mohua regard the area they are culturally responsible for as sacred and refuse to enter into dialogue with government or heritage planners about places under threat. Instead they attempted direct political action to achieve their ends. In

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 37

the United States, Watkins (2007:166–169) similarly documents situations where tribal authorities and opposing groups of archaeologists pursue very different means of demonstrating their connections with the past. In concluding this section, it is important to consider how to transcend approaches that were foundational at the time legislation was passed so as to integrate other values and alternative voices into CHM processes. This requires that, at times, we are able to move past oppositions between archaeologists and Indigenous communities and pool our limited resources to achieve common heritage ends. The dialogue concerning research archaeology is underway, that concerning CHM remains at an early stage; it does, however, have considerable and unrealised potential to transform CHM, just as it has transformed research archaeology.

Issues and Contributors The collected essays in this volume address contemporary issues regarding the relationship between Indigenous groups and archaeologists. Some of the essays, including this chapter, attempt to provide an Australian and New Zealand focus to these issues. On the other hand, the disciplines of archaeology and CHM are international in scope. Many countries continue to experience the impact of colonialism. In response to these common experiences, both archaeology and Indigenous political movements involve international networks where information quickly moves around the globe. Just as these movements involve the dialectic between the past and the present, there is a similar dialectic between the international and the local. As noted many times in this volume, we acknowledge the contribution that Joe Watkins has made to the dialogue between archaeology and Indigenous groups. He is simultaneously archaeology’s greatest critic and its staunchest defender, demonstrating through his life how difficult it is to straddle the divide between an informed archaeology and the legitimate concerns of Indigenous communities. In the essay presented here (Chapter 2), he challenges Native Americans to move beyond wellworn criticisms of archaeology and a preoccupation with the issue of repatriation. At the same time, he directs our vision not to our differences but towards common problems of development and globalisation, which threaten the integrity of both archaeological heritage and local communities. Nearly 10 years ago, Watkins (2000:ix, 178–179) asked why so few Native Americans were involved in archaeology. He went part of the way to answer this, raising the conflicts Indigenous archaeologists face when they choose archaeology as a career. More recently,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 38 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

however, Lippert (2007:155) argues that one of the unforeseen consequences of repatriation has been a marked increase in the number of Native Americans participating in archaeology. Furthermore, she sees the presence of Native American archaeologists as opening up a theoretical space in archaeology for greater cultural understanding. Dorothy Lippert attended the WAC Inter-Congress in Auckland and, in presenting these views, made a significant contribution to the success of the meeting. Rika-Heke (Chapter 10) considers these same questions from a Maori point of view, where Maori have yet to enter the discipline in any numbers. She finds that Maori are more likely to become involved in heritage protection through agencies operated by Maori organisations rather than intrusive archaeological investigation, which is seen as potentially a dangerous occupation (see also Watkins 2007:171). As we do, Haber et€ al.7 (although they use the less directed term “Â�conversation”) make the dialogue between archaeologists and Indigenous communities the subject of their inquiry (Chapter 4). In engaging directly with members of the Kolla community, they attempt to transcend the difficulties of communication between an oral and a literate community. The conversations they report take place within a museum context, where the community confronts historical and archaeological accounts that appear entirely foreign. As with other chapters in this volume (e.g., Mosley), Haber et€al. explore the limits of intersubjective understandings. They conclude that, rather than using the conversation to attempt to achieve a predetermined outcome, Â�archaeology should instead be satisfied with making connections by allowing the conversation to chart its own course. They also present a timely warning against instrumental thinking in archaeological approaches to Indigenous communities. Issues concerning colonialism, and the debate over the essential, or constructed, nature of Indigenous groups, are raised by De La LuzRodríguez (Chapter 5) in his discussion of the term Taíno in Puerto Rico. He documents the development of both the term and its emergence as a postcolonial Indigenous grouping in Puerto Rico. The term Taíno is also the subject of a recent discussion by Pagán Jiménez and Ramos (2008:64–68), who note its use as an identity marker amongst diasporic Puerto Ricans in the United States. Pagán Jiménez and Ramos are especially critical of the actions of a group of neo-Taíno who, under the umbrella title the United Confederation of Taíno People, seek to protect “their” ancestral burial and ceremonial grounds in Puerto Rico through an imported version of the NAGPRA legislation. George Nicholas (Chapter 12) draws on his many years of involvement with Indigenous archaeology to document both the rise of

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 39

Indigenous archaeology and its transformational effects on archaeology as a whole. Observing that it is the tension between different archaeological approaches that has proved to be creative, he argues that the Indigenous voice must remain at the centre of archaeological debate, not at its periphery. Nicholas warns that a separate Indigenous archaeology could result in the very marginalisation it was created to counter. Questions of Indigenous identity involving the Moriori of Rekohu (Chatham Islands, New Zealand) are raised by Solomon and Forbes (Chapter 11) on two fronts. Firstly, they attempt to counter the detrimental effects of more than 100 years of grave robbing and of historical accounts written by anthropologists and historians depicting the Moriori as a defeated remnant. Secondly, they document the successful stewardship of cultural places now exercised by the Hokotehi Moriori Trust. In so doing, they demonstrate the close association between caring for places and a viable Indigenous identity, a situation that is compromised when heritage authorities attempt to fulfill this role without collaborating with the Indigenous community. Foana’ota (Chapter 9) also discusses identity, in this case in the Solomon Islands, where traditional landownership and cultural forms are still the norm. In this island nation, archaeology has proved useful in dispelling some of the effects of a colonial view that suggested that history began with the discovery of these islands by the Europeans. On the other hand, archaeology has also been used in land disputes to support opposing cases. The variable reception of archaeology in the Solomon Islands relates to the cultural and historical contexts existing on different islands, and the attempts by the central government to establish a national identity in the face of secessionist movements. Many archaeologists now accept that their materials have Indigenous meanings adhering to them, e.g., human burials or sacred objects. As a result, protocols have been established to take account of Indigenous concerns. New Zealand and Australian heritage legislation has separate procedures for sacred sites, and the reburial by Maori elders of human remains found on archaeological sites is not uncommon. NAGPRA and the repatriation of sacred objects are further indications of this trend (Lippert 2007:158). Mosley (Chapter 3) takes these understandings further. As an archaeologist working closely with Aboriginal communities, she accepts that ordinary places and objects can also manifest ancestral agency and that this is a concern for Indigenous persons who come into contact with them. She suggests that, rather than being an irksome “superstition”, this might be the objective reality, in the sense that the objects and places alter people’s actions and reactions. Rather than telling her how to act, members of the community suggested that she should be able to “know” this through whatever feelings the artefacts induced.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 40 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

The acceptance that objects might cause people to act in particular ways is an attempt to use observable behavioural responses to dissolve the division between subjective and objective views. Mosley asks how far archaeologists who are not of the community can, or should, adopt Indigenous belief systems. Allen (Chapter 8) also notes that Maori artefacts held in museum collections are now considered to possess a life force and argues that such viewpoints should be extended beyond sacred sites to all archaeological places—in that these too are cloaked in Maori values and have historical personalities. But does this mean that we stop doing scientific archaeology? The solution to this dilemma is to maintain the tension between archaeological and traditional values, allowing that all objects/places might have multiple layers of meaning, all of which must be taken into account. To disallow scientific archaeology would be to deny Indigenous peoples the opportunity to make use of science for their own purposes, in terms of identity, politics and economic benefits such as tourism. However, as a historical science, archaeology cannot be divorced from historical and contemporary cultural concerns. The difficulties of working within the legislative and institutional frameworks of CHM are raised by a number of the contributing authors. Ross (Chapter 6) notes that Australian managers struggle with the nature of Indigenous intangible heritage and especially the efforts of communities to use heritage to establish and maintain “living heritage” places. She documents the considerable frustration that Jarowair people have experienced in their efforts to use the archaeological heritage of lands with which they are culturally associated to recover a sense of identity and to pass this to a younger generation. Phillips (Chapter 7) also documents the difficulties that Maori organisations have with the current heritage protection arrangements in New Zealand. She relates a number of case studies where archaeologists and Indigenous communities worked creatively together to bypass legislative inflexibilities, concluding that a potential exists for Maori to use the system to achieve Maori ends, even in circumstances where legislative procedures and development pressures tend to work against them. Allen (Chapter 8) argues that overreliance on regulation to protect heritage places in New Zealand fails to achieve the aims of the legislation in three ways: firstly, heritage places are being destroyed at an increasing rate; secondly, salvage excavations, in general, do not produce usable research information; and finally, the system does not satisfy the cultural requirements of the Indigenous Maori population. He advocates that archaeologists should integrate their efforts with those of nature conservationists, Indigenous groups and general communities to gain wider political support for the protection of heritage. Of course, such support

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 41

is likely to involve archaeologists relinquishing their status as the sole reliable interpreters of the Maori past.

Concluding Remarks A recent article by Dorothy Lippert discusses repatriation as the basis for a new rapprochement between archaeologists and Indigenous peoples. We take the title of her article, “Not the end, not the middle, but the beginning” (Lippert 2008), as the starting point for our concluding remarks. We believe that archaeology is starting to move towards a more mature, middle phase of learning how to work with Indigenous communities. The Indigenous critique of archaeology has set a number of changes in archaeological practice in motion, and we remain at the early stage of understanding what might emerge from these. The momentum of Indigenous rights movements in North and South America, Australia and New Zealand has continued through this first decade of the twenty-first century and gives no sign of letting up. Challenges over interpretations of the past and the control of significant places will continue, because these lie at the heart of Indigenous identity. As a result, the Indigenous critique of archaeology will continue, and archaeology has little option but to engage in dialogue with Indigenous communities (McManamon et€al. 2008:20–25). Archaeologists should take heart that the process so far has been additive, in that new forms of archaeology have emerged in response to the Indigenous critique. In academic archaeology, major advances have happened in relation to collaboration and ethics, and new approaches appear to offer potential for drawing together different strands of archaeological, traditional and environmental information (Atalay 2006a:293–298; Nicholas 2006). However, many areas of archaeology remain relatively untouched by Indigenous concerns, the integration of oral accounts with the findings of archaeology is only occasionally undertaken, and the integration of nonmaterial and material evidence, without doing violence to either, is still further away. As the participants in this dialogue have become more knowledgeable about the different interests and concerns of each side, it is now possible to move beyond blanket criticisms and collapsed categories to a closer definition of what exactly decolonised methodologies might represent and, finally, to a better understanding of the potential and limitations of CHM. The latter provides more testing, but potentially even more productive developments, in that a great number of interested parties have to be persuaded to work towards a common purpose. Awareness that the past is political and that many groups, including archaeologists, use the past for political ends should not reduce our

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 42 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips

ability to discriminate between different interpretations of history. One danger is that, given the strength of Indigenous criticisms, archaeological interests could collapse entirely into those of the Indigenous community. The antidote to this is a reflective archaeology, one that is informed both by the needs of the Indigenous community and the necessity to maintain disciplinary integrity. Both the Indigenous and the general communities are best served by an archaeology that is open about its aims, its methods and how it arrives at its judgments. The tradition of peer review by practitioners with similar skill sets remains an important part of the archaeological project (Zimmerman 2008). The chapters in this volume demonstrate both the scope of the dialogue and the wide range of topics now incorporated within it. The presentation of both an international and a local New Zealand and Australian perspective shows that similar issues are being confronted in many countries and by many different Indigenous groups. The clear linking of Indigenous identity to place is threatened by the destruction of such places, a destruction sometimes “mitigated” by archaeological investigation. Increasing numbers of Indigenous persons are now employed in CHM and museums in New Zealand and Australia. Their role, aided by non-Indigenous supporters, will have to address these testing issues. Developments on this front are likely to extend to research archaeology in the future. This, plus the fact that archaeology has, in the main, responded creatively to the challenges of the past 20 years, means that we can approach the future with optimism.

Notes 1. Part of the explanation for this lies in Ucko’s experiences in Australia, where he worked for the Indigenisation of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS) (AIATSIS 2007:1; Smith 2004:121; Ucko 1977:1, 1983). When Ucko became Professor of Archaeology at Southampton, he took this knowledge with him. 2. The return of the Wairau Bar remains was organised between the Maori Rangitane tribe and the Canterbury Museum, which housed the remains (One News 2009). Many other cases of repatriation have been carried out under the Karanga Aotearoa Repatriation Programme run by Te Papa Tongarewa/Museum of New Zealand (Te Papa Tongarewa/ Museum of New Zealand 2010), which has undertaken over 45 repatriation projects since it was established in 1992. 3. The American Anthropological Association Guide (2008–2009) lists approximately 217 academic institutions teaching anthropology in the United States and 21 in Canada; many of which also teach archaeology. In Australia, archaeology is taught at 10 universities. In New Zealand, while anthropology is taught at 7 universities, archaeology is only taught at 2 of these. 4. Quite often in New Zealand, the property developer controls the consultation process by liaising with Maori groups and archaeologists independently. 5. In New Zealand, the New Zealand Historic Places Trust attempted to bridge the gap between academic and applied archaeology by instituting the requirement that

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 43 � consultant archaeologists address research questions in their CHM excavations and has drafted a discussion paper to formulate national research goals (Greig 2007; New Zealand Historic Places Trust 2006b). 6. This list is based on the Monuments Protection Programme 1983 in England cited in Darvill (2005:34) and is similar to the New Zealand list included in the New Zealand Historic Places Trust (2006a) guidelines for writing archaeological assessments. 7. See also Haber et€al. 2007.

References Allen, H. 1988. History matters: A commentary on divergent interpretations of Australian history. Australian Aboriginal Studies 2:79–89. –——. 2002. Protecting Ma¯ori land-based heritage. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 341–358. Auckland: Reed. Allen, H., D. Johns, C. Phillips, K. Day, T. O’Brien and Ngati Mutunga. 2002. Wahi Ngaro (the lost portion): Strengthening the relationship between people and wetlands in north Taranaki, New Zealand. World Archaeology 34:315–329. American Anthropological Association. 2008–2009. AAA Guide. Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association. Anderson, A. 1998. The Welcome of Strangers: An Ethnohistory of Southern Maori AD 1650–1850. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Anyon, R., T. J. Ferguson, L. Jackson, L. Lane and P. Vicenti. 1997. Native American oral traditions and archaeology: Issues of structure, relevance, and respect. In N.€ Swidler, K.€E.€Dongoske, R. Anyon and A. S. Downer (eds.), Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground, pp. 77–87. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Ashworth, G., and J. Tunbridge. 1996. Dissonant Heritage: The Management of the Past as a Resource in Conflict. Chichester: Wiley. Atalay, S. 2006a. Guest editor’s remarks: Decolonizing archaeology. In S. Atalay (ed.), Special Issue: Decolonizing Archaeology. The American Indian Quarterly 30:269–279. –——. 2006b. Indigenous archaeology as decolonizing practice. In S. Atalay (ed.), Special Issue: Decolonizing Archaeology. The American Indian Quarterly 30:280–310. Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. 2007. Institute News August 2007. http://www.aiatsis.gov.au/news/newsletters.html. Ballara, A. 1993. Pakeha uses of Takitimutanga: Who owns tribal traditions? Stout Centre Review March 1993:17–21. Barber, I. 2008. Can postmodern regulatory archaeology respect diverse cultural values?: An evaluation from bicultural New Zealand. In F. P. McManamon, A. Stout and J. A. Barnes (eds.), Managing Archaeological Resources: Global Context, National Programs and Local Actions, pp. 107–128. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Bardon, G., and J. Bardon. 2004. Papunya: A Place Made after the Story: The Beginnings of the Western Desert Art Movement. Melbourne: The Miegunyah Press. Canning, S., and D. Spennemann. 2001. Contested space: Social value and the assessment of cultural significance in New South Wales, Australia. In M. M. Cotter, W. E. Boyd and J. E. Gardiner (eds.), Heritage Landscapes: Understanding Place and Communities, pp.€457–468. Lismore NSW: Southern Cross University Press. Chambers, A. F. 1999. What Is This Thing Called Science? 3rd edition. Buckingham: Open University Press. Clarke, A. 1994. Winds of change: An archaeology of contact in the Groote Eylandt archipelago, Northern Australia. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Division of Archaeology and Natural History, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, Australian National University, Canberra. Cloher, D. U. 2002. The Tribes of Muriwhenua: Their Origins and Stories. Auckland: Auckland University Press.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 44 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips Colley, S. 2002. Uncovering Australia: Archaeology, Indigenous People and the Public. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen and Unwin. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C., and T. J. Ferguson (eds.). 2008a. Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press. –——. 2008b. Introduction: The collaborative continuum. In C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities, pp. 1–32. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press. Conkey, M. 2005. Dwelling at the margins, action at the intersection? Feminist and indigenous archaeologies. Archaeologies 1(1):9–62. Curthoys, A. 2002. Freedom Ride: A Freedom Rider Remembers. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen and Unwin. Darvill, T. 2005. “Sorted for ease and whiz”?: Approaching value and importance in archaeological resource management. In C. Mathers, T. Darvill and B. Little (eds.), Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance, pp. 21–42. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Deloria, V., Jr. 1969. Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto. New York: Macmillan. Downer, A. S. 1997. Archaeologists–Native American relations. In N. Swindler, K. E. Dongoske, R. Anyon and A. S. Downer (eds.), Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground, pp. 23–34. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Du Cros, H. 2002. Much More Than Stones and Bones: Australian Archaeology in the Late Twentieth Century. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Echo-Hawk, R., and L. Zimmerman. 2006. Beyond racism: Some opinions about racialism and American archaeology. American Indian Quarterly 30:461–485. Elder, J. R. (ed.). 1932. The Letters and Journals of Samuel Marsden 1765–1838. Dunedin: Coulls Somerville Wilkie Ltd. and A. H. Reed for the Otago University Council. Evatt, E. 1998. Overview of State and Territory Aboriginal heritage legislation. Indigenous Law Bulletin 4(16):4–8. Fitz Gibbon, K. (ed.). 2005. Who Owns the Past?: Cultural Policy, Cultural Property, and the Law. Piscataway, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Gathercole, P. and D. Lowenthal (eds.). 1990. The Politics of the Past. One World Archaeology 12. London: Routledge. Gosden, C. 2001. Postcolonial archaeology: Issues of culture, identity, and knowledge. In I.€Hodder (ed.), Archaeological Theory Today, pp. 241–261. Cambridge: Polity Press. Green, L. J. F. 2008. ‘Indigenous Knowledge’ and ‘Science’: Reframing the debate on knowledge diversity. Archaeologies 4:144–163. Greig, K. 2007. National Research Framework: Discussion Paper. Occasional Papers in Archaeology. New Zealand Historic Places Trust. http://www.historic.org.nz/ ProtectingOurHeritage/Archaeology/∼/media/Corporate/Files/Archaeology/NRF.ashx. Grigoropoulos, D., and A. Pantazatos. 2007. Ethics in archaeology: Paradigm or platitude. In H. Schroeder, P. Bray, P. Gardner, V. Jefferson and E. Macaulay-Lewis (eds.), Crossing Frontiers: The Opportunities and Challenges of Interdisciplinary Approaches to Archaeology. Monograph 66. Oxford: Oxford School of Archaeology. Haber, A. F., E. Mamaní and L. Roda. 2007. Conversation with Ernestina Mamaní. Archaeologies 3:308–319. Hemming, S., and T. Trevorrow. 2005. Kungun Ngarrindjeri Yunnan: Archaeology, colonialism and re-claiming the future. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 243–261. One World Archaeology 47. London: Routledge. Jackson, G., and C. Smith. 2005. Living and learning on Aboriginal lands: Decolonizing archaeology in practice. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies:

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 45 Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 328–351. One World Archaeology 47. London: Routledge. Jones, P. T. H., and B. Biggs. 1995. Nga Iwi o Tainui: The Traditional History of the Tainui People. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Jung, C. 2008. The Moral Force of Indigenous Politics: Critical Liberalism and Zapatistas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Layton, R. (ed.). 1989a. Conflict in the Archaeology of Living Traditions. One World Archaeology 8. London: Routledge. –——. (ed.). 1989b. Who Needs the Past? Indigenous Values and Archaeology. One World Archaeology 5. London: Unwin Hyman. Liebmann, M. 2008a. Postcolonial cultural affiliation: Essentiality, hybridity, and NAGPRA. In M. Liebmann and U. Z. Rizvi (eds.), Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, pp. 73–90. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. –——. 2008b. Introduction: The intersections of archaeology and postcolonial studies. In M. Liebmann and U. Z. Rizvi (eds.), Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, pp.€1–20. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Liebmann, M., and U. Z. Rizvi (eds.). 2008. Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Lilley, I. (ed.). 2000. Native Title and the Transformation of Archaeology in the Postcolonial World. Oceania Monographs 50. Sydney: University of Sydney. Lippert, D. 2007. The rise of Indigenous archaeology: How repatriation has transformed archaeological ethics and practice. In T. K. Killion (ed.), Opening Archaeology: Repatriation’s Impact on Contemporary Research and Practice, pp. 151–160. Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press. –——. 2008. Not the end, not the middle, but the beginning: Repatriation as a Â�transformative mechanism for archaeologists and Indigenous peoples. In C. Colwellâ•‚Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities, pp. 119–130. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press. Lonetree, A. 2006. Missed opportunities: Reflections on the NMAI. American Indian Quarterly 30:632–645. Macdonald, E. 2009. Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremburg and Beyond. London: Routledge. Marshall, Y. (ed.). 2002. Community archaeology. World Archaeology, 34. Mathers, C., T. Darvill and B. Little. 2005. Introduction: Archaeological value in a world context. In C. Mathers, T. Darvill and B. Little (eds.), Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, pp. 1–18. McBryde, I. (ed.). 1985. Who Owns the Past?: Papers from the Annual Symposium of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. McGimsey, C. R., III. 1972. Public Archaeology. New York: Seminar Press. McManamon, F. P., and A. Hatton. 1999. Introduction: Considering cultural resource management in modern society. In F. P. McManamon and A. Hatton (eds.), Cultural Resource Management in Contemporary Society: Perspectives on Managing and Presenting the Past, pp. 1–19. London: Routledge. McManamon, F. P., A. Stout and J. A. Barnes (eds.). 2008. Managing Archaeological Resources: Global Context, National Programs and Local Actions. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. McNiven, I. J., and L. Russell. 2005. Appropriated Pasts: Indigenous Peoples and the Colonial Culture of Archaeology. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Memmott, P., and S. Long. 1998. The significance of indigenous place knowledge to Australian cultural heritage. Indigenous Law Bulletin 4(16):9–13.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 46 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips Metge, J., and P. Kinloch. 1984. Talking Past Each Other: Problems of Cross Cultural Communication. Wellington: Victoria University Press. New Zealand Historic Places Trust. 2006a. Guidelines for Writing Archaeological Assessments. Archaeological Guidelines, AGS2. http://www.historic.org.nz/ ProtectingOurHeritage/Archaeology/∼/media/Corporate/Files/Archaeology/ AGS2â•‚ArchAssessments.ashx. –——. 2006b. Guidelines for Research Strategies for Section 15 and 18 Investigations, Historic Places Act 1993. Archaeological Guidelines, AGS3. http://www.historic.org. nz/ProtectingOurHeritage/Archaeology/∼/media/Corporate/Files/Archaeology/AGS3ResearchStrategies.ashx. Nicholas, G. P. 2006. Decolonizing the archaeological landscape: The practice and politics of archaeology in British Columbia. American Indian Quarterly 30:350–380. –——. 2008. Native peoples and archaeology. In D. M. Pearsall (ed.), Encyclopedia of Archaeology, pp. 1660–1669. New York: Academic Press. Nicholas, G. P., and T. D. Andrews. 1997. Indigenous archaeology in the post-modern world. In G. P. Nicholas and T. D. Andrews (eds.), At a Crossroads: Archaeology and First Peoples in Canada, pp. 1–18. Burnaby, BC: Archaeology Press. One News. 2009. Remains Reburied at Wairau Bar. TVNZ. http://tvnz.co.nz/nationalnews/remains-reburied-wairau-bar-2650840. Pagán Jiménez, J. R., and R. R. Ramos. 2008. Towards the liberation of archaeological praxis in a “Postcolonial Colony”: The case of Puerto Rico. In M. Liebmann and U.€ Z.€ Rizvi (eds.), Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, pp. 53–71. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Paterson, L. 2006. Colonial Discourses: Niupepa Ma¯ori 1855–1863. Dunedin: Otago University Press. Patterson, T. C. 1999. The political economy of archaeology in the United States. Annual Review of Anthropology 28:155–174. Phillips, C. 2004. Waihou Journeys: The Archaeology of 400 Years of Maori Settlement. Auckland: Auckland University Press. (Reprinted from 2000). –——. 2005. Archaeological monitoring and investigation of the Richmond Street Stormwater Upgrade Project, Thames (Historic Places Authority 2005/76), Report 2: Investigation of foredune site T12/1091. Manuscript on file at Thames Coromandel District Council, Thames. Phillips, C., and H. Allen. 1996. Anatere Pa, Athenree, Bay of Plenty. Archaeology in New€Zealand 39:264–277. Preucel, R. W., and C. N. Cipolla. 2008. Indigenous and postcolonial archaeologies. In M. Liebmann and U. Z. Rizvi (eds.), Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, pp.€129–140. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Quesenberry, S. V. 1999. Recent United Nations initiatives concerning the rights of Indigenous peoples. In T. R. Johnson (ed.), Contemporary Native American Political Issues, pp. 103–118. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Schroeder, H., P. Bray, P. Gardner, V. Jefferson and E. Macaulay-Lewis (eds.). 2007. Crossing Frontiers: The Opportunities and Challenges of Interdisciplinary Approaches to Archaeology. Monograph 66. Oxford: Oxford School of Archaeology. Sharp, A. 1990. Justice and the Ma¯ori: Ma¯ori Claims in New Zealand Political Argument in the 1980s. Auckland: Oxford University Press. Sheehan, N., and I. Lilley. 2008. Things are not always what they seem: Indigenous knowledge and pattern recognition in the archaeological interpretation of cultural landscape. In C.€ Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities, pp. 87–115. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press. Shepherd, N. 2008. WAC at a crossroads. Archaeologies 4:1–7. Sissons, J., W. Wi Hongi and P. Hohepa. 2001. Nga¯ Pu¯riri o Taiamai: A Political History of Nga¯ Puhi of the Inland Bay of Islands. Wellington: Reed.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology, Cultural Heritage and Indigenous Communities 47 Smith, C. 2007. Coming together in Lisbon: Rapprochement, the Union for Prehistoric and Protohistoric Sciences and the World Archaeological Congress. Opening Address to the Fifteenth Congress of the International Union for Prehistoric and Protohistoric Sciences held in Lisboa, 2006. http://www.uispp.ipt.pt/en/Praehistoria/wac.html. Smith, C., and G. Jackson. 2006. Decolonising Indigenous archaeology: Developments from Down Under. The American Indian Quarterly 30:311–349. –——. 2008. The ethics of collaboration: Whose culture? Whose intellectual property? Who benefits? In C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities, pp. 171–201. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press. Smith, C., and H. M. Wobst. 2005. Decolonizing archaeological theory and practice. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 5–16. One World Archaeology 47. Oxford: Routledge. Smith, L. 2004. Archaeological Theory and the Politics of Cultural Heritage. London: Routledge. –——. 2005. Archaeological significance and the governance of identity in cultural heritage management. In C. Mathers, T. Darvill and B. Little (eds.), Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance, pp.€77–88. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. –——. 2006. Uses of Heritage. London: Routledge. Smith, L., and E. Waterton. 2009. Heritage, Communities and Archaeology. London: Duckworth. Smith, L. T. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. Dunedin: Otago University Press. Soanes, C. (ed.). 2005. Compact Oxford English Dictionary of Current English. Third edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Swidler, N., K. E. Dongoske, R. Anyon and A. S. Downer (eds.). 1997. Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Tasmanian Aboriginal Land Council. 1996. ‘Will you take the next step?’ In S. Ulm, I. Lilley and A. Ross (eds.), Australian Archaeology ‘95: Proceedings of the 1995 Australian Archaeological Association Annual Conference. St. Lucia: Tempus Publications, University of Queensland. Tau, T. M., and A. Anderson. 2008. Nga¯i Tahu: A Migration History. Wellington: Bridget Williams Books in Association with Te Ru¯ nanga o Nga¯i Tahu. Te Papa Tongarewa/Museum of New Zealand. 2010. Repatriation. http://www.tepapa. govt.nz/aboutus/repatriation/Pages/overview.aspx. Torrence, R., and A. Clarke. 2000. Negotiating difference: Practice makes theory for contemporary archaeology in Oceania. In R. Torrence and A. Clarke (eds.), The Archaeology of Difference: Negotiating Cross-Cultural Engagements in Oceania, pp.€1–31. One World Archaeology 38. London: Routledge. Trigger, B. 1989. A History of Archaeological Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Turner, R. 2008. Cultural heritage and identity of two South Island iwi groups: An archaeological ethnography. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Otago, Dunedin. Ucko, P. 1977. Preface. In P. Ucko (ed.), Form in Indigenous Art: Schematisation in the Art of Aboriginal Australia and Prehistoric Europe, pp. 1–4. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. –——. 1983. Australian academic archaeology: Aboriginal transformation of its aims and practices. Australian Archaeology 16:11–26. –——. 1987. Academic Freedom and Apartheid: The Story of the World Archaeological Congress. London: Duckworth.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 48 Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips Ucko, P. 1990. Foreword. In P. Gathercole and D. Lowenthal (eds.), The Politics of the Past, pp. ix–xxi. One World Archaeology 12. London: Routledge. –——. 1995. Introduction: Archaeological interpretation in a world context. In P. Ucko (ed.), Theory in Archaeology: A World Perspective, pp. 1–27. London: Routledge. Walton, A., and M. O’Keefe. 2004. Archaeological heritage management. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp.€263–282. Monograph 26. Auckland: New Zealand Archaeological Association. Watkins, J. 2000. Indigenous Archaeology: American Indian Values and Scientific Practice. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. –——. 2007. The repatriation arena: Control, conflict, and compromise. In T. K. Killion (ed.), Opening Archaeology: Repatriation’s Impact on Contemporary Research and Practice, pp. 161–177. Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press. Webster, S. 1998. Patrons of Maori Culture: Power, Theory and Ideology in the Maori Renaissance. Dunedin: Otago University Press. Wesley-Smith, T. 1994. Australia and New Zealand. In K. R. Howe, R. C. Kiste, and B. V. Lal (eds.), Tides of History: The Pacific Islands in the Twentieth Century, pp. 195–226. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Williams, D. 2002. ‘Purely Metaphysical Concerns’. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 289–321. Auckland: Reed. Wylie, A. 1995. Alternative histories: Epistemic disunity and political integrity. In P. Schmidt and T. Patterson (eds.), Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings, pp. 255–272. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. –——. 2002. Archaeological cables and tacking: Beyond objectivism and relativism. In A. Wylie (ed.), Thinking from Things: Essays in the Philosophy of Archaeology, pp.€161–168. Berkeley: University of California Press. Zimmerman, L. 1996. Epilogue: A new and different archaeology? In D. Mihesuah (ed.), Repatriation: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue. The American Indian Quarterly, Special Issue, 20:297–307. –——. 2005. First, be humble: Working with Indigenous peoples and other descendant communities. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 301–314. One World Archaeology 47. London: Routledge. –——. 2006. Liberating archaeology, liberation archaeologies, and WAC. Archaeologies 2(1):85–95. –——. 2008. Unusual or “extreme” beliefs about the past, community identity, and dealing with the fringe. In C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities, pp. 55–86. Langham, MD: AltaMira Press.

Chapter 2

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!” Joe Watkins

Introduction As more individuals of Indigenous heritage and background get involved in archaeology, an opportunity is created for a broader discussion on the impact of archaeology on the world’s Indigenous groups. And while the number of Indigenous voices in archaeology has increased over the years, those voices seem to be saying the same thing rather than offering different perspectives. Indigenous groups appear to have various concerns with the practice of archaeology, including the scientific appropriation of the past, misrepresentation of past cultures as “primitive”, the scientific disconnect between archaeological and contemporary cultures, and the conflict concerning the excavation of human remains. As historian Devon Mihesuah (a Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma) offered, “[to American Indians] the only difference between an illegal ransacking of a burial ground and a scientific one is the time element, sun screen, little whisk brooms, and the neatness of the area when finished” (1996:233). As is indicated by this quotation, the repatriation of human remains and artefacts has struck a chord among many Indigenous groups in North America (American Indian tribes and Canadian First Nations), Australia and Aotearoa who continue to work toward the goal of returning those materials back to the cultures to which they are thought to belong (Killion 2007). While the scientific excavation of human remains, and the repatriation of those remains to contemporary cultures, is but one of a number of important issues among Indigenous groups, it is important that we as Indigenous people make it known that it is not the only issue! Indigenous peoples from many parts of the world are experiencing wide-ranging debates similar to those I raise here (Burke et€al. 2008; Watkins 2000, 49

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 50 Joe Watkins

2003, 2007); other examples in this volume include Foana’ota from the Solomon Islands, and Rika-Heke and Solomon and Forbes from New€Zealand. More and more often, we as Indigenous archaeologists and representatives of Indigenous groups complain that archaeology inadequately meets our needs as Indigenous people, and yet we fail to act to change it. We speak of archaeology as a thief of our history and yet do not offer alternatives. We complain when locations important to our culture are impacted, and yet fail to adequately exercise our rights within the processes established to protect those places. I believe that, while Indigenous archaeologists have much to offer the discipline, we must stop apologising for what we do and find a way to make a difference. We have to demonstrate that our concerns with archaeology are not with just the single issue of human remains and repatriation of those remains, but with many different aspects of archaeology and its failure to consider adequately its responsibilities to the contemporary groups whose archaeological cultures are the subject of study or whose materials are impacted by its practice. But it’s not only Indigenous archaeologists who must wake up. We need the people with cultural knowledge to step forward and help us guide the steps of our children and their children. Only with the cultural background of place, culture, language and so forth can we fully understand the archaeological evidence we encounter, and only then can we develop an archaeology that will be useful to us as Indigenous people and as archaeologists. The following chapter is based on a dinner presentation at the World Archaeological Congress’s Second Indigenous Inter-Congress The Uses and Abuses of Archaeology for Indigenous Peoples, Auckland, New Zealand, on 11 November 2005. While it has been updated and expanded for this publication, the tenor of the essay remains the same. Repatriation is important for Indigenous communities everywhere, but it is not the only issue with which Indigenous communities are concerned. In preparation for the dinner presentation, I developed a formal paper (Figure€ 2.1). However, after listening to the presentations during the Inter-Congress, I developed a list of things to talk about that seemed more appropriate. The presentations made me reconsider what I thought about archaeology, about what has been called “Indigenous archaeology” and about the impact that archaeology has had on Indigenous populations. I became involved in archaeology because of my grandmother. Some of you have heard or read this story—if you have, please bear with me; if not, please think about what might have led you to archaeology. When

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!”

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 51

Figure€2.1╅ The author. (Photo credit: Carol Ellick.)

I was 10 years old, I was walking with my grandmother on our family homestead, and I found a projectile point about 6000 years old. My cousin translated; my grandmother spoke maybe a hundred words of English, and I spoke about a hundred words of Choctaw, just enough to get me into trouble, enough to let my grandmother know I wanted to eat watermelon, or I wanted to go swimming, or, you know, the sort of things that 10-year-old children learn—quite a few curse words, I must admit. I showed the projectile point to my grandmother, and she told me, through my cousin, that that projectile point represented the unwritten history of the people who had lived in the area before the Choctaw were forcibly moved to Oklahoma. She said she felt it was important that we not let that history get lost, that even though it wasn’t our history, it was the history of the people who had lived there before us. It was that unwritten history that she felt we needed to be saving—not only for my children, but for the ancestors and for the descendants of the people who would come after us. While it took me another few years, this conversation with my grandmother is what led me to become an archaeologist. But how important is archaeology really to Indigenous groups today? There are so many other issues that Indigenous people are facing today— issues such as economic development, economic independence, political independence and land rights—that threaten our geographic existence.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 52 Joe Watkins

At the same time, we face other threats to our cultural existence daily. We must focus our energies on being able to teach our children what was taught to us by our grandparents, on recognising that our language is the one thing ties all of us, all of our collective memories, together. We must focus not just on repatriation, but on every aspect of our heritage that is at risk from television, from Game Boys, from iPods, from rap—from the easy way of becoming a homogenous, globalised, culture. One thing we are doing as Indigenous people is keeping the heritage that we can capture alive. We must continue to expand the focus that we present to the public out there beyond just the one idea, the extremely emotional idea, that we have the tendency to focus on. I’ve been thinking that many of us who are Indigenous and who are archaeologists talk about archaeology as if it’s a sin—as if it is something done only by white people, gravediggers, or biological archaeologists. I think what we need to consider are a number of issues, which follow here in no particular order. If archaeology is irrelevant, we have failed. How can anything that helps us discover history, anything that helps us discover heritage, anything that helps us write at least any one story of the past be irrelevant, unless we have failed to let people know what that relevance is? We talk about archaeology as if it has stolen the past, but it hasn’t—it has illuminated portions of the past. While it is not the only story of the past, it is as equally valid a story as any others. That is not to say the stories archaeology can tell are more relevant or more important than the stories traditional people tell, but they offer a different perspective on the past and can supplement those traditional stories. If we have given any country, any individual, any group of people the idea that only we as archaeologists can tell the story of the past, then we have failed. We have failed to educate them; we have failed to educate ourselves. Sometimes we as Indigenous populations have failed to present the idea that we have more than one focus. Much of our energy over the past 35 years, much of our emotion, has revolved around the idea of the scientific excavation of human remains and repatriation. If we fail to let people know that this is only one of the many issues that face Indigenous populations in the world today, we have failed. We as Indigenous populations are concerned about the way that archaeologists and anthropologists have continued to represent our cultures as things of the past. I was at a workshop where an archaeologist was giving a talk about the time of great cultural movement at about AD 1150. She spoke of it as “the time when people abandoned the area”. I objected to the choice of the word “abandoned”, which implied that the people never intended to return. It is simple phrases like this that continue to place the importance of our cultures in the past rather than to

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!”

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 53

recognise the continuing thread between those cultures and the contemporary cultures of their descendants. If we continue to allow our story to be told only by “objective” scientists, we run the risk of being placed in the past. Although the primary function of museums is to exhibit their specimens, they also serve to display (and influence) the public image of the community within which they are located. A museum can express the image of the community either directly (by promoting and affirming the dominant values of the community) or indirectly (by subordinating or rejecting alternative views). It is this role as a producer of the public image that causes American Indians’ discontent with museums today. In the Smithsonian Institution’s Museum of Natural History, “primitive cultures” (including American Indians, Pacific Islanders and South American tribes) are displayed within a natural history context, as if the cultures might be considered curiosities on a par with African elephants or Tasmanian devils. The museum (and the museum professional) eventually becomes the self-appointed interpreter of another’s history. It is the exhibit that shapes the public’s perception about an object and the culture that produced that object. In this way, the museum influences the public’s image of a particular cultural group— either directly (through a representation of the group as “primitive”, “savage” or “warlike”) or indirectly (by refusing to portray a certain culture in a modern setting). This representation of cultures, in conjunction with the interpretation of the material within a museum’s collection, can contribute to the public’s perception of cultures in a negative manner. But this is not necessarily the future. Change may be possible, as the establishment and development of the new National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC, and Te Papa Tongarewa in Wellington, Aotearoa, have shown. As more Indigenous groups become involved in museums, the easier it will be to shape contemporary ideas about the cultures that have existed through time, rather than relying on non-native outsiders to do so. I think one of the issues that came out at the Auckland WAC InterCongress in 2005 is the idea that we have not trained ourselves to work within the processes in which the world exists. We talk about the failure to protect—the failure of archaeologists to protect—the sites of importance to our heritage. But we have failed to make it known to politicians and administrators why it is important to protect those sites. We also have failed to learn the political process well enough, so that we can get out there and actually make change happen. We complain when private property prevents us from protecting a site of importance to us, but we don’t work hard enough to regain those sites, to regain the land that we

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 54 Joe Watkins

lost either through political chicanery or through the need to sell property to maintain our own lives and lifestyles. In many Western countries, and especially in the United States, the archaeological profession has been intent on operating from the worldview that the rights and wishes of science outweigh that of individuals, particular cultural groups or other interests. This “scientific colonialism” is based on a perception that there exists a point somewhere in the past where humanity as a whole becomes the owner of all cultural material; of course scientists, as the keeper of humanity’s important secrets, maintain control over that material. This implies that the information is a “resource” for anyone to take and use, regardless of the wishes of Indigenous populations. For many groups, the ability to assume and control the practice of archaeology and anthropology on Indigenous lands is an issue of sovereignty, because it allows the Indigenous group to determine the impact on the heritage “resources” of the group. In the United States, the process of protecting archaeological sites revolves primarily around two laws—the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966 (and its amendments) and the National Environmental Policy Act of 1968. There are other laws that impact archaeological and historical sites, but these two laws are the primary ones that are used by people to protect sites of importance. Neither of these laws, however, insures that the historic sites within a federally funded project will be left unharmed. The laws merely insure that the person who makes the decision about the particular project has adequate information to weigh the potential impacts of the project on the cultural heritage against the benefits for the American public. It is the process, and the American public’s place within the process, that is important. Nothing can guarantee a heritage site will be protected, but at least the process is supposed to guarantee that the views of the public are included in the final decision. In the United States, only projects which require federal monies, or which require federal permits or licenses, are subjected to the two laws mentioned above; private projects or projects that do not require federal monies or permits are exempt from federal legal protection. This exemption might be a flaw, but it should not be the end. If we, as Indigenous groups, choose to work only within the limits of existing legal structures, we are not doing enough. Even though private landowners and developers might not legally be required to take into consideration the impact of their proposed project on heritage sites of importance, there are still those developers who understand the importance of such places to us. And in order to help get our point across, we must find ways to educate the public around us about the issues and places of importance to us. Education is the key to so many things in today’s world. Education does not require that we tell everyone everything of importance, but

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!”

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 55

it does require that we give them enough information so that they can make informed decisions that will benefit as many people as possible. I have spoken with decision makers who ask only that they be given enough information to make an informed decision. It is the job of these people to weigh issues that are often in direct conflict with each other. All they need, or often all they want, is some sort of ammunition that they can use to support one decision or another. If we tell them only, “It’s sacred. And I don’t want to tell you why it’s sacred. You can’t do anything with it”, how are those decision makers going to react? Most of the time, the decision makers will react negatively to what they perceive to be undocumented truths. But if we tell them, “This land is important to us because it is where we were created. We prefer it not be covered with concrete, but if you can protect at least this or that portion of it, we’ll make do”, then we are allowing possibilities and options—we are not precluding actions out-of-hand, and we are allowing the decision makers to do their job. We complain about the processes that other people use to protect or destroy the areas of importance to us, but we need to become more adept at using those processes to the full extent possible. Many of the processes have shortcomings, to be sure, but if we make certain we are involved at the immediate beginning, our chance of influencing the decision makers in our direction is increased. If we make it a point to be involved at the onset, it reflects our passion about the heritage we want to protect; if we wait until the last minute, it appears that the areas we are trying to protect must not be too important, or else we’d have been involved earlier or more passionately from the beginning. We complain about the injustices while at the same time we continue to practice those injustices against those who are not “Us”. But what we don’t recognise is that we can talk about how we have suffered the injustices from the Europeans, but then we don’t think about the massacres that one tribe conducted against another, in the name of whatever it was that required them to fight each other. We have continued to provide so many different facets of who we are to the outside world that we have forgotten that we are all those different facets that we complain about. We find it easy when we are together to realise that we all have suffered injustices, and yet, we forget how we ourselves carry out those injustices on the other people around us. We listen to our elders, but we do not really learn from them. My grandmother taught me many things about what it was like to be Choctaw. She taught me what it was to be Indian. She taught me what it was to be Indigenous. And yet there are many things that I don’t do on a daily basis that my grandmother did. I know that my children should be learning those things from me, and yet, they don’t. I have never been

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 56 Joe Watkins

able to step forward and do that for them. I have no father; my mother has passed away—both my parents are gone. My children don’t have the grandparents from whom to gain the knowledge that they should have. I remember one time my wife, my children and I were driving, and my son asked me, “Do you remember what it was like when there used to be Indians here?” I said, “Son, you’re Indian.” And he said, “No, I meant the real Indians.” My grandmother taught me what I needed to teach my children, and I have failed. I have tried to do what I could to keep them within the contemporary society of which we are a part, without providing them with too many labels about being Choctaw, or being Swedish, or being Argentine, or being Oklahoman or whatever. And yet there are those aspects of their heritage that they probably will not experience until I take the time to sit down and teach them the heritage of all the different generations that they have missed, and yet that they are a part of. I think more and more I’m discovering that we have really failed to use our abilities to teach. I think instead that we merely choose to create “graduates”—people who we hope can go on and do better than we can. And yet we don’t mentor them enough; we don’t give them the abilities to deal with situations that they will have to face in order to become administrators, in order to become the people who can control the process through which we can protect the heritage that it is up to us to protect. I think the frustration that many of us feel comes out when we get the opportunity to hear someone else say the same thing. We agree with them because that’s exactly the way we all feel. But we have to get a Â�little beyond that frustration—we need to recognise that it doesn’t help to run into a wall 19 times when you can step a little bit to the side, walk through a door and make a change from the other side of that wall. Sometimes I think we forget that it’s easier to bring a house down from the inside than it is to try to tear it down from the outside. If we want to make the change, we have to be in the middle. We have to be telling people what it is we want to change and help them make the change, rather than just say, “We want a change.” We have to give the blueprint. We have to have a plan in mind. It does us no good to tear down the house without any idea of how we want to replace it. Possibly, I think one of the biggest things we need to do, we need to understand, is that we can empathise with people’s situations; we can sympathise with those situations, but we damn well better not generalise! When we talk about people, we are talking about ourselves. We need to focus our energies and our issues on particular people, or particular ideas, or particular things that we wish to influence. I’ve been practicing archaeology for more than 40 years. I’ve enjoyed most of it. There was a

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!”

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 57

time in 1983 when I could not deal with the so-called professionals who were doing archaeology. I quit. I stopped working in archaeology for about three years, and I never felt so empty, because to me, Â�archaeology was something that I was doing that gave me a direction. It let me know that there was something out there that was worth saving in terms of time and energy, in terms of what my grandmother wanted me to know, in terms of what I wanted my children to know. So when we start generalising, we cut off 95% of the population that we should be working with. When we hear Indigenous people say, “Damn those archaeologists!”, they are damning those of us who are both Indigenous and archaeologists for not doing something about that which we need to be changing. I have been involved in all facets that archaeology offers. I have excavated archaeological sites in Europe and the United States; I have worked for the federal government to record sites in danger of being lost due to erosion and neglect; I have trudged ahead of a bulldozer building fire lines during a forest fire in the Black Hills of South Dakota; and I have tried to educate people about the importance of recording and saving the heritage of, and for, all people. I now teach at the University of Oklahoma, and these days I am more interested in looking at how the discipline of archaeology impacts Indigenous populations—the ancestors of the people who produced the locations archaeologists excavate and study. My research takes me to far-off places like Australia, New Zealand and Japan, and to some not so far-off places like Nevada, Oklahoma and New Mexico. These are places where the people who have ties to the archaeological past are not necessarily the people who control the land where the sites are located. There are often conflicts between archaeologists and the descendants of the people who created the locations that archaeologists study, and many descendant populations are concerned about archaeologists digging up the graves of people of the past and placing them in museums or in storage. Today, archaeologists are not as likely to dig up people’s graves as they were in the past, and much of the reason for this is because people have not only complained about such actions, but because archaeologists are more aware of the ways their study of past people impacts existing populations. I practice archaeology because it helps me connect with the people who have lived in the past and with those who live today. It helps me understand the ways that we are tied to the people who have lived and died throughout written and unwritten history. Archaeology has given me a depth of experience that mere written history cannot, and it has given me the desire to not only learn more, but to share what I have learned with those around me. I am an archaeologist and I am an American Indian.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 58 Joe Watkins

While there might still be times when I am in conflict about being both, there is rarely a time when I am disappointed I have chosen this field. And when I do question why I became an archaeologist, I remember my grandmother’s words. I think we as a group—not only of archaeologists, of Indigenous people, of white people, red people, brown people, yellow people—need to stop apologising and we need to start doing something useful. If we don’t like the situation, we need to change it; we need to educate the administrators who think that what they’re doing is correct; we need to educate the general public who have no understanding of what it is to be Maori, of what it is to be Choctaw, or a Gabrieleno. We need to educate everyone out there who controls the purse strings, the politics, the economy—let them know that the things that we are protecting are worth saving, that a building is nothing unless there is someone to appreciate it. It is important that we all realise that in every place where we live and work, the land is important to many different groups—Indigenous people and colonisers, developers and preservationists—but that each culture is different and so are the ways that the specific cultures will reach solutions to complicated issues. It is important that we not be naive and that we remain open to options and opportunities. We can’t believe that a solution that works in one place can be transplanted wholesale to another and be expected to work as well. Some things will work, and we should be able to build on them to create new situations with new people, but these things are not interchangeable between cultures, places and so forth. It’s important to remember this is all a process; we can’t start with “the solution”—we have to start with the problem and then work toward solutions. It does my heart good to look at the number of students who presented at the Inter-Congress. They come to us with a fire, yet sometimes that fire is a little misdirected. Sometimes they’re going to scorch the people around them that they really need to be protecting. But I think it’s up to us to teach them how to channel that energy that they have. Right now it’s as if they are lashing out in all different directions. They sometimes have a common idea—it’s archaeology that’s bad, or it’s biological archaeology. They fail to recognise that we are the archaeologists, we are the biological archaeologists, we are the ethnologists and we are the administrators. In 10 or 15 years, they’ll look back—they’ll see the same children standing behind them saying, “What have you guys done? What should we do next?” And hopefully they’ll have better words for them. They will help them to understand what it is to be involved in a situation that you feel so frustrated with, a situation that you want to change, but you still don’t quite know how to change.

“Wake Up! Repatriation Is Not the Only Indigenous Issue in Archaeology!”

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 59

This is where we are today, with many archaeological “elders” and many archaeological “youngsters”. Many of the younger people involved in heritage management and archaeology are not clear about whom they speak for. Many of them become involved a little late in the process, and then they spring into action like angry lions and lionesses. But often they spring into action without enough information to understand the intricacies of the situation within which they are jumping. They often have a tendency to make a pronouncement without having to live with the results, and I have noticed too many at all levels who seem to lack a sense of real commitment—they are adept at agitating for action and then letting someone else make the action a reality. What seems to be missing is a commitment to be involved for the next 30, 40 or 50 years of their lives. One thing many of us do not do well enough is to listen to the opinions of those around us. We might hear what is being said, but we rarely take enough time to understand what is being said. We know what is right and what is wrong, and we know what we want, but we generally do not choose to try to understand the nuances between “listening” and just “hearing”. I believe more and more issues are being created, when they could just as easily have been solved had all parties been actively involved in listening and working toward a creative solution. I had a lot more to say, yet I don’t think I really want to say too much more. What I’d like to do is leave you questioning. We came to the Auckland WAC Inter-Congress in 2005 to talk about the uses and abuses of archaeology for Indigenous peoples. What I would like for you to do after this is to think about those things. Think about what you can do to change archaeology to make it beneficial to the person next to you, the person across the street, the person yet unborn. We can be Maori; we can be Choctaw. We can be American; we can be New Zealanders. We can be mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers. We’re all these things. We’re cousins, nephews. I am a father, I am an uncle, I am a brother. I no longer am a son, and I no longer am a grandson. There are parts of my life that I can never live again, but there are parts of my life that my children will carry on forever, until such time that this world as we know it no longer exists. I call on you to make a difference—either tomorrow, next year, or within the next generation or the next two generations with whom you come into contact. Part of our responsibility as archaeologists of any background is to try to develop stronger relationships with Indigenous groups and other cultures outside of our academic discipline. It is imperative that archaeologists recognise that our failure to pursue stronger relationships with

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 60 Joe Watkins

� nonarchaeologists limits what archaeology can offer to humanity. Those of us who are both Indigenous and archaeologists owe it to our culture and to our discipline to work more actively to bridge the chasms that exist between both groups. Failure to succeed is utter failure only if we do not try.

References Burke, H., C. Smith, L. Zimmerman, D. Lippert and J. Watkins (eds.). 2008. Kennewick Man: Perspectives on the Ancient One. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Killion, T. K. (ed.). 2007. Opening Archaeology: Repatriation’s Impact on Contemporary Research and Practice. Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press. Mihesuah, D. 1996. American Indians, anthropologists, pothunters, and repatriation: Ethical, religious, and political differences. American Indian Quarterly 20(2):229–237. Watkins, J. 2000. Indigenous Archaeology: American Indian Values and Scientific Practice. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. –——. 2003. Beyond the margin: American Indians, First Nations, and archaeology in North America. American Antiquity 68(2):273–286. –——. 2007. The repatriation arena: Control, conflict, and compromise. In T. K. Killion (ed.), Opening Archaeology: Repatriation’s Impact on Contemporary Research and Practice, pp. 161–177. Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press.

Chapter 3

Agency and Archaeological Material Culture Willing a Suspension of Disbelief? Bridget Mosley

Archaeologists accept that places and objects might have different meanings for Indigenous groups and local communities, but as scientists we privilege an empirical view of archaeological material culture in our writings and discussions about the past. Yet many Indigenous archaeologists and heritage managers express a more-than-empirical awareness of the material remains of the past, and that awareness guides their engagement with such places and artefacts. In my own recent fieldwork in New South Wales, Australia, this aspect of people’s relationship with archaeological material culture was strongly reflected in interviews with both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal individuals. It is a concept that sits uncomfortably with conventional archaeological understandings; however, it has implications for archaeological practice in terms of relationships between archaeologists, Indigenous communities and the landscapes in which they live and work. Here, I focus on the concept that archaeological material culture has agency, or the ability to actively affect people and their behaviour, and the implications of this awareness for archaeological practice. Agency, defined as the “socio-culturally mediated capacity to act” (Ahern 2001:110), is conceptualised as not being solely restricted to human action but potentially also a capacity of social groups, signs and objects (Hoskins 2006:74). In archaeological terms, the agency of material culture may be theorised simply in terms of its materiality, in that the presence of the material acts as a constraint on people’s decision making (Fletcher 1995:6; Wobst 2000). A wall, for example, exerts control over how people move around the space it occupies. However, the metaphysical, via associations with the powerful and the dead, may also constrain people’s actions and decisions. The exploration of concepts dealing with relationships between people and the material world is important both for archaeological practice and for advancing the dialogue between archaeologists and Indigenous persons. 61

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 62 Bridget Mosley

The first sections of this chapter discuss concepts of agency as it resides in the material and how such agency may manifest as danger. Subsequent sections present examples of researchers’ experiences of working with powerful places or material and the resulting impact on their interaction. Finally, the implications of an awareness of agency for archaeological practice are explored, using my personal experiences working in Mutawintji National Park in New South Wales (Figure€3.1) as a starting point for discussion. The conclusion questions what socialisation into a more-than-empirical way of looking at the world might mean for archaeologists and what constraints might result for the practice of archaeology.

The “Perception of Things … Animated”: Agency and Power Castoriadis (1987:334–335) writes of the “perception of things … inhabited, animated” as compared to “inert instruments, objects of possession.” My background in archaeology has trained me to regard artefacts in the latter category, as objects of research, and to recognise only their

Figure€3.1â•… The road to Mutawintji National Park in western New South Wales. (Photo credit: ©Simon Bayliss/Outback NSW Tourism 2008.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 63

physical attributes. The animation or agency of the material is a concept outside my professional and personal experience. Nonetheless, during my research I have come to realise that the concept of agency present in archaeological material culture is widespread and one that may frequently impact on people’s relationship with archaeological remains. It is useful here to distinguish between agency and power, as these are not exactly the same things. Agency is defined as the power of independent action. The concept of landscape features and the material remains of the past having capacity for active agency is referred to in various contexts all over the world, most often from Indigenous communities (see, for example, Allen et€al. 2002; Carmichael et€al. 1994; Donaldson 2004; Poyer 1992; Roe and Taki 1999; Wilson et€al. 2000). Agency may be vested in material culture through its connection with the people with whom it was once associated (Dunbar 1944:177; Two Bears 2000:18). Extended association with an object, such as occurs in the creation and use of material culture, may involve an exchange of a fundamental nature, leaving an enduring imprint on that object (Thomas 1991:16). Concepts of power are discussed in Wolf (2001:383–397). Accepting that the word “power” is polymorphous, Wolf argues for four understandings of the term. Firstly, as an attribute of the person, as potency or capability; secondly, as the ability to impose one’s will on another in social action and interpersonal relationships; thirdly, as tactical power, the ability to control the flow of energy or assets within a system of production; and finally, as structural power, which organises and orchestrates the domain of social and economic activity (Wolf 2001:384–385). In discussing interactions between Beyluen Aborigines and the landscape, Povinelli (1995) shows that Beyluen regard the landscape as both sentient and possessing subjective intentionality. As such, the landscape does more than constrain decision making and action, it has the capability of acting independently, of forcing its will, of punishing miscreants and strangers, and, finally, of turning access to food and energy on and off at will (Povinelli 1995:509–511). The power of the landscape therefore conforms to three of the aspects of power identified by Wolf above. The fourth, the organisation of the entire human and natural world and all its meanings, is, of course, to be found in the “Dreaming” or Aboriginal Law itself. Some places are considered powerful: this power may derive from their creation, from past associations, from significant actions which took place there or from their occupation and use over time. Similarly, anthropological accounts speak of certain objects being “permeated” with authority (Morton 1987:103; Munn 1970:153). In the Western perception of the world, similar and once long-standing beliefs of agency in the material world (see, for example, Semple 1998) have typically been reduced to superstition, the stuff of the “Pharaoh’s

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 64 Bridget Mosley

Curse” (Ascherson 2004:146–147), or confined within the boundaries of religion, such as miraculous relics and icons. This shift in worldview is evident in lexical change: the verb to “sain” or ritually cleanse, for example, is a word now fallen out of common usage and fit only for fiction. He’d traded four cups and saucers for a hammer and when the man he’d dealt with was gone he whispered and spat over the hammer, then waved the air in front of it with his fingers. “Saining”, he’d called it. “… Things are full of the secret lives of the people who own them. Flecks of their soul get into the object.” (McBride 2001:232)

This loss of vocabulary is a direct result of deliberate effort during the eighteenth-century Western Enlightenment to replace metaphysical understandings of the world around us with the logic of the secular and the empirical (Foucault 1971). In his discussion of the colonisation of Aboriginal history, Byrne (1996:88) notes: By the time Europeans were describing and settling Australia the discourse of natural history had forsaken the Renaissance tradition in which the magical and legendary attributes of a plant or animal might be included in the account given of it. This tradition had been left behind in favour of an Enlightenment classificatory approach based on observable physical attributes.

Archaeology as a modern, scientific discipline is a product of this Western, rationalist worldview. This empiricist epistemology leads directly into contemporary archaeological practice and is at the root of much of the difficulty that archaeology has in dealing with the metaphysical aspects of archaeological remains.

Power and Danger in the Material World Interaction with places or things that are recognised as powerful entails risk, as with power comes the potential to cause harm, disease or affliction. To mitigate this risk, such places or things must be treated with respect. David Roe and Jerry Taki (1999), for example, write about the ways in which certain stones in Vanuatu “act independently”: [Stones] of this kind are treated with much respect, not only because they are regarded as being so powerful, but also because incorrect or disrespectful use results in severe penalties. (Roe and Taki 1999:416–417)

The material remains of the past may similarly be dangerous to interact with (see, for example, Carmichael et€ al. 1994; Donaldson 2004; Dongoske et€al. 2000):

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 65 Typically, Navajo culture does not encourage the investigation of past peoples through means such as archaeology. Places where people once lived and died are treated with great respect and left alone. One does not go there, or they risk harming themselves and their families. (Two Bears 2003:20)

Similar discomfort around Aboriginal material remains on the part of traditional owners is noted in research reports (see, for example, Ogleby and Gunn 1996:14). Even the inappropriate disclosure of knowledge about such places may have consequences, as Howard Creamer (1990:134) documented when he wrote about Aboriginal elders dying after helping archaeologists to identify places of significance. This element of power, and consequently danger, emerges strongly in local residents’ relationships with archaeological material culture in western New South Wales, Australia. During my own fieldwork, people related accounts of places where odd experiences had occurred, of artefacts returned to Aboriginal traditional owners because they were perceived to have brought bad luck and of people who refused to enter rooms or buildings because of the things inside. In interviews, people spoke about various places they avoided. Describing one particular stone arrangement on a pastoral property in his traditional country, a Wangkumara Aboriginal man (interviewed 2004) observed that while he had no problem, there have been people that [went there], Aboriginal people that looked and got pretty **** scared. They shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have been in there, see?

Similar notions of avoidance were noted by an archaeologist undertaking fieldwork with Aboriginal elders elsewhere in New South Wales: They wouldn’t pick [stone artefacts] up … because they belonged to someone and the spirit of that person might get upset if they picked it up, so they wouldn’t actually touch it … because they felt the spirit of that person who owned it was still there. (Sarah Martin, interviewed 2004)

In discussing interaction with archaeological remains, a Baakantji man observed: Even some of the pebbles are very dangerous, so we kind of say, when our kids are walking around, when they come to visit a site, we tell ‘em not to move any stones, the kids. We explain it to them, they’re not to touch anything … you just got to be careful. And the worst thing to do, is if you pocket something that you shouldn’t have. You take it back, [or] you just won’t sleep. (Badger Bates, interviewed 2004)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 66 Bridget Mosley

The potential for harm through the metaphysical agency of �material culture is therefore moderated through cultural understandings and socialisation into appropriate behaviour: because of their power, some objects and places in the landscape are avoided, approached only by those with authority or only in accordance with strict procedures or rules of practice.

Archaeological Responses to Power and€Danger For archaeologists, the majority of whom do not belong to the cultural groups whose material remains they study, the rules of practice surrounding powerful objects or places are likely to be unknown. To mitigate the potential danger when involved in archaeological fieldwork, community representatives and custodians may require some action beyond established archaeological practice, and instruct archaeologists in their interaction with the material remains of the past. Wilson et€al. (2000), for example, describe their experience in writing a community-based plan of management for two caves, Yalo and Apialo, in North West Malakula, Vanuatu. Before entering the caves, certain rules had to be observed. At Yalo, we show Pita Dan (custodian of the cave) blowing into the conch stone, or huhu, a small hole in the limestone that, when blown, creates a loud, hollow, trumpet-like sound that resonates through the cave. The number of times he blows into the hole represents the number of people entering the cave; to appease the spirits people may only enter the cave in pairs. The aim of this sound is to alert the spirits that reside within the cave to depart so that mortals may enter. At Apialo, a similar tradition of entering the cave in pairs is followed, but here there is no huhu. (Wilson et€al. 2000:156)

In a further example, Allen et€al. (2002), in their account of archaeological work in the Taranaki, New Zealand, refer to places that Ngati Mutunga, the local iwi (tribe), considered dangerous, areas where they did not wish the team to go because they were tapu (sacred and dangerous). In this sense they were especially dangerous for tangata whenua (people of that place) if they allowed others to go there. (Allen et€al. 2002:324; see also Phillips, this volume)

In this case, at the request of the local community, the archaeologists avoided certain places. As also noted by Creamer (1990:134), there was danger, not only for those trespassing where they should not be, but also for those with responsibility for a place who did not prevent the transgression (Allen et€al. 2002:324).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 67

For the few archaeologists that do study the material remains of their own pasts, beliefs and notions of risk intersect in archaeological investigation. The actions of announcing your presence or stating your intention, smudging or smoking, the leaving of tobacco or food as offerings and the avoidance of alcohol during fieldwork are examples of precautions undertaken to moderate the risk through a demonstration of respect (Kluth 2000; Two Bears 2000, 2003). Other, more personal, issues may also arise, as there may be unease or resistance to such research from the family and relations of Indigenous archaeologists (Dongoske et€ al. 2000; Rika-Heke, this volume; Two Bears 2003). Davina Two Bears, a Navajo woman and archaeologist working in the U.S. state of Arizona, notes that because of the risk of harm associated with the practice of archaeology, several of the individuals to whom she spoke made it a point to have Navajo traditional prayers and/or ceremonies done … to ensure their protection from any ill effects that may incur as a result of “doing” archaeology … Two women were specifically lectured by their fathers to placate the spirits of the Anasazi by “talking” or explaining their presence at Anasazi sites. Their fathers were concerned about the seriousness of health-related threats to their daughters that can result from trespassing on these areas due to their line of work. These parents were adamant that their daughters explain to the “spirits” that they are there to protect the Anasazi or Navajo ancestors and to make sure they are not disturbed. In this way, the “spirits” know the intentions of the archaeologist and will not cause them harm. (Two Bears 2003:22)

As a matter of best practice, archaeologists concede that where archaeological and Indigenous interests intersect, the nature of the archaeological investigation must be altered to address and accommodate Indigenous concerns (Allen et€al. 2002:315–316). However, in my experience, the aim of this compliance is typically to facilitate fieldwork rather than to explicitly acknowledge the possibility of power or agency residing in the remains of the past. In the cases of Allen et€al. (2002) and Wilson et€al. (2000), as cited above, the roles of the archaeologists and the representatives of the communities in whose territories they were working are separated. Archaeologists are told what to do or what to avoid and accept the constraints on their actions in order to continue to work in the area. No exercise of judgment, no decision making, is required on their part. The custodians’ instructions are categorical: “Don’t go there”, “Only enter two at a time”. Apart from compliance, there is ordinarily little impact on archaeological practice and, in writing up, concepts of power and danger (if mentioned at all) are typically phrased in terms of the beliefs of the local community.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 68 Bridget Mosley

In Two Bears’ (2003) statements, however, the roles are blurred: the Navajo archaeologists are required to actively manage the danger. This would not be possible without the archaeologists’ implicit belief that an explanation of their actions will effectively placate the spirits. Rika-Heke (this volume) states that Indigenous archaeologists may see themselves as portals or conduits to their own ancestors and their past. In the case described by Two Bears, the respectful intentions of the archaeologists were key to preventing harm. The issue of intention was also raised during a discussion of the possible dangers of archaeological material culture during my fieldwork in western New South Wales, when I remarked that it worried me that as an archaeologist I might have touched many things I should not have. In response to my voicing concerns about the appropriateness of my actions, the reply was: How do you think I feel as a black Sites Officer? [wry laugh] No, no, I think what happens is, it might sound silly but to me it’s the truth … I think the old people’s spirits know when you’re goin’ to [do something constructive] … You’re not just out there muckin’ around—and they back off you. And I’m pretty sure they do, like, I believe in them and they watch those things all the time. (Badger Bates, interviewed 2004)

It is apparent that in some cases, for both Indigenous and nonÂ� Indigenous archaeologists, the “rules of practice” for dealing with powerful artefacts go beyond the surface of actions and into the territory of attitude and intention. This is a boundary that archaeology has been reluctant to negotiate.

Epistemologies of Awareness and Beliefs Ways of knowing, or being informed by the world around us, take a variety of forms limited by our relative awareness or lack of awareness. Burch (1971:160) describes how Arctic Alaskan Eskimos following contact with Europeans “found the world of the whalers and explorers to be cognitively impoverished compared to their own, consisting as it did of only about half of what they conceived of as reality.” A similar example can be seen in Sue Feary’s account of attending the ceremony at the handing back of Mutawintji National Park to its traditional owners, as she accompanied a group of Aboriginal people who had travelled some distance from their own country: Jerrinja people’s reactions on reaching Mutawintji were slightly unexpected. Although the travellers [from the Jerrinja Aboriginal community around Nowra on the south-east coast of New South Wales] had been looking forward to the ceremony, as the time grew closer everyone became

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 69 quiet and seemed reluctant to get out of the bus. They sensed that something was not quite right and Delia Lowe, who was at the time the chairperson of the Jerrinja [Local Aboriginal Land Council], showed her unease by commenting on the cold wind and strange cloud formations in the valley where the ceremony was to be held. (Feary 2001:277)

Feary (2001:277) continued that “being less sensitive to such matters” she and the New South Wales National Parks and Wildlife Service ranger accompanying the group got off the bus and walked over the hill to watch the politicians arrive by plane for the ceremony. In her article, Feary (2001) uses the narrative above to lead into a discussion of the difficulties of identifying traditional owners within the framework of an imposed legislative process. In this discussion her description of events, as quoted above, is left hanging without further consideration. It is almost as though she disassociates herself from the incident, in spite of having been there to experience it with the others on the bus. “Being less sensitive” is a phrase which speaks of an inability and/or unwillingness to engage with such awareness. Edith Turner (1994:91) ascribes a state of “fundamentalist secularism” to the practice of anthropology, where interpretations overstep [anthropology’s] boundaries. Because of this, a shallower idea of symbolism has begun to affect many researchers so that their understanding stops at the surface of symbols—at their social and psychological effects. They themselves cannot see these material forms as objects with actual power, even though their field people do.

There is a parallel here with Barrett’s (2001:146) observation that ethnoarchaeological fieldwork “has not foregrounded the stories people tell about what they are doing but emphasised instead what they ‘actually’ do, as if the storytelling is not part of that actuality whereas the physical consequences of people’s actions are.” In the same manner, while such powers or forces are an acknowledged “ever-present fact of life” (Macdonald 2001:176), mention of this is conspicuously absent from archaeological analysis of artefacts. Archaeology, as Byrne (1996:87) notes, is “characteristically reductive”.

Working with ArtEfacts in Mutawintji National Park—Changing Perceptions Having requirements imposed by a local community prior to archaeological investigation is not an exceptional situation. During fieldwork archaeologists routinely comply with instructions from local communities. However, when requirements move beyond prescriptive behaviour

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 70 Bridget Mosley

into the realm of intuition, the archaeologist must grapple with a far more metaphysical relationship with the remains of the past than the traditional framework of archaeology is designed to address. The power inherent in artefacts, and ways in which to lessen any danger caused by interacting with that power, became important issues in an analysis of a collection of Aboriginal stone artefacts housed at the Historic Site on Mutawintji National Park (see Figure€3.2) carried out as part of my doctoral research. These issues revolved around action, intention and intuition. The artefacts were collected in the 1960s by the Reverend John Brain from what was then Mootwingee Station (see Figure€3.3) and surrounding pastoral properties (Enid Prendergast, pers. comm. 2003). In the 1990s, he arranged for the collection to be returned to Mutawintji, where it has been stored since. After lengthy consideration, the Mutawintji Local Aboriginal Land Council granted me access to the artefacts. I was taken to the Historic Site by Badger Bates, a Baakantji man formerly employed as a Sites Officer by the New South Wales National Parks and Wildlife Service. He showed me the stone artefacts he had brought back from John Brain’s home in Wagga Wagga and instructed me in their appropriate handling.

Figure€ 3.2╅ The Mutawintji Cultural Centre at the Mutawintji Historic Site, where the Aboriginal stone artefact collection is presently stored. (Photo credit: thanks to Johan Kamminga.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 71

Figure€3.3â•… Gerald Quayle, Baarkindji traditional custodian, identifies a stone artefact in situ to a tour group at Mutawintji National Park. (Photo credit: ©Simon Bayliss/Outback NSW Tourism 2008.)

I was told there were certain artefacts stored in the shed, besides the ones with which I was allowed to work, and that I was not to open the boxes that contained those. I had to leave the area in which I was working before sunset each evening. If a willy willy (small whirlwind)1 came by, I was to close up and leave for the day. Should I feel uncomfortable handling an artefact, I was to take a green branch from a bush and brush it across and wave it around the artefact. If the feeling did not then go away, I was to put the artefact to one side. I was assured that I would know if there was something that I should not be handling. What I was being asked to do was to trust my intuition, to actively consider my awareness of an artefact, how I felt about it, and to act on that awareness. Povinelli (1995:509) notes that all Beyluen Aborigines, including small children, monitor bodies, objects and the environment for odd behaviours which might portend critical meaning. I was being challenged to do the same (see also Guédon 1994). I found the unquestioned assumption that I would know if I was handling something I shouldn’t disconcerting, as I had never before felt uncomfortable handling artefacts. Did that mean I had never touched anything that I shouldn’t have, or was it more likely that I was simply

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 72 Bridget Mosley

unperceptive? Although I can describe a belief that I do not share myself, when I am required to act on it, as I was in my interaction with the artefacts at Mutawintji, I have no faith in my ability to do so. Where decisions are based on consideration of more than strictly material concerns, the boundaries blur between archaeology, as a discipline concerned with the physical aspects of material culture, and more metaphysical understandings. I have been taught to precisely locate, describe, measure and catalogue the context and physical characteristics of archaeological material. To be abruptly outside my experience, when I had assumed a modicum of expertise, was intimidating. To act on my own intuition seemed to require giving credence to the metaphysical forces inherent in the artefacts and in their agency. Although I do not categorically deny the possibility, I have had no experience of any such power and have no basis for belief; further, it is a concept that discomforts me and in which I do not necessarily want to believe. My field journal of July 2004 notes: I’m resisting understanding this lesson because, at a certain level, I do not want to understand. “Believing” that the material may be animated would take me somewhere I don’t want to go, leave me in a state of continually second-guessing my actions. I am also aware that it may be too late. Because I’ve been told that I should not, I’m now reluctant to view or handle cylcons [Australian Aboriginal stone artefacts].2 In situations where I have come into contact with them since, I have several times experienced stomach cramps, similar to menstrual pains.3 Whether this is a physical reaction to the stones or a psychosomatic response to my own reluctance I’m not sure. I would argue it does not matter. Reading this the sceptical will no doubt mutter of the power of suggestion on the credulous. While there may be some protection in ignorance or pure disbelief, it appears that simply considering the possibilities has created a breach, a flaw in my “scientific rationalism”. I hold to the conviction that although ignorance is no longer any protection, good intentions may be.

From my reading, there are intimations of similar experiences from other archaeologists working closely with Aboriginal communities, although no one explicitly addresses the topic of power. This excerpt, for example, written by Claire Smith (2007) appeared on the Australian National Archaeology Week: Meet the Archaeologists Web site: My husband Jacko and I have had some really strange experiences while in the field. On one occasion we were carrying a parcel for Barunga people, to be used in ceremony. We had to carry it for a couple of hundred kilometres. When we had dropped the parcel off, we both got struck down—at

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 73 the same time—with a terrible headache, like a migraine. Neither of us get bad headaches, normally. Aboriginal people felt that the headaches came from carrying the stuff we carried, and so do we, now.

The phrase with which she ends, “so do we, now”, speaks of a change in perception. It is a reassessment that I too am experiencing. Through the expectations of the Aboriginal individuals with whom I work, I am being socialised into a not-strictly-archaeological interaction with material culture. However, it is a socialisation with which I find myself ill at ease. With the exception of Denis Byrne’s (2004) observations about local religious beliefs and consequent effects on artefacts and heritage monuments in Thailand and other Asian countries, I have been unable to locate any relevant references in the archaeological literature. Byrne similarly notes unwillingness on the part of heritage practitioners to engage with such belief systems, but mainly focuses his discussion at a theoretical level. However, some researchers from anthropology, education, health and other disciplines have written about their experiences of the metaphysical when working with Indigenous communities and individuals (e.g., Macdonald 2001; Selby 2004; Young and Goulet 1994). For those few who considered the experience as part of their data, their response is typically one of apprehension, of being out of their depth: this reaction parallels my own feelings in dealing with the artefacts at Mutawintji. From her anthropological fieldwork, Lise Swartz (1994:229) describes such fear as an existential anxiety, not knowing “enough to be safe, to be secure”. Jane Selby (2004:149) recounts an experience of working with a powerful Aboriginal healer while teaching a training course for Indigenous mental health workers, during which she found herself in a situation where she “feared being catapulted into realms of experience and danger over which [she] would have little control.” She speaks of the experience in terms of “discomfort” and “confusion” and relates her resistance to entering “ways of thinking and being where she would be a novice”, which would require her to lose her “security blanket of Western rationality” (Selby 2004:151). Reverting from her reflexive account to researcher-speak, she speculates that such incidents, which “challenge our epistemological and ontological complacencies”, may well occur fairly often in situations of cross-cultural research, but are brushed under the mat as inappropriate for discussion in the academic community. Given archaeology’s focus on the dead and their associated material culture, it seems likely other archaeologists have similarly experienced such challenges, but have not necessarily written about them. My own

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 74 Bridget Mosley

experience suggests implications for the practice of archaeology and its relationships with other communities of interest.

Implications for Archaeological Practice As Young and Goulet (1994:7) point out, experiences that they consider “extraordinary” are considered commonplace and, as illustrated by the examples cited above, accepted as only natural by most Indigenous peoples around the world. Is it not more extraordinary to be deaf and blind to such emanations? The limitations are mine. It was in consideration of those limitations that I began writing this article. From the accounts above and from my own experience, two linked issues emerge. Firstly, whether such a relationship with material culture is one that archaeologists should explore and, secondly, whether this is a relationship that Indigenous communities necessarily want archaeologists to explore. The question remains of how archaeologists should conceptualise their own relationship with archaeological material culture to incorporate the metaphysical. Using life history as a theoretical approach, I have previously written about forming a relationship with the artefacts and assemblages I have come into contact with during my research.4 I had, however, conceptualised such a relationship at the level of physical interaction—that tactile familiarity with individual artefacts which comes from extended handling and appreciation. To extend beyond this goes well outside my perceived archaeological brief, characterised as being of a “less personal and more abstract interest” (Ferguson et€al. 2000:56). Being able to know that an artefact or place is powerful or dangerous presupposes an experience of reality in which that power or danger can be sensed. It is, in effect, an assertion of belief, and as such it confronts me with concepts beyond my worldview. However, it appears that confrontation is an expectation of the members of the Aboriginal community with whom I have been working (see Figure€ 3.4). If, as required, I attempt to overcome the doubts I have in my own ability to approach an understanding of material culture in this way, further concerns arise. In purely selfish terms, my understanding is that accepting a connection at so personal a level would affect my practice of archaeology, as with such a relationship I would take on a commensurate responsibility. Archaeologists are promiscuous in their professional practice. We move from place to place, from country to country. If I admit such a responsibility to the material with which I work, to what extent will I be free to take a contract, complete the analysis, write the report and move on?

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 75

Figure€3.4â•… Continuing long-term relationships with the land at Mutawintji into the present day: Gerald Quayle at the gorge. (Photo credit: ©Simon Bayliss/ Outback NSW Tourism 2008.)

To what extent might an assertion of my own personal relationship affect existing relationships? Such an assertion could be viewed as an act of neocolonialism, if forging my own relationship with artefacts of Aboriginal cultural heritage was seen as usurping something fundamental to Aboriginal relationships with the material culture of their past. While the individuals with whom I have worked have been generous in their instruction and in allowing me access to their cultural material, other Aboriginal people may well be more defensive of a relatively recently wrested, and therefore all the more jealously guarded, authority over the cultural heritage of their past. A further consideration is the extent to which I am exposing myself and others to harm by remaining resistant to the concept of power. I can, as required, willingly suspend disbelief in my own lack of ability in this regard; however, with the best will and intention, I simply may not “sense” that I am doing something inappropriate or touching something I should not. Does that make me a liability, dangerous to myself and those who have placed trust in me? In her time spent with the Nabesna of Alaska, Marie Francoise Guédon (1994:55) describes her socialisation into appropriate behaviour: being allowed to make

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 76 Bridget Mosley

Â� mistakes but gradually made aware that she should know better. “I was made to understand there was no excuse any more for ritually wrong behaviour: ‘You got to protect yourself. As long as you don’t know, it does not matter.’” The corollary is that once you do know better, it does matter. When archaeologists encounter the metaphysical aspects of material culture, a range of theoretical, professional and ethical issues are raised to which their disciplinary framework has not necessarily prepared them to respond. Archaeological best practice has generally moved on from a position of negating the beliefs of members of the cultural groups whose material culture they study, to a position that could perhaps be termed “respectful unbelief”. As described above, although the validity of local beliefs is acknowledged, such beliefs continue to be seen as largely irrelevant to archaeological interpretation, even where members of the local community are included in research teams. I suspect most archaeologists would be uncomfortable, as I am, with the idea of incorporating the metaphysical into archaeological practice in this way; however, the complacency of empiricism is perhaps overdue an epistemological kick in the pants. With an increasing familiarity with archaeological practice in Indigenous communities comes recognition of the limitations of archaeological interpretation. From my experience, responding by rote to community concerns may no longer be considered sufficient. Continuing to work with the material culture of the Indigenous past may require archaeologists to confront the possibility of a more profound understanding of their subject matter.

AcknowledgEments My thanks are due to the Mutawintji Local Aboriginal Land Council for granting access to the artefacts held at the Historic Site on Mutawintji National Park and, for accommodation during my fieldwork there, to the Board of Management and Parks & Wildlife Group, New South Wales Department of Environment, Climate Change & Water. I am grateful to the individuals who have been generous with their time and patience in the course of my research, especially those quoted in this chapter, and specifically to the Ebsworth family, Sarah Martin and Badger Bates for their hospitality and to Taylor Speed and Anna Mosley and the editors for commenting on drafts. For research funding, I acknowledge the support of the Graduate School of the Environment, Division of Environmental & Life Sciences, Macquarie University. Thanks for arranging photographs to Glynn Jacobs, John Holcombe, Gerald Quayle and Jo Kamminga.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 77

Notes 1. A willy willy is a small rotating vortex or whirlwind occurring in the desert (Dixon et€al. 2006) when an updraft forms from hot air on the surface and cooler low pressure above and carries swirling dust picked up from the ground. Also sometimes called a “dust devil” or edemoinho, other cultures similarly relate whirlwinds with spirits which may cause annoyance, harm or illness, for example, the Navajo chiindii and the Brazilian saci. 2. “  Cylcons” are Australian Aboriginal stone artefacts, the name a shortened version of the original descriptive “cylindro-conical stone”, taken from the shape which is typically cylindrical, tapering to a pointed or rounded end (McCarthy 1967:62). Unique incised motifs decorate many of the stones, but there is little reliable ethnographic information and no recognised use for the artefact. It is widely assumed that cylcons had a ritual or magico-religious significance often related, because of the shape, to male energies (for discussion, see Black 1942; McCarthy 1967). 3. I n a related topic during a Web discussion, this comment was made: “Years ago, a couple of female colleagues told me that they had experienced a spontaneous menstruation, if you can call it that, after visiting a rock shelter that was associated with women’s business. The same thing happened to me last year while recording an art site. I made discreet enquiries and found that quite a few other women, archaeologists and anthropologists, have encountered this” (Alice Gorman, Department of Archaeology, Flinders University, pers. comm. 17 January 2007). 4. I n this, I follow the concept put forward by Michael Shanks (1998), who used the example of Skara Brae, the Neolithic village in the Orkneys where Gordon Childe excavated in the 1920s. Through his interaction with the place, Childe became part of the history of Skara Brae: at the same time Skara Brae became part of the biography of Childe.

References Ahern, L. 2001. Language and agency. Annual Review of Anthropology 30:109–137. Allen, H., D. Johns, C. Phillips, K. Day, T. O’Brien and Ngati Mutunga. 2002. Wahi ngaro (the lost portion): Strengthening relationships between people and wetlands in north Taranaki, New Zealand. World Archaeology 34(2):315–329. Ascherson, N. 2004. Archaeology and the British media. In N. Merriman (ed.), Public Archaeology, pp. 145–158. London: Routledge. Barrett, J. C. 2001. Agency, the duality of structure, and the problem of the archaeological record. In I. Hodder (ed.), Archaeological Theory Today, pp. 141–164. Cambridge: Polity Press. Black, R. L. 1942. Cylcons: Mystery Stones of the Darling River Valley. Leeton, New€South Wales: privately published. Burch E. S., Jr. 1971. The nonempirical environment of the Artic Alaskan Eskimos. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 27:148–165. Byrne, D. 1996. Deep nation: Australia’s acquisition of an indigenous past. Aboriginal History 20:82–107. –——. 2004. Agency and divine heritage: The issue of agency in the conservation of divine heritage. Paper presented at the Australian Archaeological Association annual conference, 13–15 December 2004, Armidale. Carmichael, D. L., J. Hubert, B. Reeves and A. Schanche (eds.). 1994. Sacred Sites, Sacred Places. London: Routledge. Castoriadis, C. 1987. The Imaginary Institution of Society. Translated by Kathleen Blamey. Cambridge: Polity Press.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 78 Bridget Mosley Creamer, H. 1990. Aboriginal perceptions of the past: The implications for cultural resource management in Australia. In P. Gathercole and D. Lowenthal (eds.), The Politics of the Past, pp. 130–140. London: Unwin Hyman. Dixon, R. M. W., B. Moore, W. S. Ramson and M. Thomas (eds.). 2006. Australian Aboriginal Words in English: Their Origin and Meaning. 2nd edition. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Donaldson, E. 2004. Vanishing artefacts of the South Seas. Journal of the Polynesian Society 113(4):349–367. Dongoske, K. E., M. Aldenderfer and K. Doehner (eds.). 2000. Working Together: Native Americans and Archaeologists. Washington, DC: Society for American Archaeology. Dunbar, G. K. 1944. Notes on the Ngemba tribe of the central Darling River, western New€South Wales (concluded). Mankind 3(6):172–180. Feary, S. 2001. Moving towards joint management in New South Wales: A Jervis Bay case study. In R. Baker, J. Davies and E. Young (eds.), Working on Country: Contemporary Indigenous Management of Australia’s Lands and Coastal Regions, pp. 276–294. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Ferguson, T. J., K. Dongoske, M. Yeatts and L. J. Kuwanwisiwma. 2000. Hopi oral history and archaeology. In K. E. Dongoske, M. Aldenderfer and K. Doehner (eds.), Working Together: Native Americans and Archaeologists, pp. 45–60. Washington, DC: Society for American Archaeology. Fletcher, R. 1995. The Limits of Settlement Growth: A Theoretical Outline. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foucault, M. 1971. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. New€York: Pantheon Books. Guédon, M. F. 1994. Dene ways and the ethnographer’s culture. In D. E. Young and J-G. Goulet (eds.), Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience, pp. 39–70. Ontario: Broadview Press. Hoskins, J. 2006. Agency, biography and objects. In C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Kuechler, M.€Rowlands and P. Spyer (eds.), Handbook of Material Culture, pp. 74–84. London: Sage Publications. Kluth, R. 2000. The integration of traditional and scientific knowledge on Leech Lake Reservation, Cass Lake, Minnesota. In K. E. Dongoske, M. Aldenderfer and K.€Doehner (eds.), Working Together: Native Americans and Archaeologists, pp. 139–145. Washington, DC: Society for American Archaeology. Macdonald, G. 2001. Does ‘culture’ have ‘history’? Thinking about continuity and change in central New South Wales. Aboriginal History 25:176–199. McBride, R. 2001. The Nature of Water and Air. New York: Simon & Shuster. McCarthy, F. D. 1967. Australian Aboriginal Stone Implements. Sydney: Trustees of the Australian Museum. Morton, J. 1987. Singing subjects and sacred objects: More on Munn’s ‘transformation of subjects into objects’ in central Australian myth. Oceania 58(2):100–118. Munn, N. D. 1970. The transformation of subjects into objects in Walbiri and Pitjantjatjara myth. In R. M. Berndt (ed.), Australian Aboriginal Anthropology: Modern Studies in the Social Anthropology of the Australian Aborigines, pp. 141–163. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press. Ogleby, C. L., and R. G. Gunn. 1996. Burke’s Cave / Kokriega conservation plan.€Unpublished report to the Australian Heritage Commission. Melbourne: University of Melbourne. Povinelli, E. A. 1995. Do rocks listen? The cultural politics of apprehending Aboriginal labor. American Anthropologist 97:505–518. Poyer, L. 1992. Defining history across cultures: Islander and outsider contrasts. Isla: A Journal of Micronesian Studies 1(1):73–89.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Agency and Archaeological Material Culture 79 Roe, D., and J. Taki. 1999. Living with stones: People and the landscape in Erromango, Vanuatu. In P. J. Ucko and R. Layton (eds.), The Archaeology and Anthropology of Landscape: Shaping Your Landscape, pp. 411–422. London: Routledge. Selby, J. 2004. Working divides between indigenous and non-indigenous: Disruptions of identity. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 17(1):143–156. Semple, S. 1998. A fear of the past: The place of the prehistoric burial mound in the ideology of middle and later Anglo-Saxon England. World Archaeology 30(1):109–126. Shanks, M. 1998. The life of an artifact in an interpretive archaeology. Fennoscandia Archaeologica 15:15–30. Smith, C. 2007. National Archaeology Week: Meet the Archaeologists. http://archaeologyweek.com/mta/mta.php?id€=€018. Swartz, L. 1994. Being changed by cross-cultural encounters. In D. E. Young and J-G. Goulet (eds.), Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience, pp. 209–236. Ontario: Broadview Press. Thomas, N. 1991. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Turner, E. 1994. A visible spirit form in Zambia. In D. E. Young and J-G. Goulet (eds.), Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience, pp. 71–95. Ontario: Broadview Press. Two Bears, D. 2000. A Navajo student’s perception: Anthropology and the Navajo Nation Archaeology Department Student Training Program. In K. E. Dongoske, M. Aldenderfer and K. Doehner (eds.), Working Together: Native Americans and Archaeologists, pp.€15–22. Washington, DC: Society for American Archaeology. –——. 2003. A matriarchy in Southwest archaeology: Navajo women archaeologists. The SAA Archaeological Record 3(2):20–26. Wilson, M., J. Sanhambath, P. D. Senembe, B. David, N. Hall and M. Ablong. 2000. ‘Tufala kev blong devil’: People and spirits in North West Malakula, Vanuatu—implications for management. Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 4(3):151–166. Wobst, H. M. 2000. Agency in (spite of) material culture. In M-A. Dobres and J. E. Robb (eds.), Agency in Archaeology, pp. 40–50. London: Routledge. Wolf, E. R. 2001. Pathways of Power: Building an Anthropology of the Modern World. Berkeley: University of California Press. Young, D. E., and J-G. Goulet (eds.). 1994. Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience. Ontario: Broadview Press.

Chapter 4

Part of the Conversation Archaeology and Locality Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

This chapter collects fragments of the conversation between archaeologists and local people in both Antofalla and Antofagasta de la Sierra, where archaeological versions of the past are contrasted with memories and ideas concerning local history and human experience. The conversation reported here draws on previous themes exploring questions of Â�indigeneity and equality as they relate to archaeology and museums, representations of the colonial history of Argentina and the implications these have for the wider discipline (Haber 2007a, 2007b; Haber et€al. 2007). Every summer for many years, the Puna de Atacama region (Catamarca, Argentina) has witnessed the arrival of archaeologists from the cities of Catamarca, Rosario, Buenos Aires, Tucumán, Montevideo and Popayán. They spend long days in Antofalla and Antofagasta. Three years ago, the community of Antofalla declared itself an Indigenous community. At the same time, workshops to reflect on the local museum (Museum of Man of Antofagasta de la Sierra), its discourse, and the ways to change it, have been developed in Antofagasta de la Sierra. In this way, a conversation has developed between the museum, the archaeologists and the communities of Antofagasta de la Sierra that is a part of a wider conversation, but it is not possible to trace its origin and its end is undetermined. Neither archaeology nor the community processes are independent of the conversation; they are in the conversation. Yet archaeology, not only as practice but as a discourse as well, has the conversation as an inherent condition. In this sense, it is equally correct to say that the conversation is part of archaeology. The conversation, not following a chronological or a geographical order, could be written in very many different ways. In the Museum of Man of Antofagasta de la Sierra, the community’s own history and culture was written in terms of an archaeological monologue, thus denegating the Â�conversation itself. The same can be said of the standard 81

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 82 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

archaeological writing (papers), though less accessed by local people. Local people, in turn, have their own discourses on their history and culture and on the presence of archaeologists in their communities. The fragments collected in this chapter proceed from three dialogic pieces of co-research: •

•

•

the co-research on the representations of the local museum and of the local ways of representing the community and the locality among local school teachers and students (primary and secondary) and a group of archaeologists from Catamarca University the co-research on the representations of the local museum and of the histories attached to particular museum objects between co-research teams, each one composed of one local museum worker and one undergraduate Archaeology student from Catamarca University and the co-research on community organisation and law in order to fulfill the national state requirements for the recognition of Antofalla as an Indigenous community by the group of archaeologists from Catamarca University and the Antofalla community

Those three pieces of co-research are intertwined in conversation in many different ways, but maybe the main one is that those involved in the conversation were transformed through the conversation itself. The writing of this chapter does not follow a lineal account, as a way of conveying the nonlineal semiosis (signifiers of meaning) that grew up from the conversations. Named persons change suddenly from one sentence to the other, probably because a conversation between people follows its own logic. The place of writing is not collapsed in a collective authorship, and neither are changes from one author to the other. This piece of co-writing is about co-writing as practice and as representation.

Entering the Museum The Pioneers: Very little was known, up to the 80’s, about one of the richest archaeological regions of our country: Antofagasta de la Sierra. However, as always, there were some pioneers. The oldest antecedent is a report written by J. B. Ambrosetti (1904), based on G. Gerling’s travel journals (1897/98). It mentions the ruins of Bajo Coypar and La Alumbrera, rock art manifestations, and describes the material of two burial sites excavated by Gerling. In 1923/24, the region was visited by W. Weisser during the fifth and sixth expedition financed by B. Muñiz Barreto. Weisser, in his unpublished journal, mentions the settlements visited by Gerling, and he adds Peñas Coloradas II and new traces of rock art. He also excavated some burial sites whose material seems to correspond to late moments of the cultural process. O. Barrionuevo, who travelled the region at length, describes in his writings some of the sites mentioned before, two rockshelters in Laguna Colorada and one in Paicuqui.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality 83 The latter, because of its materials, might belong to the early agricultural and herding activities of the region. After his death, his journal of an expedition to the Vcan [sic] de Antofalla is published, where some sites of the area are mentioned. Raffino and Cigliano, in 1973, elaborate a tentative sequence of the archaeological remains of the region and they suggest a model of vertical control between the Puna steppes (4000 m above sea level) and the Hualfín Valley (1300 m above sea level), for the Regional Development period (AD 1000 to 1480). Within the aforementioned model, the La Alumbrera site (3400 m above sea level) would play an important role. F. Kuhn (1912) and A. M. Lorandi (1966) produced works related to rock art, making use of Weisser’s photographic records. Eventually, P. Krapovickas’s work on the Tebenquiche site (1955) is, in fact, the only one that makes reference, essentially, to a site with early settlements in the region. (Excerpt of the display From the Pioneers up to the Present, Room 1, Museum of Man, Antofagasta de la Sierra, with translation by the authors.)

A group of final-year students from the secondary school in the town of Antofagasta de la Sierra tell Laura, from Rosario, Mariela, from Catamarca, and Wilhelm, from Popayán, that they think the notice at the entrance of the Museum of Man of Antofagasta de la Sierra entitled From the Pioneers up to the Present makes reference to the people of Antofagasta; the secondary school students point out that this “introduction” leaves out the fact that a number of their grandparents were the ones who took the archaeologists (who wrote the text of the display) to the sites mentioned in it. At the Tebenquiche Chico site, in front of the “Archaeological Camp Krapovickas”, Alejandro, from Catamarca, tells Wilhelm, from Popayán, that when he excavated there, he felt he was taking something he might not have the right to take, although he recognised that for more than 15 years the mountain had taken his summer time, an irretrievable time, far from his family. In fact, there had been two decades of archaeologists going to the Puna, of archaeologists coming home. In her home, Julia, from Antofalla, shows some photographs to Enzo, Mariela, Cristian and Wilhelm, from Catamarca, Santa Fe and Popayán, of Marcos, Gabriela, Leandro and Alejandro, from Catamarca, and so many more, when they visited Antofalla years ago, and not only Julia but Sarita, from Antofalla, also keeps in her photo album, together with her family pictures, the pictures of the archaeologists, some students in those years, some better remembered than others. Such memories and documents form a text of the archaeology in Antofalla, and this too is part of the conversation.

Museum and Community During the second work day, we separate into groups, and each one of us has to choose an object that they feel identified with (first personally

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 84 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

and then in groups); then we walk through the Museum of Man. There are four rooms united by time: one enters nature and goes into each room defining “great” expressions of culture (major traditions), passing through “minor” ones. At the first room, next to the desk where Ernestina, from Antofagasta de la Sierra, worked as a guide and then director, there is a shelf with rocks of the region; on top, on the wall, there appears an illustration of the cultural sequences for the region, which culminate with the coming of the Spaniard. Children look at the brief descriptions with pictures of the archaeologists’ work. The archaeologists are in white robes, surely taking from the vessels the dust of the years using brushes. The Antofagasta people do not appear; they seem to be represented by archaeology but they do not appear to be present€there. The children go out. I finish leading them through the museum, and I hear them talking about the relationship between the chosen objects and the ones exhibited in the museum. The Antofagasta children, with whom I am talking, say they have found in the museum “things” they felt identified with, even a picture of the object chosen as a group. “Ah, so the museum represents all”, I, Laura from Rosario, say. Cristian, from Antofagasta, answers me, “Well, in part, because the museum is one thing and the people another thing”.1 Then I begin to think on a question that could deepen the children’s reflexion—I still believe I have to do it myself—when another girl, Rocío, from Antofagasta, adds, “The museum has death and the village life”. “Why?” I eventually ask. She answers, “Because I do not believe the museum has life, it has dead mummies, the plaza has life”.2 Rocío explains to me why the museum is so far from life, the village, the people. If this is so, why do I, Laura from Rosario, still believe the museum is an important place to the identity of the people? A teacher at Antofagasta de la Sierra School, David Bustos, from Santa María, asks the archaeologists in a workshop, “What is the real function of the museum? We pass through the museum, yet what happens is that the museum is not integrated within the community. What can we do with that which involves archaeology?”3 Alejandro, from Catamarca, comments that the museum is a place where the community is represented, a place where people can express themselves. To think about the museum, then, is to think about people, the community, to think about ourselves, and I, Laura from Rosario, think about myself and I feel being thought about, “What can we do with that which involves archaeology?” Each time I, Ernestina from Antofagasta de la Sierra, have to meet to talk about my village, my people, our past, our present, our customs and the most sacred thing that are our ancestors, I do that in a very respectful manner; this is because I feel I am part of them, since I am a person who accepts, from all

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality 85

Â� perspectives, my Â�ancestral legacy, and I never feel bad when I am called a Kolla4 person. When do archaeologists feel bad? We do not feel bad when we do our work. But this raises the question, “which work”? The museum, which seems to know it all, answers me from the lines typed on a sheet of paper stuck on one of its walls that I copied not to forget in Popayán: “The museum has the function of acquiring, maintaining, communicating and exhibiting man’s material testimonies. They are exhibited for educational and recreation purposes” (Sheet of paper, Room 1, Museum of the Man, Antofagasta de la Sierra).

Testimonies What are material testimonies? A “thing”, “anything”? Testimonies of which man? Are they of the same man that appears (or seems to be) in the name of the museum? What does it mean that a testimony could be, apart from testimony, material? What is it distinguished from, when “material” is adjectivised in such a way? Does it become more important (more real, truer) than other types of testimonies because it is material? These testimonies, what are they in favour of? What or whom do they€testify? Santos Alancay, from Las Quinoas, has a testimony about a grey stone spade that Rita, from Antofagasta de la Sierra, and Daniela, from Andalgalá, took out from the museum to discuss with the people. “I, as most Antofagasta people, was brought up and fed thanks to agriculture and livestock rearing; our ancestors have taught us the value of agriculture and the land to our people, since thanks to them our community has been bred”5 (Figure€4.1). The spades, “even though they might seem tools not quite aesthetic to the eye and insignificant, have been essentials for community life. Thanks to them the water has come to the fields and the seeds could be watered, then the plants could grow and in the end these could be harvested to feed the family; in this way families were raised, thanks to these spades that could water the effort” (Mamaní and Fernández 2006). These issues were taken up in writing by Rita and Daniela, from the conversation with Santos. Alejandro, Enrique, Laura and Wilhelm talk, not only among themselves, but with the people from Antofagasta during the Week of the Museum of Man workshop. This is a conversation that, in the same way as in the monologue on the walls of the museum, is about their heritage, their past, the things they feel identified with and the museum, where walls are covered with papers and posters in which, again, symbols of identity are captured. On the same wall where the displays mentioned before are located, and those posters referring to the history and in this way to Puna identity, there are now more posters—but this time there are also new writers who ask, why does archaeology say it is “pioneer”?

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 86 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

Figure€4.1â•… Santos Claudia Vázquez showing how to work with the stone spade from the museum. The stone spades are almost neglected in the archaeological account at the museum because of their lack of appeal; they are considered one of those simple things from which people from Antofagasta are bred. (Photo credit: Daniela Fernández and Rita Mamaní.)

Is it apart from the conversation, as if it would talk in solitude? Should it be so complex as to think it lacks company? “We have been brought up with simple things like the spade”,6 Santos Alancay told them. Funes, from Santa María, a teacher at Antofagasta de la Sierra School, narrates one of the new posters on the museum’s walls as if he was describing the landscape of the town (see Figure€ 4.2): down and to the left, one can appreciate the La Alumbrera and Antofagasta volcanoes, which flank the entrance to the village. From the south, the river Punilla comes down, the river that waters the fertile lowlands full of alfalfa for the llamas to eat, which, together with the sheep, are the sustenance of the people of the Puna.

Archaeology, Objects and Memory Archaeology usually denies the conversation, even though it can recognise part of it. Yet, nothing of this is indispensable: the conversation was

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality 87

Figure€ 4.2â•… Poster made by people from Antofagasta, displayed on the wall of the Museum of Man. The text reads, “Our ideas and customs are here engraved”. The drawing shows the two main local volcanoes, the river going down to the lagoon, the rich pasturelands, and a llama. A close representation of the main local landscape symbols was depicted by Anacleto Cháves together with “archaeological” finds (see Figure€4.4). (Photo credit: Wilhelm Londoño.)

already there, before the “pioneers”. I, Ernestina, know quite well that I belong to this descendancy, that is why I always defend and practice the customs and traditions of my land, Antofagasta. For my part, I wish anthropologists could understand and respect our way of seeing things. I say so because I realise that for them, our ancestors are simply an object

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 88 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

for their work, and I am not trying to say that I do not like the work of the archaeologist, but that I would like that in addition to their work, they could meet our feelings and thus we could respect our ancestors together a bit further. I say “ancestors” because all the people or human beings that are dug out and whom the archaeologists later call “mummies” are the people from whom we come; that is why we should have to take them into account, very closely. They are human beings, to whom we must pay the uttermost respect. I also understand the archaeologists are doing their job (see Figure€4.3). The question, what can we do with that which involves archaeology? strikes me. I wonder why Anacleto Cháves, from Antofagasta de la

Figure€4.3â•… Gathering of the people from Antofagasta at the Incahuasi site (an eighteenth-century mining place). The people choose to dig out the mouth of the Pachamama (a hole in the earth—at the forefront—for feeding Mother Earth with alcohol, lit cigarettes and coca leaves, and some of the food taken there for a lunch; in their words, “to share with our mother”) beside a white stone pile built last summer during the archaeological excavations in the nearby room—at the back (one stone was carried every morning by each staff member, including local people, along the 3€km path to the site from the camp and deposited there together with their tiredness, alcohol and coca leaves). (Photo credit: Wilhelm Londoño.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality 89

Sierra, assembled the slab collage that was in his house (see Figure€4.4) and why Rita, from Antofagasta, put it up at the Antofagasta museum? Cháves tells Ernestina, from Antofagasta, and Laura, from Rosario, that the collage “is important because it has volcanoes and pottery from here, this region. Because it was from people that no one knows when they came here and have lived here for centuries”. He told us he did it to “show that here there were such little things”.7 Rita was drawn to this work “for the amount of pieces with different shapes, colours and apparently from different cultures”.8 She spent hours when she was a girl looking at this collage before coming into Cháves’s house; to her it is the only piece made of “little things” from here, by people from here, and shown through a decision made by the people from here. “It is important that this piece should be here because it is something the archaeologists did not do; I could recover it myself”,9 Rita tells her sister Ernestina and Laura. I, Alejandro from Catamarca, remember that I looked carefully at Cháves’s collage when, as a student from Buenos Aires, I participated in the excavation of his house; then, I talked at length with Cháves, but I do not remember that I talked about his collage. My teachers and classmates considered that was not a reasonable way to be connected with the past; we did archaeology, we recovered memory. I do not recall that I talked with Cháves about his own memory. I had to undo my way to take the conversation up again. I have come to realise, for my part, from

Figure€4.4â•… Anacleto Cháves’s “archaeological collage”, displayed on the wall of the Museum of Man. (Photo credit: Laura Roda.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 90 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

Antofagasta, that according to their perspective, they come and they write it and do not think about us, they write because … because they sit down and write and that is it, and it is not the same, not even similar. We have travelled with the briefness of a gust of breeze 1000 years of history of the man of the Puna. Antofagasta de la Sierra and its people go on living their difficult romance between man and the desert. Lonely and beautiful landscapes, the proud camelids, the powerful winds, the icy winters and the burning sun of the summer are, today as thousands of years before, part of the everyday life of the Puna people. They, men and women, continue here serene, humble and proud. They acknowledge, perhaps, that they are inheritors of a lineage who knew how to conquer the mountain and approach the sky. Many country folk ignore what the Puna is, its inhospitable and intoxicating beauty, the silent hospitality of the people, its thousand years of history. Antofagasta de la Sierra treads to the future trying to take advantage of the benefits of the new technology, without getting rid of its millennial traditions. In order to do so, it tries to recognise itself in the past and to offer that to its country folks. If archaeologists are the ones who recover the lost memory, the people are the owners and watchers of that memory recovered. (Excerpt of Display no. 26, Room 3, Museum of Man, Antofagasta de la Sierra, with translation by the authors.)

I read again, “If archaeologists are the ones who recover the lost memory, the people are the owners and watchers of that memory recovered”. If archaeologists are the ones who recover lost memory, then if the memory were not lost, archaeologists would not be, or at least, they would not be who they are, the ones who recover the memory, since they would not have anything to recover. The people are the owners and watchers of memory, but not their own memory, but the one recovered by archaeologists. The people’s memory, let us remember, is lost, or this is what the museum is telling us, that is, the archaeologists who wrote the monologue for the museum. Should it be because of that that archaeology speaks alone at the museum? Maybe archaeology might have thought that memory had been lost …

Parts of the Conversation This conversation is about memory, comes from memory and evokes it. This conversation neither assumes nor needs amnesia. That is why it does not assume archaeologists should recover anything. It is a conversation, where people talk about memory, and those who produce it, the people from Antofalla and from Antofagasta, talk among themselves and with the archaeologists, who recognise it: it is knowledge that is (ac) knowledge(ment). They dialogue with it. This archaeology de-parts from

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Part of the Conversation: Archaeology and Locality 91

the conversation. This text is part of the conversation. The conversation assumes that each one is part of it and has something to tell the rest, and something to listen from the others. In this conversation we talk about archaeology and we listen about it. Archaeologists always talk. In this conversation archaeologists listen to what the villagers have to tell them. At the beginning it is difficult to talk (listen to). We have to work it out a bit. We come here from different places to talk. This conversation implies a displacement. We do not come back from this journey in the same way we have departed. In the conversation, we are all changing the place from where we talk, our home address. This text, as all texts, is located. Yet, it is not written from a house, but from various houses; this does not make it less situated, but more situated. Moreover, each address where the text is written enters the conversation and changes it; it has been displaced. The juxtaposed people who write are indications of the changing topography of journeys and interchanges that sustain the conversation; this topography is not here as such, it is only indicated. The conversation cannot be so easily translated into words, since these, when written down, lose a good deal of the unsaid that happens. Writing, then, does not represent the conversation, and it does not expect to do so. Writing invites whoever reads this text to let him/her be visited by the emotion these words evoke, to be touched in what one is, subjectively, by the conversation. A second invitation is presented in this English version of the text, foreign to those who participated in the conversation, foreign to the conversation itself. Translating part of the conversation into the academic lingua franca, we can pretend that we understand each other. However, the conversation does not wear out in understanding mutually, an intellectual comprehension; the conversation produces a connection among what those who are talking are. Or, better, among what those who are talking become. It is not about translating ourselves between meaning frames (and in this way to consolidate ourselves within them), but to bring the frames to the conversation, to make different versions from them, to make versions with others, to con-verse them. This conversation has no object. As every conversation, it has subjects. Or maybe we may say, it constitutes subjects, subjectively and intersubjectively. Talking about the memory frames, putting in conversation its hegemony and resistance relationships, we become subjects of memory. This conversation is about the ancient things, history and memory. It is about the subjects of memory. Everyone who took part in this text, the authors and those who do not appear as such, form part of this conversation. This text is originated from the conversation. This text de-parts from the conversation; that is, it claims to be an exercise in anamnesis

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 92 Alejandro Haber, Wilhelm Londoño, Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda

(that is, memory as the acknowledging of history). This text is a part of that conversation, a report—it claims to show something of it, of the possibility and the power of archaeology working with social memory. But the conversation does not fit in this text; it does not represent it. In this sense, this text is part of the conversation.

Notes 1. Cristian. Handwritten record of the workshop developed at School no. 494, within the framework of the Week of the Museum of Man. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 25 April 2006. 2. Rocío. Handwritten record of the workshop developed at School no. 494, in the framework of the Week of the Museum of Man. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 25 April 2006. 3. David Bustos. Handwritten record of the workshop developed at School no. 494, in the framework of the Week of the Museum of Man. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 24€April 2006. 4. Kolla is the name for an ethnic identity of the Puna people; it is used as a derogatory term as well as a politically assertive name. 5. Santos Alancay. Handwritten record of activities of the University Volunteering Project, “Promotion of the Cultural and Historical Heritage at the Puna Societies: The Role of the Local Museums”. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 23 November 2006. 6. Santos Alancay. Handwritten record of activities of the University Volunteering Project, “Promotion of the Cultural and Historical Heritage at the Puna Societies: The Role of the Local Museums”. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 23 November 2006. 7. Anacleto Cháves. Recorded interview. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 21 November 2006. 8. Rita Mamaní. Handwritten register of interview. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 22€November 2006. 9. Rita Mamaní. Handwritten register of interview. Villa de Antofagasta de la Sierra, 22€November 2006.

References Haber, Alejandro F. 2007a. This is not an answer to the question, “Who is Indigenous?” Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 3:213–229. –——. 2007b. Reframing social equality within an intercultural archaeology. World Archaeology 39(2):281–297. Haber, Alejandro F., Ernestina Mamaní and Laura Roda. 2007. Conversation with Ernestina Mamaní. Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 3:308–319. Mamaní, Rita, and Daniela Fernández. 2006. La pala, nuestra tierra, nuestra familia. Cuadernillo del Museo del Hombre de Antofagasta de la Sierra. Unpublished manuscript in possession of the authors.

Chapter 5

Taíno as a Romantic Term Notes on the Representation of the Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

But it is immediately clear that all systems lack clear and satisfactory criteria for classifying. The more we pay attention to questions of statistical adequacy, the more hopeless the effort becomes.  L. L. Cavalli-Sforza (2000:29)

Introduction: What’s in a Name? Two decades ago Adriana Lewis-Galanes, Puerto Rican Emeritus Professor of Spanish and Portuguese at Temple University, published a work that, while rarely cited in the academic literature concerning the Caribbean, provides the clearest history of the contested term Taíno (Lewis-Galanes 1986). In this chapter, I will review a part of her argument to describe the use of the name Taíno in four distinct historical periods. The word Taíno has been used in diverse social and intellectual circles to signify different things. The inherent arbitrariness of any classificatory act implies that the term Taíno has the potential to be filled with multiple hidden and contrasting meanings related to diverse historical contexts. Now, irrespective of the multiple uses and abuses that the label Taíno has endured, I submit that there is a mystifying quality that underlies most of its treatments. Instead of assisting in the reconstruction of the cultural complexity of Indigenous life before, during and after the arrival of the Spanish colonisers in the late fifteenth century, the word Taíno has progressively become a methodological and conceptual straightjacket, not to mention a politically suspect term when evaluated from the perspective of the anticolonial struggles of Puerto Ricans. The question of 93

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 94 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

Indigenous identity has implications beyond the Caribbean, as shown in the chapters by Foana’ota, who discusses issues in postcolonial Solomon Islands, and the Moriori revival in New Zealand outlined by Solomon and Forbes (both this volume). The first phase covers the invention of the Taíno as part of a distinct colonial rhetoric present in the writings of many fifteenth- and sixteenthcentury European writers. In part, this process reflected a complex mix of colonialist suppression based on an arbitrary yet favourable (for the colonisers) system of classification for Indigenous peoples, and ignorance concerning the realities of local populations during the early colonial era. The second phase relates to the representation of the Indigenous past amongst nineteenth-century protonationalist intellectuals in the Spanish Caribbean, simultaneously with the linguistic use of the term Taíno. The third phase focuses on the development of a scientific anthropological and archaeological notion of Taíno culture in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Ironically, this scientific redefinition did nothing to advance a critical reading of the term’s history and multiple meanings over time. Finally, this development in the use of the term Taíno has fuelled the multiple neo-Taíno revivalist identity movements today, and is the subject of our last phase.

First Phase: Taíno as an Early Colonial Category According to Lewis-Galanes, the term Taíno was invented by the Europeans in order to refer to a diverse constellation of Indigenous cultures that inhabited the Greater Antilles at the time of the Spaniards’ arrival in 1492 (Lewis-Galanes 1986:53) (Figure€ 5.1). So far, ethnohistorical analysis demonstrates that the first time that the word Taíno appeared in the writings of fifteenth-century Europeans was in the short glossary of Indigenous terms that the Italian humanist Peter Martyr of Anghiera included in a letter to his compatriot Cardinal Ascanio Sforza dated to 15 November 1493 (Lewis-Galanes 1986:53–55). The content of the letter would later be modified and published in 1516 as part of Anghiera’s chronicles of the New World (cited in Lewis-Galanes 1986:54). In Anghiera’s glossary, Taíno means “good person”. The second time that the term is mentioned is by Dr. Diego AlvárezChanca in a letter to the head of Seville’s municipal government in 1494 (Alvárez-Chanca in Lewis-Galanes 1986:54). Alvárez-Chanca, the physician who accompanied Columbus during his second voyage, narrates that in Guadalupe the Admiral had rescued 20 native women kidnapped by locals, identified as the dreaded man-eating Caribs. Alvárez-Chanca recounts that as the Spaniards came ashore a group of men and women

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 95

Figure€5.1╅ Map of Central America and the Caribbean. (Caroline Phillips.)

dived into the waters and said to them “Tayno, Tayno, which means good” (Alvárez-Chanca in Lewis-Galanes 1986:54; Sued-Badillo 1978:58). Columbus’s second journey was also narrated in Peter Martyr’s chronicles, this time in another letter to Cardinal Sforza dated to 29 April 1494, which told of Columbus’s return to the northern coast of Hispaniola after his visit to Guadalupe and how he was greeted by another group of natives who stated that they were Taínos, that is nobles and not cannibals (Lewis-Galanes 1986:55). It is important to remember that Peter Martyr of Anghiera never went to the Caribbean, and so all of his writings are based on oral or written testimonies of people who were there, such as Alvárez-Chanca. It is quite surprising that he and AlvárezChanca are the only individuals of that period who mention the word Taíno in their writings. Columbus, Bartolomé de Las Casas and Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo were some of the most important participants and chroniclers of the Spanish conquest, and none of them ever mentioned such a term. Lewis-Galanes’s contention is that probably Taíno is an offshoot of the term Columbus recorded in his journal, Nitaíno, which meant for him an Indigenous man of noble lineage or assistant to the chief. It is possible that a change in the sound or form from Nitaíno to Taíno was introduced by Martyr of Anghiera and Alvárez-Chanca, who both knew Columbus’s text (Lewis-Galanes 1986:59). In any case, we cannot say with certainty that the word Nitaíno, which Columbus recorded in his interviews with native informants from the Bahamas and the northwest coast of Cuba,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 96 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

was faithfully reproduced, as cultural and linguistic translation during the initial stages of the Conquest was difficult if not impossible. However, in my estimation it is also important to note that for both Dr. Alvárez-Chanca and Peter Martyr the term Taíno always identified a noble and good-natured being, in contrast to the “cannibalistic and warlike creatures”, the Caribs, who resisted the onslaught of the Spaniards. In that sense, Taíno becomes a synonym for guatiao, another Indigenous word frequently used by some colonisers that supposedly meant “friend and ally”. Like Lewis-Galanes, and Sued-Badillo (1978) before her, I believe that the invention of the term Taíno was necessary for the production of an imaginary and polarising cultural geography that perpetuated colonialist practices of exploitation (see also Hulme’s important work, 1986). On the one hand, the so-called Taínos from the Greater Antilles were identified as friends of the Spaniards, while on the other hand, the Caribs who lived in the Lesser Antilles were classified as dangerous and bitter enemies. Many scholars have argued that the island geography of Taíno and Carib shifts from time to time according to the political and economic interests of the colonisers (Sued-Badillo 1995b; Whitehead 1995). In 1503, Queen Isabella of Castile established the legal edict that allowed her Spanish subjects in the Indies to freely enslave all of those considered and classified as Carib. Philosophically this was justified because of the Caribs’ purported consumption of human flesh. In that case, cannibalism becomes a symbol of cruel inhumanity. Such a justification fuelled Spanish slave raiding not only in the Leeward and Windward Islands but also throughout the Caribbean area (Sued-Badillo 1995b). Paradoxically, it is the fact that the Spanish recorded their intentions that make it possible to uncover the contrasting cultures that they helped to establish. Those who were classified as Taíno and who did not rebel were legally protected, while the Caribs were seen as natural prey for the slavers because of their mythical inhumanity. In late 1510, native resistance exploded on the island of Puerto Rico. Led by the chief known as Agueybana, the “peaceful Taínos” managed to destroy one of the two established settlements in the colony, while the Spaniards suffered the loss of more than half of their men. From the neighbouring island of Hispaniola, Diego Columbus (Christopher’s son and governor of both Hispaniola and Puerto Rico during the early years of the sixteenth century) sent reports to Spain stating that these raids were conducted by both Taínos and Caribs in what seemed to be a military alliance (Moscoso 1989). Similar statements were made by other colonists in both islands (De La Luz-Rodríguez 2000; SuedBadillo 1995b:70). Sadly such documentary evidence, which highlights the Â�simplistic if not false nature of the sociopolitical and cultural divide

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 97

between islands, has rarely been taken into consideration in modern Caribbean anthropology and historiography.

Second Phase: The Place of the Taíno in the Nineteenth Century During the nineteenth century, a significant interest in the historical study of the early Spanish colonial period was accompanied by a fascination with the archaeology of pre-Columbian populations in Cuba, Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. This was responded to by a growing anticolonialist discussion amongst an educated and professional Creole1 middle class that fostered the construction of an alternative history distinct from official Spanish histories and with a different political interest. Many insurgent intellectuals found in Indigenous symbols an alternative to a Creole identity mainly predicated on Spanish roots at the level of ideology. Puerto Rican ethnohistorian Jalil Sued-Badillo reviews an important thesis, elaborated first by the Mexican ethnologist Enrique Florescano, when he suggested that in the Caribbean, Creoles also appropriated the indigenous past to legitimate their own claims to political leadership and to separate that past from the one claimed by the peninsula Spaniards. The first step in their struggles for independence was to re-baptize the colonies, giving them indigenous names that recognized a historical continuity that Europeans had only interrupted. This rite of restoration began in 1804 when patriots called the first black republic in the Americas “Haiti”. By the 1820s, separatists in Cuba called their island the Republic of Cubanacan, and Creoles in Puerto Rico and the colony of Santo Domingo in Hispaniola revived the names Borincanos and Quisquellanos local communities whose names had come to identify resistance—to distance themselves, from the Spaniards. (Sued-Badillo 1995a:28)

In other words, the parallel study of both Indigenous past culture and the development of a national identity were far from being unrelated intellectual projects, and the production of an island historical narrative became a consistent source for Creole urban middle-class nationality and nation building.2 Both Cuba and Santo Domingo eventually achieved political sovereignty, which assisted a durable tradition of nationalist historic and anthropological research. In the case of Puerto Rico, the story was different. The island became a colony of the United States after Spain lost the Spanish-American War in 1898. Nevertheless, the new colonial scenario did not impede Puerto Rican historians and early archaeologists from furthering research, though its social and political context was significantly altered.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 98 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

While this form of initiative and inquiring spirit amongst Creole intellectuals was important for later systematic efforts to explain the sociocultural processes that led to the creation of a distinct colonial reality, most of the research could not transcend a romantic ideal of the Indigenous peoples of the Greater Antilles. Coexisting with the development of Creole nationalism, Taíno became a term used by linguists. In 1825, Constantine Samuel Rafinesque wrote an essay in which he classified the native peoples of the Greater Antilles according to linguistic criteria (cited in Lewis-Galanes 1986:59). In his hands, the term Taíno suffered some serious alterations. Previously, for the few European commentators who used the word, Taíno denoted a personal and social disposition toward good and proper behaviour toward their new colonial masters. In the pen of Rafinesque, Taíno signified a whole language. In other words, Rafinesque transformed an ostensible personal quality into an ethnic marker. In 1871, Daniel G. Brinton repeated and authorised the same taxonomy in his now-classic The Arawak Language of Guiana in Its Linguistic and Ethnological Relations (cited in Lewis-Galanes 1986:59–60). The transition from the linguistic conception to the creation of a “scientific” classification of pre-Columbian populations by a group of antiquarians in the United States will be evidenced in our third phase of analysis.

Third Phase: The Archaeological Invention of the Taíno During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as part of the rising scientific and political hegemony of the United States in the Caribbean, a series of archaeological studies were undertaken by institutions such as the Bureau of American Ethnology and the Scientific Survey of Porto Rico and the Virgin Islands (Alegría 1996; Baatz 1996). In this context, the Swedish archaeologist Sven Lovén published in 1924 his Origins of the Tainan Culture, West Indies, which was translated into English in 1935. Here, attuned to the archaeology of the epoch, Lovén classified as belonging to the same cultural type archaeological assemblages drawn from different islands in the northern Antillean archipelago (López 1978:84). More important, following Rafinesque and Brinton, but also going beyond them, he identified these materials as expressing Taíno culture (Figures 5.2 and 5.3). An ethnic conception that not only reflects a linguistic but also now a material culture emerges.3 Using the term Taíno this way, the professional literature from the early nineteenth to early twentieth centuries completed the homogenising trend of colonial discourse with regard to the Indigenous cultures

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 99

Figure€ 5.2â•… Taíno cemí (representation of a divine force or entity) made of granite and measuring 21.8 × 11.3 × 11.1€cm (Museo de Historia, Antropología y Arte of the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras).

Figure€5.3â•… Taíno anthropomorphic duho (seat for Taíno chief) made of white marble and measuring 31.0€×€12.0€×€9.6€cm (Museo de Historia, Antropología y Arte of the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 100 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

of the Greater Antilles.4 Moreover, homogeneity gave way to idealised culture-�historical models of archaeological types and markers of ethnic realities (for classic examples, see Rouse 1951, 1986, 1992). I agree with H. Martin Wobst when he argues that for the archaeologist, the producer (of the artifacts) would serve up material form in conveniently bounded packages. Within those packages, no variation, between the packages, nothing! The more successful the type structure, the greater the within group homogeneity, and the larger the gulf between types. In other words, maker and archaeologist would create a human artifactual world in which there is no variation. (1994:3)

Thankfully, recent archaeological and ethnohistoric researchers have questioned such a classificatory fiction. For some scholars in the United States, Europe and the Caribbean, the Antillean archaeological record denotes nothing but variation, a diversity that paints a different picture regarding what existed before, during and after early colonial encounters. Dominican archaeologist Marcio Veloz-Maggiolo (1989) points to the intricate level of variation that existed within Chican ceramics traditionally understood as the classic expression of Taíno pottery and others found in the same time frame in Jamaica, Cuba, Puerto Rico and Hispaniola. Another such example is the Meillacan assemblages found in Hispaniola, Bahamas, Jamaica and parts of eastern Cuba (VelozMaggiolo 1989). Veloz-Maggiolo (1989:18–23) also talks about processes of cultural hybridity in reference to materials found in the Bahamas, which show a clear affinity with materials from the north coast of the Dominican Republic, or the mixture of clear Chican and Meillacan traits on the eastern end of Cuba.5 American archaeologist and ethnohistorian Samuel M. Wilson (1993) has revised some of the earlier claims and has added that the development of contemporary, but different, assemblages corresponds to multiple ethnic cultural groups. These are a product of the complex mixture of archaic or hunter-gathering and fishing cultures present in the Greater Antilles since at least 4000–6000 years ago, with various waves of ceramic-making agriculturalists moving northwest along the Antilles archipelago from somewhere in the Orinoco River Valley, or from the Guianas, 2000 years ago (Wilson 1993). In addition, some of the Spanish chronicles document that within each of the Greater Antilles there were many different languages spoken. Religious Fathers Bartolomé de Las Casas and Ramón Pane, for example, both mention at least three mutually unintelligible languages in Hispaniola alone (Wilson 1993). There is also considerable ethnohistoric and archaeological information concerning at least three distinct cultural groups in Cuba: foragers on the western part of the island, horticulturalists in the centre and rela-

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 101

tively complex chiefdoms on the eastern end (Moscoso 1986). In sum, recent readings of the anthropological literature show that to talk about a general Taíno culture in the Greater Antilles goes against all evidence to the contrary. The fact is that there existed multiple Indigenous societies with diverse levels of complexity both before and after Columbus. And now I begin the final section of my chapter concerning the fourth and last moment in this brief history of the uses and abuses of the term Taíno.

Fourth Phase: Neo-Taíno Revivalism and the Politics of Identity Over the last decade, a group of diverse scholars and activists both in Puerto Rico and in the United States have been discussing and debating the historical origins and signification of recent neo-Taíno revivalist movements. People like Gabriel Haslip-Viera, Arlene Davila, Jorge Duany and Roberto Mucaro-Borrero, among others, have argued about issues pertaining to the politics of identity, authenticity and memory within these communities (Haslip-Viera 2001). It is not my intention to review their arguments in detail but to comment on one of the consequences that I believe has emanated from some of these discussions, particularly taking into account what I stated concerning the problematic nature of the term Taíno. Haslip-Viera (2001:3) convincingly argues that neo-Taíno movements are in part a product of a wider process of ethnic redefinition within some Puerto Rican and other Caribbean Latino communities in the United States that has taken place since the 1960s and early 1970s. In an atmosphere of marginalisation and poverty, many of these individuals studied the pre-Columbian Taíno roots as a result of stories or cuentos they had heard from parents, grandparents, or from other members of their families. Many Puerto Ricans and other Caribbean Latinos became devotees of an idealized Taíno culture. Artists, musicians, poets, and other persons interested in Taíno culture began to establish study groups and other organizations. By the end of the 1980s, a number of Taíno “tribes”, “councils”, and “associations” had emerged at the grass roots level in various parts of the country. These were connected to other similar groups that had emerged in Puerto Rico and the other islands of the Spanish-speaking Caribbean during the same period. In the early 1990s, they included Nación Taína, Taíno del Norte, The Taíno Intertribal Council of New Jersey, El Consejo General de Taínos Borincanos, Maisití Yucayeque Taíno, and working coalitions or confederations, such as “La Asociacion Indigena Taina”. In their own specific ways, all of these groups have worked to reclaim or recreate the Taíno language, culture, religion, and an essentialist Taíno identity for their members and other interested persons. (Haslip-Viera 2001:3)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 102 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

In other words, the neo-Taíno movement for the most part is the Â�creation of U.S. liberal multiculturalism and identity politics. And while it has had some impact in the Greater Antilles and there are similar groups on some of the islands today, nobody can deny that its main thrust and visibility has been shaped by the diaspora. In the U.S., many ethnic revivalist groups, as we know them and their struggles against the American state, are the logical product of the cultural fragmentation and discrimination that exist there, but are also due to the lack of popularly supported emancipatory projects (Wolin 2004:581–606; Zizek 2008:140–177). In the case of Puerto Rico, not only do we have a different political culture, but our most prescient problem, which is 500 years of colonialism (390 years under Spain and 110 under the U.S.), is untouched by this type of movement. In fact, I believe that neo-Taíno essentialism has the potential to mystify our nation’s historical development and complexity and affect in practice our political strategies of decolonisation. However one might want to define the nature of Puerto Rican culture—whether one relies on the classic and tired idea of the three roots of Puerto Rican heritage (Taíno, African and Spaniard) or a more postmodern and contemporary one emphasising continual incorporation of styles and practices associated with other immigrant national groups (such as Dominicans or Cubans)—the fact is that Puerto Rico is an important example of the Caribbean experience. But what does this mean? The Cuban literary theorist Antonio Benítez-Rojo once wrote that the Caribbean was not a mere archipelago, but a meta-archipelago, with “the virtue of having neither a boundary nor a center” (2001:4). Following his definition of the Caribbean, I think that we can use the image of the meta-archipelago to define the Caribbean islands as a very uncommon and specific spatial and historical crucible of peoples. In that sense, to talk about past or present Caribbean cultures as discreet homogenous entities, and not as relational and porous webs of human practices, seems problematic to say the least.

Discussion From the first presence of humans in the Antillean archipelago 6000 years ago, to the Spanish conquest in 1492, to the massive shipments of African slaves from the late sixteenth century or the immigration of Asian indebted labourers during the nineteenth century, the Caribbean has always been a platform from which intergroup action has taken place. Indigenous peoples are an important part of that history. Yet they have participated not as one more element, but as an internally complex and differentiated group. As I have stated before, the idea of a basic island division between two Indigenous cultures in the Antilles (Taíno and Carib) is an early colonial invention sadly reproduced by

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 103

antiâ•‚Â�Spanish Creoles and later scientists during the nineteenth and Â�twentieth centuries. Moreover, in the case of Puerto Rico, and much more so in Hispaniola and Cuba, not every Indigenous person was annihilated by the mining economy, slavery and European diseases; many fled, others fought and yet many more mixed with not only the dominant colonial masters, but also with black slaves (in themselves, by the way, complex and diverse peoples too). In addition, there were thousands of natives brought in by the Europeans during the colonial period from places as diverse as Florida, the Bahamas, Margarita and Yucatán (Sued-Badillo 1995b). Through the centuries these populations created a hybrid, mixed mode of life, not only in colonial towns and ports but perhaps more in the countryside. What criteria then are we to use in order to dissect what history has thrown together? Neither Puerto Rican nationality nor any other Caribbean identity for that matter can be dissected in a laboratory.6 Hence, to talk about Taíno in the past as if they were a specific and real ethnic group is a historical fiction.7 Obviously it is much more problematic to assume the category in the present. To put it plainly, I am not only saying that Indigenous peoples were diverse before colonisation, but that their future histories were inevitably intertwined with others as they mixed and bred with different cultures, particularly in the Antilles colonised by the Spanish.8 Irrespective of whether one is an anticolonialist nationalist and thinks therefore that to claim a partial identity within the national community is tantamount to treason, or one accepts that national identities are nothing but imagined communities and hence a kind of fiction from which multiple definitions are somehow possible, my point is that there is a real substratum from which no one can escape, and that is the composite nature of modern Caribbean peoples (Anderson 1991). The four phases of change in the use of the term Taíno identified above document the changing circumstances of the Indigenous inhabitants and the shift both in historical context and understanding over time. As such, they are reflective of more general processes in the Caribbean and elsewhere. In the first phase, the identification of Taíno with “good men or nobles” and Caribs with “war-like creatures and man-eaters” suggests the projection of Spanish prejudices and mythologies onto diverse and complex Indigenous societies. In the second phase, these Spanish sensibilities came up against the realities of colonial occupation, where their presence created the potential for resistance and alliances between previously separated groupings. Inspired partly by this, Creole patriotic intellectuals in different parts of the Greater Antilles launched a struggle for liberation that was symbolically accompanied by a redefinition of the contents and discourses associated with Indigenous cultures in the Caribbean. At the same time, Taíno was used to define an Indigenous language group. The

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 104 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez

third phase reflects anthropological and archaeological understandings of the time, which viewed cultures as bounded entities defined in terms of a unique set of traits, customs and material culture. This expectation was central to a culture-historical approach to the archaeological past. The problem, however, was that these theoretical models too easily conformed to the first phase of rhetoric and conceptual baggage associated with colonialist understanding of Indigenous peoples. Finally, in terms of modern identity politics, the term Taíno has been reutilised in the emergence of new social and political groupings. In this instance, our understanding is of ethnicity as no longer being a fixed entity, but an ongoing process of becoming. What is not clear is to what extent these modern significations of Indigenous cultures are more progressive than what we have held before. In present-day Puerto Rico, whatever your views are regarding identity politics, there is an objective political, economic and social problem that in 500 years no measure of philosophy of origins and cultural revival has solved, and that is colonialism. And while I recognise that the colonial problem has evolved since its inception, it is precisely because of colonialism that an adequate and reasonable understanding of our history is required. To be clear, an adequate understanding of history (and the archaeological past is a seminal part of history) is needed, not to exclude elements from what a new sensibility of a free and sovereign nationality could be, but to realise that whatever it is, it will always be inherently complex and subject to change. An unambiguous and precise understanding of our past will make it possible for us to address our current predicament more clearly, allowing us to learn from our past mistakes, but also helping us to see the possibilities of change. A first step, then, in our reconstruction of a decolonial history and archaeology is to accept that the Indigenous elements of our nationality were not only internally diverse in the past but that they have always been a part of the hybrid text which is Puerto Rican culture in the present. I believe that this more complex vision of things has begun to emerge as a new generation of scholars, along with a growing segment of the population who are more aware and interested in cultural patrimony and its defence, has started to arise. It is still a crucial question, however, whether those critical perspectives on our past will somehow channel the energies and hopes of a national people to finally achieve liberation.

Notes 1. Creoles from the Spanish term criollo, meaning the native-born and mostly mixed segment of the population. 2. In Puerto Rico, one can identify important works that, irrespective of their contribution to the discourse of national identity formation, created an important opening for future national historiographies. Case in point would be the pioneering works of Cayetano Coll y

Indigenous in Puerto Rican Archaeology and Ethnohistory

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 105

Toste (1909) and Agustín Stahl (1888). Recent scholars such as Diana López (1978:82–83), Luis Antonio Curet (1992:27) and Jorge Duany (2001:261–280) provide a just evaluation of these figures, particularly in their relation to the emergence of archaeology on the island. 3. L  ovén reifies Alvárez-Chanca’s dichotomous cultural geography (Lovén in LewisGalanes 1986:60). 4. T  he Greater Antilles are Cuba, Jamaica, Hispaniola (with Haiti on the western third and the Dominican Republic on the eastern two-thirds of the island) and Puerto Rico. 5. T  hese terms refer to archaeological styles proposed by modern Caribbean archaeologists. 6. R  ecent attempts have been made by Puerto Rican biologist Martínez-Cruzado to quantify the percentage of Taíno mitochondrial DNA amongst Puerto Ricans (MartínezCruzado et€ al. 2005). Fortunately this new racist thinking has been fiercely critiqued (Haslip-Viera 2006). 7. P  uerto Rican archaeologist Luis A. Curet wrote an excellent article (Curet 2003) in which he deconstructs the traditional archaeological and ethnohistoric classificatory schemes. 8. T  his dynamic is somehow different in the Lesser Antilles, where there are early, established Indigenous communities (who incidentally identify themselves as Caribs). In that sense, the particularities of Spanish colonialism is in contradistinction to French; Dutch or English models would have to be studied in more detail. This essay is mostly interested in the construction of the notion of the Taíno in the Spanish Caribbean.

References Alegría, R. 1996. Archaeological research in the scientific survey of Porto Rico and the Virgin Islands and its development in the island. In J. C. Figueroa (ed.), The Scientific Survey of Porto Rico and the Virgin Islands: An Eighty Year Reassessment of the Island’s Natural History, pp. 257–264. New York: Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences. Anderson, B. 1991. Imagined Communities. London: Verso. Baatz, S. 1996. Imperial science and metropolitan ambition: The scientific survey of Puerto Rico, 1913–1934. In J. C. Figueroa (ed.), The Scientific Survey of Porto Rico and the Virgin Islands: An Eighty Year Reassessment of the Island’s Natural History, pp. 1–16. New York: Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences. Benítez-Rojo, A. 2001. The Repeating Island: The Caribbean and the Postmodern Perspective. Durham: Duke University Press. Cavalli-Sforza, L. L. 2000. Genes, Peoples, and Languages. Berkeley: University of California Press. Coll y Toste, C. 1909. Prehistoria de Puerto Rico. Bilbao: Editorial Vasco Americana. Curet, L. A. 1992. The development of chiefdoms in the Greater Antilles: A regional study of the Valley of Maunabo, Puerto Rico. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tempe. –——. 2003. Issues on the diversity and emergence of middle-range societies of the ancient Caribbean: A critique. Journal of Archaeological Research 11(1):1–43. De La Luz-Rodríguez, G. 2000. Transcription. Probanza Sobre los Méritos y Servicios de Juan González Ponce de León Prestada Ante el Alcalde Ordinario de la Ciudad de Méjico Pedro de los Ríos en Presencia del Escribano Real Rodrigo de Baeza. Fechada en 18 de Julio del año 1532. Manuscript on file, Social Science Department, College of General Studies, University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras, Puerto Rico. Duany, J. 2001. Making Indians out of Blacks: The revitalization of Taíno identity in contemporary Puerto Rico. In G. Haslip-Viera (ed.), Taíno Revival: Critical Perspectives on Puerto Rican Identity and Cultural Politics, pp. 55–82. Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers. Haslip-Viera, G. (ed.). 2001. Taíno Revival: Critical Perspectives on Puerto Rican Identity and Cultural Politics. Princeton: Markus Wiener Publishers.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 106 Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez Haslip-Viera, G. (ed.). 2006. The politics of Taíno revivalism: The insignificance of Amerindian MTDNA in the population history of Puerto Ricans. A comment on recent research. Centro Journal XVIII:260–275. Hulme, P. 1986. Colonial Encounters: Europe and the Native Caribbean, 1492–1797. New York: Routledge. Lewis-Galanes, A. 1986. Apuntes y despuntes acerca del término y mitologizada voz, “Taíno”. Revista Talleres 4:53–63. Publicación Electrónica, Saber-Ula, Universidad de Los Andes, Mérida, Venezuela. López, D. 1978. La arqueología como ciencia social. Boletín del Museo del Hombre Dominicano 11:27–44. Martínez-Cruzado, J. C., G. Toro-Labrador, J. Viera-Viera, M. Y. Rivera-Vega, J. Startek, M. Latorre-Esteves, A. Román-Colón, R. Rivera-Torres, I. Y. Navarro-Millán, E.€Gómez-Sánchez, H. Y. Caro-González and P. Valencia-Rivera. 2005. Reconstructing the population history of Puerto Rico by means of mtDNA phylogeographic analysis. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 12:131–155. Moscoso, F. 1986. Tribu y Clase en el Caribe Antiguo. San Pedro de Macorís: Ediciones Universidad Central del Este. –——. 1989. La conquista española y la gran rebelión de los tainos. Pensamiento Crítico 62:2–15. Rouse, I. 1951. Areas and periods of culture in the Greater Antilles. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 7:248–265. –——. 1986. Migrations in Prehistory: Inferring Population Movement from Cultural Remains. New Haven: Yale University Press. –——. 1992. The Taínos: Rise and Decline of the People Who Greeted Columbus. New Haven: Yale University Press. Stahl, A. 1888. Los Indios Borinqueños: Estudios Etnográficos. San Juan: Impreso de Acosta. Sued-Badillo, J. 1978. Los Caribes: Realidad o Fábula. Río Piedras: Editorial Antillana. –——. 1995a. The theme of the indigenous in the national projects of the Hispanic Caribbean. In P. R. Schmidt and T. C. Patterson (eds.), Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings, pp. 25–46. Santa Fe: School of American Research. –——. 1995b. The Island Caribs: New approaches to the question of ethnicity in the early Colonial Caribbean. In N. L. Whitehead (ed.), Wolves from the Sea, pp. 61–89. Leiden: KITLV. Veloz-Maggiolo, M. 1989. Para una definición de la cultura taína. In La Cultura Taína, pp.€17–23. Comisión Nacional para la Celebración del V Centenario del Descubrimiento de América. Madrid: Turner Libros. Whitehead, N. L. (ed.). 1995. Wolves from the Sea. Leiden: KITLV Press. Wilson, S. M. 1993. The cultural mosaic of the Indigenous Caribbean. In W. Bray (ed.), The Meeting of Two Worlds: Europe and the Americas 1492–1650, pp. 37–66. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wobst, H. M. 1994. Typology or the repression of variation in archaeology. Paper presented at the 59th Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Anaheim, California. Wolin, S. S. 2004. Politics and Vision. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zizek, S. 2008. Violence. New York: Picador.

Chapter 6

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia Anne Ross

Introduction Cultural heritage legislation in Australia developed during the 1960s, with the aim to protect the objects and physical remains of the past (Flood 1989). The emphasis on the preservation of archaeological sites came as a result of strong lobbying from archaeologists concerned about damage to sites by amateur collectors (Flood 1989:80). With this focus, Australia was in step with heritage legislation being developed elsewhere in the world (Cleere 1989, 1993), and even today cultural heritage management practice generally privileges the protection of physical aspects of the past over more intangible components of heritage (King 2003:11–14). But this is not the way that many non-Western cultures, including Aboriginal people, view their heritage (Sullivan 1993:55; see also Byrne 1991:271–273). Recent amendments to heritage legislation in Australia, as well as to major policy documents such as the Burra Charter, have recognised the need for a definition of “cultural heritage” that incorporates Indigenous approaches to heritage (Sullivan 2004, 2008). Nevertheless, even though these formal definitions now include notions of intangible heritage and the concept of living cultural traditions, in practice it is the physical place—the archaeological site—that remains the dominant focus of both legislation and heritage protection activity. Presenting a detailed case study of one site in Queensland, Australia, I reveal the potential for a conflict between Indigenous values and those of the legislators who seek to protect cultural heritage even against the wishes of the local community. While the practice of archaeology in this case provides guidelines for working with Aboriginal people, the outcome is still not secure. This chapter first reviews the changing definitions of 107

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 108 Anne Ross

“Aboriginal heritage” and demonstrates that most practical applications of the term, particularly those in legislation, continue to centre on the physical characteristics of “place”. It continues by reflecting on the management of Gummingurru, an important spiritual place, that is challenging heritage definitions and cultural heritage legislation in Queensland and considers how archaeologists and Aboriginal custodians can work together to create a change to the classification of Aboriginal heritage. It is to be hoped that the review of Aboriginal cultural heritage management legislation in Queensland, to be finalised by April 2009, will bring changes to both administrative functions and codified practice that can better incorporate Aboriginal concerns (see Postscript).

A History of Cultural Heritage Definitions In the seventeenth century, heritage management was based solely on the protection of treasured objects from antiquity (Cleere 1989; Davison 1991). By the nineteenth century, the focus had moved from objects to monuments. By the time cultural heritage management had become a profession in the 1960s and 1970s, the emphasis was broader, and included monuments, archaeological sites and their associated artefacts (Smith and Burke 2007:1–9). Ellis (1994:16–18) points out that archaeologists’ fixation on sites and data restricted cultural heritage management planning activity to the preservation of ancient sites and deprived Aboriginal people of a voice in the management of their own heritage. During the 1980s, Aboriginal people began to raise their voices in protest against the archaeological domination of their heritage (Langford 1983), especially as claims by some archaeologists that ancient Aboriginal remains possessed universal values (e.g., Mulvaney 1991; Walsh 1992) threatened to drive Aboriginal traditional owners even further away from heritage management decision making (Lahn 1996). By the mid1980s, following almost a decade of antagonism between Aboriginal activists and heritage managers (Bates 1993; Ellis 1994; Sullivan 1996), cultural heritage practitioners heeded Aboriginal demands for active participation in heritage management decisions and made “consultation” with Aboriginal people the minimum standard for best practice heritage management. This move by the industry encouraged many regulatory authorities to develop policies that increased opportunities for Aboriginal people to be involved in heritage decisions (Sullivan 1996). Such policy development, however, was not codified in legislation. By the late 1980s, there were international challenges to the purely archaeological definition of cultural heritage. Writing of the work of the World Heritage Commission of UNESCO, Makagiansar (1989:9) defined heritage as

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 109

the totality of forms of creativity—physical and non-physical—and the body of values through which, as part of its historical continuity, a people or nation reveals itself most clearly.

The international community has refined this broad view of heritage. The 2003 UNESCO Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage recognises that cultural heritage is not limited to material manifestations, such as monuments and objects that have been preserved over time. This notion also encompasses living expressions and the traditions that countless groups and communities worldwide have inherited from their ancestors and transmit to their descendants, in most cases orally. (UNESCO 2003)

Unfortunately, Australian Aboriginal heritage legislation has not kept pace with the new directions in heritage definitions seen in industry standards, or policies at international levels, but continues to stress the value of physical places over intangible or social values (Byrne et€al. 2001).

Queensland Legislative Definitions of Heritage Australia’s cultural heritage legislation was originally designed to protect archaeological sites and relics of the Aboriginal past. This archaeological bias was not surprising, in view of the strong lobbying and input into the legislation by archaeologists concerned at the threat of damage or loss of sites from amateur unscientific research, private collectors and development pressures. (Flood 1989:80)

During the 1980s, most of Australia’s Aboriginal heritage legislation was reviewed; as a result, definitions of heritage places were reconsidered and, in some cases, revised. In Queensland the Cultural Record (Landscapes Queensland and Queensland Estate) Act 1987 (commonly shortened to the Cultural Record Act 1987), which replaced the Aboriginal Relics Preservation Act 1967, recognised the concept of “landscapes” as heritage. In this act, “Landscapes Queensland” were defined (in part) as areas or features within Queensland that a) have been or are being used, altered or affected in some way by man; and b) are of significance to man for any anthropological, cultural, historic, prehistoric or societal reason.

This definition implied that significant heritage areas, as opposed to archaeological sites, could be registered for protection under the act as “landscapes”. Yet there were never any registrations of heritage

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 110 Anne Ross

Â� landscapes under this act. Although Designated Landscape Areas (DLAs) were gazetted, these DLAs only protected groups of sites, or individual sites of exceptional archaeological heritage significance. Heritage landscapes, defined in heritage management literature as places that have spiritual or other significance for Aboriginal communities but which may not necessarily have any physical manifestations (Bradley 2001; Gosden and Head 1994; Greer 1999; Ross 1996; Smith and Burke 2005), were never protected by this legislation. The turn of the twenty-first century saw another round of revisions to heritage legislation in Australia, including in Queensland where the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 (ACHA) replaced the Cultural Record Act 1987. According to its preamble, the ACHA aims “to provide effective protection and conservation of Aboriginal cultural heritage”. Its principles are • • • •

to respect Aboriginal knowledge, and cultural and traditional practices; to regard Aboriginal people as guardians of heritage; to maintain Indigenous knowledge and promote understanding of Aboriginal culture; and to allow Aboriginal people to reaffirm obligations to law and country [tribal lands].

Under Part 1 of this act, Aboriginal heritage is defined as an area or object that has significance for Aboriginal tradition1 or has contemporary historical significance to Aboriginal people or has evidence of archaeological or historic significance for Aboriginal occupation of an area of Queensland. Section 12 of the act goes on to explain that “it is not necessary for the area to contain markings or other physical evidence indicating Aboriginal occupation or otherwise denoting the area’s significance”. However, most of the examples given in Section 12 of places that may be considered Aboriginal heritage that do not have physical evidence are, in fact, places that do have physical remains. Section 12 lists “a ceremonial place, a birthing place, a burial place or the site of a massacre”. In this list it is only a ceremonial place that may not always have physical evidence indicating use. Unfortunately, despite the purpose and principles of the ACHA and the broad definitions of heritage provided, the main functions of this act remain to provide processes for the protection (or legal destruction) of sites. It is sites that are placed on the Heritage Register to ensure the protection of heritage, and even though any place nominated to the Heritage Register must have had an assessment by Aboriginal people before it can be accepted for listing, listing will only be successful if that place is deemed to have demonstrated “anthropological, biogeographical, historical and archaeological” information (Section 73). In other words, cultural

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 111

Â� heritage that may have very great significance to Aboriginal people, such as the contemporary Aboriginal war memorial site of Jebbribillum on the Gold Coast of southeast Queensland, created in 1991 (O’Connor 1991), but which does not have demonstrated scientific significance, could not be registered under the provisions of Section 73 of the ACHA. In short, the Queensland Aboriginal heritage legislation that came into force in April 2004 still emphasises the management of tangible sites and objects. This does not accord with the most recent definitions of Aboriginal heritage. Allen (this volume) describes a similar concern that Maori have with the New Zealand heritage legislation.

Developing a New Definition Many authors have commented on the difficulty of defining “cultural heritage” (see for example, Blake 2000, Cleere 1993, King 2003). King (2003:11–12) points out that the term has different meanings for different peoples and different circumstances. Blake (2000) agrees that cultural heritage is very much dependent upon context. Unlike cultural property, which is easily bounded and therefore easily defined, cultural heritage can be virtually every aspect of a people’s culture and way of life and is, therefore, almost impossible to characterise. One problem that arises from a very practical approach to heritage management (such as that seen in current Queensland legislation) is that a designation of “heritage” that requires only the preservation of a limited range of traditional elements tends to ensure that only those components of heritage that can be easily managed will, in fact, be protected. As a consequence, only these easily managed aspects of heritage are valued. This usually means archaeological sites. Sullivan (2005) argues that Western cultural heritage management bureaucracies deal much more easily with an inflexible and unchanging dead past (archaeological sites) than they do with living heritage: Living sites are organic in the way they change and adapt and, although our practice can be helpful in their conservation, they do not need our artificial classification and analysis to give them value. In fact, because of the characteristics of our methodology, we are sometimes inclined to treat living sites as dead ones. The methodology we use can inadvertently mummify them or destroy them by disregarding the less tangible and subtler elements of continuity which many of them have … [Living heritage] can only be conserved by honouring and conserving the continuity of use in some way. (Sullivan 2005:85)

Sullivan (2005) speaks of heritage conservation as emerging from the “Western Dreaming”, in which the materiality of modern society, and

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 112 Anne Ross

our emphasis on the sanctity of the past, lead heritage practitioners to privilege an immutable, distant past over modern Aboriginal people’s aspirations, not only for a share in the management of their heritage, but also for an opportunity to retain and maintain living heritage traditions which may “destroy” ancient heritage places. Despite Sullivan’s (2008) more recent optimism about changes in heritage management bureaucracies that now allow recognition of Aboriginal heritage values that may challenge our archaeological understanding of heritage, it still remains the case that living heritage traditions are rarely countenanced in legislation. Sullivan (2008) recognises that “not everything is perfect”, with much archaeological site assessment in New South Wales now being separated from research into, and conservation of, the Aboriginal values of those sites. Byrne (2002) made similar observations of the separation of archaeological ideas from Aboriginal perspectives on heritage. He pointed out that the archaeological domination of heritage practice has unwittingly contributed to a privileging of the archaeology of the “deep past” over the heritage of the recent (postcontact) past. This, in turn, has contributed to a perception of a dislocation between Aboriginal peoples of today and those of the past (the “traditional” Aborigines). The removal of Aboriginal people from the “shared histories” of the contact era reinforces “a system where ‘historic’ (read white) heritage practice operates in a quite separate sphere, administratively and professionally, from Aboriginal (read prehistoric or precontact) heritage” (Byrne 2002:139). Byrne (2002, 2005) argues that archaeological value and present-day meanings given to heritage items are “coexisting voices” in the management of heritage objects or places. To take an object or place out of its modern context and manage it purely for its ancient value would deny present-day owners of that heritage (the traditional Aboriginal custodians) their contemporary understanding of the meaning of that object or place (Byrne 2005:57). From this discussion it is clear that there are two separate but interrelated elements to this contestation between Western and Indigenous approaches to heritage management: one is the concept of “living heritage” and the other is the “cultural landscape”. Indigenous characterisations of heritage emphasise the ongoing relevance of heritage to people today, and the links between heritage places and people’s actions in the present—living heritage. Examples of living heritage include the preservation of language, hunting, dance and other cultural practices. All these cultural activities are conducted in a cultural and social landscape, which may or may not include physical reminders of similar acts in the past (Godwin and Weiner 2006).

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 113

In a recent review of the concept of heritage, Smith (2006) makes similar observations about the nature of heritage as lived experience in a social and cultural landscape. Smith criticises the view that heritage is only valuable when it relates to old, grand and beautiful places (Smith 2006:29). Like Makagiansar (1989), Ellis (1994) and others, Smith recognises that heritage is not so much a “thing” as “a set of values and meanings” (Smith 2006:11): [Heritage is] being in place, renewing memories and associations, sharing experiences … to cement present and future social and familial relationships. Heritage [isn’t] only about the past—though it [is] that too—it also [isn’t] just about material things—though it [is] that as well—heritage [is] a process of engagement, an act of communication and an act of making meaning in and for the present. (Smith 2006:1)

The value of this and other similar definitions of heritage is that these definitions appreciate the importance of a range of elements of heritage: tangible places, nonbounded places (such as cultural landscapes) and living traditions played out as contemporary activities. For Aboriginal people, archaeological sites in the landscapes are simply a by-product of cultural activity in their country (tribal lands). Although the sites are important, for Aboriginal people it is the whole landscape, and the heritage activities that occur therein, that provide the basic unit of heritage management. I now turn to review a case study of a living heritage landscape that has run into management problems because bureaucracies are unable to recognise the nature of the heritage being managed.

The Gummingurru Stone Arrangement Site The Gummingurru Aboriginal stone arrangement site lies between the towns of Toowoomba and Meringandan on the Darling Downs in inland southern Queensland (Figure€6.1). It covers almost 5 ha and is comprised of over a dozen motifs made from the arrangement of local rocks, which are formed from basalt caprock that outcrops both on the surface and in the shallow soils that cover parts of the site. It is one of the largest intact stone arrangement sites in Queensland, and is the most easterly stone Bora site (ceremonial stone ring, see Glossary for definitions of Aboriginal words) recorded in Queensland. As such it has very high archaeological significance (Thompson 2004). The site is in the country of the Jarowair Aboriginal people, who are one of the many Aboriginal groups associated with the Bunya Mountains and the (usually) triennial feasts and ceremonies held there in pre�European times. The Gummingurru site is one of a series of �ceremonial

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 114 Anne Ross

Figure€6.1╅ Location of the Gummingurru site and other places associated with the Bunya Mountains ceremonies. (Map by Bill Carter, Amy Mack and Caroline Phillips.)

places where young men were initiated into manhood, as part of the Bunya nut festivities, before continuing on to participate in “men’s business” (Ross 2008). In the late nineteenth century the site was still being used for ceremonies and male initiation (Gilbert 1992), but by the early twentieth century most of the traditional custodians had been removed from local farming properties and sent into the towns. During the 1950s, many of the town-based Aboriginal people were sent to Cherbourg, Palm Island or other Aboriginal settlements throughout Queensland. The site has probably not been used for its “original” purpose since about 1890 (Thompson 2004), and there is little specific remembered knowledge about the site held by Aboriginal peoples today. Knowledge about the use of the Gummingurru site and interpretations of its motifs comes from Ben Gilbert (1992), a direct descendant of the first European settler in the area. Gilbert is regarded by many, including the current Jarowair traditional custodians, as having knowledge about the site because of his relationship with Bunda, a Jarowair man who remained in the vicinity of Gummingurru even when others were removed to Cherbourg and Palm Island. Bunda was brother to the grandmother of the traditional custodian, Brian Tobane, who currently lives on the site and manages it on a daily basis. Before he died in the early 1970s, Bunda told Tobane that he (Bunda) had walked as a

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 115

Â� seven-year-old with his family to a campsite close to Gummingurru, and that his father and uncles had disappeared “for weeks” to perform ceremonies and undertake a range of associated activities at this men’s site. This was possibly around 1890—the last time Gummingurru is thought to have been used for initiation (Brian Tobane, pers. comm. 2008). Bunda was never initiated at Gummingurru himself, but he clearly knew some of the traditional knowledge of this important place. In the 1960s, Bunda told Gilbert the interpretation and meaning of those stone arrangements visible at that time (the motifs that survive at the western end of the site), and it is these interpretations and explanations that underpin current Jarowair understandings of the site. Some of the most easily interpreted motifs from this part of the site include an emu, a turtle (Figure€6.2), a bunya nut, several waterhole features, a circle (believed to be the Bora ring itself) and a carpet snake (see illustrations in Ross 2008). During the late 1950s and 1960s, Gilbert arranged for the site to be recorded by the Queensland Museum (Bartholomai and Breeden 1961) and then campaigned for the site’s formal protection, first as an Aboriginal Site under the Aboriginal Relics Preservation Act 1967 and later as a Designated Landscape Area (DLA) under the Cultural Record (Landscapes Queensland and Queensland Estate) Act 1987.

Figure€ 6.2╅ Turtle motif at the Gummingurru stone arrangement site. (Photo credit: Anne Ross.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 116 Anne Ross

In September 2003, the property on which the stone arrangement occurs was purchased by the Indigenous Land Corporation (ILC), a national organisation funded by the Australian Commonwealth under the provisions of the Native Title Act 1993 to buy land for Aboriginal peoples whose connection to traditional lands had been extinguished by freehold land acquisition. It was at this time that the traditional custodians returned to the site, with Brian Tobane renting the homestead on the property from the ILC until the land was formally returned to the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation (GAC) in 2008. The purchase of the land by the ILC and the subsequent return of Gummingurru to the GAC has provided the traditional custodians with the opportunity to care for this important place in accordance with their traditions, as remembered on their behalf by Ben Gilbert. Revival of cultural knowledge about this place—termed “resurrection” by the GAC—is at the forefront of management decisions about the site. The resurrecting of Gummingurru has involved two types of management endeavours. The first of these has been the “rediscovering” of motifs buried in the soil that covers the eastern and southern parts of the site. Using the original map of the site recorded by Bartholomai and Breeden (1961),2 traditional custodians, and particularly Brian Tobane, have spent the years since occupying the site in clearing grass, prodding the soil to locate stones buried in the soil and vegetation, and then lifting these buried stones onto the surface (Figure€6.3). They have interpreted the newly discovered motifs that have resulted from this activity using Bunda’s knowledge given to Gilbert and their own expectations and understanding of the place (Ross 2008). Although traditional preparation of the site prior to its ceremonial use almost certainly involved maintaining the various stone arrangements and even creating new motifs (Bunda, pers. comm. to Ben Gilbert), the fact that the current actions by the traditional custodians have the potential to “damage” and “change” the surviving ancient stone arrangements has created some tension between bureaucracies and the traditional custodians (see below). The second resurrection endeavour is the redevelopment of the site as a place of learning. Bora grounds were regularly used as places where young people were educated about their culture and their rights and responsibilities as adults (Bowdler 2005; Gaiarbau in Winterbotham 1959; Ross 2008), so that work to provide an opportunity for cultural learning is entirely in keeping with the ceremonial use of the place. The difference is that today the educational opportunities are not restricted to young men, as would have been the traditional practice for an initiation site, but instead are available to all Australians—Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, young and old, male and female. Learning activities include

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 117

Figure€ 6.3â•… Recording the Gummingurru stone arrangement site. Every rock in the arrangement (whether part of a motif or not) is given a unique identification number and is then mapped in three dimensions using a total station, measured and photographed. To date (October 2009), 6200 individual rocks have been mapped. There are an estimated 3000 rocks still to be incorporated into the map. Mapping is due to be finalised by April 2010. (Photo credit: Anne Ross.) • • • • •

a journey through the site with a traditional custodian, viewing the original motifs as well as those that have been resurrected; opportunities to view and handle stone artefacts found in the vicinity of the stone arrangements; grinding ochre on large grinding stones, most of which are “archaeological” artefacts;3 making ground edge axes by rubbing stones on (archaeological) grindstones; and playing especially designed games that communicate important information about the site in ways young children who are growing up in the twenty-first century can comprehend.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 118 Anne Ross

These learning activities are seen by the GAC as significant reconciliation opportunities between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people on the Darling Downs (Figure€6.4). Both of these resurrection endeavours have brought concerns, mostly from local amateur archaeologists but also from some professional archaeologists. As Byrne (2005) and Zimmerman (2006) experienced, some archaeologists find it difficult to acknowledge the appropriateness of modern Aboriginal actions that revive living heritage aspects of a place, but that jeopardise the authenticity of the original character of the archaeological record (see also Ellis 1994). Furthermore, “digging up” buried stones and (vertically) relocating them to reveal concealed motifs, and allowing children to use archaeological artefacts, could be argued to be in contravention of Queensland’s Aboriginal heritage conservation legislation. Section 25 of the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 makes it clear that the excavation and relocation of cultural heritage objects is an offence against the act. Although the GAC owns the land on which the site occurs, under Section 20 of the ACHA, the site is owned by the Crown. The ACHA defines Aboriginal heritage areas or objects as “evidence, of archaeological or historic significance, of Aboriginal occupation of an

Figure€ 6.4╅ Traditional custodian Brian Tobane (third from left) explains the Gummingurru site to visitors from Kenmore Scout Group. (Photo credit: Anne Ross.)

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 119

area of Queensland” (emphasis added). The archaeological and historic significance of Gummingurru lies in the value of the intact, original stone arrangement motifs and the integrity of the site complex in its traditional configuration. It could therefore be argued that the actions of the traditional custodians at Gummingurru are damaging a cultural heritage place (as defined in the ACHA), in contravention of the conservation provisions of the ACHA.4 The problem here is that the cultural heritage of Gummingurru is contested. On the one hand, it is an archaeological site, and a very significant one at that. On the other hand, to the Aboriginal custodians, Gummingurru has both tangible and living heritage values. The members of the GAC believe their actions at the site are increasing its significance as a living heritage place and do not recognise that such endeavours could be considered to be reducing the site’s archaeological significance. Gummingurru cannot be adequately managed to meet the demands of both archaeological and Aboriginal significance. Luckily, most of the people who have visited the site, and all of those who are currently working with the GAC to document the site and record its significance, are able to accept both constructs of the significance of the place without undue emphasis on one value over the other. Archaeologists and Aboriginal custodians are working together to protect the original integrity of the motifs identified by Bunda on the western portion of the site, and the archaeologists have supported the Aboriginal activities on the eastern and southern portions of the site and have encouraged the development of the site for school visits. The problems, therefore, do not lie in the on-the-ground implementation of heritage management practice, but in the legislation and bureaucratic processes associated with cultural heritage management, as I now demonstrate.

Site Documentation vs. Living Heritage The Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 makes provisions for Aboriginal cultural heritage areas and places to be documented in a Heritage Register (Section 46), which gives them increased Â�protection should development activities threaten the sites (Section 47). The Heritage Register is a “depository of information” about heritage places and must include “a plan of the area and a detailed description of its boundaries” (Section 48; emphasis added). The Gummingurru site is listed on the Heritage Register, having been transferred from its earlier Aboriginal Site and later Designated Landscape Area registrations (see above). However, the Gummingurru site has changed considerably since its original listing as an Aboriginal

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 120 Anne Ross

Site under the Aboriginal Relics Preservation Act 1967 and its Â� subsequent gazettal as a DLA under the Cultural Record (Landscapes Queensland and Queensland Estate) Act 1987. With the resurrection of buried rocks, both the area of the site and the number of motifs visible have expanded. The current site bears little resemblance to that gazetted in the 1960s. Heritage registration that requires a fixed site plan, and clearly delimited site boundaries, impedes opportunities for the development of a site like Gummingurru, which literally changes on a daily basis as the traditional custodians continue their living heritage activities. Requirements to describe a place for permanent registration on the Heritage Register “fossilize” the site, entrenching it as a static and unchanging component of a people’s heritage and thereby denying the active relationship traditional custodians may have with their cultural heritage. The insistence on defined boundaries also reduces opportunities for a site to be recognised as part of a wider cultural landscape.

Land Purchase and the Wider Cultural Landscape The most obvious example of bureaucratic barriers to the management of Gummingurru comes from efforts to implement the land acquisition component (the ILC) of the Native Title Act 1993 and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act 2005. In March 2008, following formal handback to the GAC of the land on which the Gummingurru site is located, the GAC decided that the management of Gummingurru would be enhanced by the purchase of the neighbouring property on the southern side of the site, adjacent to the Interpretation Centre. The GAC consequently applied to the ILC to purchase the land. This southern block of land had been for sale for some time, and the GAC argued that its purchase would add a security buffer for the Gummingurru site, particularly in light of recent expansions of housing development to within 500 m of the site on the southern and eastern sides. This purchase would also enhance the landscape context of the stone arrangements by ensuring a clear and unimpeded view from the stone arrangements to all the ridges that surround the amphitheatre in which the stone arrangements are �situated. These ridges are important elements of the Gummingurru cultural catchment, as the large numbers of artefacts on the ridges suggest that it was here that the men and boys attending Gummingurru were likely to have camped during times of initiation. Finally, purchase of this block would provide the GAC with opportunities to expand the interpretation of the site, including the construction of further educational facilities within the existing Interpretation Centre precinct.

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 121

In these cultural, social and economic aspirations, which include goals relating to training and employment of young Aboriginal people in the community as educational opportunities and facilities at the site are expanded, the GAC’s request met ILC policy regarding land acquisition: The ILC will buy land and property for the purpose of assisting Indigenous people to derive cultural, social, environmental or economic benefits when an Indigenous group’s land need cannot be met through the functions of any other agency. In particular, the NILS [National Indigenous Land Strategy] 2007–2012 states that the ILC will give priority to projects that achieve training and employment outcomes for Indigenous people. (ILC 2007:5)

As a consequence, the response from the ILC to the GAC’s formal request for land acquisition was disappointing. In a letter to the GAC dated 16 April 2008, the ILC informed the GAC that it was not possible to ascertain that a “site of significance” occurred on the neighbouring property without additional information in the form of • • •

a journal article describing the site as occurring on the subject property; confirmation from an independent body, like the Queensland Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Register, that the property contains the site; and correspondence from an Archaeology Department at a university regarding evidence that the site exists on the property.

In other words, despite the stated policy of the ILC, it would seem that, in this case at least, only scientifically documented evidence for the existence of tangible cultural heritage could form the basis for a successful application for land purchase. Although isolated stone artefacts have been located on this adjacent property, it is unlikely that archaeological materials directly relating to Gummingurru will have survived, even had they once existed there. The soils on this property are thin, and the land used for agricultural purposes for over 80 years. Consequently, although a member of the local community who grew up on this block of land told Brian Tobane that, as a girl in the 1920s, she used to play in “rings” there (Brian Tobane, pers. comm. 2008), years of ploughing and cattle grazing have almost certainly destroyed any physical evidence of these€rings. Regardless of the survival of physical remains, the significance of this adjacent block of land to the traditional custodians does not lie in the tangible heritage that may or may not have survived. The importance lies in the contribution this area brings to the protection of the surviving and very visible stone arrangements, and to the living heritage activities associated with the resurrection of the Gummingurru site.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 122 Anne Ross

Listening to Indigenous Voices For the Jarowair Aboriginal custodians of the Gummingurru stone arrangement site, heritage is definitely a set of values and meanings as Smith (2006) defined it. “Being in place” is the cornerstone of the GAC’s existence; the primary aim of the GAC is to renew memories of Gummingurru, recreate old associations with the place, develop new alliances and share experiences. Maintaining the site only as an archaeological relic would deny Jarowair people the opportunity to resurrect the site—both physically and spiritually. Although the heritage of the site is about the past and about material things, it is also much more than this. The living heritage activity on this site is indeed “a process of engagement, an act of making meaning in and for the present” (Smith 2006:1). Despite the declarations of respect for Aboriginal knowledge, cultural and traditional practices and the stated principles of support for Indigenous knowledge and Aboriginal obligations regarding law and country in the preamble to the ACHA, and the policy statement from the ILC regarding support for Indigenous social, cultural and economic aspirations, it is clear that Jarowair knowledge and activities at Gummingurru fall outside the definitions of heritage in the ACHA, challenge concepts of “harm” to cultural heritage, and contest the ILC’s views about the nature of Aboriginal desires for land purchase. There is clearly a gap between the rhetoric of legislation and policy on the one hand, and the practical application of legislatively sanctioned management activities that focus on tangible heritage, specifically archaeological sites, on the other. This results partly from the historical development of legislation that ensured that Indigenous voices were drowned by the demands of the archaeological community. Although most legislation in Australia now recognises that heritage—especially for its Indigenous owners—is more than the tangible elements of the past, all have still retained the bureaucratic myopia that privileges an archaeological paradigm in the application of the statutes. During the drafting of the ACHA, advice from heritage professionals and Aboriginal peoples provided during the consultation process was largely ignored. As a consequence, although disappointing, it is not Â�surprising that the ACHA falls well behind contemporary Â�cultural heritage principles of best practice, which have developed over the past decade or so in a partnership between heritage professionals and Aboriginal traditional custodians of heritage. The fact that Aboriginal heritage in Queensland is divorced from built and natural heritage exacerbates the divide between paradigms of heritage management adopted by Aboriginal people and heritage practitioners on the one hand (who

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 123

recognise the synergies between all three types of heritage), and the paradigms of legislators on the other (who see Aboriginal heritage as a cultural resource). Such an attitude denies, or at least diminishes, the validity of living traditions as heritage. Ironically, the legislation that privileges the tangible aspects of heritage (the ACHA) has been successfully ignored with respect to Gummingurru— the regulatory authority has supported the activities of the GAC at the site despite their technical illegality—while the legislation that is designed to meet Indigenous people’s intangible heritage aspirations (the Native Title Act 1993 and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act 2005) has required tangible archaeological evidence to prove the relevance of land for acquisition. Although the ACHA is very much situated within what Ellis (1994) calls an “archaeological paradigm”, and what Smith (2006) calls the “Authorised Heritage Discourse”, the ACHA is such a laissez-faire piece of legislation that those implementing this act have the latitude to apply its provisions as they see fit. Phillips (this volume) also describes flexibility in the New Zealand heritage legislation that can be used to advance Indigenous objectives, if the heritage professionals work together with Indigenous peoples to that end. Solomon and Forbes (this volume) similarly document a situation on Rekohu (the Moriori name for the Chatham Islands, New Zealand) where effective heritage protection from a tribal point of view only emerged when the Hokotehi Moriori Trust took over responsibility for archaeological and other sites of significance. Providing the bureaucrats are willing, it is clearly possible to overlook the strictures of the definitions and associated requirements. Equally, however, insular adherence to the narrow provisions of the legislation could cause significant problems for the GAC in the future, should those implementing the act wish to administer its provisions in the strictest possible way. In contrast, the Native Title Act 1993 and the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act 2005 are completely unrelated to archaeological frameworks and are therefore not influenced by the narrow constructs of the Authorised Heritage Discourse. Why, then, the ILC should have insisted on the provision of archaeological evidence in support of land acquisition to meet social and economic objectives is unfathomable. Archaeologists and Aboriginal people need to work together to have intangible heritage not only recognised by legislation, but actively incorporated into management philosophy. However, it is not just the legislation that needs to change. The attitude of bureaucrats, politicians, and many in the general public also needs to alter. This is where archaeologists and Aboriginal people working together at Gummingurru can be of assistance. This site is open to the public

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 124 Anne Ross

and is interpreted at a number of levels, including as an archaeological place and as a setting for the practice of living traditions. Aboriginal cultural awareness training sessions are held here, with many local government departments and even the Toowoomba Hospital sending staff to Gummingurru to learn about Aboriginal culture and heritage. The interpretations of Gummingurru (developed as a partnership between Aboriginal custodians, former landowners and archaeologists) form the basis for a holistic presentation of heritage as tangible and intangible; as past, present and future; as static material culture and an everchanging lived experience.

Conclusions Definitions of cultural heritage in modern academic and cultural heritage management literature recognise equally the tangible and intangible nature of the term. This is different from the understandings of the concept in the seventeenth century, which recognised only physical treasures, and the mid-twentieth century, where the centrality of sites was propounded. The expansion of the concept of heritage generally coincided with the raising of Indigenous voices against the narrow constraints of legislative definitions and archaeological practice. Today, heritage professionals and archaeologists readily incorporate Aboriginal approaches to heritage into all aspects of research and practice. Legislative and policy provisions, however, have not kept pace with the changes in the academy or the profession. Given the fundamental conceptual shift that is required by governments to recognise the new directions of cultural heritage management, it is likely that Indigenous voices may still be ignored when protection of nonarchaeological aspects of heritage and culture are proposed. Gummingurru is an example of a place where tangible and intangible heritage come together to generate an integrated understanding of a complex heritage landscape. But Gummingurru is not the only site where this could occur. There are many other opportunities for the resurrection of heritage, with Aboriginal custodians and archaeologists forming alliances to ensure that all aspects of the heritage of these places are protected and showcased. It is only by having Aboriginal people and heritage professionals working together to challenge outdated legislation and bureaucratic practices, and having the validity of those challenges acknowledged and acted upon by bureaucracies, that Indigenous voices can, once again, be heard. Now is a good time to challenge the legislation. In Queensland, the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 is to be reviewed by 16 April

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 125

2009. A similar review is due in Western Australia, and the Victorian legislation was revised (and substantially improved) in mid-2008. In Queensland, the Consultative Committee formed to oversee the legislative review has a majority of Aboriginal members, and the review process aims to place Indigenous concerns at the forefront of considerations. Whether Indigenous voices are heard will depend largely upon who is listening.

Postscript The draft recommendations of the Indigenous cultural heritage acts in Queensland (Queensland Department of Environment and Resource Management 2009) outline a number of measures to improve Aboriginal involvement in heritage management. These include a requirement for consultation with Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander parties in regards to cultural heritage agreements and management plans. There are also recommendations as to how various acts that affect Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islanders might be integrated, particularly those involving Native Title claims. It remains to be seen whether these measures will prove to be effective from an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander point of view.

AcknowledgEments The research for this project could not have been undertaken without the express support of the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation and particularly Brian Tobane. Financial support from the School of Natural and Rural Systems Management, University of Queensland, Gatton, has allowed student visits and the development of interpretive activities on the site. A grant from the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies is supporting the recording of all aspects of the Gummingurru site, including its social and cultural catchment. Sean Ulm read and commented on earlier drafts of this chapter and provided invaluable comments. Additional comments were provided by Harry Allen and Caroline Phillips. Brent Cross suggested the discussion on the role of heritage registers in “freeze-framing” notions of heritage and limiting the development of living heritage activities.

Notes 1. Where “Aboriginal tradition” means “the body of traditions, observances, customs and beliefs of Aboriginal people generally or of a particular community or group of Aboriginal people, and includes any such traditions, observances, customs and

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 126 Anne Ross beliefs relating to particular persons, areas, objects or relationships” (Section 36, Acts Interpretation Act 1954). 2. The size of the site makes accurate mapping difficult. Bartholomai and Breeden’s map was drawn using the basic site recording techniques of the late 1950s and is therefore a poor representation of the current site. A grant from the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies is supporting the preparation of a new and more accurate map of the site using a total station. Recording will be completed by April 2010. 3. There have been a number of discussions with traditional custodians about whether or not replicas, rather than archaeological specimens, should be used for these activities, and indeed whether the buried rocks should be disinterred or left in situ and documented using geophysical means. The traditional custodians have no interest in these sorts of alternative management techniques. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to debate the pros and cons of such alternatives to “damaging” real archaeological remains. 4. I t is important to note here that the regulatory authority for the ACHA, the Department of Natural Resources and Water (DNRW), has not initiated any legal action against the GAC. On the contrary, the DNRW has been fully supportive of the GAC. The point being made here is that the legislation does not recognise the living heritage practices at Gummingurru, and the provisions of the act could be used to bring a charge against the GAC for “harming” Aboriginal cultural heritage should bureaucrats in the regulatory authority wish to implement the provisions of the act to the strict letter of the law.

References Bartholomai, A., and S. Breeden. 1961. Stone ceremonial grounds of the Aborigines in the Darling Downs area, Queensland. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum 13(6):231–237. Bates, B. 1993. Mootwingee National Park: A case study. Historic Environment 10:63–66. Blake, J. 2000. On defining the cultural heritage. The International and Comparative Law Quarterly 49(1):61–85. Bowdler, S. 2005. Movement, exchange and the ritual life in south-eastern Australia. In I.€Macfarlane with M-J. Mountain and R. Paton (eds.), Many Exchanges: Archaeology, History, Community and the Work of Isabel McBryde, pp. 131–146. Aboriginal History Monograph 11. Canberra: Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, Australian National University. Bradley, J. 2001. Landscapes of the mind, landscapes of the spirit: Negotiating a sentient landscape. In R. Baker, J. Davies and E. Young (eds.), Working on Country: Contemporary Indigenous Management of Australia’s Lands and Coastal Regions, pp.€295–307. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Byrne, D. 1991. Western hegemony in archaeological heritage management. History and Anthropology 5:269–276. –——. 2002. An archaeology of attachment: Cultural heritage and the post-contact. In R. Harrison and C. Williamson (eds.), After Captain Cook: The Archaeology of the Recent Indigenous Past in Australia, pp. 135–146. Sydney University Archaeological Methods Series No. 8. University of Sydney: Archaeological Computing Laboratory. –——. 2005. Messages to Manila. In I. Macfarlane with M-J. Mountain and R. Paton (eds.), Many Exchanges: Archaeology, History, Community and the Work of Isabel

Defining Cultural Heritage at Gummingurru, Queensland, Australia

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 127

McBryde, pp. 53–62. Aboriginal History Monograph 11. Canberra: Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, Australian National University. Byrne, D., H. Brayshaw and T. Ireland. 2001. Social Significance: A Discussion Paper. Research Unit, Cultural Heritage Division, NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service, NSW. Sydney: Government Publishers. Cleere, H. 1989. The rationale of archaeological heritage management. In H. Cleere (ed.), Archaeological Heritage Management in the Modern World, pp. 1–22. One World Archaeology Series, vol. 9. London: Unwin Hyman. –——. 1993. Managing the archaeological heritage. Antiquity 67:400–401. Davison, G. 1991. The meanings of ‘heritage’. In G. Davison and C. McConville (eds.), A Heritage Handbook, pp. 1–13. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Ellis, B. 1994. Rethinking the Paradigm: Cultural Heritage Management in Queensland. Ngulaig Monograph Series no.10. Brisbane: University of Queensland, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Unit. Flood, J. 1989. ‘Tread softly for you tread on my bones’: The development of cultural resource management in Australia. In H. Cleere (ed.), Archaeological Heritage Management in the Modern World, pp. 79–93. London: Unwin Hyman. Gilbert, B. 1992. Who Bide in Ancient Valleys. Gowrie Junction: Ben Gilbert. Godwin, L., and J. Weiner. 2006. Footprints of the ancestors: The convergence of anthropological and archaeological perspectives in contemporary Aboriginal heritage studies. In B. D. B. Barker and I. J. McNiven (eds.), The Social Archaeology of Australian Indigenous Societies, pp. 124–138. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Gosden, C., and L. Head. 1994. Landscape—a usefully ambiguous concept. Archaeology in Oceania 29:113–116. Greer, S. 1999. Archaeology, history and identity in coastal Cape York. In J. Hall and I. McNiven (eds.), Australian Coastal Archaeology, pp. 113–118. Canberra: ANH Publications, Department of Archaeology and Natural History, RSPAS, ANU. ILC [Indigenous Land Corporation]. 2007. Regional Indigenous Land Strategy 2007–2012: Queensland. www.ilc.gov.au/webdata/resources/files/QLD_RILS_170608.PDF. King, T. F. 2003. Places That Count: Traditional Cultural Properties in Cultural Resource Management. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Lahn, J. 1996. Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers: A ‘Social History’ of the Kow Swamp Remains. Ngulaig Monograph Series no. 15. Brisbane: University of Queensland, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Unit. Langford, R. F. 1983. Our heritage—Your playground. Australian Archaeology 16:1–6. Makagiansar, M. 1989. The work of UNESCO. In L.V. Prott and J. Specht (eds.), Protection or Plunder? Safeguarding the Future of our Cultural Heritage, pp. 9–13. Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission for UNESCO and Australian Government Publishing Service. Mulvaney, D. J. 1991. Past regained, future lost: The Kow Swamp Pleistocene burials. Antiquity 65:12–21. O’Connor, R. 1991. Yugambeh: In Defence of Our Country. Queensland: Kombumerri Aboriginal Corporation for Culture, Runaway Bay. Queensland Department of Environment and Resource Management. 2009. Indigenous Cultural Heritage Acts Review: Key Issues and Draft Recommendations. http://www. derm.qld.gov.au/cultural_heritage/pdf/ichar_key_issues_draft_rec.pdf. Ross, A. 1996. Landscape as heritage. In L. Smith and A. Clarke (eds.), Issues in Management Archaeology, pp. 9–17. Tempus Publications 5. Brisbane: University of Queensland. –——. 2008. Managing meaning at an ancient site in the 21st century: The Gummingurru Aboriginal stone arrangement on the Darling Downs, southern Queensland. Oceania 78:91–108.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 128 Anne Ross Smith, C., and H. Burke. 2005. Joining the dots: Managing the land and seascapes of Indigenous Australia. In I. Krupnik, R. Mason and T.W. Horton (eds.), Northern Ethnographic Landscapes: Perspectives from the Circumpolar Nations, pp. 381–401. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press. –——. 2007. Digging it up Down Under: A Practical Guide to Doing Archaeology in Australia. World Archaeological Congress Cultural Heritage Manual Series. New York: Springer. Smith, L. 2006. Uses of Heritage. New York: Routledge. Sullivan, S. 1993. Cultural values and cultural imperialism. Historic Environment 10:54–62. –——. 1996. Reflexions of 27 years. In S. Ulm, I. Lilley and A. Ross (eds.), Australian Archaeology ’95: Proceedings of 1995 Australian Archaeological Association Conferences, Gatton College, pp. 1–11. Tempus Publications 6. Brisbane: University of Queensland. –——. 2004. Aboriginal sites and the Burra Charter. Historic Environment 18:37–39. –——. 2005. Out of the box: Isabel McBryde’s radical contribution to the shaping of Australian archaeological practice. In I. Macfarlane with M-J. Mountain and R. Paton (eds.), Many Exchanges: Archaeology, History, Community and the Work of Isabel McBryde, pp. 83–94. Aboriginal History Monograph 11. –——. 2008. More unconsidered trifles? Aboriginal and archaeological heritage values: Integration and disjuncture in Cultural Heritage Management practice. Australian Archaeology 67:107–115. Thompson, B. 2004. Gummingurru stone arrangement cultural heritage management plan. Unpublished document prepared for the Gummingurru Trust. Manuscript on file with Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation. UNESCO. 2003. Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage. http://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/index.php?pg€=€00002. Walsh, G. 1992. Rock art retouch: Can a claim of Aboriginal descent establish curation rights over humanity’s cultural heritage? In M. J. Morwood and D. R. Hobbs (eds.), Rock Art and Ethnography, pp. 46–60. Occasional AURA Publication no. 5. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association, Archaeological Publications. Winterbotham, L. P. 1959. The Gaiarbau Story as recorded by Winterbotham and transcribed by Winterbotham in 1959. Reprinted in Queensland Ethnohistory Transcripts: Some Original Views Around Kilcoy, Book 1, The Aboriginal Perspective. Archaeology Branch, Queensland, 1982. Zimmerman, L. 2006. Consulting stakeholders. In J. Balme and A. Paterson (eds.), Archaeology in Practice: A Student Guide to Archaeological Analyses, pp. 39–58. Carlton: Blackwell.

Chapter 7

Working Together? Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/ New€Zealand Today Caroline Phillips

Introduction In his 2005 paper “Power to the (Indigenous) past and present! Or: The theory and method behind archaeological theory and method”, H.€Martin Wobst critiqued common archaeological practices, arguing that archaeology does violence to Indigenous peoples and their pasts. In order to address these problems and enable the development of a decolonised archaeology in tune with the requirements of a contemporary Indigenous society, he proposed a more holistic approach to archaeological practice incorporating both material and nonmaterial cultural realms (2005:28). My aim is not to evaluate Wobst’s article, but rather to use it as a platform for a critique of archaeology in Aotearoa/New Zealand today. There are two aspects where my analysis is distinct from his. Firstly, Wobst refers to academic archaeology, whereas I will be describing cultural heritage or salvage archaeology, which today makes up the majority of archaeology practiced, not only in New Zealand, but in most parts of the world. I will argue that issues relating to archaeological method or theory must also address this subdiscipline of archaeology (viz. Smith 2006). Secondly, I will argue that many of the key issues Wobst identified are being addressed in New Zealand, largely due to a long history of interdisciplinary archaeology and activism on the part of Indigenous Maori people. Consequently, a more inclusive Indigenous archaeological method is emerging, and although there are problems and issues that remain, a focused working together between archaeologists and Maori enhances the present trajectory towards a decolonised archaeology. In order to consider how New Zealand archaeologists have widened their discipline to incorporate Indigenous Maori aims and aspirations, 129

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 130 Caroline Phillips

I first present a brief review of Wobst’s main issues before considering heritage management in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Following this, three case studies are presented where Maori involvement in archaeology has gone beyond the superficial level. Finally, the chapter returns to Wobst’s issues and outlines factors that continue to limit the ability of Maori and archaeologists to interact on an equal and respectful footing, concluding with an assessment of how close New Zealand archaeology is towards achieving the goal of a truly inclusive archaeology.

“Power to the Indigenous Past and Present” Wobst (2005:18) states that in the archaeological record there is a spatial bias towards places with the densest collections of artefacts, most spectacular remains and obviously modified ground. While he acknowledges that this is in the nature of archaeological evidence itself, Wobst argues that archaeologists tend to favour these situations. In contrast, areas that are deliberately held as open spaces and are without dense and prominent material are not protected by any heritage legislation and can become lost to present-day Indigenous peoples (2005:21). Basing spatial interpretations on places with material evidence and regarding the spaces between as empty lands projects our own ethnocentric understandings onto the archaeological record and implies a universality across all cultures. In the Southern Hemisphere, archaeological spatial models have been criticised in this regard (for Australia, see Allen et€al. 2008; for New Zealand, see Phillips 2004a). Moreover, the focus on material evidence omits “the descendants’ memory, language, history, semantics, folklore, and myth” (Wobst 2005:23) that adhere to the landscape, and which would enrich and inform the archaeological findings. Along similar lines, Smith (2006:3) and Ross (this volume) argue that current heritage management privileges places, sites and objects over intangible heritage, when cultural meaning involves all these dimensions. Wobst (2005:28) argues that the alignment of archaeological practice with Indigenous cultural values requires a change in archaeological theory and method by broadening archaeological vision through the incorporation of nonmaterial realms—including linguistics, oral history, place-name studies and the like—and by de-emphasising the differences between artefact and nonartefact, and between nature and culture. He continues: Indigenous societies of the twenty-first century … are reaching out for allies to help them build vibrant communities, in full control over their past, present, and future. (Wobst 2005:29)

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 131

Similar sentiments were expressed by Maori during the panel discussion at the Second Indigenous Inter-Congress of the World Archaeological Congress held at Waipapa Marae in November 2005 (included here as Appendix 5) and by Roy Piahana at the New Zealand Archaeological Association (NZAA) conference in 2006: Surely, it is time then that HPT, the Maori Heritage Council, regional/local authorities, NZAA members and tangata whenua [Indigenous people of the land] establish those kinds of relationships for the greater good and benefit for all New Zealanders. (Piahana 2006:281)1

I turn now to the current situation in Aotearoa/New Zealand, specifically in relation to the key heritage organisations, the governing legislation and the interaction between Maori and archaeologists, to see how near archaeologists are to achieving a decolonised archaeology and the establishment of respectful relationships with Indigenous peoples.

Current New Zealand Archaeology The nation-state of New Zealand was created through the Treaty of Waitangi signed between the British Crown and Maori chiefs in 1840, at which time colonisation was by people mainly of British and Irish descent who settled alongside the resident Maori population. Rapid immigration during the mid- to late nineteenth century, and the accelerated decline of the Maori population, principally from introduced infectious diseases to which they had little or no immunity, resulted in Maori being overtaken numerically in 1857 (Pool 1991:85–88). Despite bouts of active armed resistance during this time, colonisation saw the imposition of British administration and law on Maori (Belich 1986:77). Currently, people of Maori descent represent only 17% of the total population, and the British-derived culture is now the dominant one in New Zealand (Statistics New Zealand 2009). Archaeology began as an academic study in New Zealand in 1959 within the Anthropology Department at the University of Auckland, and shortly afterwards was established at the University of Otago. Currently, these two universities have lecturers and senior students who conduct archaeological research in New Zealand (although lecturers conduct fieldwork overseas as well). Organisations with a heritage component and museums also undertake some archaeological research. However the vast majority of archaeological field assessments, surveys and excavations are undertaken within the cultural heritage archaeology forum rather than as part of academia.2 This situation has arisen within the last 15 years in reaction to changes within organisations employing

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 132 Caroline Phillips

heritage professionals, at the same time as the passing of heritage legislation requiring impact assessments and salvage excavations prior to earthworks, which was related to the rapid increase in land development (see Allen, this volume). Progression to a workforce made up predominantly of consultants is a trend which seems set to continue for some time (Walton and O’Keefe 2004). Allen and Phillips (this volume) describe the developing relationships between archaeologists and Indigenous peoples over the last 30 years. A parallel process has occurred in Aotearoa/New Zealand with respect to academic archaeology, whereby archaeological researchers include Maori in the design, practice and review of results (Allen et€al. 2002; see also Jackson and Smith 2005 for Australia). While cultural heritage overall has lagged behind in some respects (Allen, this volume; Smith 2006), in New Zealand there have been marked changes in cultural heritage practice over this period in relation to the acknowledgement of Maori tikanga (custom, practice; see Glossary for definitions of Maori words), the use of Maori monitors and the treatment of the dead. The New Zealand Historic Places Trust (NZHPT), which regulates all archaeological activity, requires salvage projects relating to Maori sites “be undertaken in conformity with any tikanga Maori protocols or monitoring requirements”. This may involve an elder performing a blessing, either prior to work commencing or if certain artefacts are found. Maori environmental groups may require monitors to be present to oversee the earthworks, including all archaeological work (as I describe later). If human remains are found, Maori have control over excavation and reburial, whether any recording or analysis is undertaken, and the publication of information and images.

Heritage Legislation Regulatory heritage legislation first developed during the 1960s and 1970s in New Zealand, largely due to the influence of archaeological academics and museum personnel who were concerned about the rate of archaeological site destruction (Groube 1966; McLean 2000; and see Allen, this volume, for a detailed discussion of this process). Similar legislation was being instituted in other places at the same time (Smith 2006:277–279). Currently in New Zealand there are two main pieces of legislation that affect archaeological sites: the Historic Places Act 1993 (HPA) and the Resource Management Act 1991 (RMA). While the HPA applies to land of all tenure throughout New Zealand, the RMA deals with lands in private ownership only. Under the archaeological provisions of the HPA, an archaeological site is defined as any place that was associated with human activity before AD

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 133

1900 and “may be able through investigation by archaeological methods to provide evidence relating to the history of New Zealand”. Any person intending to carry out work that may damage, modify or destroy a known site, or if there is “reason to suspect” archaeological evidence is present, should apply to the NZHPT (which administers the HPA) for an authority. Relevant Maori organisations have to be consulted as part of the authority application, and the Maori Heritage Unit of the NZHPT oversees this part of the process. If the authority is granted, it is quite likely to be conditional upon recovering information in mitigation of the damage. Approximately 300 applications are granted each year, some of which apply to multiple sites in a development area. In the HPA 1980 legislation, the term “traditional site” was also used to define a place of historical, spiritual or emotional significance to Maori. This has been changed in the 1993 amendment to “Wahi Tapu” and “Wahi Tapu Area”; however, wahi tapu in the HPA are defined as “places sacred to Maori”, a definition which draws on a restricted meaning of the word tapu.3 In the RMA, the “protection of historic heritage from inappropriate subdivision, use, and development is identified as a matter of national importance”. Historic heritage is defined as those natural and physical resources that contribute to an understanding and appreciation of New Zealand’s history and cultures, derived from any of the following qualities: archaeological, architectural, cultural, historic, scientific or technological qualities.

This includes archaeological sites and places of significance to Maori. The legislation works at two levels. At the first level, changes in land use or a new subdivision require that a developer must apply for resource consent, generally involving an archaeological assessment of effects and consultation with local Maori tribal organisations regarding affected Maori values. The process at this stage is administered by city, district and regional councils. The second level is invoked when a dispute arises over a council decision; in these situations the case may be passed to the Environment Court. Heritage matters in the Environment Court can be represented by archaeologists, historians and Maori on behalf of all affected parties, including the developer.

Maori Organisations Many Maori tribal groups have environmental organisations, established after the RMA was passed, that ensure their representation in cases of development. This situation arose because of the necessity for developers to “consult” with Maori groups, but there was no definition of this term

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 134 Caroline Phillips

in the RMA nor training programs specifically designed for Maori to undertake this type of heritage or environmental work. Tribal territories often overlap, so that there may be more than one group interested in any particular piece of land. Such a situation has recently been illustrated in the Auckland Isthmus where a number of Maori groups have overlapping claims (Barton 2007).4 Most Maori environmental groups have representatives who deal with archaeological matters, and some have monitors who view all earthworks (including archaeological work) and give advice about any matters pertaining to Maori protocol. Te Kahui Mangai, the directory of Maori tribal organisations, includes those that have mandates to represent their group for the purposes of the RMA and that have been recognised by New Zealand Government (Te Puni Kokiri 2009).

Interaction between Maori and Archaeologists Maori either support archaeological work as a way of recovering information about the past, or regard archaeologists as people who side with government organisations to allow the destruction of their physical heritage (see also Rika-Heke, this volume, for Maori attitudes to archaeology). Maori attitudes towards archaeologists often depend on particular circumstances and the degree to which any archaeologist, whether academic or consultant, has established a face-to-face relationship with the tribe or hapu (Allen et€al. 2002). At one end of the scale, Maori support archaeological surveys and give permissions for salvage and scientific excavations in terms of their interest in the results. Such Maori groups sometimes liaise with the archaeologists early on in the process of development and request that developers contact archaeologists. Some Maori monitors become interested in archaeology, and six I have worked with, who also participated as archaeological fieldworkers, became so competent that they were subsequently employed as field assistants (Figures 7.1, 7.2 and 7.3). At the other end of the scale, some Maori groups are negative towards archaeology and may withhold consent for salvage excavations even at the cost of the destruction of a site. There are valid reasons for this negativity. The 300 authorities that are granted each year attest to the ongoing permitted destruction of sites, and the 70,000 known archaeological sites are consequently being reduced in number every year (Allen, this volume). Although consultants try to encourage the avoidance of damage to sites by conservation within allocated parks and reserves in developments, there are few mechanisms available for lasting site preservation. There is also constant pressure by developers to persuade consultant �archaeologists and

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 135

Figure 7.1â•… Craig Reidy of Ngati Maru (standing) working as part of the archaeological team at the Totara Palms excavation in 2006 (Phillips 2008). He is currently undertaking a BA in archaeology at the University of Auckland. (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips 2006.)

Maori resource units to let sites be destroyed, even without Â�mitigation. Furthermore, when a case is taken to the Environment Court, archaeologists may be called to represent the developer or councils who oppose evidence presented by Maori groups. This can lead to claims that archaeologists are working against Maori interests. However, archaeologists are required under the expert witness rules to be impartial and to work within the best practice of their discipline rather than merely support their client’s position, and archaeological findings generally support Maori concerns (as is demonstrated by the Environment Court hearing below).

Case Studies Over the past 12 years I have been involved in 37 major projects involving places of former Maori occupation. Of these, 16 included Maori monitors and in another 16 there was a direct or indirect Maori influence on the archaeology, leaving only five in which there was no Indigenous input into the archaeology (three of these being field surveys). It is particularly in projects that include excavation (the unearthing of places and remnants of the past) that Maori wish to be directly involved in the �process.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 136 Caroline Phillips

Figure 7.2â•… Alan Bisson, iwi monitor for Ngati Rahiri, working alongside the archaeological team at the Pohokura excavations, Taranaki, in 2004 (Geometria n.d.). He has since been employed as an archaeological field assistant on several Taranaki excavations. (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips 2004.)

They are especially concerned when human remains are uncovered, as these are generally considered tapu (sacred, dangerous, prohibited). To give concrete examples of interactions between Maori and archaeologists, I will discuss three projects in which I have been involved. In the first case study, a combination of road works and natural erosion, rather than development, uncovered human burials. This project became one of Maori-directed archaeology to relocate the burials as an example of kaitiakitanga (guardianship; Kawharu 2000). In the second case, an area of low archaeological significance was judged by Maori to have significant cultural value, and development was stopped. Finally, in a case that was heard by the Environment Court, strong Maori representation, supported by archaeological evidence, resulted in a reduction of the development footprint.

Pukehue Pukehue is the name of a hill and the pa, or fortification, that was built on it. Rising steeply more than 15 m above the coastal plain to the west and the Kirikiri Stream valley to the south, it was easily

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 137

Figure 7.3â•… Dean Thomsen (left), iwi monitor for Ngati Tamatera, and John Thomsen examining shell midden with the author at Te Mata (Phillips 2009). (Photo credit: Jocelyn Logan 2009.)

�defendable by means of a ditch and bank (Allen et€ al. 1994; Phillips 2005) (Figure€7.4). Radiocarbon dates indicate that Maori briefly defended the hill in the second half of the seventeenth century, but it may have been 200 years before the next period of occupation (although it is highly likely that it was used for other purposes, other than settlement, in between). During the nineteenth century, known ancestors of tangata whenua (local, Indigenous people of the land) were living and farming the land, and the first burials began at an informal graveyard in the pa. These activities continued during the first half of the twentieth century. In 1977 the land passed out of Maori hands. During the 1880s, a tramway was constructed between the base of the hill and the Kirikiri Stream. This was later made into a road, and on several occasions in the twentieth century the road was widened and sealed. In the process, the toe of the hillslope was cut back. Before the Maori owners finally sold the land, they obtained a written assurance that future road works would not damage the graveyard. A major storm in 2003, combined with recent road widening and house construction on the hill, resulted in an erosion event, leaving the

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 138 Caroline Phillips

Figure 7.4â•… Pukehue Pa excavation areas and the stabilisation program, with inset showing locations of the three case studies. (From Phillips 2005.)

cemetery teetering on the edge of a cliff. Many meetings took place the following year between the More family (descendants of those who were buried in the graveyard), Ngati Maru Runanga (local tribal organisation), Transit NZ (national roading authority), engineering consultants and myself as archaeological consultant. It was decided to disinter the human remains and rebury them elsewhere in the pa, away from the edge of the hill. The eroding face was to be battered back and other engineering procedures were to be undertaken to halt the erosion. Archaeological excavation of the new burial ground was to be undertaken first, and afterwards further excavation was to occur around the original graveyard and in the area to be affected by the engineering€works. As Pukehue had been both a pa and contained burials, all the ground and material in it were regarded as tapu or sacred. All the eroded soil was collected and placed in a roadside reserve, on which trees were to be planted, and the place was to be recorded as a legally registered wahi tapu (special/sacred place). Maori also requested that all archaeological

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 139

material remain on the hill, so an area was set aside where archaeological analysis could take place. When work was to begin, a tribal elder blessed the site and all those who were to work there. Washing facilities were set up on the boundary of the area considered especially tapu, so that on leaving the site people could wash their hands to ritually cleanse them. Food or drink was also consumed outside the tapu area. For three days, the future graveyard site was excavated by a team of five archaeologists. A member of the More family monitored our work and assisted with the excavation, and other members of the family visited to see what we were doing and ask questions. After this, approximately 70 members of the extended More family gathered for the reburial, staying at a nearby marae (meeting house and ceremonial centre).5 This part of the proceedings took place over four days. A hessian fence was raised around the old and new burial grounds to prevent those outside seeing what was happening. Women and children were not allowed to enter, in line with Maori protocol, although some of the family broke that rule as the days wore on. A male archaeologist was included on the team, and it was he who monitored the disinterment to see if any archaeological evidence was disturbed (apart from the human remains and artefacts associated with them, which were not part of our consideration). I stayed outside the fence, and the male colleague kept in contact by radio phone. He also took photographs, although for reference only. On the last day of the reburial, the More family put on a large feast at the marae for all those who had taken part. Traditional Maori practices included exhumation (hahu) and reburial, followed by a community feast (hakari) (Barlow 1991:14–17), and the activities at Pukehue conformed in many ways to such practices. Archaeologists then investigated around the edge of the old burial ground and other areas that were to be destroyed by the engineering works. This took a further eight days, and on the final day the More elders returned to conclude the proceedings. All the material (apart from charcoal sent away for identification and shell submitted for radiocarbon dating) was reburied in the pa, still in their labelled bags, in a location chosen by the family monitor. Some months later the draft archaeological report was submitted to the family so that they could ensure that none of their history or events relating to the reinterment had been misrepresented or any secret information inadvertently included. Pukehue was for me a very satisfying project, since all the parties were working to the same ends. The project also demonstrates how far archaeologists and archaeological practices have changed over the past

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 140 Caroline Phillips

30 years. It was Maori requirements for ritual cleansing, separation of work, food and burials, not removing material off-site and redeposition after analysis that governed the process. Moreover, it was accepted that Maori would have sole control over excavation of the burials and associated artefacts.

Kairua In 1999, Tauranga District Council wished to construct two water reservoirs at a location along the 1.5€km long Kairua Ridge to service new housing developments east of the city (Figure 7.5). Engineering requirements limited the possible location to one of three or four sites. However, this is a rich archaeological landscape, with five Maori fortifications and a series of at least 10 village settlements of various sizes (Phillips 1999, 2000). Most of the proposed reservoir locations were rejected on archaeological grounds, as they contained abundant archaeological evidence, but one had few features, suggesting that it was a small, temporary occupation. For this reason, I considered this location to have little archaeological significance, but excavation prior to development could possibly result in the recovery of information that had the potential to contribute towards understanding the chronology and use of the other sites on the€ridge. Geotechnical engineers wished to undertake some test pits. They agreed to locate them 20 m away from the recorded settlements and 50€ m from nearby pa, and I monitored them in order to record any evidence that might be uncovered. Although the representative for Nga Potiki, the local tribe, had discussed the project with the council, it was not a popular project, and a small, anxious crowd gathered. However, the test pits proceeded after an elder conducted a blessing, and the tribal representative monitored the test pit excavations. Although some new archaeological evidence was uncovered in two of the 17 test pits, I did not regard it to be sufficient reason to prevent the construction of the reservoirs. Tauranga District Council applied to the NZHPT for an authority to modify the site. In the consultations that followed this application, Nga Potiki argued against an authority being issued on the grounds that the reservoirs would affect the sight line of the ridge, which was significant due to its association with an important ancestor. The matter went to the Maori Heritage Unit of the NZHPT, which provides assessments of Maori values for all authority applications, assists Maori heritage organisations and ensures that Maori values are taken into account when authority decisions are being made. This is an unusual forum because it offers an informal avenue for debate, whereas council resource consent decisions usually take the place of

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 141

Figure 7.5â•… Kairua Ridge archaeological sites and the proposed reservoir locations, with inset showing relation to residential areas and Tauranga. See location inset Figure 7.4. (From Phillips 1999, 2000.)

� formal submissions and hearings. In the Kairua case, the Maori Heritage Unit found in favour of Nga Potiki, and the HPA authority to destroy the site was declined. The following year, Tauranga District Council looked for another location on the ridge, discussing with the tribe where they would consider it acceptable to place the reservoirs. The location chosen by both parties (council and Maori) was an area where numerous archaeological features were located and one where preservation was warranted from an archaeological point of view. For engineering reasons, that location was eventually rejected, and the search continued. The Kairua case presented a situation where archaeological information was limited to physical evidence and an assumption that a small and simple settlement near larger complex sites could be considered in isolation. In contrast, Nga Potiki held that the small cluster of features were part of the wider cultural landscape, which still had importance due to its association with an ancestor of high regard. I have learnt since this case to take a broader landscape approach in my archaeological assessments.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 142 Caroline Phillips

Papamoa Hills The Fulton Hogan stone aggregate quarry at Poplar Lane in the Papamoa Hills, situated 3.5€km southeast of the Kairua Ridge, is on the edge of an extremely rich archaeological landscape, with a number of pa sites and undefended villages, that was due to be covenanted as an historic wahi tapu reserve (Boffa Miskell 2003; Environment Court of New Zealand 2002) (Figure 7.6). The quarry was purchased as an on-going business enterprise by Fulton Hogan in 1998, and they wished to extend its operational area. Accordingly, in 1999 they applied to Western Bay of Plenty District Council and Bay of Plenty Regional Council for land-use consent. Despite opposition from a number of Maori tribes, the councils granted their application subject to a condition that three archaeological sites within the proposed area to be quarried (living terrace and storage pit sites U14/1662, 3081 and 3084) should be protected. However, the owners were allowed to apply for a Historic Places authority to destroy the remnant of pa site U14/1810 that was also within the proposed quarry extension, as the majority of it had been previously quarried. In 2001, the NZHPT granted Fulton Hogan an authority to destroy pa site U14/1810. Following this, Nga Uri o Tamapahore, a confederation of Te Arawa tribes, and Waitaha a Hei appealed to the Environment Court, both against the decision of the councils and that of the NZHPT. In this case, archaeologists appeared on behalf of the quarry owners and the NZHPT, while I appeared for the councils. Four issues were raised by the Maori appellants. The principal concern was the destruction of a small valley system located immediately beneath the major pa site of Karangaumu (U14/238). The fortification itself mainly lay immediately to the north of Fulton Hogan’s land. Detailed evidence by Waitaha a Hei related traditional histories of events and burial of human remains in the valley: accordingly, it was deemed to be extremely tapu. Secondly, the small remnant of pa U14/1810 was also associated with human burials and also tapu. Thirdly, there was the concern for the permanent preservation of the other archaeological sites in the area to be affected. And finally, there was the desire to halt all further quarrying in the area: “enough is enough” was the sentiment raised (Environment Court of New Zealand 2002:21). Archaeological evidence tended to focus on the recorded archaeological features present in the fortifications and living sites. All the reports mentioned the state of preservation of U14/1810 and the likelihood of its destruction from weathering, due to being on the edge of a steep quarry face. A previous archaeological survey estimated that the interior of the site measured approximately 1500 m2, but it had been reduced by quarrying to a mere 70–80 m2 (K. Phillips 2000). In addition, despite not knowing the particular

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 143

Figure 7.6â•… Poplar Lane Quarry and the adjacent Papamoa Hills Regional Park. See location inset Figure 7.4. (From Boffa Miskell 2003; Environment Court of New Zealand 2002; Geometria 2009.)

Maori concerns in this case but having worked in wetland sites elsewhere in New Zealand, I argued that archaeological and cultural evidence was likely to be present in the small stream valleys leading up to Karangaumu pa and that, for this reason, these should not be quarried (Phillips 2001:16). During the hearing, the company offered to redraw their northern boundary to avoid affecting the stream valleys under contention and gift this land to the adjacent historic reserve, now known as Papamoa Hills Regional Park. The court acknowledged that preservation of the valley area to the north of the revised line described will, in conjunction with the pa site atop the hill, serve positively to �recognise

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 144 Caroline Phillips and provide for Maori heritage values and concerns. (Environment Court of New Zealand 2002:18)

With regard to the second issue, the court found in favour of the NZHPT’s decision to grant an authority for the destruction of the remains of pa U14/1810, citing an inconsistency of information given during earlier consultation between the NZHPT and Maori and the instability of the site. In the case of the other sites within the boundary of the proposed quarry, the court did not make a firm decision as to whether they should be preserved. It did note that under the original council conditions the sites were to be fenced off, and that the owners could apply to the NZHPT for an authority to destroy them. If the application was not successful, the court suggested that the sites could be covenanted to ensure their ongoing protection. In this way they left the€door open for the existing legislative frameworks to operate. As to the matter of whether quarrying should cease, the court balanced the desire of Maori against the well-being of the whole local community, who had a need for the valuable rock resources, stating that the changes that had been made did recognise the Maori dimension (Environment Court of New Zealand 2002:21). The Environment Court is an avenue where archaeologists can present broader understandings, such as landscape archaeology, that more nearly approach Maori perceptions and belief. I have found that once gains have been established in one case they can be used, or extended, in other similar hearings. Archaeologists in such circumstances are, however, constrained by the concept of being an “expert witness” and cannot stray too far from what is accepted as scientific archaeology. Moreover, they commonly are not able to liaise with Maori groups who are participating in the process and therefore cannot give a holistic view of the past. On the other hand, Maori can, and do, present their own traditions, and it is up to the court to interpret or integrate any Indigenous, archaeological, environmental and historical information that is given in evidence. They will, however, place more emphasis where there is agreement on significance, which favours locations where there is material evidence.

Discussion These three case studies show that at times archaeologists work very closely with Maori and that, even if they are not on the same side of a court case, they can work towards the same goals. The examples also show the influence Maori organisations can have on the archaeological or planning process, as in each case some consideration of Maori values

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 145

determined the outcome. How much influence Maori have varies greatly and depends on Maori organisational resources, how many projects are competing for their time and their traditional knowledge of the area. Nevertheless, the potential does exist for Maori to use the system for the achievement of Maori ends, even in circumstances where legislative procedures and development pressures tend to work against them. I now wish to review what these case studies demonstrate about the practice of archaeology with respect to Indigenous places in Aotearoa/ New Zealand in the light of the criticisms raised by Wobst in his 2005 article of the archaeological discipline in general, and his proposition for the development of a decolonised archaeology.

Issues of Archaeological Selection One of the principal concerns that Wobst raised was about the selection of places to investigate archaeologically: the preference for areas containing the densest material, the most impressive evidence of activity and cultural rather than natural areas. Although Wobst’s focus is on academic biases, the same can occur to a lesser extent in the salvage archaeological sector, affecting the overall approach towards heritage, the site or area selection process, and management and preservation decisions.6 Wobst’s reference to spatial bias brings up the nonsite approach, whereby archaeological evidence is regarded as being continuous across the landscape and not focused on particular places or sites (viz., Dunnell 1992). This issue first arose in regions with large surface artefact deposits. Aotearoa/New Zealand does not have such areas as most of the land is covered with pasture or forest, and artefacts are found either by chance (e.g., by farmers while ploughing or digging drainage ditches)7 or during archaeological excavation. Nonetheless, clustered archaeological features relating to Maori occupation are associated with continuous activities (gardening, hunting, resource extraction, settlement or conflict) and, at the ideological level, Maori customary knowledge concerning the environment is continuous rather than discontinuous (Allen 1998:55–61). This continuity of land use and environmental values formed the basis of the 2004 Bannockburn Heritage Landscape Study by Stephenson et€al., which has been cited as a model definition of heritage in the Environment Court on at least two occasions, to my knowledge. They state that a heritage landscape consists not only of the physical environments (both its natural and humancreated elements) but also cultural perceptions, practices, traditions and stories and the relationships between people and the land. (Stephenson et€al. 2004:13)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 146 Caroline Phillips

In this way the physical nature of the land, the archaeological and built heritage, historical material, and contemporary and traditional values are combined to form a web in which there are nodes (viz., archaeological sites or buildings) and spaces (fields or mountains), linked by physical networks (tracks and rivers) (Stephenson et€al. 2004:82). It is the stories of the people who lived there that create meaning to the nodes, spaces and links, and explain human relationships with the landscape. One important overriding factor in Wobst’s critique of academic archaeology is that of the site or area selection process. In research archaeology it is the academics who chose the places for investigation; however, in rescue archaeology it is the developer who selects the location. As the majority of archaeological work in New Zealand involves salvage, archaeological consultants are working in a much wider range of locations than they might have if they conducted academic research. In several situations recently, cultural heritage and academic archaeology combined efforts, where the archaeological consultant found a location with rich or interesting archaeological evidence, and an academic team provided a research background and student assistants. One example was the excavation of Oropuriri pa, where the archaeologists also worked closely with the local Maori, Puketapu Hapu o Te Atiawa, who had previously been unaware of the full significance of the place (Holdaway and Gibb 2006; see also cover photograph of this volume). This leads to Wobst’s concern regarding archaeologists’ focus on places with the greatest or most elaborate content. Translated from a research to a resource management perspective, this issue involves the relationship between site significance and preservation decisions. In New Zealand, Maori defensive pa and settlement sites tend to be assessed as being more significant than places of everyday activity, such as middens, gardens or isolated food storage pits. This has changed somewhat over the past 30 years, although there is still the assumption that pa contain more significant evidence than single middens. Rescue excavation involves very few investigations of pa, as generally there is a greater push for their preservation than for that of “mere middens”.8 The attraction of pa for the general public is due to their obvious structural evidence, their location on elevated points with good views and their association with warfare. They also tend to be much more significant places for Maori, being sites associated with noted ancestors, battles where blood has been spilt and sometimes burials. Nonetheless, the emphasis on a particular and visible category of Maori places does direct the attention of councils and the public towards the preservation of Maori heritage. A similar bias in the preservation of archaeological sites emerged in Great Britain, where severe imbalances in the protection of places from different periods and types were revealed (Darvill et€al. 1987). The

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 147

Â� solution there was to shift the assessment of site significance to include a greater range of values. More recently, a wider set of criteria for the assessment of the archaeological values of historic places has been adopted in New Zealand, including condition, rarity, contextual value, information potential, educational, visual and landscape values, and cultural associations (New Zealand Historic Places Trust 2006:8–9). These criteria are designed to enable more robust arguments to be made for the preservation of certain places, and ensure comprehensive protection for all types of places and from all periods.

Issues around Interpretation Wobst was also concerned that archaeological interpretation was being limited by Western perceptions of what was important, and that Indigenous space, culture and time were being modelled more like contemporary societies. Although greater levels of interpretation are the domain of academic archaeology, salvage archaeologists “rescue” information from the ground and present it as a series of facts in the grey literature. Consequently, there is room for a critique, along the lines expounded by Wobst, of the underlying assumptions inherent in these basic interpretations. In New Zealand, the lack of sophisticated analytical approaches in salvage archaeological projects is, to some extent, due to the limited areas (development boundaries) on which projects are focused and the resulting lack of information about adjacent land that might be part of the same heritage landscape. Another aspect is that under the RMA or HPA provisions, Maori assessments of significance tend to be directed towards the developer or council, and are generally not available to the archaeological consultant. In the Environment Court, archaeologists have to keep to their area of expertise and can only allude to traditional accounts. In an attempt to address the lack of research values in salvage archaeology, the NZHPT is now developing a series of national and regional research criteria, as McGovern-Wilson (2008:25) explains: The National Research Framework has the potential to be an important tool to ensure archaeological work carried out in New Zealand makes a meaningful contribution to every New Zealander’s understanding of the past.

Maori as an interested party are not specifically mentioned in the research aims, whereas archaeologists and the public are (McGovernWilson 2008:25). As it currently stands, the National Research

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 148 Caroline Phillips

Framework is a restatement of heritage mitigation that rescues the information to alleviate site damage or destruction for research, but not Maori, ends. In other words, it aims to bring salvage archaeology back within an academic research framework. To be more meaningful to Maori, a research framework would benefit from incorporating the findings of a series of reflective debates between the archaeological community and Maori concerning the assumptions, approaches and interpretations currently employed in archaeology.

Developing a Holistic or Interdisciplinary Archaeology As a means of decolonising archaeology, Wobst advocates an interdisciplinary approach that integrates archaeology with nonmaterial information, such as historical linguistics, oral and other cultural evidence. Although cultural heritage management has less time, facilities and often less chance of interaction with Indigenous populations, direct contact with descendant communities is not the only avenue for a more holistic interpretation. In that sense, Wobst’s proposition is also applicable to cultural heritage archaeology. Such approaches have a long history in New Zealand and the Pacific. Arguably the first scholarly interdisciplinary study in the Pacific was by Maori scholar Te Rangi Hiroa (1938), who combined linguistics, archaeology, physical anthropology, oral accounts and other cultural elements. At that time most of these disciplines were very new and there was little data available. This situation improved during the second half of the twentieth century, so that when Roger Green and his colleagues developed the Southeast Solomon Islands Programme (Green and Cresswell 1976), they could integrate archaeology, history, ethnography, plant studies, linguistics and cultural studies. Since then, these disciplines, together with (more recently) human, plant and animal genetic studies, have been used throughout the Pacific when discussing origins and movements of peoples (viz., Friedlaender 2007; Hurles et€al. 2003; Kirch and Green 2001; Pawley et€al. 2005; Sand 2003). Linguistics also featured to a large extent in the four Archaeology and Language volumes from the 3rd World Archaeological Congress held in New Delhi (Blench and Spriggs 1997–1999). Initially, it was linguistics that suggested the relationships between peoples in the Pacific, but now genetics are leading the way, with the potential of a paradigm shift in the wind (Lisa Matisoo-Smith, pers. comm. 2008). In New Zealand, the short occupation history (700–800 years) means that linguistic and physical anthropology have less application, although Maori dialects and genetic markers have been considered in relation to discovering Maori origins (Harlow 1994; Matisoo-Smith 1994).

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 149

Unfortunately, the unsuccessful use of synthetic oral traditions9 by early academic archaeologists discouraged archaeologists from collaborating with Maori for some time. In 1960, Golson wrote: Tradition and archaeology are concerned with appreciably different aspects of prehistoric activity and the degree of overlap between them is often surprisingly small. The former deals with the deeds of individuals in a context of social units, families, clans or tribes; and the latter with the surviving paraphernalia of everyday activity, and the units into which it organises this material, cultures, phases, or aspects are of its own devising. (Golson 1960:380)

This statement was repeated more than 30 years later by Davidson (1993), who emphasised that the problem lay in the chronological imprecision, both in archaeology and genealogical-based accounts, that prevented comparing information between the two systems. However, more recently academic ethnohistoric studies and interdisciplinary archaeology incorporating oral accounts have been undertaken (Anderson 1998; Phillips 2004b; Salmond 1991; Stephenson et€al. 2004). These have to a large extent followed Golson’s belief that only when archaeological and traditional fields have been worked over, each in its own right and by its own techniques, can the results of the one safely and profitably be measured against those of the other. (Golson 1960:380)

Integrating Maori oral accounts with archaeology is not without its problems. Firstly, there are places where oral accounts may not be known, as the dislocation of Maori in the process of colonisation has resulted in the loss of a large amount of cultural knowledge. Secondly, the list of archaeological places in the NZAA Site Recording Files contains little information concerning Maori values or traditions adhering to any of these places, which means that archaeological and Maori inventories are likely to operate in parallel without any sharing of information (see Solomon and Forbes, this volume, for a detailed discussion of this for one part of New Zealand). Thirdly, the blending of these accounts with archaeological and other information is currently done by the archaeologist, and this can result in a bias towards the material aspects of cultural heritage. Fourthly, despite the exceptions above, most archaeologists define a landscape in scientific terms, and there is little opportunity to incorporate intangible evidence (see Mosley and Ross, this volume, for Australian examples of archaeologists coming to terms with intangible heritage). Finally, there is the danger of applying the direct historical approach (Wylie 1985), in which cultural practices of the recent past are extended back in time and earlier diversity and innovation is obscured or

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 150 Caroline Phillips

made invisible. This can also be a problem for Indigenous groups, who interpret past events and evidence in terms of their current understandings about traditional life ways. Perhaps Wobst is correct in stating that the very practices and approaches of archaeology do violence to Indigenous cultures and their pasts, but not because archaeology is nonholistic in the way that he described. Rather it is because archaeology is regarded by others and its own practitioners as a science. Science is thought of as a rational activity versus a traditional belief in the intangible, which is seen as being irrational (Smith 2006:279–280). Thus, in the Environment Court archaeology sits more comfortably alongside the studies of water quality, fish, birds and plants in its discussion of the technical details of radiocarbon determinations, pollen counts and the like. By contrast, Maori concerns, based on traditions and oral evidence, can sometimes be brushed aside as “metaphysical” and hence unreal (e.g., the inflammatory responses to the brief delay of a major roading project for a taniwha10 or water monster [Harmsworth 2005]).

Summary In Aotearoa/New Zealand, heritage is mainly addressed within the field of rescue archaeology. Over the past 15 years, as a result of continued Maori pressure, both academic and salvage archaeology have become more sensitive to Indigenous concerns and adopted a broader archaeological vision of the past. This addresses some of Wobst’s concerns. Increasingly in rescue archaeological projects, Maori oral traditions and contemporary values (principally from written sources) are integrated into archaeological findings, and especially into determinations of significance and ultimately decision making for management and preservation. The ability of archaeologists to define their discipline within the Environment Court and adopt a wider set of values in their assessments is resulting in a heritage management that better reflects Maori concerns. However, some of the difficulties Wobst found with archaeology still remain, especially in the area of legislation and resource management processes. Although there have been changes within the Historic Places and Resource Management legislation over the last 15 years, problems still lie with an inflexible legislation and lack of political will at central government level to make further changes for the benefit of Maori (Allen 2002, and this volume). The current processes within New Zealand still favour development rather than conservation, and rescue of information is seen as reasonable

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 151

mitigation. Archaeologists are limited by a less holistic view of the past through the HPA definition of archaeological sites as those places with material remains; this was demonstrated in the Kairua project. Emphasis on more visible and structural remains is still present in archaeological practice, with the neglect of studies on isolated midden sites and other less obvious sites on the landscape. Moreover, the legislation attempts to solve resource conflicts by drawing boundaries around areas where development might take place and others where it might be prevented. Despite these handicaps and a lack of funding, the NZHPT demonstrates that it is possible for heritage professionals and institutions to change their policies and procedures to ones that support the heritage protection needs of both Maori and the wider community. (Allen 2002:352)

The degree to which these improvements are made is largely up to archaeological practitioners themselves, as there is some flexibility within the legislation. How far they are taken up by local governments and the Environment Court depends on other factors. Allen’s chapter (this volume) discusses the New Zealand legislation in more detail and proposes mechanisms by which improved Maori–archaeological relationships could be achieved without resorting to new legislation. When Maori and archaeologists both work together towards an outcome to preserve or recover heritage it can be very successful, as demonstrated in the Pukehue project. A parallel Australian example is described by Ross (this volume). Despite the obvious pressure of destruction, there is the opportunity for both groups to come together to conserve more places of significance than is currently the case. This would strengthen Maori–archaeologist relationships, especially if their combined efforts could result in the preservation of more wahi tapu (those places most significant to Maori). The way forward was signalled by the Maori participants of the session held at the Second Indigenous Inter-Congress of the World Archaeological Congress (see Appendix 5) when they asked archaeologists to stop talking about archaeology and talk about how archaeology is going to integrate more fluidly with the rest of kaupapa that Maori commonly deal with.

In this case kaupapa referred to subjects such as language, environmental concerns, stories of sites, history, place names and taonga (spiritual and physical treasures), as well as the places themselves. Progress has been made between archaeologists and Maori; however, there are still outstanding issues (see Allen, Allen and Phillips, RikaHeke, and Solomon and Forbes, all this volume). In particular, these lie in the realm of rescue archaeology, which is both the area of most

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 152 Caroline Phillips

Â� frequent interaction between archaeology and Maori and the area of most threat to Maori ancestral places and landscape. As described here, there is some flexibility within the legislation that governs heritage management in New Zealand—a legislation that is unlikely to be improved in the immediate future to enable better negotiations between Maori and archaeologists. More thoughtful conversations that include “the rest of the kaupapa” are needed to build on the gains that have been made between archaeologists and Maori. By working towards common goals and developing a more sensitive and appropriate interpretations of the material evidence of the past, it may yet be possible to achieve a fully decolonised archaeology.

AcknowledgEments I would like to thank a number of colleagues who have assisted me with information and references presented in this chapter, including John Coster, Kate Hill, Christopher Mallows, Lisa Matisoo-Smith, Nicola Molloy, Phil Moore, Dave Robson and Yolanda Vogel, and especially to the late Roger Green. Elizabeth Pascal and Lynette Williams proofread the document and commented wisely on many points. Harry Allen assisted in many ways to improve the text. Needless to say, the responsibility of the chapter’s content is mine.

Notes â•⁄ 1. Here Piahana refers to the NZHPT, the main heritage body in New Zealand; the Maori Heritage Council, a section within the NZHPT; NZAA members, who include both professional and amateur heritage workers; and Maori tangata whenua (people of the land). â•⁄ 2. O  f the 300 or more excavations authorised each year (see Allen Table 8.1, this volume) only about 10 are for academic research purposes, the remainder being for rescue archaeology undertaken by private consultants. Excavations represent possibly only 20% of consultants’ work, the remainder being field surveys and assessments (Coster, Mallows, Moore and Vogel, pers. comm. 2008). â•⁄ 3. I n fact, the Maori Heritage Council ignores this definition, and instead argues that a wahi tapu is anything that a Maori community decides it should be (Allen 1998:21). â•⁄ 4. T  he Crown (through the Office of Treaty Settlements) negotiated with Ngati Whatua and agreed to compensate them for loss of land and other grievances. Subsequently, six other groups challenged the Crown, saying that their own claims in the Auckland region were prejudiced as the Crown had only dealt with one tribal group. â•⁄ 5. M  aori marae are complexes consisting of a meeting house that people can also sleep in on mattresses on the floor, an open ceremonial area where guests are welcomed, a kitchen and dining hall, and a toilet/shower block. They commonly house and cater up to 100 or more people for meetings, weddings and funerals. â•⁄ 6. A  lthough developers determine the boundary of the land under investigation, within those boundaries archaeologists may focus on those parts containing obvious evidence of past occupation.

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 153

â•⁄ 7. 1549 isolated findspots have been recorded on the NZAA Site Record Scheme, although the actual number, including those that have been found but are unreported, is quite likely to be a hundredfold more. â•⁄ 8. As an example, a list of salvage excavation reports between 1998 and 2008 in the Mahurangi Purchase area of the North Auckland region includes 263 middens, five settlement sites and three pa (Auckland Regional Council 2008; New Zealand Historic Places Trust 2008). Notably, the excavations at the pa were limited to small sections, while most of the middens were totally excavated. â•⁄ 9. S ynthetic oral traditions were published by amateur anthropologists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These were based on a combination and modification of many different tribal traditions in order to create a single history of Maori settlement and occupation. 10. C  onstruction on a 100 m section of a major highway was temporarily halted in 2002 when a local subtribe protested that a small wetland that was the abode of a taniwha (supernatural creatures that often inhabit waterways) would be damaged. The media reports were sensational and defamatory (Harmsworth 2005:1) and taniwha is still used frequently in the press in a derogatory way (viz., Moore 2006; Rudman 2007; Smith 2005).

References Allen, H. 1998. Protecting Historic Places in New Zealand. Research in Anthropology and Linguistics 1. Auckland: University of Auckland. –——. 2002. Protecting Maori land-based heritage. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 341–358. Auckland: Reed. Allen, H., S. Holdaway, P. Fanning and J. Littleton. 2008. Footprints in the sand: Appraising the archaeology of the Willandra Lakes, western New South Wales, Australia. Antiquity 82: 11–24. Allen, H., D. Johns, C. Phillips, K. Day, T. O’Brien and Ngati Mutunga. 2002. Wahi Ngaro (the lost portion): Strengthening the relationship between people and wetlands in North Taranaki, New Zealand. World Archaeology 34:315–329. Allen, H., C. Phillips, A. Skipper, J. Te Moananui-Waikato, C. Reidy and B. Cook. 1994. Taskforce Green/University of Auckland Archaeological Project, Waihou River (1993). Auckland: Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland. Anderson, A. J. 1998. The Welcome of Strangers: An Ethnohistory of Southern Maori A.D. 1650–1850. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Auckland Regional Council. 2008. Cultural Heritage Inventory. http://www.arc.govt.nz/ heritage/cultural-heritage-inventory/cultural-heritage-inventory_home.cfm. Barlow, C. 1991. Tikanga Whakaaro: Key Concepts in Ma¯ori Culture. Auckland: Oxford University Press. Barton, C. 2007. When history is on trial. New Zealand Herald, 17 March. http://www. nzherald.co.nz. Belich, J. 1986. The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Blench, R., and M. Spriggs. 1997–1999. Archaeology and Language, vols. 1–4. One World Archaeology 27, 29, 34, 35. London: Routledge. Boffa Miskell. 2003. Cultural and archaeological assessment: Papamoa Hills Cultural Heritage Regional Park (“Te Rae O Papamoa”). Unpublished report for Environment Bay of Plenty. Tauranga: Environment Bay of Plenty. Darvill, T., A. Saunders and B. Startin. 1987. A question of national importance: Approaches to the evaluation of ancient monuments for the Monuments Protection Programme in England. Antiquity 61:393–408.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 154 Caroline Phillips Davidson, J. M. 1993. Issues in New Zealand prehistory since 1954. In M. Spriggs, D.€Yen, W. Ambrose, R. Jones, A. Thorne and A. Andrews (eds.), A Community of Culture: The People and Prehistory of the Pacific, pp. 239–258. Canberra: Research School of Pacific Studies, Australian National Museum. Dunnell, R. C. 1992. The notion site. In J. Rossignol and L. Wandsnider (eds.), Space, Time, and Archaeological Landscapes, pp. 21–41. New York: Plenum Press. Environment Court of New Zealand. 2002. Fulton Hogan v. Bay of Plenty Regional Council. Decision No. A106/2002. Environment Court Decisions. Wellington: New Zealand Ministry of Justice. Friedlaender, J. S. (ed.). 2007. Genes, Language & Culture History in the Southwest Pacific. New York: Oxford University Press. Geometria. 2009. Plan of surveyed archaeological features at Papamoa. On file at the Geometria office, Auckland, New Zealand. Geometria. n.d. Pohokura excavations (working title). Draft report for Shell Todd Oil Services, in preparation. On file at the Geometria office, Auckland, New Zealand. Golson, J. 1960. Archaeology, tradition and myth in New Zealand prehistory. Journal of the Polynesian Society 69:380–402. Green, R. C., and M. M. Cresswell (eds.). 1976. Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History: A Preliminary Survey. Bulletin 11. Royal Society of New Zealand: Wellington. Groube, R. (ed.). 1966. Salvage archaeology and site protection in New Zealand. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 9:77–140. Harlow, R. 1994. Maori dialectology and the settlement of New Zealand. In D. G. Sutton (ed.), The Origins of the First New Zealanders, pp. 106–122. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Harmsworth, G. R. 2005. Roading Case Study: Transit New Zealand and Ngati Naho, Meremere—Springhill Road. Opus International Consultants New Zealand Ltd. (OPSX0301). Hiroa, T. R. 1938. Vikings of the Sunrise. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott. Holdaway, S., and R. Gibb (eds.). 2006. SH3 Stage Three Bell Block Archaeological Investigations at Te Oropuriri: Final Report. Auckland: Auckland Uniservices Limited, University of Auckland. Hurles, M. E., E. Matisoo-Smith, R. D. Gray and D. Penny. 2003. Untangling Pacific settlement: On the edge of the knowable. Trends in Ecology and Evolution 18(10):531–540. Jackson, G., and C. Smith. 2005. Living and learning on Aboriginal lands: Decolonizing archaeology in practice. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 328–351. One World Archaeology 47. Oxford: Routledge. Kawharu, M. 2000. Kaitiakitanga: A Maori anthropological perspective of the Maori socioenvironmental ethic of resource management. Journal of the Polynesian Society 110:349–370. Kirch, P. V., and R. C. Green. 2001. Hawaiki, Ancestral Polynesia: An Essay in Historical Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Matisoo-Smith, E. 1994. The human colonisation of Polynesia. A novel approach: Genetic analyses of the Polynesian rat (Rattus exulans). Journal of the Polynesian Society 103:75–87. McGovern-Wilson, R. 2008. New Zealand Historic Places Trust Research Framework: Discussion paper. Archaeology in New Zealand 51(1):22–35. McLean, G. 2000. Where sheep may not safely graze: A brief history of New Zealand’s heritage movement, 1890–2000. In A. Trapeznik (ed.), Common Ground?: Heritage and Public Places in New Zealand, pp. 25–44. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Moore, M. 2006. MPs forgiven too readily. New Zealand Herald, 21 August. http://www. nzherald.co.nz.

Maori and Archaeologists in Aotearoa/New Zealand Today

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 155

New Zealand Historic Places Trust/Pouhere Taonga. 2006. Archaeological Guidelines Series No. 2: Guidelines for Writing Archaeological Assessments. Wellington: NZ Historic Places Trust. –——. 2008. Archaeological Reports Digital Library. http://www.historic.org.nz/en/ ProtectingOurHeritage/Archaeology/DigitalLibrary.aspx. Pawley, A., R. Attenborough, J. Golson and R. Hide (eds.). 2005. Papuan Pasts: Cultural, Linguistic and Biological Histories of Papuan-Speaking Peoples. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics, Australian National University. Phillips, C. 1999. Archaeological monitoring of test pits on Lot 6 Kairua Road, Tauranga. Unpublished report for Tauranga District Council. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. –——. 2000. Preliminary archaeological assessment of terrace/pit/house site U14/3058 & assessment of proposed water reservoir locations at Kairua. Unpublished report for Tauranga District Council. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. –——. 2001. Statement of evidence made before the hearing by Independent Environment Commissioners on behalf of Western Bay of Plenty District Council’s decision to grant resource consent to Fulton Hogan Limited for the expansion of the quarry at Poplar Lane, Papamoa. –——. 2004a. GIS, landscape analysis, or the cart before the horse? In D. van Hove and U.€ Rajala (eds.), A GIS with a View: Social Interpretations and Cultural Agents in Modelling Human Perceptive Behaviour. Special Issue, Internet Archaeology 16/4. http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue16/phillips_index.html. –——. 2004b. Waihou Journeys: The Archaeology of Four Hundred Years of Maori Settlement. Auckland: Auckland University Press. (Reprinted from 2000.) –——. 2005. Archaeological excavation report, (Historic Places Authority No. 2005/25) Pukehue Pa (T12/300), SH 25A at Kopu, Thames. Unpublished report for Transit New Zealand. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. –——. 2008. Excavation of T12/372, 373 & 1236, Totara Palms, Thames (HP authority 2007/1125). Unpublished report for A. E. Dryden. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. –——. 2009. Archeological investigation 94 Bennett’s Rd, Te Mata, Coromandel Peninsula (Section 18, Historic Places Act, No. 2009/186). Unpublished report for RTA Studio. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Phillips, K. 2000. Archaeological survey Fulton Hogan Ltd. Poplar Lane Quarry Papamoa. Unpublished report prepared for Fulton Hogan Ltd., Tauranga. On file at New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Piahana, R. 2006. Kaitiakitanga of cultural sites. Archaeology in New Zealand 49:275–281. Pool, I. 1991. Te Iwi Maori: A New Zealand Population Past, Present & Projected. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Rudman, B. 2007. Suffer, little children—and watch out for the spaceship. New Zealand Herald, 6 June. http://www.nzherald.co.nz. Salmond, A. 1991. Two Worlds: First Meetings Between Maori and Europeans 1642– 1772. Auckland: Viking. Sand, C. (ed.). 2003. Pacific Archaeology: Assessments and Prospects. Noumea: Département Archéologie, Service des Musées et du Patrimoine. Smith, L. 2006. Uses of Heritage. London: Routledge. Smith, N. 2005. Waitakere City’s protection bill anti-democratic. New Zealand Herald, 22€March. http://www.nzherald.co.nz. Statistics New Zealand. 2009. Ma¯ori Ethnic Population / Te Momo Iwi Ma¯ori. New Zealand Government. http://www.stats.govt.nz/Census/2006CensusHomePage/QuickStats/ quickstats-about-a-subject/maori/maori-ethnic-population-te-momo-iwi-maori.aspx. Stephenson, J., H. Bauchop and P. Petchey. 2004. Bannockburn Heritage Landscape Study. Science for Conservation 244. Wellington: Department of Conservation.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 156 Caroline Phillips Te Puni Kokiri. 2009. Te Kahui Mangai: Directory of Iwi and Maori Organisations. http:// www.tkm.govt.nz/. Walton, A., and M. O’Keefe. 2004. Archaeological heritage management. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp. 263–282. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 26. Auckland: Publishing Press. Wobst, H. M. 2005. Power to the (Indigenous) past and present! Or: The theory and method behind archaeological theory and method. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 17–41. One World Archaeology 47. London: Routledge. Wylie, A. 1985. The reaction against analogy. In M. Schiffer (ed.), Archaeological Method and Theory 8, pp. 63–112. London: Academic Press.

Chapter 8

The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management Harry Allen

Introduction This chapter is unabashedly polemical. It seeks to jolt archaeologists in New Zealand, and elsewhere, from their overreliance on statutory Â�protection—protection that is failing to halt the rapidly increasing destruction of archaeological heritage. It argues that if archaeologists wish to preserve archaeological places for future research, they will have to form broader political coalitions, particularly with Maori. The argument presented is utilitarian, in that if archaeologists wish to gain the sorts of outcomes they want they will need to work on a broader political front. That is not to deny that there are many other good reasons why archaeologists should seek to ally themselves with Maori, or that the archaeological cultural heritage should be protected for many reasons beyond its usefulness for research. This approach was chosen to gain the attention of those archaeologists who remain sceptical of Indigenous Maori cultural claims for stewardship over the archaeological resource (see Allen and Phillips, this volume). There is a crisis in heritage management in New Zealand. Intensified land development and subdivision are changing the rural and urban terrain so rapidly that only remnants of the landscapes relating to the 500 years of Maori settlement and the subsequent 100 years of joint Maori and colonial settlement will survive the twenty-first century. This crisis is not unlike that of the 1950s and 1960s: a crisis that saw the introduction of archaeological heritage legislation in New Zealand and elsewhere. In the 35 years since the New Zealand legislation was passed, the rate of destruction of archaeological places has increased beyond the capability of the regulatory regime to ensure their survival. This situation parallels that experienced by the nature conservation movement in New Zealand over the past three decades. At the same time, museums have faced a different crisis, namely, a political challenge by Maori over the Â�stewardship 157

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 158 Harry Allen

of artefacts in museum care. Both conservationists and museum personnel have sought a rapprochement with Maori. Consequently, this chapter will suggest that archaeologists should work to define a long-term �strategy for the preservation of archaeological places along the lines already progressed by nature conservationists and museums. As the majority of archaeological places in New Zealand are culturally associated with the Maori community, it is the Maori community that has the greatest stake in ensuring the lasting preservation of archaeological places for their traditional, cultural and historic values. It is in our interest that the archaeological discipline strengthens its relationships with Maori and defines common conservation goals in order to achieve greater success through working together. Such a conclusion demands that archaeologists adopt a more strategic approach to heritage management in New Zealand, with an assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the current statutory regime, a commitment to ensuring the continuing survival of at least a defined portion of the archaeological resource and, where archaeological interests correspond with those of the Indigenous Maori, working closely with them to achieve mutually agreed outcomes. However, working more closely with Maori requires, firstly, the acceptance that Maori retain sovereignty (tino rangatiratanga) over Maori cultural resources, including archaeological places; and secondly, the acknowledgement that it is the Maori community who has the greatest cultural and political claim to be the guardians (kaitiaki) of that heritage (see Glossary for definitions of Maori words).

The Crisis in Site Protection in New Zealand There is increasing disquiet about the state of archaeological protection in New Zealand, where agricultural intensification and urban growth is impacting an increasing number of sites (Lee et€ al. 2008). Because of the variable nature of early archaeological surveys, it is difficult to get accurate information concerning the extent of site destruction, but a few studies of site condition have been published over the past decade. Firstly, Phillips and Allen (2006), reporting on a survey carried out in 1993 in the Waihou River area, documented that 72% of recorded archaeological sites had been severely damaged or destroyed through the combined effects of flood protection works, farming and building over an 80 year period.1 In a detailed study of pre-1830 Maori archaeological sites located within and around the Waitakere Ranges Regional Park, Donaghey (2000) found that of 71 places identified, half had been destroyed or were at serious risk. Of these, 43 (60%) had been damaged through natural causes, with the remaining 40% being damaged

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 159

either through housing subdivisions, agriculture, public use or the construction of public facilities by council agencies. Using Donaghey’s data (2000:275, Table 3), it can be concluded that places in public management are subject to a similar rate of loss as those on private lands. In contrast, drawing on his long-term research in Taranaki, Prickett (1985, 2005) expressed great concern for the survival of any archaeological sites not in public ownership. Finally, a comparison of field checks in Auckland, Gisborne and Tauranga against the information in the New Zealand Archaeological Association (NZAA) Site Recording Scheme led Walton and O’Keefe (2004:272) to conclude that while the damage and loss has varied from place to place over the last 50 years, in some areas there has been wholesale destruction of the archaeological record. This destruction remains the fundamental challenge for management of the archaeological heritage.

Taking this evidence for the extent of site destruction, together with information on intensified land-use and subdivision over the past 20 years, Lee et€al. (2008) confirm that natural heritage protection in New Zealand is in a state of crisis and, as seen above, New Zealand’s cultural heritage is in a similar state. However, this is not a situation that we have arrived at recently. During the 1960s, it was exactly this type of information that led archaeologists in New Zealand, and elsewhere, to argue for protective legislation. The outcome of their efforts was the archaeological provisions of the Historic Places Act (HPA), which was passed into law in 1975. This provided statutory protection to regulate the destruction of archaeological sites. Yet 35 years later, the statistics for archaeological sites in New Zealand, and the prognosis for their future, are depressingly similar. More recently, a further threat to the existing level of statutory protection for archaeological sites has emerged. A number of governments around the world have indicated that they wish to change significant parts of the existing legislation in ways that reduce the protections available for archaeological places. This has happened in Australia, with the repeal of the Australian Heritage Commission Act in 2003 and the passing of the Queensland Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 (see Ross, this volume), and in the U.S., with recent amendments to the Archaeological and Historical Preservation Act. In New Zealand, a 1999 proposal to shift archaeological authorities from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust (NZHPT) to local councils was opposed by both the NZAA and Maori heritage agencies (Allen 2002:347; Local Government New Zealand 1999; New Zealand Archaeological Association 1999). A change in government in 1999 resulted in the strengthening of the

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 160 Harry Allen

heritage protection measures in the Resource Management Act (RMA) of 1991. At the end of 2008, however, there was a further change of government with the election of a minority National Government in coalition with the Maori and ACT parties. Part of the platform of the National Party is the revision of the RMA and HPA. The proposed revision will include changes to those sections that provide administrative protection for the archaeological heritage of New Zealand (Ministry for the Environment 2009). Such developments provide two important lessons. Firstly, statutory protection for archaeological places is not necessarily a permanent legislative fixture: the strength of the legislation depends on the prevailing political, social and economic circumstances. Secondly, unless they can rely on substantial Maori or conservationist support for archaeological protection, defending the existing legislation might not be an effective strategy for New Zealand archaeologists who wish to preserve the remaining archaeological sites.

What Have the Archaeological Regulatory Measures Achieved? Rapid land-use change was experienced in the late 1950s and 1960s in the U.S., Australia and New Zealand, with increased industrialisation, urbanism, suburban expansion and the intensification of agriculture. While it began as a period of optimism, the pace of change was sufficient to alarm those concerned with heritage protection. In New Zealand, a number of archaeologists described the situation as a crisis, where the rate of destruction of archaeological sites had outpaced the ability of archaeologists to protect the archaeological resource or to conduct salvage excavations to recover the information they contained (Brown 1962; Golson 1957; Green 1963, 1973; R. Groube 1966). McFadgen and Daniels (1970:162–163) observed that 89% of archaeological sites on the Auckland Isthmus, which had been the subject of intense urban development being the site of New Zealand’s largest city, had already been destroyed and warned that “time was running out”. The response to this crisis, both in New Zealand and overseas, was the passing of legislation aimed at ameliorating the impact of development on archaeological places. Laws in the U.S. included the National Environment Policy Act 1967 and the Archaeological and Historical Preservation Act 1974; in Australia, the Australian Heritage Commission Act 1974 and the NSW National Parks and Wildlife Act 1974; and finally, in New Zealand, the Antiquities Act 1975, the Historic Places Amendment 1975, and the Town and Country Planning Act 1973.2

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 161

These systems created to protect archaeological sites share many features. In Australia, New Zealand and the United States, there is a national park system for conservation on public lands and planning laws that limit the rights of developers on private lands by requiring impact assessments and salvage excavations. In the U.S., these measures are restricted to federal lands or federally funded projects. However, most states in Australia make provisions for the protection of archaeological places both on state and private lands. The Northern Territory, through its Sacred Sites Authority, also makes special provisions for places of spiritual significance to Aboriginal communities (Evatt 1998; McWilliam 1998). In New Zealand too, all archaeological sites are legally protected, whether they are on state or private lands. In the United States, Australia and New Zealand, bureaucracies were created to administer the archaeological legislation, and a consultancy industry has emerged to conduct surveys and carry out salvage excavations. Walton and O’Keefe (2004:278–279) note that about threeÂ�quarters of the 110-strong archaeological workforce in New Zealand work in archaeological conservation, either as independent contractors or with regional councils, the NZHPT or the Department of Conservation (DOC). While the overall numbers are small, at no time in the past have so many archaeologists been employed in the heritage field in New Zealand. Similarly, the number of authority applications to the NZHPT, the decision-making body for archaeological sites, has risen significantly over the past 10 years (see Table 8.1). The number of archaeologists employed in heritage organisations and the increased number of applications for authorities to damage or modify archaeological sites suggest a greater degree of compliance with the regulatory regime than at any time Table 8.1â•… The number of section 11, 12 and 18 Historic Places Act authority applications to the New Zealand Historic Places Trust lodged from 1999 to 2008. Note: no more than five authority applications have been declined in any year. (Information supplied by the New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington.) Year

Number of section 11, 12 and 18 HPA authority applications

1999–2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 (Jan-April only)

117 189 179 260 282 282 312 364 312

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 162 Harry Allen

in the past, but also signal the extent of subdivision and development currently taking place in New Zealand (Figures 8.1, 8.2 and 8.3). Despite these signs, all other measures indicate that the protection of archaeological sites in New Zealand has entered a new period of crisis and that the current legislative mechanisms are outpaced by an increasing rate of site destruction. As noted above, at the same time legislative changes to lessen the level of protection are being considered by development-minded governments in Australia, New Zealand and elsewhere. The archaeological provisions and the definition of an “archaeological site” in the HPA aimed for mitigation through salvage investigations, rather than continuing preservation. McFadgen (1966:98) stated this clearly, Once it is accepted that complete protection, or permanent protection of a site in its physical sense is not possible, the problem becomes not so much a problem of preserving prehistoric remains, but preserving the information contained within the site.

This is a “rescue the information” strategy, even if the physical place is destroyed in the process. One of the criticisms Maori make is that the legislative provisions relate more to archaeological research needs than they do to the conservation of places (Allen 2002:346–348). In Maori terms, places are significant through their association with ancestral powers, which should, if possible, be left undisturbed. The gaining of

Figure 8.1â•… As part of a coastal subdivision, half of a large fortified Maori pa at Athenree was cut down to provide a platform for a palatial house under authority from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust (Phillips and Allen 1996). (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips 1997.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 163

Figure 8.2â•… Staff of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust at Urquharts Bay investigating a Maori settlement site partially damaged by a series of buried water pipes in the 1980s, and subsequently destroyed by bulldozing for a beachside house in 2006 (Phillips and Druskovich 2009). (Photo credit: Marianne Turner 2006.)

Figure 8.3â•… Archaeological monitoring by David Rudd (left) and Margaret RikaHeke (right) of Turanga Hill, a Maori occupation site, being lowered by 4 m to provide a level platform for a large house under authority from the New Zealand Historic Places Trust (Phillips 2006). (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips 2005.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 164 Harry Allen

Â� information about such places, while important, is a secondary consideration. Furthermore, it is now debatable whether current heritage management practice based on salvage excavations can answer the research needs of archaeology, as the aims and methodologies of archaeological research in New Zealand have shifted from culture-historical approaches to the study of social and cultural processes at a landscape scale (Phillips and Campbell 2004). Moreover, the legislative mechanisms for the protection of archaeological sites represent a form of “passive management”; they limit landuse change and development, but do not regulate existing forms of land use, no matter how detrimental, nor do they attempt to reduce natural erosion (Allen 1998:9–10). The archaeological provisions of HPA and the NZAA Site Recording Scheme were set up in line with the research agendas of the 1960s and 1970s. Implicit within these approaches was the idea that recording and salvage excavation could be separated from analysis, so that the information gained from excavations at single places could, at some later time, be brought together to answer research questions (Golson and Green 1958:49). This has not proved to be the case. Heritage management practices have failed to keep up with academic research strategies, and a gap has formed between the two (Walton and O’Keefe 2004:280–281; see Moss 2005:584 regarding CHM in the United States; Smith 2004 regarding CHM in Australia). Heritage management procedures in the legislation, together with the bureaucracies created to administer them, now have a life of their own outside the needs of either research archaeologists or Indigenous communities (see Ross, this volume). These difficulties have been recognised by the NZHPT, which has instituted a “National Research Framework” (McGovern-Wilson 2008) to integrate the work of the administering authority, research archaeologists and consultants within a common research agenda based on seven overarching themes.3 A major aim of this framework is to make archaeological research accessible to the public. The NZHPT has also attempted to ensure that decision making for archaeological authorities involves Indigenous Maori communities (see Phillips, this volume). Prickett (2005:57–60) argues that archaeologists in New Zealand are overreliant on the regulatory controls within this legislation and, since the passing of the HPA in 1975, have left the task of protecting archaeological heritage up to the NZHPT. Currently, the three most important mechanisms available for the lasting preservation of heritage places in New Zealand are public ownership, the archaeological provisions of the HPA and the planning provisions of territorial councils through the RMA. All are limited in significant ways.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 165

In New Zealand, some 30% of the land is held in parks and reserves, principally under DOC jurisdiction. Public ownership reduces some, but not all, forms of development pressure on archaeological sites. In many cases, the construction of tracks, roads, parking places, public toilets, children’s playgrounds and even interpretive signage in public reserves can have a significant impact on the archaeological heritage. “Active management”, where existing land-use regimes such as grazing are controlled or where vegetation is planted to reduce erosion, only occurs on a few archaeological places in public hands. The DOC restricts active management of archaeological sites to approximately 17% of the estimated 8500 historic places within their estate: those that have been identified and registered by the NZHPT (see Department of Conservation 1995). Information on the remainder is limited to identification and location only (Walton 2005). This means there is little knowledge of the nature, extent and condition of the historic places located on Conservation lands, what these represent as a sample of the whole, or what is required to ensure their lasting survival. The HPA authority procedures are unable to cope with systematic and cumulative processes, such as urbanisation. These processes have a marked impact on archaeological places that were previously protected through isolation and underdevelopment (Allen 1998:37–39; Prickett 2005). Recently, Law and Grieg (2004) argued that archaeologists should make greater use of NZHPT Registration and other public heritage lists in order to increase public awareness of heritage values, and also to make use of local government planning procedures as a means of bringing archaeological places to the attention of the public, landowners and councils. Registration through the HPA is a mechanism for assessing archaeological places and listing them in a register as a means to informing the public and developers of their heritage values. It is similar to scheduling through council planning procedures, but in the New Zealand case registration does not confer protection until a council also lists the heritage place in their district plan. While the NZAA has been happy to have councils provide additional protection by listing recorded archaeological sites in their district plans, most councils have been resistant to providing protection in this manner (Allen 1998:26). The archaeological provisions of the HPA, council planning activities conducted through the RMA, and the preservation of heritage places on public lands are all clearly necessary. However, on their own, these are insufficient to protect archaeological resources for the future and only slow the rate of destruction. A further difficulty is that the selection of archaeological places for destruction or preservation is in the hands of developers. It is they who initiate these administrative processes through their lodgement of a statement on the assessment of effects, applica-

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 166 Harry Allen

tion for a resource consent or application for an authority to damage or destroy an archaeological place. Only at the end of the development planning process do archaeologists, or Maori seeking to protect cultural values, enter the picture (Allen 1998:37–39). The situation described above should have an impact on the strategies archaeologists adopt to ensure the survival of the archaeological resource. Defending the existing legislation and ways of doing things is necessary, but the most this can achieve is a prolongation of the current situation, where archaeological sites are being destroyed at an unsustainable rate. Both Prickett (2005) and the author (Allen 1988, 1990, 1991, 1994, 1998:55–61; Fung and Allen 1984; Phillips and Allen 2006) argue that the primary aim should be a greater involvement with the public, especially the Maori public. In addition, a debate needs to be initiated concerning what we want to protect for the future and how we should go about achieving this.

Maori and Heritage Management in New€Zealand Over the past 20 years or so, the United States, Canada, Australia and New Zealand have each experienced a renaissance of identity and confidence on the part of Indigenous populations, who have offered challenges to the right of archaeologists to control Indigenous places (Colley 2002:59–91; Stapp and Burney 2002:52–71; Watkins 2003; Webster 1998:28–38, see also Solomon and Forbes, this volume). Archaeologists have responded with accords and codes of ethics, as in the Vermillion Accord adopted by the World Archaeological Congress in 1989.4 In the U.S., the government passed the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act in 1989 to address Indigenous concerns over burials (Stapp and Burney 2002:53). In New Zealand, the ICOMOS Charter for the Protection of Places of Cultural Heritage Value (ICOMOS 1993) states the need for community consultation and that all relevant conservation values should be taken into consideration. The Maori dimension to heritage in New Zealand stems from the provisions of the Treaty of Waitangi and through statutory requirements to take Maori views into account in decision making and planning (Allen 1998:17–22). The identification and protection of Maori heritage takes place at all levels of the heritage management system previously discussed. Firstly, many places of traditional significance to Maori are located within national parks or reserves. Secondly, places of significance to Maori on freehold lands might gain protection within city, district or regional plans through zoning, listing or rules. Thirdly,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 167

Maori places might be identified through the NZHPT Register of Historic Places and Historic Areas, or through the HPA 1993 amendment as “Wahi Tapu” or “Wahi Tapu Areas” (wahi tapu being a sacred or restricted place). Finally, by being archaeological sites, and approximately 84% of recorded archaeological places in New Zealand are of Maori origin (Walton 2005:117), such places require NZHPT authorisation before they can be damaged through development. As noted previously, however, the authority system is not activated by existing land use, such as ploughing and drainage, no matter how damaging this might€be. Maori have been critical of all levels of the system. There have been tensions between Maori tangata whenua (people of the land) and the DOC over issues of hunting on traditional places in protected lands. The DOC’s Statement of Intent: 2003–2006 notes a variety of strategies designed to strengthen relationships with tangata whenua. Interestingly, this priority has dropped out of the most recent DOC Statement of Intent, where recreation and tourism gain increased attention (Department of Conservation 2003, 2005). One of the government’s intentions when it devolved planning to regional, district and city councils was to allow greater community involvement both in the setting of environmental standards and in landuse planning. However, Maori remain unimpressed with the performance of councils on a number of fronts, particularly as regards decision making on land-use issues (Allen 1998:45–54; Ford 2006; Mutu 2002). Maori have also criticised the archaeological provisions of the HPA, arguing that, firstly, the provisions protect some Maori places, i.e., those with archaeological features, but not others; secondly, that scientific value, or saving the information, is given greater weight than the conservation of places of value to Maori; thirdly, that the usual outcome of an authority application is a salvage excavation rather than the preservation of the place (see Figures 8.1 and 8.3); and finally, that Maori participation in the process is limited to being consulted, and in some cases, to giving or denying permission for an investigation to take place (Allen 2002:347–348). In order to address some of these criticisms, the archaeologists, the staff and the Board of the NZHPT, who administer the archaeological provisions of the act, have attempted to make their measures amenable to Maori (Geelen 1996; cf. Moss 2005:584; and in this volume, Phillips, and Solomon and Forbes). One of the most difficult aspects of the current system from a Maori perspective is its fragmentary nature. There are multiple statutes and multiple agencies with little overall coordination (Allen 1998:51–53; Parliamentary Commissioner for the Environment 1996:6). Conflicts between a Maori view and those of the government are not unusual and most recently emerged with the Foreshore and Seabed Act 2004, which

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 168 Harry Allen

legislated for Crown ownership of the foreshore and seabed by removing Maori common law and traditional rights to these areas without compensation (Mutu 2004:160–162). The Maori response to these frustrations has been to argue for a standalone Maori agency, capable of working with tangata whenua to provide heritage protection for the future (Allen 2002:349–353). However, tensions already exist concerning provisions for Maori heritage within the existing planning structures, with the result that the government has steadfastly resisted this call and instead has persisted with conservation measures that have a wider measure of public support, despite their inadequacies from a Maori point of view. Maori heritage management remains mainstreamed within general heritage management laws that favour a developer’s applications over community interests (Allen 1998:12–13). As a partial concession, the government, through the HPA 1993, created the Maori Heritage Council and provided for separate categories for “Wahi Tapu” and “Wahi Tapu Areas” within the NZHPT Register. Maori initiatives to secure a separate Maori heritage agency paralleled those of the archaeologists when they pressed for legislative protection for archaeological sites in 1975. The archaeologists then argued for a “Department of Antiquities” that would be responsible for the protection of both land-based and portable antiquities (Green 1973:15–16; Park et€al. 1973:9–10). The government’s response was to separate these two functions, making the NZHPT the agency responsible for the protection of archaeological sites through the Historic Places Amendment Act 1975 and creating separate measures for portable antiquities with the Antiquities Act 1975 (now the Protected Objects Act 1975) administered by the Ministry of Culture and Heritage. The goal of having a single government department to protect Maori cultural material and archaeological heritage has proved elusive.

Widening the Archaeological Debate Archaeologists have recognised that the protection of heritage requires the support of the public at large. However, reliance on regulation has been the preferred methodology. This was partly based on the idea that the public had little awareness of the importance of archaeological research in New Zealand and that by the time such awareness could be created, the archaeological resource would be destroyed (Green 1966:89; L. Groube 1966:113). Reliance on regulatory procedures has not altered this situation, and 45 years later, the public still has little appreciation of the significance of New Zealand archaeology (Walter 2002).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 169

Other groups have also realised that they needed to enlist the support of the wider community to have any chance of success. The nature conservation movement and museums in New Zealand have faced similar problems, and it is to them that we should look for guidance regarding solutions that go beyond regulation.

Environmental Conservation and Maori New Zealand archaeology is not alone in its recognition that it is in a state of crisis brought on by urban development and the Â�intensification of agriculture. Neither is it the first group to realise that current conservation methods can only slow the rate of destruction, not achieve continuing protection. There are a number of parallels between environmental conservation and heritage management in New Zealand. Since the passing of the RMA in 1991, the conservation movement has concluded that the combined efforts of government agencies managing a system of protected lands, and of local government exercising controls over land use on private lands, could not guarantee the survival of threatened indigenous species, nor of their natural habitats (Craig et€al. 2000). Craig et€ al. (2000:62–65) argued that, despite good legislation and the fact that 30% of the land area of New Zealand is already held in reserves and parks, the mechanisms available to protect endangered species were ineffective in the face of current challenges. They criticised the DOC response of protecting indigenous fauna and flora only on offshore and mainland “islands”, where pests, a major danger for threatened species, could be controlled or destroyed. They point to the 70% of the New Zealand land area that is held in private hands and argued for a strategy of sustainable use that involved local communities and private landowners (Craig et€al. 2000:67, 70). The situation regarding threatened species and ecosystems was so serious that scientists and activists put considerable pressure on the government to find a solution. The outcome was the New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy (Ministry for the Environment 2000), which established national goals to halt the decline in biodiversity and try to maintain and restore a full range of remaining natural habitats and ecosystems. This strategy is important, firstly in its use of higher-order concepts of ecosystems and biodiversity to measure environmental goals, and secondly in terms of mobilising government, local government, landowners, communities and Maori into concerted and integrated action. A number of the principles established for managing New Zealand’s biodiversity are of interest to heritage conservation. Amongst these is the principle of individuals and government “working together” in a coordinated manner. Other principles include “respect for property rights”, “in

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 170 Harry Allen

situ conservation”, “sustainable use” and, finally, a “focus on the future” (Ministry for the Environment 2000:28–29). The strategy notes that the most endangered ecosystems are lowland wetlands, river systems and adjacent forests, dune systems and coastal forest, scrub and herbfields (Ministry for the Environment 2000:10). Archaeologists would come up with a similar list of threatened archaeological landscapes. This strategy has had an impact on government departments. The DOC Statement of Intent: 2005–2008 built the New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy into the core of its activities, including the goal of protecting “a representative range of biodiversity” (Department of Conservation 2005). The conservation movement has long insisted that attention should be devoted both to the life-space requirements of individual species and to “ecosystems” (Nature Conservation Council 1981:41–44). As a result of this pressure, the RMA 1991, Section 7(d), directs persons involved in the act to have regard to the intrinsic values of ecosystems, which the act defines as those aspects of ecosystems and their constituent parts which have value in their own right, including their biological and genetic diversity, and the essential characteristics that determine an ecosystem’s integrity, form, functioning and resilience.

A second outcome is that the Ministry for the Environment is preparing a National Policy Statement for Biodiversity. National Policy Statements (NPS) are instruments created through the RMA to provide high-level policy for the planning activities of local government. When it is completed, the statement on biodiversity will be the second NPS produced in New Zealand since 1991. Ericksen et€al. (2003:68–71, 287) are critical of the fact that there are few NPS to guide councils in their approach to the “Matters of National Importance” listed in Section 6 of the RMA, with the result that councils have shown little consistency in interpreting these requirements. The NPS for Biodiversity will mark a significant advance in conservation planning. Possibly the most far-reaching outcome of the Biodiversity Strategy is its emphasis on community involvement, especially the Maori community. The original strategy and subsequent documents (Ministry for the Environment 2000, 2001) go beyond statements about the Treaty of Waitangi to point out that all components of ecosystems, both living and non-living, possess the spiritual qualities of tapu, mauri, mana, and wairua. Maori, as tangata whenua, are the kaitiaki (guardians) of these ecosystems and have a responsibility to protect and enhance them. This responsibility of people to other living things is expressed in the concept of kaitiakitanga—or guardianship. As

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 171 the people are intrinsically linked with the natural world, the mana of the iwi, hapu, or whanau is directly related to the well-being of the natural resources within their rohe, or region. Understanding and valuing the Maori world-view is an essential step towards a bicultural approach to biodiversity management. (Ministry for the Environment 2000:7)

Elsewhere (Ministry for the Environment 2001:11), the ministry argues that the NPS for Biodiversity should acknowledge mana whenua (Maori spiritual and political control over the land) and tangata whenua values, and that conservation should be integrated with Maori knowledge and practice. Such measures cannot be achieved overnight, and they cannot be achieved without considerable leadership, effort and care. Difficulties should not be underestimated, as happened in New South Wales, Australia, where the enthusiasm of politicians for short-term Â�development-oriented policies, and the diversion of funding from conservation research to community projects, resulted in the alienation of conservation scientists (Lunney et€al. 2002). The Biodiversity Strategy is an attempt to come to terms with the fact that regulation alone cannot ensure the lasting survival of endangered species and threatened ecosystems. Long-term conservation can only be achieved through concerted planning and action, aligned with good baseline data, a set of specific goals and measures of achievement. Policy at the top is also required, and it is here that the absence of an NPS for heritage is felt. A National Policy Statement would be similar to Planning Policy Statement papers, such as PPS 5, set out by the United Kingdom Department of the Environment, which have had a positive effect on planning for archaeological and building conservation in England (Cleere 1993; Department of Communities and Local Government 2010). Intersections between the Biodiversity Strategy and heritage conservation are already occurring, as in the case of the Department of Conservation, which has extended the concepts of protecting a representative range of habitats to include protecting, restoring and interpreting “a representative range of historic and cultural heritage” (Department of Conservation 2005:46–50).

Museums and Maori A somewhat similar process, the acknowledgement of a continuing relationship between museum collections and the Maori communities associated with them, is occurring within museums in New Zealand. This rethinking began in 1980, when the initial planning for the Te Maori exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City was getting underway. At that time, Maori art and artefacts were firmly

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 172 Harry Allen

under the control of European curators. The artefacts were located in museums of natural history and regarded as specimens for social and historical theories. The initial debate was whether the works should be displayed within a museum ethnological framework or within an art gallery context (Wilson 1984:18–19). Mead (1997:154) argued that the potential shift from an ethnological to an art historical frame of reference was insufficient to “meet Maori needs” and advocated that decisions over Maori artefacts in museums should involve the Maori communities associated with them. This debate intensified when the objects in the Te Maori exhibition were about to return to New Zealand (Wilson 1984). The Te Maori exhibition, prior to the departure of the artefacts to New York City and on their return, had a marked impact on museums in New Zealand. Firstly, Maori art was seen on a world stage as art rather than artefact. Secondly, the organisers, in selecting the pieces for the exhibition, recognised Maori communities as the “spiritual owners” of the objects, irrespective of their legal ownership or physical possession. Thirdly, exhibition spaces temporarily became Maori places, where welcomes, farewells and expressions of respect were directed towards the carved pieces, as living taonga (cultural treasures) and an embodiment of the ancestors (Mead 1997:159–164). This impetus was maintained after the exhibition through the appointment of Maori staff to museums and the setting up of specialist Maori committees. The most positive outcome was the establishment of closer relations between Maori communities, the museums and the objects held in them. There is now Maori input into exhibitions, the loaning of art works and, most controversially, their repatriation back to communities of origin (Tapsell 2000:125–149). While none of this has been achieved without considerable effort and pain on the part of both museums and Maori communities, Maori communities have enthusiastically embraced opportunities for involvement in exhibition planning involving taonga from their own districts (Tapsell 2000). Tapsell (1997, 2000, 2006) argues that returning the artefacts to their Maori cultural orbit has breathed new life into New Zealand museums, the artefacts themselves, and also into the people connected with them. Maori artefacts, especially carved ancestral figures, are regarded as possessing mauri (life force). As taonga, they retain cosmic powers and are linked through genealogies to both land and descendant groups. This cosmic power can be activated through oratorical recitations (korero) (see also Rika-Heke, this volume). Tapsell notes the connections between these elements of Maori culture and land: The traditionally accepted role of taonga is to represent the myriad Â�ancestor-land connections, reinforcing the kin group’s complex identity

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 173 and authority over their estates … taonga mnemonically provide elders with genealogical reference points, by virtue of their direct association with specific ancestors, which reanimate the kin group’s surrounding landscape. (Tapsell 1997:327–328)

Archaeology and Maori New Zealand archaeologists have adopted a dual stance as regards the significance of matauranga Maori (Maori knowledge) in their work. While they accept Maori values as a factor in heritage management Â�decision making (Geelen 1996), they have been resistant to seeing this as an essential dimension to their research. While all archaeological investigations require tangata whenua involvement, the discipline of archaeology has had difficulty in accepting that all Indigenous archaeological places are taonga within the definitions offered above and that Maori knowledge systems are important for the understanding of the New Zealand past. This failure has ensured continuing conflict with Maori regarding the archaeological heritage. Part of the reason for this resistance on behalf of the archaeological community relates to Golson’s (1960) criticism of the fact that some archaeologists erroneously collapsed the distinction between archaeological and traditional knowledge in their work. More recently this criticism has been reviewed, and a number of archaeologists have used Maori traditional knowledge within their research (see Anderson 1998; Crosby 2004; Phillips 2000, and this volume). However, most New Zealand archaeologists have been loathe to go beyond very narrow utilitarian uses of traditional knowledge, and they resist the idea that knowledge of Maori traditions might help their interpretation of the New Zealand past (Crosby 2004). The New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy and museums in New Zealand have recognised the close connections in Maori culture between ancestors, places and artefacts and the well-being of descendent communities. Accordingly, they have sought to involve Maori in the conservation of the landscape and the preservation of artefacts. Outside the statutory definition of wahi tapu (restricted places, including human burial sites), archaeologists have yet to extend these concepts to land-based heritage. For Maori, places in the landscape have names, and through genealogies and traditions they are connected with the deeds of ancestors who carried out ritual actions or were buried there. Such places were centres of chiefly authority, settlements, defended places, battlegrounds, places of retreat, gardens or fishing grounds. The term taonga can be applied equally to natural ecosystems, Maori artefacts and to places in the landscape. New Zealand archaeologists should follow the Ministry for the Environment’s statement in the New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy (Ministry for the

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 174 Harry Allen

Environment 2000:7) and accept that Maori places possess spiritual qualities and that Maori, as tangata whenua, are their kaitiaki (cf. Watkins 2003:281–282 regarding stewardship in the U.S.). Understanding and valuing the Maori worldview is an essential step towards a bicultural approach to the conservation of ecosystems, artefacts and Maori places. Up to this time, the discipline of archaeology in New Zealand has fought a rearguard action, firstly against threats to the regulatory Â�system€ based on the archaeological provisions of the HPA (Allen 2002:346–347), and secondly, against a shared vision for the conservation of Maori heritage places that allows the Maori community, who have the greatest interest in their protection, a greater say. The discipline needs to move beyond sites, and beyond salvage investigation, to a larger, longer-term vision. It began to do this in its consideration of heritage landscapes (New Zealand Historic Places Trust 2003), but even here, the emphasis was on regulation rather than community participation (cf. Stephenson 2003:8–10). The removal of the words “heritage landscapes” from the Resource Management Amendment Act 2003 was seen as a blow to this initiative. However, this omission should not prevent archaeologists from using the landscape approach to create a lasting conservation strategy for archaeological sites, a strategy that draws wider support from landowners, conservationists and Maori.

Conclusion It is essential that the strengths and weaknesses of short-term regulatory approaches be clearly seen. They might work well as part of a wider strategy that involves the setting of long-term goals. On their own, however, they are incapable of achieving such goals. What is required now is consideration of a strategy for the continuing protection of archaeological places, and also, consideration of how such a strategy might be achieved. From an archaeological point of view, I would argue that the required change in strategy involves the definition of representative archaeological landscapes, areas and places, and also consideration of the degree of diversity required to ensure the survival of their scientific, cultural, educational and visual values. Some of the necessary approaches involving the definition of representative historical and archaeological landscapes might dovetail with the representative natural areas that are defined within the Biodiversity Strategy. Where there is an overlap it makes good sense for archaeologists and nature conservationists to work together to achieve shared goals. This is not a new call. Greaves (1989) argued for a “greening” of archaeology 20 years ago. The development of an overall strategy involving conservationists, government departments, councils, landowners and

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 175

the public should emphasise voluntary and cooperative measures, with regulation and the payment of compensation as backup measures only. There should also be a series of discussions with Maori on the basis that neither the wider Maori cultural landscape, nor a diverse archaeological sample, will survive the next 100 years of development unless there is a change in strategy. Gaining Maori assistance for the conservation of the archaeological heritage in New Zealand requires a sea change on the part of the archaeologists: notably, the acceptance that Maori, as tangata whenua, are the kaitiaki of the Maori cultural landscape, including archaeological places. However, the threat to archaeological places is so great that it is necessary for archaeologists to surrender control over the archaeological heritage in order to secure its lasting survival. Up to this point, Maori communities have been discussed as if they represented a unified group. This is not the case. Maori society is largely organised at the clan (hapu) and family (whanau) level, with only a few overarching political and economic bodies, such as tribal runanga (committees). Negotiating with Maori means negotiation with multiple groups who hold mana whenua over lands. To respect the mana (prestige, authority, spiritual power) of such groups, it is necessary to negotiate with them separately, unless they have surrendered decision making to a larger body, such as the Runanga of Ngati Whatua (Parore 2002:126–130). Maori reactions to advances from archaeologists are likely to vary from place to place and to range from outright rejection to a wary welcome (Allen et€al. 2002). Maori heritage conservation strategies are unlikely to exactly coincide with any strategy for the conservation of archaeological places, but there is likely to be sufficient overlap to demonstrate that there is a great deal of common interest. As was previously discussed at the beginning of this volume (Allen and Phillips, Chapter 1), it is unnecessary to prescribe what the outcomes of a dialogue will be: it is the initiation of the dialogue that is important. What is required is that New Zealand archaeologists should 1. adopt a goal similar to that advanced as a part of the New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy, i.e., work to define the range and variability of archaeological places in New Zealand, identify a necessary sample of this range and variation, and move to ensure that this sample is being actively managed for its continuing survival on both public and private lands; 2. work with the Maori community, as the community with the greatest interest in the lasting protection of the archaeological heritage; and 3. work with other local communities, conservationists, councils and landowners to gain public support and to achieve acceptance of the long-term strategy.

New Zealand has shown itself to be in the forefront of conservation and museum practices and, in 1975, was in advance of contemporary thinking about archaeological heritage management. It is time

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 176 Harry Allen

for archaeologists in New Zealand to regain the initiative and actively develop a national strategy for the long-term conservation of archaeological places—a strategy that joins common purpose with Maori and the wider community.

AcknowledgEments I would like to thank my colleagues on the Board of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust, the members of the Trust’s Maori Heritage Council and staff of the Trust for their support and encouragement over many years. The views above, however, are my own. I would like to thank Caroline Phillips, Margaret Rika-Heke and Des Kahotea for their work with the WAC Second Indigenous Inter-Congress held at Wapapa Marae, Auckland, in November 2005. I would like to record my thanks to the late Professor Roger Green, a founder of archaeological conservation in New Zealand, for his long-term encouragement and support. Robin Torrence and two anonymous reviewers provided excellent comments.

Notes 1.╇Allen et al. (1994) documented that flood protection works, involving the straightening of river courses, the formation of floodways and the movement of earth to build stopbanks and drains, were particularly damaging to archaeological sites. Major works occurred on the highest terraces along the entire river frontage and in stream valleys: the same location as most of the archaeological places. River protection works represent a systematic and cumulative assault on a region’s archaeological resources. 2.╇These acts have been amended and replaced since their initial introduction. The major suite of heritage laws in New Zealand is now the Protected Objects Act 1975, the Historic Places Act 1993 and the Resource Management Act 1991. 3.╇The proposed themes are improvement and innovation in methodology; constructing regional histories; people and the environment; sense of place, the archaeology of identity; and archaeology in New Zealand today. 4.╇Codes of conduct and ethics statements for archaeology are discussed in Allen and Phillips (this volume). Such codes have had a marked and beneficial effect on archaeological practice in Australia, New Zealand and the United States. For further information see the WAC Web site: http://www.worldarchaeologicalcongress.org/site/ about_ethi.php

References Allen, H. 1988. Public archaeology: Choices for the 1990’s. Archaeology in New Zealand 31:142–152. –——. 1990. Going it alone? NZAA and resource management organisations. Archaeology in New Zealand 33:127–131.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 177 Allen, H. 1991. Archaeology and the Greens in New Zealand. Archaeology in New€Zealand 34:15–24. –——. 1994. Protection for archaeological sites and the NZHPT register of historic places, historic areas, wahi tapu and wahi tapu areas. Archaeology in New Zealand 37:205–227. –——. 1998. Protecting Historic Places in New Zealand. Research in Anthropology and Linguistics 1. Auckland: Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland. –——. 2002. Protecting Ma-ori land-based heritage. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 341–358. Auckland: Reed. Allen, H., D. Johns, C. Phillips, K. Day, T. O’Brien and Ngati Mutunga. 2002. Wahi Ngaro (the lost portion): Strengthening the relationship between people and wetlands in north Taranaki, New Zealand. World Archaeology 34:315–329. Allen, H., C. Phillips, A. Skipper, J. Te Moananui-Waikato, C. Reidy and B. Cook. 1994. Taskforce Green/University of Auckland Archaeological Project, Waihou River (1993). Auckland: Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland. Anderson, A. 1998. The Welcome of Strangers: An Ethnohistory of Southern Maori AD 1650–1850. Dunedin: The University of Otago Press. Brown, H. J. R. 1962. The preservation of Auckland’s archaeological sites. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 5:70–80. Cleere, H. 1993. Managing the archaeological heritage. Antiquity 67:400–405. Colley, S. 2002. Uncovering Australia: Archaeology, Indigenous People and the Public. Crows Nest, New South Wales: Allen and Unwin. Craig, J., S. Anderson, M. Clout, B. Creese, N. Mitchell, J. Ogden, M. Roberts and G.€Ussher. 2000. Conservation issues in New Zealand. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics 31:61–78. Crosby, A. 2004. Ritual. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp. 105–124. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 26. Auckland: New Zealand Archaeological Association. Department of Communities and Local Government. 2010. Planning Policy Statement 5: Planning for the Historic Environment. http://www.communities.gov.uk/publications/ planningandbuilding/pps5. Department of Conservation. 1995. Atawhai Ruamano Conservation 2000. Wellington: New Zealand Department of Conservation. –——. 2003. Statement of Intent: 2003–2006. Presented to the House of Representatives pursuant to section 34A of the Public Finance Act 1989. Wellington: New Zealand Department of Conservation. –——. 2005. Statement of Intent: 2005–2008. Presented to the House of Representatives pursuant to section 34A of the Public Finance Act 1989. Wellington: New Zealand Department of Conservation. Donaghey, S. 2000. A fading landscape: Strategies for managing the cultural heritage landscape. Archaeology in New Zealand 43:270–282. Ericksen, N. J., P. R. Berke, J. L. Crawford and J. E. Dixon. 2003. Planning for Sustainability: New Zealand under the RMA. Hamilton: International Global Change Institute, The University of Waikato. Evatt, E. 1998. Overview of state and territory Aboriginal heritage legislation. Indigenous Law Bulletin 4:4–9. Ford, S. 2006. Threads for tino rangitiratanga: Frameworks for tangata whenua participation in land-based cultural heritage management by territorial authorities. Unpublished Master’s thesis, School of Ma-ori and Pacific Development, University of Waikato. Fung, C., and H. Allen. 1984. Perceptions of the past and New Zealand archaeology. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 27:209–220. Geelen, A. 1996. Maori involvement in decision making. Archaeology in New Zealand 39:218–224.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 178 Harry Allen Golson, J. 1957. Auckland’s Volcanic Cones: A Report on their Condition and a Plea for their Preservation. Auckland: Historic Auckland Society. –——. 1960. Archaeology, tradition and myth in New Zealand prehistory. Journal of the Polynesian Society 69:380–402. Golson, J., and R. Green. 1958. A Handbook to Field Recording in New Zealand. Auckland: New Zealand Archaeological Association. Greaves, T. 1989. Archaeology and the Green movement: A case for perestroika. Antiquity 63:659–666. Green, R. C. 1963. Prehistory in New Zealand: The Need for Action to Preserve Archaeological Sites. Wellington: National Historic Places Trust. –——. 1966. Protection of prehistoric sites overseas. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 9:81–91. –——. 1973. Notes towards a programme of effective political action in the field of antiquities. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 16:14–17. Groube, L. 1966. Rescue excavations in the Bay of Islands. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 9:108–114. Groube, R. (ed.). 1966. Salvage archaeology and site protection in New Zealand. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 9:77–140. ICOMOS. 1993. ICOMOS New Zealand Charter for the Conservation of Places of Cultural Heritage Value. Wellington: The New Zealand National Committee of the International Council on Monuments and Sites. Law, G., and K. Grieg. 2004. Protecting archaeological heritage through public heritage lists. Archaeology in New Zealand 47:99–107. Lee, W. G., C. D. Meurk and B. D. Clarkson. 2008. Agricultural intensification: Whither indigenous biodiversity? New Zealand Journal of Research 51:457–460. Local Government New Zealand. 1999. Submission to the Transport and Environment Select Committee in the matter of the Resource Management Amendment Bill, 1999. Unpublished typescript in possession of the author. Lunney, D., C. Dickman and S. Burgin. 2002. A Clash of Paradigms: Community and Research-Based Conservation. Mosman, New South Wales: Royal Zoological Society of New South Wales. McFadgen, B. 1966. Legislative problems in the protection of New Zealand prehistoric sites. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 9:92–101. McFadgen, B., and J. Daniels. 1970. Recommendations for the protection of sites of archaeological interest. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 13:160–172. McGovern-Wilson, R. 2008. New Zealand Historic Places Trust National research framework: Discussion paper. Archaeology in New Zealand 51:22–35. McWilliam, A. 1998. Negotiating desecration: Sacred sites damage and due compensation in the Northern Territory. Australian Aboriginal Studies 1:3–11. Mead, S. M. 1997. Concepts and models for Ma-ori museums and culture centres. In S. M. Mead (ed.), Ma-ori Art on the World Scene, pp. 152–157. Wellington: Ahua Design and Illustration, Ltd. and Matau Associates, Ltd. Ministry for the Environment. 2000. New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy. Wellington: New Zealand Ministry for the Environment. –——. 2001. Towards a National Policy Statement on Biodiversity. Wellington: New Zealand Ministry for the Environment. –——. 2009. Overview Phase II Resource Management Reform. http://www.mfe.govt.nz/ rma/central/amendments/main-features-rm-phase-2.html. Moss, M. L. 2005. Rifts in the theoretical landscape of archaeology in the United States: A comment on Hegmon and Watkins. American Antiquity 70:581–587. Mutu, M. 2002. Barriers to tanagata whenua participation in resource management. In M.€Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 75–95. Auckland: Reed. –——. 2004. Maori issues. The Contemporary Pacific 16:158–163.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ The Crisis in 21st Century Archaeological Heritage Management 179 Nature Conservation Council. 1981. Integrating Conservation and Development: A Proposal for a New Zealand Conservation Strategy. Wellington: Nature Conservation Council. New Zealand Archaeological Association. 1999. Archaeological submission on the Resource Management Amendment Bill. Unpublished typescript in possession of the author. New Zealand Historic Places Trust. 2003. Report on the proceedings of the Heritage Landscapes Think Tank. Manuscript on file, New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Park, S., D. Sutton and G. Ward. 1973. Notes on the protection of archaeological sites and historic materials. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 16:5–13. Parliamentary Commissioner for the Environment. 1996. Historic and Cultural Heritage Management in New Zealand. Wellington: Office of the Parliamentary Commissioner for the Environment. Parore, T. 2002. The mana, the dignity, and the freedom: Te Ru-nanga o Nga-ti Whatua. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 118–144. Auckland: Reed. Phillips, C. 2000. Waihou Journeys: The Archaeology of 4000 Years of Maori Settlement. Auckland: Auckland University Press. –——. 2006. Final report, 209 Broomfields Road, Whitford: Section 14 (2003/229) monitoring of earthworks at pit/terrace/midden site (R11/330). Unpublished report for D. and D. Wilson, New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Phillips, C., and H. Allen. 1996. Anatere Pa, Athenree, Bay of Plenty. Archaeology in New Zealand 39:264–277. –——. 2006. Damage assessment of Waihou River sites. Archaeology in New Zealand 49:82–93. Phillips, C., and M. Campbell. 2004. From settlement patterns to interdisciplinary landscapes in New Zealand. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp. 85–104. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 26. Auckland: New Zealand Archaeological Association. Phillips, C., and B. Druskovich. 2009. Archaeological investigation, midden Q07/571, 2567 Whangarei Heads Road, Urquharts Bay: Historic Places Authority 2007/25. Unpublished report for Greg Hamilton, New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Prickett, N. 1985. Site damage and destruction in a rural New Zealand landscape. New Zealand Journal of Archaeology 7:61–76. –——. 2005. The Taranaki archaeological landscape—past, present and future. Archaeology in New Zealand 48:45–60. Smith, L. 2004. Archaeological Theory and the Politics of Cultural Heritage. London: Routledge. Stapp, D. C., and M. S. Burney. 2002. Tribal Resource Management: The Full Circle to Stewardship. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Stephenson, J. 2003. Looking behind the view: Heritage landscapes in Italy and New Zealand. Open Lectures, Otago University School of Social Science in association with the Otago Branch of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Dunedin. Manuscript on file, New Zealand Historic Places Trust, Wellington. Tapsell, P. 1997. The flight of Pareraututu: An investigation of taonga from a tribal perspective. Journal of the Polynesian Society 106:323–374. –——. 2000. Pukaki: A Comet Returns. Reed, Auckland. –——. 2006. Ko Tawa: Maori Treasures of New Zealand. Auckland: David Bateman, Ltd., in association with the Auckland War Memorial Museum. Walter, G. 2002. Market research on heritage: An opinion survey about public perceptions of archaeology and heritage in Auckland. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 180 Harry Allen Walton, A. 2005. How many archaeological sites are managed by the Department of Conservation. Archaeology in New Zealand 48:113–119. Walton, A., and M. O’Keefe. 2004. Archaeological heritage management. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp.€ 263–282. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 26. Auckland: New Zealand Archaeological Association. Watkins, J. E. 2003. Beyond the margin: American Indians, First Nations, and archaeology in North America. American Antiquity 68:273–285. Webster, S. 1998. Patrons of Maori Culture: Power, Theory and Ideology in the Maori Renaissance. Dunedin: Otago University Press. Wilson, R. 1984. A case for the re-evaluation of Maori art. AGMANZ Journal 15:18–19.

Chapter 9

The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands Lawrence A. Foana’ota

Introduction This chapter is a positive account of an independent Indigenous country that has taken control over its cultural heritage, one that also describes the conflicts and range of opinions between older and younger people and between those still involved in custom (traditional beliefs and practices) and those who have been Christianised. It is based on the observations of, and conversations expressed to, the author in his role as director of the National Museum. It begins with a brief history of archaeology and of those who were involved in its introduction into Solomon Islands. This is followed by a discussion of the contributions archaeology has made to the way the Indigenous Solomon Islanders understand their past, as well as a description of current archaeology research work and the future of archaeology in a developing country like Solomon Islands. Solomon Islands is a chain of Oceanic islands with a total land mass of 30,000 km2, made up of six major and numerous smaller islands divided into seven provinces (Figure€ 9.1). The Melanesian, Polynesian and Micronesian population comprises a variety of distinct cultures, with some 87 different languages represented (Foana’ota 1990). The country has been independent since 1978, but was formerly a British colony. Archaeology is principally undertaken by foreign academics, and its acceptance by local people has varied over time. When archaeology was first introduced about 40 years ago, the Indigenous people did not really understand its role and significance, but from the 1970s on, properly organised and coordinated multidisciplinary archaeological projects, together with improved legislation, ensured that foreign researchers fully consulted with the Indigenous people, involved them in their projects and presented their findings in the local language. 181

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 182 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

Figure€ 9.1╅ Map of Solomon Islands with the provinces, island names, and places mentioned in the text. (Map by Caroline Phillips.)

There are still some issues that affect people’s acceptance of archaeology in Solomon Islands. In provinces where traditions are still very active, access to many places is restricted, as they are still being used for ritual purposes. Moreover, disputes over land can result in people being very cautious about revealing information about their places and history. In contrast, in those provinces where Christianity has replaced traditional beliefs, the older ritual and occupation sites have been abandoned for a long time, and the people are relaxed about strangers visiting those sites. Despite the fact that there have been a few negative impacts, the future of archaeology in Solomon Islands looks bright and encouraging. Therefore, it is expected that the good reputation already established by archaeologists through the work they have been doing in several provinces will eventually result in the expansion of archaeology to other parts of the country.

Archaeology in Solomon Islands Archaeology was first introduced into Solomon Islands about 40 years ago by a handful of outside archaeologists (Chikamori 1967; Davenport

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 183

1968, 1972; Irwin 1972; Poulsen 1972). At first, limited excavations and surveys were done in Guadalcanal, Santa Ana, Bellona and parts of the Western Province (Green and Cresswell 1976:1). At that very early stage, there were mixed feelings amongst the Indigenous Solomon Islanders concerning the activities being carried out (Foana’ota 1996). Some people thought that these outsiders were looking for gold or precious minerals, while others were either curious or surprised to see archaeologists digging, surveying and documenting information about abandoned settlements, burials or sacrificial sites and uncovering old artefacts or house platforms. There were those who were suspicious because they could not understand the language used in the reports, or thought the outsiders might take valuable information that could be used against the locals in court in land dispute cases. As a result, they did not appreciate the intentions and work of the archaeologists, and their lack of understanding caused suspicion. Despite these varying Indigenous views, archaeologists were not deterred from carrying out further research work in the islands. Gradually, as a result of the archaeologists’ interest in education, the Indigenous people learned to appreciate the fact that their history did not begin when the first outside explorers visited these islands, as they had been taught during the colonial era.

Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History Project The late Roger Green of the University of Auckland and Douglas Yen, then of the Bernice Bishop Museum in Honolulu, organised and coordinated the first major archaeological research project in Solomon Islands in 1970 (Figure€9.2). This was known as the Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History Project, and it continued until 1978 (Green and Cresswell 1976). The project focused on excavation throughout the Makira and Temotu provinces, and at different times, researchers with varied fields of experience carried out site surveying, excavations and studies in linguistics, material culture, ethnobotany and so on (Chick 1977). During the time the project was in operation, local people were trained in fieldwork. Some results were also published for local readership (Green 1972, 1974, 1977). It was during this project that people began to realise the importance of archaeological research, especially when the Indigenous people were involved in working with the various experts from outside. The researchers involved usually first paid visits to the villages or areas where they intended to work in order to explain to the people the importance of this kind of research work. As a result of these prior visits, changes were noticed in the way the Indigenous people viewed and supported the

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 184 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

Figure€9.2╅ Pottery from the SE-RF-2 Lapita site in the Reef Islands, excavated by Roger Green. (Photo credit: Tim Mackrell, University of Auckland, 2009.)

work of archaeologists; more people started to appreciate and understand the significant role archaeology could play in revealing more about their early history, prior to the arrival of the first European explorers, by uncovering evidence found only in the ground (Foana’ota 1996:242). The involvement of members from the local communities, either as carriers, field assistants or informants to work with the outside researchers, generated deeper interest in the Indigenous people’s views on archaeology (Green 1976). In some instances, Indigenous people started to provide information on other sites they wanted investigated by the archaeologists, especially after they clearly understood the importance of this work and trust was established between the outsiders and themselves. The National Museum was first opened in 1969, and the inclusion of the Indigenous staff from time to time as part of the field teams also helped to clear some of the doubts from the people’s minds (Foana’ota 1990, 1996). In some places, the youth were able to visit the sites for the first time, as previously they had only heard about them from the old people. In this way, archaeology has opened up a new way

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 185

for people to take pride and interest in their own history throughout the islands. As a member of the Solomon Islands National Museum, I first became involved in archaeology when I was assigned to the Southeast Solomon Islands Culture Research Project to learn about archaeology and represent the museum’s interests. Part of the agreement between the researchers and the government was that a Solomon Islander involved in the project should be granted a scholarship to obtain higher education in New Zealand. I was fortunate to be the one chosen, and after graduating from the University of Auckland in New Zealand in 1983, I was appointed Director of the Solomon Islands National Museum. Since then I have been involved in many development and research projects, attended various conferences, seminars, symposia and workshops and written various articles. I also have the opportunity from time to time to go out on field research trips, either independently or as a member of overseas research teams from different universities. It was during these trips to the field or visits by members of the general public to the National Museum in the capital, Honiara, that many of the views reported in this chapter were expressed to me.

Legislation The Research Act of 1982, currently administered by the Ministry of Education and Human Resources Development, controls the way all researchers, including archaeologists, conduct their work when they are in the field. This act has also helped in minimising any problems that may arise due to the lack of understanding between the researcher and community members. One of the main aims of the act was to ensure that any research activities carried out in the country must contribute to education and development, and be of relevance to the needs of the people in the country. It was also important that results gained from any research work should be made available to the people and government through the return of any published reports or theses. Even though there is a national law controlling research work in the country, provincial governments have their own bylaws that are supposed to monitor or control research in areas or territories that are under their jurisdictions. Unfortunately, some of the provinces still have no bylaws in place for this specific purpose. A problem for the central government lies in the matter of fees required to be paid by researchers. According to the Research Act, researchers are charged a fee of SBD$500.00, which is retained by the Ministry of Education and Human Resources Development, �currently

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 186 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

responsible for administering the act. This money is used to cover the research permit, with a cost of SBD$250.00, together with a refundable deposit of SBD$250.00. The deposit is usually returned to the researcher after completing the project and complying with the requirements of the act, which includes providing copies of any publications. In a case where the researcher fails to comply, he or she completely forfeits the deposit. These fees were found to be insufficient for administration purposes and are currently under review, during which time no research permits are being issued (Peter Sheppard, pers. comm. 2009). Another problem faced by the provincial, national and National Museum authorities is the use to which archaeological evidence is being put by some members of the communities to support their claims in land disputes. This is a very sensitive and sometimes risky subject because it completely defeats the whole purpose of carrying out archaeological work in some of these islands. The recent ethnic conflict1 actually caused many problems for the National Museum; it was broken into four times and almost half of the collection was removed by thieves and sold to overseas art dealers. So far, only about one-third of the stolen items have been recovered by the police. Presently, the National Museum is trying to purchase more items to replace the objects stolen. Unfortunately, the museum has to compete with the art dealers, who usually offer more money than the National Museum can afford. As a result, many of this country’s material culture and archaeological heritage items are being lost every year.

Archaeology from 1976 Since the completion of the Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History Project, the only research work undertaken in the same part of the country was the search by the members of the Association Salomon, based in Noumea, New Caledonia, for the ships of the French explorer La Perouse, wrecked in Vanikoro in 1778, and for the settlement sites of any of the survivors (Association Salomon 2002). The Association Salomon has carried out fieldwork and underwater archaeology on a number of occasions between 1986 and 2008 (Patrimoine Maritime de Nouvelle Calédonie 2009). In other areas of the country, intensive surveying of archaeological sites and recording of custom (traditional) stories associated with them was carried out by the National Museum from 1976 to 1985 under the National Sites Survey program, funded by the Australian government from its South Pacific Cultures Fund program (Miller 1979; Roe€1993).

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 187

The New Georgia Archaeological Survey and the Bilua Bifoa Research Project The New Georgia Archaeological Survey (1996–2000) and the Bilua Bifoa Research Project (2002 to the present) are major archaeological projects introduced and carried out by principal coordinators Peter Sheppard (Auckland University), Richard Walter (Otago University), Kenneth Roga (Western Province) and the author (Solomon Islands National Museum) and funded by the Royal Society of New Zealand’s Marsden Fund. Before the field research activities began, preliminary visits were made by the project team to the different communities to explain the aims and objectives of the project, to hear their views and to pay brief visits to a number of nearby accessible sites. These meetings were very beneficial to the archaeological team, enabling them to know in advance the feelings of the people and their understanding of the archaeology work that would follow. Some areas of doubt and suspicion were clarified and, importantly, the community leaders’ support and trust were established before any work was done. On Roviana, archaeologists also carried out survey work and mapping of various types of sites, including some old settlements indicated by large stone structures and fortifications (Figure€9.3). This research included the study of religious sites by Takuya Nagaoka (1999) and the discovery of Lapita pottery by Matthew Felgate (Felgate 2001, 2003). After the completion of the work on Roviana, the archaeologists shifted their focus to Vella Lavella Island, or Mbilua as it is known locally. This led to the second major archaeology project in Solomon Islands, called the Bilua Bifoa Research Project. In 2002, at the start of the Bifoa project, the field research involved surveying, mapping, photography, excavation and collecting ethnographic data. The archaeologists have produced many reports on the work they have done so far on both projects (Aswani and Sheppard 2003; McKenzie 2007; Sheppard et€al. 1999, 2000, 2002, 2004; Sheppard and Walter 2006, 2008; Thomas 2004; Walter and Sheppard 2001, 2005).

Indigenous Views of Archaeology Generally, the current situation in Solomon Islands as far as the role and significance of archaeological work is concerned is that two opposing views exist. Variations in Indigenous responses to archaeology are also expressed by Rika-Heke, Solomon and Forbes, and Watkins (this volume).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 188 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

Figure€9.3╅ Excavation at Roviana Lagoon in 2003 as part of the New Georgia Project, with Peter Sheppard standing at left and Richard Walter sitting in centre. (Photo credit: Peter Sheppard 2003.)

In regions such as the Western Province, where Christianity has replaced the traditional religion, people have a more relaxed attitude towards human remains and the surveying, mapping and excavating of their sacrificial shrines and old settlement sites, as opposed to islands like Malaita, where the old customs are still held.

Malaita Even though the Indigenous people’s views continue to change in some places, not all the communities or islands support archaeology research work. Throughout the whole country there are a few places, like Malaita, where the Indigenous people’s traditions and customs are still very actively and strictly practiced. In these communities, entry into the sacrificial, burial or old settlement sites is usually restricted,2 as some of the sites are still in use by their traditional owners for religious or other custom purposes. Generally, the Indigenous people do not allow outsiders to enter into such sacred sites because they fear the ancestral spirits might get angry and cause harm to them. It is these kinds of places, especially where human remains are involved, that are very culturally significant to the people. For example, if anyone disturbs the burial places, people would experience lightening and thunder, rough seas, heavy rain and very strong wind (Foana’ota 1974).

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 189

This is probably the reason archaeology work has not advanced on Malaita Island and, to date, only brief visits have been made by staff from the National Museum to some places, with very strict access restrictions placed on the information collected. Also, as there are so many land dispute cases in progress, people are afraid to provide information about their land or history that others might use against them in court.3 The most important evidence in any customary land dispute case is based on human skeletal remains, ash or charcoal from cooking fires, visible structures or building remains, as well as trees and plants associated with human activity. Anything to do with human skeletal remains is often very sensitive and as a result should not be touched, removed, or displayed to the public.

The Western Province In the Western Province during the headhunting period of the nineteenth century, warriors raided other neighbouring islands and returned with the heads of their enemies or took others as slaves. The shrines where the human remains were kept have been abandoned for a long time, and in some places trees have overgrown them. The only way to find any information relating to them is through the work of archaeologists. As a result, people in this part of the country are more Â�receptive to archaeological work than in other places, like on Malaita Island (Tedder 1974). The way human remains are treated in this part of the country depends very much on whether any knowledge of them still exists. Where the descendants of the human remains are known, they are always treated with great respect and dignity. This is where archaeologists need to be sensitive, and the best way to accomplish this is to always seek the Indigenous people’s views and advice.

Successful Archaeological Projects So far in Solomon Islands, archaeology has been done without any major problems, even though it is still a limited and new field of study. Archaeologists have not been refused access or chased out of any areas because the main projects have been done in close consultation and with the full support of the national and provincial governments, area councils and community leaders. Today, the Indigenous populations that inhabit the various islands in the archipelago appreciate and understand more the unique diversity of their cultures, languages, history and folklore, partly because of the work of archaeology (Figures 9.4 and 9.5). The changes in the views of the Indigenous people towards archaeology continue to occur because

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 190 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

Figure€9.4╅ Visit of the 2007 Lapita Conference, held in Honiara, to the site of Vataluma Posovi on Guadalcanal. (Photo credit: Peter Sheppard 2007.)

Figure€ 9.5╅ Excavation at Manawoqwa Rockshelter, Santa Ana, 2009; John Keopo, Senior Archaeologist, Solomon Islands National Museum (standing in centre with visor) and visitors from Nataghera village. (Photo credit: Peter Sheppard 2009.)

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 191

today’s researchers from outside institutions have established partnerships with local government authorities and community leaders in working together on various archaeological research projects. Giving back results from the research work in the forms of reports, school materials, videos, photographs or publications has won the confidence and trust of the members of the communities. The benefits people receive from such projects include copies of reports the researchers are required by law to produce at the end of each phase of each project. These contain valuable information that would have been lost forever if it had not been documented before the old knowledgeable men and women died, and the data contained in these reports can now be used as resource materials for teaching in schools.

Restricted Archaeological Coverage Archaeology has unfortunately been restricted to only certain areas, while a number of large islands in the archipelago are still unknown archaeologically even today. The problems that are envisaged as a result of this would include the fact that important sites and the information associated with them may be lost or destroyed by logging companies, or by clearing large areas of land for palm oil plantations, roads, airfield constructions or the building of new houses, if they are not recorded or mapped. The young people, and future generations too, will be losing out on knowledge of their own history and the past, and members of the present populations cannot identify the important landmarks that are often associated with these kinds of sites to establish landownership rights in their own places.

Financial Benefits: A Two-Edged Sword As more well-coordinated archaeology projects are introduced into the country, some village people are starting to benefit financially from shortterm paid employment offered during the life of these projects. Apart from the positive contributions archaeology has made in Solomon Islands, there have also been some negative impacts on some of the communities, especially among the youths. Some young people think that since archaeologists are interested in recording the old items found in the shrines, that there must be high monetary values for such old objects. The other issue is that after seeing these researchers and locals accompanying them return safely, with no one suffering illness or death, they no longer fear the powers of the dead. Unfortunately, some of the younger people no longer respect these shrines or are afraid of entering them without the knowledge of the elders in their communities (information obtained in 2008 from young people who have been to these sites to remove items).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 192 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

The demand for cash by many of the local people in the villages is resulting in a number of the archaeological sites being looted by thieves or even youths from the tribes, clans or families that have land rights to these unrecorded and unsurveyed archaeological sites. These activities are happening at the present time, and some landowners have already been to the National Museum during the past few months to complain about these illegal activities (personal conversation in 2008 with some concerned elders from the islands). Therefore, some complaints raised are not so much about archaeology and the work of the archaeologists, but about youths entering shrines, looting the contents and selling them to outsiders, especially to art dealers, after they realise that such places are no longer dangerous.

Conclusion In concluding this discussion, it is obvious that when archaeology was first introduced some 40 years ago into Solomon Islands, the Indigenous people did not really understand its role and significance. As a result, they did not appreciate the intentions and work of the archaeologists or the reasons for digging up old and abandoned sites. Their lack of understanding at this early stage caused concern and suspicion. But as time went by, organised and coordinated multidisciplinary archaeological projects, including extensive consultations with the Indigenous people by expert archaeologists and other researchers, were carried out, and the suspicions gradually disappeared. This has resulted in the current situation where many people now clearly understand, appreciate and are aware of the role and significance of archaeology in all aspects of development in a country like Solomon Islands. Despite the fact that there have been a few negative impacts, the future of archaeology is viewed by the Indigenous people as bright and encouraging. It is expected, with the good reputation already established by archaeologists through the work they have undertaken in parts of these islands, that its activities will continue to expand to other areas of the country. There are already indications that some provincial authorities and community leaders in Malaita and Isabel provinces are keen to open up their areas for archaeologists in the hope of some interesting discoveries, or the belief that their history needs to be researched. They want experts to help them explore further, provide possible explanations and fully document their sites and history before they are lost forever.

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 193

Finally, archaeology has contributed to the people’s understanding of their unwritten history, which is only found in the ground, providing information that helps them to discard the notion and belief that their history only started when the first European explorers visited these islands and, instead, making them aware that their ancestors settled these islands thousands of years ago. This view is clearly demonstrated by the fact that many Indigenous people within different communities in the Western Province generally accept and support archaeology, a trend that is obviously expanding as well to other parts of Solomon Islands. This general trend of acceptance of archaeological work is happening because the director and staff of the National Museum continue to educate the public. So far the most effective means are through the radio, giving lectures to high school students and public talks at special events, such as the annual Trade and Cultural Week show in July in Honiara and the Provincial Day celebrations that are held at different times throughout the year in the various provincial centres, as well as at the National Museum. During these events the director and staff are able to talk about the work of the National Museum and their involvement with other institutions, organisations and universities in various research projects, including archaeology. One other reason Indigenous peoples are starting to appreciate and understand the importance of archaeological work is from preliminary visits to the communities, during which the director of the National Museum or a staff member from the Archaeology Section goes with an outside researcher to talk to the people and leaders about a proposed research project in their area. This is a newly established trend that archaeologists from overseas are now following, since they find it very useful to gain the people’s trust, establish confidence and clear out any doubts before the work starts. This process normally takes between one to two weeks. The director or a staff member accompanies an outside researcher to visit and spend time with the communities in the field, explaining the kind of work the researcher plans to undertake if it is acceptable to the community. Members of the communities are given time to have their say in the kind of research that needs to be carried out, and that makes them feel like part of any proposed research project in their areas rather than being spectators, as was sometimes the case in the past. Nowadays, due to the cordial public relations the National Museum director and the staff from the Archaeology Section have already established and the good reputation other researchers from overseas have gained over the years with the communities, people are now aware and beginning to understand clearly the importance of the work of

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 194 Lawrence A. Foana’ota

� archaeologists. They are becoming appreciative and are ready to �support them whenever they are in the field. This is quite evident because in some places people have indicated that they are interested in inviting archaeologists from the National Museum, including those from overseas, to visit their places whenever possible. The only drawback to these invitations is the lack of necessary funds to assist the National Museum director and staff from the Archaeology Section to visit these communities. Our only hope of meeting these community expectations and invitations is continuous joint and close collaborative archaeological research work with other universities or cultural institutions outside of the country.

AcknowledgEments I wish to acknowledge the following people for their kind assistance: The late Roger Green, who has contributed so much to my academic and professional career by enabling me to become the first Solomon Islander to graduate as an archaeologist, without which I would not have reached where I am today; Peter Sheppard, who has assisted with some of the text, references and photographs for this chapter, and to his family for their kind and generous hospitality during the WAC Inter-Congress; Caroline Phillips for encouraging me to include this chapter as part of this book, and to both her and Harry Allen for taking the time to proofread and make suggestions towards improving the text; My wife, Sainiana Foana’ota, for bearing with me the long hours I had to work through the night, and my brother, Kaeni Agiomea, and his family for their encouragement to take up the invitation to attend the WAC Inter-Congress when they were in Hamilton during that time. To all those who have contributed in one way or the other towards the completion of this chapter, I sincerely thank you. Tagio tumas nao olgeta

Notes 1. “The Solomon Islands were beset by a low-intensity civil war from 1998 onward, centered mainly on Guadalcanal. The upheaval included the removal of a legitimate government in 2000 and led to the intervention of an Australian-led regional assistance mission supported by all members of the Pacific Islands Forum in July 2003” (Moore 2004:3). The Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands (RAMSI) is still working in Solomon Islands towards stabilising the country. 2. Personal knowledge and also as expressed by people visiting the National Museum.

|

â•› ╛╛ The Indigenous Peoples’ Views of Archaeology in Solomon Islands 195 3. Feelings expressed by some people when talking about archaeology; some members of the public have already come to the National Museum to talk to me about these matters.

References Association Salomon. 2002. The French-Solomon Laperouse Maritime History Project: Assessments of the 1999 and 2000 Campaign and Future Prospects. Noumea: Association Salomon. Aswani, S., and P. Sheppard. 2003. The archaeology and ethnohistory of exchange in precolonial and colonial Roviana: Gifts, commodities and inalienable possessions. Current Anthropology 44 (supplement):S51–78. Chick, J. 1977. Social sciences. Solomon Islands Research Register 6:18–49. Honiara: University of the South Pacific and Solomon Islands Centre. Chikamori, M. 1967. Preliminary Report in Archaeological Researches in the Western Solomon Islands. Kameido: Tokyo (in Japanese with English summary). Davenport, W. H. 1968. Anthropology in the British Solomon Islands. Expedition 11(1):31–34. –——. 1972. Preliminary excavations on Santa Ana Island, Eastern Solomon Islands. Anthropology and Physical Anthropology in Oceania 7:165–183. Felgate, M. 2001. A Roviana ceramic sequence and the prehistory of Near Oceania: Work in progress. In G. R. Clark, A. J. Anderson and T. Vunidilo (eds.), The Archaeology of Lapita Dispersal in Oceania: Papers from the Fourth Lapita Conference, June 2000, Canberra, Australia. Canberra: Pandanus Books, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, Australian National University. –——. 2003. Reading Lapita in Near Oceania: Intertidal shallow-water pottery scatters, Roviana Lagoon, New Georgia, Solomon Islands. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland, Auckland. Foana’ota, L. 1974. Burial sites on Vella Lavella Island. Journal of the Solomon Islands Museum Association 2:22–33. –——. 1990. Archaeology and museum work in the Solomon Islands. In P. Gathercole and D. Lowenthal (eds.), The Politics of the Past, pp. 224–232. London: Unwin Hyman. –——. 1996. The development of archaeological work in the Solomon Islands. In J.€ Davidson, G. Irwin, F. Leach, A. Pawley and D. Brown (eds.), Oceanic Culture History, Essays in Honour of Roger Green, pp. 241–243. Dunedin: New Zealand Journal of Archaeology Special Publication. Green, R. C. 1972. A site designation code for the British Solomon Islands. Journal of the Solomon Islands Museum Association 1:65–71. –——. 1974. South East Solomon Island Cultural History Programme: A preliminary report. Journal of the Solomon Islands Museum Association 2:53–60. –——. 1976. Lapita site in the Santa Cruz Group. In R. C. Green and M. M Cresswell (eds.), Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History: A Preliminary Survey, pp. 245– 265. Bulletin 11. Wellington: The Royal Society of New Zealand. –——. 1977. A First Cultural History of Solomon Islands. Auckland: University of Auckland Bindery. Green, R. C., and M. M. Cresswell (eds.). 1976. Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History: A Preliminary Survey. Bulletin 11. Wellington: Royal Society of New Zealand. Irwin, G. J. 1972. An archaeological survey of the Shortland Islands, B. S. I. P. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland, Auckland. McKenzie, A. 2007. Ancestral skull shrines: Material dialogues of social interaction in the western Solomon Islands. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland, Auckland.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 196 Lawrence A. Foana’ota Miller, D. 1979. Report of the National Sites Survey: 1976–1978. Honiara: Solomon Islands National Museum. Moore, C. 2004. Happy Isles in Crisis: The Historical Causes for a Failing State in Solomon Islands, 1998–2004. Canberra: Asia Pacific Press. Nagaoka, T. 1999. Hope Pukerane: A study of religious sites in Roviana, New Georgia, Solomon Islands. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland, Auckland. Patrimoine Maritime de Nouvelle Calédonie. 2009. Association Salomon. http://www. patrimoine-maritime.asso.nc/joomla/. Poulsen, J. 1972. Outlier archaeology: Bellona, a preliminary report on field work and radiocarbon dates. Part I—archaeology. Archaeology and Physical Anthropology in Oceania 7:184–205. Roe, D. 1993. Prehistory without pots: Prehistoric settlement and economy of NorthWest Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Prehistory, Research School of Pacific Studies, Australian National University, Canberra. Sheppard, P., S. Aswani, R. Walter and T. Nagaoka. 2002. Cultural sediment: The nature of a cultural landscape in Roviana Lagoon. In T. Ladgefoged and M. Graves (eds.), Pacific Landscapes: Archaeological Approaches, pp. 35–61. Bearsville, CA: Easter Island Foundation Press. Sheppard, P., M. Felgate, K. Roga, J. Keopo and R. Walter. 1999. A ceramic sequence from Roviana Lagoon (New Georgia, Solomon Islands). In I. Lilly and J. C. Galipaud (eds.), The Pacific from 5000–2000 B.P.: Colonisation and Transformations, pp. 313–322. Paris: Editions de IRD. Sheppard, P., and R. Walter. 2006. Revised model of Solomon Islands culture history. Journal of the Polynesian Society 115:47–76. –——. 2008. The sea is not land: Comments on the archaeology of islands in the western Solomons. In J. Conolly and M. Campbell (eds.), Comparative Island Archaeologies, pp. 167–178. BAR International Series S1829. Oxford. Sheppard, P., R. Walter and S. Aswani. 2004. Oral tradition and the creation of late prehistory in Roviana Lagoon, Solomon Islands. Records of the Australian Museum, Supplement 29:123–132. Sheppard, P., R. Walter and T. Nagaoka. 2000. The archaeology of head-hunting in Roviana Lagoon. Journal of the Polynesian Society 109:9–37. Tedder, J. L. O. 1974. Notes on old village sites on Marovo Island-New Georgia. Journal of the Solomon Islands Museum Association 2:12–21. Thomas, T. 2004. Things of Roviana: Material culture, personhood, and agency in the Solomon Islands. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Otago, Dunedin. Walter, R., and P. Sheppard. 2001. Nusa Roviana: The archaeology of a Melanesian chiefdom. Journal of Field Archaeology 27: 295–318. –——. 2005. Archaeology in Melanesia: A case study from the Western Province of the Solomon Islands. In I. Lilley (ed.), Archaeology of Oceania, Australia and the Pacific Islands, pp. 137–159. London: Blackwell.

Chapter 10

Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/ New Zealand Why Do Maori Not Engage with Archaeology? Margaret Rika-Heke1

Introduction Items of archaeological importance such as artefacts, known to Maori as taonga, and sites of significance, or wahi tapu, cut to the core of Maori identity (see Glossary for definitions and Maori words). As if to mirror the Maori concept of self, taonga and wahi tapu represent both physical and spiritual aspects that can be likened to a continuum from the past, to the present and into the future. Yet despite the fact that Maori created the majority of recorded archaeological sites in Aotearoa/New Zealand, the vast majority of practicing archaeologists and heritage managers are Pakeha (non-Maori New Zealanders or Europeans). This contradiction raises significant questions. If mahi huakanga (heritage), and all that it encompasses, is so intrinsically connected with Maori, why do Maori appear to be reluctant to participate in archaeological matters? The fact that Maori are not engaged in New Zealand heritage as archaeologists is noticeable and conspicuous, yet within the discipline of archaeology and within Maori communities, the issue is often glossed over and is rarely debated, if at all.

Maori Archaeological Sites and ArtEfacts Tribal lore and oral histories place Maori in Aotearoa/New Zealand in excess of 800 years; by contrast, Pakeha or European colonists have been here for just over 200 years. This longevity of presence is reflected in the record—of about 70,000 recorded archaeological sites, approximately 84% are of Maori origin (Walton 2005:117). Each year more

197

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 198 Margaret Rika-Heke

than 300 authorities2 are granted by the New Zealand Historic Places Trust to allow the modification or destruction of one or a group of sites, mainly to permit the development of houses, roads, forestry and the like, and the majority of these authorities affect Maori sites. Two major museums in Aotearoa/New Zealand contain a large number of Maori artefacts—Auckland War Memorial Museum holds over 24,000 Maori items within its collection and Otago Museum more than 26,000 (Anne Harlow, pers. comm. 2009; Chris Jones and Moira White, pers. comm. 2009). Many more objects are housed in other museums or institutions, and taonga are still uncovered during archaeological excavations and by chance. Most land in New Zealand is now owned by non-Maori; therefore, the sites that lie on these lands and the artefacts held by institutions are largely not in Maori control. Instead, the Crown, non-Maori agencies and individuals have assumed the role of stewardship and custodial care, displacing Maori as primary guardians. Despite this, Maori claim rangatiratanga (sovereignty) over their lands, people and taonga, as guaranteed by the Treaty of Waitangi. Rangatiratanga is a concept that underpins Maori kin groups’ aspirations to protect all aspects of their cultural and economic well-being, in ways that support individual and group leadership, innovation and creativity while contributing to group identity and sustainability. (Kawharu 2002:15)

Many of the issues concerning sovereignty today involve the mana whenua (customary authority over land) and cultural matters. The concept of kaitiakitanga (responsibility, stewardship) is relevant here. It is the responsibility of Maori holding customary authority over land to ensure cultural safety of past and present generations.

Maori Concepts and Archaeology Maori and mainstream archaeologists share two commonalities: these being our regard for and interest in taonga (artefacts) and wahi tapu (sites of significance). Taonga3 is an umbrella term that encompasses many things. Taonga can be tangible, such as portable artefacts like the toki (adze), shown in Figure€10.1, or they can be intangible, such as knowledge pathways, for example how to recite a karakia (sacred prayer or lament), how to identify the signs of tapu (see below) or how to navigate using the stars. So taonga are all things prized and treasured. From a Maori perspective taonga are alive; they retain their own mauri (life essence), their own narrative, their own stories and even personalities (see Mosley for a discussion of similar Aboriginal concepts and Allen for a discussion of

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 199

Figure€ 10.1╅ Multiple views of a small argillite adze from Ongari Point, North Island, New Zealand. (Photo credit: Tim Mackrell, University of Auckland, 2009.)

how New Zealand museums have accommodated these views, both this volume). Wahi tapu, or sites of significance, is also a term that encompasses a myriad of different places. Wahi tapu can be thought of as places that remain in a state of tapu. Maori see everything as having a mauri, and a tapu is an all-pervasive force associated with the mauri. There are three basic aspects of tapu. Tapu in terms of being sacred, tapu in terms of

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 200 Margaret Rika-Heke

being spiritually unclean and therefore dangerous and tapu in terms of prohibitions. A wahi tapu is a place that could be tapu for any of these reasons. Figure€10.2 shows Kauri Point, a pa (fortification) where people have lived and fought and which holds great significance for many iwi (Maori tribes), as well as being a large archaeological site. The �excavation of a collection of hair combs from a small swamp area alongside this pa falls within the bounds of wahi tapu (Shawcross 1976), as all things related to the head are regarded as being tapu. Both taonga and wahi tapu have aspects that relate to the spiritual realm, which also mirrors the Maori sense of te kitenga o whaiaro (personhood or self). Maori see themselves reflected in their wahi tapu and in their taonga: they are one in the same. To us, we embody these things and we have our own mauri. We are both portal and conduit, through us and likewise through these places and objects we are able to actively make the connections to our ancestors and to our past. For Maori, time is thought of in terms of a continuum, whereby taonga, like humans, represent the past, occupy the present and carry the future. This conceptualisation of time can be thought of as a tripartite framework, and contrasts markedly with Pakeha notions of compartmentalised, linear time, where the past is viewed in opposition to the present, and where artefacts are seen as static objects.

Figure€10.2╅ Kauri Point Pa, North Island, New Zealand, 1963. (Photo credit: Wal Ambrose, University of Auckland.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 201

Maori Involvement in Archaeology Why then do Maori appear to be reluctant to engage in archaeology, and why are there still so few identifiably Maori archaeological consultants? Walton and O’Keefe (2004:278–279) noted that in New Zealand there were 110 people employed at least part-time in archaeological work—in museums, heritage agencies, universities and as freelance consultants— but based on my own personal knowledge, there are fewer than a dozen Maori employed as archaeologists. Yet I know of many more involved in other aspects of heritage. What does this reflect? It indicates to me that Maori are choosing alternative routes to mainstream archaeology and scientific enquiry. Maori who are concerned about the preservation of our taonga, wahi tapu and other aspects of our past appear to prefer to go into heritage management, either through tribal or community organisations. In this way our people get to work at a grassroots level, interacting with people and the environment, effecting changes through councils or on planning boards, or by established tribal governance roles. This has been exemplified by the number of marae (meeting house complex) committees and tribal boards that now have flourishing environmental units. These tribal units are often staffed by a tribe’s best and brightest members, whose collective knowledge is put to use in handling matters of import that have the potential to affect the collective and the land within any given tribal boundary. So why are Maori reluctant to become archaeologists? In the following section I will discuss the reasons for this reluctance, reasons that Maori have expressed to me as to why they do not choose archaeology as a career. Amongst them are different worldviews, politics, access and control, practicalities and ignorance.

Worldviews I mentioned before what I see as a clash of worldviews between taha Maori (the Maori perspective) and taha Pakeha (the European perspective). Our worldviews and cosmological leanings are very different, and so how we operate, what we value and the frequencies we are attuned to are different. Inevitably it is at these points of difference that tensions arise and conflict ensues. Consideration of tapu is an apt example of the difference in the application of scales of importance and value. Where Maori take their cues from the rules of tapu very seriously, mainstream archaeological endeavour tends to view tapu as just one factor they have to consider in working in a Maori environment. Fear of the supernatural realm and the exacting nature of tapu transgressions is a very real

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 202 Margaret Rika-Heke

Â� concern for many Maori who hold fast to the ways of our ancestors. The Â�potential harm caused by breaking tapu whilst carrying out a job can be dangerous, and in some cases deadly. Meddling in tapu, and thus the supernatural realm, is considered fraught with unknown dangers. Thus anyone who willingly does so, as archaeologists do when they handle the dead and objects belonging to the ancestors, generally inspires fear and loathing. Maori as a general rule go to great lengths to keep the spiritual realm from negatively impacting on the everyday physical world; therefore, pursuing a career where breaking the rules of tapu is constant and potentially allows those realms to intrude on one another is seen as highly undesirable. Though the spirits are never far from the living and remain ever present, they inhabit a separate realm and must remain there. Some of the restrictions tapu demand in order to stay healthy in mind, body and spirit, such as refraining from certain foods, intoxicants or relationships, also make archaeology an unattractive job prospect. A criticism often made of archaeologists by Maori is that all too frequently our oral traditions, which contain the customs of a given tribe, are relegated to being supplements to scientific enquiry, or are used as a means to corroborate the findings of a research question rather than being seen as valid histories in their own right (Whitley 2002); as Allison€states, Archaeologists have, in general, treated indigenous societies as Â�something of the past and not deemed the opinions and values of their living descendants valid or relevant to a history of that people’s homelands. The traditional indigenous version of these people’s own history has been relegated to a minor auxiliary role as ‘mythical’, or ‘ethno-history’, a curiosity not to be confused with so-called objective truth. (Allison 1999:279)

Politics There are also issues of politics, by which I mean intertribal politics. Prior to European arrival and subsequent settlement in Aotearoa/New Zealand, intertribal warfare was endemic. Walker explains in his publication Ka Whawhai Tonu Matou (2004:71) that tribal wars were Â�initiated primarily in response to population pressures and the quest for supremacy over land, resources and women. The function of warfare served to demarcate territorial boundaries and address resource scarcity, but it also acted as a conflict control mechanism for debit and credit with enemies—that is, payback cycles of vengeance, repossession of land and the collection of dues exacted by way of war.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 203

The arrival of Europeans with new technologies, such as iron tools and muskets, exacerbated existing intertribal tensions. In particular, the steady importation of muskets was disastrous, upsetting the established tribal balance of power and leading to the great Musket Wars of the early nineteenth century, which decimated Maori populations (Ballara 2003). In the postcolonial era, these deep-seated internal memories of intertribal conflicts, wars and grievances have not been forgotten, but have been incorporated into the oral history of each hapu (subtribe) and iwi (tribe). The need to exact recompense and the compulsion to redress the balance has also not been forgotten, and has been carried over into other facets of current Maori life, such as sports, academic rivalry and politics. Old ideas regarding alliances, rivalries or enmities, contested tribal boundaries and so forth still remain current. These take (issues) with other tribes, coloured by our past and the past of our ancestors, are very much part of the present political landscape and for this reason can be challenging for Maori and non-Maori archaeologists alike. Intertribal politics can make it difficult for Maori archaeologists to work outside their own tribal areas. For Maori today, and especially those who have moved away from their traditional lands to urban areas, the issue of genealogy is contentious because ignorance of ancestral linkages can be used as an efficient exclusionary tool by Maori. Within the Maori world, ancestry is paramount. It governs access to tribal knowledge, sometimes to wahi tapu and taonga as well, but also sets the template of interaction between the Maori archaeologist and the home crowd. Restriction of access employed as a control mechanism by Maori can be positive, in that it acts as a measure of protection, but can also be a problem for individuals who are not granted access. This is the primary reason why Maori archaeologists tend to work almost exclusively within their own tribal boundaries, as part and parcel of treading on “safe ground”. Working with your own artefacts and sites of significance acts as a safeguard, but also allows the individual to reconcile their actions (the invasiveness of archaeology) with their conscience. It is imperative that any Maori going into archaeology be able to respect their professional obligations and ethical responsibilities, and be able to determine research limitations, without betraying their core values. To do this requires balance, character and the setting of clear boundaries between work and culture. It is easier said than done.

Access and Control There are also issues of access and control here in terms of how can we, as Maori, access our taonga, our wahi tapu, our heritage?4 The majority of sites in Aotearoa were created by our ancestors, and yet most of our

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 204 Margaret Rika-Heke

heritage managers and archaeologists are Pakeha, and that’s a big take (concern) for us. The right to exercise authority over (rangatiratanga) and guardianship of (kaitiakitanga) our places of significance and treasured objects has been taken from us. The trauma of colonisation—the systematic acquisition of Maori land, expropriation of Maori resources and subjugation of chiefly power and sovereignty, in addition to the extension of Crown dominion by any means necessary—has left permanent scars on the Maori psyche. As Walker comments in his book Ka Whawhai Tonu Matou, European expansionism in the nineteenth century was a historic process predicated on assumptions of racial, religious, cultural and technological superiority … The colonial techniques to achieve European ends included taking advantage of tribal divisions to divide and rule, flattery of chiefs to give them a semblance of consultation while excluding them from political power and extinguishment of native title to land by “fair purchase” to extend the Crown’s dominion into native districts. (Walker 2004:9)

Incidentally, the term ka whawhai tonu matou means “to struggle without end”, and is an allusion to the Maori condition under colonialism and the struggle of living with the trauma of such a past. It is widely acknowledged that Maori have deep misgivings and misapprehensions surrounding archaeology and the science behind it. The memory of hurtful interpretations, used as a tool of denigration, still lingers and smarts. It is why Maori fight so tenaciously about who has ownership and control of information about wahi tapu, of taonga, and so on. Access issues also play a part in filtering the number of Maori engaging in archaeological endeavours. Lack of access to higher learning, and thus mainstream qualifications that allow an individual to operate at a professional level, mean that many Maori are excluded from participating in archaeological heritage work. Although Maori are entering the tertiary education sector in greater numbers than ever before—approximately 90,000 part-time Maori students were recorded at the last overview (Earle 2007)—the numbers enrolling in archaeology papers at graduate level remain consistently low, suggesting a preference for other subjects. The relative rarity of Maori coming through the ranks also means that change in both mainstream archaeology and within Maoridom is slow. Mainstream archaeology still has a long way to go in terms of acknowledging Maori epistemologies as being valid in their own right, seeing oral histories as more than supplementary information and creating a more Maori-friendly atmosphere within the discipline. In short, archaeology needs more Maori flavour. On the other hand, Maoridom, especially its leaders and intelligentsia, must recognise the worth and character of those who strive to become Indigenous archaeologists (see Watkins, this volume). They need

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 205

to support, guide and mentor these people irrespective of tribal or familial affiliation, because change only comes when the agents of change are in a position from which they can operate to effect change. If there are no trailblazers to leave their mark, how then can anyone else follow?

Practicalities Issues of tribal responsibilities can create problems for the Indigenous archaeologist. Often taking care of the whanau, or family unit, and modern-day living expenses war with the need to give back to the tribal community, be they at marae committee or iwi level. Sometimes there is a very keen sense of debt in terms of honour that accompanies the need to give back to your own community. Other times the family and tribal communities can prevail on the Maori archaeologist to reciprocate their services for free, which can at times place that person in quite a predicament. So finance is a practical issue.

Ignorance When I talk about ignorance, I don’t mean ignorance in a derogatory or negative way. Ignorance is a blanket state of being that incorporates not knowing. At a basic level, it is not always evident to Maori how to go about getting into archaeology or cultural heritage management. In this particular instance it may be not knowing how to initiate access to certain fundamental precepts like genealogy, tribal knowledge, the heritage landscape or communities. It also applies to not knowing how to initiate consultation with landowners, educational institutions, mentors, tribal boards and professional networks. These concerns seem to be a large part of why many Maori take alternative avenues of entrance into heritage management. As one of the big issues is that it is not really obvious to Maori how to go about getting into archaeology and cultural heritage management, it is here that my own experiences might be relevant.

Personal Route So why did I become an archaeologist? From the age of five, I knew for certain that that was what I was going to be when I grew up. It’s all I have ever wanted to do, all that has ever really interested me or commanded my attention. Some thought I was a really weird child, always asking questions, always reading books and doing things that were considered a bit different. As a kid I can remember being intrigued with the past, forever thinking about the olden days, about what the land

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 206 Margaret Rika-Heke

would have looked like in pre-European times, and about the stories and deeds attributed to my ancestors who voyaged across the Pacific Ocean to reach Aotearoa. I doubt early on that anyone ever took me seriously. Now, of course, everybody knows I was serious because I followed it through. Like my Nan always said, “So let it be said, so let it be done.” Many Maori who read this may be especially horrified by the fact that I genuinely feel more comfortable around taonga or wahi tapu than I do around people. People tend to assume that I caught the archaeology bug from watching one too many Indiana Jones movies, or that I blundered my way into it after being overtly colonised by a mainstream Pakeha education system. Not so. Even now, there are those amongst the wider whanau and amongst my tribal confederation who think I am a bit porangi (a bit gone in the head) for pursuing archaeology. For the record, my motivations for becoming an archaeologist are tied to memories I would rather bury. They’re painful to conjure and still quite raw—even grown as I am, they still manage to make me flinch. Mostly they’re recollections about my maternal grandmother and the stories she told me regarding the evils perpetrated against our peoples. My mother’s whangai (adoptive) mother, Miria Ruha Ruha Hohaia, was from Waikato Tainui peoples, the daughter of Pekatawa Ruha Ruha Hohaia and Rawi Howard. She was in every sense of the word a matriarch, a survivor of a displaced generation and a dignified Maori woman not easily moved to tears. When she walked into a room, you knew she was there; when she was present, you minded your manners and you kept it clean. No booze, no smokes, no alcohol, no cards and, by God, no swearing or heaven help you she’d go for the soap and wash your mouth out—I should know. Skinny Nan, as we called her, played a significant part in the shaping of my personality and in honing my ethical compass. It is to her that I attribute my conservative streak and love of old epic movies like Ben Hur. One of the most profound memories that comes to mind when thinking about my grandmother concerns the final resting place of some of our tupuna (ancestors) on Taupiri Maunga (a burial mountain). When I was young, my grandparents were always on the move. Since we stayed with them a lot in those days, where they went we were sure to follow. We went everywhere with them: to watering holes, to visit the volcanic cones dotted around Auckland, to the beach, to the bush. One trip in particular that I used to get real hoha (bothered) doing was the Â�occasional pilgrimage to Taupiri, mainly because it was really hard to sit still for the long journey and even harder to behave if the four of us mokos (grandchildren) had to squash up in the car. Anyhow, my grandmother had this funny kind of ritual she’d do each time we went to Taupiri Maunga. She would walk in the gates, turn right and proceed along the fence line

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 207

maybe 50 or 60 m, and then stop at this fence post. Then she’d walk back and forth slowly a few times staring at the grass, then hover over a certain spot and tangi (cry) for ages. As a child, that sort of carrying on struck me as quite odd, but it wasn’t until I was older that I realised the cause of her pain and heard the story behind Nan’s sadness. According to my mother, back in the old days when the government had put the railway tracks and state highway through, some bright spark thought it would be OK to bulldoze straight across the lower parts of Taupiri. As a consequence, countless lower-lying burials were desecrated and all but obliterated, some of which belonged to my whanau (family). The government of the day knew that Taupiri was, and still is, revered as a sacred mountain and burial place for all Tainui people. They knowingly went ahead and put the road through, not giving a damn about us or our loved ones. The injustice of raupatu (tribal confiscations) and the blasé attitude towards that type of wholesale desecration, coupled with the sight of my Nan going through the motions of her ritual, deeply affected me growing up. To this day I cannot stand shoddy treatment like that and can be especially combative when pricked by racial slights. So my grandmother’s story is a large part of the reason why I chose to become an archaeologist: it was to ensure that no one could ever get away with doing that kind of thing to us ever again. I also chose to become an archaeologist because I found myself at odds with the way in which heritage management and archaeological research was being conducted in this country. The lack of real decisionmaking powers over our own heritage wreaks havoc with my mind; that and the fact that 84% of the heritage in this country is Maori, and yet non-Maori hold the majority of custodial power over it. The New Zealand Historic Places Trust (NZHPT) is the primary custodial entity in this country. The Trust employs staff (pouarahi) who provide advice to iwi and hapu on the preservation, conservation, protection and management of Maori heritage places. The NZHPT can also act in an advisory capacity through the Maori Heritage Council and Kaihautu Maori (Maori Team Leader). That is all good and well, but it is still a non-Maori agency assuming authority over Maori wahi tapu and taonga. Another bone of contention amongst Maori is that it is now 2009, and yet we are still waiting for an identifiably Maori regional archaeologist to be appointed. Not as an advisor, but in a visible position within the existing structure of power. What Maori want is a greater say in the decision-making process at the highest echelons, and also to see more tangata whenua (literally people of the land, Maori) on staff at the Trust as a more equitable representation of heritage composition in this country. Although I know the decision makers are listening to the voice

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 208 Margaret Rika-Heke

of Maori discontent, the necessary changes are moving far too slowly for my liking. With that in mind, one could say I deliberately set out to become an agent of change where possible, my rationale being that if the structure was not working, then I would change it to make it work for Maori. That, of course, is a work in progress. One of the complications I see arising from being Indigenous and also being an archaeologist is that you grow up with a certain knowledge that not everyone is privy to, and for that there is a certain kind of isolation. You acquire this isolation in your family unit, in terms of your peer group, in terms of going to hui (tribal gatherings). You are either seated with elderly members of your whanau (family) or people stay away from you, they isolate you, you are considered something different. The need to isolate that which is different is a basic human drive that transcends ethnicity, but for the individual it is a burden to be aware of and something that must be dealt with. In Decolonizing Methodologies, Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999:143) highlights the woes and the pitfalls of insider versus outsider research and how others have implemented strategies for coping. I derive strength from what my nanny told me: “It comes with the territory”, she said, “just to be strong, do the mahi (work) act for Nga Iwi Maori (the Maori people).” Coping strategies for other young Maori coming up through the ranks might range between being highly visible to being invisible. In my particular instance, when I first started an undergraduate degree at the University of Auckland my nickname was “the phantom” because I deliberately focused on my studies and spent as little time around campus as was possible: if it was not compulsory then I would not attend. I tried to make myself invisible, but the downside of that was that I didn’t make the connections, or meet the people, that I should have. That coping strategy was dispensed with by the time I started my Master’s degree; by then I was well on the way to developing a voice to match the angst. This chapter is a reflection of the regard I hold for other Maori like myself, who have found it an immense struggle to pursue such a specialised field as archaeology. This chapter is an honest recollection, and yet it demonstrates that there is triumph and hope. I hope to see more Maori faces joining the ranks in whatever capacity they choose, or should I say, choose to modify. This chapter is also a wero (a challenge) to encourage other young Maori to dare to dream, to see archaeology and heritage management not only as a career, but also as a tool that can further the aspirations of their people. That you are an asset and you are worthy— your mere existence is a powerful form of resistance. Although I call myself an archaeologist, I’m Maori first, that is my birthright, and I consider myself as working for Nga Iwi Maori. Pursuing

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 209

archaeology is merely assuming a different mode of the kaitiaki birthright. Figures 10.3 and 10.4 are photographs of me working as a consultant archaeologist.

Concluding Statement To return to my question: if mahi huakanga (heritage) and all that it encompasses is so intrinsically connected with Maori, why do Maori appear to be reluctant to participate in heritage matters as archaeologists? The answer lies in recognising that Maori are constrained by cultural systems of belief such as tapu and by very different worldviews that are at odds with the Western notion of scientific heritage. It is a misunderstanding that because Maori lack visibility or a voice in mainstream circles, that they are apathetic about archaeological research. Maori are actively engaged in heritage management, preferring to favour a route more in step with their own culture. So whilst the numbers of Maori archaeologists remain relatively constant and low, the true level of engagement is actually reflected in Maori operating as te hunga tiaki (guardians).

Figure€ 10.3╅ Margaret Rika-Heke excavating a pit. (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 210 Margaret Rika-Heke

Figure€ 10.4╅ Margaret Rika-Heke (standing) excavating a trench with other archaeologists. (Photo credit: Caroline Phillips.)

Though it is true that Maori engagement and levels of participation in archaeology are low, it is also true that the slow increase of Maori archaeologists becoming visible on both local and global stages seems to be generating sparks of interest in Maori circles, particularly amongst the larger tribal confederations who see the advantage of having a �home-grown archaeologist on call. Perhaps this excitement could be put to use in having a robust and honest discussion about the problems Indigenous archaeologists encounter. The challenge most immediately apparent is

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Archaeology and Indigeneity in Aotearoa/New Zealand 211

two-fold:€how to get more Maori aspirants of archaeology to qualified status, and how to divest the discipline of some of its colonial baggage. The fact that Maori are noticeably inconspicuous as archaeologists is often lamented but has rarely been debated, either by mainstream society or Maoridom. In the real world, Maori archaeologists are rarities. Selfreflection can be quite humorous, in that mainstream society views you as an educated and enlightened person, whereas Maoridom views you as someone who has turned to the dark side!

AcknowledgEments I would like to thank all the authors for their information, Dr. Caroline Phillips, all the Maori and other Indigenous peoples who were at the Second Indigenous Inter-Congress at Tamaki/Auckland in 2005 and the World Archaeological Congress for giving me this forum. Also, Tim Mackrell for photography and the Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland.

Notes 1. I am currently the Indigenous Representative on the Council of the World Archaeology Congress and have been on the Ethics Committee. 2. Refer to Table€8.1, Allen, this volume, for details on the numbers of authorities granted between 1999 and 2008. 3. Tapsell (1997) argues that taonga have a complex trajectory as they move through time. Kawharu (quoted in Tapsell 1997:326) states that taonga “refers to all dimensions of a tribal group’s estate, material and non-material—heirlooms and wahi tapu, ancestral lore and whakapapa [genealogies]”. 4. “  Full Maori participation in decision-making regarding the conservation and protection of historic places, archaeological sites and wahi tapu [sites of significance] is guaranteed through the Treaty of Waitangi [signed between Maori Chiefs and the British Crown in 1840], and through Acts of the New Zealand Parliament and International Conventions, Statutes and Accords” (Allen 1998:17).

References Allen, H. 1998. Protecting Historic Places in New Zealand. Research in Anthropology and Linguistics 1. Auckland: Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland. Allison, J. 1999. Self-determination in cultural resource management: Indigenous people’s interpretation of history and of places and landscape. In P. J. Ucko and R. Layton (eds.), The Archaeology and Anthropology of Landscapes, pp. 264–283. London: Routledge. Ballara, A. 2003. Taua: Musket Wars, Land Wars or Tikanga? Warfare in Maori Society in the Early Nineteenth Century. Auckland: Penguin. Earle, D. 2007. Ma¯ori participation in tertiary education 2005. Tertiary Sector Performance Analysis & Reporting/Ma¯ori Tertiary Education: Ma¯ori in Tertiary Education—Fact Sheets. Wellington: Ministry of Education.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 212 Margaret Rika-Heke Kawharu, M. 2002. Introduction. In M. Kawharu (ed.), Whenua: Managing Our Resources, pp. 11–18. Auckland: Reed. Shawcross, W. 1976. Kauri Point swamp: The ethnographic interpretation of a prehistoric site. In G. de G. Sieveking, I. H. Longworth and K. E. Wilson (eds.), Problems in Economic and Social Archaeology, pp. 277–305. London: Duckworth. Smith, L. T. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Tapsell, P. 1997. The flight of Pareraututu: An investigation of taonga from a tribal perspective. Journal of the Polynesian Society 106:323–374. Walker, R. 2004. Ka Whawhai Tonu Ma¯tou: Struggle Without End. Revised edition. Auckland: Penguin. Walton, A. 2005. How many archaeological sites are managed by the Department of Conservation. Archaeology in New Zealand 48:113–119. Walton, A., and M. O’Keefe. 2004. Archaeological heritage management. In L. Furey and S. Holdaway (eds.), Change Through Time: 50 Years of New Zealand Archaeology, pp. 263–282. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 26. Auckland: Publishing Press. Whitley, P. M. 2002. Archaeology and oral tradition: The scientific importance of dialogue. American Antiquity 67:405–416.

Chapter 11

Indigenous Archaeology A Moriori Case Study Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

Introduction Peace is the foundation value for Moriori culture. Yet, over the last 200 years or more, Moriori culture has been overshadowed by struggles for survival, for retention of identity and language, and for control over care of sacred places and traditional knowledge (Waitangi Tribunal 2001). In the last few years Moriori have, through the Hokotehi Moriori Trust,1 put aside the problems associated with the past, including those connected with archaeological recording systems. They have, instead, put in place solutions for effective care and management of their heritage. These solutions are based on a distinctively Moriori way of working and recording that ensures Indigenous knowledge is alive, respected and relevant. This approach was trialed in May 2006, and recording work has since been enhanced with the use of oral tradition recording technology and the recent gift from the New Zealand Government of funds for a Moriori Identity Trust (Te Keke Tura Moriori). This chapter outlines three issues of great concern to Moriori heritage: the context for removal of human remains, the collection of taonga2 (treasure, something prized, see Glossary for definitions of Maori words) and early archaeological work. It concludes with a description of the recent cultural database recording work being carried out by Hokotehi. These issues are familiar to many Indigenous communities, and the methods applied by Moriori to address them, therefore, have global significance.

Moriori Culture: The Context for Historic Disruption and Change Moriori are descended from Polynesian peoples who travelled from the southeastern Pacific islands to the islands of Rekohu (literally “garlands 213

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 214 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

of mist”, which is the Moriori name for their group of islands, also known as the Chatham Islands). Rekohu is situated 800€km to the east of Aotearoa/New Zealand (Figure€11.1). Five hundred years ago, Moriori developed a unique culture in their new homeland, founded on peace through the outlawing of warfare and cannibalism. Their collective vow of peace is known as Nunuku’s Law, after the elder who first called his people together to denounce violence and killing (Figure€11.2). The first European contact with Moriori was in 1791 when the brig Chatham arrived and, during an altercation on a beach, a Moriori was shot and killed. Soon after sealers and whalers arrived, and by 1830 the Moriori population had dropped from about 2500 to 2000 through impacts from introduced diseases (Richards 1972). In November 1835, two Maori tribes from Aotearoa/New Zealand (aided by a European mercenary ship) invaded Rekohu, taking advantage of their hosts’ willingness to share resources and their commitment to peace. As many as 230 Moriori adults were killed by the invaders, and the rest of the people were enslaved (King 2000:16). By 1865 the population had dropped again, drastically. Surviving Moriori attempted to document these events to bring their plight to the attention of New Zealand administrators. In 1862, Hirawanu Tapu compiled a list of 1561 names recited by Moriori

Figure€11.1╅ Map of Rekohu and place-names mentioned in the text. (Map by Caroline Phillips.)

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 215

Figure€ 11.2â•… Moriori petroglyphs of seals and birds from Te Ana a Nunuku (Nunuku’s Cave), Rekohu. (Photo credit: Hokotehi Moriori Trust.)

elders. The list showed that 118 men and 108 women had been killed, 1336 Moriori subsequently died from despair, and that only 101 Moriori were still alive. The list did not include the names of many of the children who were killed, and whose names were not known.3 Tapu wrote a series of letters and petitions to Governor Grey in New Zealand asking for help, which was not forthcoming. In a covering letter to the petition that had the list of Moriori names, Tapu wrote: This is another section in the document for the Governor that I have completed, and you are to give it to him. It sets out the ancestors from the beginning, to the end of cannibalism. Friend, you should know that when Maori arrived at this island, their plan was hidden to the Moriori. Afterwards we were killed by them; some were saved as slaves and after a long time in the settlement were killed by them for meat, that is, for food. (Grey Maori Manuscripts, cited in King 2000:118)

All of these names are carved into the central poutokomanawa (post of the heart) in Kopinga,4 the Moriori marae (meeting house) on Rekohu, so that their legacy will always be remembered. Now when there are formal speeches on the marae, the speaker stands at the poutokomanawa and addresses the ancestors, as well as the living (Figure€11.3).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 216 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

Figure€ 11.3â•… The main reason for building Kopinga Marae, which opened in January 2005, was to reestablish a central base on Rekohu in which Moriori could meet, celebrate, debate and just be together. The design symbolises the hopo, the albatross with outspread wings, a sacred bird of the Moriori. The marae’s name—Kopinga—tells us of the ancient gathering place of Moriori amongst the groves of kopi trees on the island. (Photo credit: Hokotehi Moriori Trust.)

Theft: Loss and Longing A fascination with collecting and removing data, specimens, samples, knowledge, taonga and koimi (human remains) from Rekohu began in the early 1800s, soon after newcomers first set foot in the beautiful island group. Moriori, like their Polynesian cousins throughout the Pacific, buried their dead with taonga such as necklaces, adzes and other symbols of importance to assist them during their journey in the afterlife. These taonga were also plundered … There are significant collections in museums throughout Europe and the United States … The theft of koimi, and associated adzes, necklaces, bone pendants and other taonga from urupa (burial sites) was a misappropriation of both tangible and intangible cultural property. (Solomon 2005)

Theft of taonga was not confined to human remains and physical treasures. It included the appropriation of distinctive Moriori images, such as those on the tree carvings, rakau momori.5 Copies of these sacred

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 217

images have appeared in publications and on clothing and �jewellery without consent from Moriori for their use and commodification, and without thought of consequences for the reader, wearer or user. This fascination and this theft have been to the detriment of Moriori. The lengthy period of loss and longing for ancestral remains and taonga has prompted a return to Indigenous authority over their cultural heritage and a different, better way of working with heritage practitioners.

Koimi Moriori: Disconnection and Distance Moriori commonly buried their loved ones in the sand dunes, often with the skull exposed. This made them vulnerable to grave robbers and those determined to collect up the remains (literally) of a dying race. Proportionally, far more Moriori karapuna (ancestors) were exhumed and taken away than from any other tribe in New Zealand. Most often these remains were removed from burial contexts. There is no record of Moriori trade or sale in koimi. As an example of the large numbers of Moriori taken from their resting places, the Natural History Museum in London has approximately 320 koimi (Maori and Moriori human remains) in their collection, approximately 110 of whom are Moriori.6 Many other koimi Moriori are in museum and medical college collections around the world. The exact number is unknown, but is estimated to be at least 400 (Karanga Aotearoa 2007). Imagine the impact on present-day imi (living Moriori people), knowing that, of the estimated population of 2500 at European contact, possibly more than 400 were removed from the homelands and taken to museum and medical school collections overseas. Desecration of Moriori burials and removal of koimi began when naturalist Henry Herbert Travers7 carried out collecting work on the islands in the 1860s and 1870s, selling many of the koimi he removed. He made the smaller Rekohu island of Rangiauria his headquarters because it offered “greater advantages as a collecting ground” (Travers 1868:176). During his first trip to the island he wrote to his father, “Although I found the remains of numerous skeletons in the woods on Pitt’s Island, I was unable to get one in good condition; I have, however, brought several authentic skulls, which will probably be interesting for ethnological purposes” (Travers 1868:123). Museum records from his second trip in 1871–1872 list his removal, and subsequent sale, of 25 skulls and three skeletons (Colonial Museum 1868, 1872a, 1872b; Hector 1872). Bones taken from the islands were used in a research project by William Turner, scientist on the HMS Challenger, during his voyages to the islands between 1873 and 1876 (Turner 1884). These koimi eventually ended up at Edinburgh University and have subsequently been

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 218 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

Â� repatriated through the efforts of the National Museum of New Zealand/ Te Papa Tongarewa repatriation program, Karanga Aotearoa (Karanga Aotearoa 2006). Many surgeons and members of the Royal College of Surgeons, such as William Henry Flower and John Barnard Davis,8 who had worked in New Zealand, collected koimi (notably skulls) and donated these to their institutions. Young medical students who left New Zealand to study at the medical college at Edinburgh University often left with a Maori or Moriori skull, which then remained at the university (Karanga Aotearoa 2006). Even parts of koimi were removed. In 1839, several years after many Moriori had been killed by Maori invaders, a surgeon from the whaling ship Harriot was observed at Waitangi Beach, “with an assistant, a small hammer and a bag, knocking the teeth out of numerous skulls laying about the beach, belonging to the original islanders” (Richard Copping, a whaler, cited in Richards 1982:16). The teeth were, apparently, to be used for dentures. Moriori remains were taken for medical research, so-called scientific research, social anthropology and morbid curiosity. Museums, including those in New Zealand, were also responsible for the sale and exchange of human remains (Dominion Museum n.d.).9 Prior to the rise in popularity of Charles Darwin’s influential work, there was a series of developments and publications in the emerging science of anthropology. James Cowles Pritchard produced the Researches into the Physical History of Mankind in 1851, which focused on explaining human differences as a result of cultural and environmental change rather than biology or race (Griffiths 1996:39). But only a decade later this view of a common humanity was being challenged by practices such as phrenology and craniology—the “arithmetic of arrogance” (Griffiths 1996:39). Phrenology was pioneered by Franz Joseph Gall.10 It rose to popularity amongst those keen to expound notions of racial superiority. Those who practiced it believed that bumps on the skull could be analysed for evidence of areas of brain activity. Skulls were exhumed, stolen and traded to gather large bodies of data for comparative statistics. “By the end of the [nineteenth] century the skull had become the arbiter of all things racial” (Stepan 1982:xviii). Rekohu koimi collections were studied by British anatomist Sir William Turner at Edinburgh University. His work on the cranial measurements of Maori and Moriori resulted in numerous papers on racial difference and theories on geographic origins (Turner 1884). There is also another reason why remains, especially skulls, were collected. In the late nineteenth century, there was a pervasive idea amongst those studying social anthropology and ethnography that many

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 219

Â� cultural traditions were disappearing. As early as 1882, a Â�director of the Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunde in Leiden stated, “Now the watchword is: save what still can be saved of those remains of an original civilization before they perish in the stream coming from Europe, which levels everything down” (Serrurier 1822, cited in Smidt 1992:101). In New Zealand, it was believed that Moriori (and Maori) were dwindling populations with little hope of recovery, let alone sustainability (Newman 1881). This argument was boosted by the effects on Moriori populations of infectious diseases such as influenza and measles. Myths of vanishing cultures helped justify in the eyes of the collectors the social Darwinist theories—the myth becoming at once justification and inspiration. The same sort of collecting fervour was put into endangered bird species and taonga Moriori. Population decline coincided with the rise of Christian missionary influence and, in some areas, increasing religious orthodoxy—both powerful instruments of cultural change. Disappearing cultural traditions, such as language, fuelled notions of decline and therefore the supposed need for cultural preservation in museums and collections in a kind of cycle of self-fulfillment.

Early Recording Work: The Historical Context for Moriori Silence The written record of life on Rekohu is a reflection of intense interest from outsiders during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when relatively few Moriori were in positions to counter written claims or add their own knowledge to the record. Apart from the collaborative work by Alexander Shand11 and Hirawanu Tapu (Shand 1910, 1911), and exhaustive petitions by Moriori to New Zealand governors in the€mid-1800s, the only Moriori records are their memories and oral traditions. This is one of the reasons why we need to be cautious about placing weight on historic written sources and possibly silencing Moriori voices. The first pakeha (European) collectors, observers and writers who travelled to Rekohu included the missionary Baucke in 1848, Shand, who arrived in 1855, Travers during the 1860s and the surveyor Smith in 1868. They drew on contemporary Victorian social constructs and thinking in their writing, much of which focused on attempts to categorise Moriori identity. S. Percy Smith and Elsdon Best12 argued that Moriori were a part of an earlier west Polynesian or Melanesian migration left as a remnant on the Chathams (Best 1916, 1928; Smith 1892). Sadly, it was these supposed racial differences which fuelled the demand for Moriori skeletal remains. King summarised the situation:

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 220 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes Nobody in New Zealand—and few elsewhere in the world—has been Â�subjected to group slander as intense and as damaging as that heaped upon the Moriori. They were regarded by many Victorians as the lowest in God’s hierarchy of created beings; and by non-Christians as negative proof of the Darwinian precept that only the fittest survived. (King 2000:15–16)

These views, so strongly expressed by Best and Smith, were fortunately not the only opinions voiced in the debate. H. D. Skinner’s 1923 work, The Morioris of Chatham Islands, opposed the characterisation of Moriori as non-Polynesian (Skinner 1919, 1923, 1924; Skinner and Baucke 1928). He also acknowledged the assistance of Tommy Solomon13 in his work—a rare moment of working with Moriori. However, his findings were not widely read, except by scholars, and the destructive mythology fostered by Best and Smith persisted. The next waves of recording (and removal of taonga) came in the middle of the twentieth century, including comprehensive work on rakau momori (Houghton 1976; Jefferson 1955; Park 1976; Richards 1962; Simmons 1962, 1965). During the late 1970s to mid-1980s, Sutton’s (1977, 1980, 1983, 1984, 1985) analysis of Moriori material culture provided some opposition to stories that construed the Chatham Islanders as “timid and feckless”. For instance, rather than view the Moriori rejection of warfare as cowardly, Sutton argued that it enabled Moriori kin groups to survive in close confines with their neighbours and was evidence instead of a skilful adaptation to their situation (Sutton 1980:68). In this reading, Moriori cultural development was not indicative of a people more primitive than Maori, but of a capable people who made effective use of limited resources (Blank 2007:85). In the context of this chapter, it is worth stressing that these debates, even the more worthy aspects, mostly took place without Moriori involvement. The consequences of this continued to have deleterious effects on Moriori culture. The archaeological work which followed did little to break this mould and, instead of debating and challenging settlement theories, partially reinforced them. This was something that became obvious in the recent Hokotehi field trial, where local knowledge and associative memories profoundly enhanced the recording work.

Site Recording: The New Zealand Archaeological Association Way In the 1960s and 1970s, archaeological field surveys under the New Zealand Archaeological Association (NZAA) Site Recording Scheme14 recorded 738 sites (Simmons 1964; Sutton 1977). An analysis of the records shows over three-quarters of them to be midden sites, while the

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 221

rest were burial places, petroglyph and dendroglyph sites, and places where artefacts were discovered. One of the main problems with this manner of recording is that the surviving physical evidence (now the subject of the record) has directed the research priorities, without cognisance of the relationships amongst these places. The criticisms of the NZAA recording system implicit in this chapter need to be tempered with a statement that best practice methods are improving. Typical practice in the past, however, was to record archaeological evidence on a site record form that required basic information about location (central point grid reference), date of the record, physical description of evidence, notes on photographs and guides to re-location. However, there was no sense in this recording system of linked heritage landscapes, and no thought given to the inclusion of Moriori voices or knowledge. The limitations of carrying out survey work in a framework that was separate from local Indigenous knowledge led to a restricted interpretation of physical evidence. Moriori were characterised as being transitory, highly mobile occupants with a dependence on harvest from the sea and coast and lack of any horticultural traditions. The Hokotehi cultural database work (discussed below) immediately raised questions about how their people had lived on the islands, most of which had not been answered in earlier archaeological work. Until the Hokotehi fieldwork trial, archaeological work had concentrated on coastal areas and on the northern and eastern parts of the islands, possibly reflecting a strong interest in studying the easily identifiable and accessible coast middens and burials. Because the surveys had not been complemented with studies of inland parts of the island, interpretation of the recorded archaeological data is problematic (Figure€11.4).

A Moriori Response: Caring for Cultural€Heritage There are still some who persist with removal of taonga, but the recent hard work of the Indigenous Moriori governance body, Hokotehi Moriori Trust (Hokotehi), is changing this and turning the tide back towards Indigenous control of their own heritage and identity. In order to redress these losses and subsequent inaccuracies, Hokotehi has embarked on a large-scale program of comprehensive fieldwork and recording of physical evidence and associated values on all the islands of Rekohu. The program includes development of a cultural database,15 and is informed by a literature review, archaeological surveys and oral history recording, all using a traditional knowledge recording system and software

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 222 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

Figure€ 11.4╅ Midden and occupation site, Taia coast, Rekohu. (Photo credit: Hokotehi Moriori Trust.)

known as Traditional Knowledge Revival Pathways or TKRP (2009). The cultural database recording project aims to test a way of working that combines rangata matua (elder) knowledge, landowner and land-user knowledge and experience with archaeological recording techniques. The vital element is the Indigenous structure or frame that ensures knowledge is alive, respected and relevant. It is primarily knowledge of the land and the ways it has been, and is being, cared for, understood and lived in. When recording has been carried out, using all the available layers of knowledge, in a landscape context that looks at connections and relationships amongst and between physical evidence, the ability to understand how the land was previously lived in is enhanced. This enables a heritage management system that moves beyond simply recording and protecting areas of surface evidence to managing, using and protecting all the values of a place. This shift in thinking, initiated by Hokotehi, means that management priorities are now decided by Moriori, and information about these places is retained on the island for the benefit of the local community, as well as wider research opportunities. This shift is assertively Indigenous, and yet deeply respectful of the notion of a collective history on the islands and the need to have collective layers of knowledge about place.

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 223

The term “landscape” is used to stress the importance of heritage recording and research in an interconnected way that respects and connects physical features in a spatial and temporal sense. A landscape assessment approach that looks at relationships between areas of physical evidence is more valid than an attempt to understand isolated areas of evidence, especially when the isolated areas of evidence have been damaged. The idea of landscape expressed here means the way environment is perceived. The difference between reality and perception is created by the viewer’s responses, knowledge, experience, beliefs and biases about a place. Landscapes can be sources of assurance and pleasure—settings that show the affective bond between people and place. Heritage, or cultural, landscapes are places “where human relationships with the natural environment over time define their essential character … The emphasis is on human history, continuity of cultural traditions, and social values and aspirations” (Mitchell and Buggey 2000:35). A sense of place is a notion that means a place is not merely the sum of its parts. It clearly implies that a greater quality comes out of the combined values. A corollary of this is that reconnecting people to places is one of the main ways of arresting the rate of adverse landscape change and damage to places of cultural heritage. This is one of the main aims of the Hokotehi database study.

The Hokotehi Fieldwork The 2006 field trial of the Hokotehi cultural database raised questions such as whether settlement places were only on the coast, whether the eastern coast was more densely occupied than other areas, and why the distinctive Moriori practice of cultivating gardens of kopi (Corynocarpus laevigatus) trees was not a feature of earlier recording work (Figures€11.5 and 11.6). Many of the places recorded in the trial are not in the existing NZAA database, whilst others are recorded only in part, such as middens in isolation instead of as part of wider occupation places. This is not unusual. The Rekohu fieldwork team found that the NZAA database was littered with half-surveyed places, surveys carried out in response to emergency situations and survey work carried out without reference to landowner or Indigenous knowledge. For this reason, we used the NZAA database as a guide only—just one layer in the pile of information systems available for understanding how a place was and is lived in. The evidential bias (i.e., the reliance on surface physical evidence) has had some detrimental effects for Moriori. Minimal evidence was used for an interpretation of settlement that painted a picture of minimal occupation, or worse, a lack of specialness. Middens characterised the Â�occupation

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 224 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

Figure€11.5╅ Cultural survey work on Rekohu; Maui Solomon (left) and Mana Cracknell (right) on the dunes at Lake Taia, east coast of Rekohu. (Photo credit: Hokotehi Moriori Trust.)

record. This style of recording is also chronologically obsessed. The Â�evidential style of recording is structured around the archival record, by which we mean a convention of accumulating a paper record. The Hokotehi cultural database aims to build a record that is regularly refreshed and reflected upon—a cyclical process as opposed to a linear one. The Indigenous perspective, asserted for the first time during the fieldwork trial, was based on a more complex evaluation of Indigenous knowledge and occupation. This evaluation (using layers of knowing from oral traditions, land-user experience, maps, archival data and associative knowledge) had an imperative to unbind constricting terminology that has locked up Moriori culture in periods called Archaic and Post-Archaic. Instead, the aim is to define settlement in Moriori terms that reflect the deep affection for and connection to landscape.

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 225

Figure€ 11.6╅ Cultural survey work on Rekohu; from left to right, Michele Andersen (obscured), Tom Lanauze, Mana Cracknell and Susan Forbes, with kopi trees in the background. (Photo credit: Hokotehi Moriori Trust.)

A trial of the cultural database recording work was started in early 2006 and has made good progress since. The fieldwork very quickly resulted in a change in the way occupation places could be interpreted on Rekohu. Work commenced with a team of Hokotehi staff, an archaeologist and Moriori elders travelling the land in a systematic way recording physical evidence alongside story-places and associated values in a landscape context. This worked much like an ecological study might take place—based on understanding the complexity of interrelationships, not just placed dots on the archaeological map. Working with elders also gave us the advantage of working within a cloak of cultural safety, as the elders were able to ensure safe passage for the work through appropriate ritual. The fieldwork was a form of archaeology without paternalism. Recording was responsive to environmental indicators such as landscape change brought about by changes in ecology, vegetation and erosion. Recording was responsive to memory about previous landscape use and character, as well as being responsive to memory of ancestral traditions and naming. Recording of archaeological surface evidence was only one dimension of the fieldwork. This style of working proved to be illuminating in terms of quickly locating and recording evidence and Â�refreshing

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 226 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

knowledge of associative information—memories of past events, and uses of land and resources. The field recording form used by Hokotehi prompts recorders to describe what can be physically observed, along with information on the recording conditions (weather, season, landscape use and change) and references to archival material related to the place; it then asks them to test the accuracy of this by drawing out reflections from elders about matters such as traditional uses of the area, accuracy of older names and associated events. These reflections are filmed and then processed with the TKRP software, which tags key words in the record so that stored film clips can be sorted. If, in the description of a place, a speaker talks about ancestral naming and then moves to information about practices such as fishing or perhaps burial traditions, the film clip can cross-Â�reference all these subjects. The outcome is a record that captures the immediacy and relevancy of the response. The film record notes responses to landscape and heritage, and often prompts information that may not otherwise be forthcoming in a paper-based assessment of site values.

Historic Places Act Authorities Site recording is not the only aspect of archaeology practiced on Rekohu. Under the Historic Places Act 1993, developers may apply for an authority to modify, damage or destroy an archaeological site. Allen (this volume) describes this process in more detail. This process usually includes the archaeological NZAA Site Record, an archaeological assessment and statements about archaeological value all prepared by an archaeologist, and a cultural assessment most often carried out by the tchakat henu (literally, people of the land). In theory this should work, in practice what often happens is a separation between the archaeological values statement and the cultural values statement. Sometimes situations even arise that see these two assessments in direct contrast with each other, and Phillips (this volume) gives other examples in New Zealand. This problem is not confined to Rekohu, or even New Zealand. Recent debates within the World Archaeological Congress community highlight concerns shared by archaeologists about using these values statements in order to tick the cultural heritage box and proceed with destroying sites anyway. Too often, the simple production of archaeological and cultural reports means that cultural heritage has been dealt with and development can proceed. If these reports were produced without reference to the wider heritage landscape, there would be a risk of losing vital information on how heritage places are interconnected. Cultural heritage becomes objectified as a notion defined as a series of sites or site fragments.

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 227

Carrying out the two values assessments without reference to each other removes the opportunity for reflection and testing of accuracy. When archaeologists learn about value from Indigenous perspectives it increases the dialectic and debate. Sensitivity to a wider spectrum of how value is understood by Indigenous peoples is required by the archaeological community. This is being achieved through the work of Hokotehi. Their cultural database recording system blends the archaeological research with cultural and landscape approaches.

Archaeology and Ethical Conduct In many ways, the cultural heritage work being undertaken by Hokotehi would have been simpler if it were starting from scratch. Previous archaeological work and subsequent, or consequent, interpretations have laid down layers of thinking about Moriori culture without Moriori participation. Much of this needs to be unravelled in order to map the Indigenous landscapes. The past silence from Moriori in the research records is a significant factor in outsiders’ misreading of cultural landscapes, and the nature of Moriori settlement and occupation. Archaeology is a meddling science. It meddles in the worlds of identity and memory of others (see also Haber et€ al., this volume). If you choose to be an archaeologist, then you choose to be a meddler. The ethical imperative then is to choose to accept responsibility for the consequences of meddling, and act ethically. Generally, archaeologists believe what they do is useful. We suggest that it is only useful when practice blends scientific and Indigenous approaches (Forbes 2005). If archaeological practice separates the physical from the intangible, the result is an impoverished record, possibly a misread one. The gaps in the record leave a kind of wounded space where landscape, associated stories and events should sit. Cultural illiteracy stems from misreading physical evidence, or missing signs not always legible in traditional knowledge landscapes—signifiers that are often more easily read when Indigenous knowledge is available. It makes sense for archaeologists to work hard on being culturally literate, which enables practitioners to be able to read landscapes and physical evidence through a social lens and through local lexicons. It is vital for the construction as well as protection of memory, identity and Â�intellectual property. So much of what we do wrong in this field is the result of Â�misreading country or landscape and landscape connections—of only seeing what you know. Archaeologists need to use their skills to reinvigorate layers of knowing, helping reclaim Indigenous narratives for, and with, Indigenous peoples, and then know when to step back. Archaeologists need to be part of a movement to institutionalise ethical practice.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 228 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes

The kind of bicultural enquiry that Hokotehi is engaged in works like a research conversation—one that is dynamic and even intergenerational—developing collective memory through the research process. The research designs used are active and evolve as the work is carried out. They work because they are developed by the Indigenous community for the management and care of their own heritage. They eliminate the need for outsiders to come from New Zealand, or elsewhere, and then leave with the research and, sometimes, the physical taonga as well. The Hokotehi approach sees the information collected and cared for by Moriori, with, as appropriate, certain limits on access and use. The work being carried out for the cultural database, and upcoming projects on identity and language that will come from Te Keke Tura Moriori, will contribute to a strengthening and flourishing of Moriori knowledge and practices. The recording work is contributing already as a teaching tool and as a resource for developing tourism and commercial initiatives, and is a lasting tribute to the Moriori culture of peace.

Notes â•⁄ 1. Hokotehi is the mandated body for Moriori people, involved in negotiations on their behalf with the Crown, government and other agencies and in developing a commercial, cultural, language and resource base. It is based at Kopinga Marae. â•⁄ 2. Use of Moriori language and terminology: we have attempted to keep the use of Moriori words to a minimum so that the text is accessible to readers unfamiliar with the language. However, some words have been retained because there is simply no better way of saying what is meant. A general translation has been provided in the Glossary, but we would like to stress that these are complex words, ill-suited to one interpretation. Their integrity is best protected through their use, not their translation. â•⁄ 3. Hirawanu Tapu was born in about 1824. He was a Moriori from the Owenga area on Rekohu and was fluent in Moriori and Maori and proficient in English. Tapu had been a boy of about 11 during the invasion. When Moriori held their chiefly Council at Te Awapatiki in 1862, Tapu was their scribe. In 1870 he was a key Moriori witness in the Native Land Court hearings. In 1868 Tapu had begun to help the young licensed native interpreter, Alexander Shand, son of the first resident magistrate, to collect Moriori history, traditions, chants and vocabulary (Grey Maori Manuscripts 1862, 1863; King 1990, 2000, 2007a; New Zealand Gazette 1862: 1861 census). â•⁄ 4. Kopinga Marae was opened in January 2005. The name Kopinga refers to a grove of kopi trees (Corynocarpus laevigatus). â•⁄ 5. Rakau momori (scar tree or dendroglyph) is an all-encompassing word for carvings into tree bark. It does not begin to cover the meaning and significance of these carvings, which are complex and diverse portrayals of ancestors and events; many of them are memorials for departed loved ones. The belief was that, by carving the image into the tree, the spirit of the departed would be infused into the tree, which then acted as a kind of portal to the spiritual homeland. These places are very tapu (sacred) and are used for meditation and reflection. â•⁄ 6. Note that this collection is an amalgamation of many collections (private and institutional), including the Royal College of Surgeons, London, and the collection of John Barnard Davis.

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 229

â•⁄ 7. H  enry’s father, William Travers, was one of the founders of the New Zealand Institute (Shepherd 2007). â•⁄ 8. D  avis was one of the authors of Crania Britannica (1865). In 1879, his collection of human remains sold for £1000. â•⁄ 9. This was originally known as the Colonial Museum; it opened in 1865 under its first director, James Hector. In 1907 it changed its name to the Dominion Museum, and in 1972 became known as the National Museum. In 1992 the National Museum and the National Art Gallery were combined to form the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. 10. Gall, 1758–1828, developed cranioscopy, a method to determine the personality and development of mental and moral faculties on the basis of the external shape of the skull. Cranioscopy was later renamed phrenology by his follower Johann Spurzheim. In 1802 Gall was expelled from Austria for his work, and though his theories were ridiculed, they still took hold (Gall and Spurzheim 1810; Sabbatini 1997). 11. Alexander Shand was the first resident magistrate and collector of customs duties. 12. Best and Smith were amateur ethnologists; both were founding members of the Polynesian Society, which aimed to promote the study and recording of Polynesian history and culture (Sissons 2007). 13. Tame Horomona Rehe, 1884–1933, subsequently and better known as Tommy Solomon, was born at Waikaripi on Chatham Island, descending from both the Owenga and Otonga Moriori tribes. Throughout the 1920s, Tommy Solomon’s reputation grew throughout New Zealand—as one of the most skilled farmers on the Chathams, and after the death of his father’s sister, as the so-called last Moriori. He remained proudly Moriori in identity and it was his descendants, and those of Riwai Te Ropiha, a contemporary of his father, who were responsible for maintaining a Moriori presence on the Chathams and, 50 years later, initiating a revival of Moriori culture (King 2007b). 14. The NZAA Site Recording Scheme is a record of places where archaeological evidence has been recorded. This is important because it is not a record of where evidence exists, but only a record of where archaeological evidence has been observed. It is a site-based database that contains over 55,000 records throughout New Zealand and approximately 800 in Rekohu. The records are maintained on a voluntary basis, with a central index (CINZAS) kept in files at the Department of Conservation head office in Wellington. 15. The choice of words “cultural database” is deliberate because the database consists of records of Moriori culture. This endnote is a cautionary note to warn against any interpretation of culture in a binary sense, i.e., as one dimension of a split between two realities: nature and culture. Moriori knowledge of how the land was and is lived in is very much based on the notion that culture and nature are inextricably woven together. “Culture” is not, here, an outsider ideology. It is a word used to denote a Moriori way of living and knowing. Cultural heritage is also a notion that is not confined to the past. Cultural heritage protection is based on sustainable land management practices and affection for place.

References Best, E. 1916. Maori and Maruiwi: Notes on the original inhabitants of New Zealand and their culture: On the question of how that culture affected the later-coming Maori: And on the existence in these isles of customs, arts, and artifacts not traceable to Polynesia. Transactions of the New Zealand Institute 48:435–447. Wellington: Government Printer. –——. 1928. Maori and Maruiwi. The arrival of the first Polynesian settlers at Whakatane. Origin of the mixed Toi tribes. Journal of the Polynesian Society 37:175–193.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 230 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes Blank, J. 2007. Imagining Moriori: A history of ideas of a people in the twentieth century. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of History, University of Canterbury, Christchurch. Colonial Museum. 1868. List of donations to the Colonial Museum from 27th May to 30th June 1868. Third Annual Report of the Colonial Museum and Laboratory, p.€7, no. 153, 10th January 1868, Te Aka Matua, Cable Street. Unpublished archives, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. –——. 1872a. List of items from the Chatham Islands, with prices paid to H. H. Travers, MU000147, 3.1872 (March), box 4, item 15, Tory Street. Unpublished archives, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. –——. 1872b. List of donations to the Colonial Museum from 21st August 1871 to July 1872. Seventh Annual Report of the Colonial Museum and Laboratory, p. 10, no. 561, 21st March 1872, Te Aka Matua, Cable Street. Unpublished archives, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. Davis, J. B., and J. Thurnham. 1865. Crania Britannica: Delineations and Descriptions of the Skulls of the Early Inhabitants of the British Islands; Together with Notices of Their Other Remains. London: Published for the Subscribers. Dominion Museum. n.d. Records of sales and exchanges of human remains. Unpublished archives, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. Forbes, S. 2005. Aroha and Archaeology: Principles and praxis for protecting Indigenous cultural and intellectual property. Paper presented at the 2nd Indigenous World Archaeological Congress Inter-Congress, Auckland, New Zealand. Gall, F. J., and J. C. Spurzheim. 1810. Anatomie et Physiologie du Système Nerveux en Général et du Cerveau en Particulier; Avec des Observations sur la Possibilité de Reconnaître Plusieurs Dispositions Intellectuelles et Morales de l’Homme et des Animaux par la Configuration de leur Têtes. Paris: F. Schoell. Grey Maori Manuscripts. 1862. Letters. 4 letters from the Chatham Islands, GNZMMS 122. Auckland: Auckland City Libraries. –——. 1863. Whakapapa and history. Letter from Grey to Selwyn, whakapapa of the Chatham Islands, in Maori (Ngati Awa) and Moriori (Maruiwi) dialects, GNZMMS 144. Auckland: Auckland City Libraries. Griffiths, T. 1996. Hunters and Collectors: The Antiquarian Imagination in Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hector, J. 1872. Rough copy of a letter from Sir James Hector (9 March 1872) written to the Colonial Secretary re Mr. Travers, attached to letter to Henry Travers, Berlin Museum, authorisation for expenditure for zoological and botanical departments (8€ March 1872), MU000147, box 4, item 11, Tory Street. Unpublished archives, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. Houghton, P. 1976. The Human Skeletal Material from Waihora (CH283). Working Papers in Chatham Islands Archaeology 4. Dunedin: Anthropology Department, University of Otago. Jefferson, C. 1955. The Dendroglyphs of the Chatham Islands. Journal of the Polynesian Society 64:367–441. Karanga Aotearoa. 2006. Karanga Aotearoa Repatriation Programme, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. Unpublished records of repatriation from Edinburgh, on file at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. –——. 2007. Karanga Aotearoa Repatriation Programme, Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. Unpublished research, on file at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, Wellington, New Zealand. King, M. 1990. A Land Apart: The Chatham Islands of New Zealand. Auckland: Random Century. –——. 2000. Moriori: A People Rediscovered. Revised edition. Auckland: Viking.

Indigenous Archaeology: A Moriori Case Study

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 231

King, M. 2007a. Tapu, Hirawanu, ?–1900. Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. http:// www.dnzb.govt.nz/. –——. 2007b. Solomon, Tommy, 1884–1933. Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. http://www.dnzb.govt.nz/. Mitchell, N., and S. Buggey. 2000. Protected landscapes and cultural landscapes: Taking advantage of diverse approaches. The George Wright Forum 17:35–46. Newman, A. K. 1881. A study of the causes leading to the extinction of the Maori. Transactions of the Proceedings of the New Zealand Institute 14:58–77. Wellington: Government Printer. New Zealand Gazette. 1862. Wellington: Government Printer. Park, G. S. 1976. The Dendroglyphs and Petroglyphs of the Chatham Islands. Working Papers in Chatham Islands Archaeology 3. Dunedin: Department of€ Anthropology, University of Otago. Pritchard, J. C. 1851. Researches into the Physical History of Mankind. London: Sherwood, Gilbert and Piper. Richards, R. 1962. An historical geography of the Chatham Islands. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Geography, University of Canterbury, Christchurch. –——. 1972. A tentative population distribution map of the Morioris of Chatham Island, circa 1790. Journal of the Polynesian Society 81:350–374. –——. 1982. Whaling on the Chathams grounds: An historical and quantitative assessment. In R. Richards, Whaling and Sealing at the Chatham Islands, pp. 3–84. Canberra: Roebuck Society. Sabbatini, R. M. E. 1997. Phrenology, the history of brain localization. Brain & Mind no. 1, March–April. http://www.cerebromente.org.br/n01/frenolog/frenologia.htm. Shand, A. 1910. The Moriori people of the Chatham Islands: Their traditions and history. Journal of the Polynesian Society 19:206–217. –——. 1911. The Moriori People of the Chatham Islands. Wellington: Polynesian Society of New Zealand. Shepherd, R. W. 2007. Travers, William Thomas Locke, 1819–1903. Dictionary of New€Zealand Biography. http://www.dnzb.govt.nz/. Simmons, D. R. 1962. The Moriori of the Chatham Islands. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 5:238–244. –——. 1964. Chatham Island archaeological survey. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 7:51–69. –——. 1965. A preliminary report on an associated group of dendroglyphs in the Chatham Islands. New Zealand Archaeological Association Newsletter 8:39–43. Sissons, J. 2007. Best, Elsdon, 1856–1931. Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. http:// www.dnzb.govt.nz/. Skinner, H. D. 1919. Moriori sea-going craft. Man 19(34):65–68. –——. 1923. The Morioris of Chatham Islands. Bernice P. Bishop Museum Memoirs, vol. 9, no. 1. Honolulu. –——. 1924. The Morioris of the Chatham Islands. Journal of the Polynesian Society 33:80. Skinner, H. D., and W. Baucke. 1928. The Morioris. Bernice P. Bishop Museum Memoirs, vol. 9, no. 5. Honolulu. Smidt, D. 1992. The Taonga Maori collection of the Rijkmuseum voor Volkenkunde, Leiden. In Cultural Conservation Advisory Council/Te Roopu Manaakii Nga Taonga Tuku Iho, Taonga Maori Conference, New Zealand, 18–27 November, 1990, pp. 100– 112. Wellington: Department of Internal Affairs. Smith, S. P. 1892. Stone implements of the Chatham Islands. Journal of the Polynesian Society 1:80. Solomon, M. 2005. The Long Journey Home. Paper presented at the 2nd Indigenous World Archaeological Congress Inter-Congress, Auckland, New Zealand.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 232 Maui Solomon and Susan Forbes Stepan, N. 1982. The Idea of Race in Science: Great Britain 1800–1960. London & Basingstoke: The Macmillan Press. Sutton, D. G. 1977. Archaeological Research in the Chatham Islands, 1973–1976: A Review. Working Papers in Chatham Islands Archaeology 11. Dunedin: Department of€Anthropology, University of Otago. –——. 1980. A culture history of the Chatham Islands. Journal of the Polynesian Society 89:67–93. –——. 1983. Huts, hovels or houses: A clarification of prehistoric Moriori settlement patterns. In S. Bulmer, R. G. Law and D. G. Sutton (eds.), A Lot of Spadework to Be Done: Essays in Honour of Lady Aileen Fox, pp. 185–211. New Zealand Archaeological Association Monograph 14. Auckland. –——. 1984. Archaeological sites on the Chatham Islands. In New Zealand Land Inventory: Chatham Islands: Report Accompanying NZMS 290 Maps, pp. 12–20. Wellington: Department of Lands and Survey. –——. 1985. The whence of the Moriori. New Zealand Journal of History 19:3–13. Traditional Knowledge Revival Pathways. 2009. Moriori Project Report 2008, Traditional Knowledge Revival Pathways. http://tkrp.com.au/index.php?option€ =€ com_content& ask€=€view&id€=€112&Itemid€=€125 Travers, H. H. 1868. On the Chatham Islands. Transactions and Proceedings of the New€Zealand Institute 1:119–127. Wellington: Government Printer. Turner, W. 1884. Human skeletons. In Great Britain Challenger Office, Report of the Scientific Results of the Voyage of H.M.S. Challenger During the Years 1872–1876: Zoology, vol. LXXX, pp. 73–75. London: Eyre and Spottiswoode. Waitangi Tribunal. 2001. Rekohu: A Report on Moriori and Ngati Mutunga Claims in the Chatham Islands, Waitangi Tribunal Report, Wai 64. Wellington: Legislation Direct.

Chapter 12

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology George P. Nicholas

The purpose of this chapter is to argue for the end of Indigenous Â�archaeology. The title is intentionally provocative, but it does reflect an important and fundamental set of issues. Here I take what can be termed a bipolar approach. Currently Indigenous archaeology is emerging as a distinct form of the discipline, and some would suggest a very separate one; certainly, this approach remains at the margins of archaeology. While I strongly encourage the pursuit of community-based, ethnocritical, and reflexive methods and modes of interpretation as much-needed and long-overdue elements in contemporary archaeology, at the same time I suggest that we must also work to eliminate Indigenous archaeology as a creature that resides solely outside of the mainstream. That is, rather than working to develop Indigenous approaches to archaeology separate from others, we should be trying to incorporate them within the discipline. Failing to do so will limit significantly or marginalise the potential contributions of archaeology as a more representative and responsible discipline, and constrain its continued intellectual growth. Although I am not an Aboriginal person, I have been deeply involved in the realm of Indigenous archaeology—archaeology with, for, and by Indigenous peoples—for almost 20 years. During this time, I have worked closely with First Nations individuals and organisations in Canada; monitored developments in the United States, Australia and elsewhere; written articles, edited books and organised symposia on this topic; and generally promoted archaeology to Aboriginal peoples and vice versa.1 Along with many others, I have argued long and hard for Indigenous archaeology, and there is now a growing cadre of Aboriginal and nonAboriginal archaeologists and students involved in the discipline. What Indigenous archaeology actually is has been surprisingly difficult to pin down. It, of course, means different things to different people. It overlaps, sometimes substantially, with other approaches to archaeology, including “collaborative”, “community”, “vernacular”, “covenantal” and others still. Yet it is also very distinctive. I discovered this 233

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 234 George P. Nicholas

several years ago when I was asked to prepare the entry on Indigenous �archaeology for the Encyclopedia of Archaeology (edited by Deborah Pearsall), and what I thought would be a relatively easy task turned out to be an exceptional challenge. In the end, the basic definition I developed was this (also see Table€12.1): Indigenous archaeology is an expression of archaeological theory and practice in which the discipline intersects with Indigenous values, knowledge, practices, ethics, and sensibilities, and through collaborative and community-originated or -directed projects, and related critical perspectives. Indigenous archaeology seeks to (1) make archaeology more representative of, responsible to, and relevant for Indigenous communities; (2) redress real and perceived inequalities in the practice of archaeology; and (3) inform and broaden the understanding and interpretation of the archaeological record through the incorporation of Aboriginal worldviews, histories, and science. (Nicholas 2008:1660)

Within the last decade or more, Indigenous archaeology has increasingly become a fixture on the archaeological landscape. By 2003 alone, the topic was recognised well enough to merit a place as one of three articles (Watkins 2003) solicited for a special issue of American Antiquity; the World Archaeological Congress (WAC) has a book series entitled Indigenous Archaeologies, Indigenous topics permeated the 5th and 6th World Archaeological Congresses in 2003 and 2008 and, of course, such issues were the primary focus of the WAC Indigenous Inter-Congress held in Auckland in 2005. Since then, the topic now appears regularly in conference proceedings, and has also even begun to be noted in archaeology textbooks (e.g., Ashmore and Sharer 2009; Neusius and Gross€2007).2 Today, there is a growing literature cognisant of and promoting the need for greater involvement of Aboriginal peoples in archaeology (e.g., Atalay 2006; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008; Davidson et€al. 1995; Dongoske et€al. 2000; Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh€2006; Table 12.1╅ The diverse elements of Indigenous archaeology. (Nicholas 2008:1660) Indigenous archaeology may include any one (or more) of the following: 1. The active participation or consultation of Indigenous peoples in archaeology 2. A political statement concerned with issues of Aboriginal self-government, sovereignty, land rights, identity and heritage 3. A postcolonial enterprise designed to decolonise the discipline 4. A manifestation of Indigenous epistemologies 5. The basis for alternative models of cultural heritage management or stewardship 6. The product of choices and actions made by individual archaeologists 7. A means of empowerment and cultural revitalisation or political resistance 8. An extension, evaluation, critique or application of current archaeological theory

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 235

Green 1989; Kerber 2006; McNiven and Russell 2005; Nicholas and Andrews 1997; Peck et€al. 2003; Silliman 2008; Smith and Wobst 2005; Swidler et€al. 1997; Watkins 2000, 2003; Yellowhorn 2002; Zimmerman 2008; also Allen, Rika-Heke, Solomon and Forbes, this volume).3 This is coupled with the fact that the number of Indigenous persons involved in archaeology has risen dramatically in recent years (Figure€ 12.1)—a trend that shows no signs of abating (e.g., Nicholas 2010). There is clearly much to celebrate for those who believe that archaeology should be broad and flexible enough to accommodate multiple approaches (both complementary and contradictory) to the past and incorporate the knowledge obtained into the present.

Figure€ 12.1╅ In British Columbia, Canada, Bert William (Bonaparte Band, Secepwemc First Nation) is one of the growing number of Indigenous persons who are engaged in archaeology today. Bert is making a significant contribution to his community as an archaeologist, a band councillor and an expert stone tool replicator. (Photo credit: George Nicholas.)

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 236 George P. Nicholas

In this paper, I explore two related topics. The first concerns the rise of Indigenous perspectives and their positioning within archaeological theory and practice; and the second, the reasons for promoting integration, rather than separation. Within this context, I argue that such integration is needed to address the inequalities in the process of archaeological inquiry. But at the same time, I suggest that it is a mistake to simplify the challenges here (separation vs. integration) and maintain that it is not only possible, but necessary, to have both positions continue to have an important role.

ContextualiSing Indigenous Perspectives in€Archaeology The importance of Indigenous voices, perspectives, and participation in archaeology reflects the broadening (some would say humanising) of the discipline in the past several decades, or at least the desire for it to do so (e.g., Spector 1993). What we refer to as Indigenous archaeology (or archaeologies) arose as a response to political and ethical developments both within and outside of the discipline. This includes critiques of the discipline by such Indigenous scholars as Deloria (1971, 1992, 1995), Langford (1983) and Smith (1999) and a host of political developments that resulted in legislation protecting various Indigenous rights.4 The involvement of Aboriginal peoples in archaeology was underway by the late nineteenth century in North America, as evidenced in the work of Franz Boas, James Teit and many others; Donald Thompson and Norman Tindale in Australia; Jean-Paul Boeuf in Saharan Africa; and others elsewhere (Nicholas 2008:1662). While this primarily took the form of hiring community members as guides and work crew, or of purchasing artefacts, heirlooms, and commissioned reproductions (Cole 1985), some individuals served as informants (or as more commonly phrased today, research collaborators). However, the pattern that emerged during those formative years, and which has largely continued to the present, was for anthropologists and archaeologists to take—Â�giving little, if anything, back to the communities. One notable exception was Arthur C. Parker, himself part Seneca, who became a distinguished archaeologist and the first president of the Society for American Archaeology (see Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2009). By the 1960s, Indigenous groups in the United States, Canada, Australia and elsewhere were demanding greater control over their own affairs (Figure€12.2) and participation in the creation of the histories of Native peoples that was being done without them. This carried over into archaeology, which was (and still is) viewed by many as a

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 237

Figure€12.2╅ Efforts that began decades earlier were by the 1990s manifested by explicit claims of traditional lands and identity by Indigenous peoples, as evidenced by this signpost at the entrance to Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, Australia, in 1996. (Photo credit: George Nicholas.)

colonialist enterprise (Deloria 1971; Riding In 2002; also Nicholas and Hollowell 2007; McGuire 2008; McNiven and Russell 2005; Preucel and Cipolla 2008). Some archaeologists (and critics of archaeology) became aware that both the process of doing the archaeology and the interpretation of its products had long ignored or bypassed the participation of members of the descendant communities (e.g. Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006; Solomon and Forbes, this volume; Zimmerman 2006). This resulted in the (often unintentional) separation of people from their history, the dismissal of local knowledge by experts and the limiting of voices from the past in the production of archaeological knowledge. Ultimately, the dissatisfaction Aboriginal peoples felt prompted greater participation of, demands for, and collaboration5 with academic research, heritage �management and protection, land claims, public education, national �sovereignty, cultural renewal and a host of other opportunities (Figure€ 12.3). Many in the United States point to Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) of 1990 as the trigger for this, but this ignores the fact that many of the key elements for change were already in place (Nicholas 2008; Watkins 2000).

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 238 George P. Nicholas

Figure€ 12.3╅ The Ainu of northern Japan are currently seeking greater participation in the protection and management of their heritage, including archaeological investigations and museum exhibitions. (Photo credit: George Nicholas.)

The value of archaeology has for some time been recognised as aiding Aboriginal peoples in many things, and we are now seeing a broad spectrum of their involvement in archaeology. At one end is found the application of conventional archaeological method and theory in such areas as education, cultural revival (e.g., crafts), heritage management, cultural tourism and land claims. Within this realm, Indigenous peoples are working as crew members, sitting on tribal councils, planning boards and oversight committees or pursuing graduate degrees (Figure€ 12.4) (see examples in Dongoske et€ al. 2000; Nicholas 2010). At the other end are efforts to develop an archaeology that is distinctly non-Western in orientation and methods (e.g., Million 2005), that exemplifies the route promoted by Linda Tuhawi Smith’s Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples (1999), and that sets its own agenda, participants and timelines. To this mix is added the many non-Â�Indigenous scholars who are involved and who seek to make archaeology more relevant to, and representative of, Indigenous peoples by challenging the power inequities and other issues that persist.

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 239

Figure€ 12.4╅ Nola Markey (O-Chi-Chak-Ko-Sipi First Nation, Manitoba) is an archaeologist employed by Golder Associates in British Columbia and is also pursuing a Ph.D. In the project pictured here, Nola (under tripod) supervised what may be the first archaeology project in Canada in which all of the field and lab participants were Indigenous persons. (Photo credit: Nola Markey.)

Of course, some Indigenous peoples see no need for Western science to tell them what they already know, or to challenge notions of the past with which they are comfortable (Nicholas 2005). Likewise, some of our colleagues have decried the politicalisation of archaeology as a dangerous concession to special interest groups (e.g., McGhee 2008; Meighan 1992; but see Colwell-Chanthaphonh et€ al. 2010), while at the same time ignoring the political nature that archaeology has always had. Each of these fundamentalist positions needs to be respected, but ethically the inequalities that have existed, and which continue to exist, between Indigenous peoples and Western science are indefensible—the spectre of scientific colonialism remains strong (Nicholas and Hollowell 2007; Zimmerman 2001). Furthermore, the hard-line positions that Â�developed in response to NAGPRA and Kennewick continue to encourage Â�unproductive factionalism within the discipline and between archaeologists and Native Americans.6

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 240 George P. Nicholas

Integrating Indigenous Knowledge and Practice with€Archaeology The development of the concept of (an) Indigenous archaeology can be strongly linked to theoretical growth within the discipline. In the past several decades, there has been increased recognition of the limited scope of Western-based scientific explanation in archaeology, in which “theories outstrip evidence … interpretations are under-determined, and … facts and data are theory laden” (Schmidt and Patterson 1995:23). However much one might yearn for the archaeology of pre-postmodern times, the discipline is showing signs of maturing in both facilitating and accepting a much broader definition of “archaeology” than ever before. Here I use the term “maturing” in two ways. The first is the continued expansion of archaeological theory and practice. The second refers to taking on greater responsibility, as D. L. Clarke (1973) implied with the inevitable “loss of innocence”. O’Brien et€ al. expanded on this in Archaeology as a Process: We didn’t get into archaeology to invent new paradigms or to write histories of the discipline, or to do “scientific stuff” … We got into it because at the time it looked like fun … As we mature, however, our sense of responsibility matures in step. The arrogance of youth fades, and we become selfconscious about what we’re doing and begin to see all the holes in what we think we know about the archaeological record and the past … We begin to realize that our models and theories are inadequate for the job. This makes us uneasy. (O’Brien et€al. 2005:221)

They were writing about the greater responsibility that came with processualism, but I believe that their sentiments, especially the last two sentences quoted here, are directly applicable to what has transpired with those working in the realm of Indigenous archaeology. I believe this unease is important because it helps to identify points of friction and tension, both of which are essential. Those archaeologists concerned with the social impacts of archaeology on contemporary peoples have clearly benefited from the freedom and challenges that postprocessual and postpositivistic thinking have brought. And this has resulted in two particularly invigorating developments: (1) the (self)-critical gaze that promotes such questions as why do we do archaeology, for whom do we do it, and who benefits; and (2)€a self-awareness. These have, in turn, contributed to increasing depth and breadth in archaeology, ranging from critical analyses of what we do (e.g., Pinsky and Wylie 1989) to developing new criteria for evaluating significance (e.g., King 2003; Phillips, this volume), to identifying the archaeologists as part of the unfolding story (e.g., Mosley, this

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 241

Â� volume; Spector 1993), to looking at archaeological endeavours from the perspective of a community member (e.g., Dural 2007; Foana’ota, this volume; Nicholas 2010), to exploring the role of myth and storytelling (e.g., Haber et€ al., this volume; Landau 1991; Yellowhorn 2002). Most significant has been the recognition of new voices and new modes of explanation and the Â�recognition of the limits of current approaches— the developments that have taken place in Indigenous archaeology have benefited from the earlier but parallel developmental history of feminist archaeology (see Conkey and Gero 1997; Gero and Conkey 1991). Interaction with Indigenous colleagues or community members has also aided more conventional archaeological inquiry. For example, the inclusion of traditional knowledge increases significantly the breadth of our understanding of the past (such as Binford’s [1983] work with the Nunamiut of Alaska on their annual and lifetime ranges) or correcting notions that are simply wrong. Such interactions also influence how we think, and make the discipline more representative in terms of its practitioners and more accessible in terms of it consumers. Most archaeologists who have had the opportunity to spend time with Native communities in non-confrontational situations have developed a new appreciation of the Aboriginal world, past and present.7 In addition to contributing to a more equitable, representative and accessible archaeology, the real contribution of Indigenous-informed archaeology is that it encourages (i.e., forces) us to delve deeply into other ways of thinking about things. And this needs to be done not just for ethical reasons, but also for practical ones. Mid-life speculations about how much we can ever really know about the past provide one good example here. There are, for example, various aspects of past cultural systems, land-use behaviours and intellect—what I’ve elsewhere termed “alien landscapes”—that fall completely outside the realm of Western understanding (Nicholas 2001b; also Anderson 1998; David 2002; Phillips 2004).8 Pale and incomplete reflections become somewhat more solid when we incorporate oral histories, landscape knowledge and other ignored or underutilised tools in the repertoire of archaeological investigations. This is not to say that all sources of data are pristine (see Mason 2006), but it is arrogant to think that Western minds can comprehend fully the minds of very different cultures, whether past or€present. Some of the stories that emerge from a more inclusive archaeology will reveal new things about the archaeological record or about how Indigenous peoples think about that record. Multiple interpretations do exist of the same facts or events, which is the point of Kurosawa’s 1950 film Rashomon; the archaeological record is likewise comprised of many voices competing for our attention. This is not to say, Â�however,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 242 George P. Nicholas

that all explanations or data sources are of equal value. Some are wrong or misinformed or lead to dead ends; others are incomprehensible. What Indigenous archaeology provides is a body of ideas and methods that can be used to coax some of the unheard voices to speak, as well as to aid in separating fact from fiction, and even turn conventional interpretations on their head to see if they are still holding together. In addition to the work of such individuals as Larry Zimmerman, Joe Watkins, Claire Smith, T. J. Ferguson and many others who have long been involved in this discourse, there is a growing number of young Indigenous and non-Indigenous scholars bringing fresh insights into this still-developing field, including Ndukuyakhe Ndlovu (2010); Eva Linklater (1994), Nola Markey (2001), Rodney Harrison (2003), Jeff Van Pelt (Burney and Van Pelt 2002) and Amy Roberts (2003), to mention just a few. What must also be acknowledged is what the community brings to the understanding that archaeologists and heritage managers have of “the past”. For some Indigenous peoples, there is no real distinction made between the “tangible” and “intangible” aspects of their cultural heritage (Bell and Napoleon 2008:7). And this is only revealed by seeking that information from the community, and earning the trust that they require to share it. For example, through a collaborative project with the Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group of British Columbia, four key themes were revealed about their customary laws and beliefs pertaining to heritage€sites: 1. There is a perception within Hul’qumi’num culture that their archaeological heritage embodies the physical remains and belongings of their Ancestors, whose spirits are believed to remain part of this world. This is important because in many non-Western cultures, there is no separation between the “real” and “supernatural realms,” or between past and present. 2. Hul’qumi’num persons have social obligations to undertake the stewardship of their Ancestral family remains for the maintenance of reciprocal relations between the Living and the Spirit World. 3. Hul’qumi’num culture maintains strict customary laws, inherited social roles, behaviours and ceremonial practices to control supernatural power and mediate physical contact with the Spirit World, which is inherently potent and dangerous to the Living. 4. Hul’qumi’num Elders perceive problems in upholding their teachings and customary laws about their heritage today due to factors that arise both externally and within the community. (McLay et€al. 2008:16)

These sentiments enrich substantially our knowledge of past lives and other cultures, providing a level of understanding that archaeologists and anthropologists constantly seek to obtain, but that is only really available as a rare and wonderful gift from the Hul’qumi’num elders.

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 243

What we see in the examples above is a clear relationship (and Â� overlap) between the methods and general goals of both “traditional” and Indigenous archaeology. For example, I see Indigenous archaeology incorporating many elements of archaeological theory, but being most strongly influenced by (or reflective of) interpretive archaeological theory, Marxist theory, critical archaeology and feminist theory, in addition, of course, to Indigenous epistemology (Nicholas 2008:1665). And this brings me to say that at this point I am not convinced that Indigenous archaeology(ies) can or will exist in the future as an entity that is theoretically distinct from other flavours of archaeology, and still be recognisable as archaeology. I suggest instead that the different perspectives increasingly reflected in contemporary archaeology are more complementary than divisive. And that it is these very tensions, such as between processual and postprocessual debates, that are most productive. One example of an energised, more locally relevant community-oriented archaeology is found in Eldon Yellowhorn’s (2002) approach to Blackfoot history. Yellowhorn, himself a Peigan, or Blackfoot, promotes the notion of an internalist archaeology that draws on cultural traditions to guide fieldwork. Utilising the methods of archaeology to study local history, his explanation of the archaeological record is guided by oral traditions. What emerges is a culture history comprised of “Reserve Days”, “Horse Days”, “Dog Days” and the “Mythic Past”, not the expected and more familiar Historic, Archaic and Paleoindian models. Another syncretic approach is Tara Million’s (2005) use of Native symbolism and belief in organising her fieldwork, employing round test units organised in groups of four.

MarginaliSing Indigenous Perspectives All of this brings us to a simple but critical point—namely, that there is a very real danger in keeping Indigenous archaeology separate from the mainstream. It becomes both ghettoised (i.e., isolated by type) and marginalised (pushed to/kept on the periphery), thus constraining severely its potential contributions both to the discipline and to Aboriginal communities. It also runs the risk of different (potentially lower) standards. An appropriate analogy here is the development of Feminist Studies or Women’s Studies programs or departments in universities and colleges beginning in the 1970s.9 While clearly a long-needed expansion of intellectual and applied discourse in academe, the relegation of feminist scholars to their own realm removes their voices from other Â�departments and faculties where they are needed, and especially from those students who might benefit the most from insights into, for

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 244 George P. Nicholas

Â� example, the cultural construction of gender or feminist methodologies. Conversely, the rationale for, or political mandate of, many of these programs separates them, at least nominally, from the more inclusive realm of gender€studies. Many of the same developmental stages associated with feminist archaeology may be found in Indigenous archaeology. Although there are not yet academic programs per se in Indigenous archaeology, the number of Indigenous, First Nations or Native American programs is on the rise (e.g., Yunggorendi First Nations Centre, Flinders University). There are also some striking similarities relating the literature each subject has generated. For a time, the focus of the feminist or genderÂ�oriented archaeological studies was on the Goddess (e.g., Gimbutas 1991a, b), who, like Elvis, seemed to show up everywhere (see Nicholas 1994). The literature subsequently became more diverse, the theory more interesting and the methodology more robust, and today there is an impressive array of gender-related books, as well as a steady trickle of articles in American Antiquity and other journals. The situation is very similar with Indigenous archaeology, where a significant percentage of the Â�literature developed from, or in response to, the highly charged atmosphere of reburial, especially NAGPRA and Kennewick Man, the “Ancient One” (Figure€ 12.5) (Burke et€ al. 2008). Despite a growing presence, both fields largely remain entities to themselves, with limited presence in the larger arena. This separation is probably necessary for initial phases of growth, when the ideas/ideals need nurture and until the numbers/interest increase, but both are more robust now and can hold their own—a maturation process. This type of marginalising in academia takes another form at conferences. The complaint often raised in symposia, particularly those dealing with problematic or controversial topics, is that the people who should be there are not and that the conference participants are frequently “preaching to the converted”. This was especially noticeable at the 1999 Chacmool conference on Indigenous Peoples and Archaeology and subsequent meetings of the Society for American Archaeology and the World Archaeological Congress. The people who would benefit most from the discussions that take place in such venues are seldom there. Another aspect is reflected in such dismissive comments as, “Oh, it was just another Indian session”—an expression I’ve frequently heard. There may be other problems with such symposia. At the 2003 Society for American Archaeology conference in Milwaukee, Kurt Dongoske and Larry Zimmerman organised a panel session on “What Do Archaeologists Really Want from their Relationship with Native Americans”.10 They weren’t asking what we want in our relations with Native Americans, but what we really want—a big difference. As€a€Â�participant, I thought that

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 245

Figure€12.5╅ Overlapping realms of interest in the contentious issues involving ancient human remains. (Image: George Nicholas; photo credit for Kennewick Man reconstruction: James Chatters.)

the session was overall quite successful, but also that it was unintentionally derailed by members of the audience who came with lots of things to say about archaeologists and Native Americans that fell outside the parameters of the session. This was likely due to it being the only Native American session of the more than 150 sessions at the conference. This brings me to an issue that the editors (Allen and Phillips) raise in their introduction to this volume, namely, the danger that the dialogue between Indigenous communities and archaeologists could be reduced to an internal debate between the like-minded. The challenge is to broaden our discussions to include those individuals, whether archaeologists or Indigenous, who are indifferent or hostile to our concerns. The reality, of course, is that we actually need both approaches— the full and seamless integration of the Indigenous into archaeology, as well as other avenues for pursuing that topic. What does this mean

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 246 George P. Nicholas

for archaeology? It means that we need to appreciate research for what is revealed, not who is doing it. For example, in Yellowhorn’s (2003) article Regarding the American Paleolithic, he argues that North American archaeologists need to employ Old World terminology, such as “Paleolithic”, to bring Native American prehistory into a more Â�global context. Some would see this as simply a Native person supporting a suggestion made by Vine Deloria, Jr. (1992:597) and possibly dismiss it. However, does the fact that French archaeologist Francois Bordes (1969) argued this point even earlier change the value of the suggestion? This is certainly a debate that brings Indigenous concerns to the forefront of Americanist archaeology, whether or not one agrees with Yellowhorn. On the other hand, there is still the need for strategic separatism, where there are places to explore and debate issues that don’t fit comfortably within the mainstream—something similar to what Willie Ermine (Sturgeon Lake First Nation, Canada) has termed “ethical space”,11 by which he refers to the place between two knowledge systems. Such places are needed to work out problems or to provide niches for Indigenous peoples who want to participate in archaeology, but feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in other settings.

Conclusions While I strongly encourage the pursuit of Indigenous-oriented methods and modes of interpretation as a much-needed and long-overdue element in contemporary archaeology, at the same time I suggest that we should also work to eliminate them as creatures residing primarily outside of the mainstream. In other words, rather than working to develop separate Indigenous approaches to archaeology, we should also be trying to incorporate them within the mainstream. At the same time, I recognise that there is a continued need for non-mainstream approaches so that Indigenous archaeologies can maintain their own identity. There is clearly a challenge here, but it is not an either–or situation. They both need to exist. Such an inclusive, non-dichotomous notion is reflected in both feminist and Indigenous thought,12 and is so eloquently reflected in this statement attributed to Northwest Coast artist Bill Reid: “The Haida view the world differently than we do. One apparent difference is that they do not have the silly notion that two or more things cannot occupy the same space at the same time.” The way to accomplish both is by recognising that the issues central to Indigenous archaeology are very much ethical ones, but also reflect some of the central tenets of the discipline regarding why we do archaeology in the first place. By promoting ethical thought and collaborative

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 247

Figure€ 12.6╅ Around the world, the various contributions of Indigenous archaeologists, such as Tautala Asaua (wearing a dark shirt), are not only refining and expanding knowledge of the past, but integrating it into the present in new ways. (Photo credit: Tautala Asaua.)

action within archaeology as a whole, we are thus mandated to work with descendant communities without marginalising them. And by “collaboration” I mean far more than simply “working together”, but sharing or deferring decision making and seeking to redress the pronounced inequalities in power and benefits that have long favoured archaeology. Such approaches have already transformed the discipline by making it less distant from the concerns of both the Indigenous and wider community, but there is still a great deal to be achieved. Ultimately, what is at stake is the survival of Indigenous communities, the discipline of archaeology and the places that we both value. We have the opportunity to make things better (McGuire 2008), but are slow to act, in part because I think archaeologists are afraid of the consequences. Nonetheless, in the United States the passage of NAGPRA in 1990 was not the end of archaeology, but a touchstone in a new phase of growth. The results have been impressive, and there is much more yet to come. And I think the dual nature of Indigenous archaeology not only results in some very interesting projects of substantial benefit to all parties involved, but also in very uncomfortable yet productive tensions.13 The Hul’qumi’num elders revelations that “the past” is very much a part of the present, for example (McLay et€ al. 2008), is but one example of this. This is also very apparent

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 248 George P. Nicholas

in Katherine Dowdall’s collaborative work with the Kayasha Pomo in California (Dowdall and Parrish 2003), whereby their cultural landscape provides the basis for cultural management work with the California Department of Transportation. The same is true of Robert Layton’s (2001) efforts to promote the true (i.e., Australian Aboriginal) history of Uluru and allow the development of living heritage sites such as Gumminguru (Ross, this volume). Indigenous archaeology is not one thing, but many. And defining its relationship with the rest of archaeology is both evident and elusive. Nonetheless, its particular qualities can contribute significantly to making archaeology more representative, relevant and responsible (Figure€12.6), and contribute to a more even playing field in which ideas on or from Indigenous perspectives are given the full, careful consideration they are€due.

AcknowledgEments A version of this paper was originally presented in the session Ethical Archaeology in a Capitalist World, organised by Yannis Hamilakis and Philip Duke, at the 5th World Archaeological Congress, Washington, DC, in 2003. Alison Wylie, Kelly Bannister, Julie Hollowell and Sean Connaughton commented on various drafts of this paper. I thank Caroline Phillips and Harry Allen for inviting me to contribute it to this volume.

Notes â•⁄ 1. I have written elsewhere of some of my experiences working with and for Indigenous communities (e.g., Nicholas 2001a; Nicholas et€al. 2007). â•⁄ 2. In the majority of textbooks, the mention of Indigenous peoples’ involvement in archaeology is still largely restricted to discussions centred on NAGPRA and the reburial debates. â•⁄ 3. Recognition of “Indigenous archaeology” per se may still be an elusive challenge. When I was asked to produce the piece for the Encyclopedia of Archaeology, it was entitled “Indigenous Archaeology (Native Peoples and Archaeology)”. I believed this first full definition of the topic would contribute to its growing recognition in the discipline. I was thus dumbfounded to discover that “Indigenous Archaeology” had been entirely removed from the title after I had corrected the page proofs, and I was unable to restore€it. â•⁄ 4. T  hese include, but certainly are not limited to: for Australia, Mabo v. Queensland 1992; for Canada, Delgamuukw v. Regina 1997; for New Zealand, Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975; and for the United States, Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act 1990. â•⁄ 5. H  ere I use “collaboration” to refer to a full and equal partnership, instead of “consultation” or “working together”—a significant difference.

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 249

â•⁄ 6. The recent edited volume by Burke et€ al. (2008) is essential reading because the Â�contributors present a variety of informed and informative positions that reveal the depth and complexity of thinking of those who have been drawn to these two issues. It is naive, if not dangerous, for anyone—Indigenous or non-Indigenous—to continue to think in “Indians vs. archaeologists”. â•⁄ 7. T  his is not to ignore the problematic nature of the often-skewed relationship between the two (Hollowell and Nicholas 2008; also see Castenada and Matthews 2008), or what is required for a more effective engagement between archaeology and ethnography (Edgeworth 2006) or the use of ethnographies to address community heritage needs (Hollowell and Nicholas 2009). â•⁄ 8. As Caroline Phillips (pers. comm. 2009) notes, to date most research in New Zealand has involved using Maori and ethnographic documents to better interpret the archaeological landscape, rather than on-the-ground discussions with informants/ collaborators. â•⁄ 9. I first explored this in the 2003 presentation version of this paper, expanded in several subsequent presentations. Conkey (2005) has since explored important facets of this analogy. 10. S ee Nicholas 2004. 11. H  e explores this in Ermine 1995 and refers to in various presentations. 12. S ee Conkey and Gero (1997) for discussion of the former. 13. T  he push to decolonise archaeology is going to add considerably to these tensions.

References Anderson, A. J. 1998. The Welcome of Strangers: An Ethnohistory of Southern Maori A.D. 1650–1850. Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Ashmore, W., and R. Sharer. 2009. Discovering Our Past: A Brief Introduction to Archaeology. New York: McGraw-Hill. Atalay, S. 2006. Indigenous archaeology as decolonizing practice. In S. Atalay (ed.), Decolonizing archaeology. Special issue, The American Indian Quarterly 30:280–310. Bell, C., and V. Napoleon. 2008. Introduction, methodology, and thematic overview. In C.€Bell and V. Napoleon (eds.), First Nations Cultural Heritage and Law: Case Studies, Voices, and Perspectives, pp. 1–32. Vancouver: UBC Press. Binford, L. 1983. Long-term land use patterns: Some implications for archaeology. In R. C. Dunnell and D. K. Grayson (eds.), Lulu Linear Punctated: Essays in Honor of George Irving Quimby, pp. 27–54. Anthropology Papers 72. Ann Arbor: Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan. Bordes, F. 1969. The Old Stone Age. New York: McGraw-Hill. Burke, H., C. Smith, L. J. Zimmerman, D. Lippert and J. Watkins (eds.). 2008. Kennewick Man: Perspectives on the Ancient One. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Burney, M. S., and J. Van Pelt (eds.). 2002. It’s about time (híiwes wiyeewts’etki), it’s about them (paamilák’ay), it’s about us (naamilák’ay). Journal of Northwest Anthropology, Memoir 6. Castenada, Q., and C. Matthews (eds.). 2008. Ethnographic Archaeologies: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Clarke, D. L. 1973. Archaeology: The Loss of Innocence. Antiquity 47(185):6–18. Cole, D. 1985. Captured Heritage: The Scramble for Northwest Coast Artifacts. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. 2009. Inheriting the Past: The Making of Arthur C. Parker and Indigenous Archaeology. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C., and T. J. Ferguson (eds.). 2008. Collaboration in Archaeological Practice: Engaging Descendant Communities. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 250 George P. Nicholas Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C., T. J. Ferguson, D. Lippert, R. H. McGuire, G. P. Nicholas, J.€ E. Watkins and L. J. Zimmerman. 2010. The premise and promise of Indigenous archaeology. American Antiquity 75(2):228–238. Conkey, M. W. 2005. Dwelling at the margins, action at the intersection? Feminist and Indigenous archaeologies, 2005. Archaeologies 1(1):9–59. Conkey, M. W., and J. Gero. 1997. Programme to practice: Gender and feminism in archaeology. Annual Reviews in Anthropology 26:411–437. David, B. 2002. Landscapes, Rock-Art and the Dreaming: An Archaeology of PreunderÂ� standing. London and New York: Leicester University Press. Davidson, I., C. Lovell-Jones and R. Bancroft (eds.). 1995. Archaeologists and Aborigines Working Together. Armidale: University of New England Press. Deloria, V., Jr. 1971. Custer Died for Your Sins. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. –——. 1992. Indians, archaeologists, and the future. American Antiquity 57(4):595–598. –——. 1995. Red Earth, White Lies: Native Americans and the Myth of Scientific Fact. New York: Scribners. Dongoske, K. E., M. Aldenderfer and K. Doehner (eds.). 2000. Forging Respect: Archaeologists and Native Americans Working Together. Washington, DC: Society for American Archaeology. Dowdall, K., and O. Parrish. 2003. A meaningful disturbance of the earth. Journal of Social Archaeology 3(1):99–133. Dural, Sadrettin. 2007. Protecting Çatalhöyük: Memoir of an Archaeological Site Guard. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Edgeworth, M. 2006. Ethnographies of Archaeological Practice: Cultural Encounters, Material Transformations. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Ermine, W. 1995. Aboriginal epistemology. In M. Battiste and J. Barman (eds.), First Nations Education in Canada: The Circle Unfolds, pp. 101–112. Vancouver: UBC Press. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh. 2006. History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Gero, J. M., and M. W. Conkey (eds.). 1991. Engendering Archaeology: Women and Prehistory. Cambridge: Basil Blackwell. Gimbutas, M. 1991a. The Language of the Goddess. New York: Harper Collins. –——. 1991b. The Civilization of the Goddess: The World of Old Europe. New York: Harper Collins. Green, R. C. 1989. Suggestions towards a system for integrating Maori perspectives with those of archaeologists interested in site protection. Archaeology in New Zealand 32:97–100. Harrison, R. 2003. Ngarranggani, ngamungamu, jalanijarra: “Lost places,” recursiveness and hybridity at Old Lamboo Pastoral Station, Southeast Kimberley, Western Australia. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Archaeology, University of Western Australia. Hollowell, J. J., and G. P. Nicholas. 2008. A critical assessment of uses of ethnography in archaeology. In Q. Castenada and C. Matthews (eds.), Ethnographic Archaeologies: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices, pp. 63–94. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. –——. 2009. Using ethnographic methods to articulate community-based conceptions of cultural heritage management. Public Archaeologies 8(2–3):141–160. Kerber, J. (ed.). 2006. Cross-Cultural Collaboration: Native Peoples and Archaeology in the Northeastern United States. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. King, T. F. 2003. Places that Count: Traditional Cultural Properties in Cultural Resource Management. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Landau, M. 1991. Narratives of Human Evolution. New Haven: Yale University Press. Langford, R. F. 1983. Our heritage, your playground. Australian Archaeology 16:2–6.

Seeking the End of Indigenous Archaeology

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 251

Layton, R. 2001. Uluru: An Aboriginal History of Ayers Rock. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Linklater, E. 1994. The footprints of Wasahkacahk: The Churchill River Diversion Project and destruction of the Nelson House Cree historical landscape. Unpublished Master’s thesis, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Markey, N. M. 2001. Data “gathering dust”: An analysis of traditional use studies conducted within aboriginal communities in British Columbia. Unpublished M.A. thesis, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Mason, Ronald J. 2006. Inconstant Companions: Archaeology and North American Indian Oral Traditions. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama. McGhee, R. 2008. Aboriginalism and the problems of Indigenous archaeology. American Antiquity 73(4):579–597. McGuire, R. H. 2008. Archaeology as Political Action. Berkeley: University of California Press. McLay, E., K. Bannister, L. J. B. Thom and G. Nicholas. 2008. A’lhut tu tet Sul’hweentst “respecting the ancestors”: Understanding Hul’qumi’num heritage laws and concerns for protection of archaeological heritage. In C. Bell and V. Napoleon (eds.), First Nations Cultural Heritage and Law: Cases Studies, Voices and Perspectives, pp. 158– 202. Vancouver: UBC Press. McNiven, I. J., and L. Russell. 2005. Appropriated Pasts: Indigenous Peoples and the Colonial Culture of Archaeology. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Meighan, C. 1992. Some scholar’s views on reburial. American Antiquity 57(4):704–710. Million, T. 2005. Developing an Aboriginal archaeology: Receiving gifts from the White Buffalo Calf Woman. In C. Smith and M. Wobst (eds.), Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice, pp. 43–55. New York: Routledge. Ndlovu, N. 2010. Archaeological battles and triumphs: A personal reflection. In G.P. Nicholas (ed.), Being and Becoming Indigenous Archaeologists, pp. 222–234. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Neusius, S. W., and G. T. Gross. 2007. Seeking Our Past: An Introduction to North American Archaeology. New York: Oxford University Press. Nicholas, G. P. 1994. On the goddess myth and methodology. Current Anthropology 35(4):448–450. –——. 2001a. The past and future of Indigenous archaeology: Global challenges, North American perspectives, Australian prospects. Australian Archaeology 52:29–40. –——. 2001b. The archaeology of alien landscapes. Paper presented at the 34th Chacmool Conference “An Odyssey of Space”, Calgary, Alberta. –——. 2004. What I really want from a relationship with Native Americans. The SAA Archaeological Record 4(3):29–33. –——. 2005. The persistence of memory, the politics of desire: Archaeological impacts on aboriginal peoples and their response. In C. Smith and H. M. Wobst (eds.), Decolonizing Archaeological Theory and Practice, pp. 81–103. New York: Routledge. –——. 2008. Native peoples and archaeology. In D. Pearsall (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Archaeology, vol. 3, pp. 1660–1669. Oxford: Elsevier. –——. (ed.) 2010. Being and Becoming Indigenous Archaeologists. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Nicholas, G. P., and Andrews, T. D. (eds.). 1997. At a Crossroads: Archaeology and First Peoples in Canada. Burnaby, B.C.: Archaeology Press, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby. Nicholas, G. P., and J. J. Hollowell. 2007. Ethical challenges to a postcolonial archaeology. In Y. Hamilakis and P. Duke (eds.), Archaeology and Capitalism: From Ethics to Politics, pp. 59–82. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, Inc. Nicholas, G. P., J. Welch and E. C. Yellowhorn. 2007. Collaborative encounters. In C.€ Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T. J. Ferguson (eds.), The Collaborative Continuum: Archaeological Engagements with Descendant Communities, pp. 273–299. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 252 George P. Nicholas O’Brien, M. J., R. L. Lyman and M. B. Schiffer. 2005. Archaeology as a Process: Processualism and Its Progeny. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Peck, T., E. Siegfried and G. Oetelaar (eds.). 2003. Indigenous Peoples and Archaeology: Proceedings of the 32nd Chacmool Conference. Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Phillips, C. 2004. Waihou Journeys: The Archaeology of Four Hundred Years of Maori Settlement. Auckland: Auckland University Press. (Reprinted from 2000). Pinsky, V., and A. Wylie (eds.). 1989. Critical Traditions in Contemporary Archaeology: Essays in the Philosophy, History and Socio-Politics of Archaeology. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Preucel, R. W., and C. N. Cipolla. 2008. Indigenous and postcolonial archaeologies. In M. Liebmann and U. Z. Rizvi (eds.), Archaeology and the Postcolonial Critique, pp.€129–140. Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press. Riding In, J. 2002. Our dead are never forgotten: American Indian struggles for burial rights and protections. In P. Weeks (ed.), “They Made Us Many Promises”: The American Indian Experience, 1524 to the Present, pp. 291–323. Wheeling, IL: Harlan Davidson, Inc. Roberts, A. 2003. Knowledge, power and voice: An investigation of Indigenous South Australian perspectives of archaeology. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. Department of Archaeology, Flinders University, Adelaide. Schmidt, P., and T. Patterson. 1995. Introduction: From constructing to making alternative histories. In P. Schmidt and T. Patterson (eds.), Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings, pp. 1–24. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Silliman, S. (ed.). 2008. Collaborating at the Trowel’s Edge: Teaching and Learning in Indigenous Archaeology. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Smith, C., and H. M. Wobst (eds.). 2005. Indigenous Archaeologies: Decolonizing Theory and Practice. New York: Routledge. Smith, L. T. 1999. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed Books. Spector, J. 1993. What This Awl Means: Feminist Archaeology at a Wahpeton Dakota Village. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press. Swidler, N., K. E. Dongoske, R. Anyon and A. S. Downer (eds.). 1997. Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. Watkins, J. 2000. Indigenous Archaeology: American Indian Values and Scientific Practice. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press. –——. 2003. Beyond the margin: American Indians, First Nations, and archaeology in North America. American Antiquity 68(2):273–286. Yellowhorn, E. 2002. Awakening internalist archaeology in the aboriginal world. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Anthropology, McGill University, Montreal. –——. 2003. Regarding the American Paleolithic. Canadian Journal of Archaeology 27(1):62–73. Zimmerman, L. J. 2001. Usurping Native American voice. In T. Bray (ed.), The Future of the Past: Native Americans, Archaeologists, and Repatriation, pp. 169–184. New York: Garland Press. –——. 2006. Consulting stakeholders. In J. Balme (ed.), Archaeology in Practice: A Student Guide to Archaeological Analyses, pp. 39–58. Malden, MA: Blackwell. –——. 2008. Real people or reconstructed people? Ethnocritical archaeology, ethnography, and community-building. In C. Matthews and Q. Castenada (eds.), Ethnographic Archaeology: Reflections on Stakeholders and Archaeological Practices, pp. 183–204. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press.

APPENDIX 1 World Archaeological Congress, First Code of Ethics

Adopted by WAC Council in 1990 at WAC-2, Barquisimeto, Venezuela (http://www.worldarchaeologicalcongress.org/site/about_ethi.php) Principles to Abide by: Members agree that they have obligations to indigenous peoples and that they shall abide by the following principles:

1. To acknowledge the importance of indigenous cultural heritage, including sites, places, objects, artefacts, human remains, to the survival of indigenous cultures.



2. To acknowledge the importance of protecting indigenous cultural heritage to the well-being of indigenous peoples.



3. To acknowledge the special importance of indigenous ancestral human remains, and sites containing and/or associated with such remains, to indigenous peoples.



4. To acknowledge that the important relationship between indigenous peoples and their cultural heritage exists irrespective of legal ownership.



5. To acknowledge that the indigenous cultural heritage rightfully belongs to the indigenous descendants of that heritage.



6. To acknowledge and recognise indigenous methodologies for interpreting, curating, managing and protecting indigenous cultural heritage.



7. To establish equitable partnerships and relationships between Members and indigenous peoples whose cultural heritage is being investigated.



8. To seek, whenever possible, representation of indigenous peoples in agencies funding or authorising research to be certain their view is considered as critically important in setting research standards, questions, priorities and goals.

Rules to Adhere to: Members agree that they will adhere to the following rules prior to, during and after their investigations:

1. Prior to conducting any investigation and/or examination, Members shall with rigorous endeavour seek to define the indigenous peoples whose cultural heritage is the subject of investigation. 253

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 254 Appendix 1

2. Members shall negotiate with and obtain the informed consent of representatives authorized by the indigenous peoples whose cultural heritage is the subject of investigation.



3. Members shall ensure that the authorised representatives of the indigenous peoples whose culture is being investigated are kept informed during all stages of the investigation.



4. Members shall ensure that the results of their work are presented with deference and respect to the identified indigenous peoples.



5. Members shall not interfere with and/or remove human remains of indigenous peoples without the express consent of those concerned.



6. Members shall not interfere with and/or remove artefacts or objects of special cultural significance, as defined by associated indigenous peoples, without their express consent.



7. Members shall recognise their obligation to employ and/or train indigenous peoples in proper techniques as part of their projects, and utilise indigenous peoples to monitor the projects.

The new Code should not be taken in isolation; it was seen by Council as following on from WAC’s adoption of the Vermillion Accord passed in 1989 at the South Dakota Inter-Congress.

APPENDIX 2 World Archaeological Congress, The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains

Adopted in 1989 at WAC Inter-Congress, South Dakota, U.S.

1. Respect for the mortal remains of the dead shall be accorded to all, irrespective of origin, race, religion, nationality, custom and tradition.



2. Respect for the wishes of the dead concerning disposition shall be accorded whenever possible, reasonable and lawful, when they are known or can be reasonably inferred.



3. Respect for the wishes of the local community and of relatives or guardians of the dead shall be accorded whenever possible, reasonable and€lawful.



4. Respect for the scientific research value of skeletal, mummified and other human remains (including fossil hominids) shall be accorded when such value is demonstrated to exist.



5. Agreement on the disposition of fossil, skeletal, mummified and other remains shall be reached by negotiation on the basis of mutual respect for the legitimate concerns of communities for the proper disposition of their ancestors, as well as the legitimate concerns of science and education.



6. The express recognition that the concerns of various ethnic groups, as well as those of science are legitimate and to be respected, will permit acceptable agreements to be reached and honoured.

255

APPENDIX 3 World Archaeological Congress, The Tamaki Makau-rau Accord on the Display of Human Remains and Sacred Objects

Proposed in November, 2005 at WAC Inter-Congress, Auckland, New Zealand. Adopted by WAC Council in January, 2006, WAC Inter-Congress, Osaka, Japan In recognition of the principles adopted by the Vermillion Accord, the display of human remains and sacred objects is recognised as a sensitive issue. Human remains include any organic remains and associated material. Sacred objects are those that are of special significance to a community. Display means the presentation in any media or form of human remains and sacred objects, whether on a single occasion or on an ongoing basis, including conference presentations or publications. Community may include, but is not limited to, ethnic, racial, religious, traditional or Indigenous groups of people. WAC reiterates its commitment to scientific principles governing the study of the human past. We agree that the display of human remains or sacred objects may serve to illuminate our common humanity. As archaeologists, we believe that good science is guided by ethical principles and that our work must involve consultation and collaboration with communities. The members of the WAC council agree to assist with making contacts within the affected communities. Any person(s) or organisation considering displaying such material or already doing so should take account of the following principles: 1. Permission should communities.

be

obtained

from

the

affected

community

or

2. Should permission be refused that decision is final and should be respected. 3. Should permission be granted, any conditions to which that permission is subject should be complied with in full. 4. All display should be culturally appropriate. 5. Permission can be withdrawn or amended at any stage and such decisions should be respected. 6. Regular consultation with the affected community should ensure that the display remains culturally appropriate. 257

APPENDIX 4 The Mataatua Declaration on Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples (http://www.ngatiawa.iwi.nz/cms/CMSFiles/File/Associations/ mataatua%20declaration.pdf )

Commission on Human Rights Sub-Commission of Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities Working Group on Indigenous Populations 19–30 July 1993 First International Conference on the Cultural & Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples Whakatane, 12–18 June 1993 Aotearoa, New Zealand June 1993 In recognition that 1993 is the United Nations International Year for the World’s Indigenous Peoples; The Nine Tribes of Mataatua in the Bay of Plenty Region of Aotearoa New Zealand convened the First International Conference on the Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples (12–18 June 1993, Whakatane). Over 150 delegates from fourteen countries attended, including indigenous representatives from Ainu (Japan), Australia, Cook Islands, Fiji, India, Panama, Peru, Philippines, Surinam, USA, and Aotearoa. The Conference met over six days to consider a range of significant issues, including; the value of indigenous knowledge, biodiversity and biotechnology, customary environmental management, arts, music, language and other physical and spiritual cultural forms. On the final day, the following Declaration was passed by the Plenary.

259

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 260 Appendix 4

PREAMBLE Recognising that 1993 is the United Nations International Year for the World’s Indigenous Peoples; Reaffirming the undertaking of United Nations Member States to“Adopt or strengthen appropriate policies and/or legal instruments that will protect indigenous intellectual and cultural property and the right to preserve customary and administrative systems and practices.” United Nations Conference on Environmental Development; UNCED Agenda 21 (26.4b); Noting the Working principles that emerged from the United Nations Technical Conference on Indigenous Peoples and the Environment in Santiago. Chile from 18–22 May 1992 (E/CN.4/Sub. 2/1992131); Endorsing the recommendations on Culture and Science from the World Conference of Indigenous Peoples on Territory, Environment and Development Kari-Oca, Brazil, 25–30 May 1992; Declare that Indigenous Peoples of the world have the right to self determination and in exercising that right must be recognised as the exclusive owners of their cultural and intellectual property; Acknowledge that Indigenous Peoples have a commonality of experiences relating to the exploitation of their cultural and intellectual property; Affirm that the knowledge of the Indigenous Peoples of the world is of benefit to ail humanity; Recognise that Indigenous Peoples are capable of managing their traditional knowledge themselves, but are willing to offer it to all humanity provided their fundamental rights to define and control this knowledge are protected by the international community; Insist that the first beneficiaries of indigenous knowledge (cultural and intellectual property rights) must be the direct indigenous descendants of such knowledge; Declare that all forms of discrimination and exploitation of indigenous peoples, indigenous knowledge and indigenous cultural and intellectual property rights must cease.

1. RECOMMENDATIONS TO INDIGENOUS PEOPLES In the development of policies and practices, indigenous peoples should: 1.1 ╇ Define for themselves their own intellectual and cultural property.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Appendix 4 261 ╇ 1.2 ╇Note that existing protection mechanisms are insufficient for the protection of Indigenous Peoples Intellectual and Cultural Property Rights. ╇ 1.3 ╇Develop a code of ethics which external users must observe when recording (visual, audio, written) their traditional and customary knowledge. ╇ 1.4 ╇Prioritise the establishment of indigenous education, research and training centres to promote their knowledge of customary environmental and cultural practices. ╇ 1.5 ╇Reacquire traditional indigenous lands for the purpose of promoting customary agricultural production. ╇ 1.6 ╇Develop and maintain their traditional practices and sanctions for the protection, preservation and revitalization of their traditional intellectual and cultural properties. ╇ 1.7 ╇ Assess existing legislation with respect to the protection of antiquities. ╇ 1.8 ╇ Establish an appropriate body with appropriate mechanisms to:

a) preserve and monitor the commercialism or otherwise of indigenous cultural properties in the public domain; b) generally advise and encourage indigenous peoples to take steps protect their cultural heritage; c) allow a mandatory consultative process with respect to any new legislation affecting indigenous peoples cultural and intellectual property rights.

╇ 1.9 ╇ Establish international indigenous information centres and networks. 1.10 ╇Convene a Second International Conference (Hui) on the Cultural and intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples to be hosted by the Coordinating Body for the Indigenous Peoples Organisations of the Amazon Basin (COICA).

2. RECOMMENDATIONS TO STATES, NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL AGENCIES In the development of policies and practices, States, National and International Agencies must ╇ 2.1 ╇Recognise that indigenous peoples are the guardians of their customary knowledge and have the right to protect and control dissemination of that knowledge. ╇ 2.2 ╇Recognise that indigenous peoples also have the right to create new knowledge based on cultural traditions. ╇ 2.3 ╇Note that existing protection mechanisms are insufficient for the protection of Indigenous Peoples Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 262 Appendix 4 ╇ 2.4 ╇Accept that the cultural and intellectual property rights of indigenous peoples are vested with those who created them. ╇ 2.5 ╇Develop in full co-operation with indigenous peoples an additional cultural and intellectual property rights regime incorporating the following:          

         

         

• collective (as well as individual) ownership and origin; • retroactive coverage of historical as well as contemporary works; • protection against debasement of culturally significant items; • cooperative rather than competitive framework; • first beneficiaries to be the direct descendants of the traditional guardians of that knowledge;       • multi-generational coverage span.

BIODIVERSITY AND CUSTOMARY ENVIRONMENTAL MANAGEMENT ╇ 2.6 ╇Indigenous flora and fauna is inextricably bound to the territories of indigenous communities and any property right claims must recognise their traditional guardianship. ╇ 2.7 ╇Commercialization of any traditional plants and medicines of Indigenous Peoples, must be managed by the indigenous peoples who have inherited such knowledge. ╇ 2.8 ╇A moratorium on any further commercialisation of indigenous medicinal plants and human genetic materials must be declared until indigenous communities have developed appropriate protection mechanisms. ╇ 2.9 ╇Companies, institutions both governmental and private must not undertake experiments or commercialisation of any biogenetic resources without the consent of the appropriate indigenous peoples. 2.10 ╇Prioritise settlement of any outstanding land and natural resources claims of indigenous peoples for the purpose of promoting customary, agricultural and marine production. 2.11 ╇Ensure current scientific environmental research is strengthened by increasing the involvement of indigenous communities and of customary environmental knowledge.

CULTURAL OBJECTS 2.12 ╇All human remains and burial objects of indigenous peoples held by museums and other institutions must be returned to their traditional areas in a culturally appropriate manner.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Appendix 4 263 2.13 ╇Museums and other institutions must provide, to the country and indigenous peoples concerned, an inventory of any indigenous cultural objects still held in their possession. 2.14 ╇Indigenous cultural objects held in museums and other institutions must be offered back to their traditional owners.

3. RECOMMENDATIONS TO THE UNITED NATIONS In respect for the rights of indigenous peoples, the United Nations should: 3.1 ╇Ensure the process of participation of indigenous peoples in United Nations fora is strengthened so their views are fairly represented. 3.2 ╇Incorporate the Mataatua Declaration in its entirety in the United Nations Study on Cultural and Intellectual Property of Indigenous Peoples. 3.3 ╇Monitor and take action against any States whose persistent policies and activities damage the cultural and intellectual property rights of indigenous peoples. 3.4 ╇Ensure that indigenous peoples actively contribute to the way in which indigenous cultures are incorporated into the 1995 United Nations International Year of Culture. 3.5 ╇Call for an immediate halt to the ongoing “Human Genome Diversity Project” (HUGO) until its moral, ethical, socio-economic, physical and political implications have been thoroughly discussed, understood and approved by indigenous peoples.

4. CONCLUSION 4.1 ╇The United Nations, International and National Agencies and States must provide additional funding to indigenous communities in order to implement these recommendations.

APPENDIX 5 What Are the Relationships between Archaeologists, Teaching Institutions, Heritage Organisations and Maori?

Some of the comments made by panel and conference delegates to this question at the Second Indigenous Inter-Congress of World Archaeological Congress, Waipapa Marae, University of Auckland, November 2005

The Panel Consisted of: Harry Allen, Associate Professor in Archaeology, University of Auckland Kris Marsh, Runanga representative, Ngati Rahiri hapu, Te Ati Awa Ian Lawlor, Senior Heritage Manager, Auckland Regional Council Gerard O’Regan, Ngaitahu, archaeological student and Ngaitahu Rock Art Trust Te Kenehi Teira, Ngati Raukawa, Kaihautu/Manager, Maori Heritage Unit, HPT Dave Robson, Ngati Maru, Pouarahi/Maori Heritage Advisor, Historic Places Trust Rick McGovern-Wilson, Senior Archaeologist, Historic Places Trust Ian Barber, NZAA Committee, Lecturer in Archaeology, University of Otago Antoine Coffin, Ngati Ranginui, Cultural Advisor, Boffa Miskell Jake Tahitahi, Ngati Wai, Ngati Manuhiri Resource Management Unit Although the question placed “Maori” and “archaeologists” as separate entities, many acknowledged that there are overlapping groups, and that archaeologists and Maori are not always polarised, as both want to influence decisions that are being made for the protection of heritage. A range of issues were covered in this session, and were generally expressed as questions or statements about the current situation. In some cases answers or proposals to improve the situation were also raised. We have grouped these together according to those topics which are relevant to this NZAA workshop. 265

|

╛╛ ╛╛ ╛ 266 Appendix 5

These issues and suggestions for improvements reflect those expressed in the session, with some clarifications from us, but do not necessarily represent our opinions. Caroline Phillips and Des Kahotea 2006

RESEARCH ARCHAEOLOGY ●

●

●

Issue: The numbers of archaeologists actively engaging in research of Maori sites is very small, being restricted to a few academics and some graduate students. Consequently, interactions between Maori and research archaeologists are rare. Proposals: There should be more emphasis on research of Maori archaeology at universities. Answering questions that the community may have is a good way to develop positive relationships.

HERITAGE PROTECTION ●

●

●

●

●

Issues: There are few resources for this amongst most groups involved in archaeology and heritage management. HPT can register wahi tapu and wahi tapu areas, but this does not ensure protection. This issue is of particular concern to Maori. Proposals: ARC is actively promoting protection of sites and heritage. They have found that successful relationships involve acknowledgement of mana, rangatiratanga, sovereignty and governments. Archaeologists and Maori need to consider whether they want to be involved in protecting our heritage, as this is not enshrined in the legislation. HPT aim to bring protection of wahi tapu into the legislation.

SALVAGE ARCHAEOLOGY ●

●

Issues: Predominate area of archaeological work in New Zealand is cultural resource management. Archaeology at present is a tool for managing destruction of Maori heritage sites.

Training of Students ●

Issue: University training for CRM is not sufficiently preparing students for the work the majority will do.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Appendix 5 267 ●

●

Proposals: “Professionals” (like lawyers) where archaeologists who intend to work in CRM complete their training. Institutions who are training students need to have clear processes about how to operate in this country, understand Maori tribal structures and how people think. It is important to have Maori input into such training.

Professionalism ●

●

●

●

●

●

Issues: The fact that private consultants are paid for by developers can raise concerns about professionalism, or the lack of it. Due to lack of resources it is not possible for HPT to monitor or peer review consultants, and in commercial world it doesn’t work to have competitors reviewing each others work, unlike academic situation. Proposals: A professional organisation, either stand-alone body, or branch of NZAA. Mechanisms to weed out those archaeologists whose work is not up to best practice, but whatever develops iwi should be a part of this process. Maori runanga may undertake their own accreditation process to archaeologists within their rohe. In Australia liaison between councils, archaeologists and traditional groups is done through Indigenous Heritage Committee, where archaeologists write to them to avoid using state legislation. This could be a model for here.

Maori and Consultants ●

●

● ●

●

●

Issues: Consultants only become involved after developers trigger the system. Consequently, the relationship between archaeologist and Maori only occurs after developer sets process in motion. Despite this, there are generally positive relationships in face-to-face interactions between archaeologists and runanga. Archaeologists can find themselves between developers and hapu/iwi. As Maori groups do not have the expertise, iwi have to trust archaeologists, but can they? Situations arise where Maori groups tell developers that archaeologists should be involved in projects, and in others Maori knowledge has to be given to support the archaeological work. One area where there might be polarisation is regarding intellectual property rights, which can occur when developers want consultants

|

╛╛ ╛╛ ╛ 268 Appendix 5

●

●

to keep information private, yet Maori regard it as belonging to them. Proposals: Issues need to be discussed prior to work commencing. Archaeological information has to be public. Better council procedures need to be developed so archaeology is addressed earlier in the development process.

Training of Maori Monitors/Resource People ●

●

Issue: Currently, Maori have little or no training in archaeological techniques, and have to rely on consultants to provide information and/or training. Proposal: There is a need to provide training, either through scholarships to universities or other training bodies to provide opportunities to engage in up-skilling Maori as archaeologists, heritage managers and monitors.

Maori and Heritage Organisations ●

●

●

Issue: Good relationships between archaeologists and Maori at the coal-face, but the situation is not so good when comes to heritage organisations: DOC, museums, university, HPT. Proposals: Maori liaison (atawhai) roles within organisations are very important. HPT trying to increase staff where high development is occurring, so can work with tangata whenua to develop better processes, to raise issues of archaeology and Maori concerns with councils and developers.

RESOURCES ●

●

Issue: Resources on both sides (runanga and archaeology) are too thin, and what there are is dedicated to salvage (erosion and development). Proposal: Need to have archaeology working strategically towards cultural development, through training and improved ways of how we view and organise resources that are available.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Appendix 5 269

LEGISLATION ●

●

● ●

●

●

Issues: Consents under the 2 sets of legislation (RMA & HPA) do not always work well together, and tend to polarise Maori and archaeologists. The assessment of Maori values in the HPA authority process only refers to archaeological resources. Iwi think there should be right of veto in RMA & HPA decisions. There has been no real commitment to resource Maori groups doing heritage work. Proposals: Improvement of the legislation to overcome these difficulties. Education and training of Maori is important.

MAORI PRECONCEPTIONS ABOUT ARCHAEOLOGY ●

●

●

●

● ●

Issues: There are barriers to Maori taking up heritage management, and problems of perception beyond the face-to-face relationships. Archaeologists come with an inheritance of past ethnographers, amateur archaeologists and fossickers—labelled “grave robbers”. “Tangata whenua really want to tell the stories of their ancestors to give them power and prestige and to protect the places they inhabited”. This is in conflict with interpreting physical aspects of site. Often in court, etc., the cultural perspective is not regarded as highly as scientific perspective. Archaeology is an academic study, culture is quite different. Proposal: Education of students and Maori groups could improve this.

NEW DIRECTIONS FOR THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF€MAORI€SITES For Maori ●

●

Proposals: Discipline of matauranga Maori (body of knowledge) or how Maori view the world could be expanded to include archaeology. More Maori archaeologists.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ â•› 270 Appendix 5 ●

● ●

Both Maori and archaeologists need to convince others of the importance of archaeology. Maori should support archaeologists who are good. Maori need to get involved with archaeology before development.

For Archaeologists ●

●

Proposals: Maori cultural research has a wide focus (based on language, environmental concerns, stories of sites, history, place-names, taonga and the places), but heritage organisations have a narrow focus. The challenge to archaeology is to stop talking about archaeology and talk about how archaeology is going to integrate more fluidly with the rest of kaupapa that Maori commonly deal with. Establish national and regional bodies to provide support for people involved in Maori cultural heritage, and to continue this debate (WAC Inter-Congress) in order to develop ideas further.

Glossary€and€List€of Abbreviations

Indigenous Words Aotearoa now used as the Maori name for New Zealand bora ceremonial stone or earthen ring hahu to dig up, disinter, exhume hakari sumptuous meal, feast, banquet, gift, present, celebration, entertainment hapu kinship group, clan, tribe, subtribe; section of a large kinship group hui tribal gatherings imi people iwi tribes kaitiaki guardians kaitiakitanga responsibility, guardianship karakia sacred prayer or lament karapuna ancestor kaupapa topic, policy, matter for discussion, plan, scheme, proposal, agenda, subject, program, theme koimi human skeletal remains kopi Corynocarpus laevigatus korero oratorical recitations mahi work mahi huakanga heritage mana prestige, authority, spiritual power mana whenua Maori spiritual and political control over the land Maori Indigenous people of New Zealand marae strictly, marae refers to a ceremonial open area where formal welcomes to visitors take place and issues are debated, but the term is often used to include the complex of �buildings

271

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 272 Glossary and List of Abbreviations

(including meeting house, dining hall and Â�washing facilities) around the marae matauranga Maori Maori knowledge maunga mountain (often referring to ancestral mountains) mauri life essence Moriori Indigenous people of Rekohu Nga Iwi Maori the Maori people pa fortification, generally defended by earthworks and surrounded by wooden palisades Pakeha non-Maori New Zealanders pouarahi staff poutokomanawa central support post or pole rakau momori dendroglyph, tree carving or scar tree rangata matua elder rangatiratanga sovereignty, exercise authority over Rekohu “Garlands of Mist”, name for the main island of the Chathams group, as well as the inclusive name for the whole collection of Chatham Islands runanga tribal committees taha Maori Maori side and mode of thinking taha Pakeha European side and mode of thinking take issue, topic, subject, matter, concern, claim tangata whenua literally “people of the land”, Maori taniwha water spirit, monster; taniwha take many forms, from logs to reptiles and whales, and often live in lakes, rivers or the sea; they are often regarded as guardians taonga property, goods, possessions, effects, treasure, something prized Tapu sacred, prohibited, restricted, set apart, forbidden, prohibitive aspects that guide action tchakat henu literally “people of the earth” te hunga tiaki guardian te kitenga o whaiaro personhood or self tikanga custom, rule, practice tino rangatiratanga sovereignty toki stone adze head, which would have had a wooden handle bound to it urupa burial grounds wahi tapu sacred or restricted place, often a place of burial whanau extended family

Glossary and List of Abbreviations

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 273

Abbreviations ACHA Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act CHM cultural heritage management DLA Designated Landscape Area DOC Department of Conservation GAC Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation HPA Historic Places Act ICOMOS International Council on Monuments and Sites ILC Indigenous Land Corporation NPS National Policy Statement NZAA New Zealand Archaeological Association NZHPT New Zealand Historic Places Trust RMA Resource Management Act WAC World Archaeological Congress

List of Heritage Legislation, Documents and Organisations Australia ICOMOS New Zealand

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act (ACHA) Aboriginal Relics Preservation Act Archaeological and Historical Preservation Act Australian Heritage Commission Act Cultural Record Act Designated Landscape Area (DLA) Heritage Register Indigenous Land Corporation (ILC) National Parks and Wildlife Act Native Title Act Sacred Sites Authority Burra Charter, Australia Charter for the Protection of Places of Cultural Heritage Value, New Zealand Antiquities Act Foreshore and Seabed Act Historic Places Act (HPA) Department of Conservation (DOC) Maori Heritage Council of the NZHPT Maori Heritage Unit of the NZHPT Mataatua Declaration on Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples Ministry of Culture and Heritage National Policy Statement New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy Protected Objects Act New Zealand Historic Places Trust (NZHPT) Resource Management Act (RMA) Statement of Intent Town and Country Planning Act Treaty of Waitangi Wahi Tapu Wahi Tapu Area 275

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 276 List of Heritage Legislation, Documents and Organisations

Solomon Islands Ministry of Education and Human Resources Development Research Act United Kingdom Planning Policy Statement United States National Environmental Policy Act National Historic Preservation Act Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) UNESCO World Heritage Commission Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage

Index 221–224, 227–228, 233–247; interpretive, 125, 165, 243; landscape, 144–145, 164, 174, 220, 222–223, 225, 227; Marxist theory, 37, 227, 243; multidisciplinary, 5, 22–23, 28–29, 124, 129, 144, 148–149, 151, 181, 192, 235; postprocessual, 22–23, 29, 71, 234, 240, 243; postcolonial, 14, 22–24, 29–31, 33, 38, 41, 94, 129, 131, 148, 152, 203, 234, 238–239; processual/New Archaeology, 19, 22–23, 34, 240, 243; reflective, 14, 22, 42, 148; See also theory archaeological disciplines, 5, 17–18, 22–23, 25, 29, 32–33, 37–38, 50, 57, 59–60, 64, 72–73, 76, 81, 129, 135, 145, 150, 158, 173–174, 197, 204, 211, 233–234, 236, 239–241, 243, 246–248; academic, 14, 24, 32, 41–42, 59, 73, 91, 93, 124, 129, 131–132, 134, 146–150, 152, 164, 181, 203, 237, 243–244; rescue/salvage, 33, 35–36, 40, 129, 132, 134, 145–148, 150–154, 160–162, 164, 167, 174; scientific, 20, 28, 40, 49, 52, 54, 64, 72, 94, 98, 111, 121, 133–134, 144, 149, 167, 174, 201–202, 209, 212, 218, 227, 239–240; See also Western; science archaeological evidence, 20, 22, 33–34, 41, 50, 74, 98, 100, 108, 110, 118, 121, 123, 130,€133, 136, 139–146, 152, 159, 184, 186, 189, 216, 221–223, 225, 227, 229, 240–243; See also tangible cultural property

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act, 120, 123, 125 Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act, 110–111, 118–119, 122–126, 159 Aboriginal Relics Preservation Act, 109, 115, 120 agency, 22, 39, 61–63, 66–67, 72 anthropology, 20, 27, 39, 42, 52, 54, 63, 69, 73, 77, 87, 94, 97, 100, 103, 109–110, 148, 153, 218, 236, 242; biological, 52, 58, 148, 153, 170, 217–218, 229, 231; ethnohistory, 77, 94, 97, 100, 105, 148, 149, 187, 218, 249 Antiquities Act, 160, 168 Archaeological and Historical Preservation Act, 159–160 archaeological approaches, 14, 22–23, 27–28, 30, 32, 37–39, 41, 64, 74, 100, 104, 129, 141, 145, 147–150, 157–158, 164, 174, 223, 227, 233, 235, 241, 243, 245–247; bicultural, 174, 228; collaborative, 13, 17–18, 23–25, 27–30, 40–41, 59–60, 73, 82, 108, 119, 123– 124, 129, 134, 144, 149, 151, 158, 165, 167, 169, 174–176, 191, 194, 197, 204, 209–211, 227, 233–234, 236–238, 242, 246–248; community, 24–25, 29–31, 42, 66, 69, 74, 76, 148, 151, 166–171, 173, 184–185, 191, 193, 233–237, 241–243, 247; feminist, 241, 243–244, 246; historical, 29, 32, 40, 146; Indigenous, 13–14, 18–31, 36–42, 49–50, 52, 57, 59–61, 67–68, 76–77, 107, 112, 123, 125, 129–130, 135, 151, 184, 204–210, 217, 277

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 278 Index archaeological practice, 14, 21, 23–25, 28, 30–32, 41, 49–50, 54, 57, 61–62, 64, 66–69, 74, 76, 81–82, 107–108, 111–112, 119, 122, 124, 129–130, 132, 135, 139, 145, 150–151, 164, 176, 221, 226–227, 229, 234, 236, 240; analysis, 14, 32, 69–70, 74, 94, 111, 129, 132, 139–140, 155, 164, 220; assessment, 22, 33, 35, 43, 73, 101, 112, 131–133, 140–141, 147, 150, 152, 161, 165, 223, 226–227; fieldwork, 13, 24, 26–27, 33, 35–36, 38, 40, 42–43, 49, 52, 61, 65–69, 73, 76, 88–89, 118, 131–136, 138, 140, 142, 145–146, 152–153, 158, 160–164, 167, 173–174, 183–184, 186–188, 190, 198, 200, 220–221, 223–225, 238, 241, 243; interpretation, 13, 22–23, 28–29, 31–33, 40–42, 53, 69, 76, 93–94, 103, 130, 147–148, 152, 173, 192, 204, 221, 223, 227, 229, 233–235, 237, 240–242, 246; misreading, 227; research, 18, 24–27, 29–32, 34–35, 37, 42–43, 57, 62–63, 65, 67, 69–70, 73–74, 76, 82, 97–98, 131–132, 146–148, 152, 157, 159, 162, 164, 168, 171, 173, 181, 183–188, 191–194, 202–203, 207–209, 221–223, 227–228, 236–238, 246, 249 Argentina, 56, 81; people: Kolla, 38, 85, 92; place names: Antofalla, 81–83, 90; Antofagasta de la Sierra, 81–90, 92; Catamarca, 81–84, 89; Puna de Atacama, 81, 83, 85–86, 90, 92 artefact, 14, 17, 22, 24, 27–28, 39–40, 49, 53, 61–66, 68–77, 82–84, 86–87, 91, 100, 107–112, 117–118, 120–121, 125, 130, 132, 139–140, 145,

158, 168, 171–174, 183, 186, 191, 197–198, 200, 202–204, 211, 221, 229, 236 Atalay, Sonya, 18, 23, 27–30 Australia, 17, 19–20, 27, 30, 32, 34–35, 37, 39–42, 49, 57, 61, 64–65, 72, 107, 109–110, 116, 122, 125, 130, 132, 149, 151, 159–162, 164, 166, 171, 176, 186, 194, 233, 236–237, 247– 248; Aboriginal tribes, 26–27, 32, 39, 61, 63–65, 68–70, 72–77, 107–116, 118–126, 198, 247; Baakantji, 65, 70; Jarowair, 40, 113–115, 122; Ngarrindjeri, 27; place names: Bunya Mountains, 113–114; Gummingurru, 107–109, 111, 113–126; Mutawintji, 62, 68–73, 75–76; New South Wales, 35, 61–62, 65, 68–70, 112, 171; Northern Territory, 161; Queensland, 107–111, 113–115, 117–125, 159, 248; Uluru, 247 Australian Heritage Commission Act, 159–160 authenticity, 101, 118; See also integrity Authorised Heritage Discourse, 123 beliefs, 28, 35–36, 40, 67–68, 72–76, 125, 144, 150, 181–182, 209, 223, 228, 242–243; ancestral, 21, 28, 38–39, 51, 57, 67–68,€84–85, 87–88, 109, 137, 140–141, 146, 152, 162, 172–173, 188, 193, 200, 202–204, 206, 211, 215, 217, 225–226, 228, 234, 242; intangible, 28, 40, 107, 109, 123–125, 130, 149–150, 198, 211, 216, 227, 242; metaphysical, 36, 61, 64, 66, 70, 72–74, 150, 153, 201–202, 242; See also ceremonial; myth; spiritual

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Index 279 biodiversity, 169–171, 173–175 Bora, 113, 115–116 Burra Charter, 107 Canada, 19, 42, 166, 233, 235–236, 239, 246; First Nations tribes: Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group, 242, 247; O-Chi-Chak-Ko-Sipi First Nation, 239; Secepwemc First Nation, 235; place names: British Columbia, 235, 239, 242; Manitoba, 239 Caribbean, 93–98, 100–103, 105 cemi, 99 Central America, 95 ceremonial place, 38, 110, 113, 116, 139, 152, 183, 188, 242; See also sacred place; spiritual place; traditional land Chacmool Conference, 244 Charter for the Protection of Places of Cultural Heritage Value, 166 Chatham Islands/Rekohu, 39, 123, 213–229; people: Moriori, 4, 39, 94, 123, 213–229; place names: Kopinga, 4, 215–216, 228; Rangiauria Island, 217; Taia, 222, 224; Waitangi Beach, 218 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, 109 Cháves, Anacleto, 87–89, 92 Christian, 181–182, 188, 219–220 classification, 64; heritage, 100, 105, 108, 111; people, 93–94, 98, 105 colonialism, 18–22, 28–31, 37–38, 54, 75, 81, 94, 96–98, 100, 102–105, 157, 183, 204, 211,€237, 239; See also racism conceptual oppositions, 28–29 conservation, 13, 20, 28, 32–36, 38, 40, 52, 54, 57–58, 67, 72, 107–112, 115, 118–119, 121,

123–124, 133–134, 141–147, 150–151, 157–162, 164–171, 173–176, 201, 203, 207, 211, 219, 227, 229, 237–238, 248; See also cultural heritage management covenant, 142, 144, 233 cross-cultural negotiation, 23, 28, 73 cultural heritage management, 19–20, 28, 30, 32–37, 40–43, 107–108, 110–113, 116, 119–120, 122–124, 126, 145, 146, 148, 150, 157–159, 164–166, 168–169, 171, 173, 175, 201, 205, 207, 209, 213, 222, 228–229, 234, 237–238, 247; agencies, 18, 27, 32–33, 38–40, 61, 107–108, 111–113, 116, 119–124, 126, 130–131, 159, 161, 164, 167–169, 197–198, 201, 204, 207, 242; authorities/permits, 30, 33–35, 54, 131, 133–134, 140–142, 144, 159, 161–167, 186, 198, 211, 226–227; assessment, 33, 35, 43, 110, 112, 131–133, 140–141, 147, 150, 152, 161, 165, 223, 226–227; consultant, 32, 34, 132, 134, 138, 146–147, 152, 164, 201, 209; consultation, 27, 30, 42, 108, 122, 133, 140, 144, 166, 189, 192, 204–205, 234, 248; grey literature, 147; Indigenous€monitors, 132, 134–137, 139, 140; legislation, 20, 34–40, 69, 107–112, 118–119, 122–126, 130–133, 142, 144–145, 150–152, 157, 159–162, 164, 166, 168–169, 171, 174–175, 181, 185, 236; mitigation, 35–36, 42, 110, 133–135, 142,€144, 148, 151, 162, 165, 198; statutory€protection, 157, 159–160; See also conservation; heritage

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 280 Index Cultural Record Act, 109–110, 115, 120 cultural safety, 31, 198, 225; See also spiritual danger cultural tourism, 33, 40, 167, 228, 238 custom, 181, 186 decision making, 61, 63, 67, 108, 150, 161, 164, 167, 173, 175, 207, 211, 247 Department of Conservation, 161, 165, 167, 169–171, 229 Designated Landscape Areas, 110, 115, 119–120 developer, 18, 36, 42, 54, 58, 133–125, 146–147, 152, 161, 165, 168, 226; See also landowner development, 35, 36–37, 40, 42, 51, 109–110, 119–121, 132–134, 136, 140, 142, 144, 145, 147, 150–151, 157–160, 162, 164–167, 169, 171, 175, 185, 191, 198, 225 dialogue, 17–19, 21–25, 28–32, 37–39, 41–42, 49, 61, 81–83, 85–86, 89–92, 98, 103–104, 126, 140, 148, 152, 166, 172, 175, 197, 211, 220, 226–228, 242–243, 245–246, 248 diaspora, 102 dissonance, 33–34 Dreaming, 63, 111 duho, 99 Echo-Hawk, Roger, 18, 29–30 education, 13, 15, 33, 54, 56, 73, 85, 116, 120–121, 147, 174, 183, 185, 204–206, 211, 237–238; See also universities elder, 25, 132, 139–140, 214, 222 England, 43; London, 217, 228 Enlightenment, 64 Environment Court, 133, 135–136, 142–145, 147, 150–151

environmental organisations, 132–135, 201 ethics, 22–25, 28–29, 41, 76, 166, 176, 203, 206, 211, 227, 234, 236, 239, 241, 246–247; accords, 24–25, 166, 211; codes, 25, 166, 176 European, 21, 39, 55, 64, 68, 94, 97–98, 103, 114, 172, 184, 193, 197, 201–204, 214, 217, 219 European contact, 39, 64, 68, 184, 193, 202, 214, 217 exhibition, 171–172, 238; See also Te Maori Foreshore and Seabed Act Historic Places Act, 167–168 Fulton Hogan, 142 genealogy, 149, 172–173, 203, 205, 211 government, 18–19, 29, 31–32, 35–36, 39, 57, 94, 124–125, 134, 150–151, 159–160, 162, 165–170, 174, 185–186, 189, 191, 194, 207, 213, 228, 234; agencies, 18, 167, 169, 228; departments, 76, 124, 168, 170, 174 Greater Antilles, 94, 96, 98, 100– 103, 105–106 Green, Roger Curtis, 5, 148, 152, 176, 183–184, 194 Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation, 116, 118–123, 125–126; See also Australia place names hakari, 139 heritage, 13, 15, 17–22, 28, 30, 32–42, 49, 52–57, 59, 61, 73, 75, 102, 107–113, 118–126, 129–134, 140–141, 144–152, 157–161, 163–169, 171, 173–176, 186, 196–197, 201,

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Index 281 203, 205, 207–209, 213, 217, 221, 223, 226–229, 234, 237–238, 242, 247, 249; definition, 107–111, 113, 122–124; See also landscape Heritage Register, 110, 119–121, 125, 167–168 Historic Places Act, 132–133, 141, 147, 151, 155, 159–160, 162, 164–165, 167–168, 174, 176, 226 Hohaia, Miria Ruha Ruha, 206 human remains, 21–22, 24, 27–28, 38–39, 42, 49–50, 52, 61, 73, 82, 84, 110–111, 132, 136–140, 142, 146, 166, 173, 183, 188–189, 191, 202, 206–207, 213, 216–219, 221, 226, 229, 245; See also reburial; repatriation hybridity, 100, 103–104 identity, 20–21, 32–33, 35, 38–42, 84–85, 92, 94, 97, 101–104, 166, 172, 176, 197–198, 213, 219, 221, 227–229, 234, 237, 246; constructed, 38; national, 20, 33, 35, 39, 97, 97–98, 103–104, 237; politics, 97, 101, 104, 234 Indigenous, 13–14, 17–43, 49–60, 61, 63, 67–68, 73–74, 76, 81–82, 93–98, 100–107, 110–113, 116, 121–125, 129–132, 135, 137, 144–148, 150–151, 157–158, 164, 166, 169, 173, 176, 181, 183–185, 187–193, 202, 204–205, 208, 210–213, 217, 221–224, 227–228, 233–249; archaeologist, 5, 18, 30, 37, 50–52, 57–60, 61, 67–68, 185, 197, 201–211, 233, 235–236, 239, 246, 248; community, 17–20, 22–32, 35–42, 50–51, 53, 57, 61, 63,

66–69, 72–74, 76, 81–85, 97, 101, 105, 109–110, 121–122, 125, 130, 138–139, 144, 148, 152, 158, 161, 164, 166, 170–175, 184–189, 191–194, 197, 201–202, 205, 213, 222, 228–229, 233–237, 241–245, 247–249; knowledge, 20–21, 24, 26–29, 31–32, 50, 56, 65, 90, 110, 114–116, 122, 145, 149, 171, 173, 189, 191, 198, 201, 203, 205, 208, 213, 216, 219–224, 226, 229, 234–235, 237, 240–242, 246, 248; responsibilities, 21, 27–28, 36, 39, 66–67, 71, 108, 110, 112, 116–124, 126, 136, 157–158, 170, 174, 198, 203–205, 209, 242; rights, 19–21, 24, 27, 31, 41, 50–51, 54, 97, 101, 108, 116, 152, 158, 168–169, 198, 203–204, 234, 236–237; worldview, 27, 29, 31, 54, 85, 89, 107, 112, 124, 167, 174, 198, 201–202, 209, 212, 224, 227, 233–236, 238–239, 241–243, 245–247; See also beliefs; traditional infectious diseases, 131, 219 integrity, 37, 42, 119, 228; See also authenticity intellectual property, 24, 31, 227 International Council on Monuments and Sites, 24, 166 Indigenous Land Corporation, 116, 120–123 Japan, 57, 238; people: Ainu, 238 kaitiaki, 158, 170, 174–175, 209 kaitiakitanga, 136, 170, 198, 204 Karanga Aotearoa, 42, 217–218; See€also repatriation kaupapa, 151–152 koimi, 216–218 kopi, 216, 223, 225, 228

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 282 Index land claims, 22, 31, 39, 134, 152, 182–183, 185–186, 189, 237–238; See also Indigenous rights landowners (non-Indigenous), 54, 165, 169, 174–175, 205, 222–223; See also developers; traditional owners landscape, 36, 43, 61, 63, 66, 86–87, 90, 109–110, 112–113, 119–120, 124, 130, 140–142, 144–147, 149–150, 152, 157, 164, 170, 173–174, 203, 205, 221–223, 225–227, 234, 241, 247, 249 language, 50, 52, 94, 96, 98, 100– 101, 103, 112, 130, 148, 151, 181, 189, 213, 219, 228 Lesser Antilles, 96, 105; people: Carib, 94, 96, 102–103, 105;€place name: Guadalupe, 94–95 Lewis-Galanes, Adriana, 93–96, 98, 105 Lippert, Dorothy, 18, 38, 41 living heritage, 40, 111–113, 118, 122–126, 247 mana whenua, 171, 175, 198 Maori Heritage Council, 131, 152, 168, 207 Maori Heritage Unit, 131, 140, 141 marae, 4, 131, 139, 152, 176, 201, 205, 215–216, 228 marginalisation, 19, 30, 39, 101, 233, 239, 243–244, 247 Mataatua Declaration on Cultural and Intellectual Property Rights of Indigenous Peoples, 24 Matunga, Hirini, 24 mauri, 170, 172, 198–200 Ministry of Culture and Heritage, 168 Ministry of Education and Human Resources Development, 185

Moriori, 4, 39, 94, 213–229; organisations: Hokotehi Moriori Trust, 4, 39, 123, 213, 215–216, 220–228; Moriori Identity Trust, 213 museum, 22, 38, 40, 42, 53, 57, 81, 131–132, 157–158, 169, 171–175, 198–199, 201, 216–217, 219, 231, 238; collections, 40, 53, 57, 158, 171–173, 198, 216–217, 219;€display, 22, 53, 81, 172,€238; staff, 53, 132, 158, 172, 201; See also museums named museums named: Auckland War Memorial Museum, 198; Bernice Bishop Museum, 183; Metropolitan Museum of Art, 171; Museum of Man Antofagasta de la Sierra, 38, 81–92; National Museum of New Zealand/Te Papa Tongarewa, 42, 53, 218, 229; National Museum Solomon Islands, 181, 184–187, 189–190, 192–196; Natural History Museum, 217; Otago Museum, 198; Rijksmuseum, 219, 231; Smithsonian Institution Museum of Natural History, 53 Musket Wars, 203 Mutawintji National Park, 62, 68, 70, 71, 76 myth, 96, 103, 130, 202, 219–220, 241, 243; See also beliefs; oral traditions Nagaoka, Takuya, 187 National Environmental Policy Act, 54 National Historic Preservation Act, 20, 32, 36, 54 National Parks and Wildlife Act, 69, 70, 160

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Index 283 National Policy Statement, 170–171 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, 24, 166, 237, 248 Native Title Act, 116, 120, 123 natural history, 53, 64, 169, 171–172 New Caledonia, 186; place name: Noumea, 186 New Zealand/Aotearoa, 13, 42, 49, 53, 129–131, 145, 150, 197–198, 202–203, 206; people: Maori, 13, 14, 24, 26–27, 32, 34, 36, 38–42, 58,€111, 129–153, 157– 169, 171–176, 197–211, 213–215,€217–220, 228, 249; Pakeha/European, 172, 197,€200–210, 214, 217, 219;€Maori tribes: Nga Potiki, 140–141; Nga Uri o Tamapahore, 142; Ngati Maru, 36, 135, 138; Ngati Mutunga, 25–26, 66, 232; Ngati Rahiri, 136; Ngati Tamatera, 137; Puketapu Hapu o Te Atiawa, 146; Rangitane, 27, 42; Waitaha a Hei, 142; place names: Athenree, 33, 162; Auckland, 13, 36, 38, 53, 59, 134, 152, 159–160, 176, 206, 211,€234; Gisborne, 159; Kairua, 140–142, 151; Karangaumu Pa, 142–143; Kauri Point, 200; Ongari Point, 199; Oropuriri Pa, 146; Papamoa Hills, 142–143; Pohokura, 136; Pukehue, 136–139; Taranaki, 26, 66, 136, 159; Tauranga, 140–141, 159; Taupiri Maunga, 206–207; Te Mata, 137; Thames, 34; Totara Palms, 135; Turanga Hill, 163; Urquharts Bay, 163; Waihou River, 158

New Zealand Archaeological Association, 131, 149, 152–153, 159, 164–165, 176, 220–221, 223, 226, 229; Site Recording Scheme, 149, 153,€159, 164, 220–221, 223, 226, 229; See also site recording New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy, 169–171, 173–175 New Zealand Historic Places Trust, 132–133, 140, 142, 144, 147, 151–152, 159, 161, 164–165, 167–168, 207; authority, 33–34, 133–134, 140–142, 144, 159, 161–163, 165–167, 198, 211, 226; National Research Framework, 43, 147; Registration, 165 Oceania, 181; peoples: Melanesian, 181, 219; Micronesian, 181; Polynesian, 181, 213, 216, 219, 220, 229; See also Pacific oral traditions, 28, 31, 38, 41, 95, 130, 148–150, 197, 202–204,€213, 219, 221, 224, 241, 243; See also traditional knowledge oral traditions, synthetic, 153 pa, 136–140, 142–144, 146, 153, 162, 200 Pacific, 5, 17, 19, 30, 53, 148, 186, 194, 206, 213, 216; See also Oceania Papamoa Hills Regional Park, 142–143 parks, 134, 138, 142, 143, 161, 165, 166, 169; See also public ownership place names, 130, 151, 214 planning, 27, 35–36, 108, 144, 161, 164–172, 201, 238 Planning Policy Statement, 171

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 284 Index postcolonial, 22–23, 29, 33, 38, 94, 112, 203, 234 pre-contact, 112; See also traditional poutokomanawa, 215 Protected Objects Act, 168, 176 public lands, 159, 161, 164, 165, 175; See also parks Puerto Rico, 38, 93–105; peoples: Taino, 38, 93–105; Creole, 97–98, 102–104; See also Greater Antilles racism, 18, 21, 105, 218 rakau momori, 216, 220, 228 reburial, 27, 39, 132, 139, 217, 218, 244, 248; See also human remains; repatriation Renaissance, 64, 166 repatriation, 27, 37–39, 41–42, 49–50, 52, 172, 218, 230; See also Karanga Aotearoa; Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act; reburial resistance, 19, 20, 54, 67, 73, 91, 96, 97, 103, 104, 131, 158, 173, 198, 204, 208, 234, 237; See also Indigenous rights Resource Management Act, 132–134, 147, 150, 160, 164, 165, 169–170, 174, 176 Research Act, 185 Roga, Kenneth, 187 sacred sites, 36, 39, 40, 55, 66, 133, 138, 167, 188, 207, 213, 228; See also ceremonial place; spiritual place; traditional lands Sacred Sites Authority, 161 significance, 33, 240; archaeological, 35, 109–111, 113, 118–119, 136, 140, 150; contemporary, 109–111, 119, 150; cultural, 35, 109–110, 136, 166, 197–199, 203–204, 211, 228; historic, 109, 118–119, 133; Indigenous, 109–110, 119,

121, 136, 150, 197–199, 203–204, 211, 228; site, 36, 65, 110, 119, 121, 123, 133, 144, 146–147, 150–151, 161, 166, 168, 197–200, 203–204, 211; spiritual, 77, 110, 133, 161, 197–199, 203–204, 211, 228 site, 14, 17, 20–22, 26–28, 33–36, 39–42, 50, 53–54, 57, 61–67, 70, 74, 76, 77, 82–83, 88, 96, 107–126, 130, 132–135, 137–149, 151–153, 157–168, 173–176, 182–184, 186–192, 194, 197–200, 203–207, 211, 213, 215–216, 220–223, 225–229, 242, 247; recording, 36, 54, 57, 77, 82–83, 110, 112, 115–117, 119–120, 125–126, 133, 140–141, 144, 149, 153, 159–161, 165, 167, 183–184, 186–188, 192, 197, 220–221, 223, 225–226, 229; survival, 35–36, 54, 107, 109–110, 115–116, 120–123, 132–135, 141–142, 144, 146, 148, 153, 158–168, 174, 191–192, 198, 216, 226; See also conservation; Cultural Heritage Management Smith, Laurajane, 32, 34 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, 13, 20, 31, 208 Statement of Intent, 167, 170 Society for American Archaeology, 236, 244 Solomon Islands, 39, 50, 94, 148, 181–195; archaeological research projects: Association Salomon, 186; Bilua Bifoa Research Project, 187; National Sites Survey Program, 186; New Georgia Archaeological Survey, 187; Southeast Solomon Islands Cultural History Project, 183, 185–186; place names:

|

╛╛ ╛╛ Index 285 Bellona, 183; Guadalcanal, 183, 190, 194; Honiara, 185, 190, 193; Isabel Province, 192; Makira Province, 183; Malaita, 188–189, 192; Manawoqwa Rockshelter, 190; Roviana, 187, 188; Santa Ana, 183, 190; Temotu Province, 183; Vanikoro, 186; Vataluma Posovi, 190; Vella Lavella/Mbilua, 187; Western Province, 183, 187, 189, 193 Solomon, Tommy, 220, 229 Spanish, 93–97, 100–105 spiritual, 28, 61–70, 72–75, 77, 108, 110, 122, 133, 151, 161–162, 170–172, 174, 175, 188, 191, 197, 200, 202, 204, 228, 242; danger, 38, 42, 62, 64–68, 70, 73–75, 136, 192, 200, 202, 242; See also beliefs; ceremonial place; cultural safety; sacred sites; traditional knowledge Sutton, Douglas, 220 symbolism, 32, 35, 69, 85, 87, 96, 97, 103, 216, 243 tangible cultural property, 24, 25, 31, 32, 34, 39, 41, 49–50, 53–54, 61–69, 72–76, 82–83, 85, 98, 100, 104, 108–113, 119, 121–124, 129–130, 134, 138–141, 144, 145, 149, 151–152, 162, 168, 183, 186, 191, 198, 211, 216, 220–223, 225–228, 230, 242; See also archaeological evidence taonga, 151, 172–173, 197–207, 211, 213, 216, 217, 219–221, 228 tapu, 66, 133, 136, 138–139, 142, 170, 198–202, 209, 228 Tapu, Hirawanu, 124, 125, 129, 228 Tauranga District Council, 140, 141 tchakat henu, 226 Te Maori exhibition, 171, 172

theft, 192, 216–217 theory, 32, 34, 129–130, 234, 236, 238, 240, 243–244; critical, 19–22, 29, 36, 38, 41, 71, 94, 104, 129, 146–147, 167, 170, 233, 234, 236, 240, 243; reflective, 14, 22, 29, 42, 73, 103, 148, 233, 240, 243; See also archaeological approaches tikanga, 132 tourism, 33, 40, 167, 228, 238 Town and Country Planning Act, 160 traditional, 19, 20, 23, 31–32, 36, 39–41, 52, 65, 67, 69, 84, 87, 90, 94, 100–102, 104, 107, 109–126, 130, 132–133, 135,€139–140, 142–147, 149–150, 153, 158, 166–168,€172–173, 181, 182, 186, 188, 189, 197–198, 202–204, 206–209, 211, 213, 219, 221–229, 237–238, 241–243; evidence, 20, 31, 135, 142–144, 149, 150, 189; knowledge, 21, 31, 32, 36, 52, 67, 69, 84, 87, 100–102, 109–111, 115–116, 125, 126, 130, 132, 139–140, 145, 173, 181, 182, 186, 188, 189, 197–198, 202, 204, 206, 207, 209, 211, 213, 219, 221, 222, 225, 227, 228, 241, 242; lands, 65, 116, 189, 203, 226, 237; owners, 39, 65, 68, 69, 71, 108, 112, 114, 116–122, 126, 188; revival, 19, 94, 104, 110, 113, 116–118, 120–124, 223, 229, 237–238; See also ceremonial; oral traditions; sacred sites; spiritual Treaty of Waitangi, 31, 131, 166, 170, 198, 211, 248 tribal areas, 110, 113, 134, 201, 203, 211; See also traditional lands Two Bears, Davina, 67–68

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 286 Index Ucko, Peter, 21–23, 35, 42 UNESCO, 24, 108, 109 United States, 19–20, 24, 27, 32, 34, 37, 38, 42, 54, 57, 97, 98, 100, 101, 161, 164, 166, 176, 216, 233, 236, 237, 247, 248; peoples: First Nations, 233, 244; Native American, 24, 26, 27, 31, 36, 37, 38, 239, 244, 245; American Indian, 49, 53, 57; tribes: Blackfoot/ Peigan, 243; Choctaw, 49, 51, 55, 56, 58, 59; Kayasha Pomo, 247; Nunamiut, 241; place names: Alaska, 68, 75, 241; California, 247; Honolulu, 183; New York, 171–172 universality, 130 universities, 13, 42, 121, 131, 185, 193, 194, 210, 243; Auckland, 13, 14, 25, 26, 131, 135, 183, 185, 187, 199, 200, 208, 211; Catamarca, 82, 92; Edinburgh, 217, 218; Otago, 131, 187 values, 13–14, 19–21, 28, 32, 35–37, 40, 53, 85, 109–113, 119, 122, 130, 133, 136, 146–150, 158, 165–167, 170–174, 201–203, 213, 221–223, 225–227, 234, 238, 242, 247; archaeological, 35–36, 40, 109, 111–112, 119, 147, 226, 227, 238, 247; conservation, 20, 166, 170–171, 174; contemporary, 111, 112, 146, 150; cultural, 19, 21, 35, 53, 136, 147, 158, 166, 174, 223, 226, 227; educational, 109, 111, 112, 147, 174; historic, 40, 109, 119, 150, 223; Indigenous, 19, 21, 28, 107, 112, 130, 213, 221, 223, 227, 234, 247; Maori, 40, 133, 136, 140, 144, 149, 150, 166, 167, 171,

173, 201–203; scientific, 20, 133, 167, 174, 201; social, 35, 85, 109, 174, 223; traditional, 28, 40, 109, 119, 146, 158, 171; universal, 34, 108; visual, 147, 174 wahi tapu, 36, 133, 138, 142, 151– 152, 167–168, 173, 197–201, 203–204, 206–207, 211 Wahi Tapu Area, 133, 167, 168 Waitakere Ranges Regional Park, 158 Watkins, Joe, 13, 18, 27, 36–37, 49–60, 187, 242 Western, 20, 21, 28, 29, 32, 34, 40, 41, 61–65, 72–74, 85, 111– 113, 115, 122, 129–130, 147, 149, 151–152, 209, 239–241; science, 21–23, 28, 29, 34–35, 39–40, 53–54, 63–64, 69, 72, 74, 104, 107–110, 112, 121–122, 133–134, 141, 150, 162, 197, 202, 204, 218, 221–223, 225–227, 234, 239; worldview, 54, 64, 74, 201, 209; See also archaeological evidence; tangible cultural property Western Bay of Plenty District Council, 142 Wobst, H. Martin, 100, 129–130, 145–148, 150 WAC Inter-Congress, Auckland, 13–14, 36, 38, 50, 53, 58–59, 131, 151, 176, 194, 211, 231, 234 World Archaeological Congress, 13–14, 17, 21–24, 27, 38, 50, 53, 59, 131, 148, 152, 166, 176, 194, 211, 226, 234, 244, 247 World Heritage Commission, 108 Yellowhorn, Eldon, 243, 246

About the Authors

Harry Allen is an associate professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Auckland, where he has taught archaeology since 1973. His teaching and research ranges from the history and archaeology of northern Australia and New Zealand to heritage conservation. Harry Allen was a board member of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust and a member of the Trust’s Maori Heritage Council between 1993 and 2006. He was recently awarded an ONZM for services to New Zealand archaeology in the 2008 New Year’s Honours List. Gabriel De La Luz-Rodríguez is an assistant professor in the Department of Social Sciences, College of General Studies at the University of Puerto Rico. His main areas of research include early colonial encounters in the Spanish Caribbean, state formation and class relations, and the history and philosophy of the social sciences. He is currently working on a book tackling the development of the encomienda system in the Caribbean during the early sixteenth century. Lawrence A. Foana’ota was born in North Malaita, Solomon Islands. He is currently the director of the Solomon Islands National Museum and an adjunct research fellow with the School of Anthropology, Archaeology and Sociology, James Cook University, Townsville, Australia. He has written on issues relating to culture, archaeology and the museum in Solomon Islands. He is currently doing research on the abuse of the traditional practice of compensation payment in Solomon Islands contemporary society as part of an international research program called “Pacific Alternatives: Cultural Heritage and Political Innovation in Oceania”. Susan Forbes is an archaeologist specialising in cultural landscapes and advocacy for protection of heritage as identity. Most of her work focuses on working alongside Indigenous communities in the protection of their own ancestral places and values. Archaeology, carried out as an active ethical principle of aroha (affection, sympathy, compassion, love) is her professional motivation. Love for her children and tane (husband) is her personal motivation. Alejandro Haber (Universidad Nacional de Catamarca/Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas) was born in Buenos 287

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 288 About the Authors

Aires, Argentina, and studied anthropology and archaeology at Buenos Aires University (undergraduate and Ph.D.). He has lived in Catamarca, Argentina, for the last 20 years, where he teaches and researches at the National University at Catamarca and the National Council for Scientific and Technological Research. His professional interests are intercultural archaeology and decolonial research. Wilhelm Londoño (Universidad del Magdalena/Universidad Nacional de Catamarca) is an anthropologist who has been working on the border with other disciplines such as history and archaeology. In his work it is possible to appreciate an academic praxis in which the interest of the community is part of the research. In some of his former papers, new forms of writing and themes appear that are, in certain ways, an iconoclast form within Colombian archaeology. Ernestina Mamaní (Municipalidad de Antofagasta de la Sierra) is Indigenous: she was born and bred in Antofagasta de la Sierra (Catamarca, Argentina). At the moment, she is working in the municipality of Antofagasta de la Sierra, and during her free times writes about the customs and traditions of her ancestors, so the people interested in these subjects can learn from her about the origins of her people. Bridget Mosley is currently an independent researcher and consultant. She attended the University of Auckland (NZ), the University of Sheffield (UK) and the Graduate School of the Environment, Macquarie University (Australia) and was a Commonwealth Scholar in 2001. She has also worked for the New Zealand Historic Places Trust. Her research interests are in the politics of archaeology, public/community archaeology, funerary archaeology and heritage legislation. She carried out her doctoral research in far western New South Wales, Australia, and is grateful to the people involved for their kindness, patience and hospitality. George P. Nicholas is a professor of archaeology at Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia. He was founding director of Simon Fraser University’s Indigenous Archaeology Program in Kamloops, BC (1991–2005). Nicholas is also the director of the international research initiative “Intellectual Property Issues in Cultural Heritage: Theory, Practice, Policy”. His research focuses on Indigenous peoples and archaeology, intellectual property issues relating to archaeology, the archaeology and human ecology of wetlands, and archaeological theory, all of which he has published widely on. He is series co-editor (with Julie Hollowell) of the World Archaeological Congress’s Research Handbooks in Archaeology.

|

╛╛ ╛╛ About the Authors 289

Caroline Phillips is an honorary research fellow at the University of Auckland and a consultant archaeologist. She was a co-convener of the Second Indigenous World Archaeological Inter-Congress. Her studies of Maori settlements have involved the integration of archaeological fieldwork, geoarchaeological techniques, and the rich material from Maori oral and post-European contact histories. Her research questions include how to identify dynamic settlement systems, small-scale cultural changes, and issues of ethnicity and identity using landscape approaches, contextual archaeology and historical narratives. Margaret Rika-Heke is New Zealand Maori (Tainui, Nga Puhi and Parininihi Ki Waitotara). She graduated with an MA in Archaeology from the University of Auckland and currently works as a consultant archaeologist within her own tribal boundaries. She has served on the WAC Ethics Committee, is currently an Indigenous representative on the Council of WAC and co-chaired a symposium in the “Pacific Island Archaeology in the 21st Century: Relevance and Engagement” conference at Palau in 2009. Laura Roda (Universidad Nacional de Catamarca/Universidad de Buenos Aires/Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas) is an anthropologist who was born and bred in Rosario (Santa Fe, Argentina). Now she is living in San Fernando del Valle de Catamarca (Catamarca, Argentina). For the last few years, she has attempted to understand the local processes of appropriation, use and preservation of land and other “natural” resources in Antofagasta de la Sierra (Catamarca, Argentina). Anne (Annie) Ross is a senior lecturer in cultural heritage management at the University of Queensland.€She is a past president of the Australian Archaeological Association, where she worked to include an Indigenous perspective in archaeological research. Her research interests include the role for Indigenous knowledge in natural resources management, Indigenous intellectual property in cultural heritage management, and cultural heritage as living heritage.€Her work at the Gummingurru site blends all these elements together and emphasises the fact that cultural heritage management must integrate archaeological and anthropological approaches to place to be successful. Maui Solomon is a Moriori and Maori barrister who has€been a strong advocate for the better recognition and protection of€the human rights of Indigenous peoples. He specialises in€Treaty of Waitangi claims, cultural and intellectual property rights and negotiation of matters between tribes and government. Maui€finds inspiration from the 500-year legacy

|

╛╛ ╛╛ 290 About the Authors

of peace practiced by his Moriori ancestors and€believes the world can learn a lot from their commitment to peaceful coexistence. Joe Watkins, director of the Native American Studies program and associate professor of anthropology at the University of Oklahoma, is half Choctaw Indian. He has published extensively on his research interests— the ethical practice of anthropology and anthropology’s relationships with descendant communities and aboriginal populations.