As can be seen, archaeology in Uruguay has changed a lot in the last few decades. It went from the work of pioneering aficionados of the late nineteenth century and the enthusiastic efforts of individuals like Antonio Taddei and others in the early twentieth century, to a growing, academically trained group of archaeologists who now publish in major international journals such as Nature and Latin American Antiquity. Today, this group of archaeologists is making important contributions to the systematic knowledge of the distant past. However, there are still many things missing, or that need to be improved, in the practice of the discipline.
The most obvious inadequacy is the lack of funding for current and future projects. It is very difficult to produce knowledge in the conditions in which Uruguayan archaeologists are working, which are worse than in most other Latin American countries. The consequence of the grim economic situation is that there is no money for even basic things, such as radiocarbon dating—frequently, carbon samples sit for months or years on the desk of the archaeologists who recovered them until the small (for international standards) sums of money needed materialize in the form of grants or, not infrequently, personal efforts of the scholars, who pay for the analyses out of their pockets. Professional archaeology cannot be conducted in this way.
Another problem with the practice of archaeology in Uruguay, attributable to the practitioners themselves, is the need for a metadiscourse within the discipline. This is because there is very little explicit theoretical reflection in and on the work. Archaeologists seem more preoccupied with methodological aspects and technologies issues than the theoretical foundations of what they do.
Today there is an unprecedented wealth of approaches to archaeology in Uruguay. The leading practitioners have embraced different aspects of the discipline and different methods as well. Some (like Leonel Cabrera) have focused on ethnohistory and ethnoar-chaeology. Others (like Roberto Bracco) prefer to study site formation, examining the structure of mounds as well as process of construction, or developing their own radiocarbon dating laboratory. Some (like Jose Iriarte) have chosen to develop paleoethnobotany, while others (like Jose Lopez Mazz) prefer the symbolic universe of the mound complexes, including issues of ideology, domination, power, stratification in mound builder societies, and territoriality (the mounds as territorial markers). Of course, most researchers share an understandable urgency to excavate unexplored sites, which leaves them little time for contemplating the theory underlying their work.
As a consequence of the lack of self-reflection, most Uruguayan archaeologists are immersed in a processualist framework that remains unquestioned—a sophisticated, up-to-date, processualist agenda, but a rather uncritical one nonetheless. The only archaeologist who seems to be more interested in the post-processualist paradigm is Jose Lopez Mazz, but his own work does not make explicit metatheoretical claims or justify his theoretical preferences. His situation is similar, I believe, to other archaeologists who have studied mounds (for instance, in the U. S., such as Timothy Pauketat), who seem to have been caught in the middle of a paradigm shift: their training as graduate students was processual but they realize that to understand material remains of the past a more post-processual perspective is needed (Pauketat 2000, 2004). In the cases of Lopez Mazz and Pauketat, there also seems to be a strong influence of Marxist thought that inclines them to focus on issues of power, domination, and ideology. It is clear that for Lopez Mazz, the influence of the Latin American archaeological tradition known as “Arqueologia Social” (Lumbreras 1974; Benavides 2001), (which attempts to incorporate historical materialism into the discipline, is as strong as (or stronger than) the post-processualist mode of intellectual production.
The lack of theoretical production is probably the consequence of several factors. Scarce economic resources exacerbate the situation, providing few opportunities to attend international gatherings where theoretical issues are discussed. The deplorable economic situation prevents the Department of Archaeology from bringing speakers from abroad, contributing further to the isolation of Uruguayan pre-historians. Furthermore, economic deprivation is apparent in the library of the Facultad de Humanidades: it is almost impossible to keep abreast of the field without access to current books and journals.
This isolation, together with the absence of post-graduate studies (only a licenciatura degree is offered at the national university), prompts some students to pursue doctoral programs abroad—especially in Europe and the U. S. Although this is not regrettable per se (exposure to other ways of learning and thinking is always beneficial), it has an alarming aspect: it looks very much like a case of brain drain. This is because the probability that newly minted Ph. D.’s will return to their homeland is slim; the most common scenario is that they remain in the academic communities where they received their degrees.
Another problem is that summary and popular syntheses of archaeological research (knowledge gained, the new models proposed for mound builder society) are rare, which then is not conducive to promoting interest in the past among the public, which in turn
Reverberates as a lack of public support for archaeology. Moreover, the new chronology that is emerging from the most recent research projects is not available. In fact, Uruguayan archaeologists are publishing their research articles in journals (mostly Latin American) that are very difficult to find even for other academics. As a consequence, educators who should be consuming the new knowledge produced about the indigenous past have access only to the works published by amateurs and non-specialists.
Some responsibility for the current state of affairs must be attributed to the archaeologists themselves. Their writings tend to be filled with jargon, and are often too technical for lay readers, who find the texts too difficult to understand. Uruguayan archaeologists are not recognizing their obligations to develop communication skills, and write for the general public. As a consequence, non-specialists fill the gap, writing the sources most read and quoted by primary and secondary school educators. Sadly, the public is being fed ridiculous, unfounded assertions about the indigenous past, but there are no other sources and publications they can consult for a different picture.
The seriousness of the situation is apparent when we examine current social and political processes. One of the effects of criticizing the old master narratives of the Uruguayan nation is that certain events of the past that were taboo have reappeared with a vengeance. For example, the Charrua, the indigenous group that suffered a year long campaign of extermination, is the only indigenous group Uruguayans talk about when discussing the indigenous past. This is curious considering the importance of another indigenous people, the Guarani. Indeed, outsiders perceive the Guarani as instrumental in Uruguayan history, but the Uruguayans do not, in spite of the fact that Guarani Indians expelled the Portuguese from the territory three times. They founded Montevideo, built its houses and other buildings, and remained in the territory making a significant cultural contribution to the development of Uruguayan society. But in popular discourse the Charrua have become the only group representing Amerindians in Uruguay. The Charrua stand for “all Amerindians” in the Uruguayan imaginary, notwithstanding the fact that the Charrua themselves do not play a stellar role in the narratives of the nation—but they appear there: they are indigenous people par excellence. Because much has been written lately about the way this happened, I will not focus on it here. I limit myself to pointing out that events that led to the extermination were not, until the late 1980s, discussed by Uruguayans— nobody likes to remember or discuss a genocide that is the foundation of the current state of affairs in their country.
Renewed interest in Uruguay’s indigenous past has not, however, had archaeology as a protagonist. Unfortunately, scholars of prehistory are failing to respond to avid demands for information about the Amerindians who inhabited the territory before and during European contact. The space left by their failure to provide popular scholarship is filled by, non-specialist, journalistic writers. They publish in mainstream presses and enjoy wide distribution, attention from the media, and are well received by teachers of primary and secondary schools. I would include among these authors one who is a hybrid case: Daniel Vidart, who enjoys great prestige (due to his long years as an anthropology professor at the state university) despite both his lack of professional training and a lack of rigor in most of his writings. His work is probably more dangerous than that of, say, Danilo Anton, whose outrageous affirmations about the Charrua and other ethnic groups sometimes exceed the credibility of even his most enthusiastic readers (for a more detailed analysis of these non-specialists see Verdesio 2001-2002).
Perhaps the most visible actors participating in the recovery of Amerindian pasts in Uruguay are two organizations identifying themselves as descendants of indigenous people:
ADENCH (Association of Descendants of the Charrua Nation) and INDIA (National Integrator of Descendants of American Indians). These two groups are, however, very different in their goals, organization, and modus operandi.
ADENCH played the key role in an event that illustrates the state of affairs of indigenous issues and the place of archaeology in Uruguay today. The occasion was the repatriation of the human remains of an Uruguayan Amerindian named Vaimaca Peru, whose skeleton had been held by the Musee de I’Homme, in Paris, for almost 170 years. This first case of repatriation of indigenous remains to Uruguay was a long process begun by the members of ADENCH, who later allied with the Uruguayan State. After ten years of negotiations the ministries of Education and Culture and Foreign Affairs reached agreement with the French government and the remains of Vaimaca Peru arrived in Uruguay on July 17, 2002, to be buried in the Panteon Nacional, where the remains of many national heroes and important personalities rest. But arrival for burial became fraught with conflict due to several factors, one of which (and not the least important one) was that Bernabe Rivera, the man who personally conducted the campaign of extermination against the Charrua—the campaign during which cacique Vaimaca Peru was captured—is buried in the very same Panteon Nacional.
But of key relevance for this chapter is the fact that during the entire process of repatriation, archaeologists and archaeology as a discipline were mere spectators: they played no role in the process preceding the actual repatriation, or in the funeral ceremony. Archaeologists were never consulted and they remained outside the discussion that developed in the media, where the protagonists were the associations of descendants (especially ADENCH), the executive branch of the government, and some legislators. Only very late in the game were the services of a biological anthropologist (Monica Sans, who had an excellent relationship with one association of descendants, INDIA) required to conduct measurements of the skeleton and to extract DNA samples to determine the ethnicity of the cacique.
The conspicuous absence of Uruguayan archaeologists in this whole process is lamentable. They made no contribution to the discussion of DNA sampling or the ethical and professional dimensions involved in treating human remains. The government ignored archaeologists’ protests and favored, instead, the participation of a single scientist (the biological anthropologist, Monica Sans), perhaps to save face or because its officials were seduced by the DNA discourse.
Whatever the case, this episode in recent Uruguayan history demonstrates the disregard for archaeology among politicians, lawmakers, and the general public. Although it would be unfair to blame the victims (the archaeologists themselves), it is true that professional archaeologists have done too little to reach the public, provide new knowledge and thus make a case for the relevance (and funding) of prehistory. To this day, they have not responded to the inaccuracies and falsehoods published by non-specialists and by Vidart (who published an influential book on the mound builders in 1996). In this way, and despite good intentions, Uruguayan archaeologists are inadvertently contributing to the official narratives of the nation.
It is not enough to refute these narratives in academic papers published in obscure journals. Archaeologists must leave their laboratories and classrooms, to reach out to the public and grab the attention of policy-makers. Only in this way will the stories that Uruguayans have been told for decades be rewritten, reestablishing dignity and historical accuracy to the image of the country’s Amerindians. That is the only way the new stories painstakingly documented by the new generations of Uruguayan archaeologists will change the way the general public views the indigenous past.
World History
