The Pennsylvania State University

The Graduate School

College of the Liberal Arts

THE CLASSIC/POSTCLASSIC TRANSITION: THE MAYA OF SAN

JERÓNIMO II, PETÉN,

A Thesis in

Anthropology

by

Matthew D. Rockmore

© 2006 Matthew D. Rockmore

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

December 2006

The thesis of Matthew David Rockmore was reviewed and approved* by the following:

David L. Webster Professor of Anthropology Thesis Adviser Chair of Committee

Kenneth Hirth Professor of Anthropology

William T. Sanders Evan Pugh Emeritus Professor of Anthropology

Matthew Restall Professor of Latin American History, Women’s Studies, and Anthropology Director of Latin American Studies

Prudence M. Rice Profesor of Anthropology Southern Illinois University at Carbondale

Nina Jablonski Professor of Anthropology Head of the Department of Anthropology

*Signatures are on file in the Graduate School ii

Abstract

This dissertation examines the effects of the Classic Maya “Collapse” on remnant populations in the central Petén Lakes district of northern Guatemala. Specifically, it documents the archaeological investigation of the site of San Jerónimo II, a small hamlet on the outskirts of a much larger center dating to the Terminal Classic and Early

Postclassic periods and located on the western shore of Lake Petén-Itzá. It explores the response of the Petén Maya to major demographic, socio-political, and economic shifts by examining such topics as changing settlement patterns, long-distance exchange ties, craft production, ritual practices, and status distinctions. This research has its theoretical roots in a household archaeological approach and is particularly focused on an investigation of culture change in a period of reduced hierarchical organization. iii

Table of Contents

LIST OF TABLES ...... VII LIST OF FIGURES ...... X ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... XII CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION AND BACKGROUND MATERIALS ...... 1 STATEMENT OF PURPOSE ...... 3 HISTORY AND INTELLECTUAL HERITAGE OF THE PROJECT SAN JERÓNIMO...... 8 Early Projects ...... 9 Central Petén Historical Ecology Project and Proyecto Lacustre 1973-1981 ...... 11 Proyecto Maya-Colonial 1994-1999 ...... 12 Quexil-Peténxil Project 2001...... 14 Interviews with local residents...... 15 Information provided by long-term residents of San Andres ...... 16 Interview with owners of Hotel Ni’tun...... 18 Future Research – Nixtun Ch’ich ...... 19 BACKGROUND...... 20 Physical Setting...... 20 Geology/topography ...... 26 Hydrology ...... 29 Climate...... 31 Ecology ...... 32 Temporal Setting / Regional Chronology ...... 35 CHAPTER 2: ARCHAEOLOGICAL CONTEXT OF THE PETÉN LAKES DISTRICT ...... 39 REGIONAL CERAMIC SEQUENCES ...... 39 OBSIDIAN SOURCE DISTRIBUTIONS...... 50 SETTLEMENT PATTERN / ARCHITECTURE...... 53 CHAPTER 3: THEORY ...... 58 HOUSEHOLDS/DOMESTIC GROUPS ...... 58 CULTURE CHANGE – A SYNTHETIC APPROACH ...... 71 Terms and definitions...... 71 Culture change – a Manifesto...... 77 CHAPTER 4: SOCIO-POLITICAL SETTING AND THE “MAYA COLLAPSE” ...... 90 SOCIO-POLITICAL SETTING ...... 90 Late Classic...... 90 Terminal Classic ...... 109 Early Postclassic...... 124 Late Postclassic / Early Historic ...... 134 THE “MAYA COLLAPSE”...... 151 iv

Evidence of Abandonment, Transformation and other “Collapse” processes...... 155 Archaeological indicators ...... 155 Epigraphy...... 157 Paleoclimatology...... 161 Regional Patterns of Transformation ...... 163 The Pasión and Petexbatún – , Altar, , etc...... 164 The west – , , Piedras Negras...... 167 The northern and northeastern Petén – the Maya heartland ...... 168 ...... 173 The southeast periphery – Copán and Quirigua...... 175 Webster (2002) – Fall of the Ancient Maya...... 177 CHAPTER 5: THE 2003 FIELD SEASON AT SAN JERÓNIMO II ...... 187 OPERATION 1 ...... 190 Suboperation 1A – Str. 4...... 192 Suboperation 1B...... 198 Str. 5...... 198 Str. 6...... 205 Str. 7...... 211 Str. 8...... 217 Suboperation 1C ...... 223 Str. 9A...... 225 Str. 9B ...... 232 Ambient Spaces ...... 238 Bulldozer Cut ...... 244 Platform Cut...... 248 Punta Piedra ...... 248 OPERATION 2 ...... 253 Substructure – Platform 1...... 253 Str. 1A ...... 255 Str. 1B ...... 261 Str. 1C ...... 268 Ambient Spaces (including “Basurero”)...... 274 West Patio ...... 274 South Patio...... 281 East Patio ...... 289 Northwest Space ...... 295 Passage between 1B and 1C ...... 299 “Basurero”...... 303 OPERATION 3 ...... 305 Str. 2...... 305 Str. 3A ...... 311 Str. 3B ...... 318 Chultun...... 325 Ambient Spaces ...... 335 SUMMARY OF STRUCTURE FUNCTION INTERPRETATIONS ...... 338 OTHER DATA RECOVERED DURING THE 2003 FIELD SEASON...... 339 v

CHAPTER 6: ANALYSIS – BY ARTIFACT TYPE ...... 340 CERAMICS...... 340 Overall Patterns...... 340 Patterns at Operation 1 ...... 346 Patterns at Operation 2 ...... 349 Patterns at Operation 3 ...... 353 Patterns in Ritual Ceramics...... 356 Net weights, Spindle Whorls and other special function ceramics...... 365 LITHICS...... 368 Workshop at Str. 3A and 3B...... 370 Formal Tools...... 378 Other lithics ...... 384 OBSIDIAN...... 385 Overall Site patterns ...... 386 Operation 1 patterns...... 390 Operation 2 patterns...... 391 Operation 3 patterns...... 392 Intra-site variation...... 393 Intersite variation...... 396 SHELL ...... 399 GROUND STONE ...... 405 FAUNAL REMAINS...... 409 OTHER ARTIFACT CLASSES...... 411 Plaster...... 411 Worked Stone ...... 413 CHAPTER 7: RESULTS ...... 416 PATTERNS OF CHANGE...... 416 Residential pattern...... 417 Economic patterns ...... 421 Ritual Practices...... 427 Social / Political Organization ...... 429 ABANDONMENT AT SAN JERÓNIMO II...... 430 COMPARISON WITH QUEXIL-PETÉNXIL RESULTS (SCHWARZ 2002, 2003, 2004)...... 433 EVALUATION OF THEORETICAL EXPLANATORY POWER ...... 439 SUMMARY - ASSESSMENT OF THE CLASSIC/POSTCLASSIC TRANSITION AS IT AFFECTED THE MAYA OF THE PETÉN LAKES REGION ...... 443 APPENDIX A: CULTURE CHANGE ...... 450 REVIEW OF CULTURE CHANGE IN ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEORY (1700-1970)...... 450 Unilineal Evolution...... 451 Historical Particularism and Structuralism ...... 452 Cultural Ecology and Neoevolutionary Theory...... 454 AGENCY THEORY / PRACTICE THEORY ...... 456 Agency Theory – Giddens ...... 457 Practice Theory – Bourdieu...... 464 vi

POWER RELATIONS – DOMINANCE AND RESISTANCE ...... 473 Terms and definitions...... 475 Culture Change and Power Relations in Archaeology...... 478 EVOLUTIONARY MODELS – DUNNELL AND OTHERS...... 480 Transmission of traits ...... 482 Units and scales of variation ...... 484 Sources of variation ...... 487 Insights of the evolutionary approach ...... 489 APPENDIX B: THEORIES OF THE MAYA COLLAPSE...... 491 NATURAL/CLIMATIC CAUSES...... 491 Changes in Rainfall patterns ...... 491 Earthquakes ...... 494 Hurricanes ...... 494 Volcanos...... 494 DEMOGRAPHIC CAUSES...... 495 Overpopulation ...... 495 Epidemic disease...... 498 Female infanticide ...... 499 WARFARE ...... 500 Internal revolt ...... 500 Intersite warfare...... 502 Invasion...... 503 IDEOLOGICAL CAUSES...... 505 Failure of divine kings ...... 505 Cyclical prophesies...... 506 ECONOMIC TRIGGERS...... 508 Crop diseases...... 508 Trade restriction ...... 509 SYNTHETIC SYSTEMIC MODELS ...... 510 Flannery (1972) – Hypercoherence...... 510 Culbert (1974) – Overshoot and Collapse...... 511 Webb (1973) and Rathje (1973) – Trade Interaction Spheres and Core- Buffer Zones ...... 512 Hosler, Sabloff and Runge (1977) – elite demands and food production feedback loops...... 513 Sharer (1977), Hamblin and Pitcher (1980) – revitalization and class conflict .... 514 Willey and Shimkin (1971, 1973)...... 515 APPENDIX C: RESEARCH METHODOLOGY ...... 516 EXCAVATION METHODOLOGY ...... 516 DATA RECORDING METHODOLOGY ...... 519 DATA ANALYSIS METHODOLOGY ...... 526 APPENDIX D: REVISED CHRONOLOGY OF THE NORTHERN LOWLANDS ...... 531 BIBLIOGRAPHY...... 533 vii

List of Tables

Table 1: Regional Chronology...... 36 Table 2: Obsidian source attribution by time period (P. Rice et al. 1985:602-3)...... 52 Table 3: Population Estimates for the Central Petén Lakes (adapted from D. Rice and P. Rice 1990: Table 6.6)...... 113 Table 4: Paired Rulers of the Itzá Polity in AD 1697 (adapted from Jones 1998:table 3.8) ...... 140 Table 5: Partial List of Itzá Towns Dictated in 1702 (from Jones 1998:table 3.1- far eastern regions omitted)...... 144 Table 6: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 4 ...... 194 Table 7: Ceramics by Type from Str. 4...... 195 Table 8: Rimsherds from Str. 4 by Form ...... 195 Table 9: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 4 ...... 196 Table 10: Temporal Breakdown of Sherds from Str. 5...... 202 Table 11: Ceramics by Type from Str. 5...... 202 Table 12: Rimsherds from Str. 5 by Form ...... 203 Table 13: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 5 ...... 203 Table 14: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 6 ...... 208 Table 15: Ceramics by Type from Str. 6...... 208 Table 16: Rimsherds from Str. 6 by Form ...... 209 Table 17: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 6 ...... 209 Table 18: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 7 ...... 214 Table 19: Ceramics by Type from Str. 7...... 214 Table 20: Rimsherds from Str. 7 by Form ...... 215 Table 21: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 7 ...... 215 Table 22: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 8...... 220 Table 23: Ceramics by Type from Str. 8...... 220 Table 24: Rimsherds from Str. 8 by Form ...... 221 Table 25: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 8 ...... 221 Table 26: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 9A...... 228 Table 27: Ceramics by Type from Str. 9A...... 229 Table 28: Rimsherds from Str. 9A by Form ...... 229 Table 29: Distribution of chert types at Str. 9A...... 230 Table 30: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 9B...... 235 Table 31: Ceramics by Type from Str. 9B...... 236 Table 32: Rimsherds from Str. 9B by Form ...... 236 Table 33: Distribution of chert types at Str. 9B...... 236 Table 34: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics for Subop 1C Ambient Spaces ...... 239 Table 35: Ceramics by Type from Subop 1C ambient space...... 240 Table 36: Rimsherds from Subop 1C Ambient Space by Form ...... 240 Table 37: Distribution of chert types at Subop 1C ambient space...... 241 Table 38: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics for Operation 1 plaza Test Pit ...... 242 Table 39: Ceramics by Type for Operation 1 plaza test pit ...... 242 Table 40: Rimsherds from Operation 1 plaza test pit by Form...... 242 Table 41: Distribution of chert types at Operation 1 plaza test pit ...... 243 viii

Table 42: Ceramics from the Punta Piedra construction area by Type...... 252 Table 43: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1A...... 257 Table 44: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1A...... 258 Table 45: Rimsherds from Str. 1A by Form ...... 258 Table 46: Chert assemblage from Str. 1A by category...... 259 Table 47: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1B...... 263 Table 48: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1B...... 264 Table 49: Rimsherds from Str. 1B by Form ...... 264 Table 50: Chert assemblage from Str. 1B by category ...... 265 Table 51: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1C...... 270 Table 52: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1C...... 271 Table 53: Rimsherds from Str. 1C by Form ...... 271 Table 54: Chert assemblage from Str. 1C by category ...... 272 Table 55: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from West Patio...... 276 Table 56: Ceramics by Type from West Patio...... 277 Table 57: Rimsherds from West Patio by Form ...... 278 Table 58: Chert assemblage from the West Patio by category ...... 278 Table 59: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from South Patio...... 282 Table 60: Ceramics by Type from South Patio...... 284 Table 61: Rimsherds from South Patio by Form ...... 285 Table 62: Chert assemblage from the South Patio by category...... 285 Table 63: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from East Patio...... 291 Table 64: Ceramics by Type from East Patio ...... 292 Table 65: Rimsherds from East Patio by Form...... 292 Table 66: Chert assemblage from the East Patio by Type and Size ...... 293 Table 67: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Northwest Space...... 297 Table 68: Ceramics by Type from Northwest Space...... 297 Table 69: Rimsherds from Northwest Space by Form...... 297 Table 70: Chert assemblage from the Northwest Space by Type and Size ...... 298 Table 71: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Passage...... 300 Table 72: Ceramics by Type from Passage...... 301 Table 73: Rimsherds from Passage by Form ...... 301 Table 74: Chert assemblage from the Northwest Space by Type and Size ...... 302 Table 75: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 2...... 308 Table 76: Ceramics by Type from Str. 2...... 309 Table 77: Rimsherds from Str. 2 by Form ...... 309 Table 78: Chert assemblage from Str. 2 by Type and Size...... 310 Table 79: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 3A...... 314 Table 80: Ceramics by Type from Str. 3A...... 314 Table 81: Rimsherds from Str. 3A by Form ...... 315 Table 82: Chert assemblage from Str. 3A by Type and Size...... 316 Table 83: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 3B...... 321 Table 84: Ceramics by Type from Str. 3B...... 322 Table 85: Rimsherds from Str. 3B by Form ...... 322 Table 86: Chert assemblage from Str. 3B by Type and Size...... 323 Table 87: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from the Chultun and vicinity...... 330 ix

Table 88: Ceramics by Type from Chultun and Vicinity ...... 331 Table 89: Rimsherds from Chultun and Vicinity by Form...... 331 Table 90: Chert assemblage from Chultun Exterior by Type and Size ...... 331 Table 91: Chert assemblage from Chultun Interior by Type and Size ...... 332 Table 92: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Op. 3 Ambient Space...... 335 Table 93: Ceramics by Type from Op. 3 Ambient Space...... 336 Table 94: Rimsherds from Op. 3 Ambient Space by Form ...... 336 Table 95: Chert assemblage from Op.3 Ambient Space by Type and Size...... 336 Table 96: Functional Interpretations of Structures at San Jeronimo II...... 338 Table 97: Ceramic distributions at San Jerónimo by operation...... 343 Table 98: Distribution of Imported Ceramic Types...... 345 Table 99: Distribution of Locally Produced Decorated Ceramics...... 346 Table 100: Ceramic Distribution in Operation 1 by period ...... 349 Table 101: Ceramic Distribution in Operation 2 by period ...... 353 Table 102: Distribution of Status-linked and Ritual Ceramic types at Operation 3 ...... 354 Table 103: Ceramic Distribution at Operation 3 by period ...... 356 Table 104: Distribution of Lithics and Formal Tools at San Jerónimo II...... 369 Table 105: Distribution of Lithics at Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 369 Table 106: Distribution of Lithics at Operation 2, San Jerónimo II ...... 370 Table 107: Distribution of Lithics at Str. 2, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II ...... 370 Table 108: Distribution of Lithics at workshop in Operation 3, San Jerónimo II ...... 370 Table 109: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 854 ...... 375 Table 110: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 851 ...... 376 Table 111: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 892 ...... 376 Table 112: Distribution of Tools from analyzed lots in the Op. 3 workshop ...... 377 Table 113: Distribution of Formal Tools by functional type at San Jerónimo II ...... 378 Table 114: Obsidian distribution by source at San Jerónimo II...... 386 Table 115: Obsidian distribution by form at San Jerónimo II ...... 386 Table 116: Obsidian Use-Wear at San Jerónimo II ...... 389 Table 117: Obsidian Sources from Operation 1 ...... 390 Table 118: Obsidian Forms from Operation 1...... 391 Table 119: Obsidian sources from Operation 2 ...... 391 Table 120: Obsidian forms from Operation 2...... 392 Table 121: Obsidian Sources from Operation 3 ...... 392 Table 122: Obsidian forms at Operation 3...... 393 Table 123: Obsidian in the Central Peten Lakes...... 397 Table 124: Shell distributions at San Jerónimo II...... 399 Table 125: Marine Shell Assemblage from San Jeronimo II...... 401 Table 126: Shell Distribution at Operation 1...... 404 Table 127: Shell Distribution at Operation 2...... 405 Table 128: Shell Distribution at Operation 3...... 405 x

List of Figures

Figure 1: Map of the Maya Area With Discussed Sites Labeled...... 21 Figure 2: Map of the Central Petén Lakes Region with Sites Labeled...... 22 Figure 3: Topographic Map of the San Jerónimo II vicinity ...... 23 Figure 4: Map of San Jerónimo II...... 24 Figure 5: Ceramic Chronologies for the Central Petén (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:56-57) ...... 40 Figure 6: Map of the Maya Lowlands showing the extent of the Tepeu ceramic sphere in the Late Classic Period (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:50 – Fig. 3.1)...... 43 Figure 7: Map of the Maya Lowlands showing the extent of the Tepeu and Boca ceramic spheres in the Terminal Classic Period (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:51 – Fig. 3.2) ... 44 Figure 8: Maya “Superstates” (Marcus 1993:151) ...... 92 Figure 9: Atomistic Model of Maya Political Organization (Marcus 1993:156) ...... 93 Figure 10: Classic Maya Political Organization (Webster 2002:144)...... 98 Figure 11: Example of Classic Maya Settlement Pattern in the Central Petén Lakes (from D. Rice 1986)...... 101 Figure 12: Examples of Classic Maya Plaza Groups (from Schwartz 2004) ...... 103 Figure 13: Source of Selected Exotic Items in the Classic Period...... 105 Figure 14: Seibal Stela 13 (Tourtellot and Gonzalez 2004:67) ...... 111 Figure 15: Chichén Itzá – style ballcourt at Nixtun Ch’ich (D. Rice et al. 1996:181) .. 123 Figure 16: The Classic / Postclassic center Ixlú (D. Rice et al. 1996:103)...... 126 Figure 17: The Classic / Postclassic Center (Wurster 2000:12)...... 127 Figure 18: The Classic / Postclassic Center Muralla de Leon (D. Rice and P. Rice 1981:275) ...... 128 Figure 19: The Classic / Postclassic Center Zacpetén (D. Rice et al. 1996:41) ...... 129 Figure 20: The Classic / Postclassic Quexil Islands (Schwarz 2004)...... 130 Figure 21: The Classic / Postclassic Center Nixtun Ch’ich (from D. Rice et al. 1996:181) ...... 132 Figure 22: Major Maya political regions in the Early Historic central Petén (Jones 1998:6) ...... 137 Figure 23: Lowland Maya Linguistic / Ethnic groups of the 16th and 17th centuries (Jones 1998:4) ...... 138 Figure 24: Common Postclassic Superstructural Forms in the Central Petén (D. Rice 1986: 235) ...... 146 Figure 25: Map of the Areas most affected by the Maya Collapse (Webster 2002:36) . 152 Figure 26: Timing of the Maya “Collapse” ...... 159 Figure 27: Distribution of Dates on Classic Period Monuments (Webster 2002: 209). 160 Figure 28: Dynamics of the Classic Maya Collapse – (Webster 2002:328-329) ...... 180 Figure 29: Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 191 Figure 30: Str. 4, Subgroup 1A, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 193 Figure 31: Subgroup 1B, Strs. 5-8, San Jerónimo II...... 199 Figure 32: Str. 5, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 200 Figure 33: Str. 6, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 206 Figure 34: Str. 7, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 213 Figure 35: Str. 8, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 218 xi

Figure 36: Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 224 Figure 37: Str. 9A, Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 226 Figure 38: Str. 9B, Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 233 Figure 39: Map of San Jerónimo II with location of Bulldozer Cut highlighted...... 245 Figure 40: Profile of Bulldozer Cut with location of cache noted, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II...... 246 Figure 41: Preclassic Cache from Bulldozer Cut, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 247 Figure 42: Map of Operation 1, San Jerónimo II with location of Platform Cut noted. 249 Figure 43: Profile of Platform Cut, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II ...... 250 Figure 44: Map of Operation 1, San Jerónimo II with location of Punta Piedra excavations marked...... 251 Figure 45: Map of Operation 2, Strs. 1A – 1C, San Jerónimo II...... 254 Figure 46: Str. 1A, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II...... 256 Figure 47: Str. 1B, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II ...... 262 Figure 48: Str. 1C, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II ...... 269 Figure 49: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with West Patio area delineated ...... 275 Figure 50: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with South Patio area delineated...... 283 Figure 51: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with East Patio delineated ...... 290 Figure 52: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with Northwest Space and Passage between Strs. 1B and 1C delineated ...... 296 Figure 53: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with location of “Basurero” marked. 304 Figure 54: Map of Operation 3, Str. 2, 3A and 3B, San Jerónimo II...... 306 Figure 55: Str. 2, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II...... 307 Figure 56: Str. 3A, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II...... 312 Figure 57: Str. 3B, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II ...... 319 Figure 58: Chultun – exterior view, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II ...... 326 Figure 59: Chultun – profile view, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II ...... 327 Figure 60: Miseria Appliquéd – Terminal Classic Censer Forms (Adams 1971:178) .. 358 Figure 61: Classic period figurines from San Jerónimo II...... 359 Figure 62: Postclassic Censer fragments from San Jerónimo II...... 363 Figure 63: Distribution of Lithics in Level 1 and 2 excavations at Strs. 3A and 3B..... 373 Figure 64: Projectile Points from San Jerónimo II ...... 380 Figure 65: Obsidian Prismatic blade Use Wear Scoring Diagram ...... 388 Figure 66: Common Types of Shell Recovered from San Jerónimo II ...... 402 Figure 67: Sample Lot Number Form...... 521 Figure 68: Sample Lot Card...... 522 Figure 69: Sample Photo Log Form ...... 523 Figure 70: Sample Unit Group Form...... 524 Figure 71: Sample Feature Form ...... 525

xii

Acknowledgements

Special thanks are due to my beautiful girlfriend Kim, my patient, patient mother

Janice, and the rest of my family and friends for their long-standing support. I would also like to thank my committee members (particularly my chair, Dr. Webster and Dr. Rice) who have supported my efforts over the years, and have waded through a number of painful early drafts with consistent good humor and many useful suggestions. While I’ve gotten useful pointers from a number of my fellow graduate students over the years, I must acknowledge particular debts to Leslie Cecil, Kevin Schwarz, Tim Pugh and Bill

Duncan; working with them in the field and the laboratory over the years provided me with the crucial experience that enabled me to successfully run my own project.

This project could not have gone forward without the able assistance of my

collaborators from CUDEP (particularly Carlos Rolando Torres Arce, Ivo Romero Zetina

and Rony Toraya Zabala) and my field workers from San Andres and San Benito, and I

am grateful for all their help. Similarly, I must express my appreciation for the

landowners who allowed me to work on their property with no recompense other than a

new appreciation for the history of their land. I also thank the various institutions that

supported my efforts. This work was made possible by grants from the National Science

Foundation, the Penn State Department of Anthropology, and the College of Liberal Arts.

This dissertation is dedicated to the memory of my father, David Rockmore. He

was always a big proponent of knowledge for its own sake. I attribute my desire to

understand how things work and what makes people act the way they do, as well as my

appreciation of the world as an endlessly interesting place to his example. I miss you dad

and I hope you’d be proud. 1

Chapter 1: Introduction and Background Materials

Mayanists have been speculating about the “Collapse” of the lowland Maya of

Mexico, Guatemala and Belize at the end of the Classic period (ca. AD 800-1000) for

more than a century. The “Collapse” played out over an area the size of Florida during

the course of two centuries, and resulted in major changes not only in the demography

and political organization of the region, but also in the economic, religious and

iconographic systems of the Maya area. Several recent studies (e.g., Webster 2002;

Diamond 2005) have presented syntheses that admirably summarize the probable causes

of that transformation. What is lacking is an examination of the aftermath of “Collapse”

– what were the immediate and long-term effects on the remnant population of the Maya

“heartland”? The “Collapse” inevitably required the remaining Maya groups to adapt to

a constantly changing set of social, political, ideological and economic pressures. The primary question addressed in this dissertation is, therefore, “How did the Maya of the

Petén Lakes region, and particularly the population of San Jerónimo II, adapt to the social

and economic disruption of the ‘Collapse’ and its aftermath?”.

What event, series of events, or set of extended and intertwined processes might have resulted in the decline and depopulation of the southern Maya lowlands over the course of the Terminal Classic period? After decades of research, we are slowly reaching a consensus on this issue; while details vary from model to model, most Mayanists have come to postulate a highly complex model in which a variety of factors eventually tipped the Classic Maya into a general systemic decline, punctuated by the occasional (and in some places not so occasional) spasm of violence or drought marking the end of a 2

specific polity. We have also come to realize that the timing, pace and effects of the

“Collapse” occurred differently across (and even within) the various subregions of the

Maya lowlands.

This new consensus begs a number of questions. While we are beginning to

understand the proximate causes of decline in each specific region and some of the subsequent processes of political disintegration and depopulation, we need to also

investigate the effects of local declines on the surviving adjacent groups. Residual

populations remained in several parts of the Maya lowlands, and in a few localized areas

there was considerable settlement continuity spanning the Late Classic through

Postclassic periods. These groups would inevitably have been affected by shifting

patterns of population, exchange and resource availability, yet those effects have rarely

been examined (or even considered).

One such remnant population resided in the Petén Lakes region of northern

Guatemala. In stark contrast to adjoining areas to the west and north, the Lakes district

has been continuously occupied from at least the Middle Preclassic period through the

present day. The local population undoubtedly declined at the end of the Classic period,

but the area was never depopulated to the point of social or political disintegration. That

is not to say that radical changes were not instituted – for they were – yet only within the

last 30 years have investigations into the later occupations of the area truly begun. The

reorganization of in the Petén lakes region was a response to a variety of

factors arising from the “Collapse”, ranging from the demographic collapse of

neighboring groups and the resultant elimination of long-standing trade routes to a 3

diminished emphasis on divine rulership and a presumed increase in the availability of

agricultural land.

The major contribution of this work lies in its examination of the continuities and

novel practices that constituted the response of the Maya in the central Petén to changing

conditions over the course of the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods. It

draws upon not only preceding studies of the Maya “Collapse” and the Postclassic period,

but attempts to contextualize the strategies pursued by the Petén Maya within broader theoretical discussions of household archaeology and theories of culture change. This

work is hardly a definitive description of post-“Collapse” dynamics, but rather seeks to

stimulate further research into the Classic-Postclassic transition while describing one,

very localized, set of responses to the “Collapse.”

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

This dissertation documents the archaeological investigation of the site of San

Jerónimo II, a small hamlet on the outskirts of a much larger center dating to the

Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods and located on the western shore of Lake

Petén-Itzá in northern Guatemala. A series of broad, horizontal excavations were

performed in each of the three clusters of structures comprising the site. In total, all or

most of 13 structures (comprising approximately four or five archaeological households)

were exposed to their latest (Terminal Classic / Early Postclassic) occupation.

Significant portions of the ambient plaza spaces and associated features were also excavated in hopes of identifying activity areas pertaining to each household. In keeping

with the goals of the project, a household archaeology approach was adopted to

investigate the activities taking place within and around each of the excavated structures. 4

The clusters of households (Operations 1 through 3) demonstrate a number of interesting differences, some of which are attributed to differences in social status and/or

their roles in the production system. One household (comprising Operation 2) appears to

have had somewhat greater access to exotic goods, at least during the Terminal Classic

period, while another (in Operation 3) served as the locus for lithic production. The remaining cluster of structures (Operation 1) was probably made up of basic agrarian

households. Taken together, this intra-site variation provides insight into the internal dynamics of the hamlet, as well as its participation in regional and extra-regional exchange networks.

It should be noted that the original intent of my dissertation project was to

investigate cultural transformations occurring during the Colonial period (AD 1697-

1821) in the central Petén lakes region; the presumed Colonial occupation at San

Jerónimo II, however, eventually turned out to represent a much earlier period.

Fortuitously, many of my theoretical interests, particularly those concerning culture

change, were easily adapted to address the new body of data. Both the Colonial and

Terminal Classic periods were characterized by major transformations in a number of

basic institutions and daily practices. The Terminal classic period is less obviously

characterized by major power differences among interacting social groups, nor does one

see the imposition of existing structures in a new context; nevertheless, many of the same

issues are involved in understanding these transformative periods. In particular, the shift

to a focus on the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic has enabled an investigation of

the choices made by agents in a period of reduced hierarchy (when presumably individual

choice is less constrained by larger social structures). 5

The research project was reformulated to explore the response of the local Maya population to the decline and depopulation of the larger region. In particular, I investigated the nature of changes instituted in a variety of systems, including settlement patterns, long-distance exchange ties, ritual practices, and craft production. Analysis suggests that in many ways changes were only gradually instituted within the residual population of the central Petén. A few shifts may have occurred fairly rapidly, but in general, the populace of San Jerónimo II may have been buffered from rapid changes by proximity to a stable larger center, the site of Nixtun Ch’ich. Systemic effects were eventually felt as trade routes shifted, pressure on local resources diminished, and the remaining elites renegotiated a new base for their political power; yet, in a more or less stable system these changes developed gradually. This study also includes an analysis of alterations and continuities in the overall material culture, including both architectural styles and portable artifacts (particularly ceramics).

At a basic level, it also provides a new set of data on the comparatively neglected

Terminal Classic/Postclassic outlying villages that were subject to the larger (and better studied) centers of the region. In any attempt to interpret the material record from San

Jerónimo II, its proximity to Nixtun Ch’ich must be taken into account. Yet in many ways, residents of such villages are likely to be far more representative of members of the polity as a whole than are the residents of elite households in the site centers – despite that, studies of rural and semi-rural populations of the period are surprisingly scarce (but see Schwarz 2004; Lohse and Valdez 2004; Webster and Gonlin 1988 for relevant examples). Nonetheless, such studies must form the basis for our reconstructions of

Maya economic structures and household-level social organization. In conjunction with 6

studies of larger centers and elite households, projects such as this one are needed to establish a complete understanding of Maya society in any time period.

Methodologically, much of the analysis takes place at the level of archaeological households, and it includes an investigation of intra-site variation in status as suggested by access to luxury items, preferred foods, and labor investment in the household infrastructure. Similarly, there is a focus on broad horizontal excavations to establish a reliable understanding of the use of space, both within and outside the structures – drawing on the notion of activity areas (Kent 1984, 1990). This form of analysis is also used, to a somewhat lesser extent, to enable comparisons with similar sites in the region, both contemporaneous (particularly the Quexil islands sites – Schwarz 2004) and from adjoining time periods (e.g, D. Rice 1988). This is intended to provide at least some control over geographical and temporal variation in the region.

Household archaeology enables one to ask a number of particularly compelling questions. How were the particular households and their component individuals affected by shifts in the broader social and political (and possibly physical) environment? What were the options from which they could choose? And what were the costs and benefits, both perceived and actual, of those choices?

Our ability to answer these questions is limited by the nature of our data. They are particularly complicated by issues of contemporaneity and context – archaeological households do not, normally, represent a single “snapshot” of daily life and most of our artifacts are recovered from secondary (i.e., midden) contexts rather than contexts of primary use. That makes our job difficult and limits our ability to make unequivocal statements, yet the data do allow us to address these issues, at least partially. 7

A certain degree of interpretation is required, and inevitably, some inferences will eventually prove false; nevertheless progress is often made through the advancing of a thesis and its subsequent reexamination. If nothing else, making a questionable interpretation often inspires further study of a particular issue. The conclusions I offer here are what I regard to be the most plausible explanations given our current understanding of this period of Maya history; I have tried to make clear what facts my interpretations rest on and to not stray too far from my data. Hopefully, I also haven’t erred too far in the conservative direction; a truly empirical work would be simply a catalog of the artifacts recovered and fail to address many important issues.

On a more theoretical level, this research also explores the utility of various theories of culture change – particularly Agent-centered models (Giddens and Bourdieu) and models focused on power relations between the elite and commoners. I have formulated a synthetic model of culture change, drawing on a variety of related (or relatable) models. It has long been my opinion that culture changes are rarely instituted solely from the top-down or from the bottom-up. Rather, I envision social changes as negotiated within a specific physical, social, and political environment; the choices made by individuals are broadly constrained by larger social structures and shaped by the perceived needs of the individual and his household, yet choices are made constantly and not all of them are either predictable or have the intended effect. I prefer a complex, synthetic model of culture change that incorporates a focus on the choices made by individuals (as in Agency theory), but constrained by the socio-cultural structures in which they exist (structuralism), and further limited by their access to social power (as argued in power relations) and their physical environment (cultural ecology). Any 8

particular change may owe more to one aspect of this system than others, but a complete

understanding of the larger currents of transformation requires a more complicated,

nuanced view. Unfortunately, such a model is not directly testable using our excavation

data, so the extended discussion of these theories has been placed in an appendix. My

intent is simply to make explicit the theoretical framework from which I interpret the data.

HISTORY AND INTELLECTUAL HERITAGE OF THE PROJECT SAN

JERÓNIMO

Studies of the Classic period and the “Maya Collapse” are so numerous as to warrant their own section (see Appendix B). Unusually, for a project concerning the transformation of Maya society at the end of the Classic period, my research at San

Jerónimo II approaches the Classic-Postclassic transition from a Postclassic perspective.

It is rooted in a complementary approach that seeks to identify the ways in which the

Postclassic period differed from the Classic and to investigate the processes that shaped

Postclassic patterns. Another unusual aspect of this study is my focus on the political hinterland – rather than starting in a major center and working outwards, it begins with a small, outlying community and explores the effects of the “Collapse” on the average members of the polity. This strategy has both advantages and disadvantages, providing

us with a fairly detailed picture of life in a single satellite community, but requiring a

great deal of speculation concerning the effects of higher-order socio-political processes

at the broader regional scale on residents of the site.

The Proyecto San Jerónimo has its roots firmly embedded within a series of

preceding archaeological projects in the Central Petén Lakes district. The debt of 9

gratitude, both intellectually and logistically, is most directly owed to the Proyecto Maya-

Colonial and its primary investigators, Don and Prudence Rice, Romulo Sanchez Polo

and Grant Jones. The Rices have been actively investigating the Postclassic and Colonial

periods of this region since the 1970’s, beginning under the aegis of Edward Deevey Jr.

(Deevey 1978, Deevey et al. 1979, Deevey et al. 1983), and then striking out on their

own (e.g., D. Rice and P. Rice 1980, 1981, 1984a, b, c; D. Rice et al. 1996). Three

major, multi-year projects are central to the current models of the Petén Postclassic - the

original Central Petén Historical Ecology Project (e.g., Deevey et al. 1979) and its

descendant projects, the Proyecto Lacustre (1979-1981) and the more distinct,

ethnohistorically informed Proyecto Maya-Colonial (D. Rice et al. 1996, Pugh 2001,

Cecil 2001). Several third generation projects undertaken by Rice students (Schwarz

2004, Duncan 1999, 2001) also bear mentioning, since they bear on current directions of

research and further illuminate this study. Several earlier studies (e.g., Bullard 1960,

1961, 1970, 1973; Chase 1979, 1983, 1985, 1990) dealing with the Postclassic period in

the region will also be briefly described as intellectual forerunners of this project.

Early Projects

While researchers have been performing archaeological investigations in northern

Guatemala for well over a century, an interest in the Postclassic period is a relatively

recent phenomenon. In the 1950’s, George Cowgill (1963) may have been the first

archaeologist to document Postclassic occupation, on the shores of Lake Petén Itzá and

Flores Island. The first real investigation into Postclassic architecture in the Petén,

however, was that of William Bullard at his Topoxté investigations between 1956 and

1960 (with most of the actual fieldwork dating to 1960). These investigations were a 10 spin-off of his broader regional settlement survey focusing on Late Classic settlement in the northeastern Petén (Bullard 1960). This groundbreaking work was the first to document Postclassic settlement patterns and ceramic styles in the region and served as a stimulus for later research. At that time, only in the Yucatan and in limited stretches of

Quintana Roo was the Postclassic even partially understood. Bullard’s research was largely limited to mapping, with only limited excavations in the main ceremonial group.

As he put it (1970:251) “the purposes were specifically to explore the islands and vicinity, to record the visible structural remains, and to obtain samples of pottery associated with the standing buildings by means of a series of small tests.” Even so, this was enough to stir interest in the Postclassic period in the Petén, and indeed, Bullard continued to investigate Postclassic sites himself, most notably at his excavations at Lake

Macanché in 1968 (P. Rice 1987a). Research continues at Topoxté to this day (e.g.,

Wurster 2000) under the direct control of Guatemalan researchers, but the literature concerning their work is difficult to obtain in this country.

In 1971, the University of Pennsylvania’s University Museum undertook investigations at a series of sites on the shore of Lake Petén Itzá and particularly on the

Tayasal peninsula north of Flores. Under the direction of Arlen Chase (1979, 1983,

1985, 1990; Chase and Chase 1983), five sites were mapped and excavations were carried out at two of them (Cenote and Tayasal). These investigations revealed structures ranging in age from the Preclassic to the Middle Postclassic, with Classic period remains the most frequently encountered. Accompanied by Diane Chase, Arlen Chase returned to the area in 1977 and 1979 to expand on those investigations, mapping an additional five sites on the Tayasal peninsula, sites on eight islands in the main lake, and on two islands 11

in Lake Quexil. They also undertook limited excavations on the island of Flores,

confirming that the island had been occupied continuously from the Preclassic period to

the current day. The limited excavations at the site of Nimá on the northwest shore of the

Tayasal peninsula are, for our purposes, the most tantalizing. Test excavations were made into two small mounds there, revealing a “continuous sequence from the Late

Classic through the Middle Postclassic” (A. Chase 1990:156). This would make Nimá contemporaneous with the primary occupation of San Jerónimo II, and the two sites are separated only by 8 km of open water. Extensive excavations were not undertaken at

Nimá, however, and the surface collection, while interesting, does not shed much light on

the occupation there.

Central Petén Historical Ecology Project and Proyecto Lacustre 1973-1981

Between 1973 and 1981, Don and Prudence Rice directed a series of

archaeological investigations in the Central Petén Lakes district (D. Rice and P. Rice

1980, 1984b) as part of a multi-disciplinary project focusing on the history and ecology of the region. This project, known as the Central Petén Historical Ecology Project (or,

more briefly, CPHEP) was under the overall direction of the noted ecologist Edward

Deevey Jr. (Deevey 1978; Deevey, Brenner and Binford 1983; Deevey et al. 1979).

Postclassic remains were encountered during this project in five general locations, several of which had already been described. As part of the subsequent Proyecto

Lacustre, the Rices performed additional excavations at the sites of Topoxté (Johnson

1985; D. Rice and P. Rice 1984a, 1984c; P. Rice 1979, 1986; P. Rice and D. Rice 1985) and at Lake Macanché (both on the island [D. Rice and P. Rice 1984a, 1984c; P. Rice

1980, 1986, 1987a; P. Rice and D. Rice 1985] and at Muralla de Leon [D. Rice and P. 12

Rice 1981] on the northeast shore), following Bullard’s prior research (1970, 1973).

Additionally, Postclassic settlement was also identified at Lake Salpetén at the sites of

Zacpetén (D. Rice 1981, 1986; D. Rice and P. Rice 1984a, 1984c) and Ixlú (D. Rice

1981, 1986; P. Rice 1986; D. Rice and P. Rice 1984a), at Lake Quexil (P.Rice 1986; P.

Rice 1986) as previously documented by Chase in 1977, and in the savannas to the south

of Lake Petén Itzá at the sites of Itzpone and El Fango (D. Rice and P. Rice 1980; P. Rice

and D. Rice 1979).

Proyecto Maya-Colonial 1994-1999

In 1994, the Rices began a new project in the Central Petén Lakes. By this point,

enough data had been accumulated to provide a basic understanding of Postclassic

architecture and settlement patterns in the Central Petén, yet many questions remained

unanswered. The primary focus of this multi-year project was on reconstructing the

social and political organization of the Petén Maya in the 17th century, specifically at the

time of the Spanish Conquest in AD 1697. The first two years were spent in creating a broad regional understanding of the Late Postclassic/Early Historic settlement pattern primarily through ethnohistoric research and archaeological surveys, supplemented by surface collections, test pits, and rarely, more extensive excavations. In the later years of the project, emphasis turned to more thorough excavations at specific Postclassic centers

– first Zacpetén (1997), then Ixlú (1998), and Macanché (1999).

The ethnohistoric research by Grant Jones (e.g., 1979, 1983, 1989, 1998) served as a guide as the archaeologists attempted to identify ethnohistorically described sites important in the Postclassic political system. During the first two field seasons surveys, maps and limited test excavations were pursued in the basins of Lakes Macanché, 13

Salpetén, Petén Itzá and Sacpuy. Previously identified sites were revisited and new sites

documented. Spanish documents dating to the 17th and 18th centuries provided at least

generalized geographic descriptions of the major towns and enabled some insight into

regional political organization. The main goal of these early seasons was the

identification and mapping of the principal provincial and subprovincial capitols (Yalain,

Sakpetén, Chaltunha, Saclamakhal, Ketz, Ch’ich and Chun Ajaw) of the major Maya

lineages of the 17th century Petén.

Once those capitals were tentatively identified, further archaeological research

was pursued. Major interests of the Proyecto Maya Colonial included documenting the

demography of the region prior to the depopulation of the Colonial period, identifying

evidence supporting the postulated three major political territories (Itzá, , and

Yalain) and their quadripartite subdivisions, correlating archaeologically documented

styles with specific lineages or ethnic groups, and identifying evidence for claimed ties to

major sites in the northern Yucatan.

Several of the suggested capitals were investigated in some detail. The site of

Zacpetén was postulated to be the Kowoj provincial capital Sakpetén, Ixlú the major

Kowoj port Saclamakhal, and the site of Yalain was identified with settlement on the

shores of Lake Macanché. All three of these sites were subsequently targeted for focused

archaeological excavations. The Itzá port site Ch’ich was located on the Nixtun peninsula and thoroughly mapped, but has not yet been extensively excavated (see Future

Research – Nixtun Ch’ich for a summary of proposed work). I was a member of the excavation teams working at both Zacpetén and Ixlú and was in the field with project members prior to the onset of excavations at Yalain. 14

Quexil-Peténxil Project 2001

One of those project members, Kevin Schwarz, spent an extended field season in

2001 (with a brief return in 2002) working at sites in the Lake Quexil and Lake Peténxil

basins, about 9 km east of Flores (or 12 km east of San Jerónimo). This project,

supported by an NSF dissertation improvement grant, is of particular relevance because

several of these sites are also of Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic date. They are

generally intermediate in size and complexity when compared to either the smaller

hamlet site of San Jerónimo II or the larger Postclassic centers of Zacpetén or Ch’ich, but like Ch’ich and San Jerónimo II were probably under the political hegemony of the Itzá lineage (at least by the end of the Early Postclassic). The sites involved here are similar

in scale, though somewhat larger, than San Jerónimo II. Both of the Quexil islands

possess civic-ceremonial groups suggesting a higher degree of autonomy than at San

Jerónimo II.

Schwarz’s research required a sample of several sites. As a result, the individual

excavations were less extensive than those at San Jerónimo II though they still focused on

broad horizontal exposures. No structure was completely exposed to the latest

occupation and several structures were excavated only to 50% exposure or less. The field

season included comparable (if less complete) excavations of 15 structures (one on the

shores of Lake Peténxil, five on the western island of Lake Quexil, and nine on the eastern island), as well as supplementary data from a number of other structures in all three locations.

Schwarz’s research focuses primarily on establishing an architectural grammar of the Classic and Postclassic assemblage of domestic structures on the Quexil Islands and 15

neighboring sites in the Quexil and Peténxil basins. He performs a structuralist analysis

(focusing particularly on Giddens for a theoretical basis and Glassie for a methodological approach) focusing on the domestic architecture of Maya households during the transitional period. His study found “Classic to Postclassic continuities in architectural

grouping, morphology and activity areas, while complex changes are also evident”

(Schwarz 2004:ii). These changes are interpreted as a response to the adoption of a

defensive location rather than inmigration of invaders or refugees. Shifting architectural

patterns are seen as correlates of “defensibility, smaller co-resident family groupings and

… increased display of ancestral shrines” (ibid).

This project provides me with the most interesting and pertinent comparative material available, concentrating as it does on a nearby site of the same period, of only slightly larger scale, and including substantial household excavations. These data are as yet unavailable in a readily published format, though I have secured a copy of his dissertation (defended in 2004). Direct comparison of the San Jerónimo and Quexil-

Peténxil excavations are discussed in one of the concluding sections (Comparison with

Quexil-Petenxil Results), but in essence, Schwarz sees the Terminal Classic and Early

Postclassic as a time of endemic warfare and deteriorating social organization. In his conception, the Petén Maya reacted by shifting to a defensive posture, fragmenting into smaller family groupings, and redefining their identity to accommodate ethnic identifications on a smaller scale.

Interviews with local residents

In this section, I include interview data collected prior to the 2003 field season at

San Jerónimo II. The oral history of the region doesn’t seem to extend past the colonial 16

period with any accuracy, and since the initial focus of the project was on the mission town of San Jerónimo, the information recorded here involves primarily later periods in

the regional chronology.

Information provided by long-term residents of San Andres

In May and June of 1999, I undertook a series of informal interviews with long- term residents of San Andres in search of information concerning archaeological sites along the Ensenada San Jerónimo and particularly the location of the Mission San

Jerónimo. I also interviewed residents in a number of other localities in the Petén concerning other missions, but these are omitted as irrelevant to the current project.

Individuals interested in the results of those other interviews are referred to Rockmore

2003.

On my first visit, the first informant consulted, Rolando Cano, noted that there were only three places between San Andres and the Candelaria peninsula where a settlement could have been placed. One such location was that of the site of San

Jerónimo II. The other two suggested possibilities were at the base of the peninsula itself and at the site of a hotel a mere 500 m south of San Andres. Signs of prehispanic settlement were found at each of these three locations, though remains at the hotel were extensively disrupted by construction and road building activities. It was also felt that this location was too close to San Andres to represent the colonial site of San Jerónimo.

Similarly, structures at the base of the Candelaria peninsula were contiguous with the site of Nixtun-Ch’ich and were felt to possibly represent the original location of San

Jerónimo, while those at the punta piedra (the site of San Jerónimo II) represented the later location. 17

A second informant, Ruben Cano Aldana, stated that his father had told him the

location of a church at the base of the ensenada. Local archaeologist and long-time

collaborator Romulo Sanchez Polo showed me what he believed to be the structure in

question at the base of the Candelaria peninsula, but unfortunately we were unable to

acquire any supporting evidence from brief site visits apart from the unusual nature of the

construction techniques (utilizing some massive, uncut stones up to one m in length).

The initial visits to this structure occurred in early June of 1999 and resulted in a rough

sketch map and confirmation of its orientation to the cardinal directions, but no directly

datable artifacts. This informant also recounted the local favorite legend concerning the

loss, during transport across the lake, of a statue of a horse left behind by Cortes. The

traditional location of this sunken idol is between San Andres and Punta Nixtun.

Subsequent interviews with several other local residents on a second visit to San

Andres, (Rogelio Garra, Anatolio Lopez, Rudolfo Dubon, Juan Kal and Rene Burgos)

provided little additional data. The interviews confirmed that signs of earlier occupations

were ubiquitous throughout the region; the general opinion was that if a church had existed in the region, the “punta piedra” was the best candidate for its location.

A third visit led us to Alejandro Pacheco who, for a nominal fee, led us to a small site high up on the hill slope approximately ¾ km south of San Andres not far uphill from the main footpath to points south of San Andres. The site consisted of at least 10 buildings, but the limited inspection made on this and one subsequent visit suggested that

the site was probably of Late Classic date judging from the size and quality of the stones

utilized in construction, the orientation of the structures to the cardinal directions and the

limited ceramic evidence recovered from surface collection. The site gives the 18 impression of a small community of perhaps eight or nine families and is minimally of hamlet size. No monumental architecture was found and it seems likely that the site was a small agricultural village.

An interview with Marcial Panti again resulted in the comment that the punta piedra was the most likely site for a mission chapel, but came with the disheartening suggestion that we were about three years too late. Up until that time, the area had contained field houses of a few workers, but no major construction. He recalled his father pointing to a ruin and stating that it had been a church, but said that he would be unable to locate it and that much of the site had been leveled with bulldozers when the

Hotel Ni’tun was erected.

Subsequent discussion with the original caretaker of the property at the punta piedra, Alberto Fernandez, led to the initial sketch mapping of the site of San Jerónimo II and the suggestion that the substructure at Operation 2 might be the location of the ramada chapel of the mission. Further visits to the site led to promising results and encouraged the eventual establishment of this project.

Interview with owners of Hotel Ni’tun

In May of 2001, I returned to the Ni’tun Ecolodge and interviewed the owners,

Bernie Mittelstaedt and Lorena Castillo. They were friendly and interested in the project and provided me with some corroborating information. During a discussion of the likely types of artifacts that might confirm a Colonial presence, the topic of metal artifacts arose and they mentioned having recovered such an artifact during the construction of one of their cabanas along the shoreline. They allowed me to take the artifact, a small blob of grayish metal with an outer coating of mineral salt that has since been registered as part 19 of the Proyecto Maya Colonial. It consists of two small semi-circular objects connected by a narrow neck. The metal is quite dense, but does not appear to be soft enough to be lead, and my best guess is perhaps pewter. The item was reportedly recovered almost one m below surface level (though this seems likely to be exaggerated) during construction of the cabin closest to their dock. Unfortunately, no prehispanic structures were apparent in a surface survey of their property; either there are no such structures or they are not visible in one manner or another (concealed by vegetation, covered by later soil deposits, or simply lacking in visible architectural remains). It seems likely that several structures were destroyed during the construction of the ecolodge, possibly including the mission chapel.

Visits to the base of the Candelaria peninsula in June of 2001 led to an improved sketch map and the discovery of several new structures at the site labeled San Jerónimo I, but no datable surface artifacts were encountered. Occupation may have been Colonial, but might just as easily have been of Classic or Postclassic vintage.

Future Research – Nixtun Ch’ich

Recently, the Rices have been seeking funding for a new multi-year project to take place at the site of Nixtun Ch’ich. While their interest is largely in the Late

Postclassic and Early Historic periods, those remains are situated within one of the largest

Classic period sites on the shores of Lake Petén Itzá (possibly the center known epigraphically as the Ik’ site – a suggestion originally made by the Rices and raised again by Schwarz 2004:76), no more than one km from the site of San Jerónimo. This project will provide a great deal of additional insight into interpretations of the remains at San

Jerónimo. Undoubtedly the residents of the two sites interacted, and the residents of San 20

Jerónimo were almost certainly political clients and suppliers of stone tools and food for the larger site. Additionally, excavations at Ch’ich would provide our first major excavations at a primary Itzá center in the Lakes district; the excavations at Zacpetén and

Ixlú likely represent Kowoj centers, and while Topoxté may have been an Itzá site, it probably pertains to a peripheral lineage known in the literature as the Yalain.

The juxtaposition of data from both a larger center and one of its dependent hamlets will shed light on the nature of political and economic webs on a micro-regional basis. Because both sites appear to be continuously occupied across the Terminal Classic

– Early Postclassic transition (though occupation at Ch’ich appears to have been substantially reordered), they should make an interesting comparison for assessing the transformative effects of the “Collapse” on major centers and basic agricultural villages.

BACKGROUND

This section is devoted to providing fairly basic, yet vitally important descriptions of the study area. Readers familiar with the area and its general occupational history may prefer to skim over certain sections as familiar and not particularly interesting. It begins with a thorough description of the local environmental characteristics (particularly those affecting settlement patterns and agricultural production), followed by a brief summary of the chronological framework used. The rest of the chapter consists of a brief survey of preceding archaeological projects in the region; this is provided to situate the study within a larger intellectual lineage.

Physical Setting

The Central Petén Lakes district is a geographically distinct region within the larger Maya area (Figs. 1 and 2), defined particularly by the series of lakes located within 21

Figure 1: Map of the Maya Area With Discussed Sites Labeled 22

Figure 2: Map of the Central Petén Lakes Region with Sites Labeled 23

Figure 3: Topographic Map of the San Jerónimo II vicinity 24

Figure 4: Map of San Jerónimo II 25

a heterogeneous environment characterized by a north-south rainfall gradient, localized

soil conditions and karstic limestone hills and ridges. The site of San Jerónimo II (Figs. 3

and 4) is located on the western shore of Lake Petén Itzá, about 7.5 km west north west of

the island of Flores and 2.5 km southwest of the town of San Andres. UTM coordinates

for the site are 1877608 (at the central operation atop Str. 1A), placing it roughly at 16º

57’ north and 89º 56’ west. The lakeshore in this region slopes quite sharply --- rising about 130 m over a horizontal distance of 500 m. The site is located at one of only a few relatively flat areas, though some artificial leveling was still required to make it suitable for occupation.

The documented structures are all less than 30 m above the current lake level, and two of the three operations are between five and 15 m above lake level.

Prevailing winds in the area tend to come off the lake from the east or northeast in the

afternoons and the site would have been well situated to take advantage of that fact.

Indeed, immediately adjacent to the site are a popular bed and breakfast and the weekend

home of a former governor of the Petén – suggesting just how pleasant a locale this is.

Access to the site, now and presumably in the past, is primarily by boat and

secondarily by paths following the shoreline. Modes of transportation requiring

movement across the steep terrain would be a distant third choice, but not impossible. A modern road connecting to the main overland artery between Flores and San Andres has recently (ca. 1998) been constructed to provide access to the Ni’tun ecolodge, but by

2003 was already in poor condition due to the steep terrain and erosive heavy rains.

Acceptable agricultural soils are available near the site, and portions of the surrounding terrain are currently being farmed by milperos from the nearby town of San Andres. The 26

Ensenada San Jerónimo is also a popular fishing and swimming spot for local residents,

suggesting the likelihood that it would have been similarly used prior to the Spanish

conquest.

Geology/topography

The Central Petén Lakes region lies just over 100 m above sea level in an area of

low rolling limestone hills created by “limestone folds and ridges running east to west”

(Schwartz 1990:15) with some flatter areas in the southern part of the zone. The major characteristic of this area is a fault fracture that has created a series of lake basins within the larger zone of low ridges. Taking all of the lake basins together, the Lakes region stretches for about 100 km from east to west and approximately 30 km from north to south.

The main lake, Petén-Itzá, lies at about 110 m in elevation, with the water level fluctuating several m in a roughly 40 to 50 year cycle (Schwartz 1990:16) apparently unconnected to annual rainfall. The hills surrounding the lakes are continuous and rolling, but generally of limited elevation, with only a few reaching 400 m above sea level. The underlying substrate is limestone, as in the flatter areas of the Yucatan peninsula to the north, with dolomite, gypsum and chert in places. Soils created through the erosion of this substrate and mixture with decaying organic materials are quite varied, with many areas having quite good agricultural soil, though generally in smallish pockets interspersed with less fertile soils.

An extensive folk categorization of local soils is still commonly used in the region

(Reina 1967), and probably dates to prehispanic times. More recent scientific classifications of the local soils have tended to be local studies and tend to underestimate 27

the micro-regional variation found across the central Petén. Sanders’ (1977) study is probably the most useful for researchers interested in the agricultural potential of the local soils under a traditional agricultural regime. In that study, Sanders rearranged the

26 soil types identified by Simmons et al. (1959) according to their fertility, friability, drainage and potential for erosion. About 10 percent of the Petén can be dismissed as pertaining to the agriculturally poor, acidic soils of the savannas, with the remainder in semi-tropical forest. Much of that semi-tropical forest is found in poorly drained bajo areas, whose potential for agricultural use is a subject of perennial debate (e.g., Adams

1980, 1993; Adams et al. 1990; Pope and Dahlin 1989, 1993).

The high biomass of tropical forests is generally misleading in terms of the fertility of the underlying soils. Characteristically, the bulk of the nutrients in a tropical forest are bound up in the trees and plants, rather than the soils themselves. Thus, tropical and semi-tropical soils are often poor in a number of key nutrients required by agricultural plants (e.g., phosphorous). Unsurprisingly, therefore, the soils of the central

Petén are mostly “deficient in such critical elements as phosphorous, potassium, and nitrogen” (Schwartz 1990:24). Even where soils are not critically deficient in nutrients, they are often associated with other problematic features, including difficulties with soil drainage, erosion or plasticity.

Current residents of the area tend to favor “well-drained slopes with relatively loose, friable soils” (Schwartz 1990:24), and Classic Maya sites are also reported to be associated with shallow, well-drained fertile soils. Many of the local soils are naturally fertile, particularly the black calcareous lithosols and brown calcareous soils, but they are usually thin and prone to erosion once the tree cover has been removed. Schwartz 28

(1990:25) summarizes the situation by noting that “in Petén high or good soil fertility all

too often varies inversely with good soil texture, with good drainage and with minimum

susceptibility to erosion.”

South of the main lakes there is a series of flatter savanna areas separated from

the lakes by a range of low hills. Slightly lower than the main lakes region, they range in

elevation from about 10 to 80 m ASL. Characterized by soils of poor agricultural

potential, mostly “reddish, acidic, plasticine soils” (Schwartz 1990:16), these do not

appear to have been a major focus of human occupation until the introduction of cattle to

the region in the 18th century. They also tend to receive somewhat less rainfall than regions to the north, and drinking water can be scarce there in some years.

The Central Petén Lakes region is surrounded by several geographically distinct zones, each important during the Classic period and most much more severely affected by the changes occurring at the end of that time period. Immediately to the north and

northeast is the area generally termed the “Classic Maya Heartland” including such well- known sites as , Uaxactún, and . Otherwise similar in geology, climate

and ecology to the Lakes district, the Maya heartland is lacking in surface water, with the

residents forced to rely on man-made catchments (aguadas) and access to inundated

swamplands (bajos) for water. To the west and southwest, the major geological features

are the Usumacinta and Pasión river basins, which have traditionally provided both

transportation routes (in places only at certain times of year) and limited areas of fertile

alluvial soils. These basins are generally considered as a single cultural unit, distinct

from both the Petén Lakes area and the Classic Maya heartland, though with strong ties to

both; major settlements in this region include such well-known sites as Piedras Negras, 29

Dos Pilas and Seibal. To the southeast lies an isolated mountain range, the Maya

Mountains of southern Belize that provided access to certain highland goods (e.g., ground

stone artifacts). South of the Petén savannas one quickly enters the foothills of the

Guatemalan Highlands, with rugged mountainous terrain, and fertile volcanic soils.

Cultural ties to this region were probably more tenuous, judging from linguistic distributions, but trade in exotic goods would have been important (particularly obsidian and ground stone objects, but also jade).

Hydrology

The hydrology of the central Petén is dominated by a series of lakes of varying sizes formed at the end of the Pleistocene along a fault fracture running roughly east-west at 17 degrees north latitude. Away from those lakes, water availability can be a serious problem, particularly in the dry season. From east to west, the lakes include Laguna

Sacnab, Laguna Yaxhá, Laguneta Champoxte, Laguneta Macanché, Laguna Salpetén,

Lago Petén-Itzá, Laguna Quexil, Lago Peténxil, Laguna Picú, Laguna Sacpuy, Laguneta

Zotz and Laguna Perdida (this last is technically west of the fault line and distinct from the others). These 12 lakes are quite varied in size; Lago Petén-Itzá is the largest, extending about 34 km in length and 5 km in width (Schwartz 1990:15), while Peténxil,

Picú and Zotz are all less than 2 km long. Several other smaller bodies of water exist in the area as well, but are of such small scale that, while useful for drinking water, there would be no point in even putting a canoe in the water. As mentioned, the level of the lakes in this fault zone rise and fall by several m in what appears to be a roughly 40-year cycle (Schwartz 1990: 16) of uncertain cause. Drowned structures of various time 30

periods are found along the shoreline of several lakes, and the possibility cannot be ruled

out that portions of San Jerónimo II are currently submerged.

Petén-Itzá is by far the largest lake, and the most important, having served as a

focus of human occupation since at least the Middle Preclassic. Each of the other lakes is

substantially smaller, but evidence for human occupation is ubiquitous at each of them.

Access to the lakes would have been a boon to the residents of the area, making travel between sites and from sites to fields much easier. It also may have partially buffered the region against drought and famine by providing a consistent water source and access to

supplementary food resources. Interestingly, there is evidence of man-made canals

(apparently prehispanic) connecting some of the closest lakes; Lagunas Quexil and

Peténxil are connected by canal to the main lake (D. Rice 1996b; Schwarz 2004: 634) and

it has been suggested that Lago Salpetén may also have been connected to Petén Itzá

through an extension of the Ixlú river (D. Rice et al. 1996: 144-6). The lakes also served

as effective defensive features at various points in Maya prehistory, with people often

residing on islands and peninsulas (particularly in the Late Postclassic period).

There are virtually no surface rivers to speak of because the karstic limestone

topography results in a substantially subterranean flow of water. There are some small

streams in the immediate vicinity of the lakes, but these pale in importance in comparison with the lakes themselves. The water in all of the lakes is potable, but several of them have unpleasantly high mineral contents (particularly gypsum), which would probably make other sources preferable for drinking water. They do provide an array of lacustrine resources, as well as enabling transport and allowing pot irrigation. 31

Climate

The other key features of the physical setting concern broader climatic patterns, particularly rainfall patterns. While temperatures may vary from 12 to 40 degrees Celsius

(about 54 to 104 Fahrenheit), the temperature in the Petén Lakes district tends to be relatively stable, with temperatures varying more according to the time of day than the time of year. As a rule, however, June tends to be the hottest month and January the coolest (Schwartz 1990:18) with monthly average temperatures running from 23 to 29 degrees Celsius (73 to 84 F) and only rarely dropping below 18 C (64 F). Averaged over the entire year, the Central Petén has a mean temperature of about 25.5 degrees Celsius

(78 F).

Precipitation is both more important in understanding the local environment and more variable than temperature. The Petén is located in the Northeast Trade Wind Zone

(Schwartz 1990:17) resulting in two general seasons, a rainy season (running roughly from June to December) and a dry season (January to May). More generally, the Yucatán peninsula is subject to a rainfall gradient, with annual precipitation increasing as one moves from the northwest to the southeast. This gradient is more marked over larger geographical regions, but can be noted even locally. In the vicinity of the main lake, the average annual precipitation is just over 2 m of rain (2007 mm – Schwartz 1990:18).

The rainy season is quite distinct from the dry season and up to 90% of the annual rainfall may come between June and December. Monthly averages range from only 45 mm to over 360 mm, but the onset of the rainy season can be unpredictable and the intraseasonal variation in rainfall can be quite pronounced. As one might expect, the onset of the rainy season is a perennial topic of discussion among local milperos and the 32 proper planting time and the likelihood of adequate rainfall have been major concerns throughout the human occupation of the region.

Larger climatic patterns have been argued to have dramatically influenced the course of (e.g., Hodell et al. 1995), but arguments postulating extended drought periods as the primary stimulus for the end of the Classic period lack solid evidence and tend to be insufficiently nuanced in their approach. That said, a drought lasting for several years in a row might well have tipped the scales of an already stressed system.

Ecology

The majority of the central Petén is comprised of two general ecological systems: semi-tropical rainforest, with the mixture of evergreen and semideciduous species varying with the local rainfall gradient and topography, and tropical savannas characterized by grasslands and scrubby trees. Most of the region falls in the first category, though one could differentiate several varieties of semi-tropical to tropical rainforest. There are hundreds of tree species, but none of them are densely clustered as is common in temperate forests. Instead, trees of a single species are generally almost evenly spaced but widely separated from each other, leading to forests of remarkable complexity and biodiversity. Even the Chicle tree (Achras zapota), one of the most common forest species, rarely has densities of more than 25 or 30 trees per hectare.

There is a broad range of native plants with significant economic uses, ranging from a variety of native fruit trees, spices, and agricultural crops, to palms useful for thatching traditional houses, hardwoods for construction purposes and trees favored for firewood. On the other hand, many trees and plants are troublesome to humans. In some 33

areas, particularly in the dense, scrubby second growth called uaymil, the majority of

plant species have spines (some of which are infested with fire ants). Similarly, several

plants can be skin irritants, most notably chechem (Black Poisonwood) whose sap can

cause “a nasty black scar on affected body parts” (Schwartz 1990:22). Even standing

below a mature tree can cause poison ivy-like irritation simply from oils shed from the tree’s leaves settling on exposed skin. There are also highly poisonous plants in the

region, with Datura being the most commonly mentioned. These are not a problem

unless ingested, however, and accidental poisonings are rarely encountered.

In the Classic period, as now, deforestation was likely a problem, at least on local

scales. Assuming this was the case (as the paleolimnological evidence suggests),

consequences included lack of wood for fires and construction purposes, and also some

significant effects on agricultural production, climate and water drainage. Without tree

cover, the tropical downpours characteristic of the rainy season often result in loss of the

thin, fertile soil layers, followed by the compaction of the remaining soil into dense

lateritic, and nearly impermeable soils useless for agricultural purposes. Lack of

vegetative cover can also raise the temperature and cause problems for the regeneration

of forests. Most of these problems can be mitigated to some extent by proper fallowing

techniques, but with increasing population densities, such practices can be difficult to

maintain.

Given the low occupational density of the Petén savannas, it appears that they

may well have gone largely unused. Soils and drainage characteristics make them

relatively useless for agricultural purposes and they generally lack desirable wild

resources. There is some evidence of occupation in these areas and some interesting 34 stone features have been suggested to relate to deer hunting camps (P. Rice and D. Rice

1979). This suggestion has never been adequately tested, and it seems unlikely that the

Petén savannas were ever very important to the Prehispanic regional economy.

Fauna includes a variety of species that would probably have been exploited as food resources, hunted both in the forests and in the milpas. The most important, or at least the largest, are white tail and brocket deer, peccary, agouti and rabbit. These animals are the most commonly hunted game today, but other wild species are frequently taken as well, ranging from turtles and armadillos to chachalacas and ocellated turkey.

Fishing is of particular importance in the Lakes district, with the favored target being an endemic panfish (Petenia splendida) known locally simply as blanco.

The fauna also includes a number of species that are either dangerous or extremely annoying. As Schwartz (1990:20) phrases it, “There is an uncomfortable number of poisonous snakes in Petén.” These include several varieties of rattlesnake and coral snakes, but the snake responsible for the most bites and the most deaths is the barba amarilla, usually called a fer-de-lance by English speakers. These pit vipers are both highly poisonous and generally irritable, and they favor the disturbed second growth habitats characteristic of most inhabited areas in the region.

Insects are rife and while the majority are harmless (and some, such as the stingless native honey bee, are economically valued), others are far less benign. There are many stinging insects and arachnids ranging from some truly ferocious ants, to wasps, tarantulas and scorpions. While bites from these animals can be remarkably painful, they are only health risks to infants, the elderly, and individuals with strong allergic reactions.

Realistically, the primary danger is the variety of disease-bearing insects. It is unclear 35

how many of the diseases prevalent in the area today were to be found in prehispanic

populations. Dengue fever and malaria, for instance, both appear to have been introduced

along with their respective mosquito vectors (Aedes albopictus and Anopheles spp.). The same appears to be true of the assassin bug (Triatoma infestans) that transmits Chagas’s disease to humans. Some less severe diseases may have been chronic in the region, even before the introduction of Old World diseases, including river blindness (carried by the

blackfly Simulium sp.) and leishmaniasis (transmitted by sand flies Lutzomya sp.).

Intestinal parasites are common, including roundworm and hookworm, while shigella and amoebic dysentery are also problems.

Temporal Setting / Regional Chronology

The general chronology of the Maya lowlands has become relatively codified in

practical archaeological usage. The specific chronology of the Central Petén, however, is

difficult to pin down, particularly in the later time periods. In the Preclassic and Classic

periods, the Petén (and particularly the northern Petén) served as the anchoring point for most chronological schema. With the demographic shift to the northern lowlands in the

Postclassic period, most characterizations of the Postclassic and Colonial periods are tied to events in Yucatan, usually to the collapse of Chichén Itzá (ca. AD 1250), the fall of

Mayapán (ca. AD 1450) and the founding of Merida (AD 1541). These dates, however, are only loosely linked to the course of events in the southern lowlands. As a result, the

chronological framework should be considered a loose guideline, rather than any sort of strict categorization. It should additionally be noted that the dates given for the collapse of Chichén Itzá and the fall of Mayapán are currently being reassessed; the revised 36 chronology is of some importance to interpretation of our data, and is addressed in

Appendix D.

In general, chronologies in the Maya area are constructed to account for observed shifts in the material assemblages (particularly ceramics, but also lithics and architecture) and linked to an absolute temporal framework through a variety of dating techniques

(e.g., radiocarbon dating, historical records). The most radical shifts in material culture are generally assumed to correlate with major shifts in social and political organization.

Historical events are useful markers of culture change, but the changes in material culture that are the stock in trade of archaeologists typically occur at different paces in different locations, requiring either overly specific chronologies for each site or general chronologies that only approximately fit specific cases. I have opted to follow the second course (Table 1), and argue that the order and nature of changes is more important than tying them to a specific date or time interval (though admittedly, specific dates would be useful).

TIME PERIOD START DATE END DATE Late Classic AD 600 AD 800 Terminal Classic AD 800 AD 1000 Early Postclassic AD 1000 AD 1250 Late Postclassic AD 1250 AD 1524 Early Historic/Contact AD 1524 AD 1697 Colonial AD 1697 AD 1821

Table 1: Regional Chronology

In general, therefore, the dates and periods described in this work follow established frameworks, with the Late Classic period running from roughly AD 600 (in this region usually dated to the end of the hiatus at Tikal around AD 593) to AD 800. In 37

order to keep up with the latest literature on this period (Demarest et al. 2004a:2), we

could move the end of the Late Classic back 50 years in order to accommodate a

Terminal Classic period running from AD 750 to AD 1050. However, given the long-

standing local chronology and the local timing of changes, I have opted to continue using

a traditional Terminal Classic of AD 800-1000. The Early Postclassic encompasses the

period from AD 1000 to approximately AD 1250. The end of the Early Postclassic is

particularly fuzzy and I’m unaware of any solid radiocarbon dates in the region to

establish that boundary more securely. The transition from the Early to the Late

Postclassic is better understood in the northern lowlands, but shifts in ceramic

assemblages are seen in the Petén as well, particularly an increased influence from the

north. The Late Postclassic is the most confused time period in the region, with

researchers placing the change from Early to Late as early as 1200 and as late as 1450;

even worse, it segues smoothly into the Early Historic/Contact/Colonial period because the Itzá polity ruling the Lakes district at that time interacted with the Spanish and

Spanish-ruled Maya for over 150 years, from Cortes’ entrada in 1524 to their actual conquest in AD 1697. Some researchers (e.g., Smith and Berdan 2000) even postulate a

Middle Postclassic to cover the key 13th and 14th centuries. This should, hopefully, give

the reader a sense of how fuzzy the chronological boundaries are in this region. Given

the limited array of radiocarbon dates from central Petén (e.g., D. Rice et al. 1998: Table

1-1, Schwarz 2004: Table 6-1), one can only be certain that Late Postclassic deposits are

found by the 14th century and possibly earlier. I’ve consequently opted for a fairly

traditional Early/Late Postclassic transition dating to about AD 1250. Given the fairly

weak level of interaction among the Itzá Maya (and other local groups) and the Spanish 38

during the Contact period, I am generally forced to lump the Contact Period with the Late

Postclassic period and this should be understood as implicit in this work unless otherwise

stated.

The framework I use is shown in Table 1. I must reemphasize that these dates

provide loose correlation with events elsewhere, and are not to be taken as hard and fast

boundaries, particularly since relatively few radiocarbon dates exist for remains from the later periods in the Central Petén.

39

Chapter 2: Archaeological Context of the Petén Lakes District

For those readers unfamiliar with the material culture of the northern Petén, and

particularly the Petén Lakes district, I will now review the archaeological data from prior projects in the area, with emphasis on the regional ceramic sequences, obsidian source distributions, and the settlement patterns/architecture. These are particularly important because ceramics, obsidian and architecture serve as the primary indicators of temporal and cultural affiliations in archaeological analyses of the Maya. Many of these data are touched upon elsewhere in more generalized form, but are addressed in greater detail here.

REGIONAL CERAMIC SEQUENCES

I begin this section with an overview of the regional ceramic chronologies and address issues of broad regional ceramic spheres before narrowing our focus to the central Petén and its direct ceramic affiliations and influences. The overview will cover the entire span of the regional occupation, but specific discussion will focus mainly on the Late Classic through Late Postclassic ceramics of the region. The section concludes with a recounting of the ceramic types characteristic of the site in each time period

(following P. Rice 1987a where possible). In each case, the summary presents a synthetic model (following Rice and Forsyth 2004). Deviations from that model and the analysis of regional connections and wider exchange relationships are addressed in a later section.

Prudence Rice (1987a:11 – see Fig. 5) divides the ceramic chronology of the

Petén Lakes region into 11 time periods, with two of those periods divided into early and late facets. The occupation of the region dates back to at least 1000 BC and the 40

Figure 5: Ceramic Chronologies for the Central Petén (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:56-57) 41

Preclassic (ca. 1000 BC to 250 AD) ceramics of the area are subdivided into four periods

corresponding roughly to Early, Middle, Late and Terminal Preclassic periods.

Temporally, these match closely with the Preclassic ceramic periods defined at Tikal

(Culbert 1993) and are closely affiliated with them (with both Tikal and the Lakes region

belonging to the Mamom and then Chicanel ceramic spheres). That affiliation is carried

through the Classic period, where the four defined ceramic periods for the Petén Lakes

(Coa, Pecas, Bruja, and Romero) correspond to the Manik period (Tzakol sphere) in the

early Classic and the subsequent Tepeu 1 through Tepeu 3 periods (though in a more

recent work, Prudence Rice [Rice and Forsyth 2004:50] notes that the Petén Lakes region

is only a peripheral member of the Eznab/Tepeu 3 sphere. This period is of particular

interest to us, since it represents the Terminal Classic ceramic assemblage for many areas

of the central and northern Petén. In the Postclassic period (Aura, Dos Lagos and Ayer

ceramic periods), the Petén lakes, having survived the collapse of most adjoining areas,

unsurprisingly have ceramics of a characteristically local distribution with comparatively

few affiliations to other regions, though they seem to have evolved from the preceding

Romero phase ceramics (P. Rice 1987a:91). The Postclassic ceramics of the Péten are

grouped with those of western Belize in the New Town ceramic sphere.

The Tepeu ceramic sphere merits some more detailed discussion. A ceramic sphere, by definition (Willey et al. 1967:307) “exists when two or more complexes share a majority of their most common types” and includes “the sum total of all the types and

modes of its member complexes.” During the Late Classic period, and particularly

during the latter half (Tepeu 2), the Tepeu ceramic sphere was broadly shared by

southern lowland sites west to Dos Pilas and east nearly to Quirigua (P. Rice and Forsyth 42

2004: 50 - see Fig. 6). As one result of the fragmentation and decline of most southern

polities, during the Terminal Classic (Eznab/Tepeu 3) the Tepeu sphere contracted to its

core area stretching from Tikal north to Calakmul, leaving the Petén lakes region only

peripherally associated with Eznab (ibid: 52 – see Fig. 7).

This is an oversimplification of the situation however. P. Rice and D. Rice

(2004:128) indicate that

“it is in this region that the western and eastern traditions of both utilitarian and elite wares overlap in an east-west clinal distribution. The Late and Terminal Classic ceramic assemblages of the eastern lakes, Yaxhá and Sacnab, clearly fall into the Tepeu 2/Eznab spheres, with some ties farther to the east in the Spanish Lookout phase of Barton Ramie … To the west, however, from the Lake Macanché basin (P. Rice 1987) and beyond, Terminal Classic assemblages show decreasing similarities with Eznab and increasing relationships with the Boca sphere of the Pasión area (P. Rice 1986).”

They also note (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:129) that while Late Classic (Tepeu 2) and Late

Postclassic types are fairly clearly defined in Petén Lakes, “the ceramic situation in the

intervening four centuries or so is extremely difficult to sort out.”

For the purposes of this study, the relevant ceramic spheres are the Tepeu 2 sphere in the Late Classic, the Tepeu 3 (or Eznab), Boca, and to a lesser extent Spanish

Lookout spheres in the Terminal Classic and the New Town sphere in the Postclassic.

The Terminal Classic ceramic assemblage of the central Petén lakes region shows

significant variation along an east/west axis, but generally speaking is characterized by

“the presence of the Tinaja (red) group and its constituent types, represented by jars and

large bowls with incurving rims” (P. Rice 1987a:59) with lesser frequencies of other

groups within the Petén Gloss Ware (including the Achote, Harina, Payaso and Danta

groups) as well as the San Pablo Gloss and Fine Orange Paste Wares. Unslipped 43

Figure 6: Map of the Maya Lowlands showing the extent of the Tepeu ceramic sphere in the Late Classic Period (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:50 – Fig. 3.1) 44

Figure 7: Map of the Maya Lowlands showing the extent of the Tepeu and Boca ceramic spheres in the Terminal Classic Period (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:51 – Fig. 3.2) 45

ceramics from this period are generally lumped into the Uaxactún Unslipped Ware

(specifically the Cambio ceramic group).

The Early Postclassic complex (P. Rice 1987a:91) “is distinguished by the

beginning of use of characteristic Postclassic types and forms, such as Trapeche,

Paxcamán, Augustine and Pozo.” It should be noted, however, that the early facet of the

Aura ceramic complex is specifically characterized by “the continuation of ceramic types

from the Terminal Classic Romero complex.” The common ceramic types of this period

fall into the Volador Dull-Slipped Ware (Paxcamán and Trapeche ceramic groups), the

Clemencia Cream Paste Ware (Topoxté ceramic group), Vitzil Orange-Red Ware

(Augustine ceramic group) and the Montículo Unslipped Ware (Pozo ceramic group).

Typically, the Pozo group is common across the Petén lakes region, while Paxcamán,

Trapeche, Topoxté and Augustine replace each other clinally (with Paxcamán most

common in the west, Augustine in the east and Trapeche and Topoxte having more

limited distributions focused on Lake Macanché and Lake Yaxhá-Sacnab, respectively).

The Late Postclassic is characterized by a very similar set of ceramic types

pertaining to the same five ceramic groups, with Augustine decreasing in frequency and

Topoxté increasing in frequency during this period. Late Postclassic markers, however,

include the addition of distinctive censer types (particularly effigy censers of the Patojo

and Ídolos groups), and the Chilo ceramic group (Uapake Unslipped Ware).

Prudence Rice’s (1987a) work on the ceramics from Macanché Island was used as

the basic guideline in assigning temporal attributions to specific ceramic types. In

general, poor preservation at San Jerónimo II encouraged a conservative approach toward

the analysis of ceramics. Many sherds were assigned to catchall groups such as 46

Unidentified Carbonate Paste or Volcanic Ash Paste, and relatively few specimens were assigned to a specific variety. Nevertheless, more than 50 ceramic types were identified

in our excavations ranging in date from the Middle Preclassic through the Late

Postclassic/Protohistoric periods. Dr. Prudence Rice, briefly surveyed the ceramics from

the site in 2003 checking my type: variety assignments, but she lacked time for a full, in- depth study. During her visit, one new variety (P. Rice 2003, pers. comm.) was described

(La Justa Composite: Mateo variety); otherwise, the recovered ceramics fit well within the established ceramic assemblages for the broader region.

Temporally speaking, most types were assigned to either a Late/Terminal Classic or a Postclassic categorization. Certain types were further delimited to Terminal Classic,

Early Postclassic or Late Postclassic categories, but these types are all minority types

(albeit informative ones). There were also types belonging to earlier time periods, particularly the Late Preclassic. All identified types are listed below; they are sorted first by time period and then by ceramic ware and group affiliations. Formal descriptions for the ceramic types listed below may be found in several volumes, particularly P. Rice

1987a, Gifford 1976, and Sabloff 1975.

Ceramic Units of the Middle and Late Preclassic Periods at San Jerónimo II

Paso Caballo Waxy Ware Sierra Ceramic Group Sierra Red: Variety Unspecified Laguna Verde Incised: Laguna Verde Variety Laguna Verde Incised: Laguna Verde Grooved Incised Variety

Flor Ceramic Group Flor Cream: Variety Unspecified

Polvero Ceramic Group Polvero Black: Variety Unspecified

47

Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Dichrome: Type and Variety Unspecified

Flores Waxy Ware Joventud Ceramic Group Joventud Red: Variety Unspecified Guitara Incised: Variety Unspecified

Chunhinta Ceramic Group Chunhinta Black: Variety Unspecified Deprecio Incised: Variety Unspecified

Mars Orange Ware Savana Ceramic Group Savana Orange: Variety Unspecified

Uaxactun Unslipped Ware Achiotes Ceramic Group Achiotes Unslipped: Variety Unspecified

Ceramic Unit of the Early Classic Period at San Jerónimo II

Uaxactun Unslipped Ware Triunfo Ceramic Group Triunfo Striated: Variety Unspecified

Ceramic Units of the Late and Terminal Classic Periods at San Jerónimo II

Petén Gloss Ware Tinaja Ceramic Group Tinaja Red: Variety Unspecified Tinaja Red: Canjil Variety Subín Red: Variety Unspecified Cameron Incised: Variety Unspecified (Terminal Classic) Chaquiste Impressed: Variety Unspecified Pantano Impressed: Pantano Variety

Achote Ceramic Group (Terminal Classic) Achote Black: Variety Unspecified Cubeta Incised: Variety Unspecified Torro Gouged-incised: Variety Unspecified

Danta Ceramic Group Jato Black-on-gray: Variety Unspecified (Terminal Classic)

48

Infierno Ceramic Group (Late Classic) Infierno Black: Variety Unspecified

Polychrome Group Unspecified Unidentified Cream Polychrome: Type and Variety Unspecified (Late Classic) Unidentified Polychrome: Type and Variety Unspecified (Tepeu 1)

Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Cream: Type and Variety Unspecified Unidentified Brown: Type and Variety Unspecified Unidentified Gray: Type and Variety Unspecified

Fine Orange Paste Ware Altar Ceramic Group (Terminal Classic) Altar Orange: Variety Unspecified Trapiche Incised: Decorated Interior Variety Pabellon Modeled-carved: Variety Unspecified

Fine Orange Group Unspecified Fine Orange: Type and Variety Unspecified

Fine Gray Paste Ware Tres Naciones Group (Terminal Classic) Poite Incised: Variety Unspecified

Fine Gray Group Unspecified Fine Gray: Type and Variety Unspecified

Vinaceous Tawny Ware Chunhuitz Orange Group Benque Viejo Polychrome: Variety Unspecified

Uaxactún Unslipped Ware Cambio Ceramic Group Cambio Unslipped: Variety Unspecified Encanto Striated: Variety Unspecified Miseria Appliquéd: Variety Unspecified (Terminal Classic) Miseria Appliquéd: Hollow Handle Variety (Terminal Classic)

Ware Unspecified Ceramic Group Unspecified Volcanic Ash Paste

Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Pinkish Paste: Type and Variety Unspecified (Tepeu 1) 49

Ceramic Group Unspecified Miscellaneous Figurines: Type and Variety Unspecified

Ceramic Units of the Postclassic Period at San Jerónimo II

Volador Dull-Slipped Ware Paxcamán Ceramic Group Paxcamán Red: Variety Unspecified Picú Incised: Picú Variety (Late Postclassic) Picú Incised: Thub Variety (Late Postclassic) Ixpop Polychrome: Ixpop Variety Paxcamán General: Type and Variety Unspecified

Clemencia Cream Paste Ware Topoxté Ceramic Group Topoxté Red: Variety Unspecified Topoxté General: Type and Variety Unspecified

Vitzil Orange-Red Ware Augustine Ceramic Group Augustine Red: Variety Unspecified

Plumbate Ware Tohil Group (Early Postclassic) Tohil Plumbate: Variety Unspecified

Montículo Unslipped Ware Pozo Ceramic Group Pozo Unslipped: Variety Unspecified La Justa Composite: La Justa Variety (Late Postclassic) La Justa Composite: Mateo Variety (Late Postclassic)

Chaple Unslipped Ware Maskall Ceramic Group Maskall Unslipped (Early Postclassic)

Uapake Unslipped Ware Chilo Ceramic Group (Late Postclassic) Chilo Unslipped: Variety Unspecified Gotas Composite: Variety Unspecified Unidentified Censer: Type and Variety Unspecified

Ware Unspecified Patojo Ceramic Group (Late Postclassic) Patojo Modeled: Variety Unspecified 50

Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Censers: Type and Variety Unspecified

Temporally Non-diagnostic Ceramic Units at San Jerónimo II

Ware Unspecified Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Carbonate Tempered Paste: Type and Variety Unspecified Unidentified Striated: Type and Variety Unspecified

Ware Unspecified Ceramic Group Unspecified Unidentified Non-Carbonate Tempered Paste: Type and Variety Unspecified

OBSIDIAN SOURCE DISTRIBUTIONS

Obsidian from a variety of highland sources was apparently traded into the Maya

lowlands in every time period - from the initial settlement of the area into the Late

Postclassic (and possibly Early Historic) periods. Three basic sources predominate in the

Maya region generally, and in the Petén specifically, though the proportion of the

assemblage they represent changes through time (P. Rice 1984:182). All three sources

are located in the Maya highlands; from west to east, they are San Martin Jilotepeque, El

Chayal, and Ixtepeque. Obsidian from the three sources are distinguishable on the basis

of visual characteristics (Braswell et al. 2000) making source attribution relatively

simple, though the presence of minority sources is probably underrepresented in my own

analysis (with the exception of such obviously different sources as the green-gold

obsidian from the Pachuca source in central ).

An analysis of obsidian proveniences in the Central Petén Lakes was carried out

by the Central Petén Historical Ecology Project (CPHEP) in the 1970’s and early 1980’s

(P. Rice 1984; P. Rice et al. 1985) and this study still shapes expectations about the 51

importation of obsidian from different sources at different times. Over 800 pieces of obsidian were recovered by the project and 296 pieces from excavations in six of the lake basins were analyzed using X-ray fluorescence (XRF) and neutron activation analysis

(NAA) to establish their provenience. The sample comes from the eastern six lake basins

and doesn’t include a sample from the Lake Petén-Itzá basin, but since no strong

geographic patterns were observed in the study, the temporal patterns were assumed to be

generalizable to the entire Petén Lakes region. Ceramic analyses are increasingly

showing a distinction between the western lakes (with affinities to the Pasión-Petexbatun

regions) and the eastern lakes (with the Tikal sphere), so this assumption is not as safe as

it once was (P. Rice pers. comm. 2006).

Of those 296 pieces, 284 could be securely attributed to one of the three cited

sources, of the remaining 12 pieces at least four came from sources in Mexico (Pachuca,

Tulancingo, Zacualtipan), five came from a single source (Source X) similar to

Jilotepeque (Pru Rice tells me [2006] that this source was later identified, possibly as

Ucareo, but I was unable to locate the reference), two may be attributable to El Chayal

and the other may be from Laguna de Ayarza. The table below is taken from P. Rice et al

(1985) and illustrates the temporal and source distribution of the sample.

JILOTEPEQUE EL CHAYAL IXTEPEQUE OTHER TOTAL Late Postclassic 13 14 29 1 57 Early Postclassic 7 13 17 2 39 Terminal Classic 1 12 4 3 20 Late Classic 13 40 0 3 56 Early Classic 6 18 0 1 25 Terminal Preclassic 4 0 4 0 8 Late Preclassic 18 8 0 0 26 Middle Preclassic 47 11 3 2 63 Total 109 116 57 12 294

52

Table 2: Obsidian source attribution by time period (P. Rice et al. 1985:602-3) This demonstrates one of the major patterns associated with obsidian in the Classic to

Postclassic transition, namely the shift in emphasis away from El Chayal (predominating in the Late Classic) in favor of Ixtepeque (the major source in the Late Postclassic).

While the Jilotepeque source is present as a significant minority throughout the

transitional period, it served as the predominant source only during the Preclassic period.

The minority sources, as noted above, include a piece from Zacualtipan in the Late

Postclassic, two from Tulancingo in the Late Classic, and one from Pachuca in the Early

Classic. The Source X obsidian appears to date to the Early Postclassic period.

P. Rice et al (1985:601) note that the Terminal Classic period in the Petén Lakes

was characterized by “a change in patterns of access to or distribution of obsidian,

involving an apparent decline in the ‘elite wealth’ status of this commodity at the end of

the Late Classic period … [and] the beginning of the reemergence of the Ixtepeque

source, which had been used little or not at all … since the Terminal Preclassic.” That

said, “it was not until the latter part of the Early Postclassic (ca. AD 1100-1200) that

heavy use of the Ixtepeque source is noted” (ibid: 602).

Most obsidian from archaeological contexts in the Petén is found in the form of

prismatic blade fragments. Occasionally exhausted cores are also found, and it appears

that obsidian was usually imported as prepared cores and blades were produced on-site,

possibly as needed.

The only formal obsidian tools that are useful to us as temporal markers are the

small, side-notched projectile points characteristic of later periods in the regional

chronology (e.g., P. Rice 1987a:213-215; Simmons 1994). In the Petén Lakes, these

points first appear during the Terminal Classic period and become fairly common by the 53

Late Postclassic period. Researchers in western Belize regard these projectile points as markers of the Early Historic/Colonial period, suggesting that they were introduced to that area comparatively late (Simmons 1994:142). These points were made in both obsidian and chert, and are typically between two and four cm in length. Wonderley

(1981:237-238) suggests that these points were introduced (along with the bow) from the

Gulf Coast area rather than the Maya highlands, noting formal similarities in specimens from each area.

SETTLEMENT PATTERN / ARCHITECTURE

The reconstructed settlement history of the Petén Lakes region is problematic for the earliest phases, in large part because of the subsequent reuse of sites and a resultant heavy overburden of architecture. It is clear that the area was well populated as early as the Middle Preclassic (D. Rice et al. 1996:249-256; Chase 1983:1196-1197) and appears to have supported a substantial Late Preclassic population. Archaeological evidence suggests that there was a local population decline at the end of the Preclassic and into the

Early Classic, followed by a rise to maximum population levels (probably over 100,000 people in the Lakes region) in the Late Classic period. The “Collapse” of most Classic sites during the Terminal Classic led to a decreased population in the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic, recovering slowly (and to a lower equilibrium point of about

60,000 people) in the Late Postclassic and Early Historic periods. The Spanish conquest of the Itzá created a catastrophic population decline, followed by a gradual recovery, stablilizing at about 25,000 people (Schwartz 1990: 106), until the Guatemalan government encouraged internal colonization of the area in the 1970’s. Current 54

population estimates for the Petén are over 300,000 individuals, with about two thirds of

them living in the Lakes region.

The settlement pattern in the Petén Lakes district has always been shaped by

access to the lakes. The lakes provide secure access to potable water, easy transportation,

defensible locations, and a variety of lacustrine food resources. As a result, almost all

large sites in the area, regardless of time period, are located within easy walking distance

of a lake and most of them are on the lakeshore. There is considerable variation,

however, in the positioning and layout of the major sites and the patterning of outlying

rural sites. Similarly, the basic architecture of Maya households has also been

remarkably stable; however, there are significant temporal differences in public architecture and in minority categories of household architecture. The following

discussion is based on the excellent summary of both the settlement pattern changes and

the architectural changes provided by Schwarz (2004:74-87).

The Middle Preclassic settlement pattern appears similar to the Postclassic in its emphasis on lakeside villages. These seem to have been modest “villages with small- scale contructions” (ibid: 74). This period is known primarily from spatially limited excavations, however, so little concrete data is available. The nearest substantial

Late Preclassic excavations were those undertaken at Tikal, though Late Preclassic ceramics and architectural features are commonly found at many sites in the Petén Lakes

(e.g., D. Rice et al. 1996; Pugh 2001; Schwarz 2004), suggesting substantial occupation and the development of a politically complex society at this time.

In the Late Classic period, epigraphic evidence suggests that most sites in the

Petén Lakes district were under the patronage of either Tikal or the less known Ik’ polity 55

(originally thought to have been Motul de San José [e.g., Foias 1999], but suggested to

have been Nixtun-Ch’ich’ by Pru Rice [2006 pers. comm.] and her student Kevin

Schwarz [2004:76]). Tikal appears to have been politically dominant to the Ik’ polity in

AD 711 (Martin and Grube 2000:45-6) but it is unclear when that dominance began and

ended. Similarly, a ruler of the Ik’ polity was apparently sacrificed in AD 745 by the lord

of Dos Pilas, and the Yaxchilan ajaw, Bird Jaguar IV, married two women from the Ik’

polity by AD 755 (Martin and Grube 2000:62, 128), yet the subsequent Yaxchilan lord

appears to have engaged in conflict with the polity (ibid:135). The latest epigraphic

reference to the Ik’ polity occurs on the well known Seibal Stela 10, erected in AD 849,

where the lord of the Ik’ polity is cited as a witness to a katun ending ritual along with

lords from Tikal and Calakmul (ibid: 227). This stela also makes reference to an

individual named Kan Ek’, a title or name borne by rulers of the Itzá polity from 1524-

1697 (P. Rice 2006, pers. comm.).

Classic centers had considerable influence in their immediate hinterlands, but

lacked the means to project that influence very strongly over longer distances. As noted,

Late Classic settlements were typically comprised of houses organized into formal plaza-

centered quadrangular groups of four or more structures. These structures were often

aligned to the cardinal directions, facing one another across the plaza. One structure

often dominated the others in terms of height, area, and volume. Plaza groups were often separate from each other, though multiple plazas sometimes formed complex larger groupings. Ceremonial temple groups were typically central to larger settlements, such that residential house plazas were concentrically dispersed around the temple groups, with outlying smaller residential hamlets and isolated groups farther out. As a result, 56

“settlement was broadly distributed across much of the landscape” (Schwarz 2004:78).

The individual residential structures were usually square to rectangular in shape and had

perishable superstructures; rarely, such structures might also have low internal masonry

walls or footings.

In the Terminal Classic period, most mainland sites surveyed by the Proyecto

Lacustre (Schwarz 2004:80) suffered a reduction in the number of occupied structures,

while new forms of structure aggregation and new building types (including open halls

and C-shaped and L-shaped bench structures) were introduced. This shift also included a

new emphasis on peninsular and island sites, such that by the Early Postclassic period

most occupied sites were compact and highly defensible. The new settlement pattern

limited the potential for residential plaza groups; instead (Schwarz 2004:820:

“[h]ouses were aligned laterally on constructional terraces and were situated perpendicular to the often steep terrain (often near a lakeshore). Larger more substantial dwellings were placed near the summit, which also supported a ceremonial group, with smaller houses flanking. The houses generally consisted of rectangular substructures of 10-60 cm height with open fronts. On the rear of the substructure were L-shaped, I-shaped and C-shaped single course masonry walls and/or stuccoed benches.”

Late Postclassic sites continued to follow a similar settlement plan, though excavations suggest that divisions between three competing provinces in the larger Lakes

District are visible in both ceramic and architectural patterning (Pugh 2001; Cecil 2001).

The architectural patterns are best documented for the Kowoj region north and east of the main lake (Pugh 2001) where influence from is substantial. Ethnohistoric documents from the Kan ek’ province that includes San Jerónimo II (e.g. Avendaño y

Loyola 1987) suggest that benched structures were typical and that residences of important individuals often had either a frontal room or followed an open hall plan. In 57

either case, such structures had “high display value, ample seating and evidence of both ritual activity and food consumption” (Schwarz 2004:85). 58

Chapter 3: Theory

The theoretical goals of this project are linked to three major sets of topics in

archaeological theory. The first two topics are of broad anthropological and

archaeological interest – the functioning and adaptations of households or domestic groups within a dynamic system, and the interaction of structure and process in culture change. The third topic, the nature of the “Maya Collapse”, is the subject of long-

standing debate within Maya archaeology, and one that we are only slowly beginning to

understand.

Each of these topics is reviewed here with an eye toward identifying their central

concepts, major points of contention and how they articulate with the actual material

record. Because the last two topics are primarily useful as background information and

are not directly tied to the archaeological data, I have placed portions of each of them in

appendices. In the main body of the dissertation, I included only the synthetic model of

culture change I use in interpreting the archaeological data; the much larger review of

major theoretical models can be found in Appendix A. Similarly, the section dealing

with “Collapse” is divided into two pieces, with theoretical discussions of social collapse

included in the body of the dissertation, while an overview of specific models of the

“Maya Collapse” was relegated to Appendix B.

HOUSEHOLDS/DOMESTIC GROUPS

The intensive and deliberate study of households by archaeologists is, by and

large, a recent phenomenon in the Maya Lowlands, though many of the issues involved

were recognized by earlier researchers (e.g., Wauchope 1934, Smith 1962). A resurgent 59 interest in households began within anthropology during the late 1960’s (e.g., Bender

1967) but became a major theme during the late 1970’s and early 1980’s (e.g., Netting

1979; Yanagisako 1979; Wilk and Rathje 1982). In the Maya area, Rathje was one of the first to comment on the emerging trend toward household archaeology (e.g., Rathje

1983), though some of the Carnegie studies (e.g., Wauchope 1934, Smith 1962) anticipated the topic by many years, and Flannery’s work (1976) is still commonly cited.

Hirth (1993a) attributes the popularity of household studies to three general factors: households represent society’s fundamental unit of organization, they can be identified and studied using household remains, and being ubiquitous, they provide a comparative framework for studying social organization and ecological adaptation over both time and space. It is, in fact, somewhat odd that they were so long ignored.

The notion of households as an archaeological unit is a powerful one, but it is complicated by a variety of issues, most notably the difficulties inherent in trying to understand a basic social unit through its material correlates. Archaeologically, of course, one also runs into difficulties resulting from the blurring of household remains over time since individual structures are used differently over the developmental cycle of the domestic group (Fortes 1958; Tourtellot 1988) as well as by sequential households.

The very definition of “household” is a somewhat contentious issue, and there are several major schools of thought. Yanagisako (1979) performed one of the first useful surveys of the literature, noting even then that the concept was controversial. She noted debates over the spatial boundaries of the group and whether to include resident servants, but saw general agreement that a household not only requires spatial propinquity but also a shared set of activities (normally glossed as “domestic”). Such a broad definition 60 allows for a great deal of variation in households both within and among societies. For

Yanagisako, those differences stemmed from demographic, economic and stratification variables.

Hirth, in a later study, notes (1993a: 22) that the household has been defined “in terms of economic functions, rules or beliefs about membership, composition, and the architectural and morphological forms which bound households in space.” He breaks approaches to the household into three rough categories: functional approaches concerned with the biological and economic tasks they provide for their members, compositional approaches focused on the interpersonal relationships that link individuals and promote cohesiveness, and morphological approaches that ”utilize internal/exterior spatial patterning, architecture and artifact assemblages to identify households and define composition on the basis of residential proximity or coresidency” (Hirth 1993a: 22).

In his early model, Bender (1967) defined the household as a residence group and argued that variation among households had three major axes: residence, kinship, and domestic functions. These three criteria form the basis for most current models of households (e.g., Manzanilla and Barba 1990), with household groups defined by some combination of residence, shared activities, and kinship. Netting et al. (1984:xxi), for instance regard households as a “combination of dwelling unit, a unit of economic cooperation … and the unit within which most reproduction and early childhood socialization takes place.” Hammel and Laslett (1974) attempted to distinguish between households (defined by kinship and domestic functional association) and housefuls

(requiring only residence), but that distinction never caught on. 61

Most studies tend to regard households as single units, though many researchers

(e.g., Hoddinolt 1993; Noponen 1993) caution that for some issues examination at the level of component individuals is required – particularly issues of gender relations (see

McKie et al 1999; Masini and Stratigos 1991, etc.). It has been argued (Chiappori 1993) that households cannot be seen as elementary decision units, but rather should be modeled as collective decision making units where actions taken are the result of internal negotiation, albeit frequently within a significant power gradient. Laslett (in Netting et al.

1984) notes that individual interests will often take precedence over family interests, and that household ties are even weaker than family affiliation in extracting resources from individuals in times of demographic /economic crisis.

Wilk and Rathje (1982:618), in perhaps the most frequently cited definition, consider the household to be “the most common social component of subsistence, the smallest and most abundant activity group.” The function of a household is “to meet the productive, distributive, and reproductive needs of its members” (p. 617). For them

(ibid), the household is made up of three basic elements: “(1) social: the demographic unit, including the number and relationships of the members; (2) material: the dwelling, activity areas, and possessions; and (3) behavioral: the activities it performs.” Even in this early incarnation, they recognized that extrapolating from dwellings and domestic artifacts to social units has its difficulties, noting, for instance, that co-residence need not be a requirement for membership in a household. Wilk, in a subsequent work (1983), outlined four general rules for relating dwellings to households, drawing them from ethnographic analogies. These simply codify notions that have always been broadly accepted: the bigger the dwelling the more people who live in it, nuclear families live in 62 smaller dwellings than extended families, higher wealth/status families have larger (and generally more substantial) dwellings, seasonally mobile households will have smaller dwellings than sedentary households. Wilk and Rathje (1982) go on to suggest a functional classification of households based on four axes of variation: production, distribution, transmission and reproduction; Wilk and Netting (in Netting et al. 1984) add a fifth axis, co-residence. Barlett (1989) supports a similar model, looking at composition, production, consumption, and patterns of power and authority. For Barlett, proper description of the household economy includes four dimensions: degree of divergence between cultural norms and actual practice, the diversity of behavior (i.e., how much deviation there is from the central tendency), the historical context, and the quality of household interactions (agonistic, cooperative etc.).

For Bourdieu and Alsayyad (1989), the dwelling unit is the “basic architectural component of the traditional environment.” In order to understand the form of such structures one must pay attention to “physical determinants, climatic constraints, aesthetic meanings and social practices.” Bourdieu is particularly interested in traditional dwellings, seeing in them “the built expression of a heritage that continues to be transmitted from one generation to another.”

Others take an even more functional approach toward archaeological households.

Tourtellot (1983) for instance, in his analyses of Tikal and Seibal, spends considerable time in defining both artifactual and architectural indicators of domestic functions at

Maya sites. Artifactual indicators include: hearths, manos/metates, high frequencies of utilitarian pottery and artifacts, low frequencies of manufacturing tools, food items, nearby middens, skeletons of (and tools for) both sexes and all ages. In the architecture, 63

he points to commodious size, oval or rectangular plan, built in food storage facilities,

simplicity of design, orientation, facilities for occupational specialists and abundance as

indicators of dwellings. Along with dwellings, he also describes ancillary structures as

integral parts of the domestic units, subdividing them into mundane (i.e., kitchens, workshops, granaries etc. – see Smyth 1991 for a useful overview of traditional Maya storage practices) and ritual (i.e., oratories). The Late Classic Maya domestic unit thus

consisted of one or more dwellings and ancillary structures associated around small open

areas; such units were, however, highly variable in size, class, order and position as well as in their associated remains. Tourtellot (ibid) makes a special point of noting that

“archaeological households comprise structures (in units), patio spaces, house lots, and their contents”, requiring the excavation of patios and larger house lots. Implicit in this argument is a focus on activity areas (e.g., Manzanilla and Barba 1990; Kent 1984,

1990); activity areas within a household may inform studies of subsistence, circulation and exchange, political organization, and ideology.

Webster and Gonlin (1988) performed a useful study of rural Maya households at

Copán, and their conclusions shed light on the differences between “rural” and “urban”

Maya households as well as making some basic methodological points. For instance, the

“principle of abundance” seems to work for identifying domestic groups. That is, the most commonly encountered architectural forms are dwellings - or more precisely, facilities associated directly with residential functions – (Webster 2006, pers. comm.).

They also demonstrated that surface indications are not good predictors for the actual size and configuration of a household group, but suggest that “invisible housemounds” are not a major problem (at least, not around Copán). Rural structures are found to be generally 64

smaller and more poorly constructed than urban structures. Rural groups are also highly

variable in layout, but tend to share a common alignment and define a peripheral space.

Burials were scarce in rural sites, suggesting that bodies may be returned to urban centers

for the appropriate rituals. In all, they argue that modern Maya households seem to be roughly comparable to their Classic counterparts, at least in the general energetics of their

construction.

There are problems in the study of households that are specific to archaeology.

The most glaring of these is the difficulty of “time-series accumulation” of the material

correlates of households. The differences between synchronic and diachronic studies are

made clear by Webster et al. (1997) in their comparison of households at Copán and

Cerén. Hirth (1993a) discusses in some detail the problem of analyzing the remains

deriving from decades or even centuries of residential occupation. In the end, he

advocates the use of a “household series” concept to refer to remains accumulating from

a sequence of households successively occupying the same homestead (as well as

subsuming temporal variation within a single household – Fortes 1958, Tourtellot 1988).

This requires one to address two basic issues. First, one must focus on “reconstructing the sequence of events which created the household series and the formation processes which preserved, transformed or destroyed it over time” (Hirth 1993a:25). McKee

(1999) performs a useful analysis of several of those formation processes. Second,

“interpretive models must be developed which use diachronic data sets like the household series to investigate synchronic questions about household form, function, and composition” (Hirth 1993a: 25). Thus, to understand household changes over time requires both data from enough homesteads to sample the temporal interval over which 65

the change occurs and for those changes to reflect patterned responses to system-wide

criteria.

As one result of this difficulty, it is necessary to think of archaeological

households (and indeed, households in general) as the result of both structure and

process. Carter (in Netting et al. 1984) focuses on the structural aspects, particularly the

ways in which households reflect “patterns of observable social arrangements, including

household size, composition and development”, but also the “cultural principles of

household formation and management.” More generally, Wilk and Netting (1984) in the

same volume make the point that “household groups are compromises, always imperfect,

between often conflicting functional imperatives, preexisting structures, social norms, and cultural standards.” Living arrangements are one of the aspects of human social life that are most stringently ordered by structural constraints (the aforementioned social

norms and cultural standards), yet by their very basic nature are required to exhibit

flexibility in the face of changing practical constraints. Particularly at times of

widespread systemic stress and transition, adherence to traditional patterns may break

down. Reversion to the status quo ante may occur once those stresses pass, however, if

alternate modes prove more effective and/or become sufficiently wide spread they may

become accepted within the cultural norms. Stimuli for change in householding practices

can take many forms, ranging from economic changes (e.g. Wilk 1984; Löfgren 1984)

and demographic shifts (e.g., Hammel 1988) to broader cultural processes like

colonization (e.g., Stanish 1989).

Usefully, Hirth (1993b) also provides a model for assessing rank and

socioeconomic status in domestic contexts. He notes that most studies of rank and status 66

have been based on either mortuary contexts or the distribution of stylistic elements within communities and not data from within the context of the corporate groups making up that society (i.e., households). He attributes that lack to the difficulty of obtaining a

sufficient sample of contemporaneous households and to the problem of developing

nonarbitrary standards for measuring social inequality from archaeological data. In his

study, he examines three common ways through which households indicate rank –

household population size, architectural design and scale, and the content of its associated

tool assemblages. In an earlier version, Hirth (1989) noted that data from Xochicalco

confirmed the expectation that elites occupied the larger and/or more elaborately

organized structures, but that no one criterion would accurately identify elite households.

Sanders (1993) argues that architecture and mortuary data are the most effective for

assessing household status; he argues that the artifactual assemblage is highly unreliable

for such purposes. It is also worth noting that in complex societies differences between

elite and commoner households may not only involve distinctions in scale and form, but

also function.

Household archaeologists (e.g., Cameron and Tomka 1993; Inomata and Webb

2003a) have long been interested in the processes of abandonment (not only at the level

of households, but also of entire sites and larger regions). Cameron (2003:204) defines

four basic goals of abandonment theory: determining the causes of abandonment, looking

at the effects of abandonment on the regional scale, using catastrophically abandoned

sites to improve our understanding of past behaviors, and the cross-cultural identification

of abandonment processes. In a similar vein, Schiffer (2003:xi-xii) describes three stages

of abandonment research: Foundational, Expansionist, and Explanatory. 67

In the first stage, researchers (e.g., Ascher 1968, Lange and Rydberg 1972,

Schiffer 1972, 1975, 1976, 1983, 1985, 1987, Stevenson 1982, Hayden and Cannon 1983,

Deal 1985) “showed that abandoment processes greatly affect assemblage variability…defined distinct kinds of abandonment modes …[and] proffered basic principles as well as empirical measures…for inferring abandonment modes and proximate factors from archaeological deposits, especially of de facto refuse” (Schiffer

2003: xi).

During the Expansionist stage (marked by the publication of Cameron and Tomka

1993), archaeologists introduced the idea that “rituals surrounding abandonment events might have greatly influenced the composition of archaeological assemblages as well as the condition of structures and occupation surfaces” (Schiffer 2003: xii). They also expanded studies of abandonment processes to include a greater range of scales and a wider variety of societal complexities.

In the Explanatory stage (initiated by the publication of Inomata and Webb’s

[2003a] edited volume), researchers strive “to explain the various abandonment scenarios inferred from the archaeological record … [providing explanations] deeply contextualized in relation to social, political, economic, religious, environmental, and other events and processes taking place at diverse scales.” These studies typically focus on large settlements in complex societies, requiring greater depth of analysis and better contextualization than the early projects (e.g., Binford 1978, 1979) investigating abandonment of sites in nomadic societies.

The best summary of current views and approaches toward the abandonment of archaeological contexts in is that provided by Inomata and Webb (2003b). 68

They continue to use the definition of abandonment offered by Schiffer (1987:89): “The

process whereby a place – an activity area, structure or entire settlement – is translated to

archaeological context.” Abandonment processes are shaped by a variety of

circumstances including the speed of abandonment, degree of pre-abandonment planning,

and the anticipation of return. As such, any investigation of abandonment requires some

analysis of both “push” and “pull” factors (e.g., Lange 2003), potentially involved in

causing abandonment. Recent studies of abandonment in the Maya area break down into

two basic classes: cases of rapid abandonment as the result of volcanic eruption (e.g.,

Sheets 1983, 1992, 1999) or warfare (e.g., Inomata 1997, 2003; Inomata and Stiver

1998), and the more typical cases of gradual abandonment (e.g., Palka 2003, Aimers

2003, Suhler and Freidel 2003). These are not wholly dichotomous, of course, since

abandonment demonstrably occurs at a variety of speeds and sites, once abandoned, are

at variable risk of reoccupation by new residents or scavenging from adjacent areas. We

will pay greater attention to the latter group of cases in our discussion of abandonment at

San Jerónimo II, because they are more relevant to the specific archaeological situation.

In the context of Proyecto San Jerónimo, household archaeology can help us to

identify the functions of our individual structures, the relationships between structures within specific household groups, the likely connections between household groups within a larger cluster of structures and the interactions between clusters. Additionally,

household archaeological theory can help us to reflect on the articulation of San Jerónimo

with neighboring sites, particularly the neighboring center of Nixtun Ch’ich’. It also

allows us to contextualize our discussion of San Jerónimo’s abandonment within the

broader topic of settlement abandonment. Household theory can also help us to assess 69 rank and status differentiation within the site, identify likely activity areas, possibly shed insight into gender relations and generally enable us to assess the social and political organization represented at the site.

It also points up some of the difficulties we are likely to have with regards to addressing broader issues of culture change. Specifically, we must keep in mind two key points of household archaeological theory. First, that the remains of our household groups represent the material correlates deriving from numerous diachronic processes and cannot easily be used to assess change without an understanding of the formation processes and some temporal controls. Secondly, households within a site, and indeed, individuals within a household, will have different responses to changing circumstances and special attention must be paid to intra-site variation.

Methodologically, the best example of household archaeology in southern

Mesoamerica comes from research performed at the highland site of Cerén in western El

Salvador (e.g., Sheets 2002, 2000). A multidisciplinary team working at this site has analyzed a minimum of four households comprised by at least 18 structures. The site is notable in having been preserved by an eruption of the Ilopango volcano during the Late

Classic period (approximately AD 650), thus providing a better than usual sample of household artifacts in a largely primary context.

As Sheets notes (2002:3), “The theoretical context within which the Cerén

Research Project has been conducted is household archaeology, focusing on the household as the domestic coresidential social and adaptive unit intermediate between the individual and the neighborhood.” The unusually good preservation at Cerén has allowed for “detailed study of household production and specialization, and even exploring 70

possible service relationships between households and nearby institutions or specialized structures within the community” (Sheets 2002:3-4). Every household at Cerén was

examined for its “artifacts, architecture, activity areas, food and craft production, and storage” (ibid:4), and the relationships of the household to the larger community were

assessed. To strengthen interpretation of the results, ethnoarchaeological studies were

performed at the nearby modern village of Joya de Cerén (e.g., Lara M. and Barker

2002).

Some of the conclusions of the Cerén project were expected – for instance, that

individual households built and maintained their own structures and provided their own food. Others were less expected – “every household investigated to date produced more

of at least one commodity than it needed for its own consumption and used that surplus

for exchange” (Sheets 2002:167). The overall impression is one of a highly complex system based on a subsistence economy based on corn but diversified with secondary crops including beans and Xanthosoma, but including other crops as well, ranging from manioc to cotton and cacao. Agricultural production was supplemented by craft production occurring at a specialized household level, with individual households producing ground stone artifacts, painted gourds, or agave and cacao products for exchange. No indications of centralization of production or exchange were encountered.

Cerén is a model study for Mesoamerican household archaeologists, but it is a difficult standard to meet. Most sites lack the degree of preservation and the quality of contextual data to reach a comparative level of interpretation; neither do they represent a single snapshot in time, and San Jerónimo II is no exception to these statements.

Nevertheless, many of the same sorts of information were recorded and similar 71

conclusions about household activities can be drawn from the spatial analysis of

structures and artifacts. The lack of primary contexts makes interpretation difficult, yet

the attempt is certainly worthwhile.

CULTURE CHANGE – A SYNTHETIC APPROACH

In this section, I synthesize aspects of several models in order to both increase

their explanatory power in addressing archaeological situations and to delineate my own

thinking about the theoretical nature of culture change. A survey of the major theoretical

approaches used to address topics of culture change and utilized in this synthesis can be

found in Appendix A. I begin by defining a series of key terms, then approach my conception of culture change from the ground up. In addition, I attempt to connect my

version to the closest extant body of theory I could locate (Pauketat 2001).

Terms and definitions

Before launching into a discussion of my own conception of the deep theory of culture change, I will review a series of processes through which these broader topics are anchored to actual dirt archaeology. In that sense, the following discussion of culture processes can be considered an approach toward middle range theory in its focus on the articulation of general theory and specific methodology.

There are only two ways by which changes can be introduced into a society.

Either such changes are internal developments (endogenous) or they are introduced from outside sources (exogenous). The original source of change is important, but the processes by which they spread from that source are at least as vital. Endogenous culture change has rarely been theorized, and such novel introductions are generally subsumed under the rubric of innovation. Innovation, in its basic form, is simply the development 72

of a new concept, technology, or style. Innovations may fall anywhere on a spectrum between sweeping revolutions (though I would argue that they normally develop naturally from their predecessors and are structured by a series of social and

environmental conditions) and merely minor changes of existing forms that can be

considered epiphenomenal.

Within anthropology, innovation in itself has rarely been a point of contention;

that someone must be the first to enact a change is essentially irrefutable. Debate has

usually focused instead on how common such acts of innovation may be and to what

extent their creation is structured by social and environmental requirements and

preconditions. The hyperdiffusionists of the early 20th century (e.g., Smith 1911) leaned

toward one extreme – innovations such as the domestication of plants or ceramic

production occurred only once (or at the most a very few times) and were then spread

from that point of origin. Such arguments are now primarily the realm of pseudoscience

– where pyramids across the globe are linked to a single common source. Most

researchers have postulated much greater innovative ability to human populations (at

least since the advent of anatomically modern humans), though even now no serious

researcher would deny that borrowing is considerably more common than independent invention.

Similarly, few would argue against the idea that the social and physical environment structures the conditions under which innovation occurs. By and large, the

more deterministic models characteristic of unilineal evolution (for instance) have fallen

by the wayside. Instead, most modern theorists adopt a far more flexible stance, one that

could probably be referred to as possibilism. Cultural ecologists tend to focus on the 73

environmental preconditions for cultural changes and others (ranging from Marxists to

Practice theorists) are far more interested in the social structuring of innovation. Studies into this area are of particular interest to historical archaeologists (particularly Industrial archaeologists) and historians investigating the history of science. It appears that this social structuring can be quite critical, either in pushing innovations forward (as demonstrated by the essentially simultaneous independent occurrence of an innovation like calculus) or in retarding their occurrence (see for example, studies of biology in the

Soviet Union).

The processes through which such innovations spread, both within and among societies, are also of great concern to archaeologists. In a narrow sense, the flip side of innovation is simply adoption; adoption could be considered the acceptance of any new trait, whether native to the culture or introduced from outside. Rogers (1990:104-109;

1993) would further subdivide adoption processes in the archaeological record, seeing the presence or absence of items in the archaeological record as depending on five “artifact processes”: maintenance, addition, replacement, rejection, and transformation. These serve to illustrate the point that what interests anthropologists are the processes that lead

to adoption, the conditions under which adoption occurs, the patterns and scale of

adoption within a society, its role within a specific social “field”, and the symbolic

meanings of the newly adopted trait.

Several other terms must now be introduced. Diffusion, for instance, is

essentially quite similar to adoption. Where adoption refers to the acceptance of a trait by

a new individual (or society), diffusion instead tracks the spread of the trait from its

original source. Diffusion frequently has the additional connotation of the spread of a 74

trait from one culture to another. In its original form, the concept of diffusion also

implied a certain value judgment, with concepts spreading out from dynamic centers to

passive recipients. This implication has now been largely disposed of, but should be

noted when reading earlier works.

On a higher theoretical level, the transmission of traits in situations of culture

contact has been a central focus of anthropologists from the 19th century on (see Deagan

1998). In these early formulations, the operative terms were usually acculturation (see

Cusick 1998 for a historiographic assessment of the term) and assimilation. The two

terms share many common features, essentially assuming that in situations of culture

contact (and particularly colonial contacts), the more “advanced” culture would be

transmitted to the less “advanced” society in a wholesale fashion. The basic distinction between the two terms seems to be based on the context of the individual member of the

recipient society. If that individual were spatially repatriated into the donor culture, they

would be assimilated into that society, effectively losing their own culture.

Acculturation, on the other hand, takes place within the context of the receiving society;

the traits of the donor culture are transmitted to that of the recipient in situ. For Spicer

(1961), assimilation is only one of four specific acculturative processes, with the others

being incorporation, fusion, and compartmentalization.

From a modern perspective, both of these concepts are problematic in the

extreme. Long experience has demonstrated that even in colonial situations, the flow of

traits is never purely one way, never results in complete transformation of either group,

and that the newly adopted traits are often transformed upon entering the new society.

That said, ignoring the presence of power differentials in such situations is worse than 75 useless, and the study of power relations has its roots in the recognition of that fact (e.g.,

Linton 1940, Spicer 1962). Attempts to coin a new term for the recognized complexities of culture change in situations of culture contact have had variable (generally low) success. The most notable of those attempts have been the introduction of the terms transculturation (Ortiz 1940, 1995), ethnogenesis (e.g., Moore 1994) and interculturation

(Restall 1998).

Ortiz (1995:98), in discussing the history of his native Cuba, coined the term transculturation in order to describe “the highly varied phenomena that have come about

… as a result of the extremely complex transmutations of culture that have taken place here … of disadjustment and readjustment, deculturation and acculturation.” The concept appears to involve a continuously dynamic interaction, alteration and reformulation of cultures. The relative isolation of Cuban social scientists has had the unfortunate effect of delaying widespread awareness of this term until the recent translation and republication of Ortiz’ work. Instead, American archaeologists were more influenced by the work of George Foster (1960) that gave natives more flexibility in accepting or rejecting specific traits (and complexes of traits), but was essentially functionalist in its approach to acculturation and culture contact. As Deagan (1998:28) notes, in this model, “[t]he recipient culture selects, rejects or transforms elements of donor material culture on the basis of their perceived utility and according to whether more efficient analogues for the presented traits or technologies already existed in the recipient culture.” Foster is particularly noted for his recognition of “conquest cultures” as stripped down versions of the donor culture presented to the recipient culture. 76

Ethnogenesis (e.g., Moore 1994) refers particularly to the formation of new social

groups that “combine and transform elements of multiple cultural traditions in forms and

meanings” (Deagan 1998:29). This model emphasizes the creation of an entirely new social identity, rather than attempting to “track change in one cultural group as provoked by differential influences from another group” (ibid: 30). In the New World, this notion

has been applied to groups ranging from the Seminole (Sturtevant 1971) to the Miskito

(Helms 1971) and the Garifuna (Gonzales 1988). This term is generally used in only the

most transformative cases, where the discontinuity in social systems is particularly severe

and the influx of new peoples and influences is strong but generally incomplete and

lacking in a major power differential.

Interculturation (Restall 1998) is a term coined with particular reference to the

Colonial Maya, and one that has been sadly neglected by anthropologists. Restall

(1998:143) notes that while Ortiz did a good job of identifying the problems inherent in

the concept of “acculturation”, his proposed replacement “arguably places too much

emphasis on deculturation, on ‘the loss or uprooting of a previous culture’.” Instead, he

argues (ibid:144) that “[t]he process was more than the simple acquisition of a new

culture through acculturation, more too than the transition from two separate cultures to a

new hybrid culture, as implied by transculturation. New cultural forms were seldom

taken wholesale with their original meanings intact, but were adopted in fragments or as

part of complexes consisting of fragments from both cultures whose usages and meanings

depended on the beholder.” In this formulation, culture change transpires as a form of

“cultural intercourse”, playing out not only at the level of the entire culture, but within individual villages or even individual house lots. 77

Culture change – a Manifesto

Having reviewed the major schools of theory currently predominating in

anthropological studies of culture change (in Appendix A) and the terminology used to

discuss the more specific processes through which those changes transpire, I am now

obliged to lay out my own conception of the nature of culture change. In general, I

follow the ideas of Giddens and Bourdieu in placing a central emphasis on the role of the individual, contextualized within a set of larger social structures; I am, however, rather more interested in the nuts and bolts of how such actions are reflected in the material record than in the underlying psycho-social dynamics through which cultures shape and are shaped by their component individuals. Where relevant, I also will incorporate aspects of the power relations approach, under-theorized though it seems to be in archaeological usage. I am not a devotee of the most recent versions of evolutionary archaeology which, in my opinion, use a false analogy with biological systems to divorce the study of artifacts from the study of the people who use them; in essence, my problem with the model is in its materialist reductionism and the simply counterintuitive move away from the investigation of people and their practices.

Describing my personal stance within the larger theoretical currents is all well and good, but how does that reflect my approach to the actual data and the specific changes documented at San Jerónimo II? In contemplating such issues, I tend to approach the investigation from the bottom up. How were the particular households and their component individuals affected by shifts in the broader social and political (and 78 potentially physical) environment? What were the options from which they could choose? And what were the costs and benefits, both perceived and actual, to those options? Answers to these questions are constrained by the nature of our data. We can only rarely find conclusive answers; instead, what we strive for are persuasive arguments and the general patterns that best explain our array of changes and continuities.

Processes of culture change and their component events can be subdivided in any number of ways and each of those divisions can help us to understand aspects of change.

The evolutionary archaeologists tend to focus on those changes that are adaptive in some way. For them, changes may be beneficial, deleterious or essentially neutral. The argument is essentially a functionalist one; changes made may, one way or another, make life easier for the adopting members of a society by reducing labor costs or otherwise facilitating cultural survival and reproduction. Alterations in technology tend to be the primary focus of such studies. Usually, the underlying argument is that such changes improve the efficiency of the people adopting a new technology. Evolutionary archaeology has problems, however, in assessing changes that seem counterproductive or even neutral; drawing analogies with genetic drift or mutations is all well and good, but rarely provides much explanatory power. Cultural ecologists tend to make a related argument, seeing changes in practices and technologies as reflections of the social adaptations made to a specific environment; the choices made are adaptive and constrained by the physical environment in which the society is located.

If one takes greater account of the social costs and benefits of an innovation (as well as those of the physical environment), this type of cost/benefit analysis is often useful. It also may serve to help predict the rate at which specific traits may be adopted 79

within a new social milieu. Rogers’ (1990:104-109; 1993) discussion of adoption

processes is useful here. Probably the simplest traits (technological ones at least) to

introduce to a society are ones that serve as replacements for existing traits. For instance,

the introduction of metal tools to indigenous societies across the New World was limited only by logistical and economic constraints in providing them. Tools like machetes represented a readily recognized improvement on existing lithic technologies, but required little to no inherent adjustment of social patterns. Other introductions (horses for instance) had no existing correlate in the indigenous assemblage and may have been adopted slower in many indigenous societies as a result (though logistical constraints were probably at least as important). I would argue that the greater the disruption to existing social structures a change requires, the harder it will be to institute. Changes in basic social structures (e.g., governmental systems and religious institutions, for instance)

will normally be strongly resisted, and this is where the relative gradient of power comes

into play. The transformations that a trait often undergoes during its transmission from

one group to another will tend to reduce the disruption to existing patterns and slow the

adoption process. If traits are too disruptive (and the change cannot be forced by direct

pressures), those traits will be rejected in favor of the maintenance of existing patterns.

Researchers focusing on power relations often seem to focus on the relative power

differentials between groups in contact (usually between societies, but also within societies). The interest there is largely in issues of dominance and resistance, wherein

changes are either instituted or avoided on the basis of largely institutional power. For

some cases, this may well be the most parsimonious explanation, but in most cases (even

most colonial cases), power, while not irrelevant, is largely secondary to either purely 80

technological or logistical factors, or at the least is much more nuanced by a diverse

range of social interactions than is usually recognized.

Agency/Practice theory has the additional benefit of exploring the realms of

intended and unintended changes. It has been broadly recognized by researchers of this

school that social changes are often the unintended consequence of other actions. The

goals set by social actors may be met and spawn other unintended results, they may fail

to cause change in the intended system yet trigger changes in some other manner, or

indeed changes may result from actions that were not intended to cause change at all.

The chain of causality in social change is a slippery thing; generally, change cannot

legitimately be traced to a single root cause. Even where one cause seems to generate the effect, that effect is mediated by any number of other factors in a complicated web of interactions and constrained by larger social structures. Researchers of other theoretical

schools have, of course, made this observation, yet it generally is not incorporated into

their formal models except to address otherwise inexplicable deviations.

Structuralists legitimately note that all decisions made by actors play out within

the context of the social structures that define the society in question. Unfortunately,

most structuralists often seem to feel that those social structures are extremely constraining, if not deterministic. For them, the options available to an individual are usually so limited that they are nearly unitary and changes are the inevitable result of conflicting structures working themselves out over time.

It may be useful to conceive of actors making their choices out of a set of options structured along a number of dimensions. At a very basic level, all societies are constrained by their physical environments. Individuals or groups opting to grow corn in 81 the arctic tundra without major technological intervention are doomed to a very brief existence. Of course, most such environmental restrictions are far subtler and physical environments may become increasingly restrictive as cumulative anthropogenic effects damage environmental systems or the human population density rises. Similarly, periodic catastrophic stresses (e.g., droughts, earthquakes, hurricanes) may have essentially unpredictable (to the affected individuals) effects, while slowly developing chronic stresses may elude conscious recognition. One might also place the demographic constraints on human societies within this section; epidemic disease, in particular, has been a perennial concern in human societies, and one largely independent of human control beyond a certain point (threshold populations, medical practices, etc. not withstanding). In one basic way, then, one can consider individual members of society to be limited by a form of environmental possibilism, but that must, in turn, also reflect human responses to both catastrophic events and slowly developing chronic problems beyond either individual or institutional control (and in fact, only partially mitigated by individual or institutional plans or responses).

At another level, the choices made by individuals play out within the pressures brought to bear by existing social structures (themselves changeable – sometimes rapidly, often slowly). Thus, for instance, individuals who strip naked, paint themselves blue and attend class at the university may face a variety of social responses – doing it once may be explainable as youthful high spirits, or a fraternity prank and result in few repercussions (and conceivably some social rewards). Doing it multiple times is less acceptable even within the peculiarly flexible academic institutions and may result in expulsion or stronger social sanctions. The choices available to individuals are, 82

indubitably, manifold but come with an array of often-predictable (to a limited extent)

consequences. This is an extreme example, but it illustrates an important point. Social

structures provide a limited array of options that are the primary set of choices for the vast bulk of society most of the time. These are often, though not inevitably, the choices reflected in what is often called a rational actor model and assume an inherent level of self-interest, socialized in a rather specific manner. There are other options, however, and the resultant consequences range from the inconsequential to the severe, depending on a number of factors (ranging from their degree of social unacceptability to their frequency in the population and their effects on other individuals). One must also recognize that specific subgroups within a society may have rather different social structures to which they respond. Correct behaviors, and the responses to deviations from those norms, within a biker gang are different from those in a country club, yet both may be subjects of the same political, ideological, and economic systems. The recognition that societies are not unitary but often loose conglomerations of intertwining and contradictory structures is one recognized by structuralists but seldom considered by archaeologists.

The ability to consciously institute changes in one’s way of life is a characteristically human trait. As biologists often note, human beings are defined in part by our sheer adaptability. Much of that adaptability comes in technological and social responses to changing conditions. Yet within social systems, the ability to institute changes is, in large part, defined by one’s access to sources of social power, whether in economic or cultural capital. Thus researchers focusing on power relations, both within and between societies, normally focus on the ability of elites to institute changes from the 83

top down and the ability of commoners to resist changes from the bottom up. For

example, changes in Catholic ritual practice (beyond the individual scale) are far more

easily instituted by the Pope than by an individual worshipper in a Nigerian parish.

Indeed, at many places and times, deviant practitioners have been sanctioned harshly (or

even killed), while challenges to the Pope have been primarily political (i.e., rooted in

structural conflicts). The Reformation, however, should serve to remind us that despite

power gradients, changes may be instituted from the bottom up (or from the middle in both directions), if other structural and historically contingent conditions favor them.

Intent also comes to be an issue on more limited scales as well. In some ways, all changes must be instituted at an individual level and this may be reflected in intra-

societal patterns of adoption. The adoption of most innovations is characterized by an S-

shaped curve, wherein a few “innovators” are the first to adopt a new trait. If that trait proves successful, the innovation will then be rapidly adopted by most other members of the society in a comparatively brief period. Early adopters tend to be either those with

the least to lose or those best able to absorb a loss, since the adoption of an unproven trait

can be quite risky. Individuals doing well under the status quo (but without much margin for error) are unlikely to make any radical changes in their practices without having

witnessed the utility of such changes for others. Typically, however, there is also a

stubborn tail of non-adopters to the distribution (for a variety of reasons). Such patterns

are typical of both changes in material culture (both functional and purely stylistic) and in

broader social and ideological systems. Consider for instance, the persistence of Catholic

groups still insisting on the use of the High Latin mass, or people who still insist on using vinyl records. 84

In the case of the Maya of San Jerónimo II at the end of the Classic period, all of these issues come into play. In the next few paragraphs, I outline a series of processes I consider likely to have occurred; support for some of these are evident in the archaeological record of San Jerónimo II, but others are neither supported nor refuted.

Those processes addressed by our excavations are discussed in greater detail later in the text.

The physical environment certainly played a role in the Classic Maya “Collapse.”

How strong that effect was locally is an issue of debate. Human population density and environmental degradation may have played a role (as paleolimnologists describing the

Maya clay in Petén lake cores generally tend to suggest) in the cumulative stresses, and, according to some researchers, an extended drought may have triggered the “Collapse” in several places. The most plausible explanation for the persistence of settlement in the

Central Petén, despite the depopulation of most surrounding regions, would seem to be a buffering effect provided by access to the lakes. The availability of reliable water sources, access to lacustrine food resources, the mitigating effect on transport costs and access to land would all tend to prevent such stresses from growing too great in their immediate vicinity. Thus, a redistribution of populations toward the lakes would seem to be predictable. It should, however, be noted that evidence for this is circumstantial and limited at best.

How would a presumed collapse of external trade ties and an influx of refugee populations affect residents of small outlying settlements in the region? One would expect an increasing reliance on local resources and potentially the absorption of refugee groups into existing settlements (or the foundation of new settlements in marginal areas), 85

and this seems to be the case. If the refugee groups began to appear with greater

frequency, in larger numbers, or as more organized groups, the “host” response may well shift, particularly if the existing stresses continued to worsen. On a regional scale, one might assume that local leaders would be receptive to the idea of integrating new groups into their society up to a point. Given that the “Collapse” was a gradual affair, a single massive migration into the region is implausible, and indeed, evidence for that is lacking.

Rather one might expect a series of much smaller population movements, particularly if any substantial portion of the regional depopulation could be be attributed to internal demographic processes. If numbers of migrants did grow to unmanageable levels, they might attempt to force refugees to continue out of the area through military threat or economic incentives. In any event, the movement of refugees into (or through) the area,

probably was limited in its duration and the outmigration from any specific site would

have been even briefer. Destablization of the area may well have been longer lasting, and

strife may have become chronic between groups competing for primacy in the unsettled

aftermath of regional political dissolution. If the political situation remained unstable,

outlying rural residents might fall back on the larger urban centers. If it continued to worsen, outlying sites might be abandoned all together. If stresses grew bad enough, even the less defensible larger centers might be abandoned or restructured. This last step would require the creation of nucleated centers on islands, isthmii or peninsulas.

Understandably, such shifts would have been adopted only out of necessity since they would result in hardships for farmers in reaching their fields and increase the ability of the elites to make demands on them. On the other hand, such situations might also serve to increase the social cohesion of groups, detracting from their traditional 86

household-level integration in favor of higher-level groups. I don’t think that new social

groups would be created, but there might have been, for instance, a greater emphasis

placed on cah-level (town) and chibal-level (lineage) (Restall 1997) social integration

than was previously the case. Coupled with the decay of a demonstrably ineffective

concept of divine kingship, this would result in a flattening of the social power structure,

with more elite individuals sharing less authority over the rest of the society. Attempts to bolster the remaining prestige probably required Postclassic elites to emphasize their roles as lineage heads, arbiters of disputes, and economic players rather than their role within the religious system (never fully abandoned). As one result, long distance trade would likely resurface after the immediate social and political crisis began to settle, but would require the creation of new networks and would reflect different routes, partners and products. It might also require a greater emphasis on redistribution of prestige items as one means of retaining allegiance of key groups (see for example, Kepecs et al. 1994 for a discussion of the distribution of Pachuca obsidian in the Chichén Itzá state).

Such periods of social turmoil invariably prove ruinous for some individuals and groups, yet provide opportunities for others. Those groups already in position at defensible centers and in possession of good agricultural land and access to the lake, were likely in a position to dictate terms to later arrivals, particularly those arriving as destitute refugees from now-defunct polities. These individuals and small groups must have started out as political clients of the resident groups and may have remained disadvantaged for extended periods. Larger and better-organized (and equipped) groups would have had a much greater ability to negotiate access to resources. Those negotiations probably involved not only diplomatic contacts, but also elite intermarriages, 87

the exchange of gifts and tribute, and some degree of open conflict. Ethnohistoric

descriptions of the Kowoj, for instance, suggest that they were relatively late arrivals to

the Petén lakes region, yet had access to reasonable agricultural lands and were semi-

autonomous within the larger Itzá polity. Presumably, their arrival was a more or less

coherent event, rather than a trickle of individuals and family groups over an extended

period. While not powerful enough to topple the paramount Itzá lineages, they seem to

have had sufficient power to negotiate (probably involving at least some direct

skirmishes) a mostly peaceful co-existence involving neither political serfdom nor economic hardship. The data are lacking, but it seems likely to me that by the time of

Conquest, the Kowoj had grown in power and were politicking for even greater

autonomy.

The prevalence of fortified sites during the Postclassic period suggests that the

situation was continuously unstable, but it is unclear exactly from whom the sites were

being defended. Refugee groups might have been a problem during the Terminal Classic

and could have triggered the initial shift toward defensive locations, but that

hypothesized movement of people should have ended in the Early Postclassic. One must,

therefore, assume that this pattern was reinforced by sporadic internal episodes of inter-

site violence. Perhaps the shift in the nature of warfare argued for at the end of the

Classic period (e.g., Demarest 2004), left a residual pattern of raiding in the region or

some ingrained hostility between neighboring groups. Ethnohistoric descriptions (Jones

1998) suggest that this pattern of fortified sites extended to the Cehach region to the

north. If we assume the validity of Jones’ (1989, 1998) model of Itzá punitive raids on

neighboring regions that accepted Spanish hegemony, it is reasonable to assume that 88

similar actions may have been used to maintain internal order as well (or at least, that

such raids were not unprecedented during the formation of the Itzá polity). Less probable

in my view, raids from external groups (e.g., the Lacandon or Cehaches) may have been a

recurring problem. This is all speculative, of course, but illustrates one likely scenario

that accounts for observed patterns.

Apart from shifts in the larger settlement pattern, one might also expect a variety

of changes to occur within the household groups of the remaining Maya of the region.

The general household structure of most societies (and many of their basic practices) tends to be extremely conservative. It is still possible to find houses in the region that are not notably different from their Classic and Postclassic predecessors (though such structures are becoming increasingly rare, with the advent of concrete, iron nails and corrugated tin). Foodways and household architecture are two of the most conservative aspects of most societies (e.g., Hastorf and Johannessen 1993; Wauchope 1938).

However, they are not completely static and other aspects of household activities are rather more flexible.

In the Lakes district there was a substantial demographic decline (for a variety of reasons we’ve already discussed) at the end of the Classic period, and one must expect this to have had effects on the households. If we had more information on the nature of that demographic decline, we would be in a better position to speculate on the nature of those effects. For instance, if perennial drought had led to mortality crises, one would expect the children and elderly to be most affected. Chronic warfare, in some places at least, tends to act as a drain on the adult male population, causing ripples in the economic system (though I regard it as unlikely that warfare was the direct cause of the 89

depopulation). If on the other hand, the declining population was attributable primarily

to outmigration, that normally takes place at the level of entire household groups (though

the unattached adults and newly established family groups may be more likely to opt for emigration). In any event, declining populations may have led to the abandonment of many smaller settlements (witness the death of small towns in the Midwestern US) as young people departed. Whatever form the demographic decline took, it served to reduce pressure on the remaining resources – in agricultural land, wild forest resources and lacustrine resources. It also might have led to increased cooperation between households as the available pool of labor shrank to the point where a reliance on family members

may have become impractical. This might have contravened the traditional social

practices, since most agricultural labor by the modern Maya is managed at a household-

level using familial labor (e.g., Wilk 1981), but social practice inevitably bows to the

exigencies of specific situations.

90

Chapter 4: Socio-political Setting and the “Maya Collapse”

SOCIO-POLITICAL SETTING

In this section, I review what is known of the socio-political situation during the periods spanning the transformation of Late Classic Maya polities (e.g., Culbert 1991) into the Itzá polity described by early Spanish explorers, priests and soldiers (e.g., Jones

1998). The focus will be on the Central Petén Lakes district, though supporting evidence will be drawn from more distant regions. Such evidence will be noted and the logic for its inclusion supported. In essence, I propose to extrapolate from the two best-understood periods in Maya history (the Late Classic and the Contact/Colonial period) toward the intervening, less understood periods. The primary focus here is on basic descriptions of political organization, settlement patterns, trade ties, and ritual practices.

Late Classic

The social and political organization of the Classic Maya, particularly in northern

Guatemala, is becoming increasingly well understood as the number of translated hieroglyphic texts continues to grow. Available textual information is largely restricted to the political and ideological activities of the upper tier of Classic Maya society. When combined with the vast array of archaeological data obtained from Classic period contexts, however, a considerable amount of information on all aspects of Maya society becomes available.

The nature of the large-scale Classic Maya political structure is still debated among researchers favoring extended regional states (or “superstates”) and those who see a vast array of petty kingdoms (or even large chiefdoms for a few iconoclasts); probably 91

most Mayanists envision something intermediate. I, for one, don’t really believe that the

entire Maya lowlands were ever under the control of four or six of the largest sites

(Marcus 1993 – Fig. 8); nor do I (or really, anyone else anymore) believe that every site with an emblem glyph was a completely independent kingdom (Hammond 1974 cited in

Marcus 1993 – Fig. 9). In all likelihood, Classic Maya polities were somewhat inchoate, with territorial boundaries fluctuating with the political fortunes of individual rulers when

those boundaries were defined at all. Certain Maya sites and their rulers were more

powerful than others, but the degree to which that power could be applied would decrease

rapidly with distance. A certain hegemonic power could be projected, but the ability to

project military power was severely limited. Similarly, economic power was severely

limited by logistical constraints (e.g., the inability to transport bulk goods large distances

overland). By default then, the major source of power available to Classic Maya rulers

was probably ideological; the iconography of Classic Maya monuments is eloquent

testimony to the divine nature of Maya lords, and the epigraphic evidence accompanying

them supports that idea.

Because Tikal is the largest and best-studied Classic site in the vicinity of the

Petén Lakes (lying roughly 60 km NE of San Jerónimo II), it will be used as the basic

exemplar of Classic Maya political organization. Tikal represents the epitome of a

Classic Maya site in the literature, although the degree to which Tikal is representative of

other Classic sites remains an open question. As we turn to more basic issues, such as

settlement patterns, demography, and economic ties, data from the Petén Lakes

themselves will be brought to the fore. 92

Figure 8: Maya “Superstates” (Marcus 1993:151) 93

Figure 9: Atomistic Model of Maya Political Organization (Marcus 1993:156) 94

The regional political situation seems to have been quite complex in the Late

Classic. Tikal emerged from its “hiatus” in AD 695 and regained some of its apparent prestige, but faced stiff challenges from sites like El Perú in the west and to the

east (Martin and Grube 2000:51); simultaneously, new centers were rising in the

Petexbatún region to the south, possibly settled by refugees from Tikal or cadet branches

of its elite lineages.

Portions of the Central Petén Lakes district were probably under the hegemony of

Tikal for much of the Classic period, particularly in the eastern lake basins, with possible examples of the Tikal emblem glyph encountered at both Ixlú and Yaxhá. The Classic

portions of Ixlú and the site of Yaxhá along the shores of Laguna Yaxhá were both

substantial settlements at this time, and their monuments may indicate that the closer,

eastern portions of the Lakes district were under direct administration by Tikal, with those sites serving as secondary administrative centers. Other substantial Classic period

sites in western basins of the district may have been independent, or allied to Tikal, rather

than subordinate, but Tikal was substantially larger than any of the other Classic sites in

the vicinity and, in any reconstruction, probably had a great deal of regional influence.

Major Classic sites along the main lake shore include Motul de San Jose, and substantial settlements on both the Tayasal and Candelaria peninsulas; each of these sites are more distant from Tikal and, while incompletely known from excavation, show no clear evidence of subordination to Tikal.

Epigraphic data from Classic period monuments indicate that the political

organization of Maya polities at that time was probably more hierarchical than at any

other period in Maya history (Martin and Grube 2000:17-21). It seems clear that Classic 95

Maya society was divided into two general classes – elite and non-elite. The degree to

which that division was reflected in the differential access to resources is unclear, though

archaeological investigations into topics like burial treatment, labor investment in

residences, and access to exotic goods suggest a broad continuum of variation to be the norm. It appears that the elite class (and possibly the non-elite class) was internally

ranked; epigraphic data suggest that “by the Late Classic a case can be made for at least

three ranks within the ruling hierarchy” (Sharer 1993:490). Studies like Elliot Abrams’

(1994) classic work indicate that while labor investment in household architecture at

Copán tended to vary continuously, the residence of the ruling lineage represented a fully

distinct case, being substantially larger and more ornate than even other elite residences.

Classic rulers in the southern lowlands were commonly referred to by the title

K’ul Ajaw, which translates loosely to “supreme or sacred ruler” (Sharer 1993:491), and

the most widely accepted reconstructions argue for a system of divine rulership where

authority was ultimately in the hands of single supreme rulers, albeit supported by an

array of court officials and elite advisers. “Classic rulers also accumulated titles honoring

their achievements in battle (“captor of…”), their age (“four-katun lord”), and their

identification with supernatural powers (“he of the sun,” or “sun-faced one”).” (Sharer

1993:491). Even at this highest rank, there is some evidence for differentiation. Rulers

of certain major sites appear to have had at least some hegemonic power, appearing in

hieroglyphic texts at other sites as guests of honor at major events (such as accessions),

and such appearances have been argued to represent both a sanctioning of legitimacy and

an indication of subordination to the visiting lord. In some cases, these hierarchical

relationships were “expressed by the use of possession” (Martin and Grube 2000:19) with 96

the subordinate lord described in the text using the possessed “yajaw” title (as at Dos

Hombres – Robichaux and Houk 2005), though this is relatively uncommon.

The topics addressed in Maya monuments inform us about the key roles of Maya rulers; the vast majority of texts, erected essentially as a mixture of propaganda and religious duty, celebrate either key events in the political history of the polity and its rulers (particularly marking conflicts with other sites, the accession of rulers and similar events) or the performance by those rulers of mandated religious ceremonies (the dedication of stelae marking the completion of calendrical periods is the most commonly recorded event). It appears that while Maya kings held military and administrative roles, they derived the majority of their power through claims to divinity and their role in the religious system. Demarest (2004:109), for instance, describes the K’ul Ajaw as possessing a “focused authority, but limited economic role.” Evidence from the

Petexbatún region (ibid) “indicate that direct royal involvement in economics and infrastructure may have been limited in many kingdoms to specific projects near epicenters (Dunning et al. 1997) and to management of exchange and production of high- status elite goods (e.g., Ball 1993).”

Once one moves away from the examination of divine Maya kings and the non- elite, non-specialized agricultural producers, other aspects of Maya society are much more unclear. The extent of craft specialization during the Classic period is, for instance, hotly debated. Similarly the existence of secondary elites is postulated, but their precise function in society is uncertain. Sharer (1993:510) summarizes the dominant conception as follows:

“Except, perhaps, for the service personnel needed by the ruling class, the non-elite inhabited the most humble dwellings, those generally located on 97

the periphery of the centers, and probably included servants, bearers and maintenance workers, in addition to full-time agriculturists. The middle ranks of Maya society were composed of such full-time occupational groups as bureaucrats, merchants, warriors, craftsmen, architects, and artists who probably lived closer to the civic and religious core. The core, of course, was inhabited by the ruling class: the ruler, his family, and other members of allied or related lineages that presumably held the major positions in the political, religious, and economic institutions.”

This view, in my personal opinion, probably overstates the level of specialization occurring within Classic Maya society. My suspicion is that the “middle ranks of Maya society” were fairly small, and primarily composed of the cadet members of the elite lineages (see Fig. 10). Full-time craft specialization seems to be the exception, rather than the rule, with such production occurring primarily in the context of attached specialization within the households of elite individuals. Similarly, the role of secondary elites as bureaucrats is probably overemphasized and less formal than implied. The vast majority (I suspect well over 90%) of Maya households, even in the Classic period, would have been engaged in agricultural production to meet the bulk of their needs. Part- time specialized production of craft items for exchange was likely pursued by a percentage of such households, but, for instance, the bulk of textiles and utilitarian pottery needed was probably produced within most households. Similarly, a study of chert tool production in Belize (Ford and Olsen 1989) suggests that even that limited specialization was largely restricted to the vicinity of large centers, with smaller outlying settlements providing tools for their own consumption needs. Additional items requiring greater technical skills or greater investment of time and labor may have been produced for exchange in return for those few items that could not be locally produced, but demand simply was not high enough to require more than a very few full-time specialists. Using ethnoarchaeological studies (e.g., Deal 1998) to compare the use-life of stone tools, 98

Figure 10: Classic Maya Political Organization (Webster 2002:144) 99

metates, and ceramic vessels with the time and labor needed to produce them, it is clear

that the needs of a great many people could be easily met by a fairly small artisan class if

one postulates a certain level of household production for their own use as standard.

Certain tasks, of course, require a greater level of specialization. That said, the demand for full-time stone monument carvers, temple architects, scribes, polychrome potters and jade, feather and lapidary workers would never have been that great (e.g.,

Abrams 1994). As a result, these relatively high-status artisan roles would most reasonably have been filled by members of the elite class, who would have been both familiar with the requirements and able to undergo a lengthy apprentice period. In some cases, this assumption is verified by the equivalent of an artists signature (e.g., Stuart and

Houston 1989:87). Thus, a polity like Classic Tikal, possibly including over 100,000 individuals at its peak, probably had fewer than 100 such full-time craft specialists. Less elite forms of specialization were probably more common; formal lithic tools and some of the finer ceramics may have been produced by a limited number of households specializing in such work, possibly on a full-time basis. In most ethnographic studies, the causality runs the other way; households without access to adequate agricultural lands turn to specialized craft production as a way of making up that lack (P. Rice 1987b:184).

If they become sufficiently successful to obtain access to land, they may abandon that

craft specialization and return to a system of direct procurement of their own food.

The distribution and layout of Late Classic period settlements in the Lakes district

suggests a thoroughly settled region, and one where internecine conflict doesn’t appear to

have been a major concern (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004: 129-130). Don Rice (1988:229-

233) provides the best available summary of the local settlement patterns (see Fig. 11). 100

Surveys in the vicinity of the lakes encountered Late Classic architecture in every

mainland transect, normally as “mounds arranged in groups around some definable area

of structurally bounded space. These groups, in turn, formed clusters with other, similar

groups, with the relative density of clustering dependent apparently on characteristics of

both the natural and the social environments” (p.229). The noteworthy exception to this picture of continuous and more-or-less uniform settlement is in the savannas to the south

of the lakes. Surveys in that region located no significant Late Classic occupation in the

agriculturally poor savannas, at least not until the very end of the period.

Late Classic period residential remains largely consist of two-level platforms,

with a selection of single-level and multilevel platforms as well. These platforms are

normally rectangular to square in form and oriented toward the cardinal directions. Most

such platforms in the region lack any form of superstructural remains, but were

presumably originally surmounted by perishable structures of one sort or another. This

notion is supported not only by ethnographic evidence (e.g., Wauchope 1938, Wilk 1983)

and basic common sense, but also by limited archaeological evidence in the form of

occasional masonry footings and postholes (D. Rice 1988:230). Excavation of similar

small structures elsewhere (e.g., Hammond 1978, 1985) also argues for basic, perishable

structures atop these platforms.

As noted, Classic structures are rarely found as individual mounds; more

commonly, they are grouped with similar structures around a central plaza or patio. “The

most common formal plan for such complexes is the plaza group of two to four or more

constructions facing one another across a single plaza. Structure positions within the

groups often coincide with cardinal direction alignments, and invariably one structure 101

Figure 11: Example of Classic Maya Settlement Pattern in the Central Petén Lakes (from D. Rice 1986) 102

dominates the others in terms of elevation, area, and/or volume” (D. Rice 1988:231).

Leventhal (1983) argues that the typical pattern is a group with three dwellings and a shrine (usually on the eastern side), with other, ancillary, structures sometimes added (see

Fig. 12). Structures within these groups were typically occupied contemporaneously

(insofar as can be determined). This supports the notion that such groups form single functional units, and they are normally considered to represent the residences and associated outbuildings of specific household groups (or, in the case of multiple plaza groups, of two or more closely affiliated households). Such household groups likely range from single nuclear families to extended family groups, and the growth of the household group likely reflects the household cycle of such family groupings (Fortes

1958; Tourtellot 1988).

Surface surveys tend to systematically undercount the smallest and most briefly occupied structures (D. Rice 1988:233). Having made that stipulation, Rice goes on to argue that these groups were “loci of locationally stable household groups whose

composition reflects varying adaptive strategies for coping with divergent needs of

production and reproduction” and “property-holding production units.” The noticeable

variation in the scale and complexity of construction within and between such groups is

thus attributable to differentiation “in composition, wealth, and status”, representing “the

range of individual strategies, decisions, successes, and failures of Late Classic

households” (p.233). One must also note that the duration of occupation is likely to

cause variations in scale and complexity of construction as well.

Our discussion of craft production and specialization has already touched on

certain issues of economic linkages, but it is also worth addressing the pattern and extent 103

Figure 12: Examples of Classic Maya Plaza Groups (from Schwartz 2004) 104

of long-distance exchange ties during the Late Classic. Agricultural goods were unlikely

to move more than short distances, as a result of basic logistical constraints. That leaves

a variety of possibilities, however, and it seems that trade routes were quite far flung, if

probably not of major economic importance.

Certain trade routes are simple to reconstruct, because the sources of the

transmitted materials are known; obsidian is the usual exemplar of such items, but during

the Late Classic certain ceramic types are similarly presumed to originate from

geographically restricted regions. P. Rice et al (1985:598-599) say that the Late Classic

Maya centers of the Central Petén maintained strong ties with the highlands of southern

Guatemala (see Fig. 13), with most obsidian from this period deriving from the El Chayal

and San Martin Jilotepeque sources. According to that study, in a sample of 296 obsidian

artifacts from six lake basins in the Central Petén Lakes district, El Chayal makes up

about 70% of the Late Classic assemblage, and San Martin Jilotepeque 20%. Other

Guatemalan sources (Ixtepeque 4%) and a few Mexican sources (7%) were also exploited

as minority sources, with their prestige likely increasing with the distance from which

they were brought.

Metamorphic rock favored for ground stone implements is not so readily traced,

but presumably was moved along the same highland-lowland trade routes, almost certainly from southern Guatemala or southwest Belize. The high frequency occurrence of volcanic ash-tempered pottery is also interesting. As one of the most commonly occurring categories in use, one must postulate that they are locally produced; in the modern period, however, there are no known deposits of volcanic ash available locally

(Ford and Glicken 1987). It is barely possible that deposits once existed and have been 105

Figure 13: Source of Selected Exotic Items in the Classic Period 106

subsequently mined out or remain undiscovered, but this seems unlikely. That leaves one

with the conclusion that volcanic ash (presumably in processed form) was traded into the area as a commodity (e.g., P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:55; Simmons and Brem 1979).

Presumably, volcanic ash and obsidian could be obtained from the same (or neighboring) locations, and probably entered the region as a matched set.

More exotic and scarcer items also moved into the area along a similar path; the quetzal feathers depicted in headdresses on monuments and painted vessels, for instance, must have been brought from relatively inaccessible areas of the Maya highlands. In elite tombs, particularly at sites like Tikal (e.g., Martin and Grube 2000), high prestige goods typically were imported from long distances; ranging from eccentric cherts from northern

Belize, to marine shells from the pacific coast, and ceramics from as far away as central

Mexico. These represent the extreme end of the distribution, however, and most goods in use were either locally produced or came from much shorter distances.

The bulk of the ceramic assemblage was probably produced locally.

Undecorated, crude utilitarian pottery was probably produced within most households for their own use – that is, “household production” in the strict sense (P. Rice 1987b:184).

More elaborate serving dishes were produced locally, but probably by only a few households and thereafter they entered the local exchange networks – what is normally called “household industry” (P. Rice 1987b:184). This pattern is clearer in the

Postclassic period, but probably is rooted in earlier practices. The most ornate pottery was apparently produced by “attached” specialists (T. Earle 1981:230) within a limited number of elite workshops and moved widely within constrained circles (Ball 1993:249-

254). Stone tool production likely followed a similar pattern; most people would have 107

been able to produce an expedient flake tool from whatever chert was locally available.

More formal tools were also produced on a local basis by specific households and traded;

the finest tools and eccentric items probably required not only a craft specialist but access

to higher grades of stone than are locally available (the honey brown chert of northern

Belize was favored – e.g., Meadows 1998) and in my experience are quite rare in household assemblages (though I have no formal data to support that statement).

Some of these elite goods were probably acquired, in part, for use in the Late

Classic ritual system through undetermined mechanisms of trade, tribute and gift exchange. In contrast with later periods, we have a sizable amount of information regarding public ritual during the Late Classic and rather less information on domestic ritual (at least among the commoners). As has already been mentioned, Classic Maya rulers were divine kings. Classic rulers across the Maya area erected monuments celebrating the completion of 20-year calendrical cycles (K’atunob), and more specifically, depicting the ruler’s role in the rituals mandated at that time. Such public rituals generally required blood sacrifice, usually that of the ruler of the polity.

Autosacrifice was made using a variety of bloodletting techniques and instruments (from stingray spines and obsidian blades to thorny vines) and drawn from various parts of the body (including, tongue, earlobes, foreskin etc.). The blood was then dripped onto bark paper and burnt; the smoke then rose into the heavens where it served to nourish the gods. Other aspects of Classic Maya elite ritual appear to have included the celebratory sacrifice of captured warriors from opposing sites following military successes, the ingestion of hallucinogens to achieve divine visions and communication with the ancestors, and rituals occurring at the dedication of public structures. 108

An array of more private rituals appears to crosscut all levels of Classic Maya society, though varying in the degree of ostentation involved. Julia Hendon (1989) actually describes three levels of ritual activity (probably corresponding to levels of social organization): within individual residential structures, within a patio, and within the major plaza areas. The more private rituals are not well understood, but include such practices as ritual caching at the dedication of domestic structures and ceremonies marking major life events (birth, marriage, death, etc.). Other rituals probably occurred on a more regular basis, marking the completion of calendrical periods, and events in the agricultural cycle as well.

The material correlates of the Classic period ritual system are fairly well documented. Public ritual at major Classic sites appears to have been quite obtrusive, taking place on and around massive temple structures and, judging from the monuments, involving a high degree of pageantry. Elite costuming, for instance, seems highly ornate, unique and to have been specific to particular events. Material correlates of domestic rituals include a variety of incense burners, figurines (presumably of deities and/or other supernatural entities), bloodletting instruments and cache vessels. Burials, as a special case, often include a variety of mortuary furniture – mostly ceramic vessels and personal adornments. Household units may sometimes have a specific structure dedicated to domestic rituals (often on the eastern side of the household plaza group), though the incidence of oratories/shrines seems higher in the Postclassic period. More likely, particularly in smaller groups, specific areas within the main residential structure may have served as the household’s shrine area. Such areas are commonly documented ethnographically, but it is unclear to what degree that reflects a Colonial influence. 109

Terminal Classic

The Terminal Classic is poorly defined and highly varied in most parts of the

Maya lowlands (Demarest et al. 2004a,b). Developing an understanding of changes

occurring locally during this period is one of the major foci of this study. This background section is, therefore, a general overview that focuses on current data and theories about this period and points up differences with the Late Classic patterns.

The data for this period are primarily archaeological; the cessation of hieroglyphic monument erection is one of the traditional indicators of this period. Terminal Classic monuments are known from the southern Maya lowlands (and a few even from the Petén

Lakes region), but they are few in number and the accompanying texts are typically short to nonexistent. As such, this period is poorly documented in comparison with the preceding Late Classic or the Late Postclassic/Early Historic, and only slightly clearer

than the Early Postclassic.

The topic of Terminal Classic political organization is particularly contentious. In

general, the limited epigraphic and iconographic data from Terminal Classic monuments

suggests that access to power was extended to larger groups of people. As P. Rice and D.

Rice (2004:133) note:

“In addition to squared glyphs and unusual iconography, many Terminal Classic stelae in central Petén show seated figures conversing. The figures are simply dressed, conspicuously without kingly regalia and accoutrements of office, suggesting that they are not flaunting symbols of status and power … these scenes accentuate what might be of paramount interest at this time: the fact that discussions are taking place, as opposed to displays of power and charisma of individuals.”

P. Rice and D. Rice (2004) also discuss the frequent assertion that foreigners were intruding into the region from the west during this period. There is a considerable 110 amount of supporting evidence for this notion, at least in Petexbatún sites such as Seibal, where individuals with atypical costumes appear on late monuments at the site (see Fig.

14). In conjunction with new ceramic styles (particularly Fine Orange and Fine Gray wares), the evidence supports the introduction of new and powerful groups into the region – most likely from the Gulf Coast region. Rice and Rice (2004:134) favor a more peaceful entry than was traditionally argued (e.g., Thompson 1970), with the new, conversational scene stelae possibly representing records of the “outcomes of ‘summit meetings’ of leaders from different areas meeting in Petén.” They also suggest a contrast between the Tikal polity at this time and adjoining regions to the south, arguing that the new forms and modes of Terminal Classic stelae may represent a “specific repudiation of the Tikal program and its glorification of dynastic ancestors.” The Rices (2004:134) argue that the Classic polities of central Petén had “the same calendar-based political organization as that known in the northern lowlands during the Late Postclassic and early

Colonial period.” This system was based on a 256-year cycle known as the may. Using a pattern originally described by Munro Edmonson (1979, 1986:4-5, 275-276) for the northern lowlands, Rice and Rice argue that every 256 years one major regional center

“seated the may” giving it ritual authority and, by extension, “substantial political powers.” Further complicating the system, individual towns lying within that center’s realm vied for the honor of seating each of the 13 individual 20-year k’atunob comprising the may. They argue that the rise, hiatus, and resurgence of Tikal can be understood in the context of this system, suggesting that the “hiatus” and “collapse” do not really mark major blows to the Tikal system, but rather ”known and anticipated changes in politico- ritual practice accompanying the co-rule and transfer of ‘power’ between one may seat 111

Figure 14: Seibal Stela 13 (Tourtellot and Gonzalez 2004:67)

112

and another” (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:136). They cite Dos Pilas and as

additional sites with 128-year cycles of monument erection (ibid).

This represents an extension of a model previously suggested (P. Rice

2004) for the Late Postclassic period in the Petén Lakes, and I anticipate it will

receive a mixed response. It is clear that calendrical ritual continues to be important across the Classic-Postclassic transition, but it remains to be seen how much political importance it has, or how useful it is in explaining demographic trends. The Rices’ model hangs together fairly neatly for a few sites, but deals rather less efficiently with the majority of Classic centers. Similarly, changes in the seating of the may are useful in explaining the continuation of settlement following the cessation of monument erection, but don’t really address the noteworthy changes in demography, settlement pattern and architecture that more or less coincide with that cessation. In essence, the Rice and Rice model argues for the Terminal Classic transition or “Collapse” at sites like Tikal to be understood as a “ritual termination” (p.136). It must be noted that the Rices don’t assume that any site was simply abandoned because its allotted time was up.

Rather, they argue that intrusive movements by outside groups and increasing conflict lead to political and economic turmoil and that the ritual/political system, already perceived as reaching a pre-ordained end point, was ripe for collapse or transformation. In their model, the Central Petén Lakes (and particularly the western lake basins) represented a refugee zone or frontier, where individuals and groups either took up residence or passed through in departing collapsing systems elsewhere (citing the Pasión and regions). 113

The Lakes region suffered a substantial demographic deflation at this time

(D. Rice 1986:317-326), with a decline in mainland construction of 70-90% in

each Lake basin, with population increases noted only at specific defensible sites

(e.g., Quexil Islands, Zacpetén). D. Rice and P. Rice (1990:127-8) note, however,

that “Terminal Classic occupation may be underrepresented in our recovered

materials from Classic contexts”, as existing Late Classic architecture was

apparently often used without modification during this period so that diagnostic

artifacts are not found in construction fill but only on living surfaces and in

middens. Translating the construction data into population estimates (see Table

3), the Rices argue that for the six surveyed lake basins, the total basin populations drop by over 60% from the Late to Terminal Classic in most cases, with Lake Salpetén being the least affected (a drop of 46%) and Lake Sacnab being the most affected (a drop of over 95%). To what degree these shifts are attributable to outmigration or to internal demographic processes remain an open question.

LAKE LATE TERMINAL EARLY LATE BASIN CLASSIC CLASSIC POSTCLASSIC POSTCLASSIC Sacnab 2170.8 94.1 0.0 0.0 4082.0 527.9 1030.8 919.3 Macanche 3113.2 726.1 1068.3 581.0 Salpeten 4148.5 2257.5 860.5 675.0 Quexil 3031.4 642.1 213.6 67.8 Petenxil 804.9 319.5 0.0 0.0

Table 3: Population Estimates for the Central Petén Lakes (adapted from D. Rice and P. Rice 1990: Table 6.6).

It should be noted that the population estimates for the Central Petén

Lakes region in the Late Classic period, while representing a high-water mark for 114

the region, are quite low in comparison with published estimates for adjacent areas and particularly areas to the north and east (Culbert and Rice 1990). It is unclear why this should be so, given the advantages provided by access to the lakes, but fits a pattern of “patchy” and variable population densities across the southern Maya lowlands in general. Some of this is, without doubt, attributable to differences in how the population estimates were devised, but I don’t think anyone would deny that population densities in the Central Petén Lakes were substantially lower than those in the northeastern Petén, for example. This lower population density may be rooted in particularistic vagaries of Maya political history – rulers of major Classic centers may have encouraged population growth in a form of political competition, for instance; or it may be attributable to unrecognized environmental factors – potential for agricultural intensification may have been limited in certain areas by aspects of hydrology, topography or soil distributions. In any case, those lower population densities may have served to buffer the residents of the Lakes region from the effects of the “Collapse” when it occurred.

A recently published volume on the Terminal Classic period (Demarest,

Rice and Rice 2004a) provides current perspectives on the Classic-Postclassic transition, and will be discussed in depth elsewhere. In this section we will limit ourselves to a brief survey of patterns in the Petén Lakes and adjoining regions.

The divine kingship system characteristic of the Early and Late Classic periods across the southern lowlands was breaking down at this time, yet the 115

proximate causes and timing seem to have varied widely from place to place. To

the southwest, the Pasión and Petexbatún regions (Tourtellot and Gonzalez 2004;

O’Mansky and Dunning 2004; Demarest 2004:108-110) were among the first to

collapse (and one of the few regions for which that term is indisputably correct).

The transformation there is argued to have been created by political factors,

specifically “elite status rivalry, the growth of the elite class through polygamy,

the growing economic burden on society of increased noble and royal

consumption, and the intensification of warfare for limited positions of power and

for access to exotic goods” (Demarest 2004:108). In this region, the evidence for

a violent transition period is well supported, and it is usually held up as an

exemplar of “endemic warfare and political fragmentation” (Demarest 2004:109).

To the north of the Petén Lakes, the collapse of the Calakmul polity is

argued to have been triggered by a Terminal Classic drought in the 9th century

(Braswell et al. 2004), though the authors “stress that regional and local

environmental factors (including human-induced changes to the landscape), as

well as cultural responses to deteriorating conditions, must be incorporated in any

environmental model of the Maya ‘collapse’” (p.188). At that site, the political

decline of the polity begins at the end of the 7th century with a defeat by Tikal; in

response to which, new ties were created with sites to the north in the Rio Bec and

Chenes regions. As the drought set in, settlement shifted to focus on better watered areas, but eventually collapsed into the site center with its extensive reservoir system, losing over 90% of the population from the rural zone. This is similar to the pattern seen at Tikal, or, as some would have it, Copán (Braswell et 116

al. 2004:191) with “slow political decline in the early eighth century followed by

rapid depopulation, a restructuring of economic ties, and an eventual dynastic

collapse.” At Copán, the trigger seems to be human-induced landscape changes

brought on by overpopulation and subsequent deforestation and heavy erosion

(Webster et al. 2004; Fash et al. 2004). Evidence from Tikal and Uaxactún

(Valdes and Fahsen 2004) is less coherent, but researchers there argue for a pattern more akin to that seen in the Pasión, with endemic warfare postulated throughout the southern lowlands. That unrest “laid the foundation for the gradual destruction of a centralized system that could not continue any longer due to the interruption of political and economic networks” (Valdes and Fahsen

2004:161). Interestingly, Valdes and Fahsen see the Terminal Classic as a period characterized primarily by a crumbling of the ideology of a divine order (and particularly divine kingship) stage managed by the Maya elite for centuries.

Both to the north and south/southwest of the Petén Lakes, the Terminal Classic culminated in massive depopulation, either contemporaneous with or subsequent to the dynastic collapse of the local divine kings. To the east and northeast, in Belize

(Hammond and Tourtellot 2004; Ashmore et al., 2004; Adams et al. 2004; Chase and

Chase 2004; Masson and Bock 2004), the transformation generally appears to be less dramatic. There is no clear evidence for “environmental degradation, significantly

expanded violence, or heightened disease in this period” (Ashmore et al. 2004:320) at most sites. Rather they argue that “economic and demographic growth and then collapse…may relate to escalating and ultimately catastrophic economic and demographic stress farther west” (p.321). As polities in the Petén declined, demand for 117

postulated agricultural surpluses decreased and the failure of trade routes was a further

blow to elite prestige. The “weakened rulers in the center could no longer induce or

entice people to stay.” (ibid). There are a number of problems with that model, most notably a lack of evidence that agricultural produce was ever traded to the Petén (apart from cacao) or an explanation of what would cause people to leave (rather than assuming they would need an incentive to stay). In any event, it seems that the transformation in

Belize was both more drawn out and less dramatic in its ramifications, though there are exceptions (e.g., the ritual termination of occupation at Dos Hombres and Chan Chich –

Adams et al. 2004:337-339).

Caracol may be a specific exception to this characterization, being more fully integrated into the political currents of the Petén than were Classic sites in northern

Belize. “[T]he latest de facto on-floor deposits at Caracol indicate that the final abandonment of the epicentral buildings was sudden and relatively rapid” (Chase and

Chase 2004:363). The Chases argue in favor of “a breakdown in the shared identity that was a unifying factor at Caracol through the eighth century” (p.364) accompanied by a shift away from depictions of individual rulers in favor of “a more pan-Maya elite identity” (p.365). The Chases use the widespread distribution of fine ware ceramics and changes in iconography to hypothesize “the existence of one or more attempted expansionist polities that ultimately fell apart and, in so doing, completely ruptured Maya society in the southern lowlands” (p.366). This explicitly imperialist model hypothesizes

“the final incorporation of previously independent elites into a higher-order expansionist polity” (p. 366) under Seibal, Chichén Itzá, or some other unknown center. However, there really is very little evidence to support such a model; distribution of fine ware 118

ceramics and a localized scattering of Terminal Classic monuments seems an unduly slim

reed to carry such a theoretical burden.

Turning now from broad characterizations of the political shifts that took place in

the Terminal Classic, we should discuss the concomitant shifts in economic patterns. In

many reconstructions, these changes play a causative role in the transformation, while

others see them as symptomatic. In some regions (e.g., Copán), environmental

degradation and overpopulation led to strain on the agricultural system in a positive

feedback loop (Webster et al. 2004). In the end, that stress may well have triggered the

ultimate collapse of the Copán polity. In most other regions, agricultural pressure may

have been a problem (particularly at sites like Calakmul, that were hypothesized to be

suffering from extended drought periods), but in general, the basic subsistence system is

not usually raised as an issue. Shifting economic ties seem to be the result of changes in

political fortunes, with sites seeking alliance with newly important partners and facing

the severance of traditional ties as the specific sites entered their declining periods.

In the central Petén Lakes region, the changes in economic patterns during the

Terminal Classic are not well understood. Paleolimnological studies (e.g., Curtis et al.

1997) suggest that while soil erosion that had begun in the Late Preclassic continued locally through the Late Postclassic, the rate of deposition had decreased by 1100 BP

(AD 850), and regrowth of the high forest species had commenced by about 1000 years

BP (AD 950). This implies that the regional population contracted toward the lake basins at this time, while previously occupied areas away from the lakes were abandoned to the forest, and that overall population levels had been reduced to the point where agricultural production to support the populace was reduced enough to permit reforestation. 119

The organization of production during this period has seldom been discussed,

though the de facto assumption is that most of the elite-sponsored craft production trails

off during this period. Certainly the producers of carved stone monuments and the

palace/temple architects of this area became irrelevant, and demand for other specialized

goods was reduced as well (e.g., hieroglyphic polychrome vessels). Domestic production

was probably unaffected, except insofar as the demographic decline of the region affected individual households. There may, however, have been a shift towards increased production of basic household implements and agricultural products within many

households at this time, as longstanding trade ties were severed, and political instability

became chronic across the region. Full-time (or even part-time) specialist households

may have been forced to give up their craft by the necessities of a deteriorating system.

Studies (e.g., Hayden and Cannon 1984:341) suggest that specialist households unable to

support themselves directly (i.e., without access to agricultural land) are more vulnerable

to shortfalls at times of stress and this may tend to restrict the availability of some items;

in other words, when the economic situation gets tight, households will make their own

pottery or stone tools, despite a step down in quality, rather than purchase these items

from specialists. This is particularly likely to affect remnant populations at sites that are

largely abandoned during this period. That said, the artifact assemblages from Terminal

Classic sites in the Lakes basin do not support a radical simplification of craft production.

Exotic goods circulated widely during this period, though there is some evidence to

suggest those patterns of exchange broke down as the demographic collapse of the

broader region progressed. 120

Limited data on obsidian (P. Rice et al. 1985) suggests that throughout the

Terminal Classic period, El Chayal continues to be the major source, while San Martin

Jilotepeque becomes reduced in importance and Ixtepeque begins to make a resurgence.

The lone study included only a very small sample (n=20) from the Terminal Classic period, however, so it cannot be assumed completely correct or, at least, generalizable to the entire region. Rice notes in passing that there are two obsidian-related phenomena worthy of note: “a change in patterns of access to or distribution of obsidian, involving an apparent decline in the ‘elite wealth’ status of this commodity … [and] the beginning of the re-emergence of the Ixtepeque obsidian source, which had been used little or not at all

… since the Terminal Preclassic period” (P. Rice et al. 1985:601-602). It is unclear whether this shift reflects shifting political alliances, difficulties on the production end, changing trade routes or even simply customer preferences. One certainly suspects that

Ixtepeque would be preferred over San Martin Jilotepeque on both functional and aesthetic grounds, but data are lacking on the political and economic situation in the vicinity of the highland sources.

Better data are available on ceramic distributions in the area at this time (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:128-129; P. Rice and Forsyth 2004). Unfortunately, the central Petén is characterized by extreme variability in ceramic affiliations, suggesting that it was a major crossroads of exchange and the frontier of a perceived “east-west separation of non-elite utilitarian ‘supercomplexes’” (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:128). In fact, there is a more-or-less clinal distribution of both utilitarian and elite ceramic wares in the Lakes region. The eastern lakes, particularly Yaxhá and Sacnab, fall into the Tepeu 2/Eznab spheres of the northern Petén with additional ties to the Spanish Lookout phase of the 121

Belize Valley. Farther west, the affinity to Eznab decreases, with the slack taken up by

linkages with the Boca sphere of the Pasión region. The Late Classic and Late

Postclassic ceramic assemblages are well understood, but the intervening Terminal

Classic and Early Postclassic assemblages are “extremely difficult to sort out” (P. Rice

and D. Rice 2004:129). This east/west dichotomy of ceramic spheres (P. Rice and

Forsyth 2004) seems to characterize the region (and arguably the entire Maya Lowlands)

into the Postclassic period, though the areal extent of the relevant spheres contracts

toward the lakes region (largely reflecting the contraction of significant population

concentrations).

Linkages with the Pasión region are also visible in the architectural innovations

introduced to the area during this period. The C-shaped structures found in the

Petexbatún by the eighth century (Demarest 2004:104) spread into the Central Petén at some point during the Terminal Classic. In this region, they seem to appear first at the site of El Fango in the savannas south of the main lake (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:132); there they are conspicuously different from the other structures, formed into fairly standard Late Classic plazuela groups. At that site, the C-shaped structures are found on the northern edge, suggesting a marginal role for the inhabitants, possibly as recent immigrants. The Rices argue for such a characterization, noting that “the associated ceramic inventories and bench forms suggest that they represent migrants from the

Petexbatún region (Demarest, personal communication 2002) or the Rio Pasión riverine zone (Tourtellot 1988b)” (p.132).

An additional, isolated introduction is also indicative of influence from farther afield. A very large ball court complex (see Fig. 15) has been mapped at the site of 122

Nixtun Ch’ich’ that is “most closely comparable to that of Chich’en Itzá in size, shape,

and superstructural elements, making it the largest and most likely the latest ballcourt in

Petén” (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:132). This complex is presumed to be of Terminal

Classic date, but it has not yet been excavated and the site was continuously occupied

from the Late Classic through the Early Historic period. Links to Chichén Itzá are not

terribly surprising, since ethnohistoric documents indicate that the Itzá lords of the central

Petén traced their lineage to Chichén Itzá (see Rockmore 1998 for a complete analysis of

the linkage between the two areas).

There are relatively few data to be found concerning the ritual practices of the Terminal

Classic Maya of the central Petén lakes. In the past, this period has been considered to mark a shift from “the highly organized state religion often attributed to the Classic Maya

… [to] a system of privatized or individualized worship” in the Postclassic period (Chase and Chase 2004:21). As the Chases note, however, this distinction is far from clear and it seems likely that such characterizations overestimate both the degree of centralization in

the Classic period and the degree of decentralization in the Postclassic period.

Regardless, the role of divine kings in public ritual clearly began to take a back seat to

other considerations at this time. The Chases (2004:22) “suggest that was

characterized by a trend toward broadening and popularizing the extant symbolism of the

Classic period”, though they also argue that this shift may have begun earlier (possibly

before AD 600 at Caracol).

It is unclear exactly what form public ritual took during the Terminal Classic

period, because our data are largely negative – an absence of traditional iconographic

motifs. Changes took place in the elite ritual assemblages at this time; for instance, the 123

Figure 15: Chichén Itzá – style ballcourt at Nixtun Ch’ich (D. Rice et al. 1996:181) 124

large JGIII incense burners disappear and are replaced by much simpler ladle censers and

hourglass vase censers (P. Rice and Forsyth 2004:54). Similarly, while caches are a common feature across this transitional period, their locations and the items included are somewhat different from Classic to Postclassic (Chase and Chase 1998).

Some generalizations can be made about the political, social and economic organization in the Terminal Classic. Warfare was endemic over much of the southern

lowlands, and might have been less formalized than in preceding periods. Accompanied

by a decline in the authority of individual divine rulers and a coincident diffusion of

power to a broader (and possibly significantly larger) elite class, the system appears to

have become destabilized. Possibly further disrupted by new immigrants from the west

and northwest, by the decay of traditional systems of exchange and in some areas by extended periods of drought and/or agricultural stress, most of the southern lowlands

appear to have entered a state of systemic collapse. Almost every center in the southern

lowlands entered a political and demographic decline at this time, most of them

catastrophic ones, leading to complete abandonment in many cases. Several areas managed to weather the transformation, but did not do so unchanged.

Early Postclassic

The transition to the Early Postclassic seems to have been a very gradual process in the Central Petén Lakes region, and there are few clear discontinuities from Terminal

Classic to Early Postclassic. Where we have data, it appears that settlements continue to be occupied during this key transitional period (P. Rice 1986:282), though there are indications of decreasing populations and shifts in the internal organization of the sites. 125

The large Classic site of Ixlú (see Fig. 16) continues to be occupied, for instance, but the

Postclassic occupation (largely Early Postclassic) takes the form of new, smaller

structures placed within the Classic period plazas (generally situated to restrict access to

them). The emphasis placed on defensible sites is quite variable, despite the overall

Postclassic focus on such locations (D. Rice and P. Rice 1990:Table 6.5). The Cante

island (see Fig. 17) in Lake Yaxhá (with the site of Topoxté) was originally settled in the

Late Preclassic, abandoned at the end of the Late Classic, then subsequently reoccupied

with a larger population in the Early Postclassic. A similar pattern is observed at Muralla

de Leon (see Fig. 18), except that the Postclassic population never attained Preclassic

levels. Zacpetén (see Fig. 19), on the other hand, was originally settled in the Middle

Prelassic and underwent population growth in each period from at least the Early Classic

until Conquest; the Quexil islands (see Fig. 20) show a similar pattern, with the

exceptions of a decline from the Early to Late Postclassic. Settlement at Macanché

Island was never significant, only a single household was located there, but it was

apparently occupied from the Late Classic through the Late Postclassic. The Sacpuy

islands are largely undated but are assumed to have both Classic and Postclassic

occupations judging from their architectural patterns and limited surface collections.

Early Postclassic social and political organization of the Central Petén is poorly

understood because we lack data from either the iconographic sources or ethnohistoric

sources that bracket it in time. The power of the divine kings of the Late Classic period

became increasingly decentralized over the course of the Terminal Classic period, and

this process probably continued into the Early Postclassic period as the complex power-

sharing arrangements of the Late Postclassic were established. The point at which the 126

Figure 16: The Classic / Postclassic center Ixlú (D. Rice et al. 1996:103) 127

Figure 17: The Classic / Postclassic Center Topoxte (Wurster 2000:12) 128

Figure 18: The Classic / Postclassic Center Muralla de Leon (D. Rice and P. Rice 1981:275) 129

Figure 19: The Classic / Postclassic Center Zacpetén (D. Rice et al. 1996:41) 130

Figure 20: The Classic / Postclassic Quexil Islands (Schwarz 2004) 131

“divinity” of kings was lost is unclear, and that loss was probably a gradual process at

continuously occupied sites. Centers that survived the Classic to Postclassic transition

(e.g., Nixtun Ch’ich [see Fig. 21], Ixlú) contracted and reorganized themselves, but seem

to have maintained control over their immediate hinterlands. That control required

defensive measures (the fortification at Ch’ich appears to date to the end of the Terminal

Classic period [P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:132]), possibly as a safeguard against

competing centers or simply in response to widespread social instability in the region.

Broader patterns of contraction toward defensible locations that began during the

Terminal Classic continue, suggesting a very real concern about violence and less

defensible outlying sites may have been abandoned in an inverse correlation with their

distance from a protective center. D. Rice (1986:327) notes that “there was a 39.5

percent decrease in the occupation of sampled mainland transect loci from the Terminal

Classic to the Early Postclassic, while … island / peninsula sites experienced an 84.6

percent growth”, a shift nearly uniform across the Lakes region, though settlement along

the shore at Lake Macanché actually increases (along with settlement on the island in that

Lake). This relocation is associated with an overall population decline, though this is

variably expressed across the region. Rice and Rice (1990: Table 6.6) suggest that in the

Early Postclassic two of the six surveyed lake basins are entirely abandoned (Sacnab and

Peténxil), two undergo further population declines (Quexil and Salpetén - drops of 67% and 62% respectively) and two have population increases (Yaxhá and Macanché – growth of 49% and 32% respectively). Novel architectural patterns introduced in the

Terminal Classic (e.g., C-shaped and L-shaped structures) also become more numerous at this time. 132

Figure 21: The Classic / Postclassic Center Nixtun Ch’ich (from D. Rice et al. 1996:181) 133

Prudence Rice long ago (1986:282) noted a characteristic “regionalization” in

Early Postclassic ceramics, reflecting contraction of Classic ceramic spheres but also a broader reorganization of the social and political systems of the southern lowlands, or at the very least a reordering of exchange ties. The two major ceramic groups of the

Postclassic Petén, Paxcamán and Augustine, both seem to have their origins in this period

(though Paxcamán, at least, has clear roots in the Tinaja group of the Late and Terminal

Classic periods). These two groups are both widely spread across Petén and western

Belize with Paxcamán dominating in the west and Augustine in the east, but grading in a clinal manner across the entire zone. Several other ceramic groups appear as well, but show a much more localized distribution. The Daylight group is largely limited to Belize while the Trapeche and Topoxté groups are tied to the central Petén (being most common around Lakes Macanché and Yaxhá, respectively). These patterns are suggestive of a new emphasis on east-west ties, and relatively few trade ties to the north are apparent in the Early Postclassic. Continued availability of obsidian suggests exchange with the south and southwest (though trade in volcanic ash appears to have been discontinued).

Goods sent in exchange were presumably lowland forest and craft products (e.g., cacao, honey, wax, cotton mantles), but included at least a few finer ceramics (P. Rice

1986:283).

Relatively little Early Postclassic obsidian (n=39) from the Petén Lakes has been definitively sourced (P. Rice et al 1985:602-3), but the limited data suggest that

Ixtepeque becomes the primary source (n=17; 44%) with El Chayal continuing to represent a substantial portion of the assemblage (n=13; 33%) and San Martin Jilotepeque

(n=7; 18%) placing a distant third. This emphasis on Ixtepeque continues into the Late 134

Postclassic and seems to be a regional phenomenon, as attested by data from Tipú in

western Belize (P. Rice et al. 1985:603). Limited amounts of obsidian continue to come

from other sources, including central Mexican ones. Notably, the incidence of small,

side-notched projectile points (i.e., arrowheads) increases significantly during this period, though their initial introduction appears to occur in the Terminal Classic period; in Belize

(M. Oland pers. comm. 2002), they are usually assumed to date to the Late Postclassic /

Historic period and are commonly found at mission sites (e.g., Simmons 1994). This may indicate changes in hunting practices and/or warfare, and the suggestion has often been that these points are introduced by new groups entering from the west (e.g., Rice

1987a:215).

Ritual practices of the Early Postclassic are not well known. The Mayapán-style effigy censers of the Late Postclassic were not yet present, and in general, indicators of

Early Postclassic ritual are consistent with the preceding Terminal Classic. Spiked incense burners like those of the Terminal Classic were still used (P. Rice 1987a:94), as were (probably) small figurines, but given continuity in settlement, this cannot be demonstrably proven. Early Postclassic public ritual is unknown, but is inferred to continue in some form at centers that survived the Classic/Postclassic transition.

Late Postclassic / Early Historic

What we know of Late Postclassic and Early Historic political organization in the

Central Petén Lakes region derives primarily from documents created by early Spanish visitors. Our earliest data comes from the sparse comments made by Cortés in his fourth letter to the Spanish Crown (Cortés 1976), concerning his 1524 entrada en route to put down a rebellion by one of his lieutenants in . Following that early visit, there 135

is a gap of nearly a century until the Franciscans began sending missions to the Itzá

polity. The best pre-conquest information available to us comes from letters by

Avendaño y Loyola (1695-1696 [Avendaño y Loyola 1987]) and secondarily by Orbita

(in 1616-1619 [Jones 1989]). The other major source of data concerning the political

organization of the Central Petén Maya comes from the documentation generated by the

Conquest efforts of the Governor Ursua y Arizmendi in the late 17th century. Each of

these sources is biased in various ways, yet they provide a far richer picture of the society at conquest than could possibly be extrapolated from the archaeology. Fortunately for us, all of these documentary sources have been thoroughly collated and analyzed by Grant

Jones (e.g., Jones 1989, 1998); while I do not fully agree with all aspects of his analysis/reconstruction, this excellent overview is fundamental to any description of the

Petén Postclassic/Early Historic Maya polities. The following description is derived from

Jones’ 1998 book, and particularly the first and third chapters.

At the time of conquest (AD 1697) various groups contended for power in the

Central Petén Lakes. The main focus of settlement in the Petén was in the Lakes district, but surrounding areas were not vacant (see Fig. 22). There were four main groups in the

Petén, including the Itzá. North of the Lakes district, the Kehach Maya reportedly lived

in a series of palisaded villages. The Itzá and the Kowoj were closely affiliated but were

also perennially engaged in a power struggle for control of the Lakes region, with the Itzá

mostly controlling the southern and western portions, and the Kowoj controlling the north

– the east appears to have gone back and forth between the two groups, with the Kowoj apparently taking control late in the Contact period. A fourth group, the Mopan Maya, appear to have lived south and east of the Lakes, and were probably resident in the Petén 136

prior to the assumed arrival from the north of the Itzá and Kowoj ruling lineages at the end of the Early Postclassic. Further to the west, were fairly simple agricultural groups known collectively as the Lacandon (or Lakantun), though probably linguistically and

culturally distinct from the celebrated modern groups of the same name currently

occupying that region (see Fig. 23).

These groups were engaged in a series of complex interactions with each other,

sometimes hostile and sometimes in alliance. The Itzá and Kowoj seem to have been particularly intertwined, and while the two groups can be distinguished in certain aspects

archaeologically (Pugh 2001, Cecil 2001), their material culture was, by and large, quite

similar. While they certainly had their internal political divisions, the two seem to have

worked together quite well to resist Spanish encroachment. The Kehaches are reported to have been at odds with the Itzá polity, but it is unclear for how long this hostile state of

affairs was maintained, and it seems likely that trade between the two groups was

common at other times. Data concerning the Kehaches, the Mopan and the Lacandon are

comparatively scarce (cf. Palka 1998a); none of these groups seem to have been as

complexly organized as the Itzá, nor were they perceived as significant threats by the

Spanish, resulting in much less documentary evidence. We will, for the most part, ignore

the Kehaches, Mopan and Lacandon as marginal to the socio- political situation in the

Central Petén Lakes. It is possible that the Kehaches or Lacandon raided into the vicinity

of San Jerónimo II, but it seems unlikely that either group was ever sufficiently powerful

to seriously disrupt either the political balance or the general settlement patterns of the

core provinces of the Itzá polity. 137

Figure 22: Major Maya political regions in the Early Historic central Petén (Jones 1998:6)

138

Figure 23: Lowland Maya Linguistic / Ethnic groups of the 16th and 17th centuries (Jones 1998:4) 139

Jones (1998) envisions a highly complex socio-political structure for the Itzá

polity – with a ruling matriline “whose members solidified their power through strategic

marriage alliances with other elite kinship groups who played major roles in governance”

(1998:106). This was played out across “a complex system grounded in principles of dual rulership, a quadripartite division of elite governance over territories, and a crosscutting system of representation on a ruling council from outlying towns and

regions” (1998:60). In essence, Jones argues that the territory contained within the Itzá

polity was divided into four subprovinces oriented to the cardinal directions, with the

capitol Taj Itzá (or Noj Petén – the current island town of Flores) representing a fifth,

central province. Each of these subprovinces was governed primarily by a pair of

officials in a junior-senior arrangement (Table 4), with the overall ruler Ajaw Kan Ek’

holding the post of senior ruler of the central province and his father’s brother’s son (also

named Kan Ek’) holding the junior post of high priest, Aj K’in. That central province

was similarly subdivided into four quadrants. In addition to the 10 primary rulers of the

area, there was an additional body of 13 men holding the title Ach Kat. Their duties are not well understood, but are postulated to have included religious and military functions

(rather than territorial administration), though they also appear to have represented individual towns within the polity. Individual towns appear to have had their own administrators, at least some of whom bore the title of B’atab.

Jones’ reconstruction of the Itzá state in 1697 is characterized by what one could consider a nested hierarchy of at least three levels. At the top was the Ajaw Kan Ek’ and

Aj K’in Kan Ek’; these two individuals of the same family and name appear to have been often conflated as a single person, possibly intentionally creating a single political 140

PRINCIPAL PAIRED DIRECTION NAME OF QUARTER OF TITLE PRINCIPALS NOJPETEN Ajaw Kan Ek’ Center All of Itzá Territory K’in Kan Ek’ Center All of Itzá Territory Ajaw B’atab’ Kit Kan East Nojpeten B’atab’ Tzin East Nojpeten Ajaw B’atab’ K’in Kante’ North Makocheb’ B’atab’ Tut North Makocheb’ Ajaw B’atab’ Kit Kan West Kan Ek’ B’atab’ Kan Ek’ West Kan Ek’ Ajaw B’atab’ Kit Kan South Kaj Jol B’atab’ Kit Kan South Kaj Jol

Table 4: Paired Rulers of the Itzá Polity in AD 1697 (adapted from Jones 1998:table 3.8)

persona as a rhetorical device. Subordinate to them were the four pairs of subprovincial

leaders; the senior member of each bore the title of Ajaw B’atab’ and the junior member had the title of B’atab’. These pairs administered both a territory surrounding the capital

and one of the four wards on the main island itself. A third tier in the hierarchy would then include the Ach Katob, a title postulated to derive from the Nahuatl title

Achcacauhtin, designating “a military chief representing a localized social group” (Jones

1998:101). This suggests a principally military role for the group, with supreme military

command possibly lying in the hands of the Ach Kat bearing the additional title of Jalach

Winik. Jones also suggests that they represent a selection of the senior headmen of

individual towns and villages in the outlying territories, with the number of members (13)

being tied to a likely ritual function in seating the 20-year k’atunob. This seems an

unnecessarily complex political system for a polity including only about 60,000

individuals (Jones 1998:68), but it seems to have been quite stable (with the Cortes visit

in 1524 suggesting continuity of the dynasty for a minimum of nearly 200 years). 141

It seems that political control was held by individuals from specific elite lineages

(with descent tracked through both male and female lines for the ruling dynasty), though there is little evidence for an emphasis on the divine nature of rulers. There also appears to be a greater degree of power sharing than was evinced by Classic period monuments.

It is unclear exactly what justifications were employed by Itzá rulers to maintain their power, though a few strategies are evident. They emphasized exotic origins and links to former glories. The Itzá made much of their origins at Chichén Itzá and the Kowoj traced their heritage to Mayapán. They also maintained symbolic ties to the Classic period powers in their architecture. At Zacpetén, for instance, Classic period monuments were incorporated into several of the major structures of the civic/ceremonial core (Pugh

2001).

To some extent, control over the major administrative, military and ritual posts was self-sustaining, particularly when combined with elements of display reinforced by control of far-flung trade networks and an emphasis on internal unity in the face of external enemies (whether Kehaches, Spaniards, or some other group). It is also likely that the demands made on the general populace during this period would have been fairly light, because even the largest Postclassic structures were relatively modest in scale, suggesting low demands for labor from the lower classes. Good agricultural land was probably abundant. It seems likely that political power was rooted in more secular bases than in the Classic period, with greater participation by secondary elite lineages a concomitant result of the loss of divine kingship. Nevertheless, Postclassic rulers continued to have ritual functions and presumably gained a certain moral authority from that aspect of their role. 142

Some settlement data can be gathered from the documentary evidence, but for a more complete picture, the addition of archaeological survey data is critical. The population estimate cited above is derived quite simply from a 1702 list of towns in the region, with vague population estimates (many, medium, few, and very few). Jones, by examining populations of the comparison towns provided (Table 5), used figures of 1000,

500, 100 and 50 residents respectively, generating a total estimate of 56,150 residents.

He notes that this undercounts residents of certain regions and postulates 60,000 residents as a minimum for the polity as a whole in 1697. This seems not unreasonable for an area running 90 km east-west and probably 25 km north-south, and would generate population densities in the vicinity of only 25-30 people per km². As uncertain an estimate as this is, it is probably correct in order of magnitude terms. Archaeological reconstructions are unlikely to improve our estimates of population. By 1708, the regional population, both mission townspeople and independent forest dwellers, had dropped 88% to about 7,000 people in Jones’ estimation (or about 3 people/km²).

The archaeologically documented settlement pattern during the Late Postclassic/

Early Historic period is fairly well understood and is distinct from the Late Classic pattern in its emphasis on defensible, nucleated lakeside settlements. It is unclear exactly how early those differences took shape, in large part due to the uncertain distinction of the Early and Late Postclassic periods. The best data to be found come from studies made by the Rices’ (e.g., D. Rice 1988; P. Rice and D. Rice 2004). Their work documents shifts not only in architectural form and structure placement, but also changes in the location of sites on the landscape. 143

By the Late Postclassic, “small, densely settled and nucleated Postclassic

communities are found primarily on naturally defensible islands or peninsulas in the

lakes. Postclassic constructions exist on the mainland slopes of the basins, but they are

much reduced in number and density relative to Classic-period patterns” (P. Rice and D.

Rice 2004:130). As they go on to argue, the choice of readily-defensible sites for the

primary settlements argues for an unstable political situation and one in which the nature

of warfare may have changed to a less formal and ritualized version than was prevalent in earlier periods. The Rices tend to consider this change as beginning in the Terminal

Classic, and it is true that several of the fortified sites were originally occupied in the

Terminal Classic. That said, my feeling is that they did not become the sole foci of

occupation until much later, as the regional situation decayed (or at least became more

violently polarized). In fact, the contraction into a few defensible sites accelerates in the

Late Postclassic, with several important Early Postclassic sites falling into serious decline

(e.g., Ixlú, Muralla de Leon, Quexil Islands) by this time. Indeed, of the archaeologically surveyed sites in the area, only Zacpetén and Topoxté actually increase in size during this

period (D. Rice 1986:330).

This focus on densely nucleated, defensible sites has some effects on the

distribution of community patterns as well. As one would expect, the key civic structures

and elite residences continue to be centrally located within the site, usually atop the

highest prominences and thus having the best view, the best breeze, farther from marshy,

mosquito-rife areas and dominating the visual appearance of the site. That status-linked

spatial distribution is further supported by the distribution of architectural types. “For the most part platforms on the lower terraces lack visible evidence of surface features or 144

Principal Lineages Principal Lineages Settlement Population (Retranscribed) (Original version) Towns probably in Itza core area: Polol (Polol) Many Tut Tut Kontal (Contal) Many Tut Tut Yalkaj (Yalca) Many Kanek' Canec Sub'elnaj (Subelna) Many Kanchan Canchan IxMutnaj (Ixmutra) Many Tesak Kit Kan Tesac quit cam Ajaw Che (Ahache) Many Kanek' Canec Jolpat (Holpat) Many Tzin 'Tzin Chachach'ulte (Chachachulte) Medium Kanek' Canec Ichek (Ychec) Few K'ixab'on Quixabon Chenak (Chenac) Many K'ix Kan and Kitis Quix cam y Quitis Joyop (Hoyop) Many B'atab'(?) Puk Bata puc Itzunte (Itzunte) Many AjMatzinb Ahmatzim Yaxb'ete (Yaxbete) Few B'ak Tun Bacrum Tz'ununwitz (Sonouitz)' Few Chab'in Chauin Tikul (Ticul) Many AjMatzin Amatzin Akjok (Acjoc) Few AjNoj Chab'in Anoh Chabin Chaktis (Chactiz) Few AjJe Matza Ahematza Jesmoj (Hesmo) Medium Koti Kanchan Coticanchan Yaxche (Yaxche) Medium Tut Tut IxKojech (Yxcohech) Few AjChak Tut Achactut Chacha (Chacha) Very Few AjSoy Tun Azoitum Gwakamay(?) (Buacamay) Few Kanchan Canchan IxPetzeja (Ixpetzeha) Few AjMuan (Moan) Panaj Ahmuan pana Tzotz (Tzotz) Medium AjKan Kanek' Ahcan canec IxKotyol (Ixcotyol) Medium AjB'en Chab'in Ahuen chabin Yalak (Yalac) Many AjChikan K'itis Achican quitis Chulul (Chulul) Medium AjUz Kit Kan Ahus quit can Towns apparently in Chak'an Itza area: Saksel (Zacsel) Medium AjTzuntekum Azuntecum Saxkumil (Saxcumil) Few AjKawil Itza Ah cauil Ytza Jolkaj (Holca) Few Tesukun Tesucum IxPapaktun (Yxpapaktum) Many Chata Chatta Jolalil (Holalil) Many' Kowoj, Tzuntekum, and K'ix Coboctzuntecum yquix Yaxche (Yaxche) Medium Kowoj Coboj Yaxle (Yaxle) Many AjKali, B'e Ob'on Ahcolibeobon Tilaj (Tilah)e Many Matz Ob'on Matzobon IxTus (Yxtus) Few Chuen Ob'on Chuen abon Saklemakal (Saclemacal) Many AjB'ak Kanek' Ahbac canec Timul(Timul) Few AjTzazko Kanek' Ahtzazcocanec Towns in the Lake Sacpuy region (also in the core area): B'alamtun (Balamtun) Many Chab'in Idol Chavin Ydolo AjLalaich (Ah Lalaich) Many Puk Puc Petmas (Petmas) Many AjUs Puk Auz puc Xewlila (Xeulila) Many Jaw, Mas K'in Hau mazquin

Table 5: Partial List of Itzá Towns Dictated in 1702 (from Jones 1998:table 3.1- far eastern regions omitted) 145

support only modest bench arrangements. With an increase in elevation, the incidence of

superstructural components – benches, foundation walls, stairways, and columns –

increases, as does the formality of architectural arrangements” (D. Rice 1988:237). The

dense nucleation and frequently steep terrain of these sites, however, did require some

adjustment in site layout. Rather than being oriented toward the cardinal directions and

widely spaced in formal plaza groups, Postclassic structures are far more likely to be

placed along the contours of the site to maximize the available level areas. Often only

the central structures of the sites are placed into formal groups, with outlying groups

ordered primarily through their shared usage of a single architectural terrace. “Courtyard

arrangements, where they exist, are nowhere near as compact or restricted in access as

their Classic period counterparts … Generally, the direction of topographic slope is more critical than the alignment of nearby architecture for determining the position of any individual platform” (D. Rice 1988:236).

Individual structures of this period can be quite varied, but the basic patterns are quite simple (see Fig. 24). “Almost all Postclassic constructions have as their principal component a square-to-rectangular, single-level platform that is one to several wall courses high, most varying from 10 to 60 cm in height” (D. Rice 1988:234). Atop this low platform, Late Postclassic constructions usually have one of three superstructural configurations. The most common is a single straight wall aligned with the long axis of the substructure, usually along the rear edge of the platform. A second type has an L- shaped foundation, with the long arm aligned with the long axis of the platform and theshorter arm lying along another edge of the platform. The third major type is a C- shaped structure (really, more [-shaped), where the walls normally border three of the 146

Figure 24: Common Postclassic Superstructural Forms in the Central Petén (D. Rice 1986: 235) 147 four edges of the underlying platform. These were presumably rectangular superstructures with the sturdier foundations along some walls presumably serving as interior footings for perishable structures (probably benches). There are a few, more complicated structures, but they largely represent variations on the same few themes.

“Most Postclassic superstructures consist of a single room, and internal partitions of imperishable materials are rare” (D. Rice 1988:235).

More formal groups, including civic-ceremonial architecture, are typically more complex, but lie beyond the scope of this work. (For additional data concerning the formal architectural characteristics of Late Postclassic civic/ceremonial precincts, read

Pugh 2001). These formal groups provide the strongest evidence for links between

Postclassic sites in the northern Maya Lowlands and the Central Petén, and are our best indicator of local group affiliation (i.e., Itzá vs. Kowoj), but are not characteristic of

Postclassic Maya commoner households.

Economic ties by the Late Postclassic period appear to have shifted almost entirely to the east and south. Ceramics recovered are almost entirely local in origin; those ceramics not deriving from somewhere within the Lakes District appear to be primarily from the east, through trade with the Belize Valley. There is a great deal of intra-regional trade in ceramics between sites in the various lake basins. Long-distance exchange, however, appears to be largely restricted to other utilitarian items traded in from the Maya Highlands of southern Guatemala, particularly obsidian and metamorphic stone in the form of manos and metates. During this period, obsidian from the Ixtepeque source predominates (P. Rice et al. 1985; P. Rice and D. Rice 2004: 129), with El Chayal and San Martin Jilotepeque serving as additional minority sources. Limited amounts of 148 other exotic trade items appear to come from other regions, but by the Early Historic period (Jones 1989:101-106) the bulk of the Itzá Maya long-distance trade passed through the Belize Missions to the east and the Mopan to the south, most likely in down- the-line fashion. Less circuitous trade with groups in the northern Maya Lowlands may well have taken place periodically, depending somewhat on the state of relations with the

Kehaches, but there is little evidence for this. Presumably, the Itzá traded the traditional products of the region – forest goods of various types, cacao, cotton mantles, and possibly ceramics in exchange for the limited goods they could not produce locally

(manos and metates, and obsidian particularly, with obsidian eventually being phased out in favor of metal tools in the Historic period).

Ritual practices of the Itzá Maya during the Late Postclassic are well known in certain aspects. At the least, we have a solid understanding of the material correlates of

Late Postclassic ritual, both in domestic contexts and in more public arenas. In many ways, the domestic rituals of the Late Postclassic show a great deal of continuity with preceding Classic practices. Burning incense continued to be a major aspect of household rituals (e.g., P. Rice 1999), though the form of the incense burners was transformed. The spiked hourglass censers characteristic of Late and Terminal Classic practices continue as a minority form in new types, but the small molded and modeled figurines disappear. In their place are Mayapán-style effigy censers, introduced into the local ceramic assemblage, that combine aspects of both. They were produced locally, but seem to be clear indications of influence from northern lowland sites; they are found throughout the area, but may be particularly common at Kowoj sites, where claimed links to famed Mayapán served as one justification for the elite lineage’s right to rule. These 149

are, perhaps, the best indicator of the Late Postclassic period, since they do not seem to

be present locally during the Early Postclassic. The effigies depicted probably represent

specific gods, and may represent specific patron deities or revered ancestors requiring

appeasement.

The material correlates of household ritual are apt to be somewhat skewed toward specific practices. Ethnographic and ethnohistoric analogy (e.g., Plunket 2002:8) suggest that many rituals performed at the household level are unlikely to leave much archaeological evidence in and around houses. Most obviously, the rituals that took place in milpa contexts to ensure agricultural success would be invisible, whether scheduled on an annual basis or carried out under unusual conditions (e.g., drought or the late onset of rains). In the majority of cases (e.g., Kintz 1990; Villa Rojas 1945), these rituals took place in the fields themselves. Similarly, there are rituals to appease the forest-dwelling

spirits, rituals that take place in caves (e.g., McGee 1990), and so forth. Rituals were

probably performed within domestic contexts quite regularly however (e.g., McAnany

2002), either on a scheduled basis (e.g., annual rituals at the start of the new year) or

linked to specific events in the family lifecycle (from childbirth and mortuary rituals to

the dedication and termination of houses).

Some Postclassic households, at least higher status ones, seem to have had

specific structures dedicated to the performance of domestic rituals. At Zacpetén (Pugh

2001), for instance, there are several varieties of small, low-lying structures that are

postulated to have held a specific ritual purpose as shrines or oratorios (possibly akin to

Lacandon God Houses [McGee 1990]). They are clearly too small to have served as

residences, or even as kitchens, and often contain a disproportionate amount of 150 ceremonial ceramic fragments and/or human remains. Such structures are normally smaller than their Classic counterparts and less formally positioned (sometimes lying at odd angles within a plaza).

Our knowledge of public ritual in this period is limited, especially due to the lack of commemorative monuments. Early Spanish accounts emphasize an array of large , and excavations at sites such as Zacpetén reveal large ceremonial structures covered in the remains of large effigy censers (frequently paired). It appears that the public rituals depicted on Classic period continued, probably in a modified fashion, and there are suggestions that the calendrical rituals continue to be important (Jones 1998:97-

98). Indeed, it seems likely that the Itzá polity was the final bastion of indigenous Maya literacy and calendrical ritual; it has even been suggested that at least one of the few

Maya hieroglyphic codices that remain to us derives from the looting of the Itzá capital

Noj Petén in 1697 (e.g. Coe and Kerr 1997, cf. Paxton 2004).

Evidence for public sacrificial rituals is somewhat debatable, but bloodletting tools have been recovered at Late Postclassic sites and even some evidence for human sacrifice or at least the ceremonial usage of human remains (e.g., Rice, Rice and Pugh

1998). This is not entirely unexpected, given that the emphasis on defensible sites argues for a high degree of intra-regional conflict presumably resulting in the periodic availability of war captives as sacrificial victims. Early Spanish reports state that at least one party of Spaniards was sacrificed by the Itzá, their hearts cut out and offered to idols and their heads placed on stakes (Jones 1998:47). Jones notes that the accounts hold a high degree of grisly detail, but they cannot necessarily be trusted because tales of human sacrifice had a long-cherished role in the Colonial Spanish mythos. In any event, such an 151

act holds at least as much political currency as it does religious; the placing of heads on

poles outside of town, in particular, smacks more of a direct warning rather than calling

up images of tzompantli (Aztec skull racks).

THE “MAYA COLLAPSE”

As we have begun to touch on how Maya society was transformed by the

transition from Classic to Postclassic in the Petén Lakes region, it is now past time to

address the issue of the “Maya Collapse.” Here, and in Appendix B, I will review the

major models of the Classic-Postclassic transition as they have developed since the 19th century, discuss the basic evidence for widespread site abandonments and transformations, and finally discuss the regional patterns that are finally beginning to become clear. I will also attempt to articulate this section with the preceding discussion of broader theories of culture change. For reference purposes, Webster’s (2002: fig.36) map of the region most directly affected by the “Collapse” is provided here (see Fig. 25).

Before discussing the specific case of the Maya in Appendix B, we will first briefly address more generalized theories of the collapse of complex societies (e.g.,

Tainter 1988). The question of what constitutes a collapse is a difficult one to answer.

Tainter (1988:4) sees collapse as an essentially political process with consequences in other areas of social life ranging from economics to art. For Tainter (ibid), “A society has collapsed when it displays a rapid, significant loss of an established level of sociopolitical complexity.” Others, myself and Webster (2002:74) included, see political processes as only one aspect of collapse, with political processes intricately linked to environmental, demographic and economic processes in a complicated model.

152

Figure 25: Map of the Areas most affected by the Maya Collapse (Webster 2002:36)

153

Webster (2002:72) also makes a distinction between “what happens to individual state-type polities and their populations on the one hand, and to their associated Great

Traditions on the other.” This makes the important point that a true collapse involves not only the governmental disintegration of a polity but also the destruction or fundamental alteration of its characteristic institutions, economic base, and the elements of its artistic and literary traditions. Elements of those traditions and institutions are typically retained in a transmuted fashion by descendant groups, but are no longer integrated within a single broader cultural package. In other words, a complete break from preceding systems is unlikely to occur (barring the complete depopulation of an area), yet the elements of that system are shuffled and redefined to the point of being substantially different. Lowe

(1985) makes the argument that successful sociocultural systems restructure themselves to adapt to stresses in order to meet the needs of the situation; thus, collapse is seen as a response to specific stimuli rather than an inherent failure of the social system.

In any event, Tainter (1988:4) provides a useful list of the indicators of collapse, many of which are documentable through archaeological means.

“Collapse is manifest in such things as: a lower degree of stratification and social differentiation; less economic and occupational specialization, of individuals, groups, and territories; less centralized control; that is, less regulation and integration of diverse economic and political groups by elites; less behavioral control and regimentation; less investment in the epiphenomena of complexity, those elements that define the concept of ‘civilization’: monumental architecture, artistic and literary achievements, and the like; less flow of information between individuals, between political and economic groups, and between a center and its periphery; less sharing, trading, and redistribution of resources; 154

less overall coordination and organization of individuals and groups; a smaller territory integrated within a single political unit.”

David Webster (2002:74) adds to that list, with a particular focus on basic features visible

in the archaeological record, citing the “overall population decline, abandonment of

settlements (and most particularly cities or royal centers), invasions by foreigners, and diminished confidence in or even rejection of collectively held postulates and values concerning religion and political ideology.”

For Tainter (1988:42), essentially all explanations of collapse boil down into 11 major themes: depletion of a vital resource, establishment of a new resource base, an insurmountable catastrophe, insufficient response to circumstances, other complex societies, intruders, class conflict, social dysfunction, mystical factors, chance concatenations of events, and economic factors. We will see most of these themes again in discussions of the Maya “Collapse” (Appendix B), though I group them a little differently. Tainter generally subdivides these themes into two dichotomies (internal vs. external causes, and conflict vs. integrationist changes), noting that both are valid though he finds neither to be useful. Similarly, he argues (and I agree) that no single theme seems to adequately explain any specific collapse, though in practice, Tainter seems to give precedence to economic factors.

Instead, he argues that four concepts lead to an understanding of collapse (Tainter

1988:194): human societies are problem-solving organizations; sociopolitical systems require energy for their maintenance; increased complexity carries with it increased costs per capita; and investment in sociopolitical complexity as a problem-solving response often reaches a point of declining marginal returns. As he phrases it (Tainter 1988:205), 155

“Declining marginal returns, in general, can arise from any of the following conditions:

1. benefits constant, costs rising; 2. benefits rising, costs rising faster; 3. benefits falling,

costs constant; or 4. benfits falling, costs rising.” This is, essentially, an economists

formulation; sociopolitical systems grow – increasing in scale and complexity – until

eventually they reach a point where further growth is inevitable but the resources to

manage and support that growth do not exist, at which time the system is tipped into a

state of systemic collapse. This is normally followed by disintegration into smaller, less

complex groupings that are comparatively stable.

Evidence of Abandonment, Transformation and other “Collapse” processes

There is far too much documentary data available, typically in unprocessed form,

to discuss the evidence for “Collapse” in the Maya area, in any great depth here. Much of the information has been summarized in one place or another (see Webster 2002 for one of the better such summaries), yet it is worth our while to at least briefly discuss the sources of information and types of data on which any discussion of the Maya “Collapse” is ultimately rooted. There are three basic sources of information used in addressing this issue: archaeology, epigraphy, and paleoclimatology. In this section I briefly review each group and provide a summary of results.

Archaeological indicators

This is the broadest and most difficult to summarize of the categories of data used to argue for a Maya “Collapse”, including as it does subjects ranging from the cessation of monumental architectural construction and reductions in absolute numbers of occupied structures to shifts in settlement patterns, ideological practices, economic linkages, and 156

basic aspects of the material culture. Many of these changes are addressed elsewhere in

this paper (particularly in the Socio-political Setting and Archaeological Context of the

Petén Lakes District sections) and I will not cover them again here, but I should note that the degree to which these transformations are firmly dated is quite variable. From a general perspective, sufficient radiocarbon dating (as well as other absolute dating techniques in certain areas) has been performed to ensure that, in general, our overall chronology of the decline and depopulation of the southern lowlands is fairly secure.

That is to say that, between about AD 700 and 1000, the Classic Maya centers of the southern lowlands reached their peak, entered decline, and many were abandoned.

Within that extended period, however, our ability to securely date events (except

for specific, historically attested events) is spotty at best. In some places, such as Copán, sufficient dating has been pursued to give us a reasonable fine-grained population history

(if one accepts the obsidian hydration dates). In most other areas, however, all that we have is a handful of radiocarbon dates loosely coupled to a ceramic chronology that can

be charitably called fuzzy at the edges. The implicit tendency has often been to assume

that the shift in ceramic types and wares characteristic of the Classic – Postclassic

transition occurred relatively quickly and represented a fairly notable discontinuity. I,

and several of my colleagues in the Petén, have increasingly noted continuities

connecting Classic and Postclassic types and I would be unwilling to argue that the

change from one to the other was either rapid or discontinuous. As a result, the border

between Classic and Postclassic, at least in the Petén Lakes region, represents a rather

hazy transitional period marked by gradual changes in material culture, settlement

patterns and significant demographic decline. 157

While changes do appear in a variety of ways, ranging from regional settlement

patterns, trading ties, locally produced ceramics, and novel architectural types, those

changes probably did not occur either simultaneously or at the same pace. The default

assumption should probably be that while the majority of these changes took place over

the course of the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic, some of them had their roots in

the Late Classic and others did not reach their full expression until the Late Postclassic.

This should merely serve to illustrate a point already made; that the categories created by

archaeologists in describing the archaeological record are not necessarily empirically

real, but are, rather, useful analytical tools (and they are useful).

Epigraphy

Epigraphy, the interpretation of written Maya texts (particularly on stelae, altars,

and hieroglyphic stairways), has long been one of the cornerstones of all analyses of the

Maya “Collapse.” Indeed, the temporal placing and extent of the “Collapse” is, by and

large, defined by the cessation of dated monuments erected by Maya kings. This is a

negative argument, of course, but the failure of Late and Terminal Classic Maya rulers to

continue erecting stelae commemorating the completion of specific calendrical periods is

generally read as either indicating the abandonment of the site or the failure of the

institution of divine kingship or both (these days, normally the latter, leading eventually

to the first).

From the beginning of the 20th century, Mayanists have been able to read at least the dates on Classic Maya monuments, enabling them to effectively place the Classic period within an absolute chronological framework. Admittedly, it is only in the last 20 years or so that our ability to read Maya hieroglyphs has advanced to the point where our 158

understanding of the texts is nearly complete and our grasp of Classic Maya political

history has vastly improved. Nevertheless, the overall timing of the Maya “Collapse” as

defined in the early 20th century (e.g., Morley 1946) remains largely unchanged (see Fig.

26). What has altered is our understanding of the broader geographical and temporal

patterns constituting that “Collapse.”

In the late 1970’s (Sidrys and Berger 1979), summarized the then available data on dated monuments (see Fig. 27), revealing a general pattern similar to Morley’s, wherein the highest frequency of monument erection occurred between about AD 730 and AD 790, then declined steeply, such that no long count monuments are known dating later than AD 928. With the addition of radiocarbon dates associated with Classic and

Terminal Classic elites, Sidrys and Berger were also able to demonstrate that the Classic elite persisted, in a reduced scale and frequency until at least AD 1069 and arguably into the 14th century; similarly, and unsurprisingly, the commoner population also persisted

well beyond the 9th century in many regions. This work, among others, has led to the recognition that the decline and depopulation of the Maya lowlands was more protracted

than models based solely on epigraphy had postulated.

In the last 20 or 30 years, Mayanists’ knowledge of epigraphy has improved to the

point that a great deal of Classic Maya political history can be reconstructed (at least, the

major historical events – accessions, deaths, warfare events and important calendrical

rituals, in particular). This has led us to an appreciation of the complex interrelationships

between many centers – ranging from political patronage in a hegemonic fashion, to

presumed alliance through marriage ties, and overt hostilities between near equals. In

some regions (particularly the Petexbatún and Pasión regions), the epigraphic record is 159

Figure 26: Timing of the Maya “Collapse”

160

Figure 27: Distribution of Dates on Classic Period Monuments (Webster 2002: 209) 161 eloquent of chronic warfare, accelerating towards the end of the Classic period but

beginning long before and influenced to an extensive degree by long standing alliances

(e.g., Schele and Mathews 1998:176-7). Nevertheless, it should be noted that Classic

Maya texts are a form of political propaganda, glorifying the contemporary power structure and celebrating elite activities. As such, the data included in those monuments include a restricted range of information and often have little to say about the problems faced by the populace as a whole.

Paleoclimatology

Mayanists have fallen back on postulated shifts in the local climate, and particularly changes in rainfall patterns, from the early days of the 20th century (e.g.,

Huntington 1913). Not until the 1970’s and 1980’s (e.g., Sanchez and Kutzback 1974,

Gunn and Adams 1981, Folan et al. 1983), however, did those researchers attempt to cite any particular paleoclimatological evidence to support their argument. In effect, paleoclimatic data used to address the topic of the Maya “Collapse” can be lumped into two generic categories: studies of generalized world climatic patterns, and localized studies of regional climatic history.

This first class of data is widely varied and includes data ranging from ice cores taken in the glaciers of the Peruvian Andes (Thompson et al. 1985) and the Greenland ice pack (Dansgaard et al. 1993), Icelandic historical records (Bergthorsson 1969), studies of ocean circulation (Street-Perrott and Perrott 1990) and dating of coral growths off Costa

Rica (Glynn et al. 1983). More closely akin to the second class of data are lake core studies from Panama (e.g., Piperno, Bush and Colinvaux 1990; Bush and Colinvaux

1990), Venezuela (Leyden 1985) and Ecuador (Bush et al. 1990; Colinvaux 1989; Bush 162

and Colinvaux 1988; and Liu and Colinvaux 1988). These studies provide data on

climatic patterns presumed to affect broad regions of the globe, often over extremely long

time spans (up to 250,000 years for Dansgaard et al. 1993), yet it is often debatable

whether the Maya region was affected at all, and always debatable to what extent.

Repeated studies tend to demonstrate that there is, within broad climatic trends, a great

deal of microvariation, both temporally and geographically. As a result, attempts to

utilize climatic data from other regions have been criticized and most current research focuses on the second class of paleoclimatic data – that deriving from studies within the

Maya area.

This second class of data is effectively limited to paleolimnological studies of sediment cores from a host of lakes across the Maya region, with particular interest focused on the Petén lakes of northern Guatemala (e.g., Curtis et al. 1997),and a set of lakes in the northern Yucatan peninsula (e.g., Whitmore et al. 1996, Curtis et al. 1996,

Hodell et al. 1995), with outlying studies in the Petexbatún region (Dunning et al. 1996),

Belize (Alcala-Herrera et al. 1994) and the Copán pocket (Rue 1987). These lake cores provide data on rainfall patterns, salinity, local vegetation and erosion through studies of oxygen isotopes, ostracod types, pollen analysis, and sedimentation rates, respectively.

Again, the extent to which the results of these studies can be generalized across the Maya area has been hotly debated. In many cases, the results are contradictory or inconclusive at best, and, particularly in the southern lowlands, no firm evidence has been found from these data to support major shifts in rainfall patterns, though there is frequently evidence of significant anthropogenic changes to the local environment. Even so, those results cannot be extrapolated to regions outside of the immediate lake drainages. There does 163

seem to be some limited evidence to support at least sporadic droughts (hardly a surprise, since the region is still prone to vagaries in shortfall – at least by local standards – and rainfall becomes increasingly unreliable and scarce as one moves north and west from the

Maya mountains of Belize).

Regional Patterns of Transformation

As we have already discussed the likely causes of the “Collapse” (see Appendix B for detailed discussion of Maya “Collapse” theories) and the various sorts of evidence cited to support the evolving models of systemic failure and decline, it falls to us now to provide a brief review of the regional patterns of transformation that those models are expected to explain and that are described by the evidence discussed. We have already restricted our discussion to the southern Maya lowlands; further subdivision is necessary, however. Subdivisions are inherently cultural, but are generally associated with geographic distinctions and are usually labeled accordingly. We will discuss them in turn, moving generally from west to east. These regions are not formally defined, by and large, but form loose collections of interconnected sites and polities. The most attention is paid to areas directly relevant to this study, particularly the Pasión and Petexbatún and the northern and northeastern Petén. The patterns described here are drawn primarily from Demarest, Rice and Rice (2004) and Webster (2002) as the most up to date syntheses available at the time of writing. Note that the Central Petén Lakes region, central to our research, is not discussed here, having been dealt with in greater detail elsewhere (see Socio-political Setting in Chapter 1). 164

The Pasión and Petexbatún – Seibal, Altar, Dos Pilas, Aguateca etc.

The Pasión and Petexbatún river basins lie immediately to the southwest of the central Petén Lakes district. The two basins are generally included within a single subdivision of the southern Maya lowlands, but are sometimes separated. Major sites within the region include Seibal, , Itzán and Aguas Caliente along the

Pasión, and Dos Pilas, , and Aguateca in the Petexbatún drainage. Akin to the Postclassic central Petén Lakes, this is one of the few regions where defensive locations and fortifications are prevalent (though here they are Late and

Terminal Classic in date).

The Petexbatún region (along with the Copán pocket) is one of the better-studied areas of the Maya lowlands with regards to the “Collapse” of Classic Maya society. The population of the region appears to have grown steadily through the Preclassic and Early

Classic periods, with a particular population boom experienced during the first half of the

Late Classic (O’Mansky and Dunning 2004:101) - though Webster (pers. comm. 2004) suggests an Early Classic decline. At that population maximum, occupation was heavy, yet there does not seem to have been an ecological decline, with Dunning arguing for a well-managed system of conservation techniques (Dunning et al. 1997; Dunning and

Beach 2004). In the latter half of the Late Classic, the settlement pattern shifted to include a central emphasis on defensibility. This was followed shortly thereafter by significant population decline and political collapse, with a near complete abandonment of most of the region by AD 830.

As Demarest et al. (2004:550) note: “Rapid changes in site sequences and material culture at the end of the Classic period were earliest and most pronounced in the 165 west”, referring to this area. This region is really the first to undergo “Collapse”, and its decline is increasingly seen as a trigger for similar declines elsewhere in the Maya lowlands. O’Mansky and Dunning (2004:101) are hesitant to blame the “Collapse”, even locally, on warfare, but they do note that “here this final settlement shift and the simultaneous demographic collapse occurred in the context of ongoing endemic warfare.”

Arthur Demarest (2004) is rather less hesitant to attribute a causative role of warfare in the decline of the region. He argues that an intensification of warfare began in the sixth- and seventh- century wars between Tikal and Calakmul over control of the

Pasión river trade route. In the wake of those wars, Dos Pilas became the predominant center of the region, in his conception “supported by the tribute, and compelled [by] economic and ecological circumstances to continue that strategy [of predatory tribute extraction]” (Demarest 2004:102). Adjacent sites fought back, toppling Dos Pilas by the late 8th century, at which time the region’s remnant population was effectively (and sometimes literally) under siege. He argues that the region was plagued by intensive warfare and had become a “landscape of fear” (a phrase first applied by Dunning and

Beach 2004). This area shows no evidence of a failure of the agricultural system due to either anthropogenic or natural effects. Demarest (2004:117) argues for a local political collapse due entirely to runaway “political competition and warfare of the eighth and early ninth centuries.” Dos Pilas fell first, followed by Tamarindito, , and Aguateca. Of the major centers in the zone, only Seibal, Altar de Sacrificios and

Punta de Chimino really continued into the Terminal Classic period, and even they evinced evidence of significant changes in material culture, as represented 166

iconographically, as well as in architecture and ceramics. This persistence was short-

lived, however, and all three sites failed by the end of the tenth century.

Demarest is also one of the few researchers who takes an interest in the role of

refugees from this region in spreading the “Collapse” to other regions. As he notes

(Demarest 2004:119): “the general late-eighth-century picture throughout central Petén,

Belize, and to the north in the Puuc zone appears to reflect population increases, but in an

irregular pattern, accompanied by political disruptions and re-entrenchment … We can

speculate that the stresses associated with overpopulation in late Tepeu 2 times would

have been exacerbated by such population displacements, even if the units involved were

very small. Migration might also have contributed to the political disruptions, re-

entrenchment, and transformations taking place in other regions.”

The Pasión region, during the Late and Terminal Classic periods, appears to have

been characterized by a rapid growth and social evolution in the Late Classic period

(when heavily influenced by inmigration) followed by comparatively subtle changes in

the Terminal Classic and collapse, in part through chronic warfare. Tourtellot and

Gonzalez (2004:79) argue that, rather than being disrupted by late invasions from outside,

Classic Maya civilization in the Pasión and Petexbatún was experiencing “serious trouble

… from internal processes, producing conditions under which people eventually sought

and developed alternative forms of rule and worship that offered them hope.” They

dispute the idea that the collapse of the Pasión was, like the Petexbatún, triggered by

“systemic consequences of an evolution of internecine local warfare” (Tourtellot and

Gonzalez 2004:80), citing a lack of evidence for violence at Seibal and the comparatively

late florescence of the site. They are left, instead, grasping at other possibilities, none of 167 which seem particularly strong. They feel that Seibal (and by extension the Pasión region) went out with a whimper, rather than a bang. Models of the abandonment include population dispersal, a reorientation to more eastern ties, or even that the residents were drawn away by shifting trade networks or religious patterns. They seem uncertain what tack to take, arguing simply that there was no catastrophic event or obvious cause to point to, and that the subtler, slower processes at work remain unclear. In all, this should be taken to suggest that even within subregions, there is great variation in the processes at work. Nevertheless, this is the region that first experiences a general decline, and the strongest evidence is that that political decline and demographic collapse was triggered by chronic warfare stresses.

The west – Palenque, Yaxchilan, Piedras Negras

Farther to the west of the central Petén lakes (and west of the Pasión and

Petexbatún centers), Classic centers fell into decline shortly thereafter. “In the eighth century, the hegemonies of centers such as Yaxchilan, Piedras Negras, and Palenque indicate a proliferation of elites, minor centers with new ‘holy lords’, and division of power with subordinate sahals and other officials… In the end, these centers in the west

… fell into decline after defeat and capture of their rulers by holy lords of rival or subordinate centers” (Demarest et al. 2004b:552). The currently evolving consensus has less to say about the fall of these centers, yet the overall picture is one of increasing decentralization and fragmentation, exacerbating the weakening prestige and “sacred authority” (ibid) of the western divine lords. It is argued that this loss of prestige was compounded by disruption of the existing trade routes along the Pasión River; the endemic warfare upriver is suggested to have diminished the trade in status-reinforcing 168 exotic goods (e.g., jade, quetzal feathers). With an increasing number of steadily less powerful elites, the ritual reproduction of the social order would have been undermined by such items, crucial to the ritual, patronage and tribute relationships between and within the Classic centers.

Webster’s (2003; 2002:283) understanding of the dynamics of the region seem akin to that described for the Petexbatún region, wherein chronic warfare (particularly between Piedras Negras and Yaxchilan) began relatively early under the aegis of larger northern powers, but continued unabated through the early 9th century, with the final victory apparently going to Yaxchilan in AD 808. “Perhaps overtaxed by this final struggle, both victor and vanquished lapsed into historical obscurity within a few years.”

Piedras Negras appears to have been completely abandoned by AD 850 or 900. Webster, unlike Demarest, is less willing to take the chronic warfare as the sole instigator of collapse, suggesting that the thin but fertile soils of the region were probably heavily impacted by the dense local populations, and postulating “that much of the land immediately around the major centers was probably heavily deforested and eroded by the late 8th century” (ibid).

The northern and northeastern Petén – the Maya heartland

Lying to the north and northeast of the central Petén Lakes district, the core area of the Late Classic Maya florescence includes such sites as Tikal, Uaxactún, Calakmul,

Naranjo and El Peru, among others. This core region is probably the most diverse of the listed subregions, and unsurprisingly is the one where consensus is weakest concerning causes of the political decline and demographic failure that took place during the Classic to Postclassic transition. A number of different theories (e.g., Braswell et al. 2004; 169

Valdes and Fahsen 2004) have been advanced and our understanding of the processes involved seems still quite limited.

Tikal is simultaneously one of the largest and most influential centers of the Maya

Classic period and one with one of the longest histories of archaeological study.

Additionally, it lay at the center of the Classic Maya heartland, and therefore, any survey

of the “Collapse” must deal with the decline of Tikal. Beginning as a major center in the

Late Preclassic period, it achieved regional predominance with the decline of

and at the end of that period, and continued as a major player in regional politics

for some 800 years. Despite its military setback at the hands of Calakmul and Caracol in

AD 562 (the so-called “hiatus”), the divine kings of Tikal continued in largely unbroken

descent – a fact not evident from Tikal monuments. That defeat appears to have

disordered the internal politics of Tikal, with struggles postulated between contending

dynastic lines (Webster 2002:262), leading to the foundation of Dos Pilas by one such

group around AD 648. Regaining its ascendance by the defeat of Calakmul in AD 695,

construction of massive public architecture continued at Tikal into the beginning of the

9th century. By the mid-9th century, formerly subordinate sites (e.g., Ixlú, Jimbal) began to erect their own monuments, suggesting a decay of Tikal’s traditional hegemony and by

AD 889, the very last monuments in the region were erected at the nearby centers of

Jimbal, Uaxactún, and La Muñeca.

The chronic warfare (never as frequent as in the Petexbatún) seems to have largely ceased prior to the general decline of Tikal and from AD 700-830 the Late Classic population of Tikal grew rapidly. The demographic decline of Tikal seems to have occurred primarily between AD 830 and AD 950, by which time the area was largely 170 abandoned and the political structure completely broken down. During this period of decline, the ceramic assemblage became simplified, with few polychromes and reduced amounts of other elite types, many elite and ritual structures appear to have undergone formal termination rituals, and graffiti suggest an period of continuing warfare and sacrifice. These facts are largely uncontested; causation is rather more contentious.

Webster (2002:256) argues for overpopulation forcing a breakdown of the agricultural system, citing lake core studies from the central Petén indicating significant deforestation, soil erosion, phosphorous loading and a decrease in the lacustrine productivity. Valdes and Fahsen (2004) favor a model focused on chronic warfare

(according to texts reported from Uaxactún) and the ideological failure of divine kingship. For them, (Valdes and Fahsen 2004:146) “[t]he Terminal Classic represents a critical stage, a product of deficiencies and failures in the government and its system of administration that could not judge the cost of the political wear due to an exaggerated centralized power in the hands of the supreme sovereign and his reduced elite group.”

This resulted in economic and social instability followed by decline, though nearly a full century after the decay of the Petexbatún region. P. Rice and D. Rice (2004) argue that the decline of Tikal was, in large part, an anticipated transfer of ritual and political power coinciding to the end of a ritual period known as the May. All three works are agreed that the decline of Tikal involved primarily internal processes, with external influences falling largely out of vogue as an explanation with the redating of the decline of

Teotihuacan. Apart from that, the common ground is minimal.

Demarest, Rice and Rice (2004b:553-555) argue that, contra Webster, agricultural practices (particularly extensive use of bajo areas- Kunen et al. 2000) were adequate to 171

support the high population densities (280,000 people in the Greater Tikal area, and over

1.5 million in NE Petén [Turner 1990:321]) cited for the Late Classic northern and

northeastern Petén sites. The evidence for deforestation at and around Tikal is inferential

at best, drawing heavily on lake cores from outside the “Greater Tikal area.” Still, they

do admit, at least (2004:553), that “such high levels – combined with the growing burden of elite consumption, construction, and ritual display – would certainly have strained

local resources and left little margin for periodic agricultural or political difficulties.”

The decline of Tikal’s great rival, Calakmul, is less well studied, yet information

is beginning to surface finally (e.g., Braswell et al. 2004). After eclipsing Tikal at the end of the 6th century, Calakmul appears to have been the predominant military power in

the Maya lowlands (though only in concert with an array of allies including Caracol and

Dos Pilas) into the early 8th century when it began its long slow decline; interestingly, the

major population loss apparently occurring contemporaneously with Tikal’s in the late 8th and early 9th century. The political decline, at least, seems to have been attributable, at

least in part, to a loss of prestige through military reverses beginning in AD 695.

Attempts to forestall that decline involved a re-orientation of Calakmul’s political ties to

more northern centers in the Rio Bec and Chenes regions, as well as . By the

middle of the 9th century, however, Calakmul and several other more northern centers (in

the Rio Bec region of ) had been reduced to about 10 percent of the late 7th century peak. Braswell et al (2004:190) attribute the population decline in large part to climatic factors, particularly the extended drought postulated to have occurred as the result of global cooling (Gunn and Folan 1996). 172

If we throw in another Classic center with strong ties to this heartland area,

Caracol in western Belize (Chase and Chase 2004), we find a somewhat later decline than

in areas to the northwest, with the decline apparently not severely impacting the elite

residents of the site core until about AD 895. The final abandonment of the site core

appears to have been “sudden and relatively rapid … [and the latest] deposits do not

appear to be related to termination rituals” (ibid: 363) and without a significant degree of

depopulation in the years preceding the failure of the site. Chase and Chase argue that

the Terminal Classic at Caracol was characterized by a breakdown in the shared identity

of residents of the site; they see a status-based fragmentation of the society into elite and

non-elite reflecting a new pan-Maya ideological order. Their opinion (ibid: 365) is that the chronic warfare of the Late and Terminal Classic represented “the integration of the latest Maya elites of the southern lowlands into larger, but highly competitive, political

units as the Terminal Classic period progressed toward the tenth century.” These new

units may have been centered on flourishing Terminal Classic sites such as Seibal or

Chichén Itzá. In this conception, the decline of southern centers was the result of “the

existence of one or more attempted expansionist polities that ultimately fell apart and, in

so doing, completely ruptured Maya society in the southern lowlands” (ibid: 366).

Similarly, in western Belize (Ashmore et al. 2004), shows neither

evidence for environmental degradation, nor increased levels of warfare or disease.

Explanations for its decline in the late 8th and 9th centuries have thus shifted toward more

systemic explanations. As Ashmore et al suggest (2004:321): “economic and

demographic growth and then collapse in this part of the Belize River Valley may relate

to escalating and ultimately catastrophic economic and demographic stress farther west 173

… [A]s militarism among the larger polities grew during the Late Classic, and as demand

increased for foodstuffs to feed their beleaguered populations, the natural attractions of

this part of the Belize River Valley likewise rose… As polities in the Petén heartland

collapsed, from the late eighth century on, Xunantunich’s external links declined along

with the sources of demand that had underwritten its prosperity.” This led, in turn, to

increasing social stresses, with weakened rulers unable to stem the trend of individual

households migrating away in a gradual fashion, moving particularly downstream to

other polities or joining newly important coastal sites.

As one may have noticed, the processes of decline and collapse in the northern

and northeastern Petén heartland of the Classic Maya remain exceedingly contentious

with a number of causative factors argued to have a central role. Having stipulated that,

it seems generally accepted that an array of factors was at work, with recurring warfare

and high population levels playing significant parts at most such sites, and with climatic

shifts compounding the stress in more northerly areas. It is also widely accepted that the

decline was systemic in its effects, with the decline of each new polity increasing the

strain on those that remained. The ideas that anticipated shifts in ritual power or

disruptions caused by expansionist polities also played important roles are interesting, but not yet widely accepted or convincingly supported by epigraphic data.

Belize

As we move east from the Classic heartland area into northern and western

Belize, we find the “Collapse” to be, once again, both a subtler set of processes and less complete in its expression. At in NW Belize, for instance, the Late and

Terminal Classic periods are ones of rapid growth followed by fairly sudden 174

abandonment. As Hammond and Tourtellot note (2004:300): “occupation at La Milpa

ceased unexpectedly, in the middle of a burst of centrally directed public works

aggrandizing the already impressive ceremonial precinct … The large number of buildings that may have been simultaneously under construction …might plausibly have strained the local labor supply. This in turn could have put agricultural productivity

under stress, and even resulted in the sort of disquiet that leads to revolt or emigration.”

They seem to find this explanation unsatisfactory, as do I, but note a lack of violence or

destruction as well as apparently no residual squatter population. In essence, they have

no explanation to offer for the sudden disappearance of a substantial population.

Adams et al. (2004) examine the region from a broader perspective noting a

general collapse of ca. AD 850, which they peg to a long-term drought and other,

associated ecological problems. They argue that only shows continuity between

the Classic and Postclassic, suggesting that the Terminal Classic “represents a complete

end of a particular lifeway” (ibid: 337). They argue that sites in this area (such as Dos

Hombres, Chan Chich and Blue Creek) show signs of having been ritually terminated

during the Terminal Classic period. Indeed, Adams et al. are essentially the last

remaining researchers who argue for “a pan-regional, calamitous event that marked the

destruction of southern elite culture in a short period of time” (ibid: 339). They invest

little effort, however, in explicating that event, noting both long-term droughts and

possible military incursions by Maya from the Puuc area in passing. Lamanai, thriving in

both Classic and Postclassic periods is suggested to have successfully shifted the focus of

their external ties from the Petén in the Classic period to the northern lowlands in the

Postclassic period. 175

East of that region, in northeast Belize (Masson and Mock 2004), suggestions are

of a thriving population during the Terminal Classic period; a population whose

“economy and political ideology were oriented toward local and maritime interaction”

(ibid:400). Population levels in general were high at AD 800, though several inland

Classic period sites were abandoned shortly thereafter, as a result of strong political and economic ties with Petén Classic sites. Those residents are postulated to have shifted farther east along river and coastal pathways, along with residents of sites from the Petén.

In their new locations along the maritime trade routes developing in the Terminal Classic and Postclassic periods, they, like Lamanai, shifted the center of their political economy to trade with northern sites.

The southeast periphery – Copán and Quirigua

Farther away, along the southeastern edge of the Maya region, the important

Classic center Copán in western Honduras was also being affected by many of the same processes already mentioned. Copán is yet another of the major Maya sites with a long history of archaeological study and, as at Tikal, this has resulted in not only a greater array of data but also a high degree of contention among the involved researchers. One of the central disagreements involved in the “Collapse” of Copán has to do with the dating of the Terminal Classic period, with some (e.g., Webster et al. 2004) arguing for continuing high levels of population persisting until about AD 950 followed by a fairly gradual decline, while others (e.g., Braswell et al. 2004; Fash et al. 2004) argue that those chronologies are in error and that the Copán area was largely abandoned by AD 900. I lean toward the first camp, though I am admittedly tainted by direct affiliation… In any event, Braswell et al.’s criticism relies on presumed inaccuracy of obsidian hydration 176

dating techniques in the area and the relative scarcity of radiocarbon dates. This seems

valid on the surface, yet ignores the apparent agreement between the two dating

techniques in those few contexts where both were employed (see Webster et al. 2004:

table 11.5), as well as those radiocarbon dates that range later than AD 900 (see Webster

et al. 2004: table 11.4). These seem to suggest that whatever error is inherent to the

obsidian hydration technique is not of such a scale as to void its utility entirely.

Moving beyond this debate, we can turn to the actual course of events that

characterize the “Collapse” in this region. Fash et al. (2004) adhere, by and large, to

Braswell’s camp, arguing that Copán reached its political peak at the beginning of the

Late Classic period, followed by a long slow decline triggered by military reverses at the

hands of Quirigua ending with the collapse of the ruling dynasty in AD 820. The

demographic peak occurred closer to the end of the Late Classic period toward the end of

the 8th century. The overall political decay is attributed to “competition for a limited number of political offices by a growing number of eligible adult males, against a backdrop of population increase and nutritional stress” resulting in chronic internal competition and external warfare. There are indications that the end of the ruling dynasty coincided with a ritual termination of the royal residence and possibly the Acropolis by about AD 820. They feel that abandonment of the site core was complete by AD 900, and lasted several generations before reoccupation in the Early Postclassic. They dismiss the obsidian hydration dates that indicate a continuity of Late Classic ceramics until about AD 1250, insisting on an end of the Coner complex by AD 950, since occupation of the Early Postclassic settlement in the site core contains radiocarbon dates suggesting an occupation history of AD 950 to 1050. 177

In any event, the actual course of events leading up to the “Collapse” at Copán

seem to be widely agreed upon, even if the events following that decline are not. As Fash

et al. (2004:286) summarize, the “Terminal Classic … brought to an end several centuries

of increasing population, deforestation, hillside erosion, nutritional stress, competition

among elites for limited labor, land, and power, and almost certainly – toward the end-

conflict and warfare.”

Webster (Webster, Freter and Gonlin 2000; Webster 2002) agrees in general

terms, though he places a far greater emphasis on the material constraints of population,

deforestation and erosion in creating the central problem and regarding the competition of

elites as, if not epiphenomenal, then at least secondary to issues of agricultural production

and subsistence. This is in keeping with his view of the abandonment as a gradual,

centuries long process, rather than a calamitous collapse. He notes that evidence for

intentional destruction, violence or sudden abandonment is minimal at Copán, suggesting that Fash et al.’s argued terminal warfare never occurred or was of a vastly diminished scale. Disruption of trade patterns (as argued for many sites closer to the Petén core area) seems not to have been an issue because relatively few exotic goods seem to have ever been imported into Copán; nor does climate change appear to be a good fit since the proposed “megadrought” favored by some ignores stresses building up generations earlier and has little to no supporting evidence in this area.

Webster (2002) – Fall of the Ancient Maya

The view of the Maya “Collapse” put forward by Webster in 2002 for popular

consumption, is perhaps the most straightforward and coherent summation of current

perspectives available. As such, I will begin this section with a lengthy quotation, then 178

revisit the main points to flesh out the framework. We likely disagree on the relative importance of a few factors or the rate and degree of the subsequent decline, but are

otherwise in good accord. As he describes it (Webster 2002:212), “diversity is also

reflected in the local pacing, timing, and character of the collapse – exactly what we

should see given the political fragmentation and economic segmentation [of Classic

Maya society].” Rather than spending 30 pages summarizing a highly congruent version

of the “Collapse”, I refer the reader to Webster’s (2002:213-214) summation and mention

the few relevant points where I hold a slightly variant opinion.

“[H]ere, in a nutshell, is its pattern as we now understand it: 1. Beginning in the late 8th century, royal dynasties disappeared over a huge region of the southern Lowlands. This political debacle happened rapidly at particular centers, but required more than a century to affect the region as a whole. The process appears to manifest itself slightly earlier on the peripheries of the Classic Maya Lowlands (especially on the northwest); John Lowe, in his 1985 simulation, postulated an ‘implosion’ that progressed inward from the margins toward the old core regions around Tikal in the Petén. 2. Royal courts ceased to function as centers of dynastic power and cultural influence. Monuments were no longer carved, royal buildings were no longer constructed or maintained, and other elements the Classic Maya Great Tradition such as elaborate burials dwindled away, as did the production and exchange of sumptuary goods. The symbolic trappings of Classic kingship in particular disappeared very rapidly. 3. With some notable exceptions, major centers were abandoned without signs of widespread and severe violence or destruction. In many places monuments were subsequently destroyed or defaced, Classic buildings and tombs were robbed, and offerings were made among the ruins, either by local Postclassic peoples or by pilgrims from other areas. 4. At some polities non-royal elites and most or all of the supporting population disappeared at the same time as the kings lost power or very shortly thereafter. Elsewhere Maya nobles survived, as did rural farmers, for centuries. Even in the latter cases, however, few vestiges of the old Classic royal tradition retained much vitality. 5. The process of political disruption began at the time that ruling dynasties were more plentiful than ever before, when court centers were most numerous and imposing, and when overall population reached maximum size and density. 179

6. However long it took, a region that had supported some millions of people eventually lost most (but by no means all) of its population, leaving behind the all-but-deserted landscape that Cortes and his army later marched across in AD 1524 and 1525. 7. All these changes took place against a Late and Terminal Classic backdrop of environmental deterioration and intense warfare, although each of these differently affected particular centers and regions. 8. The region had not regained any appreciable proportion of its population even as late as 1697, when the Spaniards conquered the Itzá of NojPetén.”

With these essential, undisputed statements, Webster sets the background for his own complex model (see Fig. 28). In his conception, while many of the traditional elements of earlier models are implicated, he recognizes a much greater symbiosis between them; though if pressed, he might ultimately argue for overpopulation and agricultural degradation as the underlying cause. That rising population density was rooted in the initially good agricultural conditions and the ambitions of the divine kings, driving population growth and an increased scale of the kingdoms. Ultimately, however, continuous growth proved unsustainable; the increasing demand for food and other products forced an intensification and diversification of production. Even so, continually growing demand forced production practices into unsustainable levels, resulting in environmental degradation and lowered agrarian production efficiency. Once that occurred, a number of effects were possible, affecting different polities in diverse ways.

A system that has reached full carrying capacity is less able to react to adverse circumstances, making it increasingly vulnerable to food shortages resultant from natural effects (like droughts, hurricanes, or simply excessive population growth). Once food shortages begin to occur, history has amply demonstrated that social systems will begin to break down, with increasing warfare (both external – in search of new resources, and internal – in search of new distribution patterns); elites would have felt additional 180

Figure 28: Dynamics of the Classic Maya Collapse – (Webster 2002:328-329) 181

pressure to intercede, either through ritual or in a direct economic fashion. When that happened, and failed to mediate the problem, some members of the system would defect, thereby starting the process of demographic and political decline. Those who remained would begin to rethink the ideological basis of Maya kingship, further eroding the royal institution. As the system tipped over into general decline, the overall political decline would be exacerbated by a continuing demographic decline and the nearly complete abandonment of specific centers and regions.

I admire Webster’s appreciation of the complexities inherent to the factors leading to the political and demographic decline of the Classic southern Maya lowlands. I don’t actually dispute any of the interconnections he traces but would tend to tweak the model in order to provide a somewhat greater emphasis on the interactions among the various polities, a point addressed in his diagrammed model only through external warfare. This is probably understandable, in that his work at Copán, on the margins of the Classic heartland leads to a somewhat different dynamic than in the core regions where interconnections may well have been tighter. Additionally, I would note that while evidence for environmental degradation is strong at Copán, it is rather less apparent at most other Classic Maya centers. I actually tend to agree that increasing population led to agricultural intensification and environmental degradation at most centers, but the timing of that occurrence is ambiguous.

Given the temporal restriction of the “Collapse” to a few centuries, one has to postulate either a very balanced system, wherein each Maya polity outstripped its own productive system within about 200 years of each other, or specify a far greater level of interaction. Warfare was certainly part of it, and evidence of that (both direct and 182 inferential) is good for several regions, including the Petexbatún and the area around

Becan. My own personal feeling is that warfare is only a partial explanation of the

“domino effect” apparent in the “Collapse.” Nor are shifts in trade patterns a particularly useful explanation, seeing that no good evidence is forthcoming to demonstrate that individuals were unable to obtain critical resources that had once been available. If need be, alternative sources or alternate substances were available for essentially all exotic goods.

Rather, I would tend to place a somewhat greater emphasis on the role of shifting populations (Rice and Rice 2004:137-8; Demarest 2004:119-121). Historically (e.g.

Farriss 1984), ethnohistorically (e.g., Edmonson 1982:7) and archaeologically (e.g.,

Rockmore 1998), the Maya have always been characterized by their tendency to “vote with their feet.” I argue that, faced with clearly deteriorating conditions both politically and economically, some outmigration must be postulated, even if internal demographic processes were to account for the bulk of the depopulation. My feeling is that the outmigration may have begun as economic immigration, but also involved several small waves of refugees fleeing chronic violence and the subsequent economic disruption. The study of refugees as an anthropological endeavor is relatively recent (see Malkki 1995 for a review), but a number of useful studies exist that reflect the disruptive effects of refugee populations on their host societies.

Traditionally, newly maturing adults (one of the most productive elements of the economy) are the most likely to leave their natal areas in search of new opportunities

(e.g.,Taves 1959; Pedersen 1965; Yoesting and Bohlen 1968). This has the simultaneous effect of continuing to weaken an unstable system, and putting pressure on adjoining 183

systems to encompass the new migrants. New immigrants were likely welcome at first in

systems with resources to absorb them (Chambers 1986) – particularly in the face of the

threat of increasing militarism. As the original trickle of migrants from a particular area turned into a steady flow, and with an increasing presence of the elderly and children, the

movement of people begins to look less like an economic windfall for the host polity and

more like a drain on limited social resources.

Chambers (1986) notes a wide range of effects that rural refugees have on their

hosts, particularly the poorer members of the host society. Refugees “are likely to

deplete local food supplies and to drive up food prices” (Chambers 1986:249); they also

serve as a source of cheap labor, which may benefit those in a position to hire labor, but

disadvantages those members of the host society who subsist by selling their labor. It is

unclear how this would affect a system where labor is not fully commodified, however.

Similarly, influxes of refugees tend to place stress on many service providers, though,

again, lacking schools or formal health care it is uncertain how this would affect the

Classic Maya. More relevantly, “competition for common property resources … is likely

to be especially damaging for the poorer locals” (ibid:253). This includes such things as

the exploitation of trees for shelter and firewood, grass and reeds for thatching, wild

fruits, fish and game, as well as stress on water supplies. Chambers notes (1986:254) that

competition for common resources is the most common factor in open conflict between

refugees and their hosts and can lead to the expulsion of refugee groups. Refugees often

also serve as reservoirs for a variety of diseases and parasites (P. Rice and D. Rice

2004:137), as well as having higher incidences of psychological problems as a result of

the traumas leading to their refugee status (Malkki 1990:510). 184

The fact that Maya refugees may have had distant familial ties within the host

polity does not prevent them from providing a burden or even exacerbating existing

political splits within the community. Luciuk (1986:468) argues that the resettlement of refugees has many unintended consequences, particularly if the refugee population

“exhibits an ideological orientation or worldview that is at odds with that of the majority

of those in the receiving society.” Despite ostensibly similar cultural backgrounds, the

integration of refugees can be retarded by such differences; Luciuk argues that such

“attitudinal changes are most likely to occur among refugees cloistered together for a

length of time …, particularly if … exposed to the proselytizing activities of …

‘revolutionary activists’ … [or] ‘militant refugees’” (ibid:468). In the Maya case,

shifting ideological beliefs at this period may have proven divisive, impeding the easy

incorporation of refugees into host polities.

Refugees have always been a political problem (Basok 1990); it is difficult

ideologically to justify turning away harmless people in their hour of need, yet

accommodating large numbers may be insupportable from an economic standpoint.

Where new migrants were probably originally absorbed through kinship connections and,

in some cases through political patron-client relationships, this might well become impossible as numbers increase. Basok (1990) provides an interesting study of the constraints and interests that influence state policies on refugees. She argues (Basok

1990:744) that three basic factors: “economic conditions, national security concerns and public attitudes – contributed to the formulation of the government policy.” Restrictions on refugee movements increased when their presence worsened already severe economic problems, when it was feared that they would spread unwanted ideological views, and 185 when they arrived from regions with a tense political and historical relationship with their host nation. I suggest that all three of these processes may well have been occurring in the Maya lowlands during the Terminal Classic period.

It may be that the largest part of the regional depopulation is attributable simply to internal demographic processes – increases in mortality rates and/or decreases in fertility rates. However, it seems likely to me that at least one part of the process of depopulation occurred in the form of waves of outmigration. This is one of the simplest means of explaining a systematic regional collapse without requiring an ecological disaster. The possibility exists that even polities not at their carrying capacity could be swamped by the exodus from sites elsewhere, such that a rapid spike in local population pushed an originally more or less stable polity into the overall systemic collapse.

Attempts to keep refugees out may have been tried, but because refugee groups may well have been organized as substantial bodies of desperate people (perhaps complete lineage groups or villages), some disruption was likely inevitable, if only in the form of raiding on outlying villages and fields. This, in itself, may well have been an important trigger in the social and political reorganization of populations in the region. As some of the smaller, yet stable and defensively located, polities failed to reach the critical point of systemic collapse, they were likely to have been forced back into denser nucleated and fortified settlements generally unable to withstand an extended siege but protected from opportunistically marauding groups.

Eventually, of course, refugees would cease to be a major problem – through death, absorption into continuing polities, or a departure from the region. The newly developed Postclassic systems might conceivably have then returned to a Classic 186 settlement system. However, having reached a dearly bought stability at a new population level, reversion would have been risky and probably discouraged by the new elite in their fortified towns and by raids on outlying settlements from other groups or sites. As a result, any dispersal back out of the new centers would likely have been slow.

This is, of course, very nearly a just so story, but is one of the best ways to account for the shift to new settlement systems in the core area while simultaneously addressing the depopulation of the region. 187

Chapter 5: The 2003 Field Season at San Jerónimo II

The geographic setting of San Jerónimo II (see Figs. 3 and 4) was described in

Chapter 1, and I refer readers to that section (particularly pages 38-39). The site was

brought to the attention of archaeologists only during the 1999 field season of the

Proyecto Maya Colonial; it was first documented as part of a survey I undertook in search

of the 18th century colonial mission site of San Jerónimo. It was located through a

combination of on the ground archaeological survey and ethnographic interviews. The

site was considered to be a strong possibility for the location of a colonial settlement,

which led me to target it for excavation in 2003.

The archaeological data included in this section were collected from the site of

San Jerónimo II during the 2003 field season, with active excavations taking place between March 17 and July 8 of that year. The field crew consisted of myself, two advanced students of the Centro Universitario de El Petén (CUDEP), and five experienced local archaeological workmen.

The three structural groups of the site lie on property owned by two landowners.

Operation 1 (Str. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9A and 9B) is located on the property of Don Adan

Regalado, a former governor of the Department of El Péten. He was very cooperative in allowing access to his land, and fieldwork in Operation 1 commenced on March 17.

Operations 2 (Str. 1A, 1B, and 1C) and 3 (Str. 2, 3A, and 3B) lie on the property of an evangelical Christian missionary group, Corazones en Acción; permission to excavate in those groups was more difficult to obtain, but was eventually received. Excavations shifted from Operation 1 to Operation 2 on April 11 and continued there until May 21, at which time we began excavations at Operation 3. The landowners had stipulated that we 188

stop excavating on their land by the 22nd of June since they were planning to erect an

orienteering course on the land for use by the group. As a result, we had backfilled in

Operations 2 and 3 by that date and returned to Operation 1 to complete excavations around Strs. 9A and 9B. The field season was ended on July 7, by which time all excavations had been backfilled, the artifacts had been washed, and were transported into the lab shortly thereafter.

Broad horizontal excavations were made on 13 structures, adjoining spaces and several associated features. As mandated by the research design and in our permit from the Instituto de Antropologia e Historia (IDAEH), the majority of our units were excavated to a depth of less than 30 cm below ground surface and even the limited number of test pits were less than one m in depth. This was feasible largely because pedogenesis at the site is slow (e.g., we encountered Classic period floors less than 20 cm below modern ground level in several areas). This obviously has both advantages and disadvantages; the shallow nature of our excavations facilitated extensive exposures but resulted in generally poor preservation of the recovered artifacts and made stratigraphic analysis extremely difficult.

With the exception of certain specific contexts (e.g., the chultun), each of the

1000 excavated lots represents a single natural level within a 1 m X 1 m unit, and each lot has a unique number. This level of spatial control is intentionally consistent with prior projects in the region for reasons of comparability. The grid does not directly tie all three operations; in a concession to the steep terrain and the distinct landowners, the grid for

Operation 1 is not connected with the grid used for Operations 2 and 3. Nevertheless, the grid numbers assigned (e.g., N150 E250) are good approximations of the respective 189

positions of the operations (thus, Operation 2 does lie approximately 100 m north and

130 m east of Operation 1 as the numbers suggest). Excavation was undertaken with

trowel and hand pick and all excavated soil was screened through ¼” mesh for similar reasons. In retrospect, a smaller mesh might have been advisable for certain contexts

(e.g., the lithic workshop at Str. 3A), but consistency has its advantages.

All recovered artifacts were retained and are currently in storage in the ceramic

analysis lab at CUDEP. Artifacts were washed in the field and are bagged separately by

lot number and have been separated by artifact type (i.e., ceramic, lithic, shell, etc.) for

analytical purposes. Basic artifact analysis was undertaken at the close of the field

season and continued from July 9 until August 26, 2003 at our lab space at CUDEP. As

specified in the permit from IDAEH, all excavations were backfilled at the end of the

field season to protect the structures from unnecessary erosion. Because the site is very

small and of essentially no potential for tourism, no restoration was undertaken, though

we attempted to prevent any damage to the basic wall lines of the structures. A more

detailed description of the methodology used in both the field and laboratory is provided

in Appendix B.

The excavations are described on a structure-by-structure basis. Each structure is

first described by its gross architectural characteristics, followed by a summary of the

artifactual remains recovered (The artifacts are dealt with in greater depth by material

type in later sections). Finally, conclusions are then drawn about the chronology of the

structure as well as its function as a stand-alone unit within its operation, and within the

site as a whole. Excavations were organized by the spatial patterning of the site and by

the land ownership. In the following section, these larger groupings are referred to as 190

“operations”, but this was an after the fact change in nomenclature; in the field notes they

are variably referred to as groups or clusters, but “operation” is a more accurate term with

regards to the actual excavation patterns.

OPERATION 1

The first group of structures is located at the southwestern portion of the site (see

Fig. 29). It is situated closer to the modern structures on the site than the other operations

and has seen the greatest degree of disturbance, having been partially destroyed through

the construction of a road and three modern structures to the north and east. It seems clear that several other pre-modern structures were destroyed during this latest construction episode, and moderate to severe damage was inflicted on the remaining ones. The most significant aspects of that damage are twofold. First, the bulldozer cut creating the road deposited significant amounts of fill over the northern portion of Str. 4.

This fill included at least one boulder, as well as over one m of overburden, so only the southern portion of Str. 4 was excavated. Second, much of the remaining area (except around Strs. 9A and 9B) had been utilized as a garden for at least the five years before excavation. While subsurface disturbance was generally minimal, the wall stones (almost all of which would have been visible on the surface) were collected into piles near the

road cut or around the bases of trees. Mounds are visible at each structure, but defining

the exact lines of the walls is impossible. In fact, in the case of Strs. 5, 6, and 7, the exact

number of buildings involved is uncertain. From the distribution of the mounds and their

elevational differences, I believe there are three separate structures, but it is possible that all three were part of a single complex structure. 191

Figure 29: Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 192

Operation 1 (see Fig. 29) contains seven structures divisible into three smaller clusters (possibly each representing a residential group) all located on a single large platform. The operation was excavated in three sections (that could be called suboperations) corresponding to the three smaller groupings. The largest suboperation is comprised of Strs. 5, 6, 7, and 8. The second suboperation is made up of Strs. 9A and

9B, and the last consists of the isolated Str. 4. The geographic setting of the site has been described elsewhere (physical setting, p. 19), but it should be reiterated here that artificial leveling was required to provide space for any significant structure on this sloping hillside.

Suboperation 1A – Str. 4

Construction Features:

The northern portion of Str. 4 (see Fig. 30) is covered by overburden from the bulldozer-cut road leading to the site, so the exact dimensions of the roughly rectangular structure are uncertain. Its long axis is oriented roughly 45 degrees east of north. The shorter axis is approximately 1.75 m wide while the longer axis is minimally 4 m in length (at a guess, the longer axis was originally between 5 and 6 m in length). This

provides a minimum internal area of 7 square m, and more probably 9 or 10 square m.

The wall stones are mostly missing, except for a few at the southwestern end. The

remaining stones are mostly small, with the largest being only 40 cm by 26 cm in plan

view. The raised mass of earth and stones is quite apparent, averaging about 30 cm in

height above the surrounding slope. Despite its location on an artificial platform, Str. 4

has a notable slope (as does the platform itself in this region) with the northeastern

portion being higher than the southwestern. Str. 4 is located roughly 9 m west of Str. 5 193

Figure 30: Str. 4, Subgroup 1A, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 194

and roughly 18 m north of Str. 9B (and thus perhaps 30 m north of the lake itself).

Associated Features:

The structure lacks any obvious architectural features (i.e., doorways, staircases, hearths) and stands separate from the other structures of Operation 1.

Excavation Units:

Excavations on this structure covered 14 1 m X 1 m units (from N51 E103 in the southwest to N54 E106 in the northeast, not including N54 E103 or N54 E104).

Total Number of Square Meters Exposed:

Two levels were excavated in all 14 units (from 13 to 20 cm in total depth) and a test pit was excavated in a more or less central unit (N52 E104) to nine levels down (94 cm below surface level).

Total Volume Excavated:

The first level (humus) varied in thickness from 4-12 cm, and the second (a dark gray soil) ranged from 6-12 cm in thickness, with level two being, on average, slightly thicker than level 1. This provides us with a total of 35 lots associated with Str. 4, and a total volume of approximately 3 m³ of soil excavated.

Ceramics:

These excavations yielded 187 sherds (5.34/lot, 62.33/m³) larger than a quarter.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS SHERDS RECOVERED FREQUENCY Sherds of Unknown Date 116 62.0 % Postclassic Sherds 16 8.6 % Late / Terminal Classic Sherds 48 25.7 % Early Classic Sherds 1 0.5 % Late Preclassic Sherds 5 2.7 % Middle Preclassic Sherds 1 0.5 % Total 187 100.0%

Table 6: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 4 195

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 107 57.2% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 2 1.1% Striated 7 3.7% Total Undated 116 62.0% Pozo Unslipped 10 5.3% Paxcaman Red 3 1.6% Maskall Unslipped 2 1.1% Postclassic Censer Spall 1 0.5% Total Postclassic 16 8.6% Volcanic Ash Tempered 41 21.9% Classic Red-slipped Types 2 1.1% Encanto Striated 2 1.1% Fine Orange 1 0.5% Late / Terminal Classic Figurine 1 0.5% Gouged incised type 1 0.5% Total Late/Terminal Classic 48 25.7% Triunfo Striated 1 0.5% Total Early Classic 1 0.5% Polvero Black 2 1.1% Sierra Red 1 0.5% Chunhinta Black 1 0.5% Flor Cream 1 0.5% Total Late Preclassic 5 2.7% Middle Preclassic Unslipped 1 0.5%

Table 7: Ceramics by Type from Str. 4

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 10 55.6% Bowl 4 22.2% Olla 3 16.7% Incurved Rim Basin 1 5.55%

Table 8: Rimsherds from Str. 4 by Form

196

Lithics:

Only 43 lithics (1.2/lot, 14.33/m³) were recovered from this structure. The lithics

recovered from the structure tell us relatively little. They were both scarce, and

distributed more or less evenly across the structure (no lot contained more than four lithics). There were only four possible unfinished chert tools, including what might be an arrowhead preform.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Possible flake tool or preform 4 9.3% Flake – larger than 2 inches 1 2.3% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 8 18.6% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 24 55.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 6 14.0% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 9: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 4

Other Artifacts:

Other artifact types recovered included seven pieces of obsidian (0.2/lot, 2.33/m³),

10 pieces of shell and a lone fragment of crystal.

Obsidian:

The seven pieces of obsidian included one formal arrowhead (small, side notched

and apparently lost during washing – see Fig. 64 - N51 E105), five prismatic blade

fragments and a flake; five of the six tentatively sourced artifacts (Braswell et al. 2000)

derive from the San Martin Jilotepeque source and the other from El Chayal.

Shell:

The shell from Str. 4 includes five intrusive specimens of a ubiquitous terrestrial

snail that was normally not collected by the project, three specimens of jute (all showing

signs of having been consumed), and two fragments of Snail B. 197

The crystal fragment, like all other such specimens from the site, is a gypsum

crystal of a type naturally occurring in the region and may be a simple ecofact. It should be noted in passing that no ground stone artifacts were recovered from Str. 4, nor were there any net weights among the ceramic assemblage from this structure.

Chronological Interpretations:

From the ceramic data, one might reasonably conclude that the underlying platform/leveled area is Preclassic in date (readily supported by similar finds elsewhere in the operation). The structure itself appears to have been in use during both the

Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods, with the majority of diagnostic sherds (54 of 78 – 69%) falling in the earlier period, and only 15 of 78 (19%) securely attributable to the Postclassic.

Functional Interpretations:

From a functional perspective, the ceramics recovered are indicative of a primarily storage role. Of the 18 rim sherds recovered, 10 appear to have come from jars, three from ollas and the remaining five from bowls (including one wide-mouthed, incurved rim bowl, of a sort sometimes termed basins). Nine of these sherds are datable to the Late or Terminal Classic, two to the Postclassic, one to the Middle Preclassic, and the remaining six are of indeterminate age. It would appear from the relative dearth of decorated ceramics, plate/dish forms and ritual items that this structure was most likely used for storage, rather than residential, purposes. Few tools, lithic or ceramic, were recovered, and this structure may be best considered an adjunct to one or both of the residential suboperations within the operation. 198

Suboperation 1B

This suboperation (see Fig. 31) lies at the northern and eastern edge of the group

and consists of several (probably four) small structures three of which (Strs. 6, 7, 8)

define the sides of a small plazuela. Str. 5 is the farthest north, with Str. 6 adjoining it

immediately to the south. Str. 7 defines the southern edge of the suboperation and Str. 8

falls in the southeastern corner of the group. Str. 6 is the largest of the four structures and

the other three structures are each quite small. Str. 8 is clearly separate from the other

structures, standing several m to the east. All four structures have been mostly stripped

of their wall stones and, since the group is located on a gentle incline, the elevational

differences and proximity make separating the other three structures difficult.

Str. 5

Construction Features:

Str. 5 (see Fig. 32), a low mound, appears to have originally been a small

rectangular structure about 4 m in length by 2 m in width. These figures are approximate,

but are probably correct to within 25 cm. The structure is oriented with the long axis

running roughly NW-SE, with the northernmost corner lying at roughly N54 E115 and the southernmost corner near the center of the N52 E116 unit. Most of the wall stones

have been removed, though enough remain to hint at the initial wall lines. Apart from these, no formal architectural features were found during the excavation process.

Associated Features:

Two features (possible hearths) were identified on the southwestern part of the structure (see Fig. 32), and are defined solely on the basis of irregular patches of light 199

Figure 31: Subgroup 1B, Strs. 5-8, San Jerónimo II 200

Figure 32: Str. 5, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 201

gray, ashy soil within the darker, organic matrix; one was considerably larger than the

other, though neither was particularly well defined and no particular concentration of

artifacts was recovered. Soil samples were taken, but have not undergone any particular

analysis. No artifact concentrations were associated with these features.

Excavation Units:

Str. 5 (see Fig. 32) includes 18 excavated 1m by 1m units, with the northwestern

unit being N55 E114, and the southeastern being N52 E118. These units include a

limited amount of the ambient space immediately adjoining the structure, particularly in

the south and west, and the separation between Str. 5 and Str. 6 is somewhat arbitrary in

its location.

Total number of square meters exposed:

No test pit was excavated within this small structure, so that with two levels of

excavation, Str. 5 is defined by 36 lots that expose 18 m².

Total Volume Excavated:

Level 1, the humus layer, ranged in thickness between 3 and 10 cm, with the majority of units falling in the 5-7 cm range. The second level, a somewhat lighter colored but still heavily organic layer, ranged similarly between 3 and 10 cm in thickness and tended to be thinner on the structure itself (mostly 4-6 cm) than in the ambient spaces

(mostly 6-9 cm). In total, unit excavations on this structure ranged in depth from a low of

6 cm to a high of 18 cm, with the average falling at 11.5 cm (for a total of 2.07 m³

excavated).

202

Ceramics:

Artifacts found in these 36 lots included 225 sherds (6.25/lot or 108.7/m³).

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS SHERDS RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 101 44.9 % Postclassic Ceramics 56 24.9 % Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 68 30.2 % Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0 % Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0 % Total 225 100.0% Table 10: Temporal Breakdown of Sherds from Str. 5.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 86 38.2% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 6 2.7% Striated 9 4.0% Total Undated 101 44.9% Pozo Unslipped 34 15.1% Snail Inclusion Paste 9 4.0% Paxcaman Red 5 2.2% Maskall Unslipped 5 2.2% Chilo Unslipped 1 0.4% Postclassic censer base 1 0.4% Postclassic effigy censer fragment 1 0.4% Total Postclassic 56 24.9% Volcanic Ash Tempered 58 25.8% Classic Red-slipped Types 3 1.3% Encanto Striated 2 0.9% Fine Orange 1 0.4% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.4% Cameron Incised 1 0.4% Gouged incised type 1 0.4% Tepeu 1 Unslipped - pinkish paste 1 0.4% Total Late/Terminal Classic 68 30.2%

Table 11: Ceramics by Type from Str. 5

203

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Olla 10 37.0% Jar 7 25.9% Bowl 5 18.5% Incurved Rim Basin 2 7.4% Vase 1 3.7% Tripod Dish 1 3.7% Censer 1 3.7% Table 12: Rimsherds from Str. 5 by Form

Lithics:

Only 55 lithics (1.53/lot or 26.57/m³) were recovered from Str. 5. As at Str. 4, the lithics from Str. 5 provide relatively little information. Of the 55 pieces of chert recovered, eight represent possible tool fragments (probably blade fragments), though none are complete, formal tools. No obvious spatial patterning was present, and no single unit contained more than six pieces of chert.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Possible flake tool or preform 8 14.5% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 11 20.0% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 31 56.4% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 5 9.1% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 13: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 5

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

Two obsidian prismatic blades (.056/lot or 0.97/m³) were recovered from this structure. Both obsidian pieces represent prismatic blades derived from the San Martin

Jilotepeque source. This source is notable for high concentrations of tiny inclusions, making it simultaneously relatively unattractive and reducing its ability to hold a keen 204

edge. Unusually, one of the prismatic blades was recovered complete with relatively

little indication of use.

Shell:

Seven pieces of shell and a lone fragment of gypsum crystal were found at Str. 5.

Five of the seven pieces of shell recovered here were jute (Pachychilus spp.) showing

signs of having been eaten, four of them recovered from a single lot (N55 E114 level 2).

The remaining two shell fragments are from one or two Pomacea snails and were located

in N54 E115 level 2.

Functional Interpretations:

The ceramics recovered suggest a possible role in food preparation, with a

relatively high proportion of unslipped wares. The rims recovered from this structure (n=

27) support such an analysis, with 10 representing olla forms, seven bowl forms, five jar

forms, two incurved-rim bowls/basins, and one each of vase, tripod dish and censer

forms. Together with the indications of localized burning, the artifact assemblage

suggests the structure may be best understood as a small kitchen, though the lack of any ground stone fragments from this structure throws some doubt on that identification.

Chronological Interpretations:

Ceramic types recovered indicate that this structure was occupied in the

Late/Terminal Classic into the Postclassic period. Str. 5 is somewhat unusual among our

sample in having some sparse indications of Late Postclassic occupation (including a

censer adorno and a sherd of Chilo Unslipped, both recovered from level 1 lots). No

Preclassic sherds were recovered, but that is likely attributable to the fact that no test pit

was excavated. The one Early Late Classic sherd (Tepeu 1 Unslipped with a pinkish 205

paste) was identified by Dr. Prudence Rice (pers. comm. 2003); she was unable to

examine every lot, and additional examples of this unslipped type were likely present elsewhere at the site (and possibly within the structure) in low frequencies, but went unidentified by the author.

Str. 6

Construction Features:

Str. 6 (see Fig. 33) is the largest building in this subgroup, extending approximately from N51 to N46 and from E115 to E118. It seems to be aligned, at least roughly, to the cardinal directions, with the main axis approximating a N-S line, though my best reconstruction suggests it actually deviates somewhat west of north. As with Str.

5, all such attempts at reconstruction are complicated by a near complete lack of

substantial wall stones. The structure slopes substantially downward from north to south,

dropping only 10 cm over the northernmost 2 m, but losing an additional 50 cm in

elevation over the remaining 3m in a gradual slope. It is possible that the structure originally was constructed with two levels, but if so time and erosion have largely eliminated that distinction. Again, no formal architectural features were identified, and indeed, the separation between Str. 6 and Str. 7 is difficult to place.

Associated Features:

There was a small patch of ashy soil, possibly indicating a hearth (or the ashes from a hearth) located in the center of N47 E116, adjacent to a likely midden deposit.

Distribution of artifacts within the structure was distinctly uneven. One artifact concentration is in the southwestern part of the structure, where units N46 E115, N47 206

Figure 33: Str. 6, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 207

ceramic assemblage (with the three cited units containing 97 sherds in six lots; 16% of

the total); thus, this spot probably represents a small sheet midden.

Excavation Units:

Str. 6 (see Fig. 33) is comprised of 28 1m X 1m units, (with the four corners being

N51 E115, N51 E118, N46 E115, N46 E118, plus N46 E114, N47 E114, N46 E119, and

N47 E119) each with two excavated levels, one of which (N49 E117) was extended into a

test pit bottoming out at level 10.

Total number of square meters exposed:

Sixty-four lots are attributable to Str. 6, and 28 m² of occupation surface were exposed.

Total volume excavated:

The level one excavations (humus) varied in depth from 2 cm to 11 cm with an average thickness of a little less than 6 cm. Level two excavations ranged in depth from

2 to 15 cm with an average thickness of just under 6 cm. With the test pit added in, the total soil removed during excavations on Str. 6 was 3.97 m³.

Ceramics:

The artifact assemblage from the 64 constituent lots of Str. 6 included 606

(9.47/lot or 152.6/m³) sherds unevenly distributed across the structure. For example, 215 of the 606 sherds (35%) come from the lower six levels of the test pit and another 97

(16%) from six lots in the midden area.

208

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS SHERDS RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 310 51.2% Postclassic Ceramics 85 14.0% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 210 34.7% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 1 0.2% Total 606 100.1%

Table 14: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 6

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 256 42.2% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 6 1.0% Striated 48 7.9% Total Undated 310 51.2% Pozo Unslipped 44 7.3% Paxcaman Red 25 4.1% Snail Inclusion Paste 13 2.1% Maskall Unslipped 2 0.3% Postclassic censer base 1 0.2% Total Postclassic 85 14.0% Volcanic Ash Tempered 150 24.8% Classic Red-slipped Types 34 5.6% Encanto Striated 15 2.5% Fine Orange 3 0.5% Achote Black 2 0.3% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.2% Cameron Incised 1 0.2% Chaquiste Impressed 1 0.2% Tepeu 1 Unslipped - pinkish paste 2 0.3% Tepeu 1 Polychrome 1 0.2% Total Late/Terminal Classic 210 34.7% Sierra Red 1 0.2% Total Late Preclassic 1 0.2%

Table 15: Ceramics by Type from Str. 6

209

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 19 38.0% Bowl 14 28.0% Incurved Rim Basin 7 14.0% Olla 6 12.0% Vase 1 2.0% Plate 1 2.0% Censer 1 2.0% Unidentifiable 1 2.0% Table 16: Rimsherds from Str. 6 by Form

A spindle rest constructed from an ash paste sherd was also recovered from this

structure.

Lithics:

Some 561 lithics (8.75/lot or 141.1/m³) were recovered from Str. 6. The lithics

were concentrated in a small sheet midden in the southwestern part of the structure.

Units N46 E115, N47 E115, and N48 E115 contained 249 of the 561 lithics (44%) and the bulk of the remaining lithics were in adjacent units. Most of these artifacts consist of small (< 1 inch) flakes of chert and presumably represent debris from one or two sessions of lithic tool production removed to a (probably) secondary deposit. Given the generally small (but not tiny) size of the flakes involved, it seems likely that the production involved producing tools from a pre-prepared blank or core. A lack of formal tools at the structure makes it difficult to assess what was being produced. Further analysis will be necessary to identify the precise nature of production involved.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Possible flake tool or preform 16 2.9% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 85 15.2% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 295 52.6% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 155 27.6% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 10 1.8% Table 17: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 6 210

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

Nine pieces of obsidian (0.14/lot or 2.27/m³) were found at Str. 6. The obsidian

was mostly recovered toward the southern (downhill) part of the structure, though it was

not particularly concentrated. Once again, it was nearly uniformly in the form of prismatic blade fragments, with two possible flakes found. Sources were variable, with

five probably attributable to Jilotepeque, two to Ixtepeque, and two to El Chayal.

Shell:

The eight fragments of shell (0.125/lot or 2.02/m³) recovered from Str. 6 included

five fragments of Snail A (possibly Euglandina cylindracea), two fragments of Pomacea,

and a lone olive shell (Oliva sp?). All of the shell was found in the test pit (N49 E117,

with no more than two fragments per level), with the exception of the olive shell (N46

E114) and a single Snail A fragment (N46 E116).

Other:

The remainder of the artifact assemblage from Str. 5 includes three fragments of

crystal, two pieces of modern plastic, a piece of a polished stone vessel, and a fragment

of animal bone. The lone piece of faunal material was a scapula fragment from a

medium-sized quadruped (possibly dog) located from the southeastern segment of the

excavations (effectively in the space between Strs. 6, 7 and 8), and cannot be securely

tied to this structure. The fragment of polished stone vessel is a pale greenish white rim

fragment from a small polished stone cylinder vase and was recovered from level 7 of the

test pit (N49 E117).

211

Functional Interpretations:

Functional analysis of the ceramics (as well as simply the size of the structure in comparison with the other members of the suboperation) suggests that this structure served as the primary residential focus of the suboperation. A higher degree of diversity in ceramic forms seems to suggest a more generalized usage of this structure. Of 50 rimsherds recovered from this structure, 19 were classified as belonging to jar forms, 14 as bowls, seven as incurved rim bowls/basins, six as ollas, and one each as a plate, a vase and a censer. One other was too small to classify. The ratio of slipped to unslipped forms is slightly higher in this structure than in Str. 5 (if still low), suggesting a role as serving vessels, rather than cooking or storage vessels. The lithic production suggested by the sheet midden is of a small scale, probably for immediate household consumption.

Chronological Interpretations:

This structure is chronologically consistent with the rest of the suboperation. The primary occupation appears to be Late to Terminal Classic and continued into the Early

Postclassic. Minor indications of earlier occupations in the Late Preclassic were found, but the design of the excavations did not favor the recovery of much early material.

Str. 7

Construction Features:

Str. 7 (see Fig. 34) is located immediately adjacent to the southern edge of Str. 6, slanting away from the northwest to the southeast. The long axis of this basically rectangular structure runs from N45 E115 in the northwest to N42 E118 in the southwest and is approximately two m across. Wall stones of this structure are only preserved at the northwest corner, so once again defining shape and size is difficult. The structure slopes 212 gently downhill from northwest to southeast, dropping approximately 25 cm over the span of its three m length.

Associated Features:

Formal architectural features are missing (or more probably have been destroyed), but another area of ashy soil was located at the extreme southern edge of the excavations in the southern half of N42 E118 and N42 E119, and appears to continue further south

(out of our excavation area). No strong spatial patterning was observed in the distribution of artifacts, though concentrations are slightly higher in the northwestern portion of the excavations, possibly indicating a tail of the sheet midden found on Str. 6.

Excavation Units:

Nineteen units are included in this excavation area (see Fig. 34), ranging from

N45 E115 in the northwest to N45 E120 in the northeast and N42 E121 in the southwest.

This excavation area includes some ambient space to the west of the structure. The border drawn between Str. 7 and Str. 8 is somewhat arbitrary, though an effort was made to divide the intervening space more or less evenly. The difficulty in separating Strs. 6 and 7 has already been discussed.

Total number of square meters exposed:

The excavation area pertaining to Str. 7 consists of 19 1 m X 1 m units, each dug through two levels.

Total volume excavated:

Level one excavations ranged between 2 and 11 cm with an average of 5.35 cm. In level two, the excavations ranged between 3 and 10 cm in thickness, averaging 7.25 cm.

Some 2.37 m³ of soil were excavated from this structure. 213

Figure 34: Str. 7, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 214

Ceramics:

Some 337 sherds (8.87/lot or 142.2/m³) were found at Str. 7.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 188 55.8% Postclassic Ceramics 62 18.4 % Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 85 25.2% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 2 0.6% Total 337 100.0% Table 18: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 7

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 169 50.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 2 0.6% Striated 17 5.0% Total Undated 188 55.8% Pozo Unslipped 31 9.2% Paxcaman Red 4 1.2% Snail Inclusion Paste 19 5.6% Maskall Unslipped 4 1.2% Picú Incised 1 0.3% Censer Spall 1 0.3% Postclassic censer base 1 0.3% Animal Effigy Support 1 0.3% Total Postclassic 62 18.4% Volcanic Ash Tempered 64 19.0% Classic Red-slipped Types 8 2.4% Encanto Striated 4 1.2% Fine Orange 1 0.3% Late /Terminal Classic Censer 1 0.3% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.3% Cameron Incised 2 0.6% Jato Black On Gray 1 0.3% Gouged-Incised 2 0.6% Subin Red 1 0.3% Total Late/Terminal Classic 85 25.2% Sierra Red 2 0.6% Total Late Preclassic 2 0.6% Table 19: Ceramics by Type from Str. 7

215

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 8 26.7% Jar 7 23.3% Incurved Rim Basin 6 20.0% Olla 4 13.3% Dish 2 6.7% Censer 1 3.3% Plate 1 3.3% Vase 1 3.3%

Table 20: Rimsherds from Str. 7 by Form

Lithics:

A total of 192 lithics (5.05/lot or 81.0/m³) was recovered from the 38 constituent lots. The lithics from this structure are relatively uninformative because they are widely distributed across the structure, quite variable in size (table 21), and include no formal tools.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Possible flake tool or preform 7 3.6% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 44 22.9% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 88 45.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 54 28.1% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 2 1.0%

Table 21: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 7

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

The nine pieces (0.24/lot or 3.80/m³) of obsidian recovered from the structure consist of four pieces from Jilotepeque, three from El Chayal and two from Ixtepeque. 216

Seven of the nine pieces represent prismatic blades and the other two are flakes (both

from San Martin Jilotepeque).

Ground stone:

The lone ground stone specimen from this structure is a metate fragment from an

unusual red-brown metamorphic stone recovered from the first level of N44 E119

(effectively the center of the structure).

Functional Interpretations:

A wide range of ceramic forms was recovered. Eight functional classes were

identified among the 30 rim sherds (see table 20), with bowls, jars and basins being

nearly equally represented. Such a broad range of forms implies a generalized use of some sort, possibly for storage given the frequency of jars and basins. The relatively small size of the structure suggests it probably was never used as a primary residence.

The few censer fragments might suggest ritual use of the building, and it is possible that the structure may have contained a small household shrine. My best interpretation, though, is that this structure was used primarily for storage. That interpretation is based on the probable functions of the other structures in the group as much as the artifact assemblage and remains debatable.

Chronological Interpretations:

The structure is in solid chronological agreement with the other structures of the group. Primary occupation fell in the Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic, though traces of an earlier occupation exist.

217

Str. 8

Construction Features:

Str. 8 (see Fig. 35) is a small, nearly square, structure, approximately 2.25 m to a side, located immediately to the northeast of Str. 7 and due east of Str. 6. The structure, while small, has slightly greater relief and visibility than the others in the subgroup. This mound is distinctly separated from Str. 7, though the attribution of lots to one structure or the other is somewhat arbitrary because the intervening space was excavated. The orientation of this structure is difficult to ascertain; alignment of the remaining stones suggests that, like Str. 7, it is aligned in a roughly NW-SE direction. The rounded corners of the structure, presumably attributable to erosion following the removal of the wall stones, make determining the precise structural alignment impossible.

Associated Features:

No formal architectural features remain, and as with the other structures in this suboperation, the majority of wall stones are missing. This structure shows evidence of modern disturbance (mostly in the NW portion of the excavation). There was an area of obviously recent burning in the NW portion (apparently of household trash) and artifacts from that surface burning were noted, but not retained during the initial site clearing.

Modern artifacts recovered from the excavations included two fragments of concrete and a piece of plastic. The two concrete fragments are both from the region in question (N46

E120 and N47 E120) while the plastic (a fragment of a girls headband) was slightly to the

SE (N45 E121).

218

Figure 35: Str. 8, Subgroup 1B, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 219

Excavation Units:

Str. 8 is defined to include the excavated area in the southeastern area of the subgroup (see Fig. 35). This is a roughly rectangular space 5m long by 3m wide, with the northwest unit being N47 E119 and the southeast unit being N45 E124. The southwest unit of this rectangle (N45 E119) pertains to Str. 7, but the adjoining units N44 E121 and

N43 E121 are included in the Str. 8 excavations.

Total number of square meters exposed:

Excavations on this structure included two levels of excavation in each of the 16 constituent 1m X 1m units, plus a test pit extending through the center of the structure

(N46 E122) down to level 9 (ending at a thick, Preclassic plaster floor). There are 39 lots associated with Str. 8.

Total volume excavated:

Level 1 excavations (humus) ranged in depth from 4 to 14 cm, averaging 9.1 cm, while Level 2 excavations ranged from 2 to 17 cm in thickness, averaging 8.7 cm. In total, 3.50 m³ of soil were removed from this structure during the excavation process.

Ceramics:

Five hundred and nine sherds (13.05/lot or 145.4/m³) were recovered from this structure. These included a single net weight made from a sherd of snail-inclusion paste ceramics but no other clearly reused sherds. All but two of the 22 Late Preclassic sherds derive from levels 5 through 9 of the test pit (N46 E122) and thereby effectively date the underlying platform.

220

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 277 54.4% Postclassic Ceramics 92 18.1% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 117 23.0% Early Classic Ceramics 1 0.2% Late Preclassic Ceramics 22 4.3% Total 509 100% Table 22: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 8.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 242 47.5% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 7 1.4% Striated 28 5.5% Total Undated 277 54.4% Pozo Unslipped 53 10.4% Paxcaman Red 12 2.4% Snail Inclusion Paste 12 2.4% Postclassic censer base 6 1.2% Maskall Unslipped 4 0.8% Picú Incised 1 0.2% Augustine Red 3 0.6% Benque Viejo Polychrome 1 0.2% Total Postclassic 92 16.9% Volcanic Ash Tempered 87 17.1% Classic Red-slipped Types 20 3.9% Encanto Striated 6 1.2% Achote Black 2 0.4% Jato Black On Gray 1 0.2% Subin Red 1 0.2% Total Late/Terminal Classic 117 24.2% Triunfo Striated 1 0.2% Total Early Classic 1 0.2% Sierra Red 13 2.6% Guitarra Red 2 0.4% Flor Cream 3 0.6% Chicanel Dichrome 1 0.2% Polvero Black 3 0.6% Total Late Preclassic 22 4.3%

Table 23: Ceramics by Type from Str. 8

221

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 12 29.3% Olla 8 19.5% Jar 7 17.1% Censer 6 14.6% Incurved Rim Basin 2 4.9% Dish 2 4.9% Plate 1 2.4% Tecomate 1 2.4% Vase 1 2.4% Unknown 1 2.4%

Table 24: Rimsherds from Str. 8 by Form

Lithics:

Only 106 lithics (2.72/lot or 30.3/m³) were recovered from these 39 lots. No

particularly strong distributional patterns were observed in the lithics from the structure.

Lithics were slightly more common on the downhill (southern) slope than the uphill slope, but the pattern was hardly strong enough to make any arguments about activity areas. Even the unit with the greatest number of lithics had only 11, and formal tools were lacking.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Possible flake tool or preform 2 1.9% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 15 14.2% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 56 52.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 30 28.3% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 3 2.8%

Table 25: Distribution of Lithic types at Str. 8

222

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

A single obsidian prismatic blade fragment (0.03/lot or 0.3/m³) from the

Ixtepeque source was recovered at Str. 8. This specimen was retrieved from level 8 of

the test pit (N46 E122) where it was accompanied by a mixture of Postclassic, Classic

and Preclassic ceramics.

Shell:

The 11 pieces of shell (0.28/lot or 3.14/m³) from this structure also derive primarily from the test pit (N46 E122), with 10 specimens coming from this unit, seven from level eight alone. Eight of the shell pieces represent Snail A specimens (possibly

Euglandina cylindracea, MNI=6), with the remainder including two fragments of

Pomacea and a lone jute showing evidence of having been consumed.

Functional Interpretations:

The 41 rimsherds recorded from these excavations represent several ceramic forms (table 24). Bowl forms, ollas, jar forms and censers predominate, but at least five other forms are also represented. No clear temporal breakdown of forms is obvious because a range of forms is observable in each of our time periods, though the censer base fragments appear to be Postclassic in date (P. Rice 2003 pers. comm.). I argue for a ritual role for the structure (i.e., a household shrine), given the number of censer fragments recovered, the range of forms and decorated types, the small size of the structure, and its characteristic location on the eastern side of the plazuela group.

223

Chronological Interpretations:

Temporally speaking, this structure is consistent with the others of the group.

Ceramics from the test pit (N46 E122) support the idea that the basic platform/leveled area is of probably Late Preclassic date; the quality of plaster flooring found at the bottom of level 9 is really only found during the Preclassic period in the Petén Lakes district, and the amount of Preclassic ceramics in the bottom two levels supports this assessment. The major occupation of the structure, however, appears to date to the

Late/Terminal Classic period, continuing into the Early Postclassic period. There is

minimal evidence of an Early Classic occupation, and only circumstantial evidence to

argue for continued occupation into the Late Postclassic.

Suboperation 1C

The final subset (see Fig. 36) from our initial cluster of structures was the only

one not mapped during the preliminary exploration of the site in 2001. These two

structures were not identified until initial clearing efforts had begun. Str. 9A was

partially visible on the surface once the leaf litter had been raked away but Str. 9B was

not identified until excavations intended to delineate Str. 9A revealed a portion of it.

These two structures are located at the southern edge of the platform and may eventually

be undercut by further erosion of the lakeshore. The advantage of that erosional process

is that it has partially revealed the construction history of the platform by eroding a cut on

the extreme southern edge.

224

Figure 36: Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 225

Str. 9A

Construction Features:

Str. 9A (see Fig. 37) is a small rectangular structure with its longer axis aligned almost exactly NE-SW (i.e., 45 degrees north of east). The longer axis is approximately 3.5 m in length, while the shorter axis is approximately 1.8 m. This is probably the best-preserved structure on the site, and is certainly the best preserved in

Operation 1. The central portion is composed of medium-sized, unshaped stones, ranging from about 30cm to 60 cm in their longest dimension. The margins of the structure are defined by considerably smaller stones (ranging from small cobbles to stones of 25 cm in length).

Associated Features:

The preservation of wall lines points up some interesting architectural features. To begin with, immediately adjacent to the northern side of the structure there is at least one, and probably two, small cobble circles (with diameters of about 25 cm) that may have served to brace large support poles. Additionally, lines of small stones similar to the defining exterior wall stones extend from three of the four corners (while the fourth corner was disrupted by root action and is now near the edge of the platform). These stones extend the basic wall lines and on the western side serve to connect Str. 9A with Str. 9B. Due to a lack of time and funds we followed the wall line extending from the NE corner of the structure for only about 3m, limiting our understanding of its function. Unlike the main portion of Str. 9A or 9B, these wall lines do not appear to enclose any larger stones. 226

Figure 37: Str. 9A, Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 227

Excavation Units:

Total number of square meters exposed:

The structure proper (see Fig. 37) incorporated nine units (N33 E108, 109; N34

E108-111; N35 E110, 111). Along with the associated architectural features and the immediately adjacent area (divided between 9A and 9B), an area of 23 1 m X 1m units is included, with the expansions lying primarily to the north and west: units N32 E107-109;

N33 E107-110; N34 E107-E111; N35 E107-111; N36 E110-111; N37 E109-110 and N38

E109-110.

As in most other structures of this operation, excavation included two basic levels of excavation, with a deeper test unit placed at the southern edge of the structure (N32

E109 with an extension into N33 E109 in order to follow the wall line), yielding a total of

52 lots (46 from levels one and two, then two each from levels 3, 4, and 5).

Total volume excavated:

Level 1 excavations ranged from 3 to 10 cm in depth, averaging 6.09 cm; Level

2 excavations ranged from 6 to 15 cm in depth, averaging 10.22 cm. Calculations of total soil removed are complicated by the fact that the extension of the test unit into N33 E109 only excavated 23% of the 1m x 1m unit. Adjusting for that, the volume was 4.10 m³.

Ceramics:

Excavations on and around Str. 9A yielded 860 sherds (16.53/lot or 209.76/m³), with 246 from level 1, 405 from level 2 and 209 from levels 3-5 of the test pit.

228

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 462 53.7% Postclassic Ceramics 148 17.2% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 173 20.1% Early Classic Ceramics 3 0.3% Late Preclassic Ceramics 73 8.5% Middle Preclassic Ceramics 1 0.1% Total 860 99.9%

Table 26: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 9A.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 416 48.4% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 17 2.0% Striated 29 3.4% Total Undated 462 53.7% Pozo Unslipped 82 9.5% Paxcaman Red 32 3.7% Snail Inclusion Paste 10 1.2% Postclassic censer base 1 0.1% Censer Spall 1 0.1% Maskall Unslipped 14 1.6% Picú Incised 4 0.5% Augustine Red 2 0.2% Chilo Unslipped 1 0.1% Censer Body sherd 1 0.1% Total Postclassic 148 17.2% Volcanic Ash Tempered 120 14.0% Classic Red-slipped Types 32 3.7% Encanto Striated 6 0.7% Achote Black 6 0.7% Infierno Black 2 0.2 Jato Black On Gray 1 0.1% Classic Figurine 1 0.1% Polychrome with Cream Underslip 1 0.1% Terminal Classic Brown Slipped 1 0.1% Terminal Classic Gray Slipped 1 0.1% Tepeu 1 Pinkish Paste 1 0.1% Subin Red 1 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 173 20.1% Triunfo Striated 3 0.3% 229

Total Early Classic 3 0.3% Sierra Red 52 6.0% Polvero Black 7 0.8% Flor Cream 6 0.7% Preclassic Dichrome 4 0.5% Chunhinta Black 1 0.1% Laguna Verde Incised 1 0.1% Savana Orange 1 0.1% Joventud Red 1 0.1% Middle Preclassic Unslipped 1 0.1% Total Preclassic 74 8.6%

Table 27: Ceramics by Type from Str. 9A

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 46 47.4% Bowl 24 24.7% Olla 11 11.3% Unknown 3 3.1% Incurved Rim Basin 3 3.1% Dish 3 3.1% Tecomate 2 2.1% Plate 2 2.1% Drum 1 1.0% Cup 1 1.0% Censer 1 1.0%

Table 28: Rimsherds from Str. 9A by Form

One unslipped sherd (0.1%) was identified by Prudence Rice (pers. comm. 2003) as being of Middle Preclassic date. Preclassic ceramics were common in lower levels of the test pit (with the Middle Preclassic sherd coming from the bottom level); oddly, however, Preclassic sherds were common in the upper levels as well, with 26 Sierra Red sherds coming from a single unit in level 1 (N38 E110, outside the wall line projecting from the NE corner of Str. 9A).

230

Lithics:

In addition, 184 lithics (3.54/lot or 44.88/m³) were cataloged from these

excavations. There is no clear pattern of lithic distribution within the structure. Lithics

were mostly small (between ¼ and 2 inches in size, the majority between ½ and 1 inches) and widely scattered with no more than seven flakes recovered in any single unit except

for the test pit.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Formal Tools 2 1.1% Possible flake tool or preform 1 0.5% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 27 14.7% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 99 53.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 55 29.9% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 29: Distribution of chert types at Str. 9A

Formal Tools:

Two side-notched projectile points were recovered (one of chert from level 1 of

N38 E110 in the NE extension and one of obsidian – level 2 N34 E107), but the only

other formal tool found was a fragment of chert biface from level 2 N34 E111. The low

concentrations of lithics suggest that no lithic production took place at this structure

(though there is a single fragment of an obsidian core – N35 E107 level 2).

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

Sixteen pieces of obsidian (0.31/lot or 3.9/m³) were found at Str. 9A. Obsidian

from this structure shows a strong trend in source attribution, with 14 fragments

attributed to the San Martin Jilotepeque source, and only single pieces from the Ixtepeque 231

and El Chayal sources. The obsidian was mostly recovered from within the test unit, but

at all levels, with eight of the 16 pieces coming from this single unit (in levels 2-5) and one from the extension to the south. All but three of the fragments represent prismatic blade segments, with the remaining pieces including an exhausted El Chayal core fragment and two flakes from the Jilotepeque source. The projectile point was apparently

converted from a Jilotepeque prismatic blade.

Shell:

Twenty-one pieces of shell were found at Str. 9A. The majority of those were

fragments of Snail A (n=13, MNI = 7) scattered across five lots, but with four of those

lots representing lower levels of the test pit excavations. The remaining shell fragments were mostly Pomacea (n=5), scattered across upper levels of the structure. The remaining four fragments are of interest since they include a single jute shell with breakage characteristic of human consumption, two fragments of nacre and a possible fragment of a marine clam species (this last a probable import).

Functional Interpretations:

Of the 97 rimsherds in the assemblage (Table 28), 46 (47.4%) can be assigned to probable jar forms. Bowl forms constitute another 24.7%, while ollas represent only

11.3%. Of the remaining 16 rimsherds, three each belonged to incurved rim bowls/basins

and tripod dishes (and three were too small to be assigned a form), two each were plates or tecomates, and one each derived from a cup, a censer, and a drum. The wide array of forms indicates no obvious special function for the structure, although the preponderance of jars might suggest at least some storage function. 232

This structure possesses a commanding view of the lake and is situated to take

advantage of prevailing winds. Given its small size and careful positioning, it may have

served a function as a large bench or small shaded social structure, though this may not

be consistent with the observed high frequency of ceramics.

Chronological Interpretations:

Temporal placement of this structure is rather tricky. Ceramics include types attributable to every time period between the Middle Preclassic and the Late

Postclassic/Colonial. We do have indications of two significant occupations --- a Late

Preclassic occupation buried beneath a Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic one. The

uniformity of the obsidian recovered from the structure is therefore somewhat perplexing

because the San Martin source seems unlikely to have been a perennial favorite. The

SMJ source might have been imported to the site in both the Late Preclassic and the

Terminal Classic and this pattern might indicate restricted access to more desirable sources. More likely, however, the Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic residents of the suboperation were reusing obsidian imported during the Preclassic period. The lone

Ixtepeque piece was recovered from level 2 and was, therefore, probably Postclassic.

The other time periods are represented by a sparse scattering of minority ceramic types, suggesting that occupation at those times might have been either brief or focused in unexcavated areas of the site.

Str. 9B

Construction Features:

Str. 9B (see Fig. 38) is located immediately to the west (and slightly south) of Str.

9A, and the two are connected by poorly defined wall lines. Str. 9B is less clearly 233

Figure 38: Str. 9B, Subgroup 1C, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II 234 defined than Str. 9A, but appears to be L-shaped, opening to the SE (i.e., facing the lake shore), with both legs approximately 3 m in length and 1.25-1.5 m wide. The walls are best defined on the southern and western sides, where larger stones (generally 50-80 cm in their longest dimension) mark the presumed wall lines and enclose a concentration of small (5-20 cm) limestone chunks.

Associated Features:

Another line of stones in the extreme SW corner of the excavation area probably represents either a step up to the structure or a house platform retaining wall, but might alternatively represent a third associated structure. Because it is parallel to Str. 9B and only about 1m to the SW, I interpret it as an associated architectural feature, and include those units within the Str. 9B analysis.

Excavation Units:

Total number of square meters exposed:

As in Str. 9A, two levels were excavated across the entire structure, exposed in 23

1m X 1m units running from N28 E101 north to N32 and east to E 106. The southeastern portion of that rectangular area was not excavated, thus excluding units N28-29 E104-

106 and N30 E106. No test pit was excavated in this structure, leaving us with 46 lots.

Total volume excavated:

Level 1 lots ranged in depth from 5-9 cm, averaging 6.87 cm; level 2 excavations ranged from 5-10 cm in depth, averaging 7.52 cm. In total, 3.31 m³ of soil was removed.

Ceramics:

Seven hundred and forty-three sherds were recovered from Str. 9B (16.15/lot or

224.5/m³). 235

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 346 46.6% Postclassic Ceramics 288 38.8% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 100 13.5% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 9 1.2% Total 743 100.0%

Table 30: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 9B.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 336 45.2% Striated 10 1.3% Total Undated 346 46.6% Pozo Unslipped 176 23.7% Paxcaman Red 52 7.0% Snail Inclusion Paste 28 3.8% Postclassic censer base 2 0.3% Censer Spall – La Justa Composite 8 1.1% Maskall Unslipped 16 2.2% Picú Incised 3 0.4% Topoxte Red 1 0.1% Molded Net Weight 1 0.1% Chilo Unslipped 1 0.1% Total Postclassic 288 38.8% Volcanic Ash Tempered 59 7.9% Classic Red-slipped Types 21 2.8% Encanto Striated 5 0.7% Achote Black 3 0.4% Infierno Black 1 0.1% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.1% Terminal Classic Brown Slipped 2 0.3% Terminal Classic Cream Slipped 1 0.1% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.1% Chaquiste Impressed 1 0.1% Cameron Incised 1 0.1% Modeled-Incised 1 0.1% Ash Tempered Net Weight 1 0.1% Tepeu 1 Pinkish Paste 1 0.1%% Subin Red 1 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 100 13.5% Sierra Red 1 0.1% 236

Laguna Verde Incised 1 0.1% Flor Cream 3 0.4% Preclassic Dichrome 3 0.4% Savana Orange 1 0.1% Total Late Preclassic 9 1.2% Table 31: Ceramics by Type from Str. 9B

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Olla 23 33.3% Jar 19 27.5% Bowl 19 27.5% Incurved Rim Basin 2 2.9% Dish 2 2.9% Censer 2 2.9% Plate 1 1.4% Drum 1 1.4%

Table 32: Rimsherds from Str. 9B by Form

Lithics:

Some 132 lithics (2.87/lot or 39.9/m³) were found at Str. 9B. The lithics were sparsely and rather evenly represented throughout the excavated area, with no lot containing more than six flakes. The flakes are mostly small, with 75 of the 132 being between ½” and 1” in size. This suggests that a few tools might have been produced here, but that such production was not common.

LITHIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Formal Tools 3 2.3% Possible flake tool or preform 0 0.0% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 26 19.7% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 75 56.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 27 20.5% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 1 0.8%

Table 33: Distribution of chert types at Str. 9B 237

Formal Tools:

Formal tools recovered from this structure include two small side-notched

projectile (arrow) points and a larger, tanged projectile point (dart). These items are

depicted in Figure 65 (N29 E102, N30 E102, and N32 E105).

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

Fifteen pieces of obsidian (0.33/lot or 4.53/m³) were scattered across the structure; no lot contained more than one piece of obsidian. Fourteen are prismatic blade segments

(one of which was complete) and the final fragment was a flake attributed to the El

Chayal source. Of the 15 fragments of obsidian, seven were attributed to the San Martin

Jilotepeque source, five to El Chayal, and three to Ixtepeque.

Shell:

The seven fragments of shell (0.15/lot or 2.1/m³) found at Str. 9B each derive from a separate lot. This assemblage consists of four pieces of Pomacea, two jute that appear to have been consumed, and a lone fragment of Snail A (possibly Euglandina cylindracea).

Ground Stone:

The lone fragment of ground stone from Str. 9B was a probable mano fragment from N30 E105, level 2.

Functional Interpretations:

Interestingly, this structure contains a higher frequency of ollas than any other on the site. In fact, this is the only structure where ollas are the most common form, a result of higher frequencies of Pozo Unslipped in this structure, suggesting a slightly later 238

occupation than in other parts of the site. Frequencies of ollas (33.8%), jars (27.9%), and

bowls (26.5%) in the rim sherd sample are fairly similar, however. The remaining eight

rim sherds include two sherds (2.9%) each from incurved-rim bowls/basins, tripod dishes,

and censers, plus individual specimens (1.5%) from drums and plates. The emphasis on

larger vessels (jars, ollas and basins) might suggest a primarily storage usage, but the

diversity of ceramic forms and the relatively small size of the structure confuse a simplistic interpretation.

Chronological Interpretations:

The artifact densities are on par with those from Str. 9A. In conjunction with the physical proximity and apparent structural linkage, the two structures are presumed to be largely contemporaneous. Both structures show signs of a Late Preclassic occupation followed by reoccupation in the Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods. Str.

9B has a higher proportion of Postclassic ceramics than its adjoining structure and might have been used after Str. 9A was abandoned. Alternatively, Str. 9B could represent an added annex to Str. 9A and might have been constructed only relatively late in the

Terminal Classic period (thereby explaining the relatively low frequency of Classic ceramics in the assemblage). I favor the latter explanation.

Ambient Spaces

A few excavated areas within Operation 1 are not directly associated with any of the three suboperations. The largest is a section of the central plaza lying directly to the north of Str. 9B and west of Str. 9A.

239

Construction Features:

This excavated space, adjacent to Suboperation 1C, lacks any architectural features and showed no demonstrable artifact patterning that would suggest it was used for any specific activity.

Excavation Units:

Total number of square meters exposed:

It includes nine 1m X 1m units arranged in a 3m X 3m block with the northeast corner defined by N35 E106 and the southwest corner by N33 E104. It was probably used by occupants of Strs. 9A and 9B, but is not incontrovertibly tied to them.

Total volume excavated:

All nine units were excavated in two levels (averaging 6.77 cm for the first level and 7.67 cm for the second level) for a total of 1.3 m³ of excavated soil.

Ceramics:

Two hundred and forty sherds were recovered from these 18 lots (13.33/lot or

184.6/m³) .

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 127 52.9% Postclassic Ceramics 60 25.0% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 51 21.3% Early Classic Ceramics 1 0.4% Late Preclassic Ceramics 1 0.4% Total 240 100.0%

Table 34: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics for Subop 1C Ambient Spaces

240

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 120 50.0% Unknown Other Temper 1 0.4% Striated 6 2.5% Total Undated 127 52.9% Pozo Unslipped 43 17.9% Paxcaman Red 11 4.6% Snail Inclusion Paste 3 1.3% Postclassic censer base 1 0.4% Maskall Unslipped 2 0.8% Total Postclassic 60 25.0% Volcanic Ash Tempered 25 10.4% Classic Red-slipped Types 12 5.0% Encanto Striated 1 0.4% Achote Black 9 3.8% Cambio Unslipped 3 1.3% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.4% Total Late/Terminal Classic 51 21.3% Triunfo Striated 1 0.4% Total Early Classic 1 0.4% Flor Cream 1 0.4% Total Late Preclassic 1 0.4% Table 35: Ceramics by Type from Subop 1C ambient space

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Olla 8 33.3% Jar 5 27.5% Bowl 3 27.5% Censer 1 2.9%

Table 36: Rimsherds from Subop 1C Ambient Space by Form

Lithics:

68 lithics (3.78/lot or 52.3/m³) were recovered from this section of the plaza. The lithics show no strong spatial patterning and consist almost entirely of small debitage

(most falling in the ½”-1” range with a few others falling in the 1-2” range and a few in 241

the ¼”- 1/2” range). No flakes larger than 2” or smaller than ¼” were recovered, and

only one flake was apparently utilized.

Possible flake tool or preform 1 1.5% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 10 14.7% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 43 63.2% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 14 20.6% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0% Table 37: Distribution of chert types at Subop 1C ambient space

Interpretations:

The ceramic density is slightly lower and the lithic density slightly higher than those found on either Str. 9A or 9B, but not dramatically so, suggesting that the area was

neither regularly swept nor used as a midden. The current occupants of the site get rid of

the bulk of their household waste either by periodic burning or through disposal into the

lake, and past residents probably did likewise. Prevailing winds out of the east and north tend to push organic (i.e., floating) refuse from this region (and points north) onto the northern shore of the Candelaria peninsula. This would have deposited refuse near the site of Nixtun Ch’ich, so such practices may have been discouraged.

Judging from the rim sherds, vessel forms are similar in character to those at Str.

9B, with olla forms most frequent (47.1%), followed by jars (29.4%), bowls (17.6%) and censers (5.8%). This suggests strong ties to Str. 9B and contemporaneous use of the

plaza by inhabitants of Str. 9B.

Excavation Unit

The other part of the central plaza space was explored by a test unit placed east of

Str. 4 and west of Str. 6 at N50 E110, distant from the other excavations in Operation 1

and more or less equidistant from Suboperations 1A and 1B. 242

Total volume excavated:

The northern test unit in the central plaza region, a 1m X 1m unit at N50 E110,

was excavated in six levels to a total depth of 45 cm (6 lots, .45 m³).

Ceramics:

85 sherds (14.17/lot or 188.9/m³) were recovered. This test unit did not penetrate sterile

levels or even reach a depth at which one would expect to encounter Preclassic ceramics.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 53 62.4% Postclassic Ceramics 4 4.7% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 28 32.9% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 85 100.0% Table 38: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics for Operation 1 plaza Test Pit

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 46 54.1% Striated 7 8.2% Total Undated 53 62.4% Pozo Unslipped 2 2.4% Postclassic censer base 2 2.4% Total Postclassic 4 4.7% Volcanic Ash Tempered 21 24.7% Classic Red-slipped Types 5 5.9% Encanto Striated 1 1.2% Gouged-Incised 1 1.2% Total Late/Terminal Classic 28 32.9% Table 39: Ceramics by Type for Operation 1 plaza test pit

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 3 42.9% Censer 2 28.6% Incurved Rim Basin 1 14.3% Bowl 1 14.3%

Table 40: Rimsherds from Operation 1 plaza test pit by Form

243

Lithics:

13 lithics (2.17/lot or 28.9/m³) were found in this test unit. The lithics from these lots reveal no special pattern, though a few larger flakes (>1”) were found in the lowest levels.

Formal Tools 2 15.4% Possible flake tool or preform 1 7.7% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 4 30.8% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 5 38.5% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 1 7.7% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 41: Distribution of chert types at Operation 1 plaza test pit

Formal Tools:

A small, side-notched chert arrowhead was recovered from level 4 (of probable

Terminal Classic date) and a possible fragment from a lance point was recovered from level 5, but no other formal tools were recorded.

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

A single fragment of obsidian was found in level 3. This piece represents a prismatic blade fragment deriving from the El Chayal source.

Shell:

One Pomacea fragment was recovered from level 6.

Interpretations:

This test pit is most interesting for its relative lack of Postclassic remains, suggesting that the primary use of this part of the plaza was during Late/Terminal Classic times. The sample size is small enough that no firm conclusions should be made about 244

plaza use, however. The relatively low artifact density, particularly in the upper levels,

suggests that the plaza area may have been periodically swept clean.

Bulldozer Cut

Approximately 2 m east of Str. 8 the edge of the platform has been cut away by a

bulldozer (see Fig. 39) to a depth of about one m while leveling a space for modern construction. The cut is several m long and runs roughly NE-SW. This cut may have

destroyed an additional small structure, judging from the presence of substantial stones in

the profile, and certainly has exposed additional evidence of the Preclassic occupation in

the form of two thick plaster floors visible in the profile of the cut. The stratigraphy of

the platform was documented by a profile along approximately 2.5 m of the exposed area

(see Fig. 40). During the process of scraping the profile prior to mapping, we identified a

Preclassic cache (see Figs. 40, 41). The cache vessels (identified by Pru Rice as Joventud

Red) are represented by 47 sherds from a nearly complete jar of an unusual form (see Fig.

41) and the bottom half of a second jar of an identical form and type everted and placed

within the mouth of the more complete vessel. The cache was mapped in situ,

photographed and then carefully removed. Close examination of the soil within the

vessels revealed no artifacts or macrobotanical remains, but it was retained for possible

later analysis. The presence of the cache above the floors affirms a Preclassic date for

those floors, and such a temporal assignment is consistent both with their depth below the

surface and the characteristics of the plaster (quite thick, hard and smooth). This was the

only cache recovered at the site and it falls well before the period of our primary interest.

245

Figure 39: Map of San Jerónimo II with location of Bulldozer Cut highlighted.

246

Figure 40: Profile of Bulldozer Cut with location of cache noted, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II

247

Figure 41: Preclassic Cache from Bulldozer Cut, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II

248

Platform Cut

Additional details of platform construction were revealed where the edge of the

platform eroded into the lake (see Fig. 42). We drew and photographed another profile

(see Fig. 43) and collected ceramics from the talus slope. The seven collected sherds

reflect the extended occupation of the platform. They consist of a single UID carbonate-tempered sherd accompanied by one sherd each of Late Postclassic Chilo

Unslipped, Postclassic Paxcamán Red, an unnamed Terminal Classic Brown-slipped, a

Classic Ash-tempered paste, and Preclassic Sierra Red and Laguna Verde Grooved-

Incised. The exposed cut of the platform shows that large, roughly shaped stones were

used to create a retaining wall for a core of softball-sized rubble fill. The platform

appears to date from the Preclassic period with later Classic and Postclassic additions.

Punta Piedra

One additional source of data is artifacts retrieved by the caretaker of the site during some minor construction work in the small neck of land connecting the rocky point with the modern structures (see Fig. 44), approximately 15 m east of Str. 8. Many artifacts were recovered in uncontrolled excavations in this already disturbed portion of the site. The artifact collection consists of 55 sherds, eight lithics and a single piece of obsidian.

Other Artifacts:

The lithics included five flakes between ½ inch and one inch, and three flakes between one and two inches in size. The lone piece of obsidian was a small flake from the

Jilotepeque source.

249

Figure 42: Map of Operation 1, San Jerónimo II with location of Platform Cut noted 250

Figure 43: Profile of Platform Cut, Operation 1, San Jerónimo II

251

Figure 44: Map of Operation 1, San Jerónimo II with location of Punta Piedra excavations marked 252

Ceramics:

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 16 29.1% Unknown Other Temper 1 1.8% Striated 6 10.9% Total Undated 23 41.8% Pozo Unslipped 2 3.6% Paxcaman Red 4 7.3% Snail Inclusion Paste 1 1.8% Postclassic Censer Base 4 7.3% Postclassic Censer Fragments 2 3.6% Augustine Red 1 1.8% Topoxte Red 1 1.8% Total Postclassic 15 27.3% Volcanic Ash Tempered 9 16.4% Classic Red-slipped Types 4 7.3% Encanto Striated 2 3.6% Achote Black 1 1.8% Total Late/Terminal Classic 16 29.1% Polvero Black 1 1.8% Total Late Preclassic 1 1.8% Table 42: Ceramics from the Punta Piedra construction area by Type

Interpretations:

Little can be said about these loosely provenienced artifacts, though it appears that the area was consistently used throughout the Late/Terminal Classic and Postclassic periods. Moderately high concentrations of censers in the assemblage might suggest that the point was used as a ritual location during the Postclassic period, but the sample size is too small to be sure. 253

OPERATION 2

Operation 2 (see Fig. 45) consists of a set of three small structures located on a large substructure, set higher on the hillside than either of the other two operations. This group of structures is about 25 m above shore level and commands a view of the southern arm of Lake Petén-Itzá. With fewer trees it would have been ideally situated to catch the prevailing westerly winds. These three structures presumably represent the remains of a single household, one of possibly higher status (or at least with greater access to exotic items) than the residents of the other two operations. This hypothesized status differential is not, however, demonstrated by any architectural differentiation. All three structures (if not the substructure) are fairly unassuming.

Substructure – Platform 1

The substructure of this group appears to be the single largest architectural feature on the site as measured by labor input. The platform is approximately 17 m long and over 8 m wide. The most impressive aspect of the substructure is the way it drops off on all four sides (losing about 10 m in elevation on three sides, though dropping only about

2 m in the north). This gives the impression of an artificial mound and implies a major investment was required in time and labor to create the platform. This impression is incorrect --- test pits into the central area of the platform (N155 E255 and E256) struck bedrock a mere 55 cm below the surface. In fact, the platform was constructed through the simple expedient of leveling a small hilltop and building up the sides to create a level living space. The labor investment required, while still probably substantial, would have 254

Figure 45: Map of Operation 2, Strs. 1A – 1C, San Jerónimo II 255

been within the capabilities of a relatively small number of workers (in my estimation,

the adults of three or four households could have created it within a matter of weeks).

Str. 1A

Construction Features:

Str. 1A (see Fig. 46) is the largest structure in this group and the presumed residential focus for a household. It has a slightly different orientation than the other two structures and is oriented precisely to the cardinal directions. The building is L-shaped with the long axis (about 5.4 m) running due east-west, and a short arm (about 3.4 m) on the eastern end running north-south. The main axis is approximately 1.6 m wide, and the arm about 1.2 m wide. This form is characteristic of the Postclassic period, but is introduced to the area in the Terminal Classic period (D. Rice 1988:234). This structure

is better preserved than the other two, and was probably better constructed to begin with.

It consists of a bed of mostly small (under 20 cm in length) stones serving presumably as the base for a slightly raised floor.

Associated Features:

Substantial amounts of plaster floor were recovered from within the area defined

by the main body and the arm of the structure. This is the only excavated structure at the

site with significant remains of plaster flooring during the later periods of occupation.

Excavation Units:

Total number of square meters exposed:

The Str. 1A excavations are comprised by 55 1m X 1m units arranged in an 11m

X 5m rectangle (ranging from N158 to N162 and from E256 to E266). As elsewhere in 256

Figure 46: Str. 1A, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II 257

this operation, a single excavation level (ranging from 2 to 15 cm in depth, and averaging

8.1 cm) was sufficient to reach the latest occupation surface.

Total volume excavated:

No test pit was placed within this structure, so there are only 55 lots. The volume of earth removed from excavations in Str. 1A amounted to 4.44 m³.

Ceramics:

Some 598 ceramic sherds (10.9/lot or 133.6/m³) were found at Str. 1A. The collection included nine sherds (1.5%) of a newly described Mateo variety of La Justa

Composite (P. Rice 2003 pers. comm.). Those sherds were recovered from three neighboring units (N159 E258, N159 E259, and N160 E258) and represent fragments of two small spiked hourglass censers.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 311 52.0% Postclassic Ceramics 167 27.9% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 120 20.1% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 598 100.0%

Table 43: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1A.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 299 50.0% Unknown Carbonate Net Weight 1 0.2% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 5 0.8% Striated 6 1.0% Total Undated 311 52.0% Pozo Unslipped 112 18.7% Paxcaman Red 7 1.2% Snail Inclusion Paste 17 2.8% Postclassic censer base 2 0.3% La Justa: Mateo 9 1.5% 258

La Justa: La Justa 5 0.8% Maskall Unslipped 13 2.2% Censer body sherd 1 0.2% Picú Incised 1 0.2% Total Postclassic 167 27.9% Volcanic Ash Tempered 103 17.2% Classic Red-slipped Types 3 0.5% Encanto Striated 4 0.7% Cameron Incised 2 0.3% Fine Orange 2 0.3% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.2% Classic Figurine 2 0.3% Benque Viejo Polychrome 1 0.2% Tepeu 1 Pinkish Paste 1 0.2% Ash Paste Net Weight 1 0.2% Total Late/Terminal Classic 120 20.1%

Table 44: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1A

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 18 38.3% Jar 15 31.9% Olla 5 10.6% Incurved Rim Basin 4 8.5% Censer 3 6.4% Potstand 1 2.1% Cup 1 2.1%

Table 45: Rimsherds from Str. 1A by Form

Lithics:

We recovered 137 lithics (2.5/lot or 30.9/m³) at Str. 1A. These lithics show no particular spatial patterning and the bulk of the lithic assemblage consists of small to medium sized flakes. Ten pieces were assigned to the possible tool category; three were completed formal tools and an additional seven might have been preforms or utilized 259

flakes. I lacked time to check my assistant’s assessment of possible tools, but suspect

that he may have been overly generous in assigning flakes to the possible tool category

given the small size of the lithics in question. The lithics recovered from the structure are

consistent with a basic household assemblage.

Formal tool 3 2.2% Possible flake tool or preform 7 5.1% Flake – larger than 2 inches 1 0.7% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 22 16.1% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 62 45.3% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 41 29.9% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 1 0.7%

Table 46: Chert assemblage from Str. 1A by category

Formal Tools:

Fragments of formal tools are scarce, but include pieces of a bifacial knife and a

lance point from N160 E257 and a possible lance or drill point from N159 E256.

Other Artifacts:

Obsidian:

12 pieces of obsidian (0.22/lot or 2.7/m³) were found. The obsidian includes

prismatic blade fragments (n=9), two additional flakes and a small core fragment. Source

attributions are evenly split between El Chayal (n=5) and San Martin Jilotepeque (n=5),

with single representatives from the central Mexican Pachuca source and the Ixtepeque source.

Shell:

Seven pieces of shell (0.13/lot or 1.6/m³) were also recovered. Shell is quite limited at this structure, shows no particular spatial patterning, and provides very little

support for the notion that snails were of any economic utility to residents. The seven 260

pieces of shell include three fragments of Pomacea, and four fragments of Snail A

(possibly Euglandina cylindracea). Given the scant remains and the depth of the

excavations, they may well represent more recent intrusions.

Plaster:

One hundred and five chunks of plaster floor (1.9/lot or 23.6/m³) were found at

Str. 1A. Fragments of floor recovered from this structure represent the bulk (105 of 189)

of our plaster assemblage for the entire site (the Preclassic floor found in test pits in

Operation 1 was not actually excavated). It seemed worthwhile to preserve them for

future possible study. They are loose chunks of plaster of variable size (up to 8.5 cm

long) and thickness (between 0.7 and 2.9 cm), heavily disturbed by root damage. Their distribution confirms the level of the occupation surface and the extent of the plaster flooring. They are most frequent in the south central portion of the structure (from E259

to E262, and N158 to N159). This space, contained within the arm of the L-shaped

structure, was provided with a decent quality plaster floor, unlike the other

Classic/Postclassic structures at this site. No ground stone or bone artifacts were

recovered from this structure.

Functional Interpretations:

Rim sherds (n=57; with 10 sherds refitting to make single larger sherds, a total of

47 rims were noted) from Str. 1A suggest a varied household assemblage, with bowls

(n=18; 38.3%) and jars (n=15; 31.9%) almost equally common. The predominance of

bowl forms suggests that this may have been the primary residential structure, as already

argued on architectural grounds. The plaster floor is also suggestive of regular use and

supports a residential role for the structure. On the other hand, the presence of at least 261

three partial censers at this structure suggests that it might also have been the locus for ritual activities (though the breaking of paired censers appears to be part of a termination ritual at important Postclassic structures in the Petén Lakes region – Pugh 2001).

Chronological Interpretations:

This structure was clearly utilized during both the Late/Terminal Classic and the

Early Postclassic periods. Postclassic ceramics are more common than Classic ceramics, but the assemblage supports significant occupations in both periods. This pattern contrasts with Strs. 1B and 1C, where the Classic ceramics greatly outnumber the

Postclassic. The characterictically Terminal Classic or Postclassic form of Str. 1A

suggests that it was built toward the end of the Classic period, and may have replaced an

earlier structure as the residential focus of the group (the fact that Str. 1A is oriented

differently from Strs. 1B and 1C supports this possibility). Strs. 1B and 1C appear to be

somewhat older, probably having been constructed earlier in the Late or Terminal Classic

and continuously used into the Early Postclassic.

Str. 1B

Construction Features:

Str. 1B (see Fig. 47) is a small, roughly rectangular structure located about 1.5 m

to the south of Str. 1C and about 5 m southwest of Str. 1A. A single row of medium to

large sized stones marks the wall lines. It seems to have been partially disturbed

(probably by tree roots) but is still generally recognizable. The orientation of the

structure is distinct from that of Str. 1A, with its long axis oriented north of east. 262

Figure 47: Str. 1B, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II 263

Associated Features:

Str. 1A is slightly raised above the level of the substructure, but this does not seem to be the case for Str. 1B, nor is there evidence of plaster flooring in this region

(apart from three small fragments, likely intrusive). No architectural features are associated with this structure.

Excavation Units:

Total square meters exposed:

Str. 1B includes only 26 lots. Twenty-five of those lots represent a single level of a 1m X 1m unit – the other was a special interface unit in N149 E256. The units (see Fig.

47) range from N148 E254 to N152 E252 in the west to N153 E256 to N149 E257 in the east. No test unit was placed within the limits of the Str. 1B excavations.

Total volume excavated:

We removed 2.34 m³ of soil from the level one excavations of these 25 units (an average depth of 9.4 cm per unit).

Ceramics:

Artifacts included 915 ceramic sherds (35.2/lot or 391.0/m³). Ceramics from Str.

1B (Table 47) represent one of our densest concentrations at the site.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 630 68.9% Postclassic Ceramics 100 10.9% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 185 20.2% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 915 100.0%

Table 47: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1B.

264

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 597 65.2% Unknown Carbonate Net Weight 1 0.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 7 0.8% Sonajas 2 0.2% Striated 23 2.5% Total Undated 630 68.9% Pozo Unslipped 57 6.2% Paxcaman Red 6 0.7% Snail Inclusion Paste 12 1.3% Postclassic censer base 2 0.2% Chilo Unslipped 12 1.3% Maskall Unslipped 10 1.1% Plumbate 1 0.1% Total Postclassic 100 10.9% Volcanic Ash Tempered 174 19.0% Classic Red-slipped Types 5 0.5% Encanto Striated 1 0.1% Ash Paste Whistle 1 0.1% Ash Tempered Sherd Spindle Whorl 1 0.1% Classic Figurine 2 0.2% Unnamed Modeled-Incised 1 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 185 20.2%

Table 48: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1B

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 25 50.0% Bowl 13 26.0% Olla 6 12.0% Vase 2 4.0% Censer 2 4.0% Tecomate 2 4.0% Table 49: Rimsherds from Str. 1B by Form

265

Lithics:

We found 171 lithics (6.58/lot or 73.1/m³) at Str. 1B. Those lithics consist

primarily of small to medium sized flakes of a nondescript, mostly gray, chert.

Formal tool 2 1.2% Possible flake tool or preform 3 1.8% Flake – larger than 2 inches 2 1.2% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 25 14.6% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 82 48.0% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 57 33.3% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 50: Chert assemblage from Str. 1B by category

Formal Tools:

Five lithics were defined as tools by my assistant; these included two formal tools

- a fragment of a bifacial knife in N152 E252 and a scraper in N149 E254 – and three less

finished tools, possibly preforms or merely suggestive flakes.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

We also recovered 20 pieces of obsidian (0.77/lot or 8.5/m³). That assemblage

includes 13 prismatic blade fragments, three flakes, two projectile points and two core

fragments. Obsidian from the El Chayal (n=11) source predominates, while San Martin

Jilotepeque and Ixtepeque are equally common as secondary sources (n=4 for each). A

single Pachuca blade rounds out the assemblage here. Both projectile points were converted from prismatic blades, and are of the side-notched variety typical of the

Terminal Classic and Postclassic periods, one from the Ixtepeque source and the other from San Martin Jilotepeque.

266

Shell:

Twenty-eight pieces of shell (1.1/lot or 3.42/m³) were found at Str. 1B. In a departure from every other structure at the site, the shell derived from these excavations was concentrated in a single unit. Of the 28 pieces of shell recovered at this structure, 22

(78.6%) were from N152 E257 in the northeast corner. All 22 of these were jute shells with the tips broken away. Breaking the tips and then removing the flesh is the standard technique for consuming jute, and these shells are interpreted as the remnants of a single meal. The remaining shell from this structure includes three additional eaten jute, and 1 fragment each of Snail A (possibly Euglandina cylindracea), Snail B, and a small terrestrial snail. This deposit is our best indication that jute (Pachychilus spp.) was a significant economic resource for households at this site.

Minority artifact types:

Three fragments of plaster floor, two pieces of gypsum crystal, a single ground stone metate fragment, a stone spindle whorl and a colonial-era musket ball were also found at Str. 1B. Minority artifact types were scattered in their distribution and not very informative. The three plaster floor fragments are from N148 E255, N150 E255, and

N149 E256; this distribution on the eastern side of the structure suggests that they are intrusive, and probably represent debris from Str. 1A. The lone ground stone artifact

(from N149 E256) is the second largest metate fragment from the site, measuring almost

20 cm by 20 cm. It is made from a medium-grained, light gray granitic rock and was presumably imported from the Guatemalan highlands or the Maya mountains of southern

Belize. The stone spindle whorl was found in N149 E257 and is the only such artifact found at San Jerónimo II, though similar specimens were found in Terminal Classic and 267

Postclassic deposits by Bullard (P. Rice 1987a:228) at Macanché Island. The musket ball, a lead sphere of about 1cm in diameter, is likewise the only specimen of its type at the site. It is known from colonial documents that a mission town (San Jerónimo) was located in this vicinity during the 18th century, but this was the only clearly Colonial artifact found during the field season.

Functional Interpretations:

Fifty-two rim sherds were recovered from excavations at Str. 1B. Three sherds refit as part of a lone Chilo Unslipped tecomate; of the remaining 49 sherds, 33 belonged to our unknown carbonate paste category and nine to the ash paste category. No other type had more than two rim sherds, but included censer bases, Pozo Unslipped, Maskall

Unslipped, Paxcamán Red and unknown non-carbonate paste. Forms represented were primarily jars (n=25), followed by bowls (n=13) and ollas (n=6). The preponderance of jars suggests a storage function for the structure. The bulk of these vessels were unslipped and thus unlikely to represent serving wares if we postulate even modest status differentials for this household.

This is the smallest and most crudely constructed of the three structures in this group, and probably served as a non-residential adjunct structure for this household group. The evidence suggests a domestic but non-residential use of this structure. The high density of utilitarian pottery and particularly jar forms suggests that it may have represented a kitchen or storage area and the concentration of jute shells and the metate fragment indicate that food preparation occurred in this area. The presence of a spindle whorl, a net weight, and two obsidian projectile points suggests other possibilities, but I believe the structure was probably a kitchen with some storage functions. 268

Chronological Interpretations:

As opposed to Str. 1A, Classic period ceramics are predominant, suggesting that

this structure may have been used either longer during the Classic period or for a briefer

period in the Postclassic. The presence of Late Postclassic Chilo Unslipped ceramics

argues for the former explanation, rather than the latter, though it is possible that the

structure was abandoned and later reused.

Str. 1C

Construction Features:

Str. 1C (see Fig. 48) lies in the northwestern part of the larger platform. The

building is rectangular, about 5.5 m long by 2.5 m wide, oriented to the east of north. It lies directly northwest of Str. 1B and west of Str. 1A, separated from Str. 1B by about 1.5 m and from 1A by about 2.5 m. It is parallel to Str. 1B and the two of them seem to be clearly associated. Medium-sized unshaped stones define the walls, with few stones within the interior space. Wall preservation is poor, but sufficient to allow reasonably accurate reconstruction of the original dimensions of the building.

Associated Features:

There is a small lithic scatter centered on a four-unit block in N153-154 E250-

251. This activity area probably represents a single tool production episode for household consumption.

Excavation Units:

Total square meters exposed:

Excavations yielded 38 lots, representing a single level in each of 31 units plus the seven levels of our test pit in N155 E255 (at the SE corner of the structure). The 269

Figure 48: Str. 1C, Operation 2, San Jerónimo II 270 northeast corner is at N159 E255, the southeast in N155 E255, the southwest in N153

E250 and the northwest at N156 E249.

Total Volume excavated:

Excavation levels ranged from 4 to 13 cm in depth, and in total, 3.22 m³ of soil was excavated from the 38 lots of this structure (averaging 8.47 cm/level).

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered included 817 ceramics (21.5/lot or 253.7/m³).

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 570 69.8% Postclassic Ceramics 75 9.2% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 172 21.1% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 817 100.0%

Table 51: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 1C.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 525 64.3% Unknown Carbonate Net Weight 1 0.1% Unknown Striated Net Weight 1 0.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 5 0.6% Striated 38 4.7% Total Undated 570 69.8% Pozo Unslipped 40 4.9% Paxcaman Red 5 0.6% Snail Inclusion Paste 16 2.0% Postclassic censer base 4 0.5% Patojo Modeled 1 0.1% Ixpop Polychrome 1 0.1% Maskall Unslipped 8 1.0% Total Postclassic 75 9.2% Volcanic Ash Tempered 152 18.6% Classic Red-slipped Types 6 0.7% Encanto Striated 6 0.7% Subin Red 1 0.1% 271

Cambio Unslipped 1 0.1% Cameron Incised 1 0.1% Chaquiste Impressed 1 0.1% Ash Tempered Sherd Spindle Whorl 1 0.1% Ash Tempered Sherd Net Weight 1 0.1% Terminal Classic Gray slipped 1 0.1% Polychrome with Cream Underslip 1 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 172 21.1%

Table 52: Ceramics by Type from Str. 1C

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 26 47.3% Bowl 13 23.6% Olla 6 10.9% Incurved Rim Basin 5 9.1% Censer 4 7.3% Tecomate 1 1.8%

Table 53: Rimsherds from Str. 1C by Form

Lithics:

We found 205 lithics (5.4/lot or 63.7/m³) at Str. 1C. Flakes showed some limited

spatial patterning, with the highest frequencies (over 15 in each unit) coming from a four- unit block in N153-154 E250-251. An adjacent block (N155 E251) contained an

additional 12 flakes. This suggests a small activity area, possibly the remnants of a single tool production or retouching episode (the presence of 10 flakes larger than an inch in

these five lots argues for the former, rather than the latter). Only one other unit (N157

E255) contained more than 10 flakes (n=12).

272

Formal tool 5 2.4% Possible flake tool or preform 4 2.0% Flake – larger than 2 inches 2 1.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 35 17.1% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 83 40.5% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 76 37.1% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 54: Chert assemblage from Str. 1C by category

Formal Tools:

Nine pieces of chert were assigned to the tool category by my assistant. Formal

tools included two fragments of bifacial knives in N154 E251, another in N155 E255

(level 3), and fragments of small axes in N156 E250 and N159 E255. The other four lithics assigned to the tool category were of a less formal nature, likely representing preforms or merely suggestively shaped flakes.

Other Artifact Types:

Shell:

Nineteen pieces of shell (0.5/lot or 5.9/m³) were found at Str. 1C. The shell derives primarily from three contiguous units, N153-154 E250 (n=12) and N153 E251

(n=2). These include 11 fragments of snail A (possibly only one or two individuals), two

pieces of Pomacea, and a single eaten jute. More interesting is the single piece of nacre from N156 E252 (accompanied by single pieces of snail A and Pomacea), which might be a fragment of an ornament. The remaining piece of shell is a single, whole jute shell from N155 E252.

Obsidian:

The 13 pieces of obsidian (0.34/lot or 4.0/m³) from Str. 1C derive from only two sources, El Chayal (n=7) and San Martin Jilotepeque (n=6). The assemblage is mostly 273

prismatic blade fragments (n=9), with two additional flakes, a core fragment and a single

obsidian projectile point of the side-notched variety.

Minority Artifact Types:

The lone bone fragment from this structure was not assigned to a species, but

appears to be a rib fragment (from a quadrupedal animal, judging from the lack of

curvature). The fragment is less than 2 cm long and is fairly delicate, but still probably

too long to have come from a rodent. It is very flat in cross-section, which would seem to eliminate dog from the candidate species.

As in Str. 1B, a few (n=2) plaster floor fragments were found along the eastern edge of the structure. They probably represent intrusive elements from the adjacent Str.

1A, and not a formal plaster floor for the structure itself.

Functional Interpretations:

Examination of the 55 rim sherds from this structure suggests the primary function of the building was storage, as jars (n=26; 47.3%), ollas (n=6; 10.9%) and incurved-rim bowls/basins (n=5; 9.1%) predominate. Utilitarian types predominate, with

32 of the rim sherds belonging to the unidentified carbonate paste category, three others to the unidentified other paste category, two to Pozo Unslipped, and one each to Maskall

Unslipped and Cambio Unslipped. Decorated sherds and censer fragments account for only eight of the 55 sherds, and if we eliminate censers and incurved-rim bowls from consideration, only two sherds suggest a serving function (one each of Ixpop Polychrome and Chaquiste Impressed).

The structure is on the small side for a residential use and shows fewer indications of being used for food preparation than does Str. 1B. It seems most likely that the 274

structure was used primarily as storage space, though it may have been used for lithic

production on at least one occasion.

Chronological Interpretations:

The frequency of ceramic types in Str. 1C is similar to that of Str. 1B and the two

are presumed to be contemporaneous. Both structures were probably erected during the

Late or Terminal Classic and occupied into the Early Postclassic, and appear to predate

Str. 1A by an indeterminate number of years (though continuing to be used during the occupation of Str. 1A).

Ambient Spaces (including “Basurero”)

For the purposes of contextual control and in the interests of identifying possible activity areas, these surrounding spaces have been divided into three large open areas and three smaller spaces, including one east of the substructure proper.

West Patio

Excavation Units:

The area to the west of Strs. 1B and 1C, herein called the West Patio (see

Fig. 49), was excavated in a single level with an additional test pit excavated in nine levels at N148 E246. This area extends from N145 E245 in the southwest to N145 E254 in the southeast, and from N156 E245 in the northwest to N158 E248 in the northeast.

Total square meters exposed:

The excavated area in the West Patio includes 90 1m X 1m units and a total of 98 lots.

275

Figure 49: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with West Patio area delineated 276

Total volume excavated:

The first level excavations ranged in depth from 4 to 13 cm, and the test pit levels varied from 6 to 12 cm; 7.57 m³ of soil was removed from excavations in these 98 lots

(mean depth = 7.7 cm/level).

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered from the West Patio excavations included 2281 ceramics

(23.3/lot or 301.3/m³).

Ceramics (Table 55, 56) show no clear spatial patterning, but the densest ceramic deposits are in the eastern portion of the patio (i.e., adjacent to Strs. 1B and 1C) and along the southern edge of the substructure (i.e., below the edge, where refuse may have been swept).

Two sherds (0.1%) of the Preclassic type Sierra Red were recovered from level 1 excavations, and likely represent intrusions, possibly from construction fill, because lower levels in the test pits reveal no Preclassic occupation. Seven ceramic net weights were recovered from excavations in the West Patio, including three from N145 E253 and two from N145 E248. Five of them are made from undateable carbonate paste wares, but the fact that the remaining two are made from Postclassic ceramics (SIP and Paxcamán) argues for a Postclassic date for the net weights

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 1481 64.9% Postclassic Ceramics 289 12.7% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 509 22.3% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 2 0.1% Total 2281 100.0% Table 55: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from West Patio

277

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 1396 61.2% Unknown Carbonate Net Weight 5 0.2% Carbonate Paste Whistle 1 0.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 25 1.1% Striated 54 2.4% Total Undated 1481 64.9% Pozo Unslipped 149 6.5% Paxcaman Red 25 1.1% Snail Inclusion Paste 50 2.2% Postclassic censer base 6 0.3% Patojo Modeled 4 0.2% La Justa: Mateo 4 0.2% Postclassic Censer Body Sherds 3 0.1% Postclassic net weights 2 0.1% Picú Incised 1 0.04% Topoxte Red 1 0.04% Maskall Unslipped 44 1.9% Total Postclassic 289 12.7% Volcanic Ash Tempered 428 18.8% Classic Red-slipped Types 44 1.9% Encanto Striated 7 0.3% Achote Black 3 0.1% Cambio Unslipped 6 0.3% Cameron Incised 3 0.1% Classic Censer 1 0.04% Classic Figurine 1 0.04% Chaquiste Impressed 1 0.04% Gouged-Incised 1 0.04% Benque Viejo Polychrome 1 0.04% Tinaja: Canjil 1 0.04% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.04% Ash paste Sonaja 1 0.04% Unspecified Appliquéd 2 0.1% Unspecified Incised 3 0.1% Fine Gray 2 0.1% Fine Orange 3 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 509 22.3% Sierra Red 2 0.1% Total Late Preclassic 2 0.1% Table 56: Ceramics by Type from West Patio

278

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 57 35.8% Jar 55 34.6% Olla 26 16.4% Censer 9 5.7% Incurved Rim Basin 7 4.4% Dish 2 1.3% Tecomate 2 1.3% Vase 1 0.6%

Table 57: Rimsherds from West Patio by Form

Lithics:

Some 583 pieces of chert (5.95/lot or 77.0/m³) were found scattered across the

West Patio, but the densest deposits are concentrated. Four adjacent units (N156 E245-

248) in the northwestern area all have more than 15 flakes of chert. The bulk of the chert

recovered represents lithic debitage, mostly small to medium in size.

Formal tool 10 1.7% Possible flake tool or preform 18 3.1% Flake – larger than 2 inches 3 0.5% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 84 14.4% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 284 48.7% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 181 31.0% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 2 0.3%

Table 58: Chert assemblage from the West Patio by category

Formal Tools:

Only 28 pieces of chert (4.8%) were assigned to the tool category, and of those, only 10 can be considered whole or fragmentary formal tools, with the other 18 representing preforms, roughly shaped flake tools, or simply suggestively shaped flakes.

The formal tools include five fragments of lance points (two fragments in N156 E248, and one each in N150 E252, N149 E253 and N147 E254), two fragments of chert axes 279

(or hammer stones) in N149 E253 and N147 E248, single chert side-notched arrow points in N154 E246 and N145 E247, and a piece of a bifacial chert knife in N153 E249. No particular clustering of formal tools is noted in this patio area.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

We found 45 pieces of obsidian (0.46/lot or 5.9/m³) in the West Patio excavations.

That obsidian is predominantly from the El Chayal source (n=30; 66.7%) and secondarily from the San Martin Jilotepeque source (n=12; 26.7%). The minority sources represented include two Ixtepeque core fragments and a single Pachuca blade. Blades are the most common form (n=31; 68.9%), but frequencies of non-blade obsidian categories are higher than anywhere else at the site. Non-blade forms include flakes (n=7; 15.6%), exhausted core fragments (n=5; 11.1%) and side-notched projectile points (n=2; 4.4%). The unusually high frequencies of flakes and core fragments suggests that this area was the major location for blade production at the site, or at least, within the group. The obsidian is widely scattered, however, with concentrations only on the sloping sides to the northwest and southeast, presumably representing debris swept from the surface of the platform.

Shell:

Seventy-five pieces of shell (0.8/lot or 9.9/m³) were found scattered throughout the patio, with no lot containing more than seven pieces of shell. The bulk of the shell assemblage is made up of three types of shell. The most common was Pomacea (n=36), followed by jute (Pachychilus spp.) showing the characteristic broken tip of the consumed specimen (n=18), and Snail A (n=14). These suggest that a variety of 280

lacustrine snails were probably consumed, but concentrations are generally light (no more

than four jute were found in any single unit). Snail A has tentatively been identified as

Euglandina cylindracea, a freshwater terrestrial species of Central and South America

(Harrigan 2004:402). The remaining seven specimens include two fragments of snail C,

an intact jute, and a snail B fragment. Of greater interest is a single fragment of a marine

conch shell (Strombus sp.) and two burned pieces of a thick, curved type of shell.

Minority Artifact Types:

Twenty-four fragments of plaster floor were found, concentrated in the southwest

area of the patio. Six pieces derive from the lower levels of the test pit in N148 E246

(five in level 3, one in level 4, and the presence of plaster noted in level 5 but no sample taken). Plaster also came from nearby units; the only ones providing more than a single plaster fragment are N148 E245 (n=4), N147 E245 (n=2), N146 E246 (n=2) and N145

E248 (n=2). Only four fragments are located east of E248 and only two north of N149.

This distribution suggests that the southwestern segment of the substructure might once

have been plastered.

Two pieces of a gray granitic stone were found in the West Patio, neither of which

includes part of a grinding surface. The stone is an exotic import and these two small

chunks of metamorphic rock from N146 E248 and N145 E251 probably represent

fragments of manos or metates. The two pieces of bone (N154 E248 and N155 E247)

consist of a fragment of a limb bone and a scapula fragment from a medium sized

quadruped. Field examination suggested that the limb bone might be from an animal the

size of a small pig and the scapula from something dog-sized, yet these 5 cm long 281 fragments were, to my untrained eye, unidentifiable to a species. Neither bone fragment was burned and preservation was generally poor.

Functional Interpretations:

Rim sherds (n=166, or, if we ignore the seven refits n=159) exhibit a generalized domestic pattern similar to that of Str. 1A. As at 1A, bowl forms (n=57) and jar forms

(n=55) predominate, with ollas (n=26) a distant third. After that, frequencies drop another step to include censers and incurved-rim bowls/basins. This assemblage suggests no specific function for the West Patio. The ceramics here appear to be generalized domestic refuse and there are no defined activity areas.

Chronological Interpretations:

The ceramics suggest the West Patio was used during both the Late/Terminal

Classic and Early Postclassic periods. Frequencies of ceramic types are generally similar to those found at the adjoining Strs. 1B and 1C and a contemporaneous use of the West

Patio is probable.

South Patio

Excavation Units:

The South Patio (see Fig. 50) is that space defined by Strs. 1B and 1C to the west,

Str. 1 A to the north and east, and the substructure edge to the south. The separation of the South and East Patios is somewhat arbitrary, but because Str. 1A separates the two for about 2/3 the length of the East Patio, they are considered distinct.

Total square meters exposed:

This is the second largest open space on the substructure including 76 lots in 72 1 m X 1 m units. 282

Total volume excavated:

A majority of units was excavated in a single level; the exception was a single test

pit in N155 E256 in the northwest part of the patio (contiguous with the test pit in Str. 1C,

but excavated to only five levels, rather than seven). 5.86 m³ of soil was removed from

these 76 lots, averaging 7.7 cm per unit.

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered in the South Patio include 1837 ceramic sherds (24.2/lot or

313.5/m³). Artifact densities are generally high here, with only five of the 76 lots including fewer than 10 sherds, but no clear spatial patterning was observed. Densities may be somewhat higher at the southern edge, but are not uniformly so.

Three net weights and a single spindle whorl found in this patio were made from

sherds of Classic ash paste ceramics and may date to that period. A single sherd from

N154 E256 was assigned to the Sierra Red Preclassic type. This sherd is presumably

intrusive, possibly representing fill taken from an older structure or midden.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 1167 63.5% Postclassic Ceramics 239 13.0% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 431 23.5% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 1 0.1% Total 1837 100.0% Table 59: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from South Patio. 283

Figure 50: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with South Patio area delineated

284

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 1105 60.2% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 5 0.3% Striated 57 3.1% Total Undated 1167 63.5% Pozo Unslipped 145 7.9% Paxcaman Red 3 0.2% Snail Inclusion Paste 24 1.3% Maskall Unslipped 41 2.2% Postclassic Censer Base 8 0.4% Patojo Modeled 9 0.5% Plumbate 7 0.4% Postclassic Appliquéd 1 0.1 Clemencia Paste 1 0.1% Total Postclassic 239 13.0% Volcanic Ash Tempered 368 20.0% Classic Red-slipped Types 7 0.4% Encanto Striated 17 0.9% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.1% Cameron Incised 7 0.4% Ash Paste Net Weight 3 0.2% Ash Paste Spindle Whorl 1 0.1% Classic Censer 6 0.3% Classic Figurine 9 0.5% Unspecified Incised 2 0.1% Terminal Classic Brown Slipped 1 0.1% Unspecified Appliquéd 2 0.1% Poite Incised 1 0.1% Trapiche Decorated Interior 1 0.1% Pabellon Modeled-Carved 1 0.1% Tepeu 1 Pinkish Paste 1 0.1% Fine Gray 1 0.1% Fine Orange 2 0.1% Total Late/Terminal Classic 431 23.5% Sierra Red 1 0.1% Total Late Preclassic 1 0.1%

Table 60: Ceramics by Type from South Patio

285

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 52 36.6% Bowl 36 25.4% Olla 27 19.0% Incurved Rim Basin 9 6.3% Censer 6 4.2% Vase 6 4.2% Tecomate 3 2.1% Dish 2 1.4% Unknown 1 0.7%

Table 61: Rimsherds from South Patio by Form

Lithics:

We retrieved 438 pieces of chert (5.8/lot or 74.7/m³) from the South Patio. They include

21 fragments categorized as pieces of tools (both formal and not), but the bulk of the assemblage is debitage in the form of small chert flakes. No obvious concentrations of flakes were found in this area, so there is no specific activity area. Flakes are presumably the remains of retouching or very limited production activities.

Formal tool 3 0.7% Possible flake tool or preform 18 4.1% Flake – larger than 2 inches 5 1.1% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 81 18.5% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 211 48.2% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 121 27.6% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 1 0.2%

Table 62: Chert assemblage from the South Patio by category

Formal Tools:

Of the 21 “tool” fragments, only three are actually formal tools; these include an axe head/hammer stone in N150 E258, a piece of a lance point in N151 E260, and a fragment of a bifacial knife from N153 E259. The remaining 18 are only partially 286 formed and may represent preforms, crude yet finished tools, or simply suggestively shaped flakes.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

Forty pieces of obsidian (0.52/lot or 6.8/m³) were logged from the South Patio.

That obsidian comes predominantly from two sources. The San Martin Jilotepeque source is the most common (n=19; 47.5%), followed closely by the El Chayal source

(n=13; 32.5%). Minority sources represented here include both Ixtepeque (n=4; 10%) and Pachuca (n=4; 10%). Blades are the most commonly encountered form of obsidian in the South Patio, with 34 of the 40 pieces representing prismatic blade fragments

(85%); all but one of the other obsidian pieces here are small flakes, and only one has a maximum dimension of over 1.6 cm. One fragment might represent part of an exhausted core from the El Chayal source.

Shell:

Thirty-eight pieces of shell (0.5/lot or 6.5/m³) were found. Shell from this area

(n=38) consists primarily of three types of lacustrine snail – Pomacea (n=16; 42%), jute

(n=14 eaten; 37%, plus one additional intact specimen), and Snail A (n=6; 15.8%). The jute shows no strong spatial distribution, though the two units (N151 E258 and N153

E258) with the highest numbers of jute (n=4 and n=3) are separated by only a single unit

(lacking shell of any sort). These two units are strikingly near our single largest count of jute shells (N152 E257) anywhere on the site, however, and may represent additional specimens dispersed from that concentration. The remaining shell fragment is a single worked olive shell (Oliva sp. from N156 E260) imported from the marine coast (probably 287

Belize) and probably was used as a personal adornment. This is one of only two olive

shells (Oliva sp., possibly reticularis or sayana) recovered during this field season, the other coming from Str. 6 in Operation 1 (also worked).

Minority Artifact Types:

We also found 43 fragments of plaster floor (0.57/lot or 7.3/m³). These plaster floor fragments come from near the northern edge of the excavations and presumably represent an extension of the floor from Str. 1A or just crumbled pieces of that floor washed down slope into the patio area. Nearly half of our assemblage comes from only two units, N157 E261 (n=14) and N157 E260 (n=7). Only two fragments come from farther south than N155, bearing witness to this northern distribution, and the fragments are distributed across the east-west axis of the excavations, although more numerous toward the eastern side (E259 and up).

Four pieces of ground stone (0.05/lot or 0.7/m³) were scattered throughout the excavation but do not seem to indicate an activity area. They include two metate fragments (N154 E257 and N156 E264), both of rather coarse grain -- one composed of a light gray granitic stone and the other a darker gray metamorphic rock, possibly gneiss.

The other two fragments are probably pieces of manos, one made of a medium grained, nearly white granitic stone (N149 E258), and the other (N157 E261) of a medium grained, medium gray granite. None of the four pieces appears to be of the same source material, suggesting no clear association between them.

We recovered two pieces of bottle glass (probably modern), a lone piece of gypsum crystal and three fragments of worked stone. The worked stone includes a small, apparently polished, pebble of green stone, a possible rim fragment from an unpolished 288

stone bowl or large spindle whorl, and a piece of drilled and polished pink dolomitic

limestone that was probably part of a personal adornment of some type. No bone was

recovered from this part of the excavations.

Functional Interpretations:

Rimsherds from this area suggest a broad domestic assemblage, with a slight

emphasis on storage vessels. Among the 142 rimsherds, jar forms are the most common

(n=52; 36.6%), with ollas (n=27; 19.0%) and incurved rim bowls/basins (n=9; 6.3%) also

representing common storage forms. Serving vessels are common and bowls (n=36;

25.4%) are the second most frequent form. Significant numbers of Classic figurines

(n=9) and Classic and Postclassic censer fragments (n=23) were also recovered from this

area, suggesting that there was a locus of ritual activity nearby, probably toward the

eastern side of the patio. The figurines and Classic censer fragments are scattered fairly

broadly, though there is a small concentration of figurines in the area of N152 E263. The

Postclassic ritual ceramics are more concentrated; the nine Patojo Modeled sherds are all from N152 E264, and the Postclassic censer bases are focused in the vicinity of N155

E263.

Chronological Interpretations:

The ceramics from this space indicate that the period of use spanned the

Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods. Classic ceramics are almost twice as frequent as Postclassic ceramics, suggesting that use was either more intensive in the

Classic period, or more probably, that the area was used longer in the Classic period than

the Postclassic. 289

East Patio

Excavation Units:

The East Patio (see Fig. 51) is significantly smaller than the West and South

Patios. While the excavated area is only slightly smaller than that of the South Patio it

includes a higher percentage of excavations on the slope of the substructure, rather than

on the living surface.

Total square meters exposed:

The East Patio includes all the excavated space east of Str. 1A, extending from

N151 E265 in the southwest to N162 E270 in the northeast and N154 E272 in the

southeast. This space incorporates 72 lots, consisting of 64 units excavated to the first

level, and a test pit (N158 E269) excavated to eight levels. This test pit was located at the easternmost point of the level occupation surface adjacent to the top of the presumed crude staircase to the east.

Total volume excavated:

5.96 m³ of soil was removed during the excavations (mean depth = 8.3 cm/lot).

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered from these excavations include 1081 ceramic sherds (15.0/lot or 181.4/m³). Artifact densities in this section are highest where the East Patio abuts the

South Patio. This suggests that more activities resulting in the deposition of artifacts took

place in the South Patio than in the East Patio.

The lone net weights and spindle whorls recovered from this area are made from

ash paste sherds of Classic date and probably pertain to that period. Two worked ash paste sherds might also belong to this time period; the first is a possible spindle whorl (or 290

Figure 51: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with East Patio delineated 291 spindle rest?) broken during the drilling process, the second is a sherd grooved along two of the broken edges – possibly for use as a needle sharpener.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 658 60.9% Postclassic Ceramics 159 14.7% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 264 24.4% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 1081 100.0%

Table 63: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from East Patio.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 613 56.7% Incised Carbonate Tempered 3 0.3% Grooved Carbonate Tempered 1 0.1% Carbonate Tempered Sonaja 1 0.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 10 0.9% Striated 30 2.8% Total Undated 658 60.9% Pozo Unslipped 98 9.1% Paxcaman Red 9 0.8% Snail Inclusion Paste 29 2.7% Maskall Unslipped 12 1.1% Postclassic Censer Base 8 0.7% Gotas Composite 1 0.1% Picú Incised: Thub 2 0.2% Total Postclassic 159 14.7% Volcanic Ash Tempered 225 20.8% Incised Ash Paste 1 0.1% Appliquéd Ash Paste 1 0.1% Classic Red-slipped Types 6 0.6% Encanto Striated 5 0.5% Cubeta Incised 3 0.3% Cambio Unslipped 2 0.2% Cameron Incised 2 0.2% Ash Paste Net Weight 1 0.1% Ash Paste Spindle Whorl 2 0.2% Ash Paste Needle Sharpener 1 0.1% Pantano Impressed 1 0.1% 292

Classic Censer 2 0.2% Classic Figurine 3 0.3% Tinaja: Canjil 1 0.1% Nanzal Red: incised variant 1 0.1% Trapiche Decorated Interior 1 0.1% Imitation Pabellon Modeled-Carved 1 0.1% Tepeu 1 Pinkish Paste 1 0.1% Fine Gray 2 0.2% Fine Orange 2 0.2% Total Late/Terminal Classic 264 24.4%

Table 64: Ceramics by Type from East Patio

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 39 41.9% Bowl 33 35.5% Censer 8 8.6% Olla 2 2.2% Incurved Rim Basin 2 2.2% Vase 2 2.2% Plate 2 2.2% Dish 2 2.2% Pot Stand 1 1.1% Tecomate 1 1.1% Unknown 1 1.1%

Table 65: Rimsherds from East Patio by Form

Lithics:

We found 279 lithics (3.9/lot or 46.8/m³) in the South Patio. The chert flake and tool assemblage is similar to others in the Operation 1 excavations. Frequencies are generally low (3.9/lot) and the majority of pieces found were small to medium-sized flakes.

293

Formal tool 3 1.1% Possible flake tool or preform 15 5.4% Flake – larger than 2 inches 3 1.1% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 65 23.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 136 48.7% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 57 20.4% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 66: Chert assemblage from the East Patio by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Eighteen pieces were tentatively assigned to the tool category including only three

formal tools -- two fragments of lance points (N159 E266 and N157 E266) and a

fragment of a bifacially flaked knife (N158 E267). The majority of the remainder are

probably simply suggestive looking flakes, though a few may have been preforms or

utilized flakes.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

Only 11 pieces of obsidian (0.15/lot or 1.85/m³) were recovered from the East

Patio. Six represent fragments of blades (the predominant form elsewhere at the site).

The other five pieces include three small flakes, a core fragment and a broken side-

notched projectile point (from N155 E268). Eight of the 11 fragments derive from the

San Martin Jilotepeque source, two from the El Chayal source (including the core

fragment), and one from the Ixtepeque source (the projectile point).

Shell:

The shell assemblage from the East Patio is small, including only 17 pieces

(0.24/lot or 2.85/m³). Eight are fragments of Pomacea, five are fragments of Snail A and

Snail C is represented by two fragments. One is an unidentified snail akin to Snail A in 294

form but with a significantly thicker shell. It would appear that little to no processing of

shell was taking place in this area, either for consumption or ornament production.

The most interesting piece of shell comes from N158 E268 and represents the calcified tunnel of a shipworm (Vermicularia spirata), often found in wood exposed to the ocean. What it is doing on the shores of a freshwater lake is unclear; possibly it arrived in a piece of driftwood imported from the Belizean shore. It would be tempting

to link it to the Spanish shipbuilding efforts in the region at the time of conquest, but documentary evidence suggests that the wood for that ship came from local sources.

Specimens of this species have been found at Tikal and Piedras Negras (Andrews IV

1969:7), but in those cases were found in caches from the Early Classic period.

Minority Artifact Types:

The two ground stone fragments from the East Patio derive from N154 E270 and

N160 E271; they represent a light gray granitic mano fragment and an unidentifiable fragment of some dark gray metamorphic rock with white veins, respectively. A lone fragment of plaster floor from N156 E266 probably represents intrusive material from the

South Patio. The only other artifact recovered in this area was a small fragment of a polished greenstone celt found at N155 E268.

Functional Interpretations:

Of the 93 rim sherds from this section of the site, the vast majority consist of jars

(41.9%) and bowls (35.5%). The relative dearth of ollas is interesting given their frequencies elsewhere, but it may simply be a statistical anomaly, given the amount of

Pozo Unslipped in this area. It may suggest that the Pozo rimsherds were being reused once the vessel had broken and not discarded with the body sherds. There are no clear 295

activity areas in the East Patio, though the ceramic assemblage suggests that a variety of

domestic activities (e.g., textile production) took place nearby.

Chronological Interpretations:

The East Patio was used during both the Late/Terminal Classic and the Early

Postclassic periods, with the ceramic assemblage suggesting heavier use in the Classic

period. There is little indication that occupation continued into the Late Postclassic, with

the exception of a lone sherd of Gotas Composite (a Late Postclassic/Protohistoric type).

Northwest Space

Excavation Units:

The Northwest Space (see Fig. 52) is defined as that portion of the excavations

that lies to the west of Str. 1A and to the north of Str. 1C.

Total square meters exposed:

This area is too small to be considered another patio area, consisting as it does of

a mere 12 1 m X 1 m units excavated to only a single level.

Total Volume excavated:

Soil removed from these 12 lots comprised only 0.73 m³.

Ceramics:

Understandably, relatively few artifacts were recovered from the Northwest

Space, although the artifact densities were fairly high. Among the artifacts recovered

were 261 ceramic sherds (21.8/lot or 357.5/m³). One ash paste sherd was recovered that

might represent a spindle whorl; it had a hole drilled through the center, however it is not

circular, but pentagonal in shape.

296

Figure 52: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with Northwest Space and Passage between Strs. 1B and 1C delineated 297

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 189 72.4% Postclassic Ceramics 12 4.6% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 60 23.0% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 261 100.0%

Table 67: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Northwest Space

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 153 58.6% Carbonate Tempered w/mend Hole 1 0.4% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 3 1.1% Striated 32 12.3% Total Undated 189 72.4% Pozo Unslipped 8 3.1% Snail Inclusion Paste 4 1.5% Total Postclassic 12 4.6% Volcanic Ash Tempered 46 17.6% Poité Incised 1 0.4% Classic Red-slipped Types 4 1.5% Encanto Striated 5 1.9% Cameron Incised 1 0.4% Terminal Classic Gray Slipped 1 0.4% Ash Paste Spindle Whorl 1 0.4% Classic Censer 1 0.4% Total Late/Terminal Classic 60 23.0%

Table 68: Ceramics by Type from Northwest Space

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 6 54.5% Jar 4 36.4% Incurved Rim Basin 1 9.1% Table 69: Rimsherds from Northwest Space by Form

298

Lithics:

The 82 pieces of chert (6.8/lot or 112.3/m³) recovered from the Northwest Space

are almost entirely in the form of lithic debitage (i.e., flakes). The vast majority of chert

in the Northwest Space consists of flakes of less than 1” in their largest dimension.

Formal tool 2 2.4% Possible flake tool or preform 0 0.0% Flake – larger than 2 inches 2 2.4% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 9 11.0% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 39 47.6% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 30 36.6% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 70: Chert assemblage from the Northwest Space by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

The two pieces of chert placed in the tool category represent fragments of bifacial knives found in N158 E249 and N161 E255.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

The four pieces of obsidian (0.33/lot or 5.5/m³), from the Northwest Space are all fragments of prismatic blades, but represent three separate sources. Two blade fragments derive from the Ixtepeque source, one from the San Martin Jilotepeque source, and the fourth from the Pachuca source in Central Mexico.

Minority Artifact Types:

Minority artifact classes represented in the Northwest Space include single representatives of bone, shell, metamorphic rock and plaster. The lone piece of bone

(N158 E250) was a burned fragment from the plastron of a large turtle species

(presumably lacustrine). The piece of shell is a jute shell, apparently eaten, from N161 299

E255. A fragment of light gray metamorphic stone also comes from N158 E250, and presumably represents a fragment of a mano or metate, but lacks any polished surface.

The fragment of plaster floor comes from N162 E255 and is probably a stray fragment from Str. 1A.

Functional Interpretations:

The ceramic forms from this area are consistent with a generalized domestic refuse. Of the 11 rim sherds found here, six (54.5%) are from bowls, four (36.4%) are from jars, and the last (9.1%) is from an incurved-rim bowl/basin. The Northwest Space is small and presumably was never heavily used; the moderately high artifact densities might be consistent with use as a midden area.

Chronological Interpretations:

The ceramic assemblage suggests a primarily Late/Terminal Classic use of this area, though there are a few indications of Postclassic use. Use of this area was probably contemporaneous with the primary use of Str. 1C.

Passage between 1B and 1C

Excavation Units:

Between Strs. 1B and 1C (see Fig. 52) is a narrow, open space that presumably served as a pathway connecting the two largest open spaces on the substructure, the West

Patio with the South Patio. We will consider this passage as separate from either the patios or the structures, though it probably contains stray artifacts from all four adjacent regions.

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Total square meters exposed:

This is the smallest defined region on the substructure and includes only six 1 m

X 1 m units, each excavated to a single level. These units range from N153 E252 in the west to N154 E255 in the east.

Total volume excavated:

Only 0.45 m³ of soil was excavated in this area.

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered from these six lots include 174 ceramics (29/lot or 386.7/m³).

This fairly high density might indicate that the close proximity to Strs. 1B and 1C may be contaminating this passage.

Three net weights were recovered from this area; one was made from a Classic ash-tempered sherd and probably dates to the Classic period, while the other two are fashioned from unidentifiable carbonate-tempered sherds and are essentially undateable.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 104 59.8% Postclassic Ceramics 20 11.5% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 50 28.7% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 174 100.0%

Table 71: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Passage.

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CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 91 52.3% Carbonate Tempered Net Weight 2 1.1% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 5 2.9% Striated 6 3.4% Total Undated 104 59.8% Pozo Unslipped 13 7.5% Maskall Unslipped 2 1.1% Snail Inclusion Paste 4 2.3% Plumbate 1 0.6% Total Postclassic 20 11.5% Volcanic Ash Tempered 47 27.0% Incised Imitation Fine Orange 1 0.6% Terminal Classic Gray Slipped 1 0.6% Ash Paste Net Weight 1 0.6% Total Late/Terminal Classic 50 28.7%

Table 72: Ceramics by Type from Passage

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 5 38.5% Jar 4 30.8% Olla 3 23.1% Unknown 1 7.7%

Table 73: Rimsherds from Passage by Form

Lithics:

43 lithics (7.2/lot or 95.6/m³) were found in the Passage area. 41 of the pieces of

chert represent lithic debitage between ¼” and 2” in size with the distribution skewed toward the smaller end.

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Formal tool 0 0.0% Possible flake tool or preform 2 4.7% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 7 16.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 18 41.9% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 16 37.2% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 74: Chert assemblage from the Northwest Space by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Two pieces of chert were assigned to the tool category, but neither are formal

tools.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

The three pieces of obsidian (0.5/lot or 6.7/m³), from these lots include specimens

of three sources, representing two flakes and a prismatic blade fragment. The blade

fragment derives from the Central Mexican Pachuca source, while the flakes come from

El Chayal and San Martin Jilotepeque.

Minority Artifact Types:

Three pieces of shell (0.5/lot or 6.7/m³) and a single piece of ground stone

(0.17/lot or 2.2/m³) were also found in the Passage area. The few shell fragments include

two jute shells, both showing signs of having been eaten, and a fragment of Snail C shell.

The ground stone fragment comes from N153 E252 and consists of a probable mano fragment shaped from a coarse-grained, dark gray metamorphic rock (possibly gneiss).

Functional Interpretations:

Thirteen rim sherds were analyzed from these six units. Vessel forms suggest no specialized purpose. Forms found included bowls (n=5), jars (n=4) and ollas (n=3), with 303 one other rim sherd being too small to be assigned a form. I suspect these ceramics probably represent debris from the surrounding structures.

Chronological Interpretations:

The passage area appears to be contemporaneous with Strs. 1B and 1C. The ceramics indicate use in both the Late/Terminal Classic and Postclassic periods, but

Classic ceramics are twice as common as Postclassic ones. That pattern suggests a longer period of use in the Classic period.

“Basurero”

The final units included within Operation 2 represent a test pit placed on the eastern slope of the substructure (at N165 E292). We had observed a depression at a leveled area on the slope, and it was postulated that this might represent a filled chultun or a midden deposit. We placed a test pit there in order to assess the nature of the feature.

Excavation indicated that the depression (see Fig. 53) is a purely natural phenomenon, however, most probably an old tree fall.

Removal of 0.23 m³ of soil from this unit in three levels resulted in a total of five artifacts (two flakes from the first level and three sherds from the third level).

Unfortunately, all three sherds fall in the undiagnostic, unidentified carbonate-tempered category providing no temporal control for this unit. The two flakes both fall in the ½” to

1” range but are unremarkable. Once it had been determined that the depression was not a cultural deposit, the excavations in this unit were abandoned. 304

Figure 53: Map of Operation 2, San Jerónimo II with location of “Basurero” marked. 305

OPERATION 3

This northeasternmost group of structures (see Fig. 54) represents one (or possibly

two) household groups dating to the Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic period. Strs. 3A and 3B were used as the locus of production for a lithic tool industry, probably supplying both San Jerónimo II and the neighboring center Nixtun Ch’ich. No architectural remains, apart from the platform itself, remain for Str. 2, though I postulate a perishable superstructure.

Str. 2

Architectural Features:

Str. 2 (see Fig. 55) is an artificially leveled platform approximately 3m wide and 5 m long, defined by the large unshaped stones forming the retaining wall (most notable to the south and west). This platform is oriented east of north and is currently eroding into the lake. The only indication of a structure atop this platform is a poorly defined (though roughly rectangular) area (2m X 3m) of small stones in the center of the platform. The southwestern portions of the platform have been partially destroyed by erosion.

Associated Features:

No associated features or activity areas were found at Str. 2.

Excavation Units:

Total square meters exposed:

The excavated regions of the platform (including essentially all remaining portions of the platform) are contained within 46 1m X 1m units.

306

Figure 54: Map of Operation 3, Str. 2, 3A and 3B, San Jerónimo II

307

Figure 55: Str. 2, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 308

Total volume excavated:

The platform and structure were excavated to only a single level, with the exception of a single test pit (excavated in six levels) at N138 E320 at the northwest corner of the probable structure. A lot was also assigned for an initial surface collection, so Str. 2 includes a total of 52 lots. We excavated a total of 3.97 m³ of soil (mean depth

= 7.8 cm per lot).

Ceramics:

Artifacts retrieved from work at Str. 2 included 618 sherds (11.9/lot; 155.7/m³).

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 430 69.6% Postclassic Ceramics 37 6.0% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 149 24.1% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 2 0.3% Total 618 100.0%

Table 75: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 2.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 383 62.0% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 9 1.5% Striated 38 6.1% Total Undated 430 69.6% Pozo Unslipped 22 3.6% Paxcaman Red 8 1.3% Picú Incised 2 0.3% Postclassic censer spall 3 0.5% Postclassic censer base 2 0.3% Total Postclassic 37 6.0% Volcanic Ash Tempered 101 16.3% Classic Red-slipped Types 13 2.1% Ash Paste Incised 2 0.3% Encanto Striated 17 2.8% Subin Red 4 0.6% Achote Black 2 0.3% Cambio Unslipped 4 0.6% 309

Cameron Incised 1 0.2% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.2% Classic Figurines 2 0.3% Tepeu 1 Unslipped - pinkish paste 2 0.3% Total Late/Terminal Classic 149 24.1% Flor Cream 1 0.2% Laguna Verde Grooved Incised 1 0.2% Total Late Preclassic 2 0.3%

Table 76: Ceramics by Type from Str. 2

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 26 40.0% Bowl 23 35.4% Incurved Rim Basin 5 7.7% Olla 7 10.8% Vase 2 3.1% Censer 2 3.1%

Table 77: Rimsherds from Str. 2 by Form

Lithics:

We recovered 251 lithics (4.8/lot; 63.2/m³) from Str. 2. Those lithics show some

slight spatial patterning. Numbers of lithics recovered per lot vary from 0 to 16, with

seven lots containing at least 10 flakes. Five of those lots are located on or around the

probable structure in the southeastern portion of the Str. 2 excavations. The remaining

two lots are adjacent to each other on the northern edge of the excavations and may represent either the edge of the sweeping area or flakes that slid down from farther up the

slope. The bulk of the lithics is flakes --- most of them quite small (falling between ¼”

and 1”). A few of the larger flakes may have been used as expedient tools, and they

would have been easily obtainable from the neighboring workshop area at Str. 3A and

3B. 310

Formal tool 1 0.4% Possible flake tool or preform 12 4.8% Flake – larger than 2 inches 1 0.4% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 66 26.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 130 51.8% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 41 16.3% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 0 0.0%

Table 78: Chert assemblage from Str. 2 by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Formal tool fragments were scarce but included a piece of a chert bifacial knife from the

western edge of the structure proper. Other possible tools included three crude points or

blanks from the test pit (two in level 2, one in level 5). The remaining nine lithics

assigned to the tool category might be flake tools, preforms or simply flakes.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

Eighteen pieces of obsidian (0.35/lot; 4.53/m³) were recovered. The obsidian

from Str. 2 is predominantly from the San Martin Jilotepeque source (n=13; 72.2%) and secondarily from the El Chayal source (n=4; 22.2%). The remaining fragment (5.6%) comes from the Ixtepeque source. This assemblage of obsidian was comprised entirely of prismatic blades with except for a small core fragment from the SMJ source.

Shell:

Seven fragments of shell (0.13/lot; 1.76/m³) were found at Str. 2. These were widely scattered and include three jute (with broken tips suggesting they had been consumed), and two fragments each of Pomacea and Snail A.

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Functional Interpretations:

Functional analysis of the 65 rimsherds from this structure indicates a preponderance of bowls and jars, but with a significant number of ollas and incurved-rim basins also present. This suggests a fairly diverse household assemblage and argues for a residential function for the presumed structure. No activity areas were identified however, and the structure may have served a storage function.

Chronological Interpretations:

Analysis of ceramics from Str. 2 (Table 76) indicates that, as in the other operations, occupation here spanned the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic. Relative frequencies of types suggest that the occupation at this structure was probably mostly

Classic and was not occupied as long during the Postclassic period. Neither of the

Preclassic sherds was encountered in the test pit. The shallow depth and low frequency of the Preclassic sherds suggests that they are intrusive, possibly arriving as fill. The obsidian source attributions are consistent with the ceramic evidence, suggesting that occupation was primarily Classic but continued into the Early Postclassic.

Str. 3A

Construction Features:

Str. 3A (see Fig. 56) is the most architecturally impressive structure at the site, though by most standards still a fairly modest construction. The structure is situated at the edge of a bluff overlooking the lake, and is currently being undercut by erosion on its southern edge. The building is approximately 9m long by 3m wide, with the long axis oriented to the east of north. This structure has greater vertical relief than any other at the site and is better preserved than most. Str. 3A, along with its companion structure, Str. 312

Figure 56: Str. 3A, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 313

3B, is most notable in being the locus of a lithic workshop, with over 55,000 flakes of chert recovered from the partial excavation of these buildings and their immediate environs.

Associated Features:

Str. 3A is associated with a chultun located to the southwest of the structure; the chultun was the focus of an extended excavation and is discussed separately. The lithic activity area covers the majority of both Strs. 3A and 3B and is discussed in descriptions of both structures and, in greater detail, in a section of its own.

Excavation Units:

The excavations on Str. 3A cleared the upper two levels of the entire building and included a deeper test unit sunk into the west central portion of the structure.

Total square meters exposed:

Str. 3A is contained within 54 1m X 1m units running from N157 E345 in the north east to N149 E336 in the southwest. With the test unit excavated in six levels and the other 53 units excavated in two levels, the collection from Str. 3A includes 112 lots.

Total volume excavated:

Soil removed per level varied from 2 to 13 cm per lot, but averaged 7.125 cm per lot. 7.98 m³ of soil was excavated from Str. 3A.

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered included 497 ceramics (4.4/lot or 62.3/m³). The Late

Postclassic Chilo ceramics in these excavations derive entirely from two partially reconstructable tecomates smashed across N155 E340, N156 E340, and N155 E341 (i.e., on the north central portion of the structure). 314

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 285 57.3% Postclassic Ceramics 121 24.3% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 91 18.3% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 497 100.0% Table 79: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics at Str. 3A.

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 232 46.7% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 5 1.0% Unknown Non-carbonate Sonaja 1 0.2% Striated sherd worked into disk 1 0.2% Striated 46 9.3% Total Undated 285 57.3% Pozo Unslipped 35 7.0% Paxcaman Red 9 1.8% Snail Inclusion Paste 8 1.6% Maskall Unslipped 5 1.0% Chilo Unslipped 36 7.2% Postclassic censer spall 20 4.0% Postclassic censer base 8 1.6% Total Postclassic 121 24.3% Volcanic Ash Tempered 63 12.7% Classic Red-slipped Types 3 0.6% Unspecified Gouged Incised 1 0.2% Encanto Striated 9 1.8% Pantano Impressed 2 0.4% Achote Black 1 0.2% Cambio Unslipped 3 0.6% Cameron Incised 1 0.2% Imitation Fine Gray Incised 5 1.0% Classic Censers 3 0.6% Total Late/Terminal Classic 91 18.3%

Table 80: Ceramics by Type from Str. 3A

315

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 12 33.3% Jar 9 25.0% Censer 6 16.7% Incurved Rim Basin 3 8.3% Olla 2 5.6% Tecomate 2 5.6% Grater Bowl 1 2.8% Dish 1 2.8% Unknown 1 2.8%

Table 81: Rimsherds from Str. 3A by Form

Lithics:

We recorded 21,466 lithics (191.7/lot or 2690.0/m³) at Str. 3A. The lithics of

Strs. 3A and 3B are dealt with in greater detail in our discussion of economic patterns,

but I will briefly discuss the spatial patterning of the lithic debitage and summarize the

composition of the deposit. Distribution maps of lithic counts on a per unit basis are

provided (fig. 63) for ease of presentation. It is immediately obvious that while lithics

are found in every unit, there is a clear spatial patterning to their distribution. Lithic

counts on top of the structure are substantially lower than in the surrounding units (if still

higher than frequencies at any other part of the site). The highest frequencies of lithics are to be found on the slopes and at the base of the structure, particularly to the north and west. This seems to indicate a periodic cleaning of the structure through the simple expedient of sweeping the bulk of the lithics off the structure and into the surrounding patio areas. This suggests that during its use as a lithic workshop the structure was used

for tool production but not as a residence for the artisan(s) involved. The number of chert

flakes in the immediate vicinity argue against any long-term residence, since this amount 316

of debitage would probably have represented a hazard (or at least a recurring annoyance)

to any residents.

The lithics themselves appear to be representative of local, mid- to low-quality

chert sources. Analysis of the largest lots (presumably characteristic of the general

assemblage) suggests that the structure was the locus of production for significant

quantities of stone tools in a relatively unspecialized manner. Significant amounts of

primary, secondary, and tertiary flakes are all present, suggesting that little if any fine

work took place at the quarry site (as yet unidentified). It seems probable that crudely

prepared cores were carried to the structure and subsequently reduced.

Formal tool 4 0.02% Possible flake tool or preform 292 1.4% Flake – larger than 2 inches 6 0.03% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 1355 6.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 7108 33.1% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 12526 58.4% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 175 0.8%

Table 82: Chert assemblage from Str. 3A by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Few formal tools or broken preforms were found here, but arguing from our limited sample and the tools from throughout the site, it seems likely that production

generated some formal scrapers, bifacial points and knives. Formal tools found at Str. 3A

include single specimens of lance points, side-notched projectile points, bifacially flaked

axes and bifacial knives. The large numbers of flakes placed in the possible tool category

may include expedient cutting or scraping tools, but most are probably misassigned

flakes. While some debitage from this structure was almost certainly spread throughout the site for use as expedient tools, this probably accounts for only a small fraction of the 317 larger flakes. Small flakes are only rarely used as expedient tools, particularly when larger flakes are readily available (Hirth pers. comm. 2006).

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

We found 13 pieces of obsidian (0.12/lot or 1.63/m³) at Str. 3A. That obsidian came from only two sources, primarily the San Martin Jilotepeque source (n=11) but with an additional two pieces attributable to the Chayal source. Prismatic blades dominate the assemblage (n=11), with the remaining two pieces representing small flakes (possibly waste from a retouching operation).

Shell:

37 pieces of shell (0.33/lot or 4.64/m³) were also recovered. Shell is scattered at low frequencies across the entire excavation area. This assemblage includes both locally common lacustrine species (n=16), most notably jute (Pachychilus spp. n=9), Pomacea

(n=2), and Snail A (n=8), and terrestrial snails (n=21). The first two species are still eaten locally, usually boiled or stewed, and are often collected by young children or fisherman preferring not to return home empty handed. These shells seem to represent generalized domestic refuse rather than a specific instance of processing or consumption,

Minority Artifact Types:

The lone fragment of ground stone from this structure appears to be a maul. It was made from a pale granitic stone, measures about 7 cm long, 7 cm wide, and 4 cm tall, and is grooved for hafting. It was located in the southwestern portion of the structure

(N152 E336 level 2), and is near the other ground stone artifacts recovered from 3B and the neighboring space. It appears that during the residential phase of this structure 318

(preceding its use as a lithic workshop?) the area west of the main structure may have seen use in food processing and other domestic activities.

Functional Interpretations:

Formal analysis of the 37 rimsherds recovered from these lots reveals a fairly normal household assemblage, with bowls and jars being most frequent, along with significant numbers of censer rims as well as other vessel forms (rimsherds that could be refitted to each other were counted as a single sherd in calculating frequencies of vessel forms; this prevents massive over-counting of partially reconstructable vessels, but does not actually provide us with a MNI count of vessel forms). The ceramic assemblage includes higher than usual frequencies of striated sherds and Chilo Unslipped, but the correct interpretation of that fact is unclear.

The massive lithic deposits indicate fairly intensive lithic production was occurring at this structure, though how long that production lasted (and when exactly it occurred) is unclear.

Chronological Interpretations:

Examination of the ceramics from Str. 3A shows a more or less equal distribution of Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic ceramics, with a small sample of Late

Postclassic ceramics. As noted earlier, the Late Postclassic sherds all pertain to two vessels and may not be indicative of a significant occupation during this period.

Str. 3B

Construction Features:

Str. 3B (see Fig. 57) was discovered during the course of excavations on the adjoining Str. 3A. Because it was discovered only toward the end of our excavation 319

Figure 57: Str. 3B, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 320 time in this operation, the structure was not fully excavated and we are not entirely sure of its original dimensions. From the uncovered portions of the structure, it appears to have been a rectangular construction with one axis just over 4 m in length and the other a minimum of 3 m long. From the surface indicators, this is probably close to the actual dimensions of the structure and the odds of it being substantially larger are low.

Str. 3B is perfectly parallel to Str. 3A and is, in fact, neatly aligned with the southwestern face of Str. 3A. The two structures are separated by a narrow gap approximately 1.5 m in width. The relief of this structure is quite low in comparison with that of Str. 3A, but once the cleared region was expanded, the structure was partially visible as a cluster of stones on the surface. As noted earlier, this structure, along with

Str. 3A, appears to represent a portion of a lithic workshop, with the highest lithic densities found in the plaza area defined by these two structures, though lithic counts are substantial on the structure itself as well.

Excavation Units:

As at Str. 3A, excavation on Str. 3B was undertaken in two levels, and a 5-level test pit was placed on the southeastern corner (N154 E337) of the structure (where the highest lithic counts were recorded in the second level excavations).

Total square meters exposed:

The Str. 3B excavations include 22 1m X 1m units (running from N152 E333 in the southwest to N157 E338 in the northeast) including a test pit at N154 E337 (with five levels) for a total of 47 lots pertaining to this structure.

321

Total volume excavated:

Soil removed from any particular unit in a level varied from 4 to 10 cm, averaging

6.98 cm per lot, for a total of 3.28 m³ of soil removed.

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered included 741 ceramic sherds (15.8/lot or 226/m³). Artifact frequencies on this structure are higher than on Str. 3A, but that is probably an artifact of the inclusion of a higher percentage of off-structure space, with notably higher artifact densities in the patio space to the northeast.

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 455 61.4% Postclassic Ceramics 129 17.4% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 157 21.2% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 741 100.0%

Table 83: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Str. 3B

CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 341 46.0% Unknown Non-carbonate Tempered 11 1.5% Unknown Non-carbonate Sonaja 1 0.1% Striated 102 13.8% Total Undated 455 61.4% Pozo Unslipped 78 10.5% Paxcaman Red 11 1.5% Snail Inclusion Paste 13 1.8% Maskall Unslipped 6 0.8% Augustine Red 1 0.1% Picú Incised: Thub 1 0.1% La Justa Composite 1 0.1% Postclassic censer spall 14 1.9% Postclassic censer base 4 0.5% Total Postclassic 129 17.4% Volcanic Ash Tempered 102 13.8% 322

Classic Red-slipped Types 13 1.8% Unspecified Gouged Incised 4 0.5% Encanto Striated 15 2.0% Pantano Impressed 2 0.3% Subin Red 1 0.1% Cambio Unslipped 2 0.3% Cameron Incised 3 0.4% Imitation Fine Gray Incised 10 1.3% Jato Black on Gray 1 0.1% Ash Paste Spindle Whorl 1 0.1% Classic Censers 3 0.4% Total Late/Terminal Classic 157 21.2%

Table 84: Ceramics by Type from Str. 3B

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Bowl 19 26.8% Jar 15 21.1% Olla 14 19.7% Tecomate 7 9.9% Incurved Rim Basin 6 8.5% Vase 4 5.6% Censer 3 4.2% Dish 2 2.8% Unknown 1 1.4%

Table 85: Rimsherds from Str. 3B by Form

Lithics:

We recovered 27,105 lithics (576.7/lot or 8,263.7/m³) at Str. 3B. There are even

higher densities in these units than on Str. 3A (although examination of the distribution

maps shows a continuous gradient across the two structures). A test pit in the region of highest lithic densities (N154 E337) suggests that the lithic deposit extends at least one more level (8-10 cm) below the base of the second level. The third level of this test unit

(8 cm in depth) provided over 2400 lithics in and of itself, while the fourth level provided 323 only 152 lithics in 11 cm. The fifth level generated a mere 10 additional lithics in 9 cm and can be considered to mark the bottom of the deposit. The lithics are most heavily concentrated to the east and southeast of Str. 3B, although every lot from the structure contained significant amounts of lithics. The character of the lithics retrieved is identical to that of Str. 3A, and is discussed in greater depth in a later section.

Formal tool 5 0.02% Possible flake tool or preform 396 1.5% Flake – larger than 2 inches 7 0.02% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 1429 5.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 9302 34.3% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 15802 58.3% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 164 0.6%

Table 86: Chert assemblage from Str. 3B by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Only five formal tools were recovered from these excavations. These included fragments of three lance points, and single pieces of bifacial axe and bifacial knife. The other 400 or so flakes placed in the tool category by my assistant were thought to be primarily expedient cutting and scraping tools and were almost certainly misassigned. I suspect that production was focused on a diverse array of the more common formal tools, most of which were exported from the site.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

The six pieces of obsidian (0.13/lot or 1.83/m³) from this structure include five pieces from the San Martin Jilotepeque source and one from El Chayal, making the distribution similar to that found at 3A. They included four prismatic blade fragments and two small flakes, possibly indicative of retouching operations. 324

Shell:

We found 23 pieces of shell (0.49/lot or 7.01/m³) at Str. 3B. The majority of the shell is Snail A (n=13) and Pomacea (n=5), both local lacustrine species. Four jute, apparently consumed, were also recovered (three of them from N156 E336), as was a fragment of Snail C shell. No particular spatial patterning was seen in the distribution of shell, either in bulk or by species.

Minority Artifact Types:

Four fragments of ground stone (0.09/lot or 1.05/m³) were recovered from excavations at this structure. Three of these were identifiable as metate fragments, and the fourth was presumably another fragment that simply lacked key identifying markers.

Three of the four fragments were located within two adjacent units (N155 E335 and

E336). From the color (light gray with pinkish streaks) and grain (medium coarse) of the stone involved, at least two of the fragments here (and a third from farther southwest near the chultun) pertain to a single metate, and another could conceivably have derived from the same implement (lacking only the pinkish streaks). The fourth fragment is clearly distinct, lacking the pink streaks and having a somewhat finer grain size (medium). This distribution of fragments suggests that some food processing may have taken place at the eastern side of Str. 3B, though provisional discard of this stone is also plausible (as several of these pieces were of substantial size – with two fragments more than 9 cm long, and another of 5 cm).

325

Functional Interpretations:

Examination of the rim sherds from this structure (n=75, with four refits n=71) suggests a generalized residential occupation or possibly storage, presumably in addition to (or prior to) its use as a lithic production site. Bowl forms are most common, followed closely by jars and ollas. Other commonly encountered forms on Str. 3B included tecomates, incurved-rim bowls/basins, vases and censers.

The dense lithic deposits suggest that the primary function of the strucure was lithic tool production. Along with Str. 3A, this structure represents a lithic workshop involving some form of production for exchange purposes.

Chronological Interpretations:

The ceramic assemblage indicates comparable degrees of use during the

Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic. There was no definitive evidence for a Late

Postclassic occupation. The time frame of the lithic production is uncertain, but certainly was no earlier than the Terminal Classic and more probably Postclassic.

Chultun

Construction Features:

Approximately 6 m southwest of the southwestern face of Str. 3A was a chultun excavated into the soft limestone substrate (see Figs. 58, 59). The chultun itself is vertically oriented, though the opening appears to be at a slant as a result of the slope present in this location. The mouth itself is circular and approximately 45 cm in diameter; a limestone lid or cap was found nearby, but was not in place and the chultun had filled to near surface level. The capstone was in one piece during the initial survey in

2001, but by the time of our 2003 field season had been broken in half. The chultun has a 326

Figure 58: Chultun – exterior view, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 327

Figure 59: Chultun – profile view, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 328

classic bottle shape and was approximately 1.8 m deep with a diameter at the base of

approximately 90 cm. At its widest point, about 1.4 m below surface, the diameter was

roughly 1.2 m.

Excavation Units:

Total square meters exposed:

The six 1m X 1m units surrounding the mouth of the chultun are assigned to this

excavation (N146-147 E330-332). These six units were excavated in two levels,

providing 12 lots. The chultun itself was entirely excavated as a feature in nine natural

layers. One additional lot was assigned as collapse within the chultun; one section of the

chultun wall was particularly decayed limestone and was removed to ensure that it was

not an intentionally excavated extension. It appears that this lot does not represent cultural activity, though a few probably intrusive artifacts were recovered. We thus have

a total of 22 lots pertaining to the chultun, 10 of which are from the interior. The bottom

level of the chultun proved to be sterile, representing our workmen’s addition to the

chultun in the soft, decaying limestone substrate. Preservation within the chultun was

generally superior to our other excavation locales (so, for instance, this was the only

location where polychrome sherds were recovered that still had visible painted designs).

Exterior Lots:

Total volume excavated:

For analytical purposes, we will discuss the exterior lots separately from the

internal lots. Soil removed from the 12 external lots included a volume of only 0.95 m³.

329

Interior Lots:

Total volume excavated:

Calculating the volume of soil removed is rather tricky. In total, we excavated almost exactly 1.5 m below the initial soil surface level within the chultun, but the chultun was of an irregular shape, widening toward the base. For the sake of simplicity, and because it appears to be a reasonable approximation, we can estimate the average diameter of the chultun at about 1m, providing us with a total volume of soil removed in the vicinity of 1.2 m³ {V= (ht) X (π X avg. radius squared)}. In reality, it is likely somewhat more than that since the excavations into the collapsed region in the side removed some additional soil, so for frequency estimates, the total volume of soil removed from within the chultun is 1.5 m³.

Ceramics:

Some 105 ceramics (8.75/lot or 110.5/m³) were found in the exterior lots and another 237 sherds (23.7/lot or 158/m³) were found in the interior lots. The artifacts within the chultun were not evenly distributed throughout the lots; levels 3-6 contained the highest frequencies of artifacts (at least 30 ceramics and 150 lithics in each), and level

9 was devoid of cultural material. The lower percentage of unidentified ceramics within the chultun is attributable to better preservation of the ceramics in this protected context.

TIME PERIOD OF NUMBER FREQUENCY NUMBER FREQUENCY CERAMICS RECOVERED (EXTERIOR) RECOVERED (INTERIOR) (EXTERIOR) (INTERIOR) Undated Ceramics 48 45.3% 104 43.9% Postclassic 35 33.0% 108 45.6% Ceramics Late / Terminal 23 21.7% 25 10.5% Classic Ceramics Early Classic 0 0.0% 0 0.0% Ceramics 330

Late Preclassic 0 0.0% 0 0.0% Ceramics Total 106 100.0% 237 100%

Table 87: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from the Chultun and vicinity.

CERAMIC NUMBER FREQUENCY NUMBER FREQUENCY TYPE RECOVERED (EXTERIOR) RECOVERED (INTERIOR) (EXTERIOR) (INTERIOR) Unknown 43 40.6% 86 36.3% Carbonate Tempered Unknown Non- 0 0.0% 3 1.3% carbonate Tempered Non-carbonate 0 0.0% 1 0.4% Tempered Spindle Whorl Striated 5 4.7% 14 5.9% Total Undated 48 45.3% 104 43.9% Pozo Unslipped 26 24.5% 76 32.1% Paxcaman Red 2 1.9% 20 8.4% Snail Inclusion 5 4.7% 4 1.7% Paste Maskall 0 0.0% 3 1.3% Unslipped Ixpop 0 0.0% 2 0.8% Polychrome Picú Incised: 0 0.0% 1 0.4% Thub Picú Incised 0 0.0% 2 0.8% Augustine Red 2 1.9% 0 0.0% Total Postclassic 35 33.0% 108 45.6% Volcanic Ash 15 14.2% 14 5.9% Tempered Classic Red- 2 1.9% 5 2.1% slipped Types Encanto Striated 3 2.8% 1 0.4% Pantano 1 0.9% 0 0.0% Impressed 331

Cambio 0 0.0% 1 0.4% Unslipped Cameron Incised 1 0.9% 0 0.0% Incised 1 0.9% 1 0.4% Tepeu 1 Pinkish 0 0.0% 1 0.4% Paste Classic Censers 0 0.0% 2 0.8% Total Late / 23 21.7% 25 10.5% Terminal Classic Table 88: Ceramics by Type from Chultun and Vicinity

VESSEL NUMBER FREQUENCY NUMBER FREQUENCY FORM RECOVERED (EXTERIOR) RECOVERED (INTERIOR) (EXTERIOR) (INTERIOR) Bowl 3 27.3% 8 42.1% Olla 2 18.2% 5 26.3% Jar 4 36.4% 2 10.5% Incurved 1 9.1% 2 10.5% Rim Basin Plate 0 0.0% 2 10.5% Dish 1 9.1% 0 0.0%

Table 89: Rimsherds from Chultun and Vicinity by Form

Lithics:

Exterior Lots:

We found 777 lithics (64.8/lot or 817.9/m³) in the exterior lots. These lithics represent the tail end of the distribution characterizing the Str. 3A and 3B excavations and are discussed later in greater detail.

Formal tool 0 0.0% Possible flake tool or preform 14 1.8% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 59 7.6% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 280 36.0% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 420 54.1% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 4 0.5%

Table 90: Chert assemblage from Chultun Exterior by Type and Size 332

Interior Lots:

Artifacts recovered from within the chultun included 1141 lithics (121.7/lot or

811.3/m³). The frequencies and characteristics of the lithics from within the chultun

indicate that they, too, are associated with the overall pattern of debitage generated from

the workshop in the vicinity of Strs. 3A and 3B. As such, they will be discussed in detail

along with the other lithics from this set of excavations in a later section.

Formal tool 1 0.1% Possible flake tool or preform 40 3.5% Flake – larger than 2 inches 0 0.0% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 67 5.9% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 319 28.0% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 691 60.6% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 23 1.9%

Table 91: Chert assemblage from Chultun Interior by Type and Size

Formal Tools:

Only one formal tool was recovered from within the chultun -- a medial fragment

of a large bifacially flaked lance point from level 5.

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

A single obsidian prismatic blade (0.08/lot or 1.05/m³) from the San Martin

Jilotepeque source was found in the exterior lots. The seven obsidian prismatic blades

(0.7/lot or 4.7/m³) from within the chultun are all also prismatic blade fragments from the

San Martin Jilotepeque source. Six of the seven recovered pieces of obsidian were found

in level 5 and the other was found in level 6.

333

Shell:

Shell from the exterior lots (0.42/lot or 5.3/m³) included only four fragments of

Pomacea shell and a single, uneaten jute shell. The shell assemblage from inside the chultun (16.4/lot or 109.3/m³) is dominated by four types of shell. Pomacea is represented by 39 fragments distributed through levels 4-8 and Snail A by 48 fragments spread across levels 3-8; nacre shell fragments include some 20 pieces, mostly small and mostly (n=17) from level 6. The fourth major category of shell is terrestrial snail (n=46) recovered mostly from levels 6-8, with a single specimen from level 3. Minority shell types include jute, both eaten (n=5) and whole (n=1), snail C (n=3) and a smaller variety of terrestrial snail (n=2). The shell was limited to levels 3-8, with levels 4-8 each including between 17 and 40 pieces of shell.

Minority Artifact Types:

Exterior Lots:

The lone fragment of ground stone from the chultun area is a metate fragment

(N146 E331) probably belonging to the same metate (or at least made from the same stone) as at least two other fragments found farther to the northeast in the Str. 3B excavations.

Interior Lots:

The lone bone fragment from the chultun comes from level 6. This piece is the otolith

(ear bone) of some large fish. I believe that otoliths are found in at least one species present in the Petén Lakes, and this ecofact, therefore, probably does not represent an import from the Caribbean coast. The crystal fragment appears to be a natural gypsum crystal and may have occurred naturally in the soil nearby; it does not appear to have 334

been modified for any sort of cultural use. A piece of a polished pink stone celt was also

recovered from the collapsed piece of the chultun wall.

Functional Interpretations:

The 11 rim sherds from the exterior lots include rims from four jars, three bowls,

two ollas and single sherds from a dish and an incurved-rim bowl/basin. This limited

collection seems to represent a generalized domestic assemblage.

The ceramics collected within the chultun include 20 rim sherds (with one refit).

Those sherds include rims from eight bowls, five ollas, and two specimens each of jars, plates and incurved-rim bowls. The relative scarcity of jars is interesting, but the sample

size is small enough to preclude assuming it is significant. Otherwise, this assemblage is

fairly generalized, with bowls and ollas arguing for no specialization in either serving or storage. The chultun was presumably used for dry storage originally, but was at some

point allowed to fill (or was filled) with debris from nearby structures.

Chronological Interpretations:

The chultun was probably used contemporaneously with the occupation of Str. 3A

and Str. 3B and abandoned in the Postclassic period. The higher proportion of

Postclassic ceramics in the chultun suggest that the infilling began during the Postclassic

period and not the Classic period. It appears that the chultun was filled in more or less at

once, or perhaps continuously through erosion of mixed deposits, since each level

contained a mixture of Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic ceramics, though

Postclassic ceramics are more common than Classic at each level.

335

Ambient Spaces

Excavation Units:

In this cluster, only a small region of the excavated space lying immediately to the

west of Str. 3A can be considered as separate from the structures proper.

Total square meters exposed:

This space is a block of 15 units (3m X 5m) connecting Strs. 3A and 3B with the

chultun. These units are comprised of N147-151 E333-335 and contain no architectural

materials and a lower (though still substantial) density of lithics than the open space north of Str. 3A and east of Str. 3B. These units were excavated in two levels; with the addition of a special lot for artifacts left at the interface of level 2 and 3 in N148 E333, a total of 31 lots pertain to this region.

Total volume excavated:

Soil excavated from these 31 lots comes to a volume of only 2.02 m³.

Ceramics:

Artifacts recovered in this area included 162 ceramic sherds (5.2/lot or 80.2/m³).

TIME PERIOD OF CERAMICS NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Undated Ceramics 105 64.4% Postclassic Ceramics 30 18.4% Late / Terminal Classic Ceramics 28 17.2% Early Classic Ceramics 0 0.0% Late Preclassic Ceramics 0 0.0% Total 163 100.0% Table 92: Temporal Breakdown of Ceramics from Op. 3 Ambient Space CERAMIC TYPE NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Unknown Carbonate Tempered 97 59.5% Striated 8 4.9% Total Undated 105 64.4% Pozo Unslipped 24 14.7% Paxcaman Red 2 1.2% Snail Inclusion Paste 1 0.6% 336

Maskall Unslipped 1 0.6% Postclassic censer spall 1 0.6% Postclassic censer base 1 0.6% Total Postclassic 30 18.4% Volcanic Ash Tempered 21 12.9% Classic Red-slipped Types 3 1.8% Encanto Striated 1 0.6% Miseria Appliquéd 1 0.6% Cambio Unslipped 1 0.6% Cameron Incised 1 0.6% Total Late/Terminal Classic 28 17.2%

Table 93: Ceramics by Type from Op. 3 Ambient Space

VESSEL FORM NUMBER RECOVERED FREQUENCY Jar 5 38.5% Bowl 3 23.1% Olla 2 15.4% Tecomate 2 15.4% Censer 1 7.7%

Table 94: Rimsherds from Op. 3 Ambient Space by Form

Lithics:

6779 lithics (218.7/lot or 3355.9/m³) were recovered from this area. These lithics are best considered as an extension of the lithic debitage scattered throughout the Str. 3A and 3B excavations and are discussed in that light in a later section.

Formal tool 0 0.0% Possible flake tool or preform 127 1.9% Flake – larger than 2 inches 4 0.1% Flake – between 1 and 2 inches 360 5.3% Flake – between 0.5 and 1 inches 2141 31.6% Flake – between 0.25 and 0.5 inches 4102 60.5% Flake – smaller than 0.25 inches 45 0.7%

Table 95: Chert assemblage from Op.3 Ambient Space by Type and Size

337

Other Artifact Types:

Obsidian:

The three pieces of obsidian (0.1/lot or 1.49/m³) include one prismatic blade from

the San Martin Jilotepeque and two small flakes probably from the Chayal source.

Shell:

Eleven fragments of shell (0.35/lot or 5.45/m³) were found in this area. Those

fragments indicating probable (or definite) use included a single jute showing signs of

having been eaten, three fragments of Pomacea which may have been eaten and a

fragment of an unidentified marine shell worked into the form of a small, disk-shaped

adorno (N150 E335 level 1). Other, probably non-cultural shell fragments included three

small terrestrial snails, two fragments of snail C and one of snail A. These latter two

species are large enough to have been eaten, but I have no ethnographic or archaeological

evidence to support that assertion.

Minority Artifact Types:

The lone fragment of ground stone from these units (N148 E333) is a metate

fragment made from a light gray, medium coarse-grained granitic rock. This is the single

largest metate fragment from this site, measuring 25 cm by 19 cm, and almost 8 cm thick.

Functional Interpretations:

The 13 rim sherds recovered from this ambient space represent five jars, three

bowls, two ollas, two tecomates and a censer. The sample size is too small to allow a

definitive interpretation, but this appears to represent a generalized domestic assemblage.

This space was probably used as an additional workspace by the inhabitants of Strs. 3A

(and possibly 3B). 338

Chronological Interpretations:

The ceramic assemblage suggests that this area was in use during both the

Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic periods. Ceramics from both periods are

equally represented, suggesting that the length of use was similar in both periods. There is no sign of either an earlier or later use of this area.

SUMMARY OF STRUCTURE FUNCTION INTERPRETATIONS

Here is a tabular summation of functional interpretations made earlier. Note that the questionmarks placed after some interpretations indicate either uncertainty about function (as in Strs. 4, 9A and 9B), or shifts in function over the course of occupation (as at Strs. 3A and 3B). Our interpretations of structure function arise primarily from assessments of structure morphology, associated ceramic assemblages, and other associated artifacts. These interpretations draw on models based in ethnoarchaeology

(e.g., Deal 1998; Kramer 1985) and household archaeology (e.g., Beaudry-Corbett and

Bishop 2002; Hendon 1991; Mills 1989; Scarborough and Robertson 1986)

STRUCTURE OPERATION PRIMARY ALTERNATE INTERPRETATION INTERPRETATION 4 1A Storage? Residential? 5 1B Food Preparation 6 1B Residential 7 1B Storage Residential 8 1B Shrine 9A 1C Storage? Residential? 9B 1C Storage? Residential? 1A 2 Residential 1B 2 Food Preparation Storage 1C 2 Storage 2 3 Residential 3A 3 Lithic Workshop Residential? 3B 3 Lithic Workshop Storage/Food Prep.? Table 96: Functional Interpretations of Structures at San Jeronimo II

339

OTHER DATA RECOVERED DURING THE 2003 FIELD SEASON.

A few additional observations were made over the course of the field season that

do not directly relate to the excavation data reported above. Most notable was the

discovery during the last week of the field season of another probable structure

approximately 50 m upslope from Platform 1. We lacked time to map or even clear the

structure. Surface indications suggests another set of small household remains, though

only the single smallish rectangular structure was identified and no surface artifacts were

recovered.

Apart from that, the only other archaeological data brought to my attention were a

small selection of artifacts brought to the site by one of the workmen, recovered during

the construction of his house in San Andres. They included the foot of a Postclassic

tripod vessel, the head of a Classic figurine, a drilled stone of unknown date, a large flake of obsidian from the San Martin Jilotepeque source and a hemispherical polished stone (a burnishing stone, I think). Because they had no relevance to the site and no solid

provenience, I sent them home with the workman at the end of the day.

Probably more relevant but equally unprovenienced were two small vessels used

by the site caretaker as candle holders. They appeared to be miniature ollas, but may

have been intended originally as candleholders. In any event, they had no known

provenience and he could not say where they had come from since they were, reportedly,

a gift. They may have derived from the site of San Jerónimo, but no obvious signs of

looting were encountered and if from the site, probably date to the construction of the

new house at the Punta Piedra in 2001. 340

Chapter 6: Analysis – by Artifact type

CERAMICS

The ceramic assemblage from any Maya site forms one of the primary anchors for

the interpretation of cultural patterns both within that site and in situating it within the

regional framework. Analysis of the ceramics is a vital step in developing an

understanding of the site, serving to situate it within a chronological framework, a regional network of exchange, and illuminating internal variations in material culture.

In this section, I identify observed patterns in the ceramic assemblage from San

Jerónimo II, and attempt to explain the significance of those patterns with respect to each

of those topics. I begin by addressing general patterns at the site, then move

progressively to the more specific questions of chronological and status-based variation,

both among and within specific suboperations.

Overall Patterns

Ceramics are the best indicator of the chronology and occupational history when

absolute dating techniques are either unavailable or unreliable. At San Jerónimo II, this

was certainly the case since organic samples of acceptable size and contextual control for

radiocarbon dating were exceedingly rare and there was no funding for such testing in

any event (see Fig. 5).

Fortunately, the ceramic assemblages of lowland Maya sites have been well

studied. Most pertinent to our research was P. Rice’s (1987a) work at Macanché in the

eastern Lakes, but reference was also made to work at Seibal, Altar de Sacrificios,

Uaxactún, Barton Ramie, and Mayapán. Prudence Rice was kind enough to spend three 341

days helping me to improve my identifications. Any remaining errors are my own, but

the more commonly identified types (and the most significant minority types) were

thoroughly vetted. The ceramic assemblage was not unusual for the area, and only a

single new ceramic variety (La Justa Composite: Mateo) was identified (on the basis of

two small vessels).

Almost 14,000 sherds were recovered from excavations at San Jerónimo II (Table

97), though the bulk of them (n=8415; 60.3%) were assigned to essentially undatable

categories, either because of erosion of surface characteristics or crudely utilitarian manufacture. Operation 1 had generally better preservation, but the typically shallow contexts resulted in a variety of erosive factors (including exposure to weather and root damage) and a high frequency of simple utilitarian vessels meant that even at our best preserved group over half the assemblage was undatable. Still, about 40% of the assemblage was assigned to specific temporal periods. Over 3,000 sherds (about 22%)

were assigned to a Late Classic or Terminal Classic type (Tepeu 2/Tepeu 3), making this

the best-represented time period at the site. Another 16.2% of the assemblage was

assigned a Postclassic date, however, and where identifiable, the majority of those sherds were of Early Postclassic date, with only a small proportion (probably similar to or fewer than the Preclassic sherds) clearly Late Postclassic. The Early Classic and Early Late

Classic (Tepeu 1) periods were very sparsely represented, with only 18 sherds (0.1%) assigned to these periods. The Preclassic assemblage is larger, but still represents only about 1.2% of the total assemblage. All of those sherds were of Late Preclassic date except for a lone Middle Preclassic sherd identified by Prudence Rice. This evidence supports the assertion made earlier, that the primary occupation of the site began in the 342

Late or Terminal Classic and continued through the Early Postclassic, with an earlier Late

Preclassic occupation apparently focused on the vicinity of Operation 1.

There is some apparent temporal variation between and within operations, however (see Table 97). As noted, the Preclassic occupation seems to have been focused on the vicinity of Operation 1, the only locale where Preclassic architectural features

were identified; similarly, it is the only area where Preclassic ceramics are at all common,

with 166 of the 171 total Preclassic sample coming from this operation. Diagnostically

Late and Terminal Classic ceramics are found in remarkably similar concentrations

across all three operations, with frequencies ranging only between 20.1% and 22.5%.

Postclassic frequencies are a bit more variable, ranging from 13.2% at Operation 2 to

21.5% at Operation 1. Nevertheless, the frequencies are high enough that a Postclassic occupation must be postulated at all three operations, though certain structures may have been abandoned fairly early on in the Postclassic (e.g., Str. 4, Strs. 1B and 1C, and Str. 2).

Late Postclassic occupation is quite scarce, though one could argue for a late occupation at Str. 3A; I suspect that is unlikely, since the bulk of the Late Postclassic ceramics there derive from the remains of only two vessels. Late Postclassic sherds are few and scattered at Operation 1 and nearly nonexistent at Operation 2. Taken as a whole, this would seem to suggest that essentially all excavated structures were occupied during the

Late/Terminal Classic and abandoned one or two at a time over the course of the Early

Postclassic.

External trade ties are a bit tricky to identify in the various time periods, because imports are uncommon and there are difficulties in separating imports from locally

343

CERAMIC TYPES OPERATION 1 OPERATION 2 OPERATION 3 TOTAL Unidentified 1723 4869 1211 7803 Striated 152 246 214 612 Total Undated 1875 (51.4%) 5115 (64.2%) 1425 (61.1%) 8415 (60.3%) Snail Inclusion Paste 88 157 31 276 Paxcamán Red 145 56 52 253 Pozo Unslipped 460 622 231 1313 Maskall Unslipped 44 130 15 189 Censer Fragments 23 57 53 133 Minority Postclassic Types 24 30 50 95 Postclassic Total 784 (21.5%) 1052 (13.2%) 432 (18.5%) 2259 (16.2%) Ash paste 573 1544 317 2434 Late/Terminal Classic Red 132 77 39 248 types Encanto Striated 40 45 46 131 Minority Late and Terminal 68 127 67 271 Classic Types Late /Terminal Classic Total 813 (22.3%) 1793 (22.5%) 469 (20.1%) 3084 (22.1%) Early Classic/Tepeu 1 12 (0.3%) 3 (0.0%) 3 (0.1%) 18 (0.1%) Preclassic Types 166 (4.5%) 3 (0.0%) 2 (0.1%) 171 (1.2%) Total 3650 7966 2331 13947

Table 97: Ceramic distributions at San Jerónimo by operation

produced copies. There does seem to be a general shift from contacts with the south and

southwest in the Terminal Classic to an eastern focus in the Early Postclassic.

Imported ceramics are primarily high-status goods during the Terminal Classic, with the most noteworthy categories being a variety of fine-paste types presumed to have been imported from the Pasión and Petexbatún regions to the southwest. Some of these fine-paste types might have been locally produced copies, but still indicate contact with those regions. These types are found in extremely low frequencies and in non-random distributions -- mostly at Operation 2 (80%).

Ties to the south and southwest disappear during the Early Postclassic as poulation in these regions declined. Imported ceramics from eastern sources consist of less obviously status-linked types. Maskall Unslipped, an Early Postclassic utilitarian type described from Barton Ramie, almost assuredly does not represent an imported type, yet indicates affiliations as distant as western Belize. More likely to represent actual 344

imports are rare Postclassic types such as Tohil Plumbate (presumed to derive from the

southern highlands, but possibly traded in from the north), Augustine Red (probably from

western Belize) and Topoxté Red (probably from the eastern Petén Lakes). Note: Cecil

(2001) argues that Augustine Red was also produced in the vicinity of Lake Petén Itzá, but the low frequency of the type at San Jerónimo II, argues that it was imported to the

site. Linkages to the east are certainly clear during the Late Postclassic period, and

Paxcamán Red is the default slipped ceramic type for sites at least as far east as Lake

Macanché. Paxcamán Red continues as a significant minority type past Lake Yaxhá

(where Topoxté Red comes to dominate) and into western Belize at sites like Tipú (where

Augustine Red predominates). These imported types were recovered from all three

operations, though two thirds of our tiny sample (8 of 12 sherds) came from Operation 1.

Paxcamán, Augustine and Topoxte (and their corresponding wares) are united by strong ties in surface decorations and form, and are primarily distinguished by paste characteristics. Given their surface similarity, their presence outside their standard range is likely to indicate the movement of individuals among closely associated groups

(bringing their technological style variant with them). They are poor indicators of preferential access to exotic items because they are very similar to locally produced ceramics.

The presence of Tohil Plumbate at San Jerónimo II in the Early Postclassic is of particular importance, especially coupled with the presence of Pachuca obsidian. This suggests that as trade ties with the Pasión and Petexbatun regions declined, the occupants of Operation 2 were able to establish new contacts with developing Epiclassic and Early

Postclassic networks to the north (see Kepecs 1994 for a discussion of the movement of 345

Pachuca obsidian through the Chichén Itzá trade network). This may, in turn, suggest

ties between the Petén Lakes district and northern centers prior to the movement of

groups in the Late Postclassic. There are epigraphic data to support a Late Classic Itzá

presence in the western lakes and ties to Chichén Itzá may have been ongoing throughout this time period. The relative dearth of Augustine and Topoxte at Operation 2, may suggest that residents of the operation placed less importance on maintaining ties to less

distant producers in the Early Postclassic.

IMPORTED CERAMIC TYPES OP. 1 OP. 2 OP. 3 TOTAL Fine Orange 4 9 0 13 Pabellon Modeled-Carved 0 1 0 1 Trapiche Incised 0 2 0 2 Fine Gray 0 5 2 7 Benque Viejo Polychrome 1 2 0 3 Terminal Classic Imports 5 19 2 26

Plumbate 0 9 0 9 Augustine Red 6 0 3 9 Topoxté Red 2 1 0 3 Postclassic Imports 8 10 3 21 Table 98: Distribution of Imported Ceramic Types

Distribution patterns of locally produced decorated ceramic types are also

informative. They support a similar pattern to that suggested by the imported ceramic

types, though the distinctions are less clear-cut. Over half the sample of our three

decorated Late to Terminal Classic ceramic types (Table 99) were retrieved from

Operation 2 (though of course, more ceramics were recovered from Operation 2 than the others). Operations 2 and 3 had small amounts as well. Decorated local Postclassic ceramics are found primarily in Operations 1 and 3, with only four such sherds from

Operation 2.

346

Decorated Local Types Operation 1 Operation 2 Operation 3 Total Pantano Impressed 0 1 5 6 Chaquiste Impressed 2 3 0 5 Cameron Incised 6 17 7 30 Late/Terminal Classic 8 21 12 41

Ixpop Polychrome 1 0 2 3 Picú Incised: Picú 1 0 4 5 Picú Incised: Thub 9 4 3 16 Postclassic 11 4 9 24 Table 99: Distribution of Locally Produced Decorated Ceramics

Patterns at Operation 1

At Operation 1 the proportion of Postclassic to Classic ceramics varies

significantly between the component structures. At Str. 4, there are three Classic sherds

for each Postclassic sherd, while at Str. 9B there over three Postclassic sherds for each

Classic sherd. In fact, it seems that we could lump the individual structures roughly into three clusters according to their relative frequencies, though these do not map well with

the suboperations. At Strs. 4, 6, and possibly 7, Classic sherds are considerably more

common than Postclassic sherds. At Strs. 5, 8, 9A and the ambient space, Classic sherds

and Postclassic sherds appear in roughly equivalent frequencies (within 4% of the total

assemblage). Str. 9B is the most anomalous, the only area in the group where Postclassic

sherds substantially outnumber Classic sherds.

All the structures appear to have both Classic and Postclassic occupations, yet

were not completely contemporaneous with each other. While absolute dates cannot be

specified, it would appear that Strs. 4 and 6 were occupied primarily in the Classic period

and only comparatively briefly in the Postclassic period. Str. 7 shows a similar pattern

but to a lesser degree. Conversely, Str. 9B seems to have had its primary occupation

during the Postclassic period, though the building was utilized in the Classic period as 347 well. The remaining portions of Operation 1 seem to have been neatly divided between

Classic and Postclassic ceramics, suggesting that occupation of those structures straddled the Classic-Postclassic transition quite evenly. This suggests to me that the maximal occupation of the group dates from right about the transitional period, since all the structures have a ceramic assemblage suggesting that they were occupied at that time.

Some may have been settled earlier than others, a few may have been occupied only shortly before the transition took effect. Similarly, some structures may have been abandoned shortly after the shift, while others clearly continued for an extended period.

Nonetheless, all the structures appear to have been in use at the critical transitional period. This is a pattern we see to varying degrees at all three operations.

Apart from chronological and functional variations, the ceramic assemblage has relatively little to say about status distinctions within the group. Small quantities (one to three sherds per structure) of (probably imitation) Fine Orange appears at Strs. 4, 5, 6 and

7, but no other types appear that would suggest external imports. There are finer local

(Petén Glossware) types (such as Jato Black on Gray), but only in very small quantities.

Low frequencies of Postclassic imports are also present, including both Augustine Red

(one sherd at Str. 8 and one at 9A) and Topoxté Red (one sherd at Str. 9B).

Functional interpretations are obscured by small sample sizes and secondary contexts. Bearing this in mind, Str. 8 may represent a ritual structure. It is situated in a traditional location (on the eastern edge of a formal group). It also has a relatively high frequency of censer fragments, and contains a comparatively high frequency of higher status ceramics (including Augustine Red, and Picú Incised from the Postclassic and

Benque Viejo Polychrome, Achote Black and Poicte Incised from the Late to Terminal 348

Classic). Str. 6 (and possibly Str. 9A) is attributed a primary residential function on the basis of size, positioning within the group, and diversity of ceramic forms. Str. 7 was also probably a residential structure, though it was small and may have been used in that manner for only part of its use life. Strs. 5 and 9B are assigned functions as kitchens; this is, in large part a conclusion drawn on proximity to primary residential structures and the forms identified in the ceramic assemblage (specifically, high proportions of ollas), though Str. 5 also contained substantial deposits of ash, suggesting the repeated presence of cooking fires. Str. 4 was tentatively assigned a storage function but it may also have been used as a residence. The ceramic forms present at Str. 4 are more limited than at other structures -- mostly jars, with ollas and bowls forming the minority.

In summary, Operation 1 shows some variations in occupational history and structural function, but essentially no status distinctions internal to the group (unless the larger size of Str. 6 or the favorable locations of Strs. 9A and 9B indicate preferential treatment). The group as a whole appears to have been settled in the latter portion of the

Late Classic (or rather reoccupied following abandonment at the end of the Late

Preclassic) and was occupied across the Terminal Classic – Postclassic transition. The group appears to have been largely abandoned by the end of the Early Postclassic, with a few scattered Late Postclassic sherds suggesting that abandonment occurred near that transition point. (Unfortunately, the timing of the Early Postclassic – Late Postclassic transition is not securely dated in this region).

Str. 4 Str. 5 Str. 6 Str. 7 Str. 8 Str. 9A Str. 9b Ambient UID 109 25 262 177 243 433 336 120 Striated 7 1 48 17 28 29 10 6 Undated 116 26 310 194 271 462 346 126 Total (62%) (37%) (51%) (56%) (55%) (54%) (47%) (53%) SIP 0 4 12 19 11 10 28 3 Paxcamán 3 2 25 6 10 32 51 11 Pozo 10 13 44 29 55 82 182 43 349

Maskall 2 2 2 4 4 14 14 2 Censer 1 0 1 4 5 2 9 1 Minority 0 0 0 2 6 8 5 0 Postclassic Postclassic 16 21 84 64 91 148 289 60 Total (9%) (30%) (14%) (18%) (18%) (17%) (39%) (25%) Ash paste 40 19 150 68 81 119 60 26 Classic 2 1 34 9 19 32 19 12 Red Encanto 2 1 15 4 6 6 3 1 LC/TC 4 2 9 8 5 14 10 12 Minority LC/TC 48 23 208 89 111 171 92 51 Total (26%) (32%) (34%) (26%) (22%) (20%) (12%) (21%) EC Total 1 1 3 0 1 4 1 1 Preclassic 6 (3%) 0 1 1 23 (5%) 74 (9%) 10 (1%) 1 Total Total 187 71 606 348 497 859 738 239

Table 100: Ceramic Distribution in Operation 1 by period

Patterns at Operation 2

Our Operation 2 ceramic assemblage is not well preserved – a problem compounded by generally shallow deposition in this area. Over 60% of the sherds fall into undateable categories, in part due to the vagaries of preservation and in part due simply to the plethora of anonymous variable utilitarian carbonate-tempered vessels. Of the identifiable sherds, however, Classic types predominate everywhere except at Str. 1A, making up between 20% and 30% of the total assemblage throughout the operation. At

Strs. 1B and 1C, as well as in the three patio areas and the two smaller ambient spaces,

Postclassic ceramics range only from 4.6% up to 14.7% (with most falling in the 9%-13% range).

Str. 1 A is distinct from the rest of the Group in several ways. Postclassic ceramics actually outnumber Classic ceramics (161 to 125; 26.9% to 20.9%). Its distinctive L-shaped form is introduced to the region (presumably from the southwest) during the Terminal Classic period. This structure is considerably better preserved than 350

either Strs. 1B or 1C, and this may reflect different architectural techniques and/or a later

construction date. It is also has a higher relief than the other two and lies at the highest

point on the platform. Similarly, it is oriented differently than the other two structures,

with its long axis running due east-west; Strs. 1B and 1C are oriented with their long axes

somewhat north of due east. The ceramic and architectural data combine to suggest that

Str. 1A was constructed in a separate, later episode than Strs. 1B and 1C.

There do not appear to be significant differences in the ceramic assemblage to

suggest status differentiation among the occupants of the three structures. Low

frequencies of the imported and decorated types occur at each of the three structures and

scattered across the platform. At Str. 1A, Terminal Classic imports consist of two sherds

of Fine Orange and one of Benque Viejo Polychrome, with two sherds of Cameron

incised to represent the decorated local types and one sherd of Miseria Appliqué and

eight figurine fragments to represent the ritual assemblage. In the Postclassic, Str. 1A

had no imported types, one sherd of Picú Incised: Thub variety , two sherds from censer

bases and nine sherds from the newly described La Justa Composite: Mateo Variety

(comprising two spiked hourglass censers in a typically Postclassic paired pattern). Str.

1B, on the other hand, had only one sherd of Plumbate and two censer figurines in the

Classic period and only two fragments of censer base for the Postclassic. Str. 1C had

decorated local types for both the Classic and Postclassic periods (including incised,

impressed, polychrome and censer fragments), but no obviously imported ceramics.

There does not seem to be any strong patterning in the presumed high-status types,

though the concentration of ritual ceramics in Str. 1A may indicate the presence of a

household shrine; alternatively, the broken La Justa:Mateo censers might represent the 351

ritual termination of the household in the Postclassic period, or a post-abandonment ritual

revisitation (e.g., Pugh 2001:fig.8-14; Masson 1997:310).

As at Operation 1, each of the structures in Operation 2 (as well as the various

surrounding spaces) show significant levels of both Classic and Postclassic ceramic

types. I interpret these relative frequencies to indicate that Strs. 1B and 1C were

constructed and occupied during the Late Classic period, while Str. 1A was a comparatively late, Terminal Classic construction. All three structures were utilized

across the Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic transition, though Strs. 1B and 1C may have been abandoned before Str. 1C (though 12 sherds of Chilo Unslipped at Str. 1B may suggest a brief Late Postclassic reoccupation/reuse). The patio spaces were apparently utilized throughout the occupational history of the platform.

It seems clear that Str. 1A served as the primary residential structure in this group, with bowls and jars nearly equally represented and including a diverse range of minority

forms. Str. 1B may have served as a storage structure, at least toward the end of its active

phase, because jar rims are twice as common as rims from bowls. This would seem in

keeping with the relative lack of high-status ceramic markers. Str. 1C has a remarkably similar formal assemblage when compared with Str. 1B, with similarly high frequencies of jar forms followed by lower frequencies of bowls and then ollas. It may also have served a storage function late in its use, though one or the other of these structures was probably a kitchen (my assumption, based on proximity and ethnographic analogy, would be Str. 1C). Str. 1A may, therefore, represent a relatively late Terminal Classic

construction built on the location of an earlier, Late Classic structure (of which no

architectural remains persist). That is merely an assumption, but not, I think, an unlikely 352

one. It is possible that Str. 1C was used as a residential structure at some point, though I consider it unlikely. Str. 1B is probably too small to have been used as a dwelling, except

temporarily or in extremis.

As a group, these three structures and their associated spaces seem to have

represented a single archaeological household occupied, or sequentially reoccupied, from

the Late Classic through the end of the Early Postclassic, though Strs. 1B and 1C seem to

have been only lightly (or sporadically) used during the Postclassic period. The frequency of imported and decorated ceramics is higher here than elsewhere, particularly in Terminal Classic types, possibly denoting a slightly higher status of this household.

That distinction seems to fall by the wayside in the Early Postclassic when imported ceramics disappear from the assemblage and even decorated local types are relatively scarce.

CERAMIC STR. STR. STR. WEST SOUTH EAST NORTHWEST PASSAGE TYPES 1A 1B 1C PATIO PATIO PATIO UID 305 607 532 1429 1110 628 157 98 Striated 6 23 38 54 57 30 32 6 Undated 311 630 570 1483 1167 658 189 (72.4%) 104 Total (52.0%) (68.9%) (69.8%) (65.0%) (63.5%) (60.9%) (59.8%) SIP 17 12 16 51 24 29 4 4 Paxcamán 7 6 5 26 3 9 0 0 Pozo 112 57 40 149 145 98 8 13 Maskall 13 10 8 44 41 12 0 2 Censer 11 2 5 14 17 8 0 0 Minority 1 13 1 2 9 3 0 1 Postclassic Postclassic 161 100 75 286 239 159 12 20 Total (26.9%) (10.9%) (9.2%) (12.5%) (13.0%) (14.7%) (4.6%) (11.5%) Ash paste 104 176 151 427 367 225 46 48 Classic 3 5 6 45 7 7 4 0 Red Encanto 4 1 6 7 17 5 5 0 LC/TC 14 3 9 30 38 26 5 2 Minority LC/TC 125 185 172 509 429 263 60 (23.0%) 50 Total (20.9%) (20.4%) (21.1%) (22.3%) (23.4%) (24.3%) (28.7%) 353

EC/Tepeu 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 Total Preclassic 0 0 0 2 1 0 0 0 Total Total 598 915 817 2280 1837 1081 261 174

Table 101: Ceramic Distribution in Operation 2 by period

Patterns at Operation 3

At Operation 3 there is a distinct separation between Str. 2 on the one hand, and

Strs. 3A and 3B (as well as the Chultun) on the other hand. This differentiation is not particularly notable in the frequencies of Classic ceramics within the assemblage (with

Strs. 3A and 3B having 18.3% and 21.2% respectively and ranging to a high of 23.8% at

Str. 2). The Postclassic frequencies are quite another case, however, with only 6% of the ceramics at Str. 2 being assignable to the Postclassic compared with frequencies ranging from only 17.5% at Str. 3B up to 45.6% inside the chultun. Again, while every structure in the operation shows signs of both Classic and Postclassic use, they are not completely contemporary. Str. 2 seems to have been utilized primarily during the Late/Terminal

Classic and was apparently abandoned early in the Postclassic period. Strs. 3A and 3B, on the other hand, were clearly used for significant periods in both the Classic and

Postclassic periods. The use of the chultun seems to be primarily late, with Postclassic ceramics predominating inside of this closed context. More precisely, the deposit within the chultun is largely Postclassic detritus and, while the chultun may have been originally excavated in the Classic period, its final use was for waste disposal during the Postclassic period. As in Operation 2, there is essentially no evidence for any occupation predating the Late Classic; only five sherds from earlier periods were recovered here and they may well have arrived through a series of taphonomic processes from the Preclassic occupation at Operation 1. There are some indications that occupation at Str. 3A may 354

have continued into the early years of the Late Postclassic, with 36 sherds of two or more

Chilo Unslipped vessels recovered from that structure.

The ceramic assemblage also suggests a slight patterning of status-linked and ritual ceramics (Table 102). Of the three structures, Str. 2 is the poorest in both status- linked and ritual types. Str. 3B had the most diverse assemblage in the group in both the

Classic and the Postclassic. Status-linked ceramic types are scarce throughout the operation in both periods, while ritual ceramics are somewhat more abundant,

particularly in the Postclassic period, where they are relatively common at both Str. 3A and Str. 3B.

STATUS LINKED AND RITUAL TYPES STR. 2 STR. 3A STR. 3B Cameron Incised 1 1 3 Pantano Impressed 0 2 2 Gouged-Incised 0 1 4 Imitation Fine Orange 0 0 2 Jato Black on Gray 0 0 1 Figurine 2 3 3 Miseria Appliqué 1 0 0 Classic Total 4 7 15

Augustine Red 0 0 1 Picú Incised 2 0 1 Censer Base 2 8 4 Censer Spall 3 20 12 La Justa Composite 0 0 1 Postclassic Total 7 28 19

Table 102: Distribution of Status-linked and Ritual Ceramic types at Operation 3

Preservation of the ceramic assemblage was quite variable. Best preserved were

the ceramics recovered from the protected context of the chultun interior (where only

43.9% of the assemblage was placed in undated categories – probably reflecting a basal

frequency for basic utilitarian types). Preservation was poorest at Str. 2, as a result of 355

shallow excavations and dense vegetation, so almost 70% of the assemblage was

unidentifiable to type. The other two structures fell into an intermediate class, with

unidentified ceramics making up 57% and 61% of the assemblage at Strs. 3A and 3B,

respectively.

Str. 2 probably represents the dwelling of a small, and relatively transitory,

household. Functional analysis of the vessel forms from this structure includes a preponderance of bowls and jars in a moderately diverse assemblage, arguing for a

generalized domestic function. The use of Strs. 3A and 3B are partially obscured by their transparent function as a lithic workshop (testified to by massive amounts of lithic

debitage). The vessel forms represented within the ceramic assemblage at Strs. 3A and

3B, likewise argue for generalized domestic functions, with both having predominantly

bowls and jars, but with substantial minorities of other forms. At Str. 3B, there are also

large numbers of olla rims, with tecomates, basins and vases well represented as well.

Str. 3A had comparatively few ollas but higher frequencies of censers. I would argue for

Str. 3A as the primary residential structure of the workshop, with 3B serving as a

kitchen/storage space. The determination of structure function here is difficult because a large section of the intervening space between 3A and 3B is covered by a sheet midden,

probably generated from waste produced at both structures. The ceramics and lithics are

well mixed, so one cannot state that the use of the structures as a lithic workshop

postdated their use as a domestic household. Such a chronological separation is probable,

given the poor quality of debitage removal from the surface structures.

CERAMIC TYPES STR. 2 STR. 3A STR. 3B AMBIENT CHULTUN CHULTUN EX IN UID 392 237 352 97 43 90 Striated 38 47 102 8 5 14 Undated Total 430 284 454 105 48 (45.3%) 104 356

(69.6%) (57.1%) (61.3%) (64.8%) (43.9%) SIP 0 8 13 1 5 4 Paxcamán 8 9 11 2 2 20 Pozo 22 35 78 24 26 76 Maskall 0 5 6 1 0 3 Censer 5 28 18 2 0 0 Postclassic Minority 2 37 4 0 2 5 Postclassic Total 37 (6.0%) 122 130 30 (18.5%) 35 (33.0%) 108 (24.5%) (17.5%) (45.6%) Ash paste 103 63 102 20 15 14 Classic Red 13 3 13 3 2 5 Encanto 17 9 15 1 3 1 LC/TC Minority 14 16 27 3 3 4 LC/TC Total 147 91 157 27 (16.7%) 23 (21.7%) 24 (10.1%) (23.8%) (18.3%) (21.2%) EC/Tepeu 1 Total 2 0 0 0 0 1 Preclassic Total 2 0 0 0 0 0 Total 618 497 741 162 106 237

Table 103: Ceramic Distribution at Operation 3 by period

Patterns in Ritual Ceramics

Nearly all models of the Maya “Collapse” point to an apparent shift in ideology away from the central role of divine kings. The importance placed on that shift varies from researcher to researcher, but all agree that Postclassic kings appear to have been less central to the religious system than their Classic predecessors. While large-scale public rituals were presumed to have changed substantially, they were unlikely to have left any material residue at a small agricultural hamlet like San Jerónimo II. It is generally presumed that many of the household-level domestic and agricultural rituals went unchanged across this temporal boundary, except as affected by the shifting demographic situation. Nevertheless, we examine the material correlates of ritual practice across the

Classic-Postclassic transition at San Jerónimo II, to examine the nature and degree of changes occurring in the ritual system.

There are no burials or caches from this period, so we must examine the distribution and form of ritual ceramics. These include a variety of censer fragments 357

(both Classic and Postclassic) as well as a host of figurine fragments (apparently wholly

Classic). There is substantial continuity in censer form across the transition, though new

types are described for periods following the “Collapse.” Particularly apparent is the

continuity from the spiked hourglass censers of the Terminal Classic period (Miseria

Appliquéd) to a variety of similarly shaped censers in the Early and Late Postclassic

periods (La Justa Composite: Mateo Variety, Gotas Composite, etc.). While the

production of figurines appears to be largely discontinued in the Postclassic period, I

postulate that their ritual function was preserved, in an altered state, through the introduction of effigy censers (e.g., Patojo modeled, Pitufo modeled). While few clear effigy fragments were recovered from the site, body sherds attributable to the large censers that support those effigies were recovered. It is worth considering the possibility that figurines continue to be used, at least locally, into the Early Postclassic period, because the effigy censers do not seem to appear until the Late Postclassic (possibly as an introduction from northern sites such as Mayapán).

Given the relatively small amounts of ritual ceramics at the site, they are addressed largely by category, rather than on an operation by operation basis. We will begin with the Terminal Classic Miseria Appliqué spiked hourglass censers (see Fig. 60).

Five fragments of Miseria spiked hourglass censers were recovered from our excavation, one from Operation 1 (at Str. 9b), two from Operation 2 (Str. 1A and the West Patio), and two from Operation 3 (Str. 2 and the ambient space west of Str. 3A). One additional fragment from the ambient space north of Str. 9b represents the handle of a Miseria: hollow handle variety ladle censer, also of Terminal Classic date. Other ladle censers, made with ash tempering and thus, presumably of Classic date, were found in the 358

Figure 60: Miseria Appliquéd – Terminal Classic Censer Forms (Adams 1971:178) 359

Figure 61: Classic period figurines from San Jerónimo II 360

Chultun in Operation 3 (two sherds) and in the South Patio of Operation 2. Late Classic censer stands are also represented (two fragments found at Str. 7 and one from the South

Patio of Operation 2).

Figurine fragments (see Fig. 61), are both more plentiful and more suggestive of the variation present in Maya ritual practices of the day. They encompass a wide variety of pastes, both anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures, and distinct costumes.

Figurines are scarcest at Operation 1, where we have only three ceramic depictions of figures. A depiction of a monkey’s head at Str. 7 was modeled into the side of a tripod support. Small fragments of figurine bodies found at Strs. 4 and 9A, are too small to be securely identified, and one was potentially a modeled decoration on a strap handle. All of these were created in a reddish carbonate tempered paste, though the examples from

Strs. 4 and 9A had a finer paste.

Operation 3 has similarly scant representation of figurines. We found two examples of figurine fragments at Str. 2: one was a zoomorphic head, possibly of a dog or bat, the second was simply the headdress of an anthropomorphic figure. Both again had a coarse red paste with calcite tempering. At Str. 3B, an ash paste figurine fragment was recovered, though in such a highly eroded state that its attribution is uncertain; it appears to be a fragment of arm against a background.

Twenty-one possible figurine fragments were recovered from Operation 2, 10 of them from the South Patio, four from the East Patio, two each at Strs. 1A and 1B, and single representatives from the West Patio, the Northwest Space, and the surface collection. The South Patio assemblage includes two zoomorphic figurines: a squatting monkey, and a woodpecker head. It also provided four anthropomorphic heads: one an 361

apparent dwarf with bulging forehead, one a male with a forward thrust pompadour-style headdress, another male wearing Tlaloc goggles, and a possible female head with headdress. The last of those specimens was quite small and may have served as an adorno on a larger vessel. Two other fragments represent possible torso fragments of figurines. The remaining two fragments are too small to be securely described, but seem to be modeled fragments of figurines.

Similarly, the East Patio fragments include two zoomorphic fragments and two anthropomorphic fragments. The zoomorphic pieces include a small appliqué adorno in the shape of a sloth’s head and the large modeled bill of a raptorial bird (my best guess would be King Vulture – Sarcoramphus papa). The anthropomorphic fragments include a presumed male head with earspools and elaborate headdress, and a possible female

figure with headdress. At Str. 1A, the fragments are less informative; one is an unidentifiable figurine fragment and the other is an oddly shaped cylinder with a terminal

flair that might be a strange headdress, a manatee tail or simply a peculiar tripod support

(Dr. P. Rice voted for the latter option). Str. 1B contained a crudely made, prognathous

head and shoulders, lacking any headdress but wearing an apparent yoke and possibly

representing a ball player; the remaining fragment from Str. 1B seems to be a fragment of

a small circular adorno from a larger figurine. Another zoomorphic figurine from the

West Patio, was apparently an oddly posed feline reminiscent of a chess knight. The

surface collection included a small foot from a larger figurine. The final fragment, from

the Northwest Space, is a strange appliqué in the form of a bird’s tail or a three-fingered hand. Slightly more than half of the figurine fragments in the group were made from ash 362 paste ceramics, with the remainder being carbonate tempered in a variety of paste colors

(though mostly fired to a red or buff).

These figurines suggest a couple of possible conclusions. First, the relative plethora of figurine fragments at Operation 2 may indicate a greater investment in the ritual system; this may have been part and parcel of the apparently higher status of the household, though the frequently low quality workmanship of the figurines doesn’t really support that conclusion. Second, the broad diversity of figurines suggests little standardization of ritual practice and each figurine may have been individually hand made for a specific event, or possibly for rituals dedicated to specific divine agents.

Third, the anthropomorphic figurines seem to depict both deities (e.g., Tlaloc) and lesser supernatural agents (possibly including dwarves and the hero twins), but may also include revered ancestors (generic individuals in specific regalia). The role of the zoomorphic figurines is even less obvious, but may represent certain nature spirits.

Alternatively, some of these figurines may not be intended for ritual use and may have been simple toys or even gaming pieces. Imputing ideological meaning to odd figurines has a long but questionable archaeological precedent.

As one crosses the temporal border into the Early Postclassic period, spiked hourglass censers continue, but take on the cruder workmanship and coarser pastes characteristic of Postclassic unslipped wares (see Fig. 62). Most common at San

Jerónimo II are fragments of La Justa Composite censers, including single sherds of the

La Justa variety at Strs. 1A and 3B, and 13 sherds from two vessels of the newly described La Justa: Mateo variety (one centered at N159 E258 at Str. 1A and one in the

West Patio at N157 E248). An additional fragment of a Gotas Composite censer was 363

Figure 62: Postclassic Censer fragments from San Jerónimo II 364

recovered from the East Patio of Operation 2. Ladle censers also continue, with a ladle

censer handle comprised of snail inclusion paste being retrieved as part of the surface

collection from Operation 2. Another ladle censer fragment, deriving from the South

Patio of Operation 2, may be of Postclassic date as well, being made from a coarse red

carbonate paste.

Several other varieties of Postclassic censer are also probably represented at San

Jerónimo II. They cannot be reliably assigned to type or variety, but the characteristic

rolled basal rims of Postclassic censers were recovered in significant quantities (n=68).

Censer bases were found throughout the site, with 19 at Operation 1, 34 at Operation 2,

and 15 at Operation 3. They are scattered thoroughly across the site, so ascertaining any

spatial patterns is difficult; only Str. 4 lacks censer base fragments. Str. 3A has the most, but even there only eight fragments were found. The bulk of the censer bases at

Operation 2, derive from the patios (n=22), while at Operation 1, Str. 8 has the highest

concentration (n=5). Ceramic sherds constituting spalls from overheated vessels were

also interpreted as censer fragments. These latter spalls (n=49) derive primarily from

Operation 3: 20 derive from Str. 3A, 14 from Str. 3B, three from Str. 2, and one from the ambient space. The remaining 11 spalls were recovered at Operation 1: eight from Str.

9B, and one each from Strs. 4, 7, and 9A.

Other sherds assigned a categorization of censer fragment (n=11) (on the basis of

burning, thickness, possible modelling, or apparent coarseness where a figure was

appliquéd) or as censer stopper (n=2) were found across the site as well. Several of these

(including both stoppers, and three sherds with ash tempering) were probably of Classic 365

date, but the majority were suggestive of a Postclassic date on the basis of paste

characteristics and formal attributes.

All of this analysis has revealed a great deal of continuity in the forms of ritual

ceramics across the Classic-Postclassic transition. Incense burners are the major ritual

form and both spiked hourglass censers and ladle censers continue to be used into the

Early Postclassic period. Figurines depicting a variety of deities, supernatural beings,

and potentially revered ancestral figures are common in the Late/Terminal Classic and

might continue to be common into the Early Postclassic. Effigy censers, which seem to

replace them in the Late Postclassic, are scarce here, and may combine the functions of the earlier figurines and censers in household rituals. It doesn’t appear that there was a

major transformation in the ritual system at small outlying sites like San Jerónimo II.

That said, the evidence here doesn’t really speak to changes at higher levels of organized

ritual practice at major centers during this time period. The Maya “Little Tradition” was

probably largely unaffected by shifts in the political ideology of the Maya polities during

the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic, while the Maya “Big Tradition” was apparently radically transformed. Evidence for continuity of function is arguable, of course, since similar vessels may have been used in wholly new rituals, yet conservatism in religious practice is the default assumption in this case.

Net weights, Spindle Whorls and other special function ceramics

Twenty-five of the distinctive ceramic objects usually termed net weights, net sinkers, or line weights (e.g., Rice 1987a:100) were recovered from archaeological contexts at San Jerónimo II. Four of them were found at Operation 1 (one at Str. 8, two from Str. 9B, and one from test pit 9 – south of Str. 9B), and the remaining 21 were found 366

at Operation 2. Of those 21, seven came from the West Patio, three each from the South

Patio, the passageway between Strs. 1B and 1C, and from Str. 1C. Of the remaining five, two came from Str. 1A, and one each from Str. 1B, the East Patio and the surface collection. In general, the majority of the net sinkers from Operation 2 came from the western half and mostly from two loose clusters, one centered on N145 E250 and one

around N154 E253.

All but one of the net sinkers recovered was converted from a sherd through the

simple expedient of carving notches into opposite ends of a loosely rectangular fragment.

The remaining net sinker, from Str. 9B was mold made and unslipped. Of the 24

converted from sherds, half (n=12) were produced from undateable, carbonate-tempered

ceramics. The other 12 included a single undateable striated sherd, but also included

eight ash-tempered ceramics of Classic date and three of Postclassic date (two Snail

Inclusion Paste and one Paxcamán Red). Given that these all represent a secondary usage, it is possible that all of the net sinkers actually date to the Postclassic period, as

Rice (1987a:100, 237) suggests. I suspect, however, that they were in use at San

Jerónimo II during the Terminal Classic period and continued to be used throughout the

Postclassic period.

The net sinkers vary in size, from a minimum length of less than 2 cm (17.6 mm) up to a maximum length of over 4 cm (42.1 mm), with an average length of 28.6 mm recorded for our unbroken specimens. They range in shape from rectangular to nearly square, with width averaging 22.4 mm. That makes them slightly larger, on average, than their counterparts at Macanché (22.8 mm by 17.2 mm), where they appear to be made largely from Postclassic ceramic types (P. Rice 1987a:204). As one would expect from 367

converted sherds, the thickness of these artifacts ranges from just under 3 mm to just over

11 mm, with the mean thickness being 6.5 mm (and the modal and median thickness

being 5.9 mm). Rice suggests that the introduction of these artifacts may represent a shift in food procurement strategies implemented in the Postclassic period. It is difficult to imagine that fish were not eaten earlier, but this may suggest that a greater emphasis was placed on such lacustrine resources at the time of the Classic-Postclassic transition.

Six spindle whorls were also recovered from the excavations at San Jerónimo II.

Three were located at the Operation 2 excavations (Str. 1B, East Patio, South Patio), two at the Operation 3 excavations (Str. 3B, Chultun), and one at Operation 1 (test pit 9).

Four of these were converted from sherds of broken vessels, while two were deliberately

molded. Several other ceramic artifacts may be associated with textile production. These

include other possible spindle whorls (of less regular shape) at Str. 1C and the northwest

area of Operation 2, two spindle rests (disks with only partially drilled holes) at Str. 6 and

the East Patio of Operation 2, three round to oval disks (spindle whorl blanks?) from Strs.

6, 9B, and 3A, and a sherd with two grooved edges interpreted as a needle sharpener

from the East Patio of Operation 2. If each of those specimens is linked to textile

production, then the distribution becomes four from Operation 1, seven from Operation 2,

and three from Operation 3, with the greatest concentration (3 artifacts) deriving from the

East Patio of Operation 2.

Four of the six confirmed spindle whorls were made from an ash paste ceramic of

Classic date, one was converted from an Achote Black sherd (also Classic) and one was

unidentified to type. The two spindle rests were also of ash paste provenience, as was the needle sharpener, the two possible spindle whorls, and one of the three disks. The 368

remaining two disks were both undated, with one converted from a striated sherd and the other from an unknown carbonate paste sherd. This would seem to suggest a Classic

period focus to this activity, though, as with the net sinkers, Postclassic use cannot be

precluded.

Of the six spindle whorls, five are of similar size – ranging from 23.5-27.8 mm in

diameter, suggesting use in the production of cotton thread, (one of the two possible

spindle whorls also falls in this range). The remaining clear example was substantially larger (58.1 mm in diameter), suggesting it was used to spin a coarser fiber; this is the

Achote Black specimen from test pit 9 in Operation 1. The spindle rests are intermediate in size (43.5 and 48.2 mm), and the disks range from 33 – 41 mm.

LITHICS

As a caveat, it should be noted that I have little formal training in lithic analysis and the analysis performed here should be regarded as strictly preliminary. At some future date, I would like to return to the workshop area in Operation 3 with additional workmen and a lithic expert. Until then, a rudimentary analysis has been undertaken in order to address some basic issues of lithic production at the site.

There are, basically speaking, two major topics of interest that can be addressed using the lithic data recovered from our field excavations: the organization of production at the site, and changes in the formal tool assemblage across the Classic-Postclassic boundary. These topics are addressed separately and the remaining patterns are addressed under a final general subheading.

LITHICS LITHICS/M³ FORMAL FORMAL RECOVERED EXCAVATED TOOLS TOOLS/M³ Operation 1 1377 54.0 13 0.51 Operation 2 1954 63.4 23 0.75 369

Op. 1 &2 3331 59.1 36 0.63 Operation 3 57836 2906.3 9 0.45 San Jeronimo 61167 802.7 45 0.59 Overall

Table 104: Distribution of Lithics and Formal Tools at San Jerónimo II

Lithics Tools > 2” 2” > x > 1” > x > ½” > x > ¼” < ¼ ” 1” ½” Str. 4 43 4 (9.3%) 1 (2.3%) 8 (18.6%) 24 6 (14.0%) 0 (0.0%) (55.8%) Str. 5 54 7 0 (0.0%) 11 31 5 (9.3%) 0 (0.0%) (13.0%) (20.4%) (57.4%) Str. 6 561 16 0 (0.0%) 85 295 155 10 (1.8%) (2.9%) (15.2%) (52.6%) (27.6%) Str. 7 200 7 (3.5%) 0 (0.0%) 45 91 55 2 (1.0%) (22.5%) (45.6%) (27.5%) Str. 8 101 2 (2.0%) 0 (0.0%) 15 55 27 2 (2.0%) (14.9%) (54.5%) (26.7%) Str. 9A 182 1 (0.5%) 0 (0.0%) 27 99 55 0 (0.0%) (14.8%) (51.6%) (30.2%) Str. 9B 132 3 (2.3%) 0 (0.0%) 26 75 27 1 (0.8%) (19.7%) (56.8%) (20.5%) Ambien 68 1 (1.5%) 0 (0.0%) 10 43 14 0 (0.0%) t (14.7%) (63.2%) (20.6%) Other 11 0 (0.0%) 0 (0.0%) 5 (45.5%) 5 (45.5%) 1 (9.1%) 0 (0.0%) TP #4 12 2 0 (0.0%) 4 (33.3%) 5 (41.7%) 1 (8.3%) 0 (0.0%) (16.7%) TP #9 13 1 (7.7%) 0 (0.0%) 6 (46.2%) 6 (46.2%) 0 (0.0%) 0 (0.0%) Op. 1 1377 44 1 242 729 346 15 (1.1%) Total (3.2%) (0.07%) (17.6%) (52.9%) (25.1%)

Table 105: Distribution of Lithics at Operation 1, San Jerónimo II

Lithics Tools > 2” 2” > x > 1” > x > ½” > x > ¼” < ¼ ” 1” ½” Str. 1A 137 10 1 (0.7%) 22 62 41 1 (7.3%) (16.1%) (45.3%) (29.9%) (0.7%) Str. 1B 171 5 (2.9%) 2 (1.2%) 25 82 57 0 (14.6%) (48.0%) (33.3%) (0.0%) Str. 1C 205 9 (4.4%) 2 (1.0%) 35 83 76 0 (17.1%) (40.5%) (37.1%) (0.0%) West 582 28 3 (0.5%) 84 284 181 2 Patio (4.8%) (14.4%) (48.8%) (31.1%) (0.3%) 370

South 440 21 5 (1.1%) 81 211 121 1 Patio (4.8%) (18.4%) (48.0%) (27.5%) (0.2%) East Patio 279 18 3 (1.1%) 65 136 57 0 (6.5%) (23.3%) (48.7%) (20.4%) (0.0%) NW 82 2 (2.4%) 2 (2.4%) 9 (11.0%) 39 30 0 Space (47.6%) (36.6%) (0.0%) Passage 43 2 (4.7%) 0 (0.0%) 7 (16.3%) 18 16 0 (41.9%) (37.2%) (0.0%) Surface 13 1 (7.7%) 2 4 (30.8%) 4 (30.8%) 2 (15.4%) 0 (15.4%) (0.0%) Basurero 2 0 (0.0%) 0 (0.0%) 0 (0.0%) 2 0 (0.0%) 0 (100.0%) (0.0%) Op. 2 1954 96 20 332 921 581 4 Total (4.9%) (1.0%) (17.0%) (47.1%) (29.7%) (0.2%)

Table 106: Distribution of Lithics at Operation 2, San Jerónimo II

Lithics Tools > 2” 2” > x > 1” > x > ½” > x > < ¼ ” 1” ½” ¼” Str. 2 251 13 1 66 130 41 (16.3%) 0 (5.2%) (0.4%) (26.3%) (51.8%) (0.0%)

Table 107: Distribution of Lithics at Str. 2, Operation 3, San Jerónimo II

Workshop at Str. 3A and 3B LITHICS TOOLS >2” 2”> X 1” > X ½” > X < ¼ ” RECOVERED > 1” > ½” > ¼” Str. 3A 21,466 296 6 1,355 7,108 12,526 175 (1.4%) (0.03%) (6.3%) (33.1%) (58.4%) (0.8%) Str. 3B 27,276 403 7 1,435 9,359 15,904 168 (1.5%) (0.03%) (5.3%) (34.3%) (58.3%) (0.6%) Str. 3 6,779 127 4 360 2,141 4,102 45 ambient (1.9%) (0.06%) (5.3%) (31.6%) (60.5%) (0.7%) space Chultun 1141 41 0 67 319 691 23 interior (3.6%) (0.0%) (5.9%) (28.0%) (60.6%) (2.0%) Chultun 777 14 0 59 280 420 4 exterior (1.8%) (0.0%) (7.6%) (36.0%) (54.1%) (0.5%) Workshop 57,439 881 17 3,276 19,207 33,643 415 Total (1.5%) (0.01%) (5.7%) (33.4%) (58.6%) (0.7%)

Table 108: Distribution of Lithics at workshop in Operation 3, San Jerónimo II 371

Over 57,000 pieces of chert were recovered from the workshop area (Table 108).

Since the other two operations and Str. 2 combined yielded only an additional 3,582

pieces of chert, it is immediately clear that this area is qualitatively distinct and its

attribution as a lithic production area is not open to dispute. Several other topics must be

addressed, however. First, is the issue of how the production of stone tools was

organized, as well as how the finished products were distributed. On a basic level, we

must ask what types of tools were being produced, how the raw material was obtained,

and in what form it was brought to the site. Questions of how long the workshop was in

production and how many workers it may have employed are also extremely interesting,

but may be unanswerable from our present data.

We have already discussed the formal characteristics of Strs. 3A and 3B (see

Chapter 3), but a brief recap is provided here. Str. 3A is a rectangular building,

approximately 9m long by 3m wide, with the long axis oriented to the east of north and

located on the shore of the lake. This structure has greater vertical relief than any of the other structures at the site and is, in general, better preserved than most. The excavations

on Str. 3A cleared the upper two levels of the entire building and included a deeper test

unit sunk into the west central portion of the structure. Str. 3A is contained within 54 1m

X 1m units running from N157 E345 in the northeast to N149 E336 in the southwest.

With the test unit excavated in six levels and the other 56 units excavated in two levels, the artifact collection from Str. 3A is therefore comprised of 112 lots. Soil removed per level varied from 2 to 13 cm per lot, but averaged 7.125 cm per lot. In total, 7.98 m³ of soil was excavated from Str. 3A. 372

Str. 3B was not fully excavated and we cannot be sure of its original dimensions.

From the uncovered portions of the structure, it appears to have been a rectangular construction with one axis just over 4 m in length and the other axis a minimum of 3 m in

length. From the surface indicators, this is probably close to the actual dimensions of the

structure and the odds of it being substantially larger are low. Str. 3B is perfectly

perpendicular to Str. 3A and is neatly aligned with the southwestern face of Str. 3A. The

two structures are separated by a narrow gap approximately 1.5 m in width. The relief of

this structure is quite low in comparison with that of 3A, but once the cleared area was

expanded, the structure was partially visible as a cluster of stones on the surface. As at

Str. 3A, excavation on Str. 3B was undertaken in two levels, and a 5-level test pit was placed on the southeastern corner (N154 E337) of the structure (where the highest lithic counts were recorded in the second level excavations). The Str. 3B excavations include

22 1m X 1m units (running from N152 E333 in the southwest to N157 E338 in the

northeast), for a total of 47 lots pertaining to this structure. Within those 47 lots, soil

removed from any particular unit in a level varied from 4 to 10 cm, averaging 6.98 cm

per lot, for a total of 3.28 m³ of soil removed.

Lithics were recovered in every unit excavated at these two structures. The

amounts retrieved were highly variable and illustrate a pattern of largely secondary

deposition (see Fig. 63). It appears that lithic debitage and other household detritus were

swept off the surface of Str. 3A and, to a lesser extent, Str. 3B. As a result, the highest

counts of lithics were found in units located at the base of the two structures, and

particularly in the small portion of excavated patio space between and in front of the two

structures. 373

Figure 63: Distribution of Lithics in Level 1 and 2 excavations at Strs. 3A and 3B 374

The lithic deposit was not fully excavated. Not only do substantial portions lie to

the north and northwest of our excavated units, but the test pit at Str. 3B indicates that

substantial amounts of lithics are to be found for at least one additional level below level

2 (though, because this test pit was situated in the densest concentration of lithics, two levels may well capture the bulk of the deposit for most units). Level three of this test pit contained our single lot high count of 2437 flakes; level four had only 152 and level 5 only 10. Certainly the test pit atop Str. 3A does not reveal substantial amounts of lithics

below level 2 (though 22 flakes were found in level 3 there, none were found in levels 4-

6).

In effect then, what we have is an extended sheet midden that piled up at the base

of Str. 3A on the northwest and western sides of the structure (see Fig. 63). Given the

substantial counts from the surface of Str. 3B, it appears that lithic production was also

taking place there, and that the structure was not merely constraining the deposit of debitage from Str. 3A. Production seems to have occurred primarily on Str. 3B and the western end of Str. 3A since the northeastern portion of Str. 3A has relatively low lithic counts. It is possible that debitage was also deposited to the south of Str. 3A, but the lake has eroded away that portion of the site.

The deposit is clearly of secondary, rather than primary, deposition although the quantities of lithics found atop the two structures does not speak well of the housekeeping skills of the residents. It is clear, however, that these structures were the locus of a substantial tool making industry. More lithic debitage was found here than would be required to explain the relatively low quantities of formal tools recovered from all three operations. The obvious assumption then, is that most tools produced here were exported 375 from the site; it is unlikely, given the relatively low quality of chert used, that the tools were distributed very widely. My working assumption is that the tools were used to supply San Jerónimo II and also the larger center of Ch’ich on the Candelaria peninsula a mere 1.5 km distant (an easy 10 minute trip by canoe).

No quarry site was found, but it seems unlikely that the stone was transported any great distance on foot. On the other hand, chert cobbles could have been transported from a goodly distance by canoe. In any event, the chert appears to be from one or more local (relatively speaking) source, and is quite variable in color, grain, and probable cobble size. The local geology is suitable for finding chert nodules, though they are not, typically speaking, of any great size or fineness of texture. It has been suggested that chert nodules in the area are usually found higher up the escarpment that forms the northern/western shore of Lake Petén-Itzá (M. Moriarty 2006, pers. comm.). Judging from the distribution of primary flakes in the few (n=3) fully analyzed lots (chosen from the densest deposits and including two lots on Str. 3B and one on Str. 3A), cobbles arrived at the site either totally unprocessed or with only one or two flakes removed.

LOT 854 2”>X>1” 1”>X>½” ½”>X>¼” < ¼” TOTAL

Primary 10 (20%) 63 (21%) 65 (9%) 2 (15%) 140 (13%)

Secondary 13 (26%) 40 (13%) 94 (13%) 0 (0%) 147 (13%)

Tertiary 27 (54%) 201 (66%) 574 (78%) 11 (85%) 813 (74%)

Total 50 304 733 13 1100

Table 109: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 854

LOT 851 2”>X>1” 1”>X>½” ½”>X>¼” < ¼” TOTAL

Primary 27 (37%) 85 (24%) 94 (15%) 0 (0%) 206 (19%) 376

Secondary 10 (14%) 65 (18%) 59 (9%) 1 (13%) 135 (13%)

Tertiary 36 (49%) 203 (58%) 489 (76%) 7 (88%) 735 (68%)

Total 73 353 642 8 1076

Table 110: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 851

LOT 892 2”>X>1” 1”>X>½” ½”>X>¼” < ¼” TOTAL

Primary 27 (38%) 155 (25%) 177 (12%) 4 (17%) 363 (15%)

Secondary 8 (11%) 90 (15%) 145 (9%) 3 (13%) 246 (10%)

Tertiary 37 (51%) 371 (60%) 1210 (79%) 16 (70%) 1734 (74%)

Total 72 616 1532 23 2343

Table 111: Distribution of Flake types and sizes from Lot 892

This suggests that the entire production process occurred on-site, from preliminary

reduction of the core through the fine touches on the tools themselves. In our sample of

three large lots (n=4548 lithic fragments) from the densest area of the lithic deposit, primary flakes make up 15.6% of the assemblage (n=709), while secondary flakes

comprise 11.6% (n=528), tertiary flakes 72.2% (n=3282) and tools and tool blanks 0.6%

(n=29). As one might expect, primary flakes make up a substantial portion (32.8%) of the larger flakes (between 1 and 2 inches), a smaller proportion (23.8%) of the middle- sized (1/2 inch to an inch) and an even smaller proportion (11.6%) of the smaller (1/4

inch to ½ inch) flakes. Converse patterns, of course, hold true for the tertiary flakes,

though even in the 1 to 2 inch category they make up 51.3% of the assemblage.

Which types of tools were being produced is not entirely clear, though a cursory

analysis suggests production of a generalized household assemblage. Judging from the 377 possible blanks amid the analyzed assemblage, the primary tools being produced seem to have been simple blade tools, though a few more formal types were found as well, including scrapers, projectile points and small bifaces.

LOT # TOOL BLANKS BLADES SCRAPERS LANCE PROJECTILE POINT 854 12 10 2 0 0 851 6 3 1 1 1 892 11 11 0 0 0 Total 29 24 3 1 1 Table 112: Distribution of Tools from analyzed lots in the Op. 3 workshop

I hesitate to make any strong claims about the nature and frequency of tool types produced. It would seem odd to me for there to have been a substantial trade in simple chert blades, since most individuals were probably capable of producing a simple cutting edge. In any event, there are no indications of a specialization in a single formal tool type, and my assumption is that production catered to a demand for a range of tools, probably mostly formal tools.

Even less clear is the question of how many craftsmen were working here and for how long. Occupation at these structures seems to have been primarily of Terminal

Classic to Early Postclassic date, with Classic and Postclassic ceramics nearly equally represented. That says little, however, about the duration of the occupation, and even less about its active use in lithic production. My sense of the deposit suggests a single household of active producers (probably no more than three and maybe only one) at work for a minimum period of several years and possibly as long as a generation (though a lack of stratification in the deposit would argue against a long term production window).

There is no logical basis to assume the workshop represents attached specialists, and even full-time independent specialization seems unlikely. We are hampered in our 378

analysis by our ignorance of the full extent of the debitage deposit. That said, a single

chert knapper can produce a surprising amount of debitage in a fairly short time period.

If we postulate use of the lithic workshop as a seasonal sideline during the agricultural

slow period, I would guess the deposit could still have been produced within 10 or 15 years by one to three craftsmen.

Formal Tools

While many flakes were erroneously placed into categories of either expedient tools or unfinished blanks, a number of more formal lithic tools were recovered from the site as well. For some classes of tool, the distinction between the formal tool kit and expedient tools is quite clear: lance points, most arrow heads, drills, bifacial knives and bifacial axes are fairly distinct. Scrapers, on the other hand seem usually to be barely altered flakes, as are a minority of the arrowheads. In this section, we will deal primarily with undoubted tools; expedient and flake tools are addressed later.

LANCE ARROW (W/ KNIFE AXE SCRAPER DRILL TOTAL OBSIDIAN) Op. 1 1 6 8 0 2 0 17 Op. 2 12 9 6 6 1 1 35 Op. 3 5 1 3 2 0 0 11 Total 18 16 17 8 3 1 63

Table 113: Distribution of Formal Tools by functional type at San Jerónimo II

Of the 56 securely attributed formal tools (and tool fragments) made of chert, the most frequently encountered types fall into only four categories: lance points, arrowheads

(n=9), bifacial knives, and bifacial axes. Minority categories include scrapers and drills.

These categories are loosely defined and sorted on a presumed functional basis by shape

and size. 379

Arrowheads are typically small, fairly thin, and have a characteristic side-notched

triangular shape, though the basal portion varies from rounded to indented (see Fig. 64).

If we include the obsidian points (n=7) in this discussion, the total number of small

projectile points reaches a total sample size of 16. Five chert arrowheads were retrieved

from excavations at Operation 1 (see Fig. 29): two at Str. 4, two at Str. 9b, and one at test

pit 4, east of Str. 4. One additional obsidian arrowhead was found in this group, at Str.

9A. The bulk of the remaining arrowheads came from the Operation 2 excavations: three

chert arrowheads and two obsidian points came from the West Patio, the remaining points

were all obsidian with two from Str. 1B, and one each from Str. 1C and the East Patio. In

Operation 3, only one chert point was recovered (from Str. 3A).

A few conclusions can be drawn from these projectile points. First, they confirm the

prevailing opinion in the Petén (e.g., P. Rice 1987a:215) that they were introduced to the

region in the Terminal Classic period and were widespread by the Postclassic. While researchers in Belize (Simmons 1994, Oland 2002, pers. comm.) use these as an indicator of the Late Postclassic/Early Historic period, in the Petén they are clearly in use well before that date. Second, while the overall assemblage is nearly evenly split between obsidian and chert points, these materials are not evenly distributed within the site; at

Operation 1, chert outnumbers obsidian five to one, while at Operation 2, obsidian points outnumber chert points six to three. Whether this is a purely aesthetic decision, one based on functional qualities, a statistical fluke generated by the small sample size, or reflects differences in the access to obsidian, remains unclear. The formal characteristics 380

Figure 64: Projectile Points from San Jerónimo II

381

of the chert and obsidian points are basically the same. The primary difference is that all

but one of the obsidian points were converted from the standard prismatic blades and tend to be thinner and show fewer flakes removed than do their chert counterparts. Size, notching and basal patterns are more or less consistent. There is one other pattern worth noting, the distribution of points within Operation 1. At Operation 2, the points are scattered throughout the entire group; at Operation 1, the points are clustered in the western two suboperations. What this says about the eastern suboperation, 1B, is unclear

– perhaps they were simply not active as hunters or warriors.

Lance points (n=18) were mostly recovered as fragments. These fragments showed characteristics of projectile points (tapered to a point, relatively thin, occasionally modified for hafting) but were too substantial to be considered arrowheads with whole specimens about four to five cm in length. A few of the broken specimens suggest somewhat larger points, as well. I presume that they were used on some sort of shorter- range projectile – a lance, dart, or spear. They are more variable in form than the smaller arrowheads. The majority of them (where identifiable to form) could be classified as oval bifaces (Simmons 1994:141), though there was a single stemmed biface as well.

Lance points were found primarily at Operation 2 (n=12) and Operation 3 (n=5).

The sole lance point recovered from Operation 1 was a complete stemmed biface from

Str. 9b. At Operation 2, we found six lance point fragments in the West Patio (three in

N156 E248, presumably from a single specimen), two each in the East and South Patios,

and lone specimens in Strs. 1A and 1B. At Operation 3, three lance point fragments were

recovered from Str. 3B and one each from Str. 3A and the chultun (level 5). It doesn’t

appear that the lack of lance/spear/dart points from Operation 1 has any particular 382

chronological significance, nor does it seem to be tied to status differences, though there

is one possibility. If the lance points in Operation 3 were being made for exchange, they

might be a status indicator possessed largely by higher status households (e.g., Operation

2). The problem with this argument is that while the lance points from Operation 3 are

all fragments (and thus might have been broken during production), they seem mostly

fairly well finished. It seems more likely that they were broken during use, rather than

during production. The sample size at Operation 3 is too small to allow any definitive

conclusions on the topic, however.

Bifacial axes are an interesting category, though a small one (n=8). These are mostly large bifaces (none retrieved whole) that are quite thick in their cross-section and often show signs of battering at a (more or less) blunt end. Six of the specimens recovered at San Jerónimo II were found in Operation 2; two each in the West Patio and

Str. 1C, and one each in the South and East Patios. The specimen from the East Patio was found in level 7 of a test pit and is presumably not contemporaneous with the other examples (though ceramics from this lot were largely Late/Terminal Classic). The remaining two specimens were found in Operation 3, with one each at Strs. 3A and 3B.

These tools were presumably used for the cutting of wood; in a domestic context, they might be used primarily in chopping firewood, suggesting that Str. 1C may have been the most likely kitchen area for Operation 1, though they may simply have been stored at this structure between uses (or for provisional discard).

The remaining bifacially flaked tools were predominantly assigned to the functional category of knives (n=16). These are not as large, thick or blunt as the axes, yet are larger, generally thicker and cruder, and less pointed than the lance points. They 383

are approximately the correct size and shape to be held in one hand and used as a cutting

tool. As with the axes, none of these specimens were retrieved complete, but none show modifications intended to facilitate hafting. These are the least spatially patterned of our

formal tools. They are found in all operations and at all but three of the individual

structures. Operation 1 yielded eight specimens of this category, with two each from

Strs. 4, 6 and 7, and one each from Strs. 5 and 9A. Bifacial knives were not found at Str.

8, nor in Str. 9B. Six bifacial knife fragments were recovered at Operation 2, one each

from Strs. 1B and 1C, the South, East, and West Patios, and the Northwest Space. The

remaining three specimens were found at Operation 3, with one each at Strs. 2, 3A, and

3B. These seem to represent generally utilitarian cutting tools, and the diffuse but

widespread presence of these tools suggests a role not limited solely to food preparation.

A single drill fragment was retrieved from Str. 1A in Operation 2. Its presumed

function was in the creation of holes in beads, pottery, or wood. This piece was probably

converted from a small knife or lance point, and was shaped into a relatively thin (ca.

0.75 cm), point with a nearly circular cross-section. Examples of beads were scarce at

the site, though preservation of shell beads is problematic; a few mend holes were

identified in sherds at the site, as well as spindle whorls, including several from

Operation 2.

The remaining formal tools were assigned the category of scraper. It is my

suspicion that most scrapers at the site were expedient tools fashioned from large to

medium sized chert flakes. These three specimens come from Strs. 7 and 9A in

Operation 1 and Str. 1B at Operation 2 and are somewhat more formal examples of the

same type of tool. Generally small (2 or 3 cm in length), these have a single, curved 384

sharp edge (making flakes nearly as useful as a more formal tool), and are distinguished

from expedient scrapers by having flakes removed to shape the edge or make the tool

more easily held. I don’t doubt that these artifacts were used as scrapers; what is in doubt

is whether they may be called “formal” tools. My suspicion is that scrapers of a less

formal nature predominated on the site, but without an extended use-wear analysis this

argument is conjectural.

In all, the tool kit at this site seems to be fairly simple, with bifacial knives probably serving the most diverse array of functions and supplemented with tools of a more expedient nature. More specialized tools, including a small assortment of projectile points and axes served a less generalized function and were distributed less randomly as a result. The sample size of formal tools is quite low, however, so assumptions about availability and distributional patterns must be made carefully.

Other lithics

A number of flakes retrieved from the site of San Jerónimo II show possible indications of use-wear on their edges. This use seems likely to be primarily expedient use of flakes for a simple and temporary cutting or scraping edge, with use-wear typically indicated by an array of small chips removed from the cutting edge. Such tools were apparently not used long enough to result in polishing of the surfaces, nor were they retouched to preserve the edge. As one might expect, such expedient tools seem to make

up a higher proportion of the assemblage in Operations 1 and 2 (away from the lithic

workshop), though flakes may well have been obtained periodically from Operation 3

during its active use in lithic production. Flakes found at Operations 1 and 2 (and for that

matter at Str. 2 in Operation 3) are larger on average than those found at the workshop 385

(see tables 105-108). Over 59% of the flakes in the workshop area were less than ½” in size, while in the other operations, less than 30% of the flakes were that small; this suggests that larger flakes were preferentially selected for use as expedient tools and brought to other areas of the site. There are instances of apparent expedient tool use at

Operation 3, but because the absolute amount of lithic flakes is so much higher here, the relative frequency of utilized flakes is considerably lower. I suspect that the proportion of utilized flakes throughout the site has been overestimated, with flakes showing wear from other taphonomic processes having been erroneously included in this category.

We lacked time and funding to fully analyze the massive lithic assemblage from the site, so I can provide no qualitative data on the numbers of expedient tools or their distribution at the site. Field assessments of such utilized flakes are complicated by the possibility that, to an untrained (or at least unpracticed) eye such as my own, a number of taphonomic processes may have resulted in the apparent use-wear. While some flakes seemed to have fairly indisputable use-wear, others were less clearly chipped through use. The simple act of people walking across the lithic deposits may have damaged the cutting edges and thus mimicked cultural use. I would simply state that some chert flakes at this site seem to have been used as supplementary tools, primarily for cutting and scraping.

OBSIDIAN

Obsidian analyzed from the site of San Jerónimo II includes 265 individual fragments from three primary sources and at least one minor source. Obsidian was found in every operation and at each structure, although only in relatively low densities. The majority of the obsidian represents prismatic blade fragments. Analysis included 386 measurement of prismatic blade fragment dimensions, portion of the blade represented, and assessment of relative use wear on the blade edges.

Overall Site patterns

SAMPLE FREQ. SAN MARTIN EL IXTEPEQUE PACHUCA SIZE (#/M³ OF JILOTEPEQUE CHAYAL SOIL) Operation 63 2.5 40 (63.5%) 14 9 (14.3%) 0 (0.0%) 1 (23.8%) (22.2%) Operation 153 4.8 56 (36.6%) 73 15 (9.8%) 9 (5.9%) 2 (57.7%) (47.7%) Operation 49 2.4 39 (79.6%) 9 1 (2.0%) 0 (0.0%) 3 (18.5%) (18.4%) San 265 3.5 136 (51.3%) 95 25 (9.4%) 9 (3.4%) Jeronimo (100.0%) (35.8%) II Table 114: Obsidian distribution by source at San Jerónimo II

SAMPLE BLADE FLAKES CORE POINTS SIZE FRAGMENTS FRAGMENTS Op. 1 63 53 (84.1%) 8 (12.7%) 1 (1.6%) 1 (1.6%) Op. 2 153 110 (71.9%) 24 (15.7%) 13 (8.5%) 6 (3.9%) Op. 3 49 42 (85.7%) 6 (12.2%) 1 (2.0%) 0 (0.0%) San 265 205 (77.4%) 38 (14.3%) 15 (5.7%) 7 (2.6%) Jeronimo II

Table 115: Obsidian distribution by form at San Jerónimo II

The majority of obsidian recovered at San Jerónimo II was in the form of prismatic blades or prismatic blade fragments (n=209; 78.9%). Only three complete prismatic blades were recovered. Complete blades averaged 3.76 cm in length from platform to tip, but this is somewhat misleading since one blade was 5.94 cm long (the longest individual piece of obsidian at the site) and the other two were 2.58 and 2.77 cm, suggesting considerable variation in blade length. Of the 206 prismatic blade fragments,

21 (10.2%) were distal fragments, 34 (16.5%) were proximal fragments and the 387

remaining 151 (73.3%) pieces were medial fragments. Distal fragments may be

underrepresented because the very tip is normally the thinnest and most fragile portion of

the blade and is thus likely to break off and (being very small) be lost during the

excavation and screening process. In reconstructing average blade size, one might

assume 15% of the sample to be proximal ends, 15% distal ends, and 70% medial

fragments. Recovered proximal fragments average 2.18 cm in length, medial fragments

average 1.77 cm in length, and distal fragments average 2.19 cm. If we assume one distal

end and one proximal end per blade, one must assume 4.67 medial fragments per blade to account for all the pieces. This would come to a reconstructed average blade length of

12.6 cm. This is substantially longer than any of the recovered whole blades; either smaller blades are more likely to survive to the point of discard unbroken, or some error exists in the reconstruction. An overall length of 12.6 cm is not out of the question, as exhausted cores found elsewhere in the Lakes area could provide blades of that length, but it seems rather high. (If one assumes a 3:1:1 medial: proximal: distal ratio, reconstructed blade length would be about 9.7 cm, which seems more plausible). In their other dimensions, obsidian prismatic blades averaged 1.07 cm wide and 2.7 mm thick (at their thickest point).

Each prismatic blade fragment that retained a section of edge was scored from 0 to 5 for use wear (see Fig. 65, Table 116), with 0 representing an apparently unused edge, and with increasing use reaching 5, characterized by extremely heavy use including several substantial nicks removed, as well as heavy dulling along the edge itself. The blades were oriented with their flat edge down and proximal end up. As one faced the blade, so positioned, the right hand edge was defined as the right side. Of the 191 388

Figure 65: Obsidian Prismatic blade Use Wear Scoring Diagram 389

fragments of blade where a score could be registered for the left edge, the average score

was 2.35 with only two fragments scored 0 and none scored 5. Scores could be taken for

the right edge for 195 blade fragments, with an average score of 2.55 where two

fragments were scored 0 and 4 were scored 5. This suggests a couple of reasonably

obvious conclusions: first, it is rare for an unused blade to enter the archaeological record

(only two fragments appeared to be completely unused), and second, there may be a

slight handedness being represented. The blade fragments averaged slightly less than two

cm in length with average blade length decreasing from west to east across the

operations. The longest specimens came from Operations 1 and 2, with only two of the

20 longest fragments coming from Operation 3, and none of the 10 longest. The average

differences are negligible, however, since less than 3 mm separate the three operation

averages.

BLADE AVG. USE AVG. USE AVERAGE FRAGMENTS WEAR WEAR FRAGMENT (LEFT) (RIGHT) LENGTH Operation 1 53 2.33 2.60 2.07 cm Operation 2 110 2.28 2.52 1.87 cm Operation 3 42 2.38 2.67 1.78 cm Overall 205 2.35 2.55 1.90 cm

Table 116: Obsidian Use-Wear at San Jerónimo II

The obsidian assemblage also includes seven small projectile points, two of which

are complete, three of which lack the tip section, one of which lacks the basal section;

one appears to be unfinished. Of the five specimens where the hafting form is visible, all

five bear side-notching and of those five, two show additional basal notching. The

largest of the complete obsidian projectile points is 3.71 cm long from tip to the basal point; the smaller is 2.62 cm long and the unfinished point measures in at 1.92 cm. The 390 three points missing their tips range from 1.08 to 1.71 cm in length. Obsidian sources represented include all three of the most common sources, with three San Martin

Jilotepeque, two El Chayal and two Ixtepeque. Ixtepeque is somewhat overrepresented; I suspect that Ixtepeque obsidian and projectile points are increasingly common toward the end of the occupation, but the sample size is too small to make any definitive claims.

Additionally, the lower levels of inclusions may have made it easier to flake than obsidian from San Martin Jilotepeque; however, because most of these points (n=6) were converted from prismatic blade fragments, this may not have been a major concern.

Operation 1 patterns

Obsidian from Operation 1 is primarily from the San Martin Jilotepeque source, with both El Chayal and Ixtepeque representing significant minority sources. As was the case throughout the site, the majority of fragments recovered at Operation 1 were segments of prismatic blades.

OP. 1 #/M³ EL CHAYAL SAN MARTIN IXTEPEQUE PACHUCA (N=63) JILOTEPEQUE Str. 4 2.3 1 (17%) 5 (83%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 5 1.0 0 (0%) 2 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 6 2.0 3 (30%) 5 (50%) 2 (20%) 0 (0%) Str. 7 3.6 2 (29%) 3 (43%) 2 (29%) 0 (0%) Str. 8 0.3 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) Str. 9A 3.9 1 (6%) 14 (88%) 1 (6%) 0 (0%) Str. 9B 4.5 5 (33%) 7 (47%) 3 (20%) 0 (0%) Ambient 2.3 0 (0%) 3 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) TP #4 2.2 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) TP#9 0.9 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Punta 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Total 2.5 14 (22.2%) 40 (63.5%) 9 (14.3%) 0 (0%)

Table 117: Obsidian Sources from Operation 1

391

OP. 1 BLADE AVG. AVG. FLAKES CORE POINTS N=63 FRAGMENTS USE USE FRAGMENTS (LEFT) (RIGHT) Str. 4 5 (83%) 2.4 2.4 1 (17%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 5 2 (100%) 3.0 1.5 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 6 8 (80%) 2.75 2.25 2 (20%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 7 6 (86%) 2.33 3.0 1 (14%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 8 1 (100%) 3.0 4.0 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 9A 13 (81%) 1.64 2.36 1 (6%) 1 (6%) 1 (6%) Str. 9B 14 (93%) 2.5 3.0 1 (7%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Ambient 2 (67%) 3.5 3.5 1 (33%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) TP #4 1 (100%) 1.0 1.0 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) TP#9 1 (100%) 2.0 2.0 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Punta 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Total 53 (84%) 2.33 2.60 8 (13%) 1 (2%) 1 (2%)

Table 118: Obsidian Forms from Operation 1

Operation 2 patterns

Almost half the obsidian assemblage from Operation 2 derives from the El Chayal

source with San Martin Jilotepeque accounting for the bulk of the remainder. Minority

sources for this group included both Ixtepeque and Pachuca. As elsewhere at the site, the bulk of the obsidian excavated took the form of prismatic blade fragments (n=110; 72%).

OPERATION #/M³ EL CHAYAL SAN MARTIN IXTEPEQUE PACHUCA 2 (N=153) JILOTEPEQUE Str. 1A 2.7 6 (50%) 4 (33%) 1 (8%) 1 (8%) Str. 1B 8.5 11 (58%) 3 (16%) 4 (21%) 1 (5%) Str. 1C 4.0 7 (54%) 6 (46%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) West Patio 5.9 30 (67%) 12 (27%) 2 (4%) 1 (2%) South Patio 6.8 14 (35%) 18 (45%) 4 (10%) 4 (10%) East Patio 1.9 2 (18%) 7 (64%) 2 (18%) 0 (0%) Northwest 5.5 0 (0%) 1 (25%) 2 (50%) 1 (25%) Surface 2 (33%) 4 (67%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Passage 6.7 1 (33%) 1 (33%) 0 (0%) 1 (33%) Total 4.8 73 (47.7%) 56 (36.6%) 15 (9.8%) 9 (5.9%)

Table 119: Obsidian sources from Operation 2

392

OP. 2 BLADE USE USE FLAKES CORE POINTS (N=153) FRAGMENTS (LEFT) (RIGHT) FRAGMENTS Str. 1A 10 (83%) 2.22 2.7 1 (8%) 1 (8%) 0 (0%) Str. 1B 12 (63%) 2.55 2.33 3 (16%) 2 (11%) 2 (11%) Str. 1C 9 (69%) 2.25 2.44 2 (15%) 1 (8%) 1 (8%) West Patio 30 (67%) 2.54 2.48 7 (16%) 6 (13%) 2 (4%) South Patio 34 (85%) 2.16 2.44 5 (13%) 1 (3%) 0 (0%) East Patio 7 (64%) 2.29 3.17 2 (18%) 1 (9%) 1 (9%) Northwest 4 (100%) 2.75 2.75 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Surface 3 (50%) 2.33 2.33 2 (40%) 1 (10%) 0 (0%) Passage 1 (33%) 3 3 2 (67%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Total 110 (71.9%) 2.28 2.52 24 (15.7%) 13 (8.5%) 6 (3.9%)

Table 120: Obsidian forms from Operation 2

Operation 3 patterns

The obsidian assemblage from Operation 3 derives primarily from the San Martin

Jilotepeque source, with the bulk of the remaining obsidian deriving from El Chayal.

There is some slight variability between the component structures of this group, but not much. Only in the space adjacent to Str. 3 does El Chayal outnumber San Martin

Jilotepeque, and since the count there was two to one, it isn’t statistically significant. In contexts containing at least six obsidian fragments, averages ranged from 72% to 100%

San Martin Jilotepeque; the averages for the structures themselves are 72%, 85%, and

83%, suggesting a consistent pattern across the group.

OPERATION 3 #/M³ EL CHAYAL SAN MARTIN IXTEPEQUE PACHUCA (N=49) JILOTEPEQUE Str. 2 4.5 4 (22%) 13 (72%) 1 (6%) 0 (0%) Str. 3A 1.6 2 (15%) 11 (85%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 3B 1.8 1 (17%) 5 (83%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Chultun (in) 4.7 0 (0%) 7 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Chultun (ex) 1.1 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Ambient 1.5 2 (67%) 1 (33%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Surface 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Total 2.4 9 (18.4%) 39 (79.6%) 1 (2.0%) 0 (0%) Table 121: Obsidian Sources from Operation 3 393

OP. 3 BLADE USE USE FLAKES CORE POINTS (N=49) FRAGMENTS (LEFT) (RT.) FRAGMENTS Str. 2 17 (94%) 2.76 3.06 0 (0%) 1 (6%) 0 (0%) Str. 3A 11 (85%) 2.18 2.18 2 (15%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 3B 4 (67%) 1.75 2.25 2 (33%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Chultun (in) 7 (100%) 2.42 2.71 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Chultun (ex) 1 (100%) 2 3 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Ambient 1 (33%) 1 3 2 (67%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Surface 1 (100%) 2 2 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Total 42 (85.7%) 2.38 2.67 6 (12.2%) 1 (2.0%) 0 (0%)

Table 122: Obsidian forms at Operation 3

Obsidian from within the chultun (n=7) derives nearly entirely from level 5 (n=6), with the other piece coming from level 6. All seven fragments represent prismatic blade fragments and each of them (100%) derives from the San Martin Jilotepeque source.

Intra-site variation

While there is a moderate amount of variation among the component structures of each operation, the most significant differences are those between Operations 1 and 3 on the one hand and Operation 2 on the other. A disparity is immediately noticeable in the obsidian sources represented. While the San Martin Jilotepeque source represents 63.5% of the obsidian in Operation 1 and 79.6% in Operation 3, only 36.6% of the obsidian at

Operation 2 derives from this source. Similarly, El Chayal represents only 22.2% of the assemblage at Operation 1 and 18.4% at Operation 3, yet almost half (47.7%) of the obsidian at Operation 2 comes from this source. Ixtepeque, a comparatively minor source throughout the site, shows no strong pattern, with all three operations including it as less than 15% of the overall assemblage (14.3%, 9.8%, and 2% at Operations 1-3 respectively). 394

The distribution of Pachuca obsidian, a highly prized minority source imported from central Mexico, is more interesting, since all nine pieces recovered were found at

Operation 2, where they represent about 6% of the overall assemblage. Additionally, the distinction among the operations is clear in the absolute frequency of obsidian recovered in the excavations; At Operations 1 and 3, obsidian was found at the frequency of 2.5 and

2.4 pieces per m³, respectively, while at Operation 2 obsidian was twice as common (4.8 pieces per m³).

The three operations divide up in similar patterns according to other criteria as well. Prismatic blade fragments represent 84% and 85.7% of the obsidian assemblage at

Operations 1 and 3, respectively, but only 71.9% at Operation 2, with the gap made up by higher frequencies of core fragments and projectile points at Operation 2. In a recent article, Timothy Pugh (2005) argues that the differential possession of obsidian cores was

indicative of social inequality at the nearby Postclassic center of , correlating with similar indicators such as residence size, and possession of greenstone and

serpentine. Even the use-wear patterning reflects this distinction, with the use-wear at

Operation 1 being 2.33 on the left and 2.60 on the right, remarkably akin to the pattern

observed for Operation 3 (2.38 on the left and 2.67 on the right); use-wear at Operation 2,

on the other hand is slightly, but distinctly, lower than at the other two operations (2.28

and 2.52).

There are two potential explanations to account for this variation. The residents

of Operation 2 may have had a slightly higher status than the residents of the other two

operations, reflected in access to higher quality obsidian and better access to obsidian in

general. Alternatively, the variations noted might be the result of primarily chronological 395

distinctions, with Operation 2 presumably the earliest. Either explanation has

ramifications for our understanding of the site and its interconnection with regional

exchange systems – on the one hand, it would suggest status distinctions existed even

within small outlying settlements, and on the other hand indicates an earlier decay in interregional exchange. Of course, it is also possible that both explanations are partially valid, with the higher status residents of Operation 2 occupying those structures somewhat earlier than the other two operations.

Given the similarly skewed distribution of specific high-status ceramic types (e.g.,

Plumbate), and the widespread presence of both basic Terminal Classic and Early

Postclassic ceramic types across the site, a general contemporaneity seems likely, but cannot be entirely assumed. Obsidian deriving from the San Martin Jilotepeque source is primarily identifiable through its comparatively low quality – the result of large numbers of inclusions that tend to reduce the keenness of the edge. That would seem to make this source the logical last choice. Our other three sources have similar material quality; yet the Pachuca source, found only at Operation 2 and imported across the greatest distance, appears to have been particularly prized for its singular green-gold color. Aesthetically, I prefer Ixtepeque to El Chayal, but no evidence is available to impute that preference to the Classic Maya. The lower use-wear on blades at Operation 2 might be interpreted to mean that new blades were available more frequently, and discarded sooner. The significance of the use-wear patterns is, however, open to debate on several grounds, and can also be given several interpretations. The higher proportion of non-blade fragments may also suggest that this operation had a greater involvement in the production of 396

obsidian tools than the other operations. The increased frequency of obsidian here is also

suggestive of higher rates of turnover in blades.

If one assumes that the obsidian distribution reflects status, or at least differential

access to obsidian, it seems clear that residents of Operation 2 possessed a higher status

than those of either Operation 1 or Operation 3. This is not obviously supported by

architectural evidence, however, and the ceramic evidence for status distinctions is not

strong. Using the same criteria, it seems that the residents of Operations 1 and 3 had

similar statuses, Operation 1 may have ranked ever so slightly higher than Operation 3.

Operation 3 showed simultaneously the highest frequencies of the lowest quality

obsidian, the highest use-wear, the highest percentage of prismatic blade fragments and

the lowest absolute frequency of obsidian. That said, the distinction between Operation 1

and Operation 3 is nearly negligible, in comparison with the difference between

Operation 2 and either of the other two.

Intersite variation

We are lucky enough to have comparable data from several nearby sites (e.g., P.

Rice 1984, P. Rice et al. 1985). From sites in the Central Petén Lakes region (all to the east of San Jerónimo II), the CPHEP provenienced a selection of 294 samples of obsidian, including 96 of Postclassic date and 76 of Late Classic date (see Table 123).

SITE EL CHAYAL SAN MARTIN IXTEPEQUE OTHER JILOTEPEQUE CPHEP Postclassic 28% 21% 48% 3% (n=96) San Jerónimo II –overall 36% 51% 9% 3% (n=265) SJ II – Operation 1 22% 64% 14% 0% (n=63) SJ II – Operation 2 48% 37% 10% 6% 397

(n=153) SJ II – Operation 3 18% 80% 2% 0% (n=49) CPHEP Late Classic 68% 18% 5% 8% (n=76) CPHEP Preclassic 20% 71% 7% 2% (n=97) Table 123: Obsidian in the Central Peten Lakes

Neither the Classic nor Postclassic patterns from the larger Lakes area are similar

to those from San Jeronimo II, either for the site as a whole or for any of the component

operations. Indeed, the observed pattern is most similar to the 97 CPHEP obsidians with a Preclassic provenience. The primary distinction is the overarching emphasis on San

Martin Jilotepeque at San Jerónimo II, especially at Operations 1 and 3; in the CPHEP

sample, San Martin Jilotepeque served as the primary source for the region as a whole

only during the Preclassic period (when it made up 71% of their sample). The San

Jerónimo sample is clearly not from primary Preclassic contexts.

If one were to ignore the anomalous levels of San Martin Jilotepeque obsidian, the frequencies of El Chayal and Ixtepeque obsidian (the major distinction in obsidian between Classic and Postclassic elsewhere in the area), fall intermediate to the Late

Classic and Postclassic percentages reported by P. Rice et al (1985). This could be used to argue a Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic occupation of the site. However, an explanation for the high levels of San Martin Jilotepeque obsidian is required, because it contrasts sharply with data on contemporaneous patterns for the Petén Lakes region.

Three possibilities exist: 1) residents of the site may have been systematically reusing obsidian recovered from local Preclassic contexts, 2) peripheral sites had limited access to the better types of obsidian and made do with a lower grade of obsidian than 398

was favored in the population centers, or 3) the western edge of the Lakes region was

involved with a different set of trading partners then were sites farther east.

Without better contextual data on the proveniences of the samples from CPHEP’s lake basin studies, no convincing argument can be made. I suggest that the most plausible explanation is that residents of the site were forced to reuse obsidian blades recovered from local Preclassic contexts in response to a shortage of newly imported obsidian at this time. The limited amounts of obsidian imported to the Petén Lakes during this period may have been largely monopolized by residents of the major centers and not widely disseminated to the broader regional populace. The close agreement between the observed pattern of obsidian source frequencies at Operations 1 and 3 and the Preclassic data from other sites, suggests that almost all of the obsidian at those operations was obtained from Preclassic contexts.

Operation 2, on the other hand, shows some affinities to the Preclassic pattern

(particularly in its relatively high frequencies of San Martin Jilotepeque), but is much closer to the pattern one would expect from a transitional Classic/Postclassic site (with higher levels of both El Chayal and Ixtepeque and including the presence of Pachuca).

That suggests that while residents of Operation 2 were also reusing some Preclassic obsidian, they had at least limited access to newly imported obsidian as well. That may also explain the lower obsidian use wear levels observed at this operation.

Comparison with obsidian-chert ratios listed in P. Rice et al. (1985:188) are complicated by the existence of the lithics workshop at Strs. 3A and 3B. If we compare just the frequencies found at Operation 1 and Operation 2, we find 0.08 obsidians per chert for Operation 2 and 0.05 obsidians per chert for Operation 1. These fall well within 399 the averages established for the region, being higher than at Yaxhá-Sacnab, lower than at

Quexil or Peténxil and similar to levels reported from Macanché and Salpetén (0.09 and

0.17 respectively in the Postclassic; 0.04 and 0.06 in the Late Classic).

SHELL

The single largest category of organic artifacts recovered from the site of San

Jerónimo II was shell, almost exclusively from lacustrine and terrestrial species of snails.

Over 500 fragments of shell were recovered (see Table 124); specimens were found in each of the three operations and from every structure except Str. 7. Small terrestrial snail shells were ubiquitous, assumed to be intrusive and non-cultural, and were not routinely collected during excavation, though they were preserved from certain contexts (e.g., inside the chultun). In calculating frequencies for the tables below, I omit both categories of terrestrial snail as intrusive ecofacts; at the level of individual operations, these shells are omitted entirely from the tables.

SPECIES NUMBER OP. 1 OP. 2 OP. 3 REPRESENTED COLLECTED Snail A (Euglandina 147 (32.9%) 31 (42.5%) 44 (23.0%) 72 (39.3%) cylindracea ?) Pomacea sp. 143 (32.0%) 20 (27.4%) 67 (35.1%) 56 (30.6%) Pachychilus sp. 105 (23.5%) 16 (21.9%) 65 (34.0%) 24 (13.1%) Terrestrial Snails 51 5 0 46 Nephronaias sp. 24 (5.4%) 2 (2.7%) 2 (1.0%) 20 (10.9%) Smaller Terrestrial 22 0 1 21 Snails Snail B 5 (1.1%) 2 (2.7%) 2 (1.0%) 1 (0.5%) Snail C 11 (2.5%) 0 (0.0%) 5 (2.6%) 6 (3.3%) Marine Species 6 (1.4%) 2 (2.7%) 3 (1.6%) 1 (0.5%) Unidentified 6 (1.4%) 0 (0.0%) 3 (1.6%) 3 (1.6%) Total 520 (100.0%) 78 192 250

Table 124: Shell distributions at San Jerónimo II

400

The majority of the recovered shells derive from only four species (see Fig. 66),

three of which are assumed to have been eaten by the residents of the site: Snail A

(tentatively identified as Euglandina cylindracea, a freshwater terrestrial species), apple

snail (Pomacea sp., probably flagellata), and jute (Pachychilus spp). It is unclear

whether snail A is still eaten in the area, though Moholy-Nagy (1978:71) states that local

residents eat not only Pomacea but other aquatic snails “with enthusiasm.” Both

Pomacea (the local name is tote) and jute are still eaten on a regular basis and were eaten by archaeological populations as well (Healy et al. 1990; Moholy-Nagy 1978).

According to Healy et al (1990:179) and my local informants, jute are usually stewed, and to eat them the tip of the shell is snapped off and the meat sucked out. This breakage pattern is the norm in our archaeological sample, occurring in 99 of 105 specimens. An additional group of shells represents small terrestrial snails of two unidentified species that are assumed to have entered the deposits naturally. In most excavation units, these shells were discarded; retained specimens of the more common species in the assemblage are almost all from within the chultun (n=46), primarily in levels 5 through 7. Examples of the other type (called caracolillos locally) were found almost exclusively in Op. 3 but

are still assumed to have been intrusive to the excavation deposits.

Minority categories of shell are of varying degrees of interest. Twenty-four

specimens represent fragments of nacre from an unidentified species of mollusk

(probably the freshwater pearly mussel Nephronaias spp.), presumably for use in

personal adornment but conceivably for consumption (Powis 2004). Two other

unidentified, yet presumably local, snail species were also located in small amounts; 401 labeled simply Snail B (n=5) and Snail C (n=11), these may have been eaten as well, but probably not in significant amounts.

SPECIES RECOVERED NUMBER OF SPECIMENS OP. 1 OP. 2 OP. 3 Conch 1 0 1 0 (Strombus sp.) Olive Shell 2 1 1 0 (Oliva sp.) Shipworm 1 0 1 0 (Vermicularia spirata) Marine Clam (Lucine ?) 1 1 0 0 Unidentified Marine Shell 1 0 0 1 (Strombus ?)

Table 125: Marine Shell Assemblage from San Jeronimo II

The other 12 shell fragments are attributed to several minority species, none of which are represented by more than two specimens from San Jeronimo II. Six of those shells derive from imported marine species. These include two fragments of olive shells (Oliva sp.), imported from the coastal regions, both worked, presumably into beads for personal adornment. Similarly, there is a fragment of conch (Strombus sp.), represented here by just one of the “horns.” There is also an unidentified marine shell that has been worked into a disk shaped adorno. One thick, flat piece of pitted shell was tentatively identified as a marine clam (possibly Lucine pelecypods). There is also a single odd, twisted, tubular shell identified as “shipworm” (Vermicularia spirata), typically found as a parasite in driftwood and oceangoing ships.

The remaining fragments were not reliably identified to even the genus level.

Two fragments of thick, slightly curved shell have been burned, suggesting they were cooked, but could not be identified to species; one other burned shell fragment was 402

Figure 66: Common Types of Shell Recovered from San Jerónimo II 403

tentatively assigned to Pomacea. One specimen is similar to Snail A, but with a thicker shell. Two other small, flattish shell fragments are completely unidentified.

The data in the tables above suggest once again that a distinction may exist between Operation 2 on the one hand, and Operations 1 and 3 on the other. In particular,

the proportion of Pomacea and jute to Snail A (Euglandina cylindracea ?) is suggestive.

Local informants have confirmed that Pomacea and jute are still consumed locally as something of a delicacy. No such information was forthcoming for Snail A, but the sheer quantities present suggest that they were being eaten. (Nations [1979] suggests that shells may also have served as an important source of dietary lime for the ancient Maya).

At Operation 2, however, frequencies of Pomacea and jute are higher than at the other two operations suggesting differential access (which seems unlikely given the proximity of the lake), individual household dietary preferences, lineage distinctions etc.

Alternatively, it may simply be a statistical anomaly created by a single concentration of shells in Str. 1B (without the 22 jute from N152 E257, the frequency of jute at Operation

2 drops to 25.3%; though this would raise Pomacea to 39.4%). Webster (2006 pers. comm.) cautions that many natural concentrations of jute were found at Copan, and the species is common at San Jerónimo II; on the other hand, all 22 specimens have the tip breakage characteristic of human consumption patterns in the area and no other such conglomerations were encountered anywhere at the site.

At Operation 1, shell was comparatively scarce, with only 78 specimens recovered from these excavations. Analysis of the shell from Operation 1 supports a usage of lacustrine snails for food (Snail A = 31, Pomacea = 20, jute = 16, Snail B=2) 404 and a secondary use of marine shell for decorative purposes (olive = 1 at Str. 6, nacre =2, marine clam=1 at Str. 9A).

SNAIL A POMACEA JUTE SNAIL SNAIL NACRE OTHER B C Str. 4 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 3 (60%) 2 (40%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 5 0 (0%) 2 (28.6%) 5 (71.4%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 6 5 (62.5%) 2 (25%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 1 (12.5%) Str. 8 8 (72.7%) 2 (18.2%) 1 (9.1%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 9A 13 (56.5%) 5 (21.7%) 2 (8.7%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 2 (8.7%) 1 (4.3%) Str. 9B 1 (14.3%) 4 (57.1%) 2 (28.6%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) T.P. 4 0 (0%) 1 (100%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) T.P. 9 4 (66.7%) 2 (33.3%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Operation 1 31 (39.7%) 18 (23.1%) 13 (16.7%) 2 (2.6%) 0 (0%) 2 (2.6%) 2 (2.6%)

Table 126: Shell Distribution at Operation 1

A similar pattern is seen at Operation 2 (n=192). Of note in this operation is the

high incidence of jute at Str. 1B, where 22 were recovered in a single unit. Frequencies of Pomacea and jute are higher at this operation than at the other two. Jute frequencies

are particularly high at Str. 1B and the adjacent South Patio; For Pomacea, the

frequencies are highest at Str. 1A and all three patios. Str. 1B has been suggested as a

kitchen area and this may account for the cluster of jute there; the high frequencies of

Pomacea at Str. 1A and the patios are harder to explain but may suggest increased use of

this species during the later stages of occupation. Alternatively, the pattern may be

attributable to differences in the preparation or serving of the snails or to secondary use

of Pomacea shells for some unknown purpose.

SNAIL A POMACEA JUTE SNAIL SNAIL C NACRE OTHER B Str. 1A 4 (57.1%) 3 (42.9%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 1B 1 (3.7%) 0 (0%) 25 (92.6%) 1 (3.7%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 1C 12 (63.2%) 3 (15.8%) 2 (10.5%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 2 (10.5%) 0 (0%) West Patio 14 (18.7%) 36 (48%) 19 (25.3%) 1 (1.3%) 2 (2.7%) 0 (0%) 3 (4%) South Patio 6 (15.8%) 16 (42.1%) 15 (39.5%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 1 (2.6%) East Patio 5 (29.4%) 8 (47.1%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 2 (11.8%) 0 (0%) 2 (11.8%) Passage 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 2 (66.7%) 0 (0%) 1 (33.3%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Northwest 1 (50%) 0 (0%) 1 (50%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 405

Surface 1 (33.3%) 1 (33.3%) 1 (33.3%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Operation 2 44 (23.0%) 67 (35.1%) 65 (34.0%) 2 (1.0%) 5 (2.6%) 2 (1.0%) 6 (3.1%)

Table 127: Shell Distribution at Operation 2

Some 250 shell fragments were recovered at Operation 3, 165 of them from

within the chultun (located entirely within levels 3-8). The shell assemblage there

included 48 specimens of Snail A (Euglandina cylindracea?), 46 terrestrial snails (41 from levels 6 and 7), 39 Pomacea fragments, 20 fragments of nacre shell, six jute (five eaten), three fragments of Snail C, two caracolillos, and a fragment of burned shell

(possibly Pomacea).

The comparatively high frequency of nacre (and shell in general) within the chultun may represent a differential use of the shell at the affiliated structures, but in my opinion is more likely the result of better preservation of this fragile artifact class within the protected context of the chultun.

SNAIL A POMACEA JUTE SNAIL SNAIL C NACRE OTHER B Str. 2 2 (28.6%) 2 (28.6%) 3 (42.9%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Str. 3A 8 (36.4%) 2 (9.1%) 9 (40.9%) 1 (4.5%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 2 (9.1%) Str. 3b 13 (56.5%) 5 (21.7%) 4 (17.4%) 0 (0%) 1 (4.3%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Ambient 1 (11.1%) 4 (44.4%) 1 (11.1%) 0 (0%) 2 (22.2%) 0 (0%) 1 (11.1%) Chultun in 48 (41.0%) 39 (33.3%) 6 (5.1%) 0 (0%) 3 (2.6%) 20 (17.1%) 1 (0.9%) Chultun ex 0 (0%) 4 (80%) 1 (20%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) 0 (0%) Operation 3 72 (39.3%) 56 (30.6%) 24 (21.9%) 1 (0.5%) 6 (3.3%) 20 (10.9%) 4 (2.2%)

Table 128: Shell Distribution at Operation 3

GROUND STONE

Only 22 ground stone artifacts were retrieved from excavations at San Jerónimo

II. They were found in all three operations, though the bulk (n=20) derive from

Operations 2 (n=13) and 3 (n=7). All such artifacts were created out of imported

metamorphic stone, though the nature (color and grain size, particularly) of that stone 406

varied widely. Such objects were presumably imported in finished form from sources in

either the highlands of southern Guatemala (possibly in conjunction with obsidian) or the

Maya Mountains of southern Belize.

Of those artifacts large enough to be assigned to a functional class (n=16), all but

one were apparently either a mano fragment (n=6) or a metate fragment (n=9). The

remaining object appears to be a maul - a loosely axe-shaped stone grooved for hafting,

more or less flat on one end and bluntly pointed on the other. The remaining six stone

fragments have no visible sign of working on them, yet as imported metamorphic rock

were assumed to simply be non-surface fragments of a larger artifact. In the following

list, all measurements represent the maximum dimensions of the fragment.

Operation #1:

Specimen #1 – Lot 46, Str. 7, N 44 E 119, Level 1 Metate body fragment, 43.6 mm long X 22.2 mm wide X 26.3 mm thick Red-brown stone, medium coarse grain.

Specimen #2 – Lot 960, Str. 9B, N 30 E 105, Level 2 Mano fragment, 32.9 mm long X 16.9 mm wide X 9.3 mm thick Light gray, almost white granite, medium grain.

Operation #2:

Specimen #3 – Lot 267, Surface Collection Mano fragment, 34.5 mm long X 31.4 mm wide X 29.4 mm thick Light gray granite, medium grain.

Specimen #4 – Lot 281, South Patio, N 149 E 258, Level 1 Unidentified fragment, probably mano, 27.3 mm long X 26.1 mm wide X 7.3 mm thick, Light gray, almost white granite, medium grain.

Specimen #5- Lot 289, Passage between Strs. 1B and 1C, N 153 E 252, Level 1 Unidentified fragment, probably mano, 46.4 mm long X 12.0 mm wide X 31.3 mm thick, Dark gray stone (gneiss?), coarse grain (see Spec. #10).

Specimen #6- Lot 317, West Patio, N 156 E 248, Level 1 Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 27.7 mm long X 15.6 mm 407

wide X 7.7 mm thick, Light gray granite, medium coarse grain.

Specimen #7- Lot 339, East Patio, N 160 E 271, Level 1 (see Spec. #9) Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 19.8 mm long X 18.1 mm wide X 12.6 mm thick, Dark gray stone with white veins, medium grain.

Specimen #8- Lot 362, East Patio, N 154 E 270, Level 1 Mano fragment, 69.9 mm long X 45.8 mm wide X 77.3 mm thick Light gray granite, medium grain.

Specimen #9-Lot 385, South Patio, N 152 E 264, Level 1 (see Spec. #7) Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 27.9 mm long X 19.7 mm wide X 26.5 mm thick, Dark gray stone with white veins, medium grain.

Specimen #10-Lot 420, South Patio, N 156 E 264, Level 1 (see Spec. #5) Metate fragment, 67.0 mm long X 29.3 mm wide X 20.3 mm thick, Dark gray stone (gneiss?), coarse grain (see Spec. #10).

Specimen #11-Lot 521, South Patio, N 154 E257, Level 1 Metate fragment, 35.2 mm long X 22.7 mm wide X 23.3 mm thick, Light gray granite, coarse grain.

Specimen #12-Lot 594, South Patio, N 157 E 261, Level 1 Mano fragment, 27.8 mm long X 11.4 mm wide X 14.5 mm thick, Medium gray granite, medium grain.

Specimen #13-Lot 629, West Patio, N 145 E 251, Level 1 Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 37.2 mm long X 20.8 mm wide X 10.3 mm thick, Medium gray granite, medium coarse grain.

Specimen #14-Lot 635, Northwest Space, N 158 E 250, Level 1 Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 24.0 mm long X 17.4 mm wide X 14.3 mm thick, Light gray stone, medium grain with heavy pitting.

Specimen #15- Lot 650, Str. 1B, N 149 E 256, Bottom of Level 1 Metate fragment, 195 mm long X 187 mm wide X 42 mm thick, Light gray granite, medium grain.

Operation #3:

Specimen #16-Lot 800, Str. 3B, N 155 E 336, Level 1 (see specs. 19, 21) Metate fragment, 97.5 mm long X 59.9 mm wide X 34.1 mm thick, Light gray granite with pink streaks, medium grain with coarse regions.

Specimen #17-Lot 855, Str. 3A, N 152 E 336, Level 2 408

Maul (grooved for hafting), 69.8 mm long X 73.7 mm wide X 41.4 mm thick, Light gray, almost white granite, medium grain.

Specimen #18-Lot 903, Str. 3B, N 157 E 338, Level 2 Metate fragment, 50.0 mm long X 45.3 mm wide X 66.4 mm thick, Light gray granite, medium grain.

Specimen #19-Lot 908, Str. 3B, N 155 E 335, Level 2 (see specs. 16, 21) Metate fragment, 129.4 mm long X 77.0 mm wide X 58.2 mm thick, Light gray granite with pink streaks, medium coarse grain .

Specimen # 20-Lot 908, Str. 3B, N 155 E 335, Level 2 Unidentified fragment with no ground surface, 14.6 mm long X 16.1 mm wide X 5.0 mm thick, Light gray granite, medium coarse grain.

Specimen #21-Lot 916, Chultun exterior, N146 E 331, Level 2 (see specs. 16, 19) Metate fragment, 36.7 mm long X 16.4 mm wide X 18.3 mm thick, Light gray granite with pink streaks, medium coarse grain.

Specimen #22-Lot 920, Str. 3 Ambient Space, N 148 E 333, Bottom Level 2 Metate fragment, 248 mm long X 188 mm wide X 75 mm thick, Light gray granite, medium coarse grain.

This list provides some insight into possible use patterns, particularly at Operation

2 and Operation 3. Grinding activities, or at least provisional discard of broken manos

and metates, seems to have taken place in the patio areas of Operation 1, particularly the

South Patio. It is reasonable to hypothesize Str. 1B as a kitchen or storage area, given

ground stone fragments both within and adjacent to it; its location vis a vis Str. 1A lends

some credence to the notion as well. The ground stone from the South Patio includes two

mano fragments, two metate fragments and an indeterminate fragment. These were broadly scattered across the patio, however, and no activity area is particularly apparent.

Each of the five pieces seems to represent a different artifact because the color and grain

of granite varied widely here. This assemblage is more varied than at the other

operations. 409

While Operation 3 appears to have a comparable density of ground stone artifacts,

almost half of them seem to be fragments of a single artifact. This may be attributable to

a higher status and increased access to exotic goods for Operation 2, or may simply

reflect a longer occupation or higher residential population (though this scenario is not

well-supported archaeologically). The sample size is small, however, and the noted

variation is probably not statistically significant.

FAUNAL REMAINS

The analysis of the faunal remains from San Jerónimo II was disappointing in

many ways. The combination of primarily shallow excavations with acidic soil

conditions and pervasive plant roots led to a minimal collection of non-shell faunal

materials (n=7). With nearly 75 m³ of soil removed, that translates to less than one

animal bone per 10 m³ of soil excavated; this doesn’t lend itself to a direct assessment of

diet by residents of San Jerónimo II. The few pieces of bone recovered were generally small, with only two specimens larger than three cm in their longest dimension. No human remains were recovered at all, despite the positioning of test pits in likely locations. This may reflect the poor preservation of bone, or may indicate that human remains were returned to the urban center (Nixtun Ch’ich) for the proper rituals and interment (Webster and Gonlin 1988:188).

In conjunction with a variety of shells, and with evidence of fishing in the form of net weights, our limited faunal collection supports the notion that a significant portion of the diet (or at least of the protein intake) for residents of San Jerónimo II involved lacustrine resources in the form of fish, turtles and two or more species of snail. It also 410 seems apparent that some terrestrial animals were also consumed when available. Given our tiny sample, a diversified diet including not only traditional agricultural products but also lacustrine and sylvan foods should be our default assumption, particularly because such a diet continues to be the rule among the local populace. The ratio of agricultural goods to lacustrine foods and to foods hunted and gathered in the forest probably varied widely by household, though intra-site exchange may have leveled some of that variation.

All measurements in the following list represent maximum dimensions of the specimens.

Operation # 1

Specimen #1 – Lot 124, Str. 6, N 47 E 119, Level 2 Possible scapula fragment from a medium-sized quadruped (dog?) 26.3 mm long X 16.2 mm wide X 9.7 mm thick.

Operation # 2

Specimen #2 – Lot 319, West Patio, N 154 E 248, Level 1 Limb shaft (radius?) with oval cross-section from a medium-sized quadruped (peccary?) both ends show signs of rodent gnawing 53.5 mm long X 15.0 mm wide X 13.6 mm thick.

Specimen #3 – Lot 509, Str. 1C, N 156 E 251, Level 1 Rib fragment from an unidentified quadruped, very flat in cross-section Too big for a rodent but fairly delicate, probably not dog, signs of burning 16.3 mm long X 8.3 mm wide X 2.1 mm thick.

Specimen #4 – Lot 564, West Patio, N155 E 247, Level 1 Scapula fragment from a medium-sized quadruped, possibly dog 47.2 mm long X 9.8 mm wide X 7.8 mm thick.

Specimen #5 – Lot 635, Northwest Space, N158 E 250, Level 1 Turtle plastron from a fairly large turtle, signs of burning 17.5 mm long X 12.4 mm wide X 7.1 mm thick.

Operation # 3

Specimen #6 – Lot 802, Chultun interior, Level 6 Otolith from a fairly large bony fish, slightly eroded At least four growth lines are visible 15.7 mm long X 14.0 mm wide X 7.7 mm thick. 411

Specimen #7 – Lot 888, Str. 3B, N 155 E 338, Level 2 Possible cartilaginous fragment of unknown type 21.8 mm long X 13.5 mm wide X 5.5 mm thick.

OTHER ARTIFACT CLASSES

These artifact classes could be legitimately named the minority artifact classes, representing comparatively small sample sizes. Plaster fragments are, to some extent, an exception to that description, yet our sample derives primarily from two spatially restricted locations.

Plaster

At no area of the site was a well-preserved plaster floor identified from a

Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic occupational period. In the instances where indications of plaster flooring were identified from this period, they inevitably constituted isolated chunks of plaster moved about through root action and other taphonomic processes affecting near-surface deposits. The best-defined and thickest plaster floors at this site (as at others in the central Petén Lakes region) belong to the Preclassic period

(e.g., Rice et al. 1997:117,119). At San Jeronimo II, such floors were encountered at the bottom of two test pits in Operation 1 (at Strs. 8 and 9A) and were additionally visible in the profile of the bulldozer cut at the eastern edge of Operation 1. Preclassic floors appear to have been substantially thicker, and generally sturdier than their Classic and

Postclassic counterparts in the Petén Lakes and the floors here are no exception. No specimens were taken because our research goals would not have been served by the destruction of a well-preserved Preclassic floor. 412

One hundred and eighty-six fragments of plaster flooring were retrieved from

Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic contexts during the excavations at San Jerónimo II.

Of those, 185 were retrieved from the Operation 2 excavations with 106 deriving from

excavations on Str. 1A, and an additional 44 specimens coming from adjacent portions of

the South Patio. Twenty-six chunks of plaster were found in the West Patio area

(including six fragments from levels 3 and 4 of the test pit at N148 E246). Three fragments of plaster were found at Str. 1B, three were recovered from Str. 1C and one piece each from the East Patio, the Northwest Space, and the overall surface collection.

The highest density of plaster flooring chunks was found from the south central portions

of Str. 1A, and the adjoining South Patio (centered on the units N158 E260-262 with 24,

17 and 17 fragments respectively). This presumably indicates a plastered floor at Str. 1A, making it the only Terminal Classic/Postclassic structure at the site with a plaster floor.

This structure seems to be slightly later in date than the other structures, or at least has a

higher frequency of Postclassic ceramics.

Only two of the 13 units with at least four chunks of plaster flooring are not from

this location (those two are N148 E245 and E246 in the West Patio with four and five

fragments respectively). This represents a second concentration of floor fragments in the

five units N147-148 E245 and N146-148 E246, possibly representing a floored area at the

entry point to the platform. The remaining floor fragments were located scattered about

the surface of the platform and cannot be postulated to indicate actual plastered areas.

The lone fragment of loose plaster from contexts away from Operation 2 was

retrieved from level 2 excavations in the ambient space northeast of Str. 9B. This 413

fragment was probably discarded after being transported from another locale and may

even be modern in date.

Measurements were taken of each plaster fragment retrieved with the largest

dimension recorded as length, and the second as width. Normally, one side was smoothed, and thickness was recorded accordingly (as maximum distance from the smooth side to the bottom of the fragment). On those rare occasions when no smooth

side was present (usually on the smallest pieces), thickness was assumed to be the

smallest of the three dimensions. The average length of a fragment of plaster was 3.56

cm, with recorded pieces ranging from 1.03 cm up to a maximum of 8.53 cm; similarly, average width was 2.72 cm, with a range of 0.75 cm to 6.12 cm. Thickness ranged from

0.58 cm up to 2.85 cm, but the vast majority (n=157) were between one and 2.5 cm thick, and over ⅔ of the specimens (n=129) were between one and two cm thick. No great significance is placed upon these measurements, but the relative size and dispersion of the fragments is at least partially explained by the characteristic thinness of the plaster used. The plaster was normally a plain white, though in a few instances isolated patches

were gray, possibly from burning, though extensive burning was not characteristic of the

assemblage.

Worked Stone

This interesting category of artifacts (n=13) is something of a catch-all

designation, including such disparate items as a fragment of pyrite mirror, several

polished celts of a possibly symbolic nature, an apparent burnishing stone, a piece of a

polished stone vase, and a variety of less securely identified worked stones. 414

The majority of these items (n=7) were located over the course of the Operation 2

excavations. Two specimens come from excavations at Operation 1, and the remaining

four from Operation 3. No consistent spatial pattern was identified from these items,

though each object is enlightening in its own way. There are indications of worked stone luxury items at each of the three operations, though the prized greenstone celts were restricted to Operation 2. Pugh (2005) has recently argued that differential access to greenstone is an indicator of social status among the Peten Maya during the Postclassic period, relating to participation in public ritual displays. One would think that pyrite mirrors would be even more difficult to come by, however, and the presence of a fragment at Operation 3 is difficult to explain. Evidence for status differentiation

between operations is not clear, though the absolute abundance of worked stone artifacts at Operation 2 is suggestive.

Operation 1:

Specimen #1 – Lot 196, Str. 6, N 49 E117, Level 7 Rim fragment from a polished stone cylinder vase light green stone (serpentine?), found with Classic and Postclassic ceramics, 22.4 mm long X 17.1 mm wide X 5.8 mm thick.

Specimen #2 – Lot 843, Construction work at Punta Piedra Green black, semi-polished stone (serpentine?) Possibly a small burnishing stone or a natural cobble polished by the lake 40.1 mm long X 14.7 mm wide X 11.3 mm thick.

Operation 2: Specimen #3 – Lot 267, Surface Collection Unpolished light gray stone sphere of unknown function 28.3 mm long X 27.5 mm wide X 25.5 mm thick.

Specimen #4 – Lot 373, East Patio, N 155 E 268, Level 1 Dark green polished celt fragment, possibly serpentine 23.9 mm long X 18.4 cm wide X 7.4 cm thick.

Specimen #5 – Lot 387, South Patio, N 153 E 263, Level 1 415

Unpolished gray stone bowl fragment, possibly a mortar fragment 26.1 mm long X 32.2 mm wide X 16.1 mm thick.

Specimen #6 – Lot 388, South Patio, N 152 E 263, Level 1 Pale pink polished dolomitic limestone, piece of some sort of curved personal adornment with three fully-drilled holes 34.7 mm long X 30.0 mm wide X 13.2 mm thick.

Specimen #7 – Lot 499, East Patio, N 158 E 269, Level 7 Unshaped red stone of unknown type, possibly a pigment source 27.3 mm long X 20.8 mm wide X 16.6 mm thick.

Specimen #8 – Lot 566, West Patio, N 156 E 246, Level 1 Dark green polished celt fragment, possibly serpentine 15.7 mm long X 6.3 mm wide X 2.3 mm thick.

Specimen #9 – Lot 566, West Patio, N 156 E 246, Level 1 Polished yellow-brown ovate chert nodule with white cortex Probable burnishing stone, some traces of red pigment observed 57.0 mm long X 43.4 mm wide X 31.1 mm thick.

Operation #3:

Specimen #10 – Lot 792, Chultun interior, Level 5 Trapezoidal piece of white limestone, possibly a weight or smoothing tool 72.6 mm long X 52.2 mm wide X 29.3 mm thick.

Specimen #11 – Lot 799, Str. 3, N 156 E 336, Level 1 Polished black teardrop-shaped stone of unknown function 15.6 mm long X 9.5 mm wide X 3.8 mm thick.

Specimen #12 – Lot 811, Chultun interior, collapse extension Polished pinkish-purple celt fragment 31.3 mm long X 11.1 mm wide X 8.9 mm thick.

Specimen #13 – Lot 911, Str. 3, N 154 E 337, Level 3 Polished reddish-brown pyrite tessera, fragment of a pyrite mirror 15.2 mm long X 9.2 mm wide X 2.4 mm thick. 416

Chapter 7: Results

In the preceding chapters I reviewed the earlier research in the archaeological

study area, discussed theoretical issues of culture change, collapse and household

archaeology, and presented data from excavations at the site of San Jerónimo II. In this

final chapter I use each of those pieces to develop an understanding of how the Maya

households of San Jerónimo II were affected by larger regional processes of demographic

decline, social and political reorganization.

To do this, I examine patterns of change and continuity in various aspects of

Petén Maya society, particularly shifts in residential patterns (both at the settlement and

household levels) and economic patterns, and, to a lesser extent, ritual practices, and

political organization. This is coupled with a comparison of my results with those from

earlier studies, especially, the Quexil-Peténxil project of 2001 (Schwarz 2004). The

results are also used to create an evaluation of the theoretical models discussed earlier and to examine the process of abandonment both regionally and at the site of San

Jerónimo II. Finally, I include a summary section presenting my understanding of how the larger processes of the Classic to Postclassic transition affected domestic groups in

this small, outlying settlement along the western shore of Lake Petén Itzá.

PATTERNS OF CHANGE

While I prefer not to privilege change over continuity, examinations of

transitional periods are, by their very nature, focused on the processes of change. I

include discussions of continuity but the primary emphasis is placed on the observed

changes -- what processes may have caused them, and what their effects were on Petén

Maya society. This requires us to approach the subject of culture change spatially and 417 conceptually from a variety of levels. The primary focus is on shifts observed at the site of San Jerónimo II and on patterns within the central Petén Lakes region. Data from other regions are introduced here primarily to contextualize the local patterns within the broader processes of the Classic Maya “Collapse.” San Jerónimo II was occupied throughout the Classic-Postclassic transition and is part of a region with unusual continuity in settlement for the period so data from the site are particularly useful in examining local changes occurring in response to dramatic shifts in socio-political and demographic patterns elsewhere in the Maya lowlands.

Residential pattern

I begin by addressing shifts in the settlement and residential patterns of the Petén

Lakes Maya. The site of San Jerónimo II enjoys easy access to Lake Petén Itzá; in a reasonably stable socio-political environment, this makes a great deal of sense since it allowed the residents to take advantage of lacustrine resources (fish and shells), allowed easy access to potable water, and significantly reduced transport costs (e.g., D. Rice

1988:228-9). Such a location also provides some buffering from periodic droughts and benefits from a cooling breeze off the lake. It does not, however, provide any protection from marauders, since there are no defensive features (Rice and Rice 2004:130) close at hand, apart from a naturally steep terrain. San Jerónimo II is a satellite of the much larger center of Nixtun Ch’ich and its proximity to that settlement presumably was a major factor in its placement and developmental trajectory.

The primary occupation of the site appears to span the Terminal Classic and Early

Postclassic, though traces of both earlier and later occupations are present. In most ways, the site exhibits generalized Classic settlement patterns (D. Rice 1988:229-233): it 418

consists of scattered groups of structures, mostly in formalized patterns relative to each

other. These groups typically included one or more residential structure, a kitchen, and a

storage building or (possibly) a household shrine. Several of the structures are oriented

to the cardinal directions (e.g., Str. 1A), though the topography of the site often made this

difficult. Architecturally, most of the structures would not be unusual for either the

Classic or Postclassic period; domestic structures of a similar type are still to be found

within the area (e.g., Schwartz 1990: Fig. 5:7). Simple rectangular forms made of local

wood and thatch, occasionally erected on a low platform, seem to have been

predominant.

There are, however, at least two specimens (Str. 1A and Str.9B), and possibly

three (Str. 6/7), of L-shaped structures; this architectural type appears to have been

introduced to the area in the Terminal Classic period (D. Rice 1988:234), and became

quite common in the Postclassic period (e.g., at Zacpéten – Pugh 2001:Fig. 1-3). It seems

to have been introduced from the Petexbatún or Pasión region to the southwest, possibly

by refugees from the demographic collapse of those areas in the 9th century (P. Rice and

D. Rice 2004:132). In the case of San Jerónimo II (as at Quexil – Schwarz 2004), there is

little ceramic evidence to suggest the presence of migrants, so the style may well have

spread to the local population by this time.

The residential structures are generally quite small, presumably occupied by

relatively compact household groups (Wilk 1983) – either nuclear families or small

extended families. These smaller residential structures are consistent with Postclassic

patterns elsewhere in the region (e.g., D. Rice 1988:233-242). My assumption is that each cluster of buildings within the site accomodated a single lineage segment comprised 419

of one to three smaller households (D. Rice 1988:241), though the senior lineage heads

may well have resided at Nixtun Ch’ich’ (D. Rice 1988:242). These lineage groups (and

I don’t necessarily intend anything as formal as a chibal – Restall 1997:28-9) show some

slight status differences, with residents of Operation 2 having preferential access to a

number of status markers, though this is not clearly reflected in the architecture (Abrams

1994). It is possible that the location of that group, high on a leveled platform with a

commanding view of the lake, may be interpretable as an indicator of status, despite

having the least convenient access to the lake (this is demonstrably the case at a number of Late Postclassic settlements in the area – D. Rice 1988:237-8).

The site appears to have been largely abandoned by the end of the Early

Postclassic period, judging from the relative scarcity of Late Postclassic diagnostic ceramics. This may have been part of a larger trend toward defensively situated, highly nucleated settlements (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:130). My assumption is that in the wake of the “Collapse” of the major Classic centers, the Petén Lakes region was put under chronic stress. As most of the Classic heartland was abandoned, refugees may have briefly flooded the Petén Lakes region in the Terminal Classic period. Nevertheless, the regional instability clearly lasted into the Late Postclassic era; my guess is that following the depopulation of the Classic centers, remaining centers competing for regional preeminence were probably engaged in chronic inter-site raiding (Reno 1998:15-16 describes a similar “proliferation of warlord politics” in Sierra Leone and Liberia) and there may have been strife with less-organized remnant groups as well (e.g., the

Lacandon and Cehaches). 420

As a result, the residents of outlying settlements like San Jerónimo II either fled the area or retreated back to defensible centers capable of staving off semi-organized raiders (akin to southern Somalia during the violence of the 1990’s – Lewis 2002:264).

The larger populations within constrained sites led, predictably, to the more tightly packed and less formal groups of structures observed by archaeologists (e.g., D. Rice

1988, Pugh 2001) and described by early Spanish visitors to the region (e.g, Avendano y

Loyola 1987 [1696]: 31-4). Similarly, the new social organization is suggested to have led to social integration at smaller scales (Schwarz 2003:598-602) -- ultimately resulting in “ethnic” identifications, as residents of the densely nucleated settlements redefined their social identities in an environment of chronic hostilities. Schwarz argues

(2003:602) that “decreased formalization and hierarchy of design in architecture may have served the needs of a community less entrained within the old hierarchical political system … [while] bench-altars and other altars [were moved] into the frontal portion of the house in what may have been an active symbolization of their social identity.” In a modern example, Johnston (1998) and Lewis (2002:288) both suggest that the decay of state-level political organization in Somalia exacerbated, or even created, “ethnic” hostilities among groups with very similar linguistic and social histories.

While I believe that there was a shift in how social identity was defined, I suspect that what we see is not so much “ethnogenesis” in a formal sense but an increased emphasis on the lineage associations of specific families akin to those found in the

Historic northern lowlands. In other words, the increased importance placed on “Itzá” and “Kowoj” identity (for instance) is more akin to the flexible affiliations of towns with 421

Cocom or Xiu ruling lineages that defined social and political competition in the 16th century northern lowlands and does not reflect the rise of actual ethnic groups.

In the case of San Jerónimo II, the residents are presumed to have fallen back on the nearby site of Nixtun Ch’ich, a large, partially fortified, peninsular site continually occupied through the Late Postclassic (D. Rice et al. 1996:184). However, this theory is supported primarily by an assessment of larger regional patterns. There is no clear evidence to indicate the presence of refugees at San Jerónimo II. Transient refugees are difficult to trace archaeologically, and even permanently relocated ones may be subsumed into the local population fairly tracelessly. Nor is there any evidence that violence played a direct role in the abandonment. None of the structures were burned and the recovered artifacts were found primarily in secondary contexts. There are some projectile points, but their most parsimonious explanation involves hunting for wild game as part of the subsistence economy. The abandonment seems to have been a gradual process (Aimers 2003, Suhler and Freidel 2003, Palka 2003), with particular structures abandoned earlier than others, even within presumed household groups. This may reflect either natural household cycles (e.g., Fortes 1958, Tourtellot 1988), or the commonly observed pattern of younger individuals moving away when local opportunities are scarce

(e.g., Yoesting and Bohlen 1968).

Economic patterns

In many ways the domestic subsistence patterns of the Petén Maya seem to have been remarkably unchanged by the regional “Collapse.” It seems probable that during both the Classic and Postclassic periods, the residents of San Jerónimo II pursued a diversified yet primarily agrarian strategy, farming milpas like their modern descendants 422

(e.g., Schwartz 1990), supplementing their agricultural produce with wild-caught game, collected forest products, and a variety of lacustrine resources, and providing a limited array of goods and services to the adjacent center, Nixtun Ch’ich. The degree of agricultural intensification practiced during the Classic period is unclear for this region

(though there is inferential evidence for increasing strain on the agricultural system – see

D. Rice 1993, 1996); I consider it possible that as the local population declined there was less strain on the agricultural system for those who remained, although the extended political instability may well have discouraged farming in areas away from relatively secure centers (e.g., Diamond 2005:176). Given that our excavations were limited to residential areas, it is unsurprising that no evidence for a change in the agricultural production systems (or their component ritual systems) was noted; this doesn’t mean there were no changes, but we have no evidence, one way or the other.

It has been argued elsewhere, (P. Rice 1987a:237), that the Postclassic period saw a greater emphasis on fishing, but this conclusion is not well supported at San Jerónimo

II. The bulk of our line sinkers appear to be produced from Classic ceramic types, rather than Postclassic types, as at Macanché (ibid). Our ability to distinguish shifts in the lithic assemblage from Classic to Postclassic is quite limited. Unlike at Macanché (P. Rice

1987a:215), we lack evidence from discrete deposits to suggest that the small side- notched arrow points are limited to the Postclassic period or that the large bifacial axes disappear following the Classic period (P. Rice 1987a:219). This may or may not be the case, but our shallow matrix and mixed deposits prevent us from confirming or refuting those patterns. Several of the other shifts she noted do seem to hold true however (ibid:

237); there is a general shift from large jars toward ollas across the Classic/Postclassic 423

transition, and large, slipped incurved rim bowls or basins disappear from the ceramic

assemblage. Her suggestion (ibid) that “domestic units of food consumption were

smaller and perhaps less specialized or more directly involved in day-to-day production

activities” in the Postclassic period may be generally true, though it appears that some

specialization continued into the Early Postclassic period.

The presence of a substantial lithic workshop at Operation 3 (where more than

55,000 lithic flakes were recovered) suggests at least some part-time specialization, with residents of Operation 3 supplying stone tools not only to other residents of San Jerónimo

II, but also to a broader consumer base, that probably included Nixtun Ch’ich. The evidence from the workshop is not fully analyzed, but my sense is that the level of specialization was fairly low (what Costin 1991:8 would define as individual specialization); it probably represents a single household where no more than three individuals were occupied in the production of stone tools on a part-time basis (probably in the agricultural off-season) for the space of a few years (no more than a generation). I envision a craft specialization at the household level akin to that described by Payson

Sheets and Scott Simmons (2002) for Cerén. Tools were produced from relatively low- quality local chert, so I assume that they were not traded significant distances from the lake shore, having neither prestige value nor enhanced utility to justify the investment in transportation that would be required (Costin 1991:14; Shafer and Hester 1986).

Similarly, it is unlikely that the toolmakers were political clients of a specific elite group

(i.e., attached specialists) since the status differences among the residents were not pronounced, Operations 2 and 3 were spatially separated, and the items being produced 424

were not associated with elite status (see Brumfiel and Earle 1987; Costin 1991; Clark

and Parry 1990 for discussion of craft specialization).

Changes in the economic patterns are most apparent in long-distance exchange.

San Jerónimo II is a small site, peripheral to a much larger, adjacent center, so the

residents of the site probably never had much direct involvement with long-distance trade, nor did many exotic goods ever trickle into the site. That said, there were some

exotics, and the patterns they suggest differ greatly from Classic to Postclassic. The three

major categories of imported exotic goods at the site are ceramics, obsidian, and ground

stone tools. Of those, ground stone tools are not particularly informative since their long use-life, consistent form, and varied sources makes them relatively scarce, chronologically insensitive and hard to track to an original source.

Obsidian, on the other hand, has a much shorter use-life and is easily (and fairly safely) assignable to a source on the basis of visual characteristics (Braswell et al. 2000).

San Jerónimo II is apparently unusual in having high frequencies of obsidian from San

Martin Jilotepeque, the lowest quality and least aesthetically pleasing of the three major

Guatemalan sources. This may reflect the political/economic insignificance of the site,

suggesting that obsidian from more highly prized sources was preferentially retained at major centers, or participation in a western lakes specific exchange network, but most likely is an artifact of the recycling of Preclassic obsidian.

I assume that while San Martin Jilotepeque was the common source throughout the occupation, it was primarily imported during the Late Preclassic (P. Rice et al. 1985) and that reliance on obsididan from this source in the Terminal Classic and Early

Preclassic reflects reuse of obsidian from Preclassic contexts in response to insufficient 425 availability of newly imported obsidian. Obsidian imported to the area in the Terminal

Classic and Early Postclassic was present but not in great quatitites (primarily from El

Chayal during the Terminal Classic, but increasingly from Ixtepeque as we enter the

Postclassic - e.g., Braswell 1998; P. Rice et al. 1985). This transition in sources presumably coincided with the failure of traditional Classic trade routes and the development of new patterns in the Postclassic.

The clearest indication of obsidian as an imported status marker (Kepecs et al

1994:151; cf. Moholy-Nagy 1999:310) comes from Operation 2, where nine blades of golden-green Pachuca obsidian were recovered. This suggests contact with the Epiclassic

/ Early Postclassic trading systems that brought goods in from Central Mexico along a coastal western route, possibly through Chichén Itzá (Kepecs et al. 1994; Andrews et al.

1988). No clearly Mexican obsidian was recovered from the other operations, and it is assumed that was available only to the higher status residents of Operation 2. That said, access to Pachuca obsidian does not always indicate high status among the Lowland

Maya; considerable amounts of Pachuca obsidian were recovered from some modest

Copan households, for instance (Webster 2006, pers. comm.).

The exotic ceramics give a somewhat clearer picture of the larger regional connections. During the Late to Terminal Classic period, imported ceramic types found at San Jerónimo II came primarily from areas to the southwest (mostly fine wares from the Petexbatún or Pasión regions). By the Early Postclassic period that pattern had dissipated with new connections seen to the north in the form of Plumbate sherds

(produced in the southern highlands, but like Pachuca obsidian connected with northern exchange networks). This type was again found only at Operation 2, and is one of the 426

primary indications of a higher status household than those at Operations 1 or 3. The few other imported ceramics (e.g., Augustine Red, Topoxté Red) found among the Postclassic types are attributable to regions no farther away than western Belize (P. Rice 1987a).

Taken together, the patterns observed for both obsidian and imported ceramics suggest that the existing long-distance exchange patterns of the Classic period effectively

collapsed at the end of the Terminal Classic period. During the Early Postclassic, it may be that the few imported ceramics derived from areas connected as much through kinship ties as trade relationships (e.g., Jones 1998:3-28), if one postulates direct Itzá connections between the lakes region on the one hand and Chichén Itzá and western Belize on the other. The extent to which obsidian was imported during the Early Postclassic period is

unclear; some trade likely continued but along new routes and probably less frequently

(e.g., Andrews 1983:125-7). It seems that this area was not well connected to other

regions during the Early Postclassic period and it may be that it was not until the end of

the Early Postclassic that the new coastally oriented trade routes (e.g., McKillop 1989)

became sufficiently established to incorporate the former Classic Maya heartland into

their system. This may have required the reestablishment of settlements to the east of the

Petén Lakes to enable down-the-line trade, and may also have been slowed by political

and demographic turmoil throughout the larger region. Despite its continuing occupation

and kinship ties with Itzá groups in the north, the Early Postclassic Lakes region appears

to have been something of a backwater, largely isolated from the newly evolving systems

to the north and bypassed by the coastal trading routes.

427

Ritual Practices

We have only limited evidence of ritual practices from San Jerónimo II. The site

represents a small agricultural hamlet adjacent to a much larger center, and as such was

not a locus for major public rituals. Nor would many agricultural rituals have been

performed within the site; ethnographically (e.g., Press 1975, Kintz 1990), such rituals

are usually enacted in or near the fields they are intended to service. What we have is

limited evidence for household-level domestic rituals.

There is little reason to presume much change in these systems, despite apparently

major changes to higher-level ideological systems (namely the elimination, or reduction

in importance, of divine kings). There are some changes in the paraphernalia of domestic

rituals, but they are largely of a cosmetic nature. Incense burners are a major piece of

ritual equipment throughout the Classic and Postclassic periods (P. Rice 1999). What we find at San Jerónimo II is a great deal of continuity in these types; the paste and quality of production changes from Terminal Classic to Early Postclassic but the form and function are largely unaffected. In both periods, we find spiked hourglass or pedestal-based censers to be the common form with a minority of ladle censers (e.g., P. Rice 1987a:178-

9). The major observed shift is one from the use of figurines in the Classic period to effigy censers in the Postclassic. Effigy censers are not common here, however, and it appears that they are not in wide use until the Late Postclassic period (possibly introduced quite late from Mayapán – Pugh 2001; P. Rice 1999). We cannot securely date the figurines, though my assumption is that they are primarily of Classic date, trailing off in the Early Postclassic and replaced by effigy censers in the Late Postclassic.

In any event, the figurines and effigies likely served a similar function within the ritual 428

system, indicating the supernatural being to whom the offering was being made; such

beings might be actual deities, forest or agricultural spirits, or even particularly revered

ancestors (e.g., Goldstein 1977; Chase 1988; McGee 1990).

From a wider regional perspective, it seems clear that one of the processes involved in the “Collapse” was a major ideological reorganization that stripped power

away from unitary divine kings, placing them into a greatly leveled field along with an array of powerful elites (e.g., Demarest 2004:121, Demarest, Rice and Rice 2004b:552).

It may well be that elites at this period shifted their focus from ideological justifications for their privileges to a more economic focus requiring an active role in long-distance

exchange patterns (e.g., Sabloff and Rathje 1975a, 1975b). This has been the assumption

for some time now, largely based on the evidence from epigraphic and iconographic data

in the Terminal Classic and Postclassic periods (e.g., Stuart 1993:332; Grube 1994), as

well as descriptions of Postclassic systems at the time of Spanish contact and conquest

(e.g., Tozzer 1941:94-96). The resultant changes to the public ritual system are largely

unknown but are the subject of much speculation (e.g., Chase 1988; Taube 1992;

Thompson 1970).

There are no formal temples at San Jerónimo II but there are limited indications of

household shrines, both within residential structures (e.g., at Str. 1A) and as separate

structures within residential groups (e.g., Str. 8). Our evidence for these shrines is

tenuous, however, and is based primarily on analogy with similar structures elsewhere in

the region and the distribution of ritual ceramics at the site (e.g., Pugh 2001; Masson

1997). 429

Social / Political Organization

Evidence for changes in the social and political organization of the Petén Maya

across the Classic/Postclassic boundary is scant at San Jerónimo II and open to

interpretation. Because it was a small agricultural hamlet, I did not expect to find much

evidence of a hierarchical political organization, and that expectation was not

disappointed. I assume (on the basis of relative size, contemporaneity and proximity)

that throughout its occupation, San Jerónimo II was a direct political client of the

adjacent center of Nixtun Ch’ich. I anticipate that proposed excavations there (P. Rice

2003, pers. comm.) will be far more informative about transformations in the social

organization.

I argue that the site was structured along the lines of affiliated household groups

(what Wilk calls “household clusters” – 1991:185-6), with each of the three operations comprised of a small set of one to three households linked by kinship ties. Operation 1 likely included three households (one large and two smaller), Operation 2 a single large household, and Operation 3 two smaller households. As noted, there are some slight status differences within the site. While there is some variation within operations in the artifactual assemblages of residential structures, this is probably attributable to the position of the households within the household life cycle (Fortes 1958; Tourtellot 1988); the primary distinction lies between operations, suggesting that some ranking of lineage groups was at play (Hirth 1993b), at least during the Terminal Classic period.

The household located at Operation 2 had preferential access to imported goods especially during the Early Postclassic period, particularly Plumbate ceramics and

Pachuca obsidian. That preferential access holds true more generally for other artifact 430

categories as well, though in a more subtle fashion than simple presence/absence. For instance, Operation 2 has higher frequencies of obsidian from El Chayal and lower

frequencies of San Martin Jilotepeque obsidian than the other two operations, suggesting

less reliance on reused Preclassic obsidian. Str. 1A is also the only structure of the period

to have a plastered floor. Examples of decorated local ceramic types and worked stone

artifacts are also more common at this group than the others (both in absolute terms and

in frequency). They may even have had differential access to preferred types of snails

(i.e., jute and Pomacea). Many of these individual observations are unconvincing on

their own, but taken as a whole, they support a reconstruction of Operation 2 as having a

slightly higher status than the other two operations. It does seem to have been a fairly

subtle distinction, however, since a status difference is not overtly expressed in house size or architectural features, nor are exotic goods truly that common at Operation 2.

It is interesting to note that this slim status differentiation was maintained across

the Terminal Classic / Early Postclassic transition despite the radical shift in long-

distance exchange connections. This suggests a fairly rapid shift in orientation away

from failing partners in the south and southwest toward newly emerging centers in the northern Yucatan. These shifts in the trade routes may reflect a new importance on traditional kinship connections or simply the demographic movements resulting from the

“Collapse”. This quick reorientation points up the adaptive strategies pursued by the remaining populations to consolidate their interests in response to the troubled times.

ABANDONMENT AT SAN JERÓNIMO II

In discussing the abandonment of San Jerónimo II, there are several issues to address. These include not only the causes and the timing of that abandonment, but also 431

the speed with which it was carried out, the possible performance of termination rituals,

the destination of the final, departing inhabitants, and the evidence for later visitation, use

and possible scavenging of the site by nearby groups.

Obviously, the precise date that the site of San Jerónimo II was abandoned is

unknown; the ceramic evidence is somewhat ambivalent, but the extremely low

frequency of diagnostic Late Postclassic types (e.g., Patojo Modeled, Chilo Unslipped)

suggests that the site was abandoned at some point in the Early Postclassic period.

Substantial amounts of Early Postclassic types suggest that occupation of the site lasted

well into the Early Postclassic period, but whether that means 30 years or 200 is unclear.

The presence of trace amounts of Late Postclassic pottery in all three operations (and

particularly at Str. 3A, where partially reconstructable Chilo Unslipped vessels were found) indicate that the site was revisited later, but probably not reoccupied. Visitors to the site may have been using it for agricultural purposes, scavenging flake tools from the lithic workshop, or simply visiting the site as a scenic locale.

Using relative frequencies of Classic and Postclassic ceramics as a guide, we find that while diagnostic Classic types comprise between 20% and 22% for all three operations, Postclassic ceramics constitute only 13% of the ceramics at Operation 2, 18% at Operation 3, and 22% at Operation 1. This might be interpreted to mean that

Operation 2 was abandoned earlier in the Postclassic period than the other two operations. Alternate explanations are certainly possible, though, particularly that

Operation 2 had a longer occupation during the Classic period, than did the other operations. 432

A general lack of still usable artifacts at the site argues for a gradual, rather than

catastrophic, abandonment of San Jerónimo II (Schiffer 1972; Cameron and Tomka 1993;

Inomata and Webb 2003:3; Aimers 2003:152-158). No whole pots were recovered and few reconstructable vessels were found. Most artifacts were found in locations suggesting either midden deposits or secondary refuse (Aimers 2003:157). The few stone tools were either fragmentary or small enough to have been easily misplaced or accidentally abandoned. The floors of the excavated structures lacked clearly patterned distributions that might indicate locations of primary use. All ground stone artifacts recovered were fragmentary, suggesting that any manos or metates still usable at the time the last resident left the site were also removed. Because these items are comparatively difficult to transport, it is likely that the residents of the site did not undertake a relocation of any great distance (Sanders 2003:194).

It is worth noting that two spiked hourglass censers of the La Justa: Mateo variety were found broken on Str. 1A (one in the area of N 159 E 258 and one at N 157 E 248).

Paired censers are a common feature at important Postclassic structures in the area (e.g.,

Pugh 2001:fig. 8-14) and their destruction seems to have been a formal part of the termination process for those buildings. None of the other buildings in any of the three operations show similar signs of a formal termination ritual, and this may be interpreted in several ways: formal rituals of termination may be limited to households with higher status or defined roles in the religious system, the other households may have been abandoned with less advance planning, or evidence of termination rituals may have been lost as the result of poor preservation, perishable materials, or overlooked during analysis. 433

In moving beyond these basic data, we are forced to speculate concerning the causes for abandonment and the ultimate disposition of the final residents. Plausible explanations should take into account what we know of the larger political and economic currents of the period. It appears that the residents of the site simply packed up their belongings into their canoes and paddled them away to their new homes. Since the site was presumably politically subordinate to the adjacent center of Nixtun Ch’ich (which continued to be actively occupied until the Spanish conquest), the most parsimonious explanation would be that the residents of San Jerónimo II relocated to that site. This is consistent with the observed (e.g., D. Rice 1988:236) Postclassic settlement pattern, wherein outlying sites were abandoned and the populace relocated to fortified centers in defensible locales. The residents of San Jerónimo II may have retreated to Ch’ich at about the time that center constructed its defensive walls, presumably under threat from some external raiding force. That San Jerónimo II was never reoccupied suggests that the threat of violence continued for an extended period and/or that the regional population never recovered to the point that resettlement was worth the trouble (see Schwartz

1990:38 for Late Postclassic population estimates). It may also be that once consolidated into a nucleated site, dispersing again was prevented by the local authorities, who may have needed to keep a firmer grip on a population that no longer conceded them divine authority.

COMPARISON WITH QUEXIL-PETÉNXIL RESULTS (SCHWARZ 2002, 2003,

2004)

Which patterns found at San Jerónimo II are reflected on a broader regional scale?

The simplest and most effective way to explore this issue is to compare the results of the 434

Proyecto San Jerónimo with the results of the Quexil-Peténxil project run by Kevin

Schwarz (2004). That project, as described earlier (p. 13-15), examined Late Classic

through Early Historic settlements in the Lake Quexil and Peténxil basins some 13 km

ESE of San Jerónimo II. While Schwarz’s focus was primarily architectural, the goal of our projects was similar – to address the “social transformation of rural Maya settlements

… in the Central Petén, Guatemala” ( Schwarz 2002:1). The full details of his project are

available in Schwarz 2004, but the best summary of his results is actually to be found in

Schwarz 2003.

His analysis of community structure in these basins is in agreement with the long- standing results of Don Rice (1986); Late Classic sites in his study area are characterized by formal arrangements of rectilinear structures situated on the mainland and arranged around a spacious central plaza and oriented toward the cardinal directions. By contrast the Postclassic and Historic occupation of the Quexil islands “presents a dense, compact settlement with well-defined borders” (2003:7). The island structures are arranged on

terraced platforms, and characteristically are found in paired structure groupings, rather

than larger groups, with strictly limited plaza space. The movement to islands from the

mainland is interpreted as a need for “the defensible and defended nature of these sites

and this was certainly an period of warfare and conflict in Petén” (Schwarz 2003:9).

He finds that “Postclassic arrangements of domestic structures on the Quexil

islands are quite different from Late Classic examples” (Schwarz 2003:8). The Terminal

Classic and Postclassic settlement was arranged as “smaller, looser groups of structures

of two types: mostly structure pairs, in which the formal and domestic zones of the house

are separate structures and lone structures in which these functions are shared” (ibid:8). 435

In other words, they are characterized by either a residential structure and a separate

kitchen, or a lone structure incorporating the residence and kitchen. When the household

is defined by two structures they are normally either directly opposite one another, at a

roughly 90 degree angle, or laterally aligned. Importantly, he notes that “the size and

organization of family groups who inhabited these groups probably changed through

time, from the extended families thought to inhabit the formal plaza groups of the Classic

period to the nuclear or other family fragments that must have occupied smaller

household units of the Postclassic” (ibid:8). The less hierarchically organized and

informal architecture is argued to serve the needs of a community “less entrained within

the old hierarchical political system” (ibid:10)

Changes in the layout of residential structures between the Classic and Postclassic

are interpreted to involve an “increased display of domestic altars and benches, most

likely due to the changes in ancestor veneration” (ibid:9). He finds that by the Early

Terminal Classic period, “new forms of bench-altars with C-shaped and L-shaped forms

are built in highly visible positions in the front of the house”, an innovation apparently

originating at Seibal. That change is believed to have “facilitated social visiting and

…legitimated the new social groupings at this settlement” (ibid:11). The increased

importance of social visiting within residential structures may, in part, be a response to

decreasing availability of plaza space in the densely packed island settlements. He argues

that this shift in ancestor veneration practice reflects its new role in “the changing

religious legitimation of the household within the community” (Schwarz 2004:627). To be more precise, the Petén Maya “moved their bench-altars … into the frontal portion of

the house in what may have been an active symbolization of their social identity. They 436

may have been seeking to increase legitimation of their family groups within the

community after the decline of the state” (ibid:632). This presumably was used to

reinforce community coherence through the emphasis on common descent and affiliation

with a specific powerful lineage.

This innovation is not believed to have involved substantial in-migration from the

Seibal region, but rather a less direct form of contact. Beginning as part of the

epigraphically attested cultural interaction between Tikal and the Petexbatún region, contacts filtered through the region as an intermediate area. Suggested modes include

both trade and religious pilgrimages, but the substantial evidence, both in architectural

grammar and artifact assemblages, of “local cultural and populational continuity” argues

against major shifts in the local population. The shift in bench use is primarily attributed

to the growth of an interregional Epiclassic religious movement (Bey et al. 1997).

Supporting this notion of widespread external influences are ties in censer form and

limited ceramic overlap with Seibal, but also the introduction of Postclassic open hall

forms believed to have originated in the northern lowlands. (Schwarz 2002:12).

In general, he feels that “the decline of central authority in the Terminal Classic

period may have led to increased ethnic identification and increased warfare between

formerly more strongly integrated populations” (Schwarz 2002:13). This was reflected in

a greater emphasis on defensible sites and the construction of ethnic identity on a smaller

geographical and sociopolitical scale. Specifically, he argues (Schwarz 2003:615) that as

elites suffered from a loss of legitimacy stemming from the failure of divine kingship,

rural communities responded by emphasizing their lineal ancestry and affinal kin ties

through increasing the importance placed on ancestor veneration, as evidenced by 437 moving house altars into positions immediately visible from the door. This suggests a shift in organizational scale and is consistent with observed patterns of alliance and conflict within and between the Itzá and the Kowoj in the Contact period. I agree with this assessment, though I don’t believe the result is the creation of an Itzá ethnic group in a true, anthropological sense. As noted earlier, I feel that this shift toward emphasizing lineal ancestry and affinal kin ties marks a greater reliance on asserting affiliation with specific powerful lineages (i.e., the Itzá and the Kowoj) as was the case in the Postclassic and Historic northern lowlands. To some degree, this is a difference in semantics rather than a substantive theoretical break between Schwarz (2002) and myself.

Overall, the patterns observed for the Classic to Postclassic transition in the nearby Peténxil and Quexil lake basins are congruent with the patterns we have already established, though the pacing seems to have been a bit different. We do find the introduction of bench-structures at San Jerónimo II, but only one (or possibly two) L- shaped structure – no C-shaped structures or open halls are present. Similarly, there is little evidence that Str. 1A was any more overt in its presentation of ancestor veneration than any of the others; the presence of a spiked censer and two figurines at Str. 1A suggests that the structure possibly included a household shrine, though if anything, the spatial patterning suggests that shrine was on a bench in the rear of the structure (in the

NW corner). Nevertheless, we are in general agreement concerning the response of households in small sites to the wider regional “Collapse”; both of us feel that the general response was a gradual refocusing on self-reliance and social integration at a smaller scale, in the face of increasing instability. Smaller household sizes in the Postclassic do 438

seem to be the general rule, with paired and single structures at least as common as larger

formal groupings at San Jerónimo II.

Though Schwarz sees the shift to a defensible site location as occurring at the end of the Terminal Classic period in the Quexil basin, it seems to occur somewhat later at

San Jerónimo II, probably not until close to the end of the Early Postclassic period. The

delay in abandoning San Jerónimo II probably reflects its proximity to a large,

defensively situated site; it seems likely that Nixtun Ch’ich was close enough to make the

residents of San Jerónimo feel secure until well into the Postclassic. Nevertheless, the

residents of San Jerónimo did eventually abandon the site, presumably retreating into the

adjacent fortified site. Whether this reflected increasing instability at the local level is unclear; it may simply have been a response to political pressures, with the Postclassic rulers of local centers preferring to have their adherents close to hand.

Similarly, neither of us particularly favors a substantial inmigration of people from sites in the Petexbatún or elsewhere at our respective sites. Schwarz favors a largely religious explanation for the apparent influences, seeing them largely restricted to public architecture and ancestor veneration practices; I am more in favor of trading

contacts, seeing influences primarily in imported serving vessels. It may be that both processes were occurring in the area, to varying extents. I also feel it likely that there was some movement of people from the Petexbatún through the area, though it is likely

that they were encouraged to keep moving out of the area, or at least to set up their own

sites in more peripheral zones (e.g., the Petén savannas – Rice and Rice 2004:132).

There may have been occasional individuals or households welcomed into the established 439 sites, but these were probably accepted on the basis of kinship ties or political clientage and encouraged to adopt local practices, and they may well be invisible archaeologically.

EVALUATION OF THEORETICAL EXPLANATORY POWER

How do the patterns of change we have detailed, both locally and over a broader region, articulate with the various models of Collapse and culture change we reviewed earlier? This is a complicated question in a number of ways. By and large, the population of San Jerónimo II was affected by the larger regional “Collapse” in an indirect fashion. Neither the site itself, nor the center with which it was most closely affiliated actually suffered a “Collapse”, either political or demographic. Whatever the causes of “Collapse” in the regions to the southwest, they do not seem to have directly affected San Jerónimo II. The presence of the lake would have buffered any drought or crop failure, and the continuity of Nixtun Ch’ich and the relative unimportance of San

Jerónimo II would have forestalled any immediate fear of warfare. There may have been regional problems with overpopulation, but the evidence for this is largely inferential

(e.g., D. Rice 1993). There was a regional demographic decline at the end of the

Terminal Classic (P. Rice and D. Rice 2004:130), but its effect on the residents of San

Jerónimo II is unclear; it may even have had a positive effect in a decreased pressure on agricultural and lacustrine resources. Similarly, there does not seem to be an immediate move by the residents of San Jerónimo II to seek a more defensible location for their settlement, probably because of their proximity to the large (apparently in both the

Classic and Postclassic periods) center of Nixtun Ch’ich.

This is all in keeping with a systemic model of the “Collapse”, where problems elsewhere lead to local problems, not necessarily of the same nature. The “Collapse” 440 seems to have affected the residents of San Jerónimo II primarily through their articulation with broader cultural systems. The most obvious shift is in the long-distance exchange networks. The decay of former trading partners and the disruption of long standing trade routes may have led to a disruption in access to exotic goods, at least outside the major centers. However, new trade connections with the northern lowlands were apparently quick to develop, despite continuing trends of depopulation and political instability in the southern lowlands (Andrews 1983:126). Similarly the continuing social and political instability may have led to social reorganization even where occupation continued (e.g., Little 2003). The movement of refugees through the area was probably a substantial strain on everyone involved (Chambers 1986; Basok 1990), though it is unclear how important outmigration was in the regional depopulation. Even prior to the eventual retreat into fortified sites (probably explained by political fragmentation in the area and/or marauding bands of the variously disenfranchised), effects of that instability were probably felt in social organization at the village level (Little 2003; Lewis

2002:262-310). The decreasing population and new, smaller household sizes may reflect a social atomization, possibly caused by increasing reliance on nuclear family ties (rather than extended families) and outmigration of cadet branches of the family group (Fox

1987, though not necessarily with a militaristic aspect). Shifts in settlement organization and ritual practices probably reflect the shifting realities of the day (Bourdieu 1998).

This reconstruction is rooted in a systemic vision of the Classic Maya “Collapse”, but also, at a deeper level, in an agent-centered view of culture change and culture process. Not only do individual households alter their daily practices gradually in response to shifting conditions, but specific members (and sets of members) opt to 441

separate themselves from their extended families and the local polity in response to the

demands of necessity. In my conception, the changes visible in the archaeological record

reflect the choices made by households and their members on a daily basis as they

attempted to adjust their way of life to the newly evolving realities (Bourdieu 1977, 1990,

1998). The choices being made were shaped not only by the social structures in which

they were socialized, but also the perceived realities of the day and their understanding of

the consequences of their actions (Giddens 1984). In a period of such major change as

the Classic Maya “Collapse”, even the larger structures and institutions of society are

vulnerable to change and reinterpretation (Bourdieu 1998). The belief in divine kings

and the royal institution was radically reduced in stature at this time, sending ripples

through the rest of the social organization; one effect was likely an increased emphasis on

ancestor veneration within the household (Schwarz 2004:40). The political fragmentation concomitant with the Maya “Collapse” led not only to the development of smaller, more tightly integrated social groups (probably including an increased emphasis on descent group linkages) but heightened hostility between such groups (possibly attempting to define themselves through the exclusion of others) and an atmosphere of semi-anarchy as groups struggled for regional predominance in the power vacuum left by the earlier states (Lewis 2002; Simons 1995).

I envision aspects of the post-Collapse Petén as similar in some ways to modern

Somalia (a comparison also made by both Rice and Rice 2004 and Demarest 2004); in the wake of collapsing social institutions and/or subsistence systems, there is a tendency

for clan-based military warlords of a relatively small scale to develop (e.g., Lewis 2002;

Simons 1995). In the absence of an organized force, such military leaders have a 442 relatively small range through which they can project their authority (hence the ironic title of President Siyad Barre “Mayor of Mogadishu” in the late 1980’s – Simons

1995:91; Lewis 2002:262). This can lead them to bring their followers together into nucleated sites at strategic locations as a means to both protect them and secure control over them (Lewis 2002:264-282). Such leaders typically have a core group of followers drawn from within the ranks of their extended kin (e.g., ibid:254-7, 264). Only slowly does order reassert itself, often after substantial loss of life, massive population movements, and disruption of basic social systems; as a result the new order is often substantially different from the old (e.g., Little 2003). The new balance is typically attained at a less centralized level of organization, and the new system may never regain its original level of cohesion (e.g., as in southern Somalia – ibid: 150-159, or the dissolution of some chiefdoms – Earle 1987).

Adopting such a model mandates the use of some aspects of a power relations approach as well (Foucault 1977, 1984). The negotiation of authority by newly founded

Postclassic dynasts is a tricky procedure, because established modes of the transmission of authority were likely disrupted in many areas. In some areas, the existing elites managed to maintain control (as in the Petén Lakes), but even there, some renegotiation of the extent and nature of their control would have been required. Further exacerbated by disruption in their access to the traditional tools of legitimation, loss of prestige and, by extension, authority, may be counteracted by attempts at more direct forms of control

(e.g., Sabloff and Rathje 1975a, 1975b).

In all, the Classic Maya “Collapse” was a time of fairly radical reorganization, not only at the level of the polity, but even at the level of the household and the extended kin 443 group. Overarching social structures were perceived as inadequate or even counterproductive by the members of the society, leading to shifts in daily practice.

Households restructured themselves to meet their subsistence needs as best as possible under the new conditions; extended families broke into their component groups even as ancestor veneration may have become increasingly important. Communities redefined themselves, with a particular focus on increasing integration at the local level as regional integration decayed. The remaining centers shifted into defensive postures and focused on holding what they could; as that diminished, former client settlements were abandoned, with individual households either retreating toward the center or leaving the area in search of greener pastures. The institution of divine kingship fell by the wayside;

Postclassic elites were forced to rule through greater consensus and with greater involvement in the economy. Long-distance exchange largely dissipated, possibly for a period of several generations Through it all, individuals were forced to make uncomfortable decisions about what changes to adopt, attempting to foresee potential consequences in an unpredictable social environment, as new social structures and institutions developed from the ashes of the old.

SUMMARY - ASSESSMENT OF THE CLASSIC/POSTCLASSIC TRANSITION

AS IT AFFECTED THE MAYA OF THE PETÉN LAKES REGION

As we currently understand it, the Classic Maya “Collapse” began during the 9th century AD in the Petexbatún and Pasión regions to the southwest of the Central Petén

Lakes region (e.g., Demarest 2004). Through a series of intertwining processes that involved endemic warfare, overpopulation and the decline of divine kingship as an institution, the decline and abandonment of these sites had a number of systemic effects 444 on adjoining regions (e.g., Webster 2002). First, adjoining centers may have been periodically involved in the endemic warfare of the region, draining resources away and straining internal power balances (e.g., Demarest 2004). Second, as those centers entered decline there were a series of economic effects felt by the adjoining regions (e.g.,

Tourtellot and Gonzalez 2004); the decline was accompanied by an outflux of population as migrants and refugees that disrupted local systems and placed strain on subsistence systems already working at near capacity levels (e.g., Rice and Rice 2004). It also entailed the disruption of long-standing patterns of interregional exchange (e.g., Andrews

1983; Diamond 2005:14); ceramic evidence suggests that the majority of Classic exotic goods at San Jerónimo II were imported from exactly those regions that first entered decline. That trade contact may also have introduced the innovative L-shaped and C- shaped architectural forms during the Terminal Classic that became so characteristic of

Postclassic settlement (D. Rice 1988; Rice and Rice 2004); it may also have introduced some subtle changes in household ritual practices as higher level ritual practices changed markedly (Schwarz 2004).

Returning, one last time, to the specific case of the Maya of San Jerónimo II, what were the effects of the Classic Maya “Collapse” on the residents of the site? As we have noted, time and again, in many ways the transition from Classic to Postclassic was a subtle one at the site. Each of the three operations, and indeed each component structure, at the site shows evidence of continued occupation from the Late/Terminal Classic into the Postclassic. When the site was finally abandoned (probably near the end of the Early

Postclassic), the process seems to have been a gradual retreat into fortified centers, 445

triggered by ongoing regional strife but with no evidence that violence ever directly affected the residents of the San Jerónimo II.

Some internal restructuring of the site during the transitional period is probable,

but the timing and extent of changes is not clear from the archaeological record. Taken

as a whole, the layout of the site is intermediate between the established patterns of the

Classic and Postclassic periods (D. Rice 1988). Classic aspects of the site include its

non-defensive location and the presence of formal plaza groups (ibid:232). Postclassic

patterns include the presence of L-shaped structures, generally informal positioning of

structures with respect to each other, and a reduced size of the household group

(ibid:234-236). The artifact assemblage likewise includes significant amounts of both

Late/Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic types. A continuity of occupation does not,

however, mean that the regional “Collapse” went unheeded or without substantial effects

on this continuing population.

San Jerónimo II, as a small agricultural hamlet adjacent to a large continuing

center was probably affected only slowly and indirectly by the “Collapse.” There is no

direct evidence that refugees or migrants from other regions ever resided at the site.

Basic subsistence practices went essentially unchanged; the vast majority of the Petén

Maya have always been agriculturalists who supplemented their diet through wild forest

and lacustrine resources, and this was probably unaffected by the “Collapse.”

Suggestions (P. Rice 1987a:237) that the introduction of arrow points or net sinkers at

this time indicate a significant change in the subsistence pattern cannot be substantiated

here, as such artifacts seem to have been in wide use during the Terminal Classic period 446 at San Jerónimo II. If there was a change, it seems to have been instituted somewhat earlier.

Patterns at San Jerónimo II cannot be understood without reference to the adjacent larger center of Nixtun Ch’ich (Rice et al 1996:177-222). As a political client and nearby outlier of the center throughout its occupation, San Jerónimo’s fortunes were tied to the ability of Ch’ich to project its power throughout the region. San Jerónimo II may have supplied Ch’ich with a portion of the agricultural produce it required, as well as providing lithic tools and other goods to the site. In return, the residents of San Jerónimo could expect to be protected by the warriors of Ch’ich and may have obtained some specialized goods and services from that center. While there was some status differentiation at San Jerónimo II, the amounts of exotic goods present were never very large, and the residents of the site were apparently able to obtain similar amounts of prestige goods from new partners fairly rapidly after the dissolution of earlier exchange networks.

The increasing social and political instability of the region may well have caused some restructuring of the site, though. We see some signs of a shift toward smaller household sizes as part of the general demographic decline of the region. It has been suggested that this was accompanied by a shift in household ritual practices (Schwarz

2004:40) as attempts to redefine the basis of social integration at a local level in the

Postclassic period; evidence for this is scant at San Jerónimo II, but may have been in its early stages.

San Jerónimo II was apparently abandoned at some point in the Early Postclassic period. This seems to have been part of the larger retrenchment occurring throughout the 447 region, as outlying settlements were abandoned in favor of densely nucleated centers in highly defensible locales (D. Rice 1988; Rice and Rice 2004:130). The residents of San

Jerónimo II probably retreated to Ch’ich of their own volition. There is no evidence of destruction perpetrated upon the site, nor were all of the structures abandoned in a single episode. Rather, the abandonment of the site appears to have been gradual, with all usable goods stripped from the structures upon their abandonment. Only at Operation 2 are there some indications of a formal ritual termination (or pilgrimage-like revisitation) of the structure (e.g., Pugh 2001:fig. 8-14; Masson 1997:310), and this may be linked to the senior status of that household. It also seems that this operation may have been the first to be abandoned; the abandonment of the other operations may have been undertaken later, either with less ceremony or greater haste. The abandonment may have been the result of increasingly unstable conditions locally, or it may have been encouraged by the lords of Ch’ich in order to consolidate their various clients.

Alternatively, the site may simply have been abandoned as the result of continuing demographic decline, with the residents either moving as household groups, or with offspring departing the site to seek greener pastures.

We have little concrete data on the course of events in the Central Petén Lakes during this time period. Some broad patterns are beginning to take shape, however. It seems to be a period of simplifying political systems, diminished external trade, and the reorganization of communities at a basic household level. It involved an increasing emphasis on social integration at lower scales than in the Classic period, leading to the rise of kin-based “ethnic” identities (as Itzáj or Kowoj, for instance) by the Late

Postclassic period (again, I must note that these were probably not true ethnic divisions, 448 but simply affiliations with one or another set of competing lineages). It seems that reconsolidation of the region into a single political unit was slow and not fully realized until the Late Postclassic period. This eventual reintegration was accompanied by the reestablishment of stable patterns of long-distance exchange and may have been enacted through aggressively militaristic means; this, certainly, is the reputation the Itzá polity had acquired by the Historic period (Jones 1998).

So in answer to our central question, the Maya of San Jerónimo II felt the effects of the broader regional “Collapse” in a number of ways. The decline of neighboring centers disrupted long-distance trade and fostered social and political instability through demographic declines, increased militarism, and the undermining of basic social institutions such as divine kingship. On the ground, this translated to a gradually increasing concern with defensibility that led to the eventual abandonment of the site.

Yet, prior to that, households had adjusted to a decreased access to exotic goods through possible reutilization of Preclassic obsidian and an emphasis on trade with more local partners. A reduction in average household size reflected not only demographic decline but a reorganization of households to emphasize nuclear families while emphasizing social integration at a local level. This may also have been reflected in an increased focus on the continuing practice of ancestor veneration at household shrines (though evidence for this is, admittedly, weak at San Jerónimo II), as rituals performed by divine kings diminished in importance. Shifts in agricultural practices are undocumented but may have involved reduced intensity as the population declined and a shift in labor organization toward integration at the level of the local community as extended families broke up. 449

The residents of San Jerónimo II and the Nixtun Ch’ich polity were left to make

their own way as larger systems broke up. At San Jerónimo II, they focused on making

do with what was available locally. The need to pull together in the face of external raiding, outmigration and the decay of unifying state-level institutions led the remaining residents to form new collective identities based on kinship and community. The Petén

Lakes may not have joined the broader “Collapse”, but its effects were indisputably felt, and the move from Classic to Postclassic may have been gradual, but entailed dramatic changes, with individuals and households doing their best to navigate the currents of social, political and economic reorganization. 450

Appendix A: Culture Change

Culture change is a topic of central interest in archaeology, and has been since the

earliest days of the discipline. It is central to many of the issues that have fascinated both

researchers and laymen through history. How have our societies developed? What

processes shaped our history and that of other societies, both contemporaneous and

historic? An understanding of how culture change occurs is vital not only in

understanding the history of human societies but the forces that still shape our historical

trajectory. How did we get from simple hunter-gatherers to the complex global networks

of today? How inevitable was it? What forces shaped our path? Where are current

processes pushing us? Can one identify a few key universal processes or is it entirely

historically contingent and beyond our grasp?

One could easily continue to list such questions, both specific and general, to

illustrate the centrality of culture change and culture process within anthropology (or

indeed history, sociology, political science etc.). In this section, I review both the theoretical history of culture change in anthropology and the leading models in use today.

We will begin with a historical review.

REVIEW OF CULTURE CHANGE IN ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEORY (1700-

1970)

As is generally the case with any body of theoretical work, early formulations of culture change were generally quite simplistic and, as time passed, each iteration became increasingly more complex in order to account for new data and new theoretical insights.

The earliest discussions of social change were purely speculative and rarely had much of a theoretical basis. It was not until the mid-19th century that one truly begins to see the 451

origins of a modern social science, moving away from broader appeals to moral

philosophy.

Unilineal Evolution

The idea of evolution gained currency in both the natural and social sciences over the course of the 19th century. In the 1840’s, Herbert Spencer created a theory of cultural

evolution that makes him, perhaps, the founding father of “modern” social science. By

the early 1860’s his ideas were beginning to appear in print. Along with Lewis Henry

Morgan and Edward Tylor, he was one of the most influential social theorists of the day

to address culture change. And, like Morgan and Tylor, the mode he adopted was one of simple unilineal evolution (see Spencer 1967). Despite his development of cultural

evolution, modern evolutionary theory in anthropology and archaeology traces its heritage more to Morgan than Spencer. Spencer’s impact is felt more in structural

functionalism.

Spencer argued that society “began as an undifferentiated and simple system

(organism). Through evolution, societies … developed specialized structures (e.g.,

government) to perform specialized functions (e.g., coordinating the whole system). The

more structurally and functionally differentiated a society is, the more advanced a place it has in an evolutionary taxonomy” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:5). This sounds good, and is relatively consistent with several extant models; unfortunately, the actual taxonomies

Spencer developed “are worse than inadequate both theoretically and from the point of view of data utilization” (ibid).

For Morgan (1877), human societies traced a simple path through Savagery (in three stages) and Barbarism (again in three stages) until culminating in Civilization. The 452

breakdown was simple – prior to the adoption of pottery and the domestication of animals

and plants, human societies are in a state of savagery, following those changes but until

the creation of a phonetic alphabet, societies were barbarous. In other words, “every

stage of evolution must have a technology specific to it, as well as a type of sociocultural

life that corresponds to the technology” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:32). The schema

was simultaneously rigid and precisely defined, and exceptions surfaced quite quickly.

His focus on understanding societies through their technologies and economies, however,

is what gave him lasting influence on anthropology through the years, and his work had

notable impact on such thinkers as Engels, Childe, White, and Harris.

Where Spencer and Morgan were interested in the development of social

organization and social complexity, Tylor (1871) was far more interested in the evolution

of religion, seeing religion as a reflection of cognitive patterns. For our purposes, his

major contributions were his formulation of a concept of culture and his idea that “it is

possible to reconstruct the past cultures of people through a close study of the present and

the ‘survivals’ of past cultural states they encapsulate” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:62).

This notion of survivals persists but is no longer considered to have much explanatory

power; that said, the critical, data-based approach he advocated was important.

Historical Particularism and Structuralism

These unilineal approaches toward cultural evolution were the norm among social

theorists until Boas made a case for cultural relativism in the early 20th century. Most

notable was his attack on the comparative method (1896); his demonstration that proposed linkages of race and culture were nonexistent not only enabled him to attack sloppy fieldwork and ethnocentric biases, but led to a focus on historically particularistic 453

accounts of social change. Boas argued that if, as cultural relativism assumes, all cultures

are equal and comparable, there is no valid way to order cultures within an evolutionary scheme. In its place, he argued that “each cultural group has its own unique history, dependent partly upon the peculiar inner development of the social group, and partly upon the foreign influences to which it has been subjected” (Bohannon and Glazer

1988:97). While Boas wasn’t opposed to the identification of parallelisms, and was inclined to see the roots of such parallelisms in “certain dynamic conditions which are due to social or psychological causes that are liable to lead to similar results” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:98), the emphasis on data collection and chronology in the New World

(under the influence of Kroeber) essentially forced theories of culture change out of the limelight until about 1940. One side effect of Boas’ interest in the psychological roots of culture may have been the creation of the “Culture and Personality” school (e.g.,

Benedict, Sapir, Mead), with an interest in the conjunction of social structures with the cognitive structures of individuals. These works tended to be rather reductionist, and had little interest in topics of culture change, but did at least emphasize the study of entire cultures and not merely small, specific aspects of them.

The Boasian school focused on ethnography and, as Bohannon and Glazer phrase it (1988:103), “did not merely fail to produce viable theory, most of them positively eschewed producing it.” Denying the validity of evolutionary theory left them with

something of a minor crisis, since they lacked a substitute theory to explain cultural

developments. In general, researchers of this school (e.g., Lowie) emphasized diffusion

or culture contact, seeing endogenous change as a relatively rare exception, though at

least conceding that change cut both ways during such contacts. This led, in some cases, 454

to rather hyperdiffusionist theories (e.g., Smith 1911) that are currently held in little

regard.

In the Old World, at this time, French and British theorists turned to studies of

Structuralism and Functionalism (e.g., Durkheim, Mauss, Malinowski, Radcliffe-Brown,

and Levi-Strauss). Structuralists, as the name indicates, were interested in the structures

underlying societies and were rather less interested in their transformations. Durkheim

(Bohannon and Glazer 1988:248-9) for instance, argued that the relationship between a

prior state and the current state had no particular causality. The connection, instead, was

solely chronological. Structuralism locates culture outside of its component individuals,

such that changes in culture are rooted in the conscience collective.

Functionalists, on the other hand, regard “culture as a tool” (Bohannon and Glazer

1988:274). For some, (e.g., Malinowski) functionalism is rooted in the needs of the

individual, which become transformed into secondary social needs. For others, (e.g.,

Radcliffe-Brown), the individual is essentially irrelevant and the functions filled by

culture are those required by the culture as a whole. In the case of both structuralism and

functionalism, an understanding of culture change was a largely secondary focus when

the topic arose at all. Instead, the focus lay on understanding the role of specific cultural

practices in society as a whole and how societies were bound together by their underlying structures.

Cultural Ecology and Neoevolutionary Theory

Not until the 1940’s and 1950’s did culture change once again become a focus of major theoretical interest, with the work of Julian Steward and Leslie White. Steward advocated a return to evolutionary models, but did so in a novel, multilinear form that 455 provided a great deal more flexibility. Rather than maintaining the existence of universal stages of development, he conceded the individuality of different cultures. For Steward, multilinear evolution is “a methodology concerned with regularity in social change, the goal of which is to develop cultural laws empirically” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:321).

Given that description, multilinear evolution presumes the existence of parallel patterns of development, which Steward calls cultural types. Those types have a cross- cultural validity and are defined by certain characteristics: they are comprised of selected cultural elements, rather than whole cultures; their component elements are selected in relationship to a specific problem and frame of reference; and those elements must have the same functional relationships within each culture postulated to fit that type. (So for instance, the patrilineal band type contains the following elements: patrilineality, patrilocality, exogamy, land ownership, and a specific lineage composition.)

The uniformity of a cultural type in this model derives from a similar form of adaptation to their environment, and represents a particular level of sociocultural integration. This emphasis on cultural adaptation is central to the cultural ecology approach. The approach itself tends to focus on the methods of production in the environment in order to understand the relationship between production techniques and the other aspects of the culture.

Leslie White, however, was the individual most responsible for reintroducing evolutionary thinking back into American anthropology. His model acknowledges the multilineal thinking of Steward but doesn’t really build on it; rather he finds a new basis for evolutionary process in the evolution of energy use by cultures through the evolution of technology. In his conception, cultures evolve either by developing new technologies 456

or by directly harnessing more energy from nature. In this, he is an intellectual

descendent of Morgan. For White, “technology and the energy it can harness play a

primary role … in determining social organization and ideology. In other words, ‘a

culture’ that can harness more energy is going to have, as a result of harnessing that extra

energy, a more evolved form of social organization and ideology” (Bohannon and Glazer

1988:336).

Students of White, like Sahlins, have adapted his work into less rigidly unilinear

approaches. Sahlins, for instance, distinguishes between general and specific forms of

evolution. Much of culture change for Sahlins is specific, that is, focused on the cultural adaptation of a society to its environment. It is general evolution that enables us to discuss broad evolutionary stages, however. “General evolution focuses on the ways in which progress in a specific society allows us to consider that society more advanced – and therefore at a higher level of cultural evolution” (Bohannon and Glazer 1988:357).

This model concedes that all human societies do not pass through the same stages in the same order (unilinear evolution), yet it argues that all human societies can be grouped within a universal set of evolutionary stages.

AGENCY THEORY / PRACTICE THEORY

We move now to the first of several major bodies of theories that currently predominate among archaeological studies of culture change --- the theoretical works of

Anthony Giddens and Pierre Bourdieu. These two bodies of work both involve a focus on the actions of individual members of a society and the ways in which individual decisions have collective effects on society as a whole, both in the present and in the future. As such, the two theories are often conflated under the rubric of Agency theory 457

(despite the fact that Bourdieu’s theories largely predated Giddens, and appeared more or

less contemporaneously in English-speaking circles). I discuss them here as separate bodies of work dealing with similar topics, and include them under a single heading.

Agency Theory – Giddens

Anthony Giddens is, as one of his discussants calls him (Tucker 1998:1), “one of the leading practitioners of contemporary social theory”, and is, in his intellectual heritage, a sociologist of the British school, though having severed himself from structural functionalism. Giddens theory of structuration (e.g., 1976, 1979, 1981, 1984) has been a major theme in his writings since the mid-70’s. The roots of the theory can be traced to at least 1973 (The Class Structure of the Advanced Societies), and it was a important theme in works like New Rules of Sociological Methods (1976), Central

Problems in Social Theory (1979), and Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism

(1981), but not until 1984 and The Constitution of Society: Outline of a Theory of

Structuration did it become the actual focus of a major work. The theory was further developed in later works, ranging from Social Theory and Modern Sociology (1987) to

The Consequences of Modernity (1990) and The Third Way: The Renewal of Social

Democracy (1998). Nevertheless, The Constitution of Society remains the programmatic discussion and will be generally relied upon as the basis of this discussion.

Our primary focus here will be on a discussion of his version of agency, which, it must be recognized, is only one aspect of his larger theory of structuration. Like

Bourdieu, whom we will discuss in the following section, Giddens bridges the dichotomy of structure and agency in a very useful manner. In Giddens’ version of sociology, the emphasis lies on human beings as active agents; despite his attempts to balance agency 458

and structure, his agents are both rational and creative and the focus on agency tends to

overshadow the recognition of structuring effects. Giddens (1976:75) defines agency as

“the stream of actual or contemplated causal interventions of corporeal beings in the

ongoing process of events-in-the-world.” Critically then, one must recognize that agency

requires that an agent “could have acted otherwise” (ibid: 76)

In Giddens conception, an actor has three stratified levels of consciousness: unconsciousness, practical consciousness, and discursive consciousness. “The

unconsciousness … represents forms of cognition and impulsion which are either fully

repressed or appear only partially … in the other forms of practical and discursive

consciousness… Practical consciousness … is like the unconscious in that it is not

immediately accessible to the discursive conscious awareness of the agent. Instead,

practical consciousness represents tacit or ‘mutual’ knowledge, which is employed in the

enactment of courses of conduct providing agents with the ability to ‘go on’, in terms of

rule-following in social life. Finally, discursive consciousness refers to the agents ability

to articulate his knowledge” (Loyal 2003:52). These three levels of consciousness are

generally associated with types of behavior. At the lowest level, Giddens asserts that

individuals do not necessarily know the reasons for the actions they perform, and thus

motivations (which supply overall plans) are located in the unconscious. Practical

consciousness is linked to “the rationalisation of action” whereby agents “routinely and

for the most part without fuss maintain a continuing theoretical understanding of the

grounds of their activity” (Giddens 1984:5). Similarly, discursive consciousness is tied to

the “reflexivity of action” through which agents “reflect upon, monitor and modify their

actions on an ongoing basis” (Loyal 2003:53). Agents seek out and follow established 459

and accepted routines in an effort to avoid anxiety and guilt, and thus tend to avoid

actions that involve radical change.

It is through this desire for “ontological security” (Giddens 1979:218) that larger

social structures affect the freedom of individual choices; it is extremely rare that such

choices are entirely removed, but they are frequently constrained. Giddens (1984) identifies three basic categories of constraints on choice: material constraints, constraints deriving from sanctions, and structural constraints. Material constraints are those deriving from the physical limitations of the body and the features of the physical environment. Constraints based on sanctions are related to the relative power of specific agents. The primary focus for Giddens, however, is on the structural constraints. These

“both limit the possibility for action and appear to the agent as pre-structured enablements associated with opportunities for action” (Loyal 2003:58). Understanding structural constraints requires one to recognize the “motives, wants and needs” (ibid) of the agent. The simplest examples are choices where the only alternative is death; in such cases to say an agent “had no choice” is only true if phrased “given his/her desire not to die, the only alternative open was to act in the way he or she did” (Giddens 1984:175).

The model thus rests upon two additional concepts: the knowledgeability of the agent and the capability of the agent. For Giddens (1979:5) “every social actor knows a great deal about the conditions of reproduction of the society of which he or she is a member.” That knowledge affects the choices made by actors, and is bounded in two critical ways. First, the movement of actors is circumscribed both socially and spatially, so that they are more aware of what goes on in specific spheres of social life and less aware of others. Second, being merely a fallible human, the knowledgeability of an agent 460

is bounded by both the unacknowledged conditions of action and the unintended

consequences of action. Capability refers to the ability of an agent to predict and effect

specific results of their actions.

In essence, then, an agent (according to Giddens) is basically an “intentional,

purposive and, on the whole, rational being who behaves according to what he/she knows or believes will be the outcome of his/her action. Intentional acts, however, often

produce consequences for which the agent had not originally accounted. These

unintended consequences in turn become for the agent the unacknowledged conditions of

future actions” (Loyal 2003:56). The difficult aspect comes in balancing the ability of

the actor to choose against his/her own ontological security and the recognition that actors rarely do any such thing, particularly when faced with strong sanctions or heavy structural constraints. Giddens adopts a strong agent approach in explaining culture change; his approach requires “an actor capable of struggling against the status quo and its constituent routines” (Loyal 2003:69).

The question of how agents interact with structures in Giddens’ model requires discussion of the broader theory of structuration. Structure has a long history in sociology and anthropology and has been used variously by functionalists, Marxists and structuralists (Loyal 2003:71-2). For functionalists, structure typically referred to either

“law-like regularities which govern the behaviour of social facts, or … the aggregated patterning of social behaviour over time” (ibid). Marxists “tended to retain an

explanatory role for patterned social relationships” (ibid). Both of these definitions

tended to place structure as external to human agency and, indeed, serving as a constraint

upon it. Structuralism (Levi-Strauss), on the other hand, viewed structure as underlying 461

the surface manifestations of culture, taking the form of “abstract models in the form of binary oppositions and dual relations which lived in and through human beings” (ibid).

Giddens adopts yet another approach toward the term by collating it with language. For Giddens (1984:xxxi) structure can be defined as “rules and resources recursively implicated in social reproduction.” The core analogy between structure and

language was put forth in 1976, comparing “’speech’ (action and interaction) with

‘language’ (structure) the latter being an abstract ‘property’ of a community of speakers”

(1984:118). In this analogy, there are three basic distinctions between speech and

language. First, speech is located within a specific time and space while language is virtual and independent of a temporal context. Second, speech requires an active subject while language is subjectless. Third, “speech always potentially acknowledges the presence of another…language as a structure, on the other hand, is neither an intended

product of any one subject, nor oriented toward another” (ibid, p.119).

As structures are, in this model, virtual, their empirical manifestations take the shape of “social systems … constituted by social practices” (Giddens 1979:73).

Therefore, “[t]o study the Structuration of a social system is to study the ways in which

that system, via the application of general rules and resources, and in the context of

unintended outcomes, is produced and reproduced in interaction” (ibid, p.66). Or as

Loyal phrases it (2003:75), “Structuration refers to the dynamic process whereby

structures come into being and are reproduced recursively through social practices via the

duality of structure…Social systems, on the other hand, manifest themselves empirically

as regularised patterns of interaction constituting the effects of these generative rules and

resources.” 462

Using Giddens’ definition of structure, there are three major categories of structures (1979:82): signification, domination and legitimation. During interactions, agents may draw on all three categories through their corresponding modalities: interpretive scheme, facility and norm. Those modalities, in turn, enable specific forms of interactions: communication, power and sanction, respectively. Thus, the expression of power in an interaction requires accessing the structure of domination through the modality of facility. This seems to generate a fairly rigid typology of interactions and structures, but Giddens argues that the typology is merely an analytical device and that

“actual social practice combines all three elements in different ways” (Loyal 2003:76)

At a practical level, social domination in a hierarchical society requires the mobilization of authoritative and allocative resources. That mobilization enables the transformative capacity of command over other agents. Once created, this domination will tend to structure the material productions that support the symbolic order (Giddens

1984:29-33). The creation of social domination, however, takes place through discursive communication that results in the specific modes of (1) resource authorization – involving political institutions; (2) resource allocation – involving economic institutions; and (3) legitimation – involving the normative regulation of conduct (Giddens 1979:97-

101).

So how does all this play out in examining the processes of culture change? His clearest statements come in his Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism (1981;

1985) in discussions of the development of Capitalism and the rise of the Nation-State.

Giddens is philosophically opposed to all forms of evolutionary thinking in social theory

(Giddens 1981), being on the one hand opposed to “adaptation” at a societal level and on 463 the other seeing the adaptation of individuals as ineffective in transforming societies.

Therefore, Giddens argues for social change in terms of “episodic transitions”, “time- space edges”, and “contingent historical development” (ibid). Culture change takes place in episodes which, according to Giddens (1981:23), “refer to processes of social change that have definite direction and form, and in which definite structural transformations occur.” His central point being that such episodes are historically contingent and utterly lacking in a general dynamic or direction to social change (contra Marxist and earlier unilineal [or even multilineal] models). For Giddens, these shifts involve “the simultaneous existence of types of society in episodic transitions” (ibid, p. 23) rather than the succession of societies in sequences or stages. As one critic summarizes his model

(Wright 1989:92) “Giddens thus envisions social change as a set of discontinuous, contingently determined, overlapping transitions which have no overall pattern or logic of development.” In other words, Giddens sees both the course and the outcome of changes to be subject to so many circumstantial variations that an historically contingent approach is the only valid one.

That is not to say, however, that Giddens is interested solely in “a chronologically organised narrative of historical events” (Cohen 1989:277). While appreciating the role of individual agents, in explaining large-scale cultural change, Giddens focuses more on the structural conditions of change. For Giddens, a conjunctural approach to change involves both “endogenous” and “exogenous” circumstances. Endogenous circumstances most fundamentally involve structural contradictions (“inconsistencies in the institutional alignments of societal systems”[Cohen 1989:262]), while exogenous circumstances may include inter-societal systems (contacts with similar societies), time-space edges (contacts 464 with societies of different types), and world-time (focusing on the notion that “even apparently similar sequences of processes and events leading to change may have dissimilar implications and effects” [Cohen 1989:276]). “The influence of structural contradictions, the positioning of societies in intersocietal systems, and other structural circumstances, at one and the same time foster instabilities and tensions which provoke actors into the activities and projects through which change occurs, and establish a range of enablements (i.e. practical possibilities for change) as well as a range of constraints which together may not determine the course of change, but nevertheless shape that course to a significant extent” (Cohen 1989:277).

At a more basic level, these episodes of social change are brought on by dislocations in the routines that undermine the ontological security afforded by tradition.

In effect, “the process of continuous transformation that they represent” usually culminates in the “explosion of critical situations … a concept of crisis” (Gregory

1989:202). Such transformative episodes typically pass, and the society settles back down into a new mode, with new routines creating a sense of ontological security. No transformative episode, no matter how severe, removes all of the institutional forms and social systems present in the preceding period, so analysis of continuities is every bit as relevant as the examination of changes across such periods of episodic change. The relevance of such a model to the events occurring in the southern Maya lowlands at the end of the Classic period hardly needs to be pointed out.

Practice Theory – Bourdieu

Pierre Bourdieu is one of the pre-eminent minds in modern French sociology and his theories have been broadly utilized in sociology and anthropology, but his influence 465 has also spread into fields such as philosophy and womens’ studies. His writings range across many topics, but here we will concentrate solely on his theories concerning the nature of culture and the structures and processes that shape it, as well as the role of the individual within it.

Ultimately, Bourdieu’s theory of Practice has its roots in sociological field research undertaken in Algeria during its war of Independence in the late 1950’s. It was first formally presented in French in 1972, but not until 1977 was an expanded translation made available in English as Outline of a Theory of Practice. That theory has been further developed by Bourdieu in his later works, particularly The Logic of Practice

(1990 [1980]) and Practical Reason (1998[1994]). My discussion is limited largely to the latest formulation. Attempting to summarize a body of work spanning nearly 50 years is practically impossible, and interested readers are referred to any one of the numerous theoretical readers (e.g., Shusterman 1999, Fowler 2000) or the original texts

(in French, if you can manage it – I can’t).

Bourdieu himself (1998:vii) describes his approach as:

“a philosophy of action designated at times as dispositional which notes

the potentialities inscribed in the body of agents and in the structure of the

situations where they act or, more precisely, in the relations between them.

This philosophy is condensed in a small number of fundamental concepts

– habitus, field, capital – and its cornerstone is the two-way relationship

between objective structures (those of social fields) and incorporated

structures (those of the habitus).” 466

To try to simplify such a terse summary would be presumptuous in the extreme, yet it provides us with a useful jumping off point. First, we may note that Bourdieu clearly regards his theory as including individual agency, yet bound up within a variety of broader structures. As such, he is opposed to theoretical extremes at both ends of the structure-agency spectrum; it is rare, of course, that such extreme positions are expressly argued, yet reductionist tendencies recur frequently without a programmatic statement (sometimes in works nominally adopting a Practice theory approach). This acceptance of agency connects his approach in useful ways to that of Giddens, and, indeed, many researchers (e.g.,

Barrett 2001) conflate the two bodies of work within a larger rubric of agency theory. Depending on one’s purpose, this may or may not be valid and/or useful and I will address the linkages in some detail in describing my own synthetic approach toward culture change (see Synthetic Approach).

More immediately, the quote by Bourdieu identifies the fundamental concepts that serve to anchor his broader theoretical exposition. I devote the next section of this summary to providing definitions of those key concepts - habitus, field, and capital – as well as the distinction between objective, incorporated, and institutionalized structures.

The concept of habitus is perhaps both the most important and the most difficult to grasp. In one of its earliest formations (1977[1972]: 78), Bourdieu defines the term as “the durably installed generative principle of regulated improvisations.” In effect (ibid) it “produces practices which tend to reproduce the regularities immanent in the objective conditions of the production of their 467

generative principle, while adjusting to the demands inscribed as objective

potentialities in the situation, as defined by the cognitive and motivating

structures making up the habitus.” (This line should give one a sense of the

difficulties in reading Bourdieu and an appreciation of why there are so many available glosses. Admittedly, he addresses complicated issues, but his writing style can be legitimately called tortuous). In providing a more concrete example,

Bourdieu notes that “Habitus are generative principles of distinct and distinctive practices – what the worker eats, and especially the way he eats it, the sport he practices and the way he practices at it, his political opinions and the way he

expresses them are systematically different from the industrial owner’s

corresponding activities” (1998[1994]:8).

As I understand it, however, the habitus is, in essence, the set of

customary practices of an individual - their habits, as it were. These practices are both structured by the historical development of the society and the individual, and mediated by the exigencies of the present situation. They comprise the set of practices that the individual performs “without explicit reason or signifying intent

… It is because subjects do not, strictly speaking, know what they are doing that

what they do has more meaning than they know.” The acting out of these practices results in the reproduction of the habitus across time, and tends to homogenize the practices of closely interacting individuals into a form of “group or class habitus” (Bourdieu 1977[1972]: 80). The habitus has thus been referred to as “a ‘soft’ determinism … suggest[ing] that humans inter-generationally create the conditions in which they are conditioned” (Robbins 1991:171). 468

A closely associated notion is that of the practical sense, which is simply

“an acquired system of preferences, of principles of vision and division (what is

usually called taste), and also a system of durable cognitive structures (which are

essentially the product of the internalization of objective structures) and of

schemes of action which orient the perception of the situation and the appropriate

response” (Bourdieu 1998[1994]: 25). Bourdieu argues that the habitus is, in

effect, “this kind of practical sense for what is to be done in a given situation”

(ibid).

The clearest statement (though still not that clear) of the connection

between habitus and culture change to be found in Bourdieu’s corpus seems to be

this one (1977[1972]: 82):

“In short, the habitus, the product of history, produces individual and collective practices, and hence history, in accordance with the schemes engendered by history. The system of dispositions – a past which survives in the present and tends to perpetuate itself into the future by making itself present in practices structured according to its principles, an internal law relaying the continuous exercise of the law of external necessities (irreducible to immediate conjunctural constraints) – is the principle of the continuity and regularity which objectivism discerns in the social world without being able to give them a rational basis. And it is at the same time the principle of the transformations and regulated revolutions which neither the extrinsic and instantaneous determinisms of a mechanistic sociologism nor the purely internal but equally punctual determination of voluntarist or spontaneous subjectivism are capable of accounting for.”

The second of Bourdieu’s fundamental concepts is that of the field.

Confusingly, Bourdieu uses the same term to address two related and nested

concepts. At the most general level, a field is, as near as I can tell, simply the

social universe “where the universal is engendered” (Bourdieu 1998[1994]: 138). 469

In other words, the field is that social space wherein habitus and its resultant practices are carried out, a space shaped by the objectified history of the society

and entered into at the time of ones birth. Bourdieu states (1998[1994]: 32): “I

describe the global social space as a field, that is, both as a field of forces whose

necessity is imposed on agents who are engaged in it, and as a field of struggles

within which agents confront each other, with differentiated means and ends

according to their position in the structure of the field of forces, thus contributing

to conserving or transforming its structure.” W. Earle (1999:177) notes that

within that global social space “each person has a series of better or worse

addresses which constitute his/her social trajectory.”

The global social space is not, however, a single unitary field, but is

comprised of many overlapping and contesting subfields, which Bourdieu also

simply calls fields. Earle (1999:178) describes these subfields as “relatively

autonomous…highly differentiated social worlds within global social space.”

These smaller fields include, for instance, the social, economic, cultural (or educational), and political fields and, for Bourdieu, are inextricably linked with

issues of class; they include any social space, however, in which agents interact,

and Bourdieu notes that the family “still tends to function as a field, with its

physical, economic and, above all, symbolic power relations, …and its struggles

to hold on to and transform these power relations”(Bourdieu 1998[1994]:68-9).

These smaller fields are his primary area of focus, and he describes them as “a

network of objective relations … between positions – for example the position

corresponding to a genre like the novel.” Bourdieu has focused primarily on the 470

field of Academia (and particularly the French Academe), but others have

examined, for instance, fields like the “art world” (Danto 1999:216).

The “field of power”, explicitly distinct from the political field “is the space of the relations of force between the different kinds of capital or, more precisely, between the agents who possess a sufficient amount of one of the different kinds of capital to be in a position to dominate the corresponding field”

(Bourdieu 1998[1994]:34).

This brings us to capital, the third of Bourdieu’s fundamental concepts.

Though a Marxist in some fashion, Bourdieu prefers an expanded notion of capital, speaking not only of a basic dichotomy of economic and cultural capital, but also addressing finer distinctions, including academic, information, juridical, social and symbolic capitals (1998[1994]). Unlike the notion of fields, this concept is explicitly addressed in the earliest formulation (1977[1972]), and indeed has a much deeper intellectual heritage. Bourdieu defines capital as

“accumulated labor ... which when appropriated on a private, i.e., exclusive, basis by agents or groups of agents, enables them to appropriate social energy in the form of reified or living labor” (1986:241). By extension, therefore, we can assume that when Bourdieu uses “capital” he refers to a general Marxian notion of capital as a factor of production - goods (or for less concrete aspects, even concepts) that can be used in the production of other goods (or concepts).

Bourdieu argues for an inherently dichotomous set of capital structures that (at least, within complex Capitalist societies) “give access to positions of power, define the structure of social space, and govern the life chances and trajectories of 471

groups and individuals” (Wacquant 1996:x): economic capital (traditionally

Marxist in its conception, and therefore not reviewed here), and cultural capital.

As I understand it, cultural capital implies that ones cultural inheritance

(and specifically the aspects of culture imparted to an individual by rearing within a social class) can be translated into social resources (like wealth, power, and status) and expended within social institutions like the educational system. As such, cultural capital “represents the collection of non-economic forces such as family background, social class, varying investments in and commitments to education, different resources, etc. which influence academic success” (Hayes

1997).

Further discussion of the notion of cultural capital can also be utilized to clarify the distinction between incorporated, objectified and institutionalized states. Hayes (1997) writes:

“Bourdieu distinguishes three forms of cultural capital. The embodied state is directly linked to and incorporated within the individual and represents what they know and can do. Embodied capital can be increased by investing time into self-improvement in the form of learning. As embodied capital becomes integrated into the individual, it becomes a type of habitus and therefore cannot be transmitted instantaneously. The objectified state of cultural capital is represented by cultural goods, material objects such as books, paintings, instruments, or machines. They can be appropriated both materially with economic capital and symbolically via embodied capital. Finally, cultural capital in its institutionalized state provides academic credentials and qualifications that create a "certificate of cultural competence which confers on its holder a conventional, constant, legally guaranteed value with respect to power." (248) These academic qualifications can then be used as a rate of conversion between cultural and economic capital.”

It should be possible to play down the dichotomy of cultural and

economic capitals, and phrase the concepts in terms of the array of assets 472

that individual agents may possess or are able to employ, whether cultural or economic. In complementary fashion, there might be a similar accounting of liabilities for specific agents. This would highlight the distinctions between the two sorts of capital by emphasizing the ways in which the two may be only partially convertible, as well as identifying many of the possibilities open to an agent.

Earle (1999:178) provides a useful summary of Bourdieu’s theoretical framework and specifically his concept of social space (while simultaneously demonstrating that run-on sentences are contagious):

“More precisely, global social space (champ1) along with its circular definers, the various kinds of capital, PLUS the relatively autonomous (and in so- called advanced societies, at least) highly differentiated social worlds (champs2) within global social space PLUS habitus, an individual’s “second nature” which is entirely a consequence of locations within champ1 and some, typically only one, champ2 TOGETHER constitute the conceptual framework within which Bourdieu has worked.”

In an effort to tie all of these concepts together and make them useful to our discussions of culture change and Maya archaeology, let me recap. For

Bourdieu, culture change transpires through the actions of individual agents.

Such agents are largely constrained in their range of actions by the larger structures in which they have been incorporated. The fields in which all social actions transpire are structured by the historically generated preceding developments. These fields include both the broadly generalized field in which 473

every member of a society moves and more specialized fields pertaining to

specific subsets of society. Within the relevant fields, individual actors make the

bulk of their decisions in a largely subconscious sort of way, with individual acts

generally shaped by their habitus – a set of almost conditioned responses to

particular situations shaped by historical structures, the personal history of the

individual (and their socialization within a class), and the exigencies of the

situation. This can be modeled through the expenditure of capital, both economic

and cultural, with individuals typically trying to improve their situation vis-à-vis the rest of the society. Change within the society is, therefore, largely slow and accumulative, yet the theory is able to account for transformative events in regulated fashion. Most notably, change need not be intentional, desired, understood, or even recognized by individual members of the society to have broadly systemic effects.

POWER RELATIONS – DOMINANCE AND RESISTANCE

An emphasis on power relations is commonly utilized in examinations of social change among the Maya, particularly in Colonial contexts, so it behooves us to briefly examine such models here. They are not, in general, applied to explanations of culture change at earlier periods (except in pure Marxian approaches) and as such will not be emphasized here. Unlike the preceding models, or indeed the following models, there is no central theorist one can point to as the focus of debate, unless one cares to go all the

way back to the works of Karl Marx and his analyses of exploitation (though one could

argue for Foucault {e.g., Foucault 1975, 1984}). Given the broad awareness of Marxian

approaches within anthropology and the vast amount of frequently contradictory critical 474

analyses, I will restrict myself to only a brief thumbnail sketch of the deep theory.

Instead, I will perform a short survey of how the ideas are applied in historical archaeology in general and in the Maya area in particular. Special attention is paid to ways in which this theory may potentially be applied to the Classic-Postclassic transition

– something that has not, to my knowledge, been explicitly attempted.

Researchers in this school normally investigate processes of culture change in a very specific set of contexts: ones in which two or more groups are interacting within a significant power differential. Typically, studies focus on the strategies by which the more powerful (and usually smaller) group attempts to dominate the weaker (and generally numerically larger) group; importantly, they are equally interested in the strategies employed by the weaker group to resist the more powerful group. As such, this approach is predominant within a limited segment of archaeological research, and nearly nonexistent in other geographical and temporal zones. In the U.S., this approach is particularly common in historical archaeology beginning in the 1980’s, and is nearly uniformly used by researchers working on plantations (e.g., Orser 1989) and other slave- holding sites and by industrial archaeologists working at factories. In other parts of the

New World, it is primarily used at Colonial sites, and, in the Maya area at least, particularly at mission sites (e.g., Graham 1991, 1995, 1998; Simmons 1994) and haciendas (e.g., Alexander 1999).

In the Old World, similar models are much more broadly applied, ranging from studies of medieval feudal and guild systems (e.g., Steane 2001) to Neolithic systems in

Sweden (e.g., Tilley 1984) and continental Europe (e.g., Hodder 1984). The Old World approach to power relations is usually more strictly Marxist in its outlook (Miller et al. 475

1989) and focuses not only on the colonial experience, but also political economy, ideology and historical transformations. As such, it tends to be more strongly rooted in theoretical issues, and our discussion of theory necessarily draws heavily on European researchers (e.g., Miller et al. 1989). Such models are not dissimilar to those used by

Marxists in the U.S. (e.g., Leone and Potter 1999; Paynter and McGuire 1991).

Terms and definitions

There are three key terms to be defined here: Power, Dominance, and Resistance.

Conveniently, useful definitions have been provided in the Encyclopedia of Historical

Archaeology (Orser 2002), and these can serve as the basis for further expansion. The definitions of such wide reaching terms are, of course, subject to considerable debate and the definitions provided by Orser are rather vague.

As a case in point, we can begin with Orser’s definition of power (2002:448), where he states: “Historical archaeologists who have investigated power have tended to envision it as related to social inequality, where one person or group has ‘power over’ another person or group or where one person or group has the ‘power to’ cause something to happen. An individual may have the power to accomplish a task, but he or she may not have the power over others to force them to accomplish the task.” In this formulation, dominance and resistance are “the two sides of social power” (ibid). He also notes that “typically hierarchical capitalist societies … incorporate many dimensions of power related to socioeconomic class, racial categorization, gender and many other social variables” (ibid). These statements are quite general, and actually lack a formal definition of power. 476

A better, or at least more formal, discussion of power is provided by Miller and

Tilley (1984:5-8), who follow Marx and Weber, by way of Foucault (1977, 1980, 1981).

The distinction Orser noted between “power to” and “power over”, is here interpreted

somewhat differently: “By power to we refer to power as an integral and recursive

element in all aspects of social life. Power over, by contrast, can be specifically related

to forms of social control” (Miller and Tilley (1984:5). This distinction allows them (and

Foucault) to move away from traditional notions of power as purely repressive (as in

Weber’s [1947:152] definition of power as a person’s ability to impose his will upon

others despite resistance) and rooted ultimately in the economic sphere. It also

recognizes the productive aspects of social power, both in the production of knowledge

and non-material resources. They do, however, concede that power “is dialectically

related to resources, to operate it draws on these resources and in turn reproduces them”

(Miller and Tilley 1984:8). In that sense, power allows agents to affect the conditions of their existence and, more specifically, the outcomes of particular situations within identifiable social and material contexts.

Power can be found in specific institutions but is not located within them; it is never possessed by individuals or institutions, but is exercised by them. As Miller and

Tilley (1984:6) describe power (Foucault sensu strictu): “All individuals and groups exercise power and are subject to its exercise …Power comes from ‘below’ rather than

‘on top’ (state power) and forms a general matrix for social life. Where there is power there is also resistance or a plurality of resistances.” Miller and Tilley differ from

Foucault in locating agency with individuals and by postulating cases wherein there is no resistance to the exercise of power. 477

Jamieson (2000:15), on the other hand, while having a congruent understanding

has a somewhat different focus, arguing that “[p]ower is exercised through the

reproduction of the material world and through social relations between people.” He also

makes the point that “[a]rchaeologists … have traditionally made the error of restricting

their discussion of power to formal institutions and particularly to ‘the state’ [Paynter and

McGuire 1991:6-7]. This characterization is particularly evident in the work of Spanish

colonial archaeologists, in their assumption that Spanish colonial ideology was

necessarily tied to things that were associated with Spain [Deagan 1983:266].”

Domination and resistance are rarely defined separately; rather, as Delle (Orser

2002:159) states, “Domination is one-half of a dialectic used to understand the material

residues of the negotiation of power – its antithesis is resistance.” In his conception,

“domination occurs when those agents within the system that control access to material

goods use their social position to deny other agents access to such goods” (ibid). He argues that domination may be expressed overtly through a variety of disciplinary techniques (including sumptuary laws, sanctioned violence, and confinement) or more subtly through ideologies that mask the inequitable nature of social relations. The concept of domination is clearly traceable back to Marx and Weber and was extended to precapitalist societies by Althusser’s “linkage of Marxism with structuralist thought”

(Miller et al. 1989:7). All three of those thinkers considered domination to be a key factor in the reproduction of capitalist social relations; Althusser differed mainly in regarding economics to be the key aspect of domination under capitalism, while political and ideological factors were involved in domination under earlier systems. Weber (1947) detailed two types of domination, one relying on authority (the power to command and 478 the duty to obey) and one that influences perceptions indirectly (e.g., through market forces).

Resistance “is intended to represent a series of social actions that can take various spatial and temporal forms” (Orser 2002:476) that are consciously undertaken in response to domination (or the attempt to dominate) by others. Under an Althusserian model of capitalism, resistance is often argued to be the result of alternative humanist ideologies that resist dominatory thought through an awareness of the inequalities inherent to the system (the Frankfurt school of critical theory). Resistance became important in archaeology, however, largely as a response to theories of acculturation that regarded the adoption of elements of colonizing cultures as inevitable and cast indigenous peoples in an implicitly passive role. This dichotomy between resistance and domination is slowly being acknowledged as overly dogmatic, with the continual interactions between groups even within a power gradient now being seen as much more complex and nuanced. As

Miller et al. (1989:16) summarize it: “On the whole, analyses of domination have tended to centre very much on macro-forms of social analysis and structural constraint. By contrast, discussion of resistance to domination tends to emphasize agency, and operates within a more limited overall field of analysis.” Of the deep theoretical writers on the topic, Bourdieu is perhaps most aware of the ways in which this sort of class struggle is an ongoing phenomenon, wherein each generation attempts to restructure the framework of power relations they function within.

Culture Change and Power Relations in Archaeology

The question of how this continual negotiation of change plays out archaeologically is one of critical interest to historical archaeologists, and particularly 479 those that study the lives of slaves or indigenous peoples under a colonial rule. Yet, the utility of this model is not restricted solely to instances of colonialism. Theoretically, at least, all hierarchical forms of social organization will entail the creation of a differential distribution of social power; that is, after all, one of the key characteristics of hierarchy – that some individuals have the social power to effect changes or to maintain the status quo.

In the New World, however, it is rare to find power relations used as a basis for analysis outside of historical archaeology. In the Maya area, in particular, this framework is used almost entirely in the context of mission archaeology, in attempts to explain the persistence of indigenous cultural traits (both material and non-material) in the face of persistent Spanish proselytization with substantial military support. Thus we find discussion of resistance to Spanish domination in the form of not only direct, military resistance (e.g., Simmons 1994; Jones 1998), but in subtler forms of retained ritual practices (e.g., Graham 1991, 1995, 1998), shifting settlement (e.g., Farriss 1984), and manipulation of structural divisions within the Spanish colonial system itself (e.g.,

Schroeder 1998: xvii)

The failure of Mayanists to explicitly utilize the framework of power relations at earlier periods (and particularly in the Classic period) is difficult to explain, except perhaps through the dearth of historical information relating to Maya commoners. The texts available on Classic period monuments provide a substantial amount of information pertaining to the ruling elite, but the epigraphic record is mute on the subject of the Maya peasantry. The closest approaches to themes of dominance, resistance and the negotiation of change in studies of the Classic period have been the occasional argument 480

(e.g., Thompson 1970) that elite demands on Maya peasants resulted in a class rebellion and subsequent collapse. This argument was generally undertheorized however, and little to no direct evidence was ever cited in support of it, though the point is still occasionally argued, both pro (e.g., Sabloff 1990:120) and con (Webster 1985). To some extent, ideas of power relations also run through the arguments postulating a failure of divine kingship

(see Appendix A – Failure of Divine Kings), wherein the commoners break free of the ideologically based dominance of their rulers. Again, the argument is never linked to a formal theoretical model of power relations, yet implicitly, the postulated struggle for social control ultimately lost by the Maya elite assumes resistance on the part of the commoners (or at least failure to maintain dominance by the elite).

It is worth noting that another presumed reason for the disuse of power relations theory in models of the Maya “Collapse” is that power relations are only useful in explaining a limited set of the processes involved in the Classic-Postclassic transition.

Power relations, as usually applied, have little to say about climate change or overpopulation; as a rule, in models assuming a major role for those processes, power relations are relatively moot, with their effects coming into play as epiphenomenal results of more basic problems. That is, as the agricultural system falls apart, those stresses drive wedges between the existing classes and outright conflict between them is a sign of the end, rather than a basic cause.

EVOLUTIONARY MODELS – DUNNELL AND OTHERS

An explicitly evolutionary and materialist approach toward cultural change in archaeology reemerged in the late 1970’s beginning with a series of articles by Robert

Dunnell in 1978 (1978a, 1978b, 1978c). This new interest in exploring an analogy 481

between Darwinian biological evolutionary models and cultural systems arose, as

Dunnell (2001:xiv) describes it, from intersecting interests in classification and seriation and was sparked by the contemporary debates over evolution in biology (specifically

Gould et al. 1977). These early papers advocated the application of Darwinian

evolutionary theory in order to explain variation in the archaeological record, particularly

within the material culture of human societies. The essential justification for expanding a

biological evolutionary model to archaeology is the “premise that behavior is an

important component of the phenotype … [f]urther extending these notions to the

archaeological record requires that some classes of artifacts be conceived as part of the

behavioral segment of the human phenotype” (Teltser 1995:5).

Over the ensuing 25 years, the theoretical basis of “evolutionary archaeology” (as

it has come to be known – also “selectionist”) has diversified, recognizing that analogy is

insufficient to the task; still, in its essential form, “[e]volutionary theory provides a

general model in which change is defined in terms of the differential persistence of

alternative traits through time” (Teltser 1995:5). There is a great deal of contention (both

within evolutionary archaeology and from without by a variety of critics) about various

theoretical points (or as some would have it, weaknesses). The most common points of

debate concern the mechanisms of transmission, the units and scale of selection, and the

sources of variation. We will address each of these issues in turn, since the bulk of

selectionist theoretical research is dedicated to exploring these topics.

In my general opinion, however, the better such models mimic real world

anthropological and archaeological systems, the farther they stray from a formal

Darwinian evolutionary model and the closer they come to approximating other, more 482

historical, models. Broadly defined, culture change is, inescapably, evolutionary and

analogs to Darwinian evolutionary forces can be used to describe the processes involved;

unfortunately, when one attempts to force the analogy to be highly specific, the model

begins to break down and requires substantial alteration (or sometimes pedantic evasion).

From an archaeological perspective, the advantage of selectionist models is their insistence on a rigid materialism, such that human agency can be effectively ignored and processes of change are modeled as acting directly on the material culture rather than the individuals who produced it. In my opinion, this is a shortsighted tack to take, and one that adopts a functionally reductionist approach to culture (I dislike most sociobiology for much the same reason). As a caveat, I should note that some selectionist researchers

(e.g., O’Brien and Holland 1990:198, 1995:183) explicitly attempt to dissociate themselves from “hard-core sociobiology” by conceding conscious choice to agents; yet, their claim to the middle ground between “sociobiology and …culture [as] an entirely extrasomatic means of adaptation” seems a bit disingenuous, since they fall considerably left of center, as it were, in the resulting theoretical spectrum. Complicating the issue, many nominal selectionists appear to have a poor grasp on the underlying theory

(O’Brien and Holland 1995:193), some of them ignoring individuals entirely. To me, at least, it seems fundamental that an understanding of human societies and the manners in which they change must involve humans in some way more meaningful than as carriers of material culture.

Transmission of traits

As noted earlier, selectionist theorists postulate that behavior is phenotypic and thus, it is acted upon by evolutionary forces (especially natural selection, but also drift, 483

migration and mutation). They accept that human behavior is, by and large, transmitted

through learning, and often mediated by symbols, and therefore requires a non-genetic mode of transmission. This vastly complicates the model, since not only does learning take place in a number of different ways and contexts, but involves a vastly greater (i.e., more than 2) number of individuals in the transmission and need not be intergenerational.

For Dunnell, the transmission of traits among humans clearly doesn’t mimic a

genetic system (Dawkins [1976]) but involves a substantially different system: cultural

transmission. “Individuals learn behaviors from their parents and unrelated conspecifics”

(Dunnell 1989:90). So do nonhuman species, albeit to a lesser extent. In general,

Dunnell follows Boyd and Richerson (1985) in recognizing a role of both biological and

cultural transmission, with cultural transmission occurring vertically, horizontally, and

obliquely between members of specific generations. He advocates the use of

generational modeling; in effect, this enables him to ignore the distinction between

intergenerational and intragenerational cultural transmission, side-stepping the whole

Darwinian vs. Lamarckian inheritance issue. For him, culture (sensu Kroeber and

Kluckhohn 1952) is defined by its role in the transmission of traits by learning. As such,

“’cultural phenomena’ can be specifically interpreted as those elements of the human

phenotype that are generated by this kind of transmission process” (Dunnell 1989:91-92)

More central to his theoretical interests, the transmission and spread of functional

traits in material culture are seen as the result of natural selection, while the patterning of

purely stylistic traits is explainable solely through drift. This, of course, necessitates very

specific definitions of style, requiring it to lack any sort of function; this has been a

perennial source of confusion and failure to communicate since many prior definitions of 484

style existed and were incompatible with this usage. O’Brien and Holland (1990:191)

actually recommend replacing the term style with nonfunctional to clarify this problem.

Archaeologically, therefore, for Dunnell, “functional forms would covary directly with

variation in the selective environment, whether arrayed spatially … or temporally”

(O’Brien and Lyman 2000:267).

O’Brien and Lyman (2000:406) take a somewhat different approach, defining

transmission as simply the “movement of information, whether genes or cultural ideas,

from one organism to another.” It produces inheritance and, thereby, heritable continuity

resulting in an “unbroken sequential ordering of things along a temporal continuum”

(ibid:400). This, they argue, is often confused in archaeology with historical continuity,

where the sequential ordering of things is based on similarity and assumed to reflect the

passage of time. They are generally in agreement with Dunnell on the nature of such

transmission, defining it as persistence if occurring through time and diffusion if

occurring over space. As they state programmatically (2000:386): “Culture is the

superorganic … equivalent of genes. It is what is transmitted and also the means of transmission. More to the point, culture is the product of the interaction between human genotypes and their environment.”

Units and scales of variation

Evolutionary theory “requires units, things on which selection can act, things that vary, evolve, or are adapted” (Dunnell 1995:34). This is one of the points where the analogy with biology fails; there does not appear to be a single specific unit comparable to the gene within cultural systems, despite efforts at describing such a unit (e.g., the meme [Dawkins 1976, Hull 1982], the culturgen [Lumsden and Wilson 1981]). In 485

biology, the unit of evolution is generally taken as the individual and, by definition

(Lewontin 1970), for selection to operate on a unit, three criteria must be met - the unit

must be: a reproductive entity; a functional entity; and must respond in relation to the

conditions of selection. Similarly there is a great deal of discussion about the scale at

which evolutionary processes are acting, mirroring biological debates over individual and

group selection. Neff (2001) also raises the possibility of selection below the level of the individual (i.e., at the level of specific artifacts).

Dunnell takes great pains to point out the difference between theoretical and

empirical units, noting that “objects that belong to types are empirical, but the rules by

which they are associated as a type are supplied by the archaeologist (1995: 35). This

accommodates divergence in the material record as “a change in frequency of theoretical

types” (ibid). He insists that the “[a]pplication of evolutionary theory requires that units

be characterized in two dimensions, their empirical or nonempirical character and their

relation to the scale of processes or mechanisms employed in variation” (ibid:36).

Dunnell is hopeful that meaningfully quantifiable units can be identified, and feels that

the formation process research currently ongoing (e.g., Schiffer 1987) is moving in the

right direction. I am rather less sanguine about the possibility. In practice, selectionist

researchers typically utilize archaeologically defined (i.e., nonempirical) discrete

variants, usually functional (e.g., metal vs. stone axes) but occasionally stylistic (e.g.,

ceramic decorative motifs).

Dunnell is opposed to the notion of cultural processes operating uniformly or primarily on groups of people; rather, for him “the evolutionary individual in the human

lineage is …both the unit of reproduction and the functional entity throughout the vast 486 bulk of human history. Only with the appearance of centralized decision making, occupational differentiation, and nonkin-based organization is there evidence for a shift in the scale of the unit” (1995: 41). Thus, in simple societies evolution acts upon individual human beings, while in complex societies, it acts upon functionally differentiated groups of human beings. Identifying archaeological correlates of such functionally differentiated and interacting aggregates is problematic. In some cases, the scale of units fitting the description may be equivalent to households or even entire archaeological cultures. Interestingly, in this conception, “many of the features of the

‘rise of civilization’…as well as its periodic ‘collapses’ … can be readily understood in terms of changes in the scale of selection” (ibid: 41). I would argue that this distinction is, at best, overly simplistic and, in fact, is quite likely incorrect. Processes resulting in changes in material culture (what Dunnell would consider evolution) take place at a variety of scales.

O’Brien and Lyman (2000:240-242) take a somewhat different approach to the issue. Citing Hull (1980, 1981, 1982, 1988), they adopt “two basic sorts of units without specification of scale”, replicators and interactors. A replicator is “an entity that passes on its structure directly in replication” (Hull 1981:33) and an interactor is “an entity that directly interacts as a cohesive whole with its environment in such a way that replication is differential” (ibid). Thus, they separate specific criteria that define a unit subject to evolutionary forces (Lewontin 1970); this enables them to argue that replication and interaction may take place at different scales and involve wholly distinct units. For example, a specific type of projectile point may be specified as a replicator, while only specific traits of that point (for instance variant haft elements) may be regarded as 487 interactors (O’Brien and Lyman 2000:382). The distinction is, in part at least, defined by the difference between the selection of objects and the selection for properties (Sober

1984:100). At any rate, using these terms, as defined above, addresses (or at least, sidesteps) many of the problems inherent in specifying the scale at which evolutionary forces act; indeed, O’Brien and Lyman (2000:241) argue that, “[e]volution needs to be viewed as a hierarchical process”, presumably occurring at several scales simultaneously.

Effectively, they avoid the necessity of specifying a single unit upon which evolution acts by arguing that there are a multitude of units available at a variety of scales. This then, is yet another point where the analogy with biological systems is largely bypassed.

Archaeologically speaking, O’Brien and Lyman (2000:242) argue that

“[I]dentifying particular classes of artifacts as interactors, for example, allows us to hypothesize causes of natural selection [Wade and Kalisz 1990]. Identifying other classes as more reflective of replicators allows us to identify transmission pathways.” In this version, selection is defined as “a process in which the differential extinction and proliferation of interactors cause the differential perpetuation of the replicators that produce them” (Hull 1980:318). One final key term is needed in this formulation: the lineage. A lineage is defined as “an entity that changes indefinitely through time as a result of interaction and replication.” Following logically from that definition then, lineages of artifacts (normally defined through seriation) simultaneously track the effects of evolution on the creators/users of the objects.

Sources of variation

Researchers tend to ignore this aspect of the evolutionary model, since it brings them into the apparently unwelcome realm of human agency. As O’Brien and Lyman 488

(2000:267) state: “the unintended mistakes – Boyd and Richerson’s [1985] ‘transmission errors’ - … may well be a major source of variation in … evolutionary histories. To us,

the terms invention and innovation typically used by anthropologists and archaeologists

carry too much of a connotation of conscious, thoughtful, or anticipatory intent.” This is, after all, Darwinian evolution. Darwinian evolution is defined by undirected variation, or to be more precise “the processes governing transmission are formally and functionally unrelated to the processes governing the generation of new variation” (Rindos 1989:153).

In the opposing model, originally formulated by Lamarck, “a force of directed variation operates to produce forms that are adaptive to changing conditions, and these new forms arise preferentially during the origin and transmission of traits between generations”

(ibid).

Acceptance of human agency requires, at minimum, a Lamarckian form of

inheritance, and such an approach is adopted by some evolutionary archaeologists (see

Teltser 1995:6-7). Indeed, Dunnell himself (1989:39) does not completely rule out the

possibility noting that “Lamarckian evolution is not inherently unscientific; it is rejected

because current understanding of mechanisms renders it unparsimonious in relation to the

Darwinian model … Should a general mechanism for generating directed variation be

documented, Lamarckian evolution would become just as valuable to science as

Darwinism has proved to be.” It should also be noted that Darwinian inheritance doesn’t

deal well with intra-generational transmission; the ability of an individual to change

behavior rather than be selected against is, in its essence, Lamarckian.

In general, however, evolutionary archaeologists favor undirected variation (e.g.,

Rindos 1989) and this leaves them in the uncomfortable position of having to explain 489 away apparent instances of human agency as the epiphenomenal product of an ultimately undirected Darwinian process. From my perspective, this is unproductive; Rindos’ statement (1989:158) that “no culturally based method for creating appropriately directed variation … could have arisen by that process …[but] must have arisen by means of

Darwinian blind variation” is shortsighted. If we postulate, as Rindos seems to be doing, that a Darwinian process could produce a Lamarckian process, then logically, one would have to demonstrate why you couldn’t have both processes acting contemporaneously.

Rindos, of course, is actually arguing that apparently Lamarckian aspects are purely superficial and due to an underlying Darwinian system, but that is not truly demonstrated.

Again, this is one of those areas where analogies with biological models fail; there is no particular reason why both Lamarckian and Darwinian modes could not both be in use.

Indeed, if one clings to the evolutionary model, both are probably in play within cultural systems.

Insights of the evolutionary approach

While I am theoretically opposed to the generally reductionist materialist approach of the evolutionary archaeologists, their approach does have a few advantages to offer and in an effort to be open-minded, I try to survey them here (albeit in what selectionists would call a highly biased fashion). From a functional perspective, their focus on material culture and its transformations makes life easy for the field archaeologist, enabling one to ignore the role of individual human beings in their production and use. Since moving from artifacts to behaviors and from behaviors to broader social structures has been one of the traditional difficulties of archaeology, side- stepping the problem is at least half of the attraction evolutionary models hold for 490 archaeologists. Unfortunately, I regard this as a not particularly subtle theoretical trap, and one that cuts us off from much of what is interesting about archaeology as well as most of the important theoretical and historical issues. That said, their attention to detail in the documentation of their fieldwork is usually quite exemplary and they pay better than average attention to variation in the material culture, both geographically and temporally.

From a more theoretical perspective, there are a few aspects of selectionist theory that I find commendable. First, I respect their willingness to deal explicitly with the issues of scale and units of analysis, something that is all too lacking in most archaeological theory. Their interest in cultural traits and shifting frequencies of their expression also prevents them from falling into the error of reifying specific archaeological cultures. It has also led them to investigate the nature of cultural transmission processes in greater detail than most others. Selectionists also tend to a greater awareness of the artificial nature of archaeological categories, such as ceramic types and (try, at least, to) consider them as useful analytical constructs rather than demonstrably real emic categories. Additionally, they have a sound appreciation for the subtle transformations of material culture and tend to avoid overemphasizing discontinuities as radical break points in archaeological sequences. They also tend to avoid the worst teleological arguments about adaptation that, at times, have seemed quite endemic in anthropology and archaeology. 491

Appendix B: Theories of the Maya Collapse

A “Collapse” of the Classic Maya, both social and demographic, has been widely

assumed ever since Stephens and Catherwood (Stephens 1841, 1843) sent back

descriptions of abandoned cities reclaimed by the Central American jungles to a broad

public audience. Early models generally assumed a single cataclysmic event (varying in cause) at the break between what were traditionally called the Old and New Empires

(e.g., Gann 1926; Barrera Vasquez and Morley 1949). Only in recent decades (since the

1970’s really) have archaeologists come to realize the variable timing of the transition,

the wide variation in the degree of transformation and proximate causes of those transformations. In this section, I will review each of the hypothesized causes of the

“Collapse”, sorting them loosely by their attributed causes and chronological precedence.

Much of this section is based on the useful summary provided by Lowe (1985: 43-111)

NATURAL/CLIMATIC CAUSES

In this section, I address models that hypothesize a primate role of climate change or catastrophic natural events in the Classic to Postclassic transition. Of these, only extended periods of drought are still commonly put forward (e.g., Hodell et al. 1995) as important factors in the “Collapse.” Other catastrophes simply do not have the geographic range to account for the changes, nor is there any evidence supporting their importance. Nevertheless, in specific cases, they may have played a role as the proximate cause or trigger of abandonment.

Changes in Rainfall patterns

492

Interestingly, the earliest proponents of climatic shift as a prime mover in the

Maya “Collapse” argued for an increase in rainfall (Huntington 1913). In this conception, the boost in rainfall provided the northern lowlands with increased agricultural potential while in the south, the added rainfall flooded out some sites and caused the others to be overrun by luxuriant tropical growth. This had the advantage of explaining why the collapse occurred first and strongest along the southern margins while simultaneously accounting for growth in the north.

This rather simplistic model has been discredited by the discovery of a great deal of contradicting evidence. Most notable, of course, is the array of paleoclimatic data

(mostly paleolimnological) that suggests no increase in rainfall (or indeed any significant change in rainfall, at least in the southern lowlands). Additionally, as Lowe (1985:45) notes, it fails to account for continuing occupation in the swampy Chontalpa region, northern Belize and southern Quintana Roo. Also, the lack of occupation in bajos during the Classic period argues for a similar rainfall regime then as now.

More recent proponents of climatic shift as a motive for culture change (e.g.

Braswell et al. 2004; Hodell et al. 1995) argue the opposite case, claiming a series of

extended droughts resulted in the collapse of existing social systems. In these models,

periods of extended drought in the Late and Terminal Classic periods triggered the

transformations of the Terminal Classic period. These researchers, mostly paleoclimatologists attempting to connect their data with cultural events, have recently

begun to develop more nuanced models wherein climate change is only one of a number

of factors involved in the process. Early on, however, drought took pride of place in their

models, and some still deem it to be the key to understanding the transition. The most 493

recent version (Braswell et al. 2004) argues that a severe drought (brought on by global

cooling) during the Terminal Classic period (beginning in AD 750 and lasting

approximately 200 years) shifted the tropical/subtropical border southward. This, in turn,

caused a climatic shift for most sites in the southern Maya lowlands instigating regional

declines in many southern areas. They argue that northern sites were relatively unaffected by decreasing rainfall since they were already in a subtropical environment and remained so under the new environmental conditions; in fact, they suggest that rainfall may have increased in northern zones in the subsequent Early Postclassic as a side effect of global warming.

There are a number of difficulties with this model, however, and they are often ignored by the researchers making their case. Most notably, one should note that the studies supporting a period of less rainfall interspersed with droughts lasting several consecutive years derive from the northern lowlands. Undermining their case are two essential facts: first, the northern lowlands (normally receiving less rainfall than the southern lowlands) experienced population expansion during the proposed drought interval, and second, paleolimnological studies in the Petén and Petexbatún provide no supporting evidence for extended droughts or major drying periods at this time (Curtis et al. 1997). Additionally, it provides no suggestion as to why the southern lowlands were not repopulated during the apparently damp Early Postclassic (though floods are cited for the Rio Champoton region). Nevertheless, it seems reasonable that a severe drought

(particularly one lasting multiple years) may have triggered the final abandonment of some sites that were already experiencing difficulties. 494

Earthquakes

The suggestion that Classic Maya civilization was ended by earthquakes was

made only once (Mackie 1961) and was never well received. His theory was based

largely on the limited evidence of unrepaired earthquake damage at Xunantunich

(Benque Viejo) and while possibly explaining the abandonment of a couple of structures

is unlikely to explain the abandonment of the site, let alone to have affected the entire

southern Maya lowlands. The limestone plateau that underlies the bulk of the Maya

lowlands is not particularly prone to earthquakes, unlike the Guatemalan highlands

(whose population was unaffected); nor is there evidence anywhere in the world for

earthquakes causing depopulation across such a broad region.

Hurricanes

A pattern of increasing hurricane incidence has also been suggested in reference to the “Collapse” (Lowe 1985:45), though, the possibility is immediately dismissed as untenable. Hurricanes normally enter the region from the north or east and do nothing to explain the pattern of the collapse. As Lowe notes (ibid), in Quintana Roo there is a movement toward the coast at the end of the Late Classic, and indeed, Postclassic settlement in much of the Maya area tends to be focused on the coast, rather than at inland locations.

Volcanos

As with hurricanes, no serious attempt has been made to attribute the decline of

Classic Maya civilization to a volcanic eruption. That said, Puleston (1979) did argue for the eruption of Ilopango in the southern highlands as the initial catastrophe triggering his 495

“epistemological pathology” of cyclical declines according to traditional Maya prophetic

modes.

DEMOGRAPHIC CAUSES

This category of causes relies on stresses rooted in expanded human population

sizes and increased population densities. Most frequently, these take the form of pressure

on the carrying capacity of a region leading to a collapse of the agricultural system

through anthropogenic factors. This is still frequently cited, at least for specific sites

(especially Copán – e.g., Webster 2002), and is better attested than most. Nevertheless,

evidence for overpopulation is indirect, inferential and/or limited in most regions. The

evidence cited is usually either structural density on the landscape (e.g., Culbert and Rice

1990) or indications of deforestation and/or erosion from sediment cores (e.g., Hodell et

al. 1995). These forms of evidence are plagued by issues of contemporaneity and

population reconstruction issues on the one hand, and the need to generalize effects

beyond the frequently restricted area of the catchment basin under study on the other.

Overpopulation

Typically, researchers arguing for overpopulation as the trigger for the Maya

“Collapse” attribute it to a failure of the “environment’s carrying capacity due to population pressure in a swidden subsistence system” (Lowe 1985:46). There are a number of variations on this theme, but essentially it assumes that with increasing population density, the requirement of additional production results in reduced fallow times that, in turn, result in decreased yields per hectare, increased soil erosion, and increased invasion by grasses. This argument has been made since early in the last century (Cooke 1921) and is a perennially recurring favorite (Morley 1946; Sanders 496

1962, 1963). The invasion of grass species is generally less emphasized in recent iterations, since the indigenous grass species are not as invasive as in some Asian varieties and because the savannas of the Petén have been demonstrated to not have an anthropogenic history. Soil erosion, instead, has moved to the forefront (e.g., Sanders

1973; Rice 1978). Sanders, for instance, has argued that the most fertile soils in the region are also the ones most prone to erosion. The most recent, and best attested, of these models is that put forward for the Copán pocket (e.g., Webster 2002). In this model, increasing population densities led not only to shortened fallow periods, but increased deforestation and cropping of unsuitable hill slopes. This in turn eroded the poorer hill slope soils down into the more fertile alluvial pocket soils. In effect, the

situation was compounded by the topography; the hill slopes rapidly lost the limited

fertile topsoils they had possessed while the richer alluvial soils were, in places, covered

by the less fertile soils eroding from the hills. Combined with increasing populations and

decreasing per hectare yields, a demographic crisis was effectively unavoidable.

More intensive agricultural systems (e.g., agricultural terraces, raised/ridged fields) put forward by researchers in the 1970’s may have alleviated some of these problems (e.g., erosion) in some places but were of limited distribution and may have been insufficient, even where present, to prevent decreasing yields. Thus, even these more advanced systems may have been stressed by increasing population densities and, in fact, normally indicate the presence of population stress. At Caracol (Murtha 2002), for instance, the extensive agricultural terracing alleviated the problem of soil erosion and provided a more predictable environment, but did not increase productivity on a per unit 497 area basis. As a result, increasing populations required increasing the labor inputs of the agricultural system in a pattern of declining returns per unit of labor invested.

That said, demographic reconstructions of the Maya lowlands are extremely controversial and making the case for major population stresses is tricky at best. The

Late Classic (along with the Late Preclassic) was one of the maximal periods of human population density across the region affected by the “Collapse” and that if population density ever caused significant problems, this was the most likely time for those problems to manifest. There is evidence for such anthropogenic problems in a number of regions; in the Petén Lakes region, for instance, the paleolimnological studies have revealed a thick deposit of clay laid down during this period (e.g., D. Rice 1996a). The so-called

“Maya Clay” is generally argued to represent an period of deforestation and heavy soil erosion in the immediate lake basins, and thus is presumably the result of high population densities. Unfortunately, one cannot necessarily extrapolate this datum to regions outside of the immediate basin or even safely assume that the erosion was severe enough to affect crop yields. Others have argued that, in fact, entire shallow lakes were silted up and transformed into bajos eliminating their utility for human use (e.g., Cooke 1921;

Ricketson and Ricketson 1937; Harrison 1977). This particular argument, was refuted

(e.g., Cowgill and Hutchinson 1963b) but has since been revived anew (Dunning et al.

2002). In any event, soil erosion and crop failures cannot be used to explain the Collapse in its entirety; as Lowe (1985:48) notes, the northeast Petén, one of the most densely occupied regions of the southern lowlands, was among the latest to be affected by the

Classic to Postclassic transformation. 498

Epidemic disease

Epidemic disease has also occasionally been suggested (e.g., Shimkin 1973) as a contributor to the demographic collapse characterizing the Classic to Postclassic transition in a number of areas. In many areas, epidemic diseases have been a perennial concern in areas of dense human population (where an adequate disease reservoir is present). The primary difficulty in assuming a major role of disease in this transition is

(apart from the archaeological difficulty in identifying causes of mortality) the lack of good candidate diseases. As Lowe (1985:54) states “the vast majority of infectious diseases are of Old World origin: malaria, measles, mumps, smallpox, chicken pox, typhoid, typhus, cholera, and influenza, to name just a few of the most significant.”

There are reasons for this, relating to the longer history of humanity in the Old World, longer periods of dense occupation and the greater interaction with other animal species, but for our purposes the reasons are more or less irrelevant.

Diseases and parasites endemic to the New World can be debilitating and even fatal, but are not good candidates to drastically reduce population levels. Hookworm and roundworm infestations may have become chronic, debilitating problems as population densities rose, and the same is probably true of Chagas’ disease, dysentery and encephalitis. The hotly debated presence of syphilis is of interest, but that disease has never been shown to significantly reduce population levels. Yellow fever has epidemic potential, and seems to have been present prior to European contact (Shimkin 1973); however, an effective disease vector was lacking until the introduction of the Aedes aegypti mosquito, and the disease was most probably confined to individuals working in the tropical forest, rather than farmers. 499

Similarly, the population declines observed (or, more accurately, calculated) for

the Maya lowlands are inconsistent with single recurring epidemic organisms as are the

lack of population recoveries. Even catastrophic epidemics rarely exceed population

losses on the order of 25-40%. Greater demographic losses are noted for many parts of

the New World following European contact, but are explicitly noted to involve multiple recurring epidemics of several pathogens entering a completely unadapted populace

simultaneously undergoing social upheaval and suffering a great deal of nutritional stress.

As such, it represents a worst-case scenario that is not comparable to any plausible

scenario of the end of the Classic period. That is not to say that the chronic recurrence of

a number of parasites and pathogens would have been negligible. It is a sad reality that

during periods of social stress (such as chronic warfare, or forced migration following

agricultural failure) diseases like dysentery will carry off large numbers of small children,

the elderly and others with similarly weakened immune systems. Additionally, the move

into densely nucleated settlements is likely to have resulted in a greater parasite load and

an increased incidence of dysentery as local water sources serving greater numbers of

individuals became contaminated.

Female infanticide

Perhaps the most bizarre explanation put forward for the Collapse of Classic

Maya systems (Cowgill and Hutchinson 1963a) is the purely demographic suggestion of

large-scale female infanticide. This suggestion, based on the observation of a highly

unbalanced sex ration in births among some southern Maya lowlands groups, assumes

that the pattern could be extrapolated across the whole region and cast backwards in time

some 1100 years. The authors felt that the ratio might represent the traditional practice of 500 a kind of passive female infanticide, one that would probably be intensified if living standards dropped for some other reason. If the effects were severe enough, the population levels could be effectively reduced over the span of two or three generations.

This pattern, however, does not seem to be truly characteristic of the Maya (or indeed any other group, except in extremis) and a great deal of evidence would be required before this notion was given much credence (and such evidence does not appear to be forthcoming).

WARFARE

One frequently cited idea, better supported for some regions than others, is that warfare played a major role in the Classic to Postclassic transition. The frequency, intensity, character and spatial patterning of such conflicts are all open to debate. The evolving consensus postulates chronic rather than cataclysmic warfare, and limited spatial distributions, however, arguments over the character of warfare events and their significance within larger processes of decline and abandonment continue.

Internal revolt

In one set of models, most cogently that of Thompson (1954, 1966, 1970), the

Classic Maya collapse was triggered by internal revolution in a form of class warfare. In

Thompson’s conception, “collapse was triggered by (1) a growing gulf between the commoners and the aristocratic elite, (2) the increased demands of a growing elite class, and (3) perhaps ideological invasion of religious ideas from outside the Maya Lowlands undermining the position of the elite” (Lowe 1985:70). This model has its good points, accounting generally for the geographic and temporal patterning of the decline, moving from southwest gradually to the northeast. The progress of the overall decline was seen 501

as slow, but occurring rapidly at individual sites. Thompson suggested that Classic

centers were eventually abandoned but that the whole area was never fully depopulated.

In his view, class structure was poorly developed among the Maya and the major function of the aristocracy was “to support artisans and specialists and to redistribute scarce time,

but not to fill truly vital functions; thus the elite control was tenuous, relying on tradition

and religious ideology, not coercion” (Lowe 1985:71).

There are several real flaws with this model, however. Most severely, it is unable

to account for the degree of depopulation seen across the region. As Willey (1956)

noted, any plausible theory must be able to account for the disappearance of the peasants

as well as the elites. Historically, revolutions simply do not account for depopulation on

the scale seen in the Maya lowlands at this time. Other researchers have noted (e.g.,

Webster 1985) that the demands made on the peasants by the elite simply cannot have

been that onerous by current standards. That is not to say that disaffection could not have arisen as other stresses contributed to a very tight margin for the survival of households, but the tribute demands of the elites would be insufficient, in themselves, to trigger the collapse. Third, recent epigraphic and iconographic analyses (e.g., Martin and Grube

2000) suggest that the elites may well have had more coercive power and probably filled a more important role in the functioning of society than Thompson was ready to admit.

Martin and Grube (2000:19) argue for “a pervasive and enduring system of

‘overkingship’ that shaped almost every facet of the Classic landscape.” They suggest that the political expansion of an “overking’s” rule may have been sealed by oaths of loyalty or political marriages but in reality relied on military threats and the benefits provided to subject lords. Martin and Grube (2000:21) also argue that there was an 502

economic dimension integral to the system in the form of a series of tribute payments;

such payments are attested in the epigraphic record, but the extent or frequency of tribute

payment is unknown.

Intersite warfare

The notion that the collapse may have arisen as the result of warfare between

Classic Maya polities has been advocated on several occasions. Seldom, if ever, is it

argued that warfare is the sole cause of the decline, other than for specific sites. Rather,

warfare is the proximate cause for abandonment, but is generally seen as the natural

outgrowth of other processes, usually population pressure on resources (e.g., Lowe 1985)

or efforts to expand territorial claims (e.g., Cowgill 1979). It is often argued that,

towards the end of the Classic period, warfare takes on a new tone; instead of being a

highly formalized, nearly ritual, event, warfare takes on a more political and territorial

role (e.g., Rice and Rice 2004:130). Interpretations of warfare events in the epigraphic

record of the Classic period are quite variable, however, with some (e.g., Demarest 2004) seeing warfare even early in the Classic period as violent and not particularly formalized.

Generally speaking, researchers often consider the demonstrably intensifying occurrence of destructive warfare events in specific regions (e.g., the Petexbatún) to be the result of competition over resources in the face of increasing population demands. In this model, the depopulation of the region is not usually directly attributed to warfare

(despite evidence for at least occasional sacking of a major center – e.g., at Aguateca

[Inomata 1997, 2004]); rather, the warfare is symptomatic of an already collapsing system of subsistence production. Postulating intensive, chronic warfare additionally enables us to explain away one of the traditional difficulties of other models: how the 503 processes of decline and collapse were transmitted from one polity to another in a cascading pattern, as increasingly desperate attempts to gain needed resources spur violence and even the fleeing refugees increase the pressure on neighboring systems.

Cowgill (1979) argues the opposite case, that population growth was, in fact, driven by escalating warfare, rather than the reverse. He notes that in a number of analogous situations in other civilizations, a vacuum of power (in this case provided by the subsidence of central Mexican influence from Teotihuacan and Monte Alban) leads to increased competition for regional dominance. In such cases, leaders frequently encourage the expansion of population and subsistence production in order to maximize the resources at their disposal. The increase in population to provide military security may ironically have overstressed the agricultural system, while an increase in disruptive warfare might have disrupted the agricultural cycle through demands on labor or more directly through the destruction of crops or storage facilities.

Invasion

Foreign incursions into the Maya lowlands during the Terminal Classic period have long been one of the favorite explanations (e.g., Joyce 1914; Sabloff and Willey

1967; Adams 1971, 1973a, 1973b; Sabloff 1973) for the decline of Classic political systems. Many researchers have postulated that the fall of the Teotihuacan polity had rippling effects throughout Mesoamerica; that fall would have sent a ripple of migrations triggering a chain of political disasters including the Maya Collapse. Most researchers have backed away from this model in light of the recent redating of Teotihuacan’s decline. In current models (e.g., Culbert 1991:315-6), Teotihuacan contact with the lowland Maya is a primarily Early Classic phenomenon (late fourth and early fifth 504

century) ending well before the “Hiatus”, with the best evidence coming from sites in the

northeast Petén, and particularly Tikal.

Thompson’s (1970) Putun hypothesis has been the most cited model postulating

foreign intrusion. While Thompson didn’t feel that the Putun incursion triggered a broader political decline, others have been less reticent (e.g., Sabloff and Willey 1967).

These Putun are generally considered to have been a Maya people from the Tabasco

region, and Thompson regarded them to have a role analogous to the Macedonians in

Classical Greece. In his model, they took control over centers in the Pasión and

Petexbatún region as well as Cozumel and Chichén Itzá and were subsequently heavily influenced by Toltec influences in the later Terminal Classic period. Even this reformulation has been contested recently, with Schele and Mathews (1998:179), for instance, arguing that the first of the new monuments erected at Seibal around AD 800 states that the new dynasty was a transplant from in the eastern Petén.

This incursion has been argued to have triggered a broader political crisis (Sabloff and Willey 1967) but evidence for an effect outside of the cited areas is minimal. It is suggestive that the incursion into the Pasión and Petexbatún regions precedes the final collapse of those regions, but it provides no decent explanation for massive population decline and there is little evidence of extensive contacts with other Classic Maya centers by the new dynasty. In Lowe’s (1985:67) opinion, “Invasion probably was a contributing factor, and very likely there was a synergism between external pressure and internal chaos.” 505

IDEOLOGICAL CAUSES

The role of ideology in the decline and transformation of Classic Maya systems is a slippery topic to address. Suggestions along these lines are difficult to support since there is little consensus on what the cognitive representations of the Classic Maya actually were. This problem has been ameliorated to some extent by recent advances in epigraphy and iconographic studies (e.g., Martin and Grube 2000), but Maya ideology remains a contentious subject. These difficulties have often driven archaeologists to more materialist explanations of the transition to Postclassic forms and, while most would argue that ideology is more than epiphenomenal, they generally root the transformation of Maya society (and particularly the depopulation of the southern lowlands) in material constraints.

Failure of divine kings

One of the presumed characteristics of the decline of Classic Maya polities has always been a reduction in the importance of the Classic Ajaw. A variety of researchers

(e.g., Altschuler 1958; Webb 1964, 1973; Thompson 1966) have imputed a causal role to this failure of theocratic doctrine. The assumption seems to have been that “Classic

Maya states were little more than overdeveloped, theocratic chiefdoms, largely lacking powers of coercion, and depending mainly on religious belief to engender the support of the masses. Such social units would be decidedly fragile and could readily disintegrate if established beliefs should wane – if, for example, under recurring hardship, the credibility of the ideological bulwark of society were lost” (Lowe 1985:59). The two major flaws with this argument are: the assumption that social cohesion in Maya society 506 was utterly dependent on religion, and its failure to account for massive population decline.

Cyclical prophesies

Another perennial favorite (e.g., Puleston 1979) is the suggestion that Maya cyclical notions of time (as evidenced in the Books of Chilam Balam – Roys 1933,

Edmonson 1979, 1982, 1986) and their accompanying prophecies served to trigger ideological crises. The 256-year cycle (May) of Katunob inarguably served as a framework for indigenous conceptions of historical events and patterns. This is true not only for the Postclassic and Colonial Maya, but is supported by epigraphic readings of texts from the Classic period. It has been observed a number of times (e.g., Adams 1977) that political cohesion in the Maya lowlands lasted approximately 250 years at several major sites (though that pattern is hardly universal). Few (or possibly no) serious researchers would impute the Classic to Postclassic transition solely to Maya anticipations about prophecy. Rather, it is assumed that the expectation of catastrophe may have tended to be self-fulfilling. In Puleston’s model, that expectation triggers a downward positive feedback cycle, in which, as minor disasters intensified, the prediction of further woes became increasingly more believable. The difficulty with this model lies not with its likelihood; almost certainly, as the situation worsened it was interpreted with reference to the cyclical prophecies and it may even have influenced the timing of the transition. Unfortunately, it provides no real causal mechanism for the decline. It may 507

have provided a ready interpretation and intensified responses to actual problems, but

cannot, in Puleston’s model, provide the catastrophes.

That flaw, central to Lowe’s (1985) critique of the model, is largely accounted for

in the most recent version of this argument put forward by Prudence and Don Rice (2004:

134-139). In their model, the calendrical cycle of the Classic and Postclassic Maya

mapped directly onto the political organization of broad regions of the Maya area. First

suggested by Edmonson (1979; 1986:4-5), this model assumes that each 256-year May

was ritually seated in a particular center; the cycle seat (may k’u) was regarded as divine, and that honored role lent it political hegemony over a wide area. Within its realm, each katun was seated at a specific subordinate center that, in similar fashion, gained

substantial political authority for a 20-year period. Tikal, for instance, is argued to have

seated a May in AD 426 and again in AD 692 and half of each May is marked by regular

erection of commemorative stelae. Dos Pilas and Machaquila have similar patterns of

stelae erection. As the Rices note, “instead of being evidence of Tikal’s declines, these

intervals without monument erection were known and anticipated changes in politico-

ritual practice accompanying the co-rule and transfer of ‘power’ between one may seat

and another” (2004:136). The process by which the cycle seat was chosen remains

obscure. However the selection process worked, by the end of the Classic period (ca. AD

938) disagreements over which center would be the next may seat may have erupted, but

that is suggested as only one of several sources of political strife. The Rices argue for a

shift to a less theocratic and more secular system, though they argue for the seating of the

May continuing as an important aspect of Maya ritual and political life continuing into

the Colonial period (with may seats including Mayapán and Tayasal). In any event, of 508

course, not all sites declined or were abandoned in keeping with a 256-year or 128-year

cycle. Obviously, then, the katun prophecies were not the only thing driving this process.

ECONOMIC TRIGGERS

Economic triggers for the Maya collapse focus primarily on the failure of subsistence production systems. Models of that type have already been discussed, however, under the category of demographic triggers, because those failures are normally linked to increasing population stresses. There are, however, a few other proposed economic factors contributing to the transformation of Maya society at the end of the

Classic period. In general, Maya polities are assumed to have been more or less economically self-sufficient; though there was a brisk trade in many items, very few of them were indispensable to the basic functioning of society. This has limited the role of economic factors in explanations of the Maya Collapse to largely epiphenomenal effects, rather than causative roles.

Crop diseases

Akin to the effects of epidemic disease on human populations, it has been suggested (Bronson 1978:297) that a pathogen affecting a major food source (i.e., maize or beans) may have resulted in the collapse of local populations or even the depopulation of broad regions. This situation is presumably analogous to the introduction of the potato blight to Ireland in the latter half of the 19th century, where the impact on a single staple

crop resulted in widespread famine, death and emigration, as well as breakdowns in

several social systems. There is no evidence of any such disease, however; though

malnutrition does appear in the skeletal record at many Classic sites, it is normally

presumed to be a chronic, rather than catastrophic, problem. Similar to the case for 509

epidemic diseases in humans, there is no known extant organism/pathogen available as a

viable candidate for such widespread destruction.

Trade restriction

In one interesting, though Tikal-centric, model (Jones 1979, cited in Andrews

1983), a shift in long-distance, external trade networks has a causative role in the Classic

Collapse, at least at some sites. Jones argued that Tikal emerged in part due to its role as

a major trading center, managing the east-west river trade across the base of the Yucatan

peninsula. He attributes its decline to a shift toward maritime trade that bypassed the

Petén. Andrews additionally argues that Tikal served as a vital link in the overland north-

south trade as well. In this model, “when the long-range trade networks began bypassing

the core area, cities such as Tikal lost their middleman status and faced a serious economic dilemma. In fact it is impossible not to wonder if the core was able to acquire significant quantities of salt once the trade routes began shifting” (Andrews 1983:126).

This shift was, arguably, analogous to shifts in the trans-Saharan trade of the Middle

Ages. In any event, Andrews does not attempt to make the shift in trade routes a prime

factor in the decline of Classic southern centers; rather, he suggests “that the potential

effects of such a breakdown be included in the many ills that plagued the final decades of

southern lowland civilization” (1983:126).

Christopher Jones (1979) used an indirect approach toward economics during the

Classic to Postclassic transition, arguing that as the trade routes shifted away from the

Classic heartland, elites were no longer able to maintain access to the elite goods that

served as iconographic props to their divine status (or alternatively, were used to secure

the allegiance of key subordinates through redistribution). In this version, then, the 510 decline of traditional trading networks effectively undermined the ideological underpinnings of divine kingship and the social systems uniting Classic polities.

SYNTHETIC SYSTEMIC MODELS

Beginning in the late 1960’s (e.g., Bertalanffy 1968, Bateson 1972), models of the

Maya Collapse (and more generally societal declines and collapses worldwide) began to adopt an explicitly systemic approach, rather than seeking unicausal explanations. Many of the causes already discussed as suggested primate factors reappear in these later models, but in more textured, complex systemic explanations and typically in conjunction with several other processes.

Flannery (1972) – Hypercoherence

Flannery’s argument that the Maya Collapse may have been partially attributable to an overly integrated system of elite connections is one of the first to argue for a cascade effect wherein the fall of one polity may have instigated the collapse of adjacent systems. This model draws its basic support from an observed hexagonal lattice pattern of centers in the southern Maya lowlands. Hypercoherence essentially argues that the various subsystems (i.e., Maya polities) were too closely coupled, so that changes in one affected the others too rapidly and directly for the strain to be supportable. As Flannery notes (1972:421), “[t]his hexagonal lattice presumably created by the service role of the major sites is not in itself, pathological, but in the Late Classic the centers of each hexagon were linked by marriage alliances and the peripheral centers by military alliances, creating a still higher degree of integration, which may have been

‘hypercoherent’ in our terms.” The onset of the first World War seems like a possible analogy, where the larger European powers were drawn into conflict through a complex 511

set of interdependencies and alliances by the assassination of a relatively minor

nobleman.

The mathematical models of such systems are not terribly convincing, however;

Lowe (1985:81) notes that as the connectivity of large systems increases the probability of their stability plummets, yet instability does not mean collapse. Rather it will tend to increase the hierarchical aspects of the settlement grid; Lowe argues that the opposite

case seems to have been in effect during the Terminal Classic period, with smaller sites

growing at the expense of the largest ones. Lowe feels that this trend must be the result

of epidemic disease affecting larger, higher density populations or a breakdown in

commodity trade hurting those centers that were the least self-sufficient.

Culbert (1974) – Overshoot and Collapse

This model postulates a system where the exponential growth of the Maya population combined with a time lag in the stabilizing forces allowed the Classic Maya polities of the southern Lowlands to overshoot the point of long-term sustainability.

Once the correcting forces came into play, a violent contraction culminating in the Maya

Collapse was initiated. For Culbert, the limiting factor was the carrying capacity of the

region; rising Classic period populations outstripped the agricultural productive capacity

leading to degradation of the system and eventual Collapse. “Growth cycles reversed,

and the resource base was so badly overstrained that the cycle of decline for the Maya

could not be stopped short of the final resting point of near depopulation” (Culbert

1974:116). Culbert argues that the Maya outstripped their resource base in four essential

ways: farming capacity, organizational capacity, ability to distribute goods, and ability to

use manpower effectively (ibid). The basic difficulty with this model lies in the 512 documented pattern of the Collapse, with the first sites to enter decline being located on the outer margins in the areas with the richest agricultural zones and where population densities appear to have been lower than in the sites of the northern Petén (Lowe

1985:84).

Webb (1973) and Rathje (1973) – Trade Interaction Spheres and Core- Buffer Zones

Webb, like Christopher Jones, places the cause of the Maya Collapse in the economic sphere. For Webb, the development of a new trade interaction sphere during the Terminal Classic and Early Postclassic focused on largely maritime trade routes was accompanied by a shift from trade in ritual-ceremonial items to the “movement of large amounts of more secular luxury consumption goods and even of nonprestige items – such things as metals, honey, cacao, and salt” (1973:390). With that shift came a more basic reorientation of society from theocratic rule to secular, military rule. This led to the creation of secondary states and a decline in the original Petén heartland. As the secondary regions grew, they siphoned off adherents from the Classic centers, undermined the traditional theocratic systems, and disrupted the flow of prestige goods.

This, in turn, led to “a long process of relative economic impoverishment, social decay and gradual abandonment” (1973:402), sped up in some cases by outright invasion from secondary regions and internal conflicts. The adoption of this model requires a number of questionable assumptions about Classic Maya polities and their economic systems, however. The major stumbling block is its insistence that Classic Maya rulers had little coercive control and that social cohesion was dependent solely on adherence to a particular ideology, propped up by the extensive redistribution of imported prestige goods 513

and theocratic belief. Similarly, evidence for a qualitative shift in the nature of trade

items is poor.

Rathje adopted a similar approach to Webb. Rather than postulating secondary

states outside of the southern lowlands, Rathje argued for a core area and a buffer zone

within the southern lowlands themselves. The core zone selected for a complex sociopolitical system in the Early Classic out of the need for imported goods and

exported their cultural systems into the surrounding Buffer areas. Eventually, however,

the buffer zones outcompeted the core area that subsequently went into decline. The fall

of the core area and the trade routes serving it left the Buffer zone overextended and it

too went into decline. This model, however, seems to overestimate the dependence of the

Classic Maya on highland products, nor does it account for the observed pattern of the

Maya Collapse.

Hosler, Sabloff and Runge (1977) – elite demands and food production feedback loops

This model is based on the postulation of a feedback loop in which “decreasing

food production leads to decreased food per capita, and, in order to propitiate the gods,

the amount of ceremonialism is stepped up, drawing labor out of the agricultural sector,

further reducing the food production” (Lowe 1985:98). In other words, the elites attempt

at regulatory controls actually served to amplify the original problem. This model is not

very plausible in a number of ways, first it oversimplifies the unitary nature of the Classic

southern Maya lowlands. It also assumes that the error never becomes apparent to the

individuals involved, leading to depopulation through sheer ignorance. It seems likely

that at some point, if a lack of agricultural labor were the problem, that needed labor

would be siphoned back into the agricultural system. Even the authors admit the 514 likelihood that the loop, as described, is insufficient to explain the Collapse, but postulate that it served to weaken the overall system and increased its vulnerability to collapse.

Sharer (1977), Hamblin and Pitcher (1980) – revitalization and class conflict

Both of these models postulate an increase in chronic stresses culminating in major internal restructurings of society. For Sharer, that restructuring takes the form of revitalization movements. Once stresses (in the form of malnutrition, increasing demands of the elite sector, and a schism between elite and commoner belief systems) reached a critical level, the Maya first attempted to bolster the system through technological means by intensifying agricultural production. When that proved insufficient, the sociocultural response was to increase ceremonialism, exacerbating the problem, the nonelite sector of society embarked upon a revolution by way of a revitalization movement. Evidence of this movement is not immediately forthcoming however, nor does it take into account the widely varying nature and setting of individual

Maya polities. Neither does it explain the apparent failure to recover following the revolution, even on local bases.

Hamblin and Pitcher also see the Collapse as rooted in class conflict, though they postulate a much simpler model of outright peasant revolts. Their mathematical models appear to provide a reasonable fit for the data, but don’t possess much of a conceptual framework to explain the mathematical formulations. As Lowe (1985:109) puts it, “[n]ot only is the mathematical model … compatible with several completely different causal structures, but the monument data themselves are consistent with an entirely different mathematical model.” It is difficult, once stepping back to a consideration of real world systems, to understand how peasant revolutions so catastrophic as to reduce population 515

levels by 90% could spread and propagate across such a broad region over the span of

several centuries.

Willey and Shimkin (1971, 1973)

Probably the best of the early models, Willey and Shimkin argue that “the

structure of Late Classic ecology and society gave rise to a number of processes:

burgeoning elite demands, increasing class tension, increasing competition between

ceremonial centers, subsistence and health problems associated with rising population

density, and external pressures of both an economic and military kind” (Lowe 1985:110).

Taken together, these factors “exceeded the recuperative capacity of the Maya Lowland

sociocultural system, especially in its capacity of elite” (Willey and Shimkin 1973:491).

The major criticism to be made of the Willey and Shimkin model may be that it

is, in fact, too all-encompassing. In essence, Willey and Shimkin concede the effects of

almost every previously postulated model to have had some significance in the Maya

Collapse. Thus, almost any Mayanist with an interest in the Collapse can utilize the

Willey and Shimkin model, simply by seizing upon whichever aspect of the model seems

most apropos to their particular case or theoretical interest. Willey and Shimkin

themselves do not seem to emphasize any particular factor as either the likely trigger or

the primary underlying cause, choosing instead to focus on the Collapse as an instance of

an overload in the regulatory apparatus of the society (i.e., adopting a Control theory

perspective). Most of the better-received, later models take a similar tack toward the

“Collapse”, since complex models are required to account for the broad variation in the timing, pattern, apparent immediate cause and eventual effects of the Classic to

Postclassic transition. 516

Appendix C: Research Methodology

EXCAVATION METHODOLOGY

In accordance with established procedures in the region (e.g., Rice et al. 1996),

excavation methodology was structured to maximize horizontal exposures of the latest

occupation while maintaining rigorous contextual controls. This decision was in part

decided by the nature of the theoretical issues at question, but was also affected by a

desire to maintain comparability with preceding work by the Proyecto Maya-Colonial of

the 1990’s (tracing its own intellectual history back to work in the late 1970’s and early

1980’s).

The excavations were controlled by a 1 m X 1 m grid oriented toward the cardinal

directions, with each 1m X 1m unit labeled according to the coordinates of its northeast

corner. This grid was laid in as the first step following an initial clearing of the site

surface. The clearing process used machetes and rakes to remove undergrowth and leaf litter. Artifacts encountered during the clearing process were kept and assigned a surface

context lot number – typically one number per clearing operation and thus normally one

number per cluster – but leaf litter was not collected and screened, so that artifacts in

these lots are skewed toward larger artifact sizes.

The grid itself was laid in using a tripod-mounted Brunton transit and a 30 m tape.

Each cluster of structures has a separate grid, although efforts were made to make the

coordinate systems roughly appropriate. Thus, while the Operation 2 grid is not directly

tied to the Operation 1 grid, N150 E250 in Operation 2 is approximately 100 m north and

150 m east of N 50 E 100 in Operation 1. Given the steep slope and intervening heavy 517

undergrowth, this decision to have separate grids was made for logistical purposes and

the spatial relation between Clusters was made on a simple tape and compass method.

The grid itself was laid out with 3-inch nails marking the corners, with each nail marked

with surveyor’s tape and the grid number marked on every third nail.

The excavators hired were all chosen on the basis of prior experience with

archaeological excavation in the region, and several had worked on the Proyecto Maya-

Colonial. All excavation was undertaken using small hand tools, that is handpicks and

trowels. No larger picks or shovels were used at any point during the excavation process.

All soil removed during the course of excavations was dry-screened through a ¼” mesh and all recovered artifacts were bagged on a per lot basis. Soil samples were taken from

a number of special deposits (e.g., the cache, the chultun) for potential use in later

analyses. In the field, all artifacts encountered were preserved, and the smallest, non-

diagnostic ceramics were discarded only in the laboratory.

During the course of excavations, all stones representing the walls of the

structures were left in place in order to preserve their structural integrity. Because walls

typically conisted of one or two courses of unshaped stones, this was rarely a complicating factor in our excavations. As a result of extremely limited soil pedogenesis on the site (possibly associated with the steep terrain and periodic heavy rains), our excavations were undertaken primarily in only one or two levels (averaging about 6 or 7 cm in depth) and defined by natural layers in the soil. Elevations were taken for each unit at the beginning and end of each level. A single datum was used for each cluster of structures and elevations were taken in simple manner, using a line level, mason line and a hand tape. The first level was basically the organic humus layer, while the second layer 518

was somewhat less organic and immediately covered the living surface of the structures

in their latest occupations. In fact, in Operation 2, a single layer was all that separated the

Terminal Classic/Early Postclassic living surface from the ground surface. Specific features, ranging from the chultun in Operation 3 to the Preclassic cache in Operation 1,

were excavated in more appropriate and specialized ways to best maintain contextual data

and often by the graduate students rather than the excavators. In all three clusters,

multiple test pits were excavated in natural layers to substantially deeper (but still less

than 1m) levels in order to document the occupational history of the site; in most cases

this was sufficient to reach either Preclassic levels or bedrock. Soil characteristics were

noted at the time of excavation and included color measurements utilizing Munsell color

charts.

All excavated areas of the site were mapped in plan view at 1:20 scale

immediately upon completion of the excavations on each subcluster. Each test pit was

also mapped in at least one profile view. Additionally, elevational profiles were made of

several areas of the site in order to document both the relief of the individual structures

but also the slope of the immediate topography. Photographs were taken throughout the

course of the excavation process. Photos were most typically taken upon completion of

the excavations on a structure, but also whenever noteworthy features were identified.

Unfortunately, several rolls of the field photos could not be developed upon return to the

US as the result of mechanical problems with the camera.

At the behest of the landowners, all open excavations in a cluster were backfilled

prior to the initiation of excavations in the next cluster to prevent further damage to the

archaeological remains and to stabilize, as best as possible, the excavated structures. By 519

the end of the field season regrowth on the first cluster had already nearly reassumed its

initial character (it had been cleared as a garden only a few years earlier and subsequently

weeded).

DATA RECORDING METHODOLOGY

A number of steps were taken in order to assure that proper contextual data was

recorded for all aspects of the excavation process, usually with substantial redundancy

incorporated for additional confidence. Each lot was assigned an individual lot number,

recorded on the Lot Number Form (see Fig. 67). This form contains spaces for the lot

number, the associated structure number, the precise 1m X 1m unit under excavation, the

excavation level, the initials of the assigning individual and space for any additional

description required. Similar data were recorded on individual lot cards (see Fig. 68) that

were included within the bags for each individual lot at the time of excavation. These

cards included all of the above data, but also called for additional description of the

matrix and the location with respect to the structure. Each photograph taken was logged into the photo log (see Fig. 69), with all contextual data and a basic description of the subject included to prevent later confusion.

The primary record sheets for specific excavation units, however, were the Unit

Group Forms (see Fig. 70). These forms were intended to contain all the pertinent data for a group of up to nine (3m X 3m) units. The forms require not only a description of the component lots (excavation date, structure number, grid coordinates, excavation level, and soil matrix), but also recorded initial and closing elevations, a sketch of the units at the end of the level, and a map of the associated lot numbers. More importantly, they were the primary location for field descriptions of the exposed architecture and recovered 520 artifacts, typically enumerated on a lot by lot basis. These field counts and artifact sketches serve as a valuable backstop to the laboratory analysis and the basic field notes.

In a few specific cases, Feature Forms (see Fig. 71) were used in lieu of the Unit

Group Forms. The most notable example of this was the excavation of the chultun in

Operation 3, where the interior of the entire chultun was excavated in natural layers without subdividing it in accordance with the overall grid. These forms allow for greater freedom in excavating irregular features and provide expanded space for additional description. Additional forms had been prepared for the recovery of human remains, but in the event, were unnecessary because no such remains were encountered.

In conjunction with the formal paperwork I and my assisting graduate students made daily entries into our Field Notebooks. These notes included some of the specific data recorded on the forms, but in general were utilized to record more generalized descriptions of the progress of investigation and the current interpretation of recovered items and architectural features. They also provide some sense of the logistical constraints placed on the project and the reasoning behind the general course of the excavation process. 521

Figure 67: Sample Lot Number Form 522

Figure 68: Sample Lot Card 523

Figure 69: Sample Photo Log Form 524

Figure 70: Sample Unit Group Form

525

Figure 71: Sample Feature Form 526

DATA ANALYSIS METHODOLOGY

The analysis of our recovered artifacts began in the field, where informal

assessments were utilized in shaping our understanding of the site and directing our

choices for further excavation. More formal analysis took place in the laboratory provided by the Centro Universitario del Petén. Artifacts were washed in the field,

allowed to dry, and rebagged without ever being separated from their lot bags and

associated lot cards. Sensible as this seemed, it appears that by doing this in the field

more artifacts than I would prefer were lost, as shown by comparison of field artifact

counts and subsequent laboratory counts. This is particularly noticeable for the obsidian.

In any subsequent work, I will require certain artifact classes (particularly obsidian, bone

and shell) to be bagged separately from the other artifacts and will supervise any required

cleaning under more controlled circumstances. This is one of the places where the

original field counts are useful in at least partially mitigating technical errors.

At the end of the field season, all 1000 artifact lots were removed from the site

caretaker’s house and transported by boat and truck to the laboratory at CUDEP under the

supervision of an inspector from the Instituto de Antropologia e Historia. The individual

lots were each bagged separately and then grouped in larger bags according to their level

and 3mX3m group. Those larger bags were then grouped by structure and placed into

buckets for safety and ease of transport. The buckets were stored within a locked office

at the University and were made available for examination only to registered staff.

Laboratory analysis began with a thorough counting of the artifacts within each

lot and their separate rebagging by distinct artifact classes. It was at this time that the 527

smallest, non-diagnostic sherds were removed and discarded. This was considered a

requisite preliminary step and was completed over the course of about a week. The bulk

of analytical time expended was used in the analysis of the ceramic assemblage. All

sherds in each of the 1000 lots were examined by me under standardized conditions

(indoors beneath an electric light) and assigned to a specific type: variety where possible,

and recorded to whatever level of specificity was possible otherwise. In the end, every

sherd was assigned to one of approximately 80 categories for analytical purposes.

Assignments were made in consultation with the relevant reference texts, most usefully

the books for Macanché Island (Rice 1987a) and Seibal (Sabloff 1975), but also Barton

Ramie (Gifford 1976), Altar de Sacrificios (Adams 1971), Uaxactún (Smith 1955),

Tayasal (Chase 1983) and Mayapán (Smith 1971). In addition to a basic type: variety

analysis, a certain emphasis was placed on supplementary formal analysis. Special note

was taken of rimsherds, feet, net weights, worked sherds, spindle whorls, figurines, etc.

and measurements were taken for these categories. Most important was the work with

the rimsherds that involved assessing the rim diameter, as well as the ceramic type, and

attempting to characterize the vessel form. This was undertaken for every rim sherd in

the ceramic assemblage. For most of the other specialized ceramic categories, measurements were aimed at calculating the size and general shape of the piece; for

figurines, special attention was also paid toward recording descriptions of the personage

or animal depicted. Analysis at this level of detail took approximately a month.

Prudence Rice, a noted maya ceramacist, arrived for a several day visit near the end of

the analysis and kindly made a number of spot checks on completed lots and, in general, 528

improved the accuracy of the ceramic analysis. Any remaining errors in the ceramic

analysis are my own.

In concordance with the ceramic analysis, lithic analysis was entrusted to one of

the graduate students, Alejandro Toraya Zabala. Given the volume of lithics (over

62,000 pieces of chert) recovered, a piece by piece analysis was unfortunately untenable.

In order to obtain at least some useable data in timely fashion, all lithics recovered were run through a nested set of screens (with sizes of ¼”, ½”, 1” and 2”), yielding flake

counts for each of five size categories. Toraya Zabala was also requested to note all

formal tools (including likely preforms). While examination of all lots was untenable,

closer examination was performed on the three largest lots (each with over 1000 flakes)

to provide some limited data to serve as the basis for broader generalizations. This

analysis was largely limited to examining the frequency of primary flakes, secondary

flakes, tertiary flakes, shatter and formal tools in each size category in the vicinity of the

workshop on Strs. 3A and 3B. It was expected that these data would enable us to make at

least some preliminary characterization of the nature of production at this workshop.

All obsidian recovered was assigned through visual characterization (following

Braswell et al. 2000) to a specific source. The form of the obsidian fragment was

recorded (i.e., prismatic blade, point, core, flake) and measurements were taken of their

dimensions. In the case of prismatic blades (the most common form), the segment of the

blade recovered was noted (complete, proximal, distal, medial) and an assessment of use-

wear was made for each side (see chart). Notes on the visual characteristics of the

obsidian were also taken, primarily to bolster our assignment to a source, but also

potentially providing some insight into the aesthetic valuation of the item. 529

Each of the smaller artifact classes was also examined; these included shell, bone, ground stone, and even metal, plaster floor fragments and modern debris. Recovered shell was assessed first through a simple count of fragments. Then, fragments were assigned to a specific species and MNI counts were developed. The only other data noted were for the jute (Pachychilus spp.), where it was recorded whether or not the shell had the characteristic tip breaking indicative of human consumption patterns in the region.

Ground stone analysis was fairly basic and the assemblage was quite limited in size (22 pieces). Each ground stone fragment was measured for its dimensions, form

(mano vs. metate vs. maul/hammer stone), color, visible grain size, and the degree of polishing on the grinding surface.

No faunal expert was available to assist in the analysis of our faunal assemblage

(running to all of seven fragments), but tentative species identifications were made for each specimen. More accurately, each bone was described to whatever level of identification seemed plausible; thus, while a fish otolith or a turtle plastron could be identified, no species was assigned. For certain other fragments (e.g., the rib fragment of a quadrupedal animal), only a general size class was assigned (e.g., dog-sized). Each piece was identified to the type of bone and examined for evidence of burning. The bone fragments were also measured and a general description registered.

A variety of other artifacts was examined under the rubric of worked stone. This category includes everything from a fragment of a small polished stone cup and a segment of a polished pyrite mirror, to fragments of green and pink stone celts. The majority of these items belong to a class of luxury items and personal adornments, but also includes probable burnishing stones for ceramic production. Measurements were 530

taken of all three dimensions, estimates of the raw material were made, and notes about

the color of the stone taken.

The limited, probably non-modern, metal assemblage (2 pieces) was also examined. Each piece was measured in all three dimensions, the metal involved noted, and a general description registered.

Similarly, the fragments of plaster floor were measured in all three dimensions.

The glass was likewise measured, its color noted, examined for indications of use-wear,

and some general description registered. The final category was that of modern refuse

that was kept as an indication of recent disturbance. This was mostly small bits of plastic

and concrete from the nearby occupation and was documented solely by noting the

material involved and providing a brief description of the item involved.

At the end of the analysis, all artifacts were returned to their original lot bags,

restored in the buckets and placed into storage at the Centro Universitario del Petén. The

artifacts are available for further analysis, and are nominally available to the local

students as a study collection. 531

Appendix D: Revised Chronology of the Northern Lowlands

As noted in Chapter 1, the traditional chronology of the Northern Lowlands is currently being reassessed. The alternative dating being put forward is most clearly

presented by Andrews, Andrews and Castellanos (2003), and their arguments are

summarized here, along with an assessment of how they affect the interpretation of data

from San Jerónimo II.

In essence, their argument moves the collapse of Chichén Itzá from the middle of

the 13th century AD to the second half of the 11th century. For the authors, that makes the decline of Chichén Itzá and the Puuc centers merely the tail end of the broader Maya

“Collapse” in the Terminal Classic. The question then becomes, “What was happening in

the northern lowlands during the Early Postclassic?.” Andrews et al. (2003:152) present

three possible scenarios – evidence of late elite activity at Chichén Itzá is present but has

not yet been uncovered, there was an interregnum of 100-200 years before the rise of

Mayapán to power, or Mayapán and other Late Postclassic centers actually emerged prior to AD 1200. They argue for a combination of the latter two, with Mayapán arising possibly as early as AD 1050, but with a period of decline and a cessation of elite activities occurring between the fall of Chichén Itzá and the rise of Mayapán.

The data supporting this revision of the traditional chronology is based primarily on two categories of information – revised ceramic chronologies and their associated radiocarbon dates. The key aspect of the ceramic chronologies is the now dominant belief that the Cehpech ceramic complex (traditionally associated with the Puuc sites) and the Sotuta ceramic complex (affiliated with the Itzá) were partially or totally overlapping chronologically, rather than sequential. Evidence for this overlap is now widely 532

published (see Andrews et al. 2003 for a list of sources), but it now seems that diagnostic

types from both ceramic spheres were produced from at least AD 900 well into the 11th century. Taken in conjunction with new epigraphic information, these data indicate that

Puuc sites like reached their peaks by the early 10th century, then entered decline,

while dates at Chichén Itzá cease by AD 1000. Midpoints of calibrated radiocarbon dates range from AD 883-891 for the Sotuta sphere at Chichén Itzá, and from AD 968-1009 at

Balankanche. More tellingly, at the port site of Isla Cerritos, Sotuta ceramics range in date from AD 740 to 1075.

The rise of Mayapán is less clearly dated, and the major settlement may predate the traditional span of AD 1200 or 1250 to 1450. Andrews et al. (2003:153) note that the appearance of Hocaba pottery (i.e., Peto Cream Ware) at the end of the Chichén Itzá sequence argues that the gap between the fall of Chichén Itzá and the rise of Mayapán may be a relatively brief one (decades rather than centuries).

With regards to San Jerónimo II, the effects of this radical chronological reorganization are quite interesting. It places the major occupation of San Jerónimo II contemporaneous with the heyday of Chichén Itzá, and by inference, with the maximum extent and activity of the Epiclassic trading routes along the Gulf Coast. Thus, the presence of Pachuca obsidian and Tohil Plumbate ceramics at Operation 2, suggest that the residents of San Jerónimo were actively participating in that exchange network.

Amounts of those key items are very small, so we must be careful not to overemphasize their significance. Nevertheless, that contact may indicate the utilization or construction

of a shared Itzá identity (probably akin to the Postclassic Xiu or Cocom kinship

affiliations) to obtain prestige items and bolster the status distinctions within the site. 533

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MATTHEW D. ROCKMORE

108 N. Allegheny St., Apt. # 1 (814) 353-1983 Bellefonte PA, 16823 [email protected]

Education: Ph.D. in Anthropology – Pennsylvania State University Degree anticipated 12/06. M.A. in Anthropology - Southern Illinois University Degree awarded 8/98 B.S. in Physics with Anthropology Minor - Pennsylvania State University Degree awarded 5/93

Teaching: Instructor – Penn State University 5/05 – 6/05 Teaching Assistant – Penn State University 8/01-5/02, 1/01 – 5/01, 1/00 – 5/00, 8/00 – 12/00, 8/99 – 12/99; Southern Illinois University 1/97 - 5/97, 8/95 - 12/95

Field Experience: Project Director – 1/03-8/03 Project Staff – 7/02 –8/02 Archaeological Field / Lab Work - 5/97 - 7/97, 5/98 -7/98, 5/99 -7/99, 5/01-7/01 Field School - 6/96 - 7/96, 6/95 - 7/95

Museum/Research Experience: Graduate Assistant – Southern Illinois University 1/97 - 5/97, 8/96 - 12/96, 1/96 –5/96, 1/95 – 5/95

Awards: 2003 Weiss Fellow - Full tuition and stipend at PSU 1998 Weiss Fellow – Full tuition and stipend at PSU

Publications: 2004 “Book Review: Adventures in Photography: Expeditions of the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology by Alessandro Pezzati; Guide to the Mesoamerican Gallery at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology by Elin Danien”. Ethnohistory 51(1):201-202.

2004 “Investigaciones en las misiones coloniales de El Peten”. Proceedings of the XVII Simposio de Investigaciones Arqueológicas en Guatemala. In press.

2003 “Book Review: The Aztec Templo Mayor: A Visualization by Antonio Serrato- Combe”. Latin American Antiquity 14(4): 497-498.