mapping the political landscape: toward a gis analysis of environmental...

Mapping the Political Landscape: Toward a GISAnalysis of Environmental and Social Difference

Steve Kosiba & Andrew M. Bauer

Published online: 12 January 2012# Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2012

Abstract This paper employs geographic information systems (GIS) to analyze therelationship between environmental context and social inequality. Using recent ar-chaeological data from the political center of the Inka Empire (Cuzco, Peru), itinvestigates how material and spatial boundaries embed social differences withinthe environment at both local and regional scales. In doing so, the paper movesbeyond conventional archaeological GIS approaches that treat the environment as aunitary phenomenon. It develops a methodological and theoretical framework for theexamination of a political landscape—the distinct spaces and materials that differen-tially shape people’s social experience and perception of their environment.

Keywords GIS . Landscape . Inka . Social inequality

Introduction

Archaeologists have long focused on how ancient people’s perception and use of theenvironment influenced their social and economic organization. Geographic infor-mation systems (GIS) has recently become the principal analytical tool through whicharchaeologists examine human–environmental relationships (e.g., Aldenderfer andMaschner 1996; Arkush 2009; Bauer et al. 2004; Casana 2003; Casana and Cothren2008; Chapman 2006; Conolly and Lake 2006; Howey 2007; Kosiba 2011; Lake andWoodman 2003; Llobera 2003, 2007; Lock 2000; Spikens 2000; Wernke 2007;Wernke and Guerra Santander 2010; Williams and Nash 2006). In applying GIS,archaeologists have tested innovative hypotheses about human environmental inter-action, from phenomenological questions of how past social actors perceived the

J Archaeol Method Theory (2013) 20:61–101DOI 10.1007/s10816-011-9126-z

S. Kosiba (*)Department of Anthropology, University of Alabama, 19 ten Hoor Hall, 350 Marrs Spring Rd.,Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USAe-mail: [email protected]

A. M. BauerDepartment of Sociology and Anthropology, DePauw University, Greencastle, IN, USA

cultural meaning of particular places to political economic assessments of how pastsocieties managed specific resources.

Despite the expanded analytical perspective afforded by archaeological GIS research,many studies are rooted in theoretical assumptions about the environment that limit ourview of past social contexts. That is, archaeological GIS analyses often treat theenvironment as a singular, independent variable—an a priori setting for social action,or the root of cultural meanings and values. GIS analyses often assume commonal-ities among past social actors’ use, experience, and perception of the environment.Fewer archaeological studies concentrate on how people of different social stationsmay experience and perceive the same physical environment in remarkably distinctways (cf. Fitzjohn 2007; Kwan 2002). Consequently, GIS is rarely employed toexamine how the environment is itself a social and political product.

This paper explores GIS as a tool to examine how constructed environmentaldifferences—barriers, boundaries, and marked places—engender distinct spatial prac-tices and perceptions. By analyzing recent archaeological data from the politicalcenter of the Inka Empire (Cuzco, Peru), we introduce a GIS methodology thatassesses how power relations shape the environment, and by implication, actors’engagements with the land, particular places, and a broader social geography. Ourapproach defines the environment less as an independent phenomenon that comprisessystemic economic or cultural values, and more as a true landscape, a “geography ofdifference” that is subject to unpredictable variations, social erosions, and politicalfault lines (Harvey 1996). Considered as such, an environment is partly a politicalprocess, an ongoing project that is realized in the very spaces through which differentpeople perceive themselves and their world. In attending to these themes, we seek tocontribute to an ongoing dialogue about the application, epistemology, and theoreticalrelevance of GIS research in archaeology, and more generally (e.g., Bodenhamer etal. 2010; Conolly and Lake 2006; Kvamme 1992, 1999; van Leusen 2002; Wheatleyand Gillings 2000; Wright et al. 1997).

Contrasting Landscapes Within Archaeological GIS Analyses

Archaeological GIS studies employ sharply contrasting theoretical approaches tolandscapes and environments (see Anschuetz et al. 2001, Ashmore and Knapp1999, David and Thomas 2010; Smith 2003 for recent reviews of landscape archae-ology). Some archaeologists use GIS to examine systemic cultural adaptations tonatural climatic and geographic conditions, frequently framing landscapes or environ-ments as terrains of social or economic resources (e.g., Anderson and Gillam 2000;Jones 2006; Wescott and Brandon 2000). Others have applied GIS methodologiesthat concentrate instead on how societies assign cultural significance to their envi-ronment, treating landscape as a topography of meaning and memory (e.g., Chapman2003; Llobera 1996, 2001).

We term these approaches “econometric” and “interpretative,” respectively (seealso Wheatley 1993). In the following review, we suggest that, notwithstanding theirtheoretical variance, these approaches constrain our understanding of past human–environmental interaction in strikingly similar ways. Below we use the term “environ-ment” to refer to the physical—constructed, geological, and topographic—attributes of a

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given area. We employ the term “landscape” to refer to the mélange of places, practices,and concepts through which people experience and perceive their environment.

Econometric Approach

Econometric archaeological studies focus on how societies are organized around thedistribution of economic resources and land types. Such analyses often draw uponcultural ecological theories that view the social landscape as a systemic and econo-mizing response to a natural physical environment. The environment is examined at amacro-scale, and thus settlement patterns and site locations are often evaluatedrelative to general ecological, topographic or economic variables. These studiesgenerally describe humans as rational actors who optimize their livelihood by max-imizing socioeconomic “gains” and minimizing socioeconomic “costs.”

In many econometric GIS analyses, socioeconomic gains and costs are calculatedthrough consideration of the physical attributes of land and the energy capacity ofhuman or animal bodies. For instance, different kinds of “cost surface analyses” areoften used to identify the “optimal” path that people take from one place to another(e.g., Anderson and Gillam 2000; Gaffney and Stančič 1991; Harris 2000; vanLeusen 2002; White and Surface-Evans 2012; Whitley and Hicks 2003). In conduct-ing such analyses, researchers assign particular “cost values” to cells of a raster map(see Douglas 1994 for a non-archaeological rendering). Cost values typically refer tothe slope of terrain and cumulative distance between locations. A string of cost valuesconstitutes a cost distance. Cost distances are used to delineate pathways (Andersonand Gillam 2000), and/or estimate prehistoric territorial boundaries (e.g., Hare2004).1 The results of these analyses are based upon the premise that any humanactor within a given regional context would take the path that minimizes their energyexpenditure and transportation costs.

Similar theoretical premises often underpin GIS analyses of relationships betweensettlement patterns, site locations, and economic resources (Lock and Harris 2006).Archaeologists frequently use GIS to predict site locations relative to hydrology, soiltypes, vegetation, slope, and/or potential agricultural productivity (e.g., Brandt et al.1992; Duncan and Beckman 2000; Hunt 1992; Kohler et al. 2000; Mehrer andWescott 2006; Wescott and Brandon 2000). They identify relationships betweenregional site types and environmental variables by modeling catchment areas, eval-uating optimal-foraging behavior, and modeling prehistoric pathways (e.g., Limp1991; Madry and Rakos 1996; Saile 1997). Considering long-term environmentaldynamics, researchers employ cultural ecological perspectives, GIS, and relatedstatistical applications to understand relationships between key environmental andsocial variables, such as population pressure and agricultural productivity (e.g.,Murtha 2009; Varien et al. 2007). Some recent applications emphasize dialecticalhuman–environmental relations, especially anthropogenic contributions to environ-mental processes (e.g., Fisher 2005; Fisher and Feinman 2005).

1 Some GIS researchers have improved upon this approach and its strict econometric logic. They havegenerated novel multi-criteria cost surface analyses that consider how cultural choices, such as predilectionstoward avoiding landscape features like mortuary monuments, influence people’s movement through andexperience of the environment (Bell and Lock 2000; Howey 2007; Llobera 2000).

Mapping the Political Landscape 63

GIS viewshed analyses are used in econometric approaches to assess how thevisibility of environmental features might have benefited a social group by allowingpeople to better monitor game, supervise agricultural fields, and/or oversee importantspaces (Krist and Brown 1994; Madry and Crumley 1990; Lock and Harris 1996;Maschner 1996). Sites with larger viewsheds or lines-of-sight to other settlements areoften considered more defensible (e.g., Gaffney and Stančič 1991; Jones 2006). Inthese applications, site location is interpreted to be the product of a systemic decision-making process that seeks to best manage and/or monitor a local environment.

By delineating the contours of regional environments, econometric approachesoffer sound foundational evidence that may be tested with additional archaeologicaldata. Such approaches often provide crucial data for the investigation of regionalsettlement systems, land use practices, and historical ecology. Moreover, they areessential to the site location efforts of many cultural resource management projects.Nevertheless, anthropologists have critiqued these approaches on the grounds thattheir narrow economic focus provides only a faint rendering of the particular politicalagendas and cultural values that often underpin the production of societies and theirsettlement systems (e.g. Smith 2003). We add that the overall analytical utility ofthese applications is somewhat limited due to the highly generalized units of analysisthat they employ. Econometric GIS approaches conceptualize the environment as asingular entity reducible to economic values—a generalized “region” consisting ofdiscernable resources and “use-values.” They assume that researchers can quantifyand generalize the energy capacity of the human body, and classify human motiva-tions, regardless of cultural, historical, or political conditions (cf. van Leusen 2002).Furthermore, these analyses often take archaeological “sites” to be units of analysisand then produce a schematic macro-scale rendering of relationships between “sites”(often categorized by size alone) and regional resources. In so doing, the econometricapproach obscures the differences in spaces and practices that might have sociallydefined these sites and their inhabitants. Thus, when applied in GIS analyses withoutadditional archaeological data, econometric approaches frequently assume that allpeople within a region would have approached their environment in similar econo-mizing ways.

Interpretive Approach

In response to anthropological critiques of such economizing logics, numerousarchaeologists have employed interpretative or phenomenological approaches tounderstand the role of subjective cultural perception in human–environment interac-tion. These approaches are largely grounded in postmodern geographical theoriesand/or post-processual archaeological accounts that define landscape as a culturalsystem of meanings encoded within places and objects (e.g., Bender 1998; Feld andBasso 1996; Gosden 2001; Tilley 1994, 2004; Tuan 1989, 2000). They hold thatpeople affectively engage with their environment and reproduce cultural meaningsthrough their bodily experience and perception of places. Contrasting the objectiveand economizing gaze of the econometric approach, interpretative studies are typi-cally subject oriented, hermeneutic, and inductive.

Interpretive approaches in archaeology reflect a broader trend in the social sciencesand the humanities. Geographers have argued that the abstract and reductive land

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attributes of GIS analyses obscure local cultural understandings of the environmentand fail to capture how social differences and values shape people’s spatial percep-tions (e.g., Hanson 2002; Joly et al. 2009; McLafferty 2002; Rundstrom 1995). Suchresearchers advocate a more humanistic, locally oriented, and interpretative approachto social geography and history (see examples in Bodenhamer et al. 2010).

The vast majority of archaeological interpretative GIS analyses attempt to replicatepast sociocultural perceptions of the environment by modeling the visibility of placesand land attributes (Gaffney et al. 1996; Llobera 1996, 2000; Maschner 1996; Pollardand Gillings 1998; Ruggles and Medyckyj-Scott 1996; Wheatley 1993, 1995, 1996).For instance, in an often-cited early study, Fisher et al. (1997) documented howBronze Age cairns on the Isle of Mull (Scotland) consistently afford greater visibilityof the sea than other locales on the island. They interpreted these data as evidence thatthe ocean held particular cultural significance for the cairns’ producers (for similarinterpretations, see Cummings 2003; Cummings and Whittle 2003). Similarly,researchers frequently use GIS to examine how the intervisibility of sites and featuresundergirded local people’s perception of their social relation to other people andplaces and to their own past. Chapman (2003), for example, demonstrated visualrelationships among Neolithic monuments in the Great Wold Valley of England thatsuggest later monuments were deliberately constructed to provide visibility to earliermonuments, thereby creating an experiential and perceptual link to the past.

Archaeologists who apply an interpretative approach assert that the visual salienceof select environmental features proves instrumental in shaping broader systemiccultural perceptions and social values. Such interpretive GIS analyses thus providecrucial preliminary data that may be tested with more robust archaeological andethnohistorical information. However, archaeologists have outlined several theoreti-cal problems associated with interpretative and phenomenological approaches, pri-marily calling attention to how these theoretical perspectives cannot sufficientlyaccount for historical change or social agency within a given context (e.g., Brück2005). Moreover, researchers have emphasized the empirical and methodologicallimitations of the GIS techniques typically employed within interpretative studies,particularly visibility analysis (see Fontijn 2007; Lake and Woodman 2003; Llobera2007; Tschan et al. 2000; Wheatley and Gillings 2000). For instance, the data usedfor viewshed analyses are often too coarse to replicate human perception. Coarserdatasets (30–90-m resolution) can be sufficient for macro-scale analysis, but finerresolution data (1–15-m resolution) are necessary for more detailed studies (see alsoMadry and Rakos 1996; Ruggles and Medyckyj-Scott 1996). Viewshed analyses alsofrequently presume that ancient land had the same physical, topographic, or vegeta-tive attributes as those used for the construction of a digital elevation model (Lockand Harris 1996; Wheatley and Gillings 2000; cf. Tschan et al. 2000; Winterbottomand Long 2006). Also, many of these analyses presuppose that computationallyvisible raster cells “stood out,” thereby equating their digital visibility with theiractual visibility (see similar critique in Llobera 2007; Ogburn 2006).

We build upon these critiques by noting that interpretative GIS studies often takearchaeological “sites” (places and prominences) and their “region” to be basic units ofanalysis, therefore homogenizing a range of subjective experiences within and amongthe places considered. That is, the approach often assumes a general and systemiccultural relationship between the high visibility and the high significance of a place,


regardless of political and historical particularities. In so doing, interpretativeapproaches tend to study the cultural perception of environment at a systemic level,and do not take into account how power relations might work to fracture localperspectives of the environment. In consequence, subjective differences in experienceand perception are obscured by analyses that chiefly consider how a generalized“cultural subject” would have perceived the environment.

Political Landscapes Approach

Ultimately, both of the aforementioned theoretical approaches falter on the sameground. Econometric and interpretative approaches alike generalize human behaviorby assuming that people in a given region would have (economically or culturally)valued an environment in the same systemic ways, regardless of differences insubjectivity, political agenda, or social station. Econometric studies generalize be-havior by reducing human engagement with the environment to either homogenousenergy expenditure or abstract economic calculations of utility. In this model, humansocial actions are conditioned by a rational assessment of how the environment maybe used or traversed in ways that maximize economic gains while limiting potentialcosts or risks. The interpretative approach generalizes behavior by reducing humanengagement with the environment to abstract and homogenous sensory perception. Inthis model, social actors’ engagement with the environment is largely driven bystructures of meaning that are deeply embedded within landforms and places. Bothapproaches empirically reify their generalizations by focusing on the “site” and the“region” as units of analysis. People, and the material differences that constitute asocial world, are lost within accounts that describe landscapes only in abstract,reductive terms of sites and regions.

The shortcomings of these approaches emphasize the need for an alternativetheoretical foundation for GIS analyses, one that might better address the complicatedagent-based and historical questions often posed by contemporary archaeologists (fornovel solutions, see Howey 2007; Wernke 2007; Wernke and Guerra Santander2010). Indeed, archaeologists and social theorists have recently eschewed approachesthat treat space as a preexisting environmental backdrop, instead emphasizing howspace is continually defined and redefined to further accentuate the social boundariesthat underlie ideologies of political order (e.g., Alcock 2002; Harvey 1989, 1996;Kwan 2002; A. Smith 2003, 2004; M. Smith 2005). In an innovative study, Gold andGujar (2002) explore the ecological degradation of what was once a lushly forestedregion in Sawar, Rajasthan. They underscore how the intentional—political andhistorically dynamic—practices of deforestation redefined this environment andthereby created a new framework of mourning and loss through which people nowperceive their relationships to the past, social authorities, and the land itself. Here,politics is understood through conceptual boundaries of past/present and ideal/realthat are etched into the land. Also, in a sociological study of Los Angeles, Davis(1990) examines how deeply entrenched social boundaries throughout the citydispose urban dwellers and visitors to perceive and experience the same concreteand neon environment in remarkably different ways. Finally, Moore’s (1996a, b)analysis of space, power, and proxemics in ancient Peru illustrates how archaeologistsmight examine social and spatial differences by attending to the ways that public

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architecture bolsters a political ideology by directing and constraining people’sperception and movement (cf. Swenson 2006, 2007).

In recent research, archaeologists have sought to overcome the reductive con-straints of econometric and interpretive GIS approaches by examining the socialboundaries, barriers, and differences that constitute ancient landscapes (e.g., Bauer2011; Johansen 2011; Kosiba 2011; Lindsay 2011; Rizvi 2011; Wernke 2007).Wernke and Whitmore’s (2009) comprehensive statistical and GIS analysis of histor-ical, archaeological data, ethnographic, and environmental data reveals significantinter and intra-community social differences in household consumption, nutrition andland wealth during the early Colonial period in the Colca Valley, Peru. Moreover,Arkush (2005, 2009) employs GIS to examine how social and political boundarieswere defined and defended in the pre-Inka (Late Intermediate Period (LIP)) northernTiticaca Basin of Peru. Arkush’s (2009: 207–209) viewshed and line of sight analysisof LIP hilltop sites (pukaras) reveals how imperial Inka accounts of powerful,centralized polities (señorios) within this area do not accord with regional archaeo-logical evidence for a highly localized and politically fragmented landscape—ageography characterized by claims to locality and social difference (cf. Kosiba 2011).

These examples remind us that the cultural or political economic “regions” thatarchaeologists study are historically contingent, social, and political constructs. Infact, a “region” only obtains an appearance of territorial coherence through theinstantiation of clear social (and inherently spatial) boundaries—urban/rural, public/private, ceremonial/domestic (e.g., Alonso 1994; Kosiba 2010: 306–307). Suchboundaries are rooted in a geography of difference (Harvey 1996), a politicizedmaterial environment constituted by neatly defined and systematically demarcatedneighborhoods, work areas, public spaces, natural resources, elite properties andslums. Through the assembly of such a spatial and social order, a particular perspec-tive on environmental and social difference comes to appear as natural, shaping thepractices and places of everyday life. That is, often the political project is to design anenvironment in which overtly social categories and boundaries seem to be inherentproperties of places and spaces, and their organization. To understand a regionalenvironment, then, is to map a political landscape constituted by social categories andspatial boundaries that influence and guide how people perceive their surroundings.

Our case study exemplifies one way that archaeologists may employ GIS toinvestigate such a political landscape. Using recent archaeological data from the Inkacapital in Cuzco, Peru, we investigate how an Inka imperial territory was manifestedthrough the production of formal spaces designed to restrict movement and directperception, thereby cultivating in local people particular bodily dispositions andspatial practices constitutive of a definitively Inka model of social order. The exampledemonstrates how GIS might be used to uncover the social and physical differencesthat constituted past political landscapes.

Case Study: Spatial Practices Within the Inka Imperial Capital (Cuzco, Peru)

Throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Inkas built the largest empire inthe indigenous Americas (D’Altroy 2002). As with many expansionary states, Inkaimperial power was rooted in rigid class distinctions and strictly defined categories of


social difference (Patterson 1985, 1992; Silverblatt 1988). Indeed, Inka governancewas undergirded by a theocratic claim that cast the Inkas as divine caretakers of thesocial and natural world—the sole group possessing the otherworldly transformativepower to cultivate order throughout what was claimed to be an otherwise chaoticAndean landscape (Bauer 1996; Kolata 1996; Kosiba 2010; Ramírez 2005; Urton1999).

The Inkas sought to realize their vision of social order by sharply defining people,places, and things. Ethnohistorical sources reveal how Inka sumptuary laws andrestrictions encoded and marked imperial subjects and authorities. Inka elites worestriking hairstyles, earspools, and fine clothing that defined them as otherworldly anddivine personages (Acosta 1954 [1590]: 193; Betanzos 1968 [1551]: 48; Cobo 1990[1653]: 208; Murúa 1962–1964 [1590]: Bk. II, Ch. 3, pp. 34–35). Their resplendentlitters, boisterous processions, and elaborate seats (tianas) were meant to convey animpression of the highest authority within the Andes (Garcilaso 1965 [1605]: Bk. VI,Ch. 1; Guaman Poma 1980 [1615]: 422; Santillán 1968 [1563]: 108; see alsoCummins 1998: 109; Ramírez 2005: 166). Inka elite spaces were hallowed grounds.Whether the august royal enclosures of the Inka capital at Cuzco (e.g., Betanzos 1968[1551]: 49), or walled Inka estates and religious sites, access to elite and courtlyspaces was often restricted to the privileged, distinguished classes (see examples inBauer and Stanish 2001; Hyslop 1990; Kosiba 2010; Morris and Santillana 2007).

On the other side of the social scale, an Inka commoner’s life entailed sternlimitations and social boundaries. Inka subjects were often moved or restricted tospecific settlement enclaves and state farms (e.g., Cobo 1990 [1653]: 194, 196;D’Altroy 2001b: 216; DeMarrais 2001: 141; La Lone and La Lone 1987; Rowe1982; Wachtel 1982). They were distinguished by ‘typical’ practices and dress, bothof which conformed to a state-mandated, essential socio-ethnic identity (e.g., Cobo1990 [1653]: 196–197, 206; Garcilaso 1965 [1605]: Bk. I, Ch. 22; Las Casas 1939[1550]: 120). Their community’s lands were partitioned, categorized, and appropri-ated. Indeed, upon incorporating a region the Inkas redefined the socioeconomicresources of once-autonomous peoples by sharply delineating which lands andanimals were to be used by the local community and which were to be reserved forthe state and the imperial religion (e.g. Acosta 1954 [1590]: 195; Garcilaso 1965[1605]: Bk. V, Ch. 1; Polo de Ondegardo 1916 [1571]: 59–61; see also D’Altroy2001b: 214–215; La Lone and La Lone 1987: 48). The Inkas limited their subjects’possession of valued items, regulated their movement between areas, and relegatedtheir major ceremonies to select, state-controlled spaces (e.g. Las Casas 1939 [1550]:126; de Murúa 1962–1964 [1590]: Bk. II, Ch. 13, 62–63; see also Coben 2006;D’Altroy 1992, 1994; D’Altroy and Earle 1985; Hyslop 1984).

Archaeological research in the Cuzco region has focused on how the Inkas built anenvironment that supported and symbolized their power. Systematic surveys havedemonstrated that the Inkas first attempted to support their political economy andcontrol local populations by establishing an integrated settlement system overseen byselect elites within nested administrative sites (e.g., Bauer 2004; Covey 2006; Kosiba2010). More localized studies have revealed the symbolic power embedded withinthe towering edifices and intricately shaped environmental features of the Inkas’Cuzco region imperial heartland (e.g., Acuto 2005; McEwan and van de Guchte1992; Niles 1999). The growing body of research within the Cuzco region further

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enhances our knowledge of the general spaces and sites that exemplified andexpressed Inka power. Too often, though, archaeological studies infer politicalmeaning or function from site types alone: for example, large monuments andadministrative spaces are proposed to be the bedrock of an Inka social geography.But the privileging of such state spaces reveals only one side of Inka Cuzco. Ourintention is to complement previous studies by mapping the overall spatial organiza-tion of an Inka political landscape—the integrated network of spaces and boundariesthrough which both Inka subjects and authorities engaged with their environment andperceived their social roles relative to Inka power.

In this case study, we use GIS to examine how distinct kinds of Inka spaces andarchitectural forms engendered different social practices and perceptions within theOllantaytambo area—an essential part of Cuzco, the Inka capital (Fig. 1). Weconcentrate less on the political economic function or symbolic meaning of Inkabuildings, and more upon how Inka spaces themselves created material and socialboundaries that differentially shaped people’s social action, experience, and percep-tion. Data presented here are derived from an intensive multi-scalar archaeologicalsurvey and excavation project directed by Kosiba in the Ollantaytambo area (Wat’aArchaeological Project (WAP) 2005–2009). The WAP included: (1) a full-coveragepedestrian survey of a 200-km2 area near Cuzco that crosscuts several ecologicalzones and contains many archaeological sites that have been characterized as seats ofpre-Inka and Inka political authority (Kendall et al. 1992, Niles 1980; Rowe 1944),(2) mapping, intensive surface collections, and architectural studies at pre-Inka andInka sites, and (3) excavations at Wat’a, a pre-Inka village and shrine that wasconverted into an Inka fortress and ceremonial center (for a description of theproject’s methods, see Kosiba 2010: 40–56).

Our GIS analysis examines whether and how different kinds of Inka residentialbuildings—categorized according to degrees of architectural elaboration—corre-spond to different kinds of environmental contexts.2 We concentrate on residentialspaces because researchers have long established that quantitative and qualitativedifferences in Inka residential architecture are linked to socio-political status differ-ences (e.g., Kendall 1976, 1985; Niles 1980, 1987, 1999). Our study focuses on thestandard and ubiquitous rectangular Inka buildings that were often used as houses,while specifically excluding architectural types like elongated halls (kallankas),storage buildings (qolqas), and the administrative/ritual purpose buildings that oftenflank plaza areas. By using building types as units of analysis, we avoid treating“sites” as proxies for regional differences in social status or administrative function,and instead investigate whether and how certain environmental contexts worked todifferentiate social practices and positions.

2 We conduct a regional, synchronic study of architectural and environmental variation in the Ollantaytmboarea at the apex of Inka power (ca. 1400–1532 AD). Currently, we lack the chronological precision to studydiachronic processes that may have occurred during the Cuzco region Inka period. Yet excavations,regional surveys, and radiocarbon dates suggest that many Inka sites were continually occupied throughoutInka rule (e.g., Bauer 2004; Covey 2006; Dwyer 1971; Kendall 1985, 1996; Kosiba 2010; McEwan et al.2002). In this light, our study considers an accreted Inka landscape—the settlement patterns, monumentalenclosures, and grandiose elite estates that defined the Cuzco area on the eve of the Spanish invasion.


Macro-scale

The WAP survey data provide analytical entrée into the spatial and social organiza-tion of the Ollantaytambo area. The survey documented 187 Inka period sites (Fig. 2),arranged in localized clusters within the narrow valleys of the region. Roads andshrines link these settlement clusters, ultimately connecting them to Ollantaytambo, amassive and monumental Inka city (Kosiba 2010; Protzen 1991).

Several (39) of the Inka sites contain well-preserved Inka architecture, includingresidential structures bearing stylistic features and construction techniques that con-form to the Inka architectural canon (Table 1).3 To constitute our sample of residentialspaces, we established three architecture categories based on notable qualitative andstatistically significant quantitative differences in style, embellishment, materials, con-struction techniques, and by implication, estimated labor expended (see Table 2; Fig. 3).Due to differential preservation conditions of building walls throughout the sample,we estimated percentages of qualitative and stylistic features per building type.

Rank1 structures (R1) are standard buildings with very little elaboration. Some R1building interior walls (∼24%) contain small niches, but such buildings do not exhibit

Fig. 1 The northern aspect of the Cuzco region in which the WAP survey was situated. The dashed linecorresponds to the ∼200-km survey zone

3 Although there are certainly local variations and styles (see Morris and Thompson 1985), Inka buildingsare typically rectangular, stone, hip-roofed, stand-alone, one-room structures with a single door openingonto a patio space (see examples in Gasparini and Margolies 1980; Kendall 1976; Niles 1987). Residentialbuildings often exhibit only slight variations on this form. Elite residential structures are simply larger andstylistically embellished versions of archetypical commoner houses. The elite residential structures do notusually contain any additional internal spatial divisions, like interior rooms, hallways or receiving areas.

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any other stylistic features. The rear walls of R1 buildings are often flush with aterrace wall. Based on recent excavations and analyses conducted within these andsimilar buildings (Cuba Peña 2003, 2004; Kosiba 2010; Niles 1987), these structuresare probably commoner residential spaces. Rank2 structures (R2) are a bit larger,

Fig. 2 A map of Inka period settlement distribution throughout the Ollantaytambo area. The map illustratesInka site sizes relative to the percentage of surface-level-decorated serving vessels at each site while alsoshowing the location of Inka sites relative to potential maize production terrain (MPT). Sites smaller than0.5 ha were excluded from the map. Names correspond to the settlements mentioned throughout the article


Table 1 Archaeological sites included in the macro-scale GIS analysis. All coordinates correspond toUTM zone 18S

Name Number Elevation X Y Inka sv (%) Ha Plaza

K’anaqchimpa W-005 3,475 797907 8516984 11.5 0.4 0

Perolniyoq W-006 3,631 796624 8527025 73.8 8.0 1

Saratuhuaya W-015 3,487 800839 8518882 35.7 0.6 0

Pitukaylla W-01801 3,751 800383 8517302 0.0 2.0 0

Pitukaylla Alta W-01802 3,902 800383 8516940 0.0 1.8 0

Inkavilkana W-024 3,641 799876 8521296 5.8 2.5 1

Huamanmarka W-027 3,434 800584 8518126 46.7 1.5 1

Kiswarkunka W-030 3,526 798701 8520340 0.0 2.2 0

Wat’a W-041 3,886 797765 8522641 58.3 27.0 1

Sulkan W-043 3,497 798783 8526084 68.0 9.0 1

Raqaypahua W-045 3,367 799925 8522492 23.5 2.0 0

Cabracancha W-052 3,377 800759 8518530 36.4 1.2 0

P. Patawasi W-060 2,873 801006 8530684 65.9 1.0 0

Kantupata W-077 4,072 797187 8522242 0.0 0.8 0

Pachar W-097 2,886 801452 8530296 94.0 2.5 1

Chulluraqay W-100 2,841 798707 8531862 39.0 3.0 0

Quellorajay W-101 2,808 797683 8532170 79.0 1.2 0

Inkapintay W-105 2,830 797689 8532584 18.2 0.8 0

Simapukio W-11002 2,992 795027 8532142 34.6 4.0 0

Muyopata W-11301 3,025 794739 8532362 59.3 2.0 1

Anaqelqa W-119 3,082 798424 8533982 36.8 0.7 0

Choquebamba W-12002 3,478 798570 8534852 43.9 12.0 1

Hatun Poques W-122 3,580 799610 8535436 28.0 1.5 0

Pumamarka W-12401 3,424 800309 8535644 82.9 20.0 1

Muyupuqio W-131 3,490 793186 8531460 0.0 1.0 0

Pacpayoq W-135 3,071 793333 8532446 18.3 3.0 1

Sallaqaqa W-136 3,611 792970 8531290 43.2 3.0 0

Palpayoq W-137 2,986 793438 8532746 76.2 3.4 1

Rumira W-139 2,909 795149 8533620 63.0 0.1 0

Nawpa Colegio W-142 3,010 794650 8534142 70.0 4.0 1

Huayllapata W-14401 3,410 791956 8532556 7.1 6.5 0

Hatun Huay W-14402 3,409 791736 8532946 25.0 5.0 0

Llactallaqtayoq W-146 3,432 792396 8532330 65.0 7.0 1

Huaylluhuayoq W-149 3,097 792298 8533662 20.5 4.4 1

Chakipukio W-150 3,463 791835 8534130 30.0 2.2 0

Chusicasa W-155 3,751 791398 8532089 67.7 1.0 1

Markaqocha W-164 3,453 802715 8536452 44.9 4.2 1

Inkaperqa W-166 3,989 798531 8535390 20.0 4.0 0

Patawasi W-169 3,879 798492 8536036 0.0 0.2 0

Andenpata W-174 3,052 804143 8531522 55.2 0.1 0

Phiri W-175 3,041 803957 8531150 70.9 2.2 0

Markayphiri W-18001 3,190 791822 8537284 31.2 7.0 1

Ollantaytambo W-250 2,817 796289 8532792 60.3 43.7 1

72 Kosiba and Bauer

Tab

le2

Measurementsfrom

asampleof

144Inka

structures

intheOllantaytambo

area

Bldgtype

Num

ber

ILrang

eIL

mean

ILSD

IWrange

IWmean

IWSD

Ratio

mean

ISA

range

ISA

mean

ISA

SD

WW

mean

WW

rang

eDW

mean

DW

rang

e

R1

805.7–7.6

6.2

0.76

2.9–4.9

3.8

0.57

1/1.6

12.2–29.1

20.5

5.17

0.65

0.54–0.80

0.88

0.63–1.1

R2

406.2–9.8

7.8

1.03

2.9–4.8

3.8

0.81

1/1.9

20.9–40.2

29.7

7.55

0.82

0.66–0.90

1.05

0.72–1.6

R3

247.7–12

.69.6

1.96

3.4–7.8

6.1

1.82

1/1.4

32.1–85.7

53.7

17.2

1.24

0.96–1.8

1.82

1.4–2.5

ILinterior

length,ISAinternal

surfacearea,WW

wallwidth,DW

door

width


exhibit two or more kinds of stylistic embellishment, and are built upon raisedplatforms or terraces. R2 buildings frequently contain niches within their interiorwalls (∼58%), and quoins that make up their doorframes and exterior corners (∼90%).Some R2 building walls (∼43%) contain stretchers and fitted stone, but very few of theirwalls contain worked stone. It is evident that some of these buildings’ walls wereplastered. Excavations and surface collections in similar types of Cuzco area Inkabuildings have yielded materials that suggest that these are most likely elite residentialstructures (Cuba Peña 2003, 2004; Kosiba 2010). Rank3 (R3) structures are the largest

Fig. 3 The architectural types considered in this study include: largely unadorned and standard Inkacommoner houses that do not typically include shaped stones or quoins ((R1) top); houses featuring morethan two kinds of stylistic elaboration, such as the fitted quoins and niches pictured here ((R2) middle);massive structures that exhibit multiple forms of stylistic elaboration, such as the niches, fitted stone,worked masonry, stretchers (bottom right), and quoins pictured here ((R3) bottom)

74 Kosiba and Bauer

and most elaborate kind of Inka building. These structures typically contain three ormore kinds of stylistic embellishment. All R3 buildings contain niches and quoins,while a majority (∼79%) of the sample contains stretchers and fitted stone. R3 buildingsfrequently contain worked stone, and it is evident that some of these buildings werecovered in plaster and painted (typically red). Of the three architectural types, R3building walls often have a shorter length to width ratio (∼1:1.2). R3 structures alsosit on raised platforms or terraces. Excavations and analyses in comparable Inkabuildings suggest that these are elite residential structures and/or administrative build-ings (Covey 2006; Kendall 1996; Kosiba 2010; Niles 1987, 1999).

Our sample consists of 127 structures—three to five buildings selected from each ofthe 39 sites with preserved architecture. This sample is about 8% of the total number ofInka period buildings recorded within the WAP survey, an adequate representation ofvariability throughout the area. We employed a stratified random sampling technique.That is, we randomly chose structures from distinct strata (sectors or areas) within eachsite: higher and lower elevations, opposite sides, and/or discrete neighborhoods.Most ofthe sites are relatively small (<2 ha.), and the residential architecture is concentratedwithin a single zone. Thus, buildings within each site were most likely subject to similarsite formation processes, and it is probable that the particular, contingent, and localizedtaphonomic environment of each site would have affected building preservation, ratherthan regional environmental processes. Given these conditions, we expect the generalpatterns uncovered by the macro-scale study to reflect the intention of the Inka periodbuilders, rather than a bias resulting from differences in preservation or taphonomicprocesses. Further study of Inka architecture within the Cuzco area will greatly improveupon the foundational conclusions presented within this paper. Here, we comparearchitecture, surface collection data, environmental variables, and viewsheds of theseresidential architecture types. Our analysis identifies inter-site patterns for each archi-tectural type and intra-site differences within settlements that contain more than one ofthese architectural types.

We first tested overall relationships between the architectural categories and theirenvironmental setting, particularly their location near productive maize agricultural landand/or terraced maize fields. We expected R1 buildings to be situated in or near suchlands since ethnohistorical accounts and recent archaeological data suggest that maizeagricultural production and field maintenance practices largely defined the daily life ofcommoners (e.g., Bauer 2004: 95; Covey 2006; D’Altroy 1992, 2002: 266; Hastorf1993; Hastorf 2001: 170–172; Murra 1973, 1980 [1956]: 12–13). Using remotelysensed data (ASTER GDEM and ASTER multi-spectral), GIS, and field observa-tions, Kosiba (2010) characterized potential maize production terrain (MPT) as landthat adheres to the minimal biological requirements of dry farming maize cultivation,most generally: land with less than a twenty-percent slope located at an altitudeless than 3,500 m (see Gade 1975). MPT was also delineated based upon anexamination of ASTER images (extraction of areas with soils containing highgypsum content, areas lacking water sources, and areas with high degrees of erosion),as well as detailed field observations, including both the documentation of currentagricultural fields and informal interviews with contemporary farmers (see Kosiba2010, 2011).

The analysis revealed that buildings of different architectural types were situated atvarying distances to potential maize agricultural land. Reflecting a common trend in


Inka site location, most (72%) of our sample structures are only a short walkingdistance (500 m) from either MPT or terrace systems (Fig. 2). Yet contrary to ourexpectations, R1 structures tend to be situated at a greater distance from agriculturallands (>500 m) than R2 or R3 structures. In comparing the standard (R1; n063) andmore elaborate (R2–R3; n064) architectural styles, there is a significant difference indistance to agricultural land (t0−3.318; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level) anddistance to terrace systems (t0−3.841; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level). Moreelaborate structures (R2–R3) are often situated directly within MPT (for example,27.5% of R1 spaces, 58.8% of R2 spaces, and 51.7% of R3 spaces are situated withinMPT).4

This pattern is replicated in many settlements that contain one or more of thearchitectural types. Within the majority (10/15, 66.7%) of the sites that contain bothR1 and more elaborate architectural types, R2–R3 structures are more commonlysituated much closer to maize fields and terraces than R1 structures. For instance, atthe site of Markaqocha, immense R3 structures are positioned in maize fields, next toa stream, approximately 200 m below the densely packed R1 house structures of themain ridge-top town (Kosiba 2010: 167). Similarly, larger R2 structures are located atthe low margin of the Inka settlement at Paqpayoq, at the very edge of the maizeterraces that link the village to the valley floor. These data thus suggest that moreelaborate structures were often spatially connected to productive maize land whileless elaborate structures were often functionally situated between higher elevationpastoral land and lower elevation maize agricultural terrain.

In addition to these locational differences, we assessed whether spaces and materi-als for ceremonial practices are more frequently associated with the more elaboratearchitectural types. The Inkas staked claims to their authority and performed statelargesse by hosting theatrical feasts within plazas (e.g., Morris and Thompson 1985:89–91; Ramírez 2005: 212–213). Special materials, such as finely decorated Inkapolychrome serving vessels (plates and bowls) were essential components of thesefeasts (e.g., Bray 2000, 2003, 2009; D’Altroy 2001a). Given the importance of theseceremonies to the constitution of elite authority, we thus expected plaza spaces andpolychrome ceramics—and the ceremonial practices that they constituted—to besignificantly linked to the more elaborate architectural types.

Our analysis reveals a significant correlation between plaza spaces and R2–R3architectural categories (t0−8.526; df062 (equal variance not assumed); sig. at the0.001 alpha level). The surface collections uncovered higher densities of Inkapolychrome ceramic types associated with these more elaborate architectural catego-ries (t0−4.84; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level).5 Moreover, surface collections atthe sites that contained both R1 and more elaborate architectural types revealed

4 It is possible that some R1 buildings in MPT were demolished or eroded. However, the general regionaland intra-site patterns observed throughout the study clearly indicate that R2 and R3 were constructed inand near such landsMPT.5 Fieldworkers walked transects (spaced, 5–10 m apart) within different sectors (e.g., residential, mortuary,ceremonial, agricultural, and colluvial deposit) of these sites. They collected all surface-level material(undecorated sherds, body sherds, diagnostics, lithics, etc.) within approximately 1 m of their transect lines.Using natural breaks (jenks) in the data, the surface collection percentages were reclassified into low, low-medium, high-medium and high categories. The chi-square results for Inka polychrome high/low categoriesrelative to the two architectural categories (R1 and R2–R3) are: (χ2016.8; df01; sig at 0.001 alpha level),again showing that such materials and spaces are more commonly associated with more elaborate spaces.

76 Kosiba and Bauer

higher densities of Inka polychrome serving vessels in and around R2–R3 spaces, incomparison with R1 spaces. It is clear, then, that plazas and serving vessel sherds aremore commonly associated with the more elaborate residential structures.

However, plazas are also associated with many (46.3%) R1 structures. And morethan half (52.4%) of the R1 spaces also contain high percentages of Inka servingvessels. Thus, the data suggest that the different architectural types were largelydefined by differences in perhaps the scale or frequency but not necessarily typesof social practices.

These practices may have had different sociopolitical purposes depending on thekinds of spaces in which they were staged. We find that R3 buildings are morefrequently associated with architectural elements suggesting restricted entry—walls,platform entryways, single-access pathways or formal doorways. In contrast, few R2buildings and no R1 buildings are enclosed within walls, accessed through formallyrestrictive architecture, or entered through only a single pathway. In other words, themost elaborate buildings are often marked as exclusive and restricted-access spaces.This spatial exclusion may have heightened the social importance of events andactivities associated with these structures (see below).

Our viewshed analysis tested whether the architectural categories correspond todifferences in the visibility of surrounding spaces. Archaeologists have suggested thatInka administrative and ceremonial sites were positioned in places with greatervisibility, and hence social perception, of the environment—whether to controlresources and pathways, or to establish sight lines with mountain peaks, rock out-crops, lakes, and ancestral places (e.g., Acuto 2005). We thus expected the moreelaborate architectural spaces to have broader viewsheds of the surrounding terrain.

To calculate viewsheds we used a central point and an additional four pointslocated ∼20 m in each cardinal direction from the central point. Resultant viewshedsfrom these five points were combined to produce an estimated viewshed area for eachgiven residential space. In addition, we ran viewsheds from the 28 plazas andcompared them to the 127 sample spaces to gauge whether the plaza spaces werebuilt in areas that afforded heightened visibility of the surrounding environment.Viewsheds for the residential architecture spaces were also compared with viewshedsfrom a randomly selected background sample of 60 points. Altogether, the analysisconsidered 1,075 individual viewsheds and 215 combined viewsheds.

The analysis shows that broader overall viewsheds do not always correspond tomore elaborate architecture types or spaces (Table 3; Fig. 4). There is little differencein the viewshed area of residential spaces and plazas within the same sites, suggestingthat plazas were not situated in loci that maximized visibility of adjacent areas.Contrary to our expectations, R1 sites have significantly greater potential visibilityof their environs than the other two architecture categories (t03.009; df0125; sig. atthe 0.01 alpha level). Only the R1 spaces have broader viewsheds than our back-ground sample points (t02.899; df0121; sig at the 0.01 alpha level). There is not asignificant difference between the overall viewsheds of all (R1–R3) spaces and thebackground sample points (t01.737; df0185; sig. 0.084). There is not a significantdifference between the overall viewsheds of the background sample points and R2spaces (t0−0.297; df093; sig 0.767) or R3 spaces (t00.477; df087; sig. 0.634). Inshort, it does not seem as though the Inkas intentionally built their more elaboratestructures in areas that afford greater visibility of the surrounding environment.


Table 3 Results of the macro-scale viewshed analysis

Name Archtype VS (ha) APU MON VSALL VSIM

Anaqelqa 1 997.9 1 2 14 5

Anaqelqa 1 960.9 1 2 12 3

Andenpata 2 4,910.4 0 0 8 6

Andenpata 2 4,759.8 0 0 6 5

Andenpata 1 4,643.2 0 0 7 4

Andenpata 1 4,704.2 0 0 7 4

Cabracancha 2 559.8 0 0 11 6

Cabracancha 2 616.1 0 0 12 6

Cabracancha 1 740.7 0 0 12 6

Chakipukio 1 5,066.6 1 3 33 26

Chakipukio 1 5,059.3 1 3 28 21

Chakipukio 1 4,964.1 1 3 26 16

Choquebamba 2 2,597.2 1 2 26 11

Choquebamba 2 3,146.4 1 1 25 8

Choquebamba 2 2,039.0 1 0 8 4

Choquebamba 2 2,825.5 1 1 12 4

Chulluraqay 1 529.6 0 0 2 2



Chusicasa 3 8,093.9 3 2 34 7

Chusicasa 3 7,604.7 3 2 30 5

Chusicasa 3 6,722.7 2 1 15 3

Hatun Huaylla 1 5,432.7 2 3 32 17

Hatun Huaylla 1 4,978.8 2 3 31 16

Hatun Huaylla 1 4,463.1 2 3 28 11

Hatun Poques 1 4,880.2 0 0 6 3

Hatun Poques 1 4,747.3 0 0 4 2

Huamanmarka 2 972.6 0 1 19 15

Huamanmarka 2 987.2 0 1 18 13

Huamanmarka 2 676.8 0 1 17 10

Huayllapata 1 5,417.6 2 3 26 9

Huayllapata 1 2,341.3 2 1 12 5

Huaylluhuayoq 2 3,230.1 1 3 30 22

Huaylluhuayoq 2 2,911.9 1 3 27 19

Huaylluhuayoq 2 3,711.2 1 3 29 19

Inkapintay 1 1,776.6 1 1 16 6

Inkaqvilkana 2 4,460.2 1 1 27 13

Inkaqvilkana 1 3,243.4 1 1 27 13

Inkaqvilkana 1 2,823.7 1 1 21 12

Inkaqvilkana 2 4,529.0 1 1 24 11

K’anaqchimpa 1 1,270.1 0 0 2 2

78 Kosiba and Bauer

Table 3 (continued)


K’anaqchimpa 1 1,626.4 0 0 2 2

Kantupata 1 8,738.6 0 0 10 4

Kantupata 1 10,140.8 0 0 11 4

Kiswarkunka 1 2,564.5 1 1 18 14

Kiswarkunka 1 2,224.2 1 1 15 12

Kiswarkunka 1 2,362.1 1 1 9 9

Llactallaqtayoq 1 6,547.6 2 3 36 11




Markaqocha 2 1,216.3 0 1 6 6

Markaqocha 1 1,206.0 0 1 9 6

Markaqocha 3 631.4 1 0 4 5

Markaqocha 3 568.4 1 0 5 5

Markaqocha 2 751.5 0 1 5 5

Markaqocha 3 1,170.4 1 0 6 5

Markaqocha 1 999.3 0 1 5 3

Markayphiri 2 3,544.8 1 0 18 7

Markayphiri 1 3,408.1 1 0 20 6

Markayphiri 2 3,267.9 1 0 16 5

Markayphiri 1 3,428.8 1 0 17 5

Muyopata 1 3,335.8 1 2 17 10

Muyopata 1 3,264.7 1 2 18 7

Muyupukio 1 5,158.4 1 2 35 22

Muyupuqio 1 5,395.7 1 2 46 21

Nawpa Colegio 1 2,408.9 1 2 28 24

Nawpa Colegio 1 2,464.4 1 1 27 22

Nawpa Colegio 3 2,389.0 1 1 26 20

Nawpa Colegio 3 2,268.9 1 1 22 17

Nawpa Colegio 3 2,431.9 1 1 27 16

Ollantaytambo 3 1,979.4 1 1 21 20

Ollantaytambo 3 1,970.5 1 2 18 13

Ollantaytambo 3 2,502.4 1 2 26 12

Ollantaytambo 3 3,344.7 1 1 20 10

Ollantaytambo 3 1,129.9 1 0 9 7

Ollantaytambo 3 1,552.8 1 1 18 6

P. Patawasi 3 653.8 0 0 2 2

P. Patawasi 2 636.3 0 0 2 2

P. Patawasi 3 628.9 0 0 3 2

P. Patawasi 2 592.7 0 0 3 2

P. Patawasi 2 2,007.6 0 0 4 1


Table 3 (continued)


Pachar 2 620.6 0 0 3 2

Pachar 2 691.5 0 0 2 1

Pacpayoq 2 3,129.6 1 2 24 12

Pacpayoq 1 3,021.8 1 3 22 11

Pacpayoq 2 2,807.6 1 1 23 11

Pacpayoq Alta 1 3,732.1 1 2 28 16

Pacpayoq Alta 1 3,815.4 1 2 25 14

Perolniyoq 3 1,211.6 1 0 9 5

Perolniyoq 3 850.1 1 0 6 4

Perolniyoq 3 814.6 1 0 5 3

Perolniyoq 3 773.6 1 0 3 2

Pitukaylla 1 4,113.5 1 1 26 14

Pitukaylla 1 3,341.3 1 1 20 12

Pitukaylla 1 2,540.4 1 1 21 11

Pitukaylla 1 3,556.6 1 1 19 10

Pumamarka 2 1,891.6 1 1 15 10

Pumamarka 3 1,647.7 1 0 10 9

Pumamarka 2 1,461.7 1 1 12 9

Pumamarka 2 1,823.4 1 1 14 9

Pumamarka 3 1,396.0 1 0 9 8

Pumamarka 3 1,521.1 1 0 10 8

Quellorajay 2 1,068.6 1 2 20 7

Quellorajay 2 1,116.3 1 2 14 6

Raqaypahua 1 2,465.3 1 1 20 14

Raqaypahua 1 2,453.1 1 1 20 13

Rumira 1 2,404.3 1 3 33 24

Rumira 1 2,381.9 1 3 32 22

Sallaqaqa 1 6,609.1 1 2 46 24

Sallaqaqa 1 6,152.7 1 2 42 22

Saratuhuaylla 1 1,897.7 0 1 17 18

Saratuhuaylla 1 1,059.4 0 1 16 16

Simapukio 1 3,012.2 1 2 22 12

Simapukio 1 2,917.4 0 2 23 12

Sulkan 2 2,463.7 0 1 21 14

Sulkan 1 2,033.7 0 0 7 4

Sulkan 1 1,919.2 0 0 10 4

Wat’a 3 4,076.7 0 0 25 14

Wat’a 1 3,099.1 0 1 22 12

Wat’a 3 4,503.8 2 0 13 6

Wat’a 3 4,809.2 2 0 10 5

Wat’a 3 3,298.2 2 0 10 4

80 Kosiba and Bauer

However, we found that the location of the more elaborate residential types oftenaffords greater visibility of specific environmental features. For instance, there arepatterned relationships between R3 architectural types and the visibility of theglaciated mountain peaks (apus), which are especially important to local ceremonialpractice in both ancient and contemporary Andean contexts (e.g., Allen 2002: 26;Williams and Nash 2006: 457). Although any mountain peak can be an apu, ouranalysis considers the differential perception of glaciated mountain peaks. Such peakswere most likely revered or attributed cultural importance since they were both watersources and salient environmental features. In our survey area, one or more glaciatedpeaks are visible from the majority (89.7%) of R3 spaces (in comparison, one or moreglaciated peaks are visible from 57.1% of the R2 spaces and 51.9% of the R1 spaces).Moreover, R3 spaces are the only building types from which three or more glaciatedpeaks can be seen at once. These more elaborate Inka spaces and residences may havebeen perceived in terms of their immediate and more pronounced link to thesemountains, a link that may have bolstered Inka elite claims to divine authority (cf.Williams and Nash 2006).

Table 3 (continued)


Wat’a 1 6,397.8 1 1 9 3

Wat’a 3 6,070.3 2 0 10 3

Wat’a 1 5,480.9 1 1 11 3

Wat’a 1 3,236.5 1 1 6 2

VS (ha) the overall viewshed from each locus (in hectares), APU the quantity of glaciated peaks that can beseen from the locus, MON the quantity of Inka monumental spaces that can be seen from the locus, VSALLthe quantity of archaeological sites that can be seen from the locus, VSIM the quantity of archaeologicalsites that can be seen within an immediate area

Fig. 4 These graphs illustrate differences in the overall viewsheds from the architectural categoriesconsidered within the sample. The box plot (left) shows the mean, range, and outliers of viewsheds amongthe architectural categories, as well as the background (BG) sample. The means plot (right) shows thedifferences in viewshed means


Similarly, it appears as though the more elaborate residential architecture typeswere positioned so as to maximize visibility of particular spaces and sites. Werecorded the percentage of archaeological sites and monumental Inka structures thatare visible within a 1-km radius from the R1–R3 structures of our sample. Percen-tages were calculated as the amount of visible sites relative to the amount of recordedor actual sites within the 1-km radius. Using these parameters, we found that a greaterquantity of such “immediate sites” was visible from the more elaborate architecturalspaces (R2–R3) than the commoner architectural types (t02.031; df0116.8; sig. at0.05 level, equal variances not assumed). Also, one or more Inka monumental sectorsincluding R3 architecture or formal plazas are visible from the majority (84.6%) ofR1 spaces, which suggests that it was important for civic or ceremonial architecture tobe visible from the commoner residential spaces (one or more monumental spaces arevisible from 52.8% of the R2 spaces and 37.9% of the R3 spaces). Hence, the moreelaborate residential structures seem to be built in places that maximize surveillanceof commoners’ residences. The commoner residences are situated within the shadowsof Inka monumental spaces as if to enhance the presence of state authority within thedaily lives of Inka subjects.

Also, the analysis revealed how social distinctions may have been grounded in thetopography of the narrow valleys themselves. The settlement enclaves are locatedwithin tightly circumscribed slopes and basins that afford broad inter-site viewsheds,thus allowing for the resident of a single site to see multiple other settlements withinthe immediate area. For instance, ten or more immediate sites are visible from 74.2%of the spaces within our sample, with no significant difference in visibility among thearchitectural categories. This intervisibility at the local level may have fostered asense of community, facilitated the integration of tasks, provided for (at least anappearance of) heightened security, and increased communication between residentsof separate villages. In addition, it is notable that only a single glaciated peak (apu) isvisible from the majority of spaces within each settlement enclave. These particularpeaks would have framed the daily experience of the people inhabiting a particulararea, and only that area, perhaps engendering a personal relationship between specificcommunities and environmental features, much like how local social groups oftenclaim genealogical relations with mountain peaks in the contemporary Andes (Allen2002; Bastien 1985).

Altogether, the regional analysis suggests patterned relations between the Inkaresidential architectural types and particular kinds of environmental settings, practi-ces, and perceptions. More elaborate residential types appear to be spatially andsymbolically linked to salient cultural and environmental features: productive maizeland, glaciated peaks, and spaces for collective ceremony. The location and environ-mental context of these more elaborate residential spaces thus suggest that theiroccupants sought to establish privileged social and economic relations to valuedaspects of their environment—perhaps to directly control or oversee specific lands.Conversely, the less elaborate architectural types are most often situated between themajor socioeconomic production zones and typically have a direct visual relationshipwith one or more monumental spaces. Such architectural types appear to correspondto a commoner/worker social position defined by labor within different economicresource zones, and a subservient relationship to state-controlled spaces for ceremo-nial activity. Overall, the macro-scale analysis begins to reveal the contours of a

82 Kosiba and Bauer

landscape sharply defined by social and spatial boundaries and categories—physicalimpediments like the walls that surround R3 spaces, as well as compartmentalizedenvironmental settings like the special locales within which many of the Inka eliteseem to have dwelled. In order to further comprehend these social and spatialboundaries, we must inquire into how they were perceived and experienced by thepeople that inhabited them.

Micro-scale

The majority of settlements within our sample contain distinct and differentiatedsectors: a patchwork of Inka residences, formal plazas, mortuary sectors, and agri-cultural terraces. But there are striking differences in the organization and demarca-tion of these spaces within different settlements. In the following analysis, weexamine the spatial organization of two Inka period sites—Wat’a and Paqpayoq.We seek to understand how differences in the residential architecture of these sitescorresponded to distinct spatial layouts, and by implication, how different kinds ofspatial organization might have influenced the ways that people engaged with theirlocal environment.

We focus on these settlements because they allow us to analyze architectural andorganizational differences between Inka elite and commoner residential spaces. Wat’ais a relatively large (∼27 ha), partially fortified elite settlement and ceremonial sitepositioned on a ridge-top between maize agricultural land and a high-altitude pastoralplain (Figs. 5 and 6). Paqpayoq is a smaller (∼6 ha) commoner village situated on a

Fig. 5 Plan of Wat’a showing how different sectors are spatially segregated by the site’s massive wall


gradual hillside near verdant maize agricultural land (Fig. 7).6 The majority ofresidential structures within Wat’a are R2 or R3 buildings. Paqpayoq containspredominantly R1 buildings. Despite differences in residential architecture, the set-tlements are comparable in various ways. Both Wat’a and Paqpayoq contain similarkinds of spaces, such as mortuary sectors, plazas, storage structures, platforms, anddiscrete residential areas. At both sites, the WAP intensive surface collections foundhigher densities of Inka polychrome serving vessel fragments near plaza and mortu-ary sectors, suggesting that similar kinds of feasting and mortuary veneration prac-tices were staged within specific spaces of these sites. Moreover, both Wat’a andPaqpayoq are Inka settlements built over preexisting pre-Inka sites. Architecturalanalysis, excavations, and radiocarbon dates suggest that Wat’a was quickly recon-structed during the early phases of the Inka period, in the mid fourteenth century(Kosiba 2010). Architectural analysis and stratigraphy (of looter’s pits) at Paqpayoqsuggest that it was rebuilt in the mid to late fourteenth century. Since early Inka stateformation in Cuzco was in part predicated upon the spatial reorganization of localsettlements and landscapes (Covey 2006; Kosiba 2010, 2012), the study of these sitesprovides a glimpse of how the Inkas implanted a new social order by constructingnew kinds of physical barriers and social spaces.

To examine these settlements, the WAP produced detailed maps of topography,standing architecture, and environmental features. The GIS analyses at Wat’a and Paq-payoq examine the Inka period architectural layout of these sites. Kosiba collected over6,500 topographic points while mapping Wat’a and over 3,000 points while mappingPaqpayoq. Topographic points were taken at intervals of 2 m or less. Surface collectionunits (5-m radius) were set up throughout both sites using a stratified systematic unalignedsampling technique (see Orton 2000; Plog 1976). Looted areas, relatively steep slopes(>30°), and colluvial deposits were excluded from the sampling universes.

The resulting maps were compared with intensive surface collection, architectural,and excavation data. GIS was employed to analyze the surface-level distribution of

Fig. 6 Wat’a

6 The WAP survey initially classified Pacpayoq as two sites located upon the upper and lower portions of ahillside (W-135 and W-137). In this intra-site analysis, the hillside is treated as a single settlement.

84 Kosiba and Bauer

artifacts and architectural types, potential pathways and intra-site viewsheds. Inparticular, we used detailed maps to consider the “depth” (Hillier and Hanson1984) of ceremonial or political spaces like plazas and mortuary sectors. Depth refersto the quantity of spaces through which one must pass in order to access other spaces.To consider spatial access within each site, we added quantitative and qualitativedimensions to this study of depth, taking into account the number of windows ordoorways that look onto a pathway, the number of intersections along a certain path,as well as the kinds of environmental features that one passes if traversing the site ona particular path (see Kaiser 2011). We also computed a series of viewsheds to gaugethe degree to which the architecture and topography of each site affect the visibility ofarchitectural features, ceremonial spaces and/or activity areas.

To conduct the intra-site viewsheds, topographic surfaces (a triangulated irregularnetwork (TIN) and a digital elevation model (DEM)) of each site were generated fromdetailed mapping using a total station. The TIN surface was used to edit errant pointsand model terrace walls. Terraces and platforms were added to the TINs as hardbreaklines. The TIN was then converted into a raster DEM. Architectural featureswere drawn as polygons, and then converted to raster features corresponding tofeature heights. Building and wall heights were added to the architectural rasteraccording to estimates and measurements made in the field: R1 and R2 buildings

Fig. 7 Plan of Paqpayoq


were attributed 2–3 m in height; R3 buildings were assigned 3–4 m in height; theperimeter wall at Wat’a was attributed 4–5 m in height; and tombs structures wereallotted 1.5–2 m in height. These are conservative estimates since they do not takeinto account the effect of pitched rooftops. Using a map algebra function, thearchitectural-based raster values were then added to the topographic DEM (Fig. 8).We calculated viewsheds from 35 loci within Wat’a and 30 loci within Paqpayoq.7

Sample points were taken in open spaces: house patios, platforms and plazas. View-sheds from a central point and four additional points at a distance of 5 min eachdirection were combined to create a patched viewshed from each locus.

Wat’a

At Wat’a, architectural styles and forms demarcate distinct kinds of spaces. An immensewall divides the settlement into discrete residential areas. This wall was raised during theinitial phases of Inka state formation, when the long-occupied political center and town atWat’a was partially demolished and then rebuilt at a monumental, and definitively Inka,scale (Kosiba 2010). Preexisting buildings and terraces within Wat’a were convertedinto the foundations of Inka structures. The Inka period walls at Wat’a separate acommoner residential sector from a ceremonial sector and town. The walled space atWat’a appears to be a fortified elite residential area, not unlike the castles of medievalEurope or Rajasthan, India. Intramural and extramural sectors are further distin-guished by architectural styles. Archetypical commoner houses (R1) are evenlyspaced upon the gradual rise outside of the wall. Within the wall, immense buildings(R3) are situated atop a series of raised platforms that confront the visitor along theprincipal pathway of the site. The main ceremonial spaces at Wat’a (the plaza andmortuary sector) are conspicuous in their monumentality. Their walls display recog-nizable symbols of Inka prestige, like double jamb doorways, double frame windowsand trapezoidal niches (e.g., Gasparini and Margolies 1980; Kendall 1976; McEwan1998; Niles 1987). Enormous buildings (R3) surround the plaza space at Wat’a,restricting its access and obscuring it from onlookers (see below), while two wallsenclose the mortuary sector (Wilkapata). In short, intramural spaces are monumentaland stylistically complex, while extramural spaces are simple and unadorned.

In addition to defining different sectors, the sheer walls and steep slopes of Wat’awould have limited movement to prescribed pathways. There are only two entranceswithin the site’s massive perimeter wall. Upon entering, a subject faces two pathways.These are the only pathways that allow a visitor or inhabitant to traverse the site. Thepathways themselves constrain movement: as they cut through the site’s verticalterraces and precipitous rock outcrops, they require subjects to enter baffled door-ways, ascend formal staircases, and enter multiple platforms in order to access thepatchwork of enclosed spaces across Wat’a. The platforms are arranged like check-points en route to the site’s monumental plaza. Narrow ramps or stairs constrainaccess and egress to select points within each platform, while slowing the traffic of

7 We conducted viewshed analyses using both the TIN and DEM and found that the results were very muchalike. Similar overall viewsheds were generated. The different surfaces revealed the visibility of the sameenvironmental features. We used the DEM in this analysis since it yields a smoother surface for visualanalysis and presentation. Since the viewshed analyis largely considers visibility of specific environmentalfeatures, there is no reason to assume that one of these topographic surfaces is more accurate than another.

86 Kosiba and Bauer

groups of people that might proceed to the plaza space. Additionally, doors andwindows of R3 structures open onto the platforms, suggesting that people weremonitored while crossing Wat’a. In stark contrast to the walled sector of Wat’a,houses within the extramural sector conform to the undulating terrain, creating anetwork of interlinked and integrated open spaces among structural terraces.

In considering the viewshed analyses within Wat’a, we see that the architecture andtopography of Wat’a both directs and constrains one’s visibility of key spaces andenvironmental features. No point within Wat’a affords greater visibility of the entiresettlement than any other. But different areas of the site seem to have been specificallyelaborated in order to heighten social actors’ perception of particular spaces. For instance,a platform near the main entryway directs perception toward a tomb sector embedded inthe site’s wall, as well as the Wilkapata tomb sector. In so doing, this platform establishesa connection to history and tradition, using a recognizable idiom to immediately under-score the deeply rooted power of this place and perhaps the people contained therein.

However, the primary ceremonial spaces of Wat’a are largely hidden from visibil-ity. A person standing within the extramural domestic sector could not see theactivities that took place within the intramural area (Fig. 9). While this person couldhave heard ceremonies occurring, and perhaps seen the smoke from fires, their visualperception of these events was prohibited, just as their entry was barred by the baffled

Fig. 9 A 3D representation (on aTIN surface) of a viewshed fromthe extramural residential sectorof Wat’a. The topography andarchitecture of this site restrictsvisibility of intramural ceremo-nial sectors. The X marks theviewer location

Fig. 8 Graphics illustrating the 3D models of Wat’a. The TIN is pictured on the left while the resultingraster DEM is pictured on the right


entryways and controlled pathways of Wat’a. Most remarkably, the site’s ceremonialplaza is only visible once one has traversed the entire site—it is not visible from thecentral intramural pathway until one is within 100 m of the plaza’s edge (Fig. 10a, b).Likewise, the mortuary complex contained within Wilkapata is hidden from view bytwo high walls, even though the central prominence of Wilkapata can be seen fromthe majority of our sample loci (81.3%). A person standing in areas lower than sectorWilkapata could not see the activities that were occurring within this central area.

In addition, the viewsheds suggest that the spatial organization of Wat’a providesfor surveillance of intra-site spaces and the surrounding terrain (Fig. 10a, b). Selectplatforms and buildings within Wat’a were situated in places that maximize visibilityof pathways and open spaces outside of the site’s perimeter wall. There are severalintramural platforms that provide general visibility of the extramural sector, as well asthe area into which an incoming party would arrive before entering the site. Further-more, there are three distinct intramural platforms that provide direct visibility of theInka roads that ascend to Wat’a. From these points, an incoming party can easily besignaled or seen at a distance of over two kilometers.

In localities like Wat’a, physical boundaries are rigid and finite. Architecture andtopography constrain movement, restrict access, and limit perception of different spaces.The intramural space is defined by an architecture of exclusivity that appears to declareat once the heightened social and political significance of particular places. In the

Fig. 10 a Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Wat’a, including the viewshed sample loci(top); an example of the limited visibility to and from the plaza (middle); and an example the surveillancepotential of intramural spaces at Wat’a (bottom). b Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Wat’a,including an example of limited visibility from many sample loci within the extramural residential sector(top); the point from the main pathway from which the plaza is first visible (middle); and an illustration ofthe surveillance potential of select platform spaces (bottom)

88 Kosiba and Bauer

Ollantaytambo area, we find a similar spatial layout at other Inka settlements that includemany R2 and R3 residential structures. At the partially fortified town of Pumamarka, acyclopean wall surrounds a cluster of monumental buildings, plazas, and elite baths(Fig. 11). This walled sector is architecturally distinct from the agglomeration of R1and R2 structures that rest upon a hillside below. Internal plaza spaces are not visibleuntil one is within them. Spaces within Pumamarka are controlled and compartmen-talized, while pathways are restricted. Much like Wat’a, this was most likely thefortified residence of a local Inka lord (Niles 1980). Furthermore, the carved boulders,plazas and ornate structures of the cliffside site at Perolniyoq are not visible until oneis within the center of the site. There is only one entrance to Perolniyoq, and internalpathways are limited by sheer rocks and imposing walls. The restricted access andvisibility of the site and the private arrangement of the internal spaces also suggestthat Perolniyoq was an elite residence or local palace. These places are both fortifiedand sanctified—their walls materialize claims to absolute authority and exclusivity.

Paqpayoq

In comparison, the spatial organization of Paqpayoq is far less rigidly defined thanthat of Wat’a. Paqpayoq’s architecture does not emplace physical or social boundariesor differentiate spaces. Instead, architectural styles unify the social space of thevillage. Residential spaces and terraces at Paqpayoq seamlessly morph into anagricultural complex, ultimately leading into a hillside tomb sector. Curving terraces

Fig. 11 Plan of Pumamarka showing the bifurcation of this site into distinct sectors. The walled precinctcontains baths, a feasting hall (kallanka) and several plazas. Storage structures, a residential area andagricultural fields are situated outside of the wall


are a common denominator that underlie and define these spaces of production andconsumption, life and death (Fig. 7). Houses (R1) are spaced at regular intervals uponthe terraces. Throughout the settlement, there are minimal differences in the stylisticelaboration of these houses—the only difference is that small rectangular structuresare attached to some houses, implying storage at the household level. Small, rusticniches are observable within some of the buildings with preserved walls, suggestingthat this kind of architectural adornment was common throughout the village. Theonly discernible buildings that vary from the architectural standard at Paqpayoq arethe larger (R2) buildings that are situated near the plaza. But even though thesebuildings are larger, their architectural style is consistent with the rest of the site: theyare made of the same materials and exhibit the same features as the R1 houses, thusextending the general architectural aesthetic of the village. The tomb sector is alsoarchitecturally uniform. It consists of individual tower tombs (chullpas), each of themexhibiting analogous orientations, dimensions, morphological attributes, platformsand doors.

Similar to Wat’a’s extramural sector, few architectural features constrain move-ment at Paqpayoq. Terraces within Paqpayoq are relatively small (an average heightof 1.2 m) and can be accessed from a variety of openings and stairs. Houses atPaqpayoq often face away from pathways and are oriented toward internal patiospaces, a design that has been documented at other Inka commoner villages (e.g.,Niles 1987: 28, 36). One is not required to pass through a house’s patio if walkingacross the settlement. Furthermore, Paqpayoq’s ceremonial spaces are relativelypermeable. The plaza is accessible from several points. And although there are twoR2 buildings near the plaza, they do not enclose the plaza space; rather, they flankone side of it, thus framing an open space that is physically and visually accessible.Likewise, there are no architectural barriers to the tomb sector. In fact, the onlyrestricted spaces within Paqpayoq are the residential patios themselves, which, muchlike some household complexes in the contemporary Andes (e.g., Flores Ochoa 1968)are surrounded and enclosed by buildings.

The viewshed analyses of Paqpayoq reveal that additional dimensions of opennesscharacterize this residential space (Fig. 12). There is no significant difference in the

Fig. 12 Viewshed sample loci atPaqpayoq

90 Kosiba and Bauer

overall extent of viewsheds within Paqpayoq. But, distinct from Wat’a, there areremarkable similarities in what can be seen from the sample loci at Paqpayoq. Tombswithin the mortuary sector can be seen from the majority of house group patios(87.5%) (Figs. 13 and 14a, b). The plaza is visible from most of the house grouppatios (78.6%) (Fig. 14a, b). One can see the plaza sector, or anyone entering it, fromnearly any point within the site. Also, one can see the entire settlement from variousloci. The mortuary sector provides broad visibility of the village (Fig. 14a). Only theinterior patios of the house-building groups cannot be seen from the mortuary sector.Overall, the viewsheds emphasize visibility of mortuary and plaza sectors whileconstraining perception of individual house patios.

At Paqpayoq, there is little indication of a general surveillance framework. R2structures do not allow for greater visibility of other spaces within the settlement, aswould be expected if these R2 spaces housed elites who watched over the community.There is limited intervisibility between the patios of the house groups—typically,only 2–3 patios of other houses are visible from a single house patio.

But an Inka subject within the terraces or pathways of Paqpayoq could have seenand been seen from many spaces within the site. The only hindrance to movement orperception would perhaps have been one’s knowledge of or inclusion within thecommunity. That is, the distinct boundaries of this village as a whole suggest that itwas a sharply defined space. Due to the open sightlines and pathways of the village, astranger entering Paqpayoq might have appeared just as conspicuously ‘out of place’as one entering Wat’a. Thus, at Paqpayoq, an open spatiality would have accentuatedthe social proximity of community members while distancing them from outsiders.

In sum, the absence of physical boundaries at Paqpayoq most likely correspondedto a distinct kind of social practice and perception. The architecture and topographyof Paqpayoq heightens a sense of inclusivity that orients people to the local commu-nity and accentuates the village as a whole while emphasizing distinctions betweenpeople from this particular village and another. This kind of spatial organization isalso apparent at other settlements throughout the Ollantaytambo area, especiallyvillages that contain high percentages of R1 architectural types. Within these sites,the arrangement of residential spaces may vary. However, our architectural analyses

Fig. 13 A 3D representation (ona TIN surface with polygon ar-chitectural features added) of aviewshed from a household patioin Paqpayoq. The analysesrevealed how one could see thetomb sector from the majority ofhouse patios within Paqpayoq.The X marks the viewer location


verifies that, by and large, settlements dominated by R1 architecture types replicatethe kind of relatively open and permeable spatial layout exemplified by the extramu-ral sector at Wat’a, or the dramatically open and highly permeable layout of theundulating terraces of Paqpayoq.

Discussion: Legible Boundaries and Inclusive and Exclusive Spaces

In comparing the micro-scale and macro-scale levels of analysis, we can begin tounderstand the key differences in spatial organization that assembled an Inka politicallandscape. Throughout the region, distinct kinds of residential spaces coincide withlocal differences in architectural and environmental design. Boundaries are evidentwithin the spatial layout of some places while they are conspicuously absent in others.More elaborate residential structures are often situated in locales that afford physicaland perceptual access to culturally salient environmental features: expansive plazasfor collective ceremony, the snow-capped mountain peak deities that literally heldinvaluable sources of water, and the verdant maize fields that provided both subsis-tence and ceremonial foods. Conversely, less elaborate residences are most common-ly located outside of the towering walls of monumental precincts, or within small

Fig. 14 a Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Paqpayoq, including an example of the highvisibility to and from the tomb sector (top) and an example of the high visibility to and from the plaza sector(bottom). b Examples of typical viewsheds from Paqpayoq house patios illustrating the potential visibilityof plaza and tomb sectors from such household spaces

92 Kosiba and Bauer

villages. In short, the environment is molded in such a way so that places, practices,and perceptions corresponded to distinct, and qualitatively different, kinds of space.

Inka residential spaces are further defined through an architecture of exclusion. Moreelaborate residences are often situated within a rigid spatial layout meant to controlmovement, direct perception and heighten a sense of propriety and obeisance. Indeed,within the cyclopean walls of Wat’a, social actors are required to conform to the spatiallayout of the site itself. Generally, pathways within the intramural space of Wat’a arerestricted, and viewsheds reflect an architectural layout designed to foreground theexclusivity of ceremonial spaces. In contrast, the spatial organization of Paqpayoqemphasizes physical connections and linkages between buildings, tombs and agricul-tural terrace spaces. The permeable environmental design at Paqpayoq seems to em-phasize the inclusion of community members within a tightly knit, planned spatial andsocial structure that stresses spatial (and perhaps social) homogeneity.

These kinds of Inka spatial organization and environmental design are not limitedto the Ollantaytambo area, suggesting that the Inkas were particularly concerned withcreating elite spaces that emphasized exclusion and commoner spaces that accentu-ated inclusion. For instance, the multiple perimeter walls, formal doorways andmonumental buildings of P’isaq—an Inka royal estate within the eastern Vilcanotavalley—restrict access and direct movement in a similar way to spaces within Wat’a.The culturally salient features of P’isaq are not visible until one is very close to them.The carved boulders and intricate fountains of the “Intiwatana” sector are enclosedwithin monumental structures, suggesting that such spaces were highly regulated andcontrolled (Angles Vargas 1970: 40–41; Hyslop 1984: 299). Distinct sectors of thesite are connected only by a singular pathway, which is hewn into the exposed rock ofthe ridge top. A similar spatial layout is evident at the early Inka estate of Tipon,located in the Cuzco Valley. Gigantic terraces, elaborate fountains and revered rockoutcrops can only be seen once one has climbed a formal Inka stairway, and they canonly be accessed through discrete walled entryways, flanked by massive buildings. Afeeling of panoptical surveillance is pervasive at Tipon: as one ascends and traversesits pathways, one is constantly walking beneath and in view of multiple platforms,patio spaces, and tomb sectors. The elite residential space of nearby Cuzco area sitesis similarly restricted, limited in access, and hidden from view (Gasparini andMargolies 1980: 188–190; Niles and Batson 2007; Protzen 1991). Looking fartherafield, we see this propensity to demarcate, define, and control space at monumentalsites throughout the Inka domain (see Morris and Santillana 2007).

Furthermore, a permeable and homogenous spatial layout similar to Paqpayoq isevident at many planned Inka commoner villages throughout the Cuzco region. AtRaqay Raqayniyoq in the Cuzco Basin, architecturally standard residential structuresare arranged along a gradually sloping hillside, with several potential pathwaysbetween them (Niles 1987: 31–37). Our architectural measurements of 25 buildingsat Raqay Raqayniyoq are remarkably similar to R1 structures within the Ollantay-tambo area, suggesting that a standard house design roughly corresponded to astandard village design. Above the airport in the Cuzco Valley, the remains ofQotakalli present a more ordered picture of Inka commoner village organization.Buildings within this settlement conform to an orthogonal layout. But, much likeother Inka commoner villages, pathways and access points within Qotakalli are openand permeable (see Niles 1987: 37–40).


In attending to these differences in spatial organization, we see how aunitary Inka political landscape was assembled through the production ofdiverse environments. The Inka landscape of the Cuzco region was certainlyconstituted by a recognizable aesthetic of power, a claim to absolute authoritythat was expressed and supported by august monumental architecture andstrategically positioned administrative centers. Yet this aesthetic, this appearanceof regional coherence, relies upon a fragmented and fractured landscape—aseries of sharp internal boundaries that would have influenced the ways thatdifferent people engaged with and perceived their environment.

The data thus provide a preliminary glimpse of a political regime’s strategy toshape social experience and perception, and in so doing, to create an ordered socialand political landscape. The social and spatial boundaries recorded here are theremains of a state project to create a legible landscape (Scott 1998; see also Mitchell1988; Smith 2003). Such a project seeks to monitor, divide, and differentiate spaceaccording to a governmental and administrative fantasy of rational order (Alonso1994; Rose 1996). In considering such a state project, we must also examine howspace is often designed to be “read” by users in specific ways. The example heresuggests that Inka subjects inhabited an environment that bolstered and producedideas of social distinction. Space appears to be ordered and “classed.” Put simply, tobe an Inka subject was to know one’s place.

Conclusions: A Geography of Difference

In attending to spatial boundaries and barriers throughout a built environment,we can comprehend the social fault lines through which a political landscape,and political power itself, is constituted. Such a methodological perspectivecomplements more conventional econometric and interpretative approaches byrevealing how a semblance of cultural or social consistency—a “region”—coexists alongside, and is constituted by, a geography of discernable socialand environmental differences. Archaeological GIS analyses would do well tofurther develop techniques for uncovering how social categories and distinctionsare constituted in multiple, often contrasting environments. After all, the socialdistinctions and boundaries that underpin a political landscape do not simplyemanate from monuments or settlement networks. Such boundaries are repro-duced in the very places, practices, and perceptions through which peopledefine, engage with, and live within their environment.

This paper provided a view of how archaeologists might use GIS to examine howdistinct subject positions and social statuses are in part constituted through material andenvironmental differences in the perception and experience of spaces and places—differences that social actors must have managed and mediated through practice (sensuHarvey 1996). The analysis demonstrates how the investigation of interrelated multi-scalar spatial data sets can lead to productive interpretations of how various socialactors may have perceived, experienced, and used spaces and places in differentways. Such an approach demands that we consider how political power is producedand maintained through space by examining how visions of social inequality are oftensupported by geographies of difference.

94 Kosiba and Bauer

Acknowledgments We thank Adam Smith, Alan Kolata, Kathleen Morrison, Royal Ghazal, MaureenMarshall, Alan Greene, Michelle Lelièvre, Rebecca Graff, and Meredith McGuire for their helpful com-ments on earlier drafts of this paper. We also appreciate the insightful comments of three anonymousreviewers. Brian Bauer, Alan Covey, Luis Cuba Peña, Vicentina Galiano Blanco, and Graham Hanneganprovided invaluable advice throughout the Wat’a Archaeological Project. The Paqpayoq map was drawn inpart by Axel Aráoz Silva, with important corrections provided by Yeshica Amado Galiano. A Fulbright-Hays fellowship and a National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement Grant provided funding forthe Wat’a Archaeological Project. The University of Chicago’s Committee on Southern Asian Studies andthe Department of Anthropology provided travel support for the delivery of an early version of this paper atthe Society for American Archaeology’s 71st annual meeting. The ASTER data used in this study are aproduct of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) and Japan’s Ministry of Economy,Trade and Industry (METI).

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