by Peter Watson
A final element in all this is the stone frieze that is such a feature of the Circular Plaza at Chavín. This shows, among other things, an anthropomorphic figure holding the stalk of the San Pedro cactus, a figure that has prominent fangs and feline paws.39 In the same row, says Burger, there is a pair of carved anthropomorphic figures with almond-shaped eyes and bulbous noses, ‘reminiscent of the first group of tenoned heads’, and with jaguar tails hanging from their headdresses ‘likewise suggestive of shamanistic transformation’. Below these figures are still more representations of jaguars with the taloned feet of the eagle.40 Burger suggests that these two rows or layers are related, in that the ‘flying jaguars’ in the lower register may represent the anthropomorphic figures in the upper register in their ‘fully transformed’ state. In other words, these carvings show their priests in the act of taking snuff and/or consuming the San Pedro cactus mescaline beverage and transforming themselves into supernatural beings.
The San Pedro cactus is less radical in its psychotropic effects than the tryptamine derivatives, which are the active ingredients in epena (a resin from the bark of the Virola tree) and vilca (from the Anadenanthera colubrine tree). Burger notes that the modern Jivaro people (on the eastern slopes of the Andes, in Ecuador), use several hallucinogens but that the strongest are consumed only by religious specialists. He also observes that, unlike the San Pedro cactus, which grows locally around Chavín, the plants most commonly used to produce snuff come from the tropical rainforest. The seeds of vilca, for instance, store well and can be widely traded. They may well have been seen as luxury items.
Here too, then, the Chavín reliefs show shamans in the process of turning into jaguars – an ancient theme, as we have seen – under the influence of mind-altering drugs. Burger reports that similar rituals exist to this day in the high, remote Andes.*
A LAND OF NATURAL CATASTROPHE
Chavín appears to have been a major cultural attempt to bring together the very different environments of South America – jungle, coastal region, high altiplano – into one all-embracing ideology. In so doing, it sparked a number of technical innovations, such as painted textiles and wall hangings, new forms of pottery and gold-working, which recorded these ideological developments.
Burger makes the point that ‘it would be a mistake to think of the physical environment as a passive, unchanging backdrop’. Peru, he reminds us, is a ‘land of natural catastrophe’, it was and still is char-acterised by considerable tectonic activity (as outlined in chapter five), which triggers earthquakes that periodically ‘wreak havoc in Peru’.41 In recent times (recent geologically), earthquakes killed 75,000 in 1970, and in 1746 an eighteen-metre (fifty-nine feet) tidal wave totally destroyed Callao, the main port of Peru. The interplay of tectonic activity and El Niño events (again, see chapter five) makes the area one that is disturbed by what Michael Moseley calls ‘radical environmental alteration cycles’.
Burger adds to all this with his observation that Andean religious architecture is designed to act as a focus of ‘potentially dangerous supernatural forces’. By the same reasoning, Luis Lumbreras, of the University of San Marcos at Lima, says that the profusion of air ducts and water conduits in the main temple exceeds the practical needs of the community and he proposes that the sound of water draining through the Old Temple would have been distorted and amplified by the ducts and galleries and the resulting sound would have been projected on to the plazas and terraces below. This amplification of sound was later confirmed by experiment and the idea is further supported by the existence of canals (at Cumbermayo, for instance) built for cult use and not for agriculture.42
This was not the only theatrical effect. Chavín lies near the confluence of the Mosna and Wacheqsa Rivers and excavations suggest that the course of the Mosna may well have been changed artificially. Other discoveries provide evidence for elaborate processions at Chavín, with people – depicted with wings and fanged teeth – carrying shell trumpets. Experiments show that the shell trumpets would have produced ‘an immense volume of noise’ and a cyclical ‘attention-commanding beat’.43 Furthermore, the Lanzón was lit from above, by a ventilation shaft, giving it a mysterious floating aura and the structure of the temple included awe-inspiring large stones, weighing up to fifteen metric tons, brought in from up to 20 kilometres away. Finally, the galleries and internal (‘hanging’) staircases were built in such a way that priestly figures could emerge, disappear and re-emerge at different points on the temple façade in a careful ritual designed to provoke awe in the watching populace.44
What we may be seeing here, says John W. Rick, professor of anthropology at Stanford University, is an attempt, by shaman/priests, to appropriate sacred power from the forces of nature to themselves, by the deliberate (theatrical) manipulation of religious concepts to solidify their authority.
What is most remarkable, perhaps, is the overlap with the (fairly distant) Olmec in terms of jaguar transformations. This need not suggest direct contact between the two broadly contemporaneous cultures – there is nothing really to suggest such a link. Rather, the ubiquity of the jaguar, over a wide geographical area, the universal appreciation of its ferocity, strength and fertility, alloyed with the ubiquity of hallucinogens, which encouraged and facilitated the experience of shamanistic trance and transformation, combined to produce similar ideological practices. These practices went back far in time but, as urban society arrived, the traditional ideas needed modifying.
Another parallel with the Olmec is that a new religious ideology was coming into play at Chavín, albeit a very different kind. This has become known as the ‘Chavín horizon’, to signify the fact that Chavín ideology spread far and wide, rather as a ‘regional cult’, its art styles and religious ideas centring around the feline stretching over a wide area and, as Burger says, ‘profoundly influencing the diverse peoples who embraced this ideology’. Most archaeologists think that the wide spread of these beliefs was peaceful, more in the manner of the recent regional cults of Africa, embracing different ethnic groups, or the different cults of ancient Greece, all of whom revered the same oracle, rather than the more aggressive proselytising of Western-style missionaries or forced conversions. These widespread rituals fostered openness and universality rather than local political issues favoured by local cults. They encouraged the free movement of at least religious functionaries, pilgrims and merchants trading in religious paraphernalia, across ethnic and political boundaries.
One model for this may have been the Pachacamac regional cult that was in existence just before the Spanish conquest some twenty-five miles south-east of Lima, centred on the mouth of the Lurín River and which, some archaeologists believe, may well have been related to the Chavín cult. The main aspect of the Lurin cult was an oracle situated on the summit of a large adobe platform. Access to the oracle was restricted to religious specialists but was believed to be capable of intervention with the elements, protection against disease, and could predict favourable times for planting and harvesting. ‘Divine disapproval was felt when earthquakes occurred and crops failed.’ Communities who wanted to establish subsidiary shrines were free to petition the central religious authorities but had to display their willingness to embrace the cult by providing labour to support central cult activities, plus tribute of corn, llamas, dried fish and gold. Eventually, a network of branch shrines was built up as far afield as Ecuador, the subsidiary shrines understood as the wives, children and other family members of the main oracle. The distribution of Chavín art about South America suggests that its cult operated in much the same way as that of Pachacamac.45
There was some ideological flexibility the further one went from the centre of the cult. At Karwa, for instance, 530 kilometres from Chavín, the textiles and other decorations were produced in Chavín style, but the feline figures were represented mainly as subsidiary motifs, the cayman and the staff god being represented as the principal deities. Moreover, the staff god was depicted as a female figure, with breasts
and a vagina dentate.46 Or, perhaps, on the Pachacamac model, she was seen as the wife, sister or daughter of the staff god. She was also sometimes shown with cotton bolls emerging from her headdress, and she may therefore have been identified as the patron and/or donor of cotton. Karwa textiles also showed a series of concentric circles, together with spirals and ‘S’-shaped motifs, which some have suggested are stylised representations of the San Pedro cactus seen in cross-section.
Overall, Chavín-style art is seen as far afield as Ica to Lambayeque to Huánuco to Pacopampa, distances of hundreds of miles. One big difference between Chavín art and Olmec art, which Burger draws attention to, is that Chavín images had no political context or references. ‘Unlike Olmec art, the Chavín style does not portray historical personages, scenes of conquest and submission, or the explicit confirmation of royal authority by supernaturals. The unworldly concerns of Chavín iconography are likewise in sharp contrast with the significant sociopolitical content present on . . . later Peruvian art.’47
To the north of Chavín, in places such as the Zaña Valley, on the north coast of Peru, similar Chavín motifs are seen – the staff god, felines, birds and anthropomorphic figures in various stages of transformation. Several mortars have been found, to be used for grinding hallucinogenic snuffs, again with the mortars themselves in the form of jaguars, birds and serpents, together with spoons, spatulas and other devices for inhaling snuff.
One other aspect of the Chavín cult deserves mention, which is that a major aspect of its influence stemmed from a number of technological advances that were made at this time. These included the forging and annealing of gold and silver, techniques with no known antecedents in ancient South America, soldering, sweat-welding and repoussé decoration, alloying, embossing and champlevé, resulting in three-dimensional metal objects of great beauty (some people think Chavín art the high point of all pre-Columbian art).48 Polychrome textiles also showed a marked advance. As Burger observes, ‘The ability of a cult to convey or evoke religious awe through artistic or technological devices would have helped to validate its sacred propositions and the authority of its representatives.’49 The successful extension of the cult would have increased the demand for artisans who would have further enhanced the prestige of its elite. This was all in marked contrast to subsistence techniques, which remained at a rudimentary level.50
All of these developments were associated with a rise in social stratification. Very rich burials now begin to occur albeit in a very small number of cases. Their grave goods consist of many gold objects, including gold crowns, necklaces, pectorals, earspools, sheets, beads, pins, finger rings, pendants and small spoons, useful for taking hallucinogenic snuff. Another common device was sets of gold tweezers, with which men removed unsightly facial hair. One burial contained 7,000 stone and shell beads, which may have formed part of a garment which crumbled and disappeared. At some sites the elite individuals were buried on the temple summit in the middle of the religious architecture, suggesting this was as much a religious as a political elite. At other sites, however, religious specialists were buried in distinctive ways – one with a quartz crystal in his mouth, for example, another with a deer bone rattle inserted into his right leg, or with spatulas for inhaling hallucinogenic snuff. None of these accoutrements was especially valuable, suggesting that shamans, though respected and set apart, were not necessarily part of the ruling elite.
And so, although there are many differences between Olmec society and the contemporaneous Chavín, between Olmec art and Chavín decorative motifs and techniques, we do see two phenomena that they have in common and are of central interest to the theme of this book. In the first place, shamanistic devices and techniques continue strong, making undiminished use of various hallucinogenic substances and with continued prominent reference to the powerful – the feared, the admired – jaguar. At the same time, we begin to see in both societies a move beyond the shamanic and a fairly simple relationship with the jaguar. Raptorial birds and serpents – snakes – come more to the fore, as do human supernatural figures in the form of the Staff God in Chavín society. Why, we may ask, should this be? Is it because, with the emergence of urbanisation, and (some) agriculture, the jaguar, while it remained important, ceded paramount importance alongside other animals – birds and snakes – that were more familiar in the newer urban cultures? With the emergence of elites, was the idea of a staff god, a human figure, a way for the elite to bolster its own position at the top of the tree?
In both societies we appear to glimpse the beginnings of what would become the New World’s most enduring deity, Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent god, in which some archaeologists see what is essentially a maize stalk comprised of an amalgam of a bird (the eagle), the serpent or snake, and the feline or jaguar. Such a god would embrace the three traditional areas of the pre-Columbian cosmogony – the sky, the Earth and the watery underworld. We shall follow the development of this phenomenon in the chapters which follow and try to understand what it meant for subsequent pre-Columbian civilisations in the New World, and how it affected their intellectual and social trajectory. It was a transformation no less profound than those under way at the same time in the Eurasia, but it was very different.
• 18 •
THE ORIGINS OF MONOTHEISM AND THE END OF SACRIFICE IN THE OLD WORLD
In 1949, the German philosopher Karl Jaspers published his influential book, Vom Ursprung und Ziel der Geschichte (‘On the Origin and Goal of History’). In this book Jaspers argued that the years between 900 BC and 200 BC were a pivotal period in human affairs, a sort of Golden Age in spiritual terms when, in four distinct regions, ‘the great world traditions that have continued to nourish humanity’ came into being: Confucianism and Daoism in China; Buddhism, Jainism and Upanishadic Hinduism in India; prophetic Judaism in Israel; and philosophical rationalism in Greece. This was, he said, the period of the Buddha, Socrates, Confucius and Jeremiah, the mystics of the Upanishads, of Mencius, Isaiah and Euripedes.1 He called this period the Axial Age.
In some ways, Jaspers over-egged his argument. We now know, for instance, that Zarathustra, one of his ‘axial sages’, did not live in the sixth century BC, as Jaspers thought he did, but much earlier. However, as this and the next chapter aim to show, Jaspers also somewhat under-estimated the changes that took place during this crucial period: it was a greater transformation than even he thought. Many innovations – innovations in ideas and knowledge rather than in technology – occurred during those years and, for the thesis of this book, this is when a big gap opened up between the two hemispheres. A series of interlinked changes – religious, military, political, economic, scientific and philosophical – transformed humankind’s understanding of itself in the Old World in a way that had no parallel in the Americas.
In the Old World, as we saw in a previous chapter, momentous changes took place as the Bronze Age gave way to the Iron Age. As Robert Drews pointed out, within a period of forty to fifty years at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the twelfth centuries, almost every significant city or palace between Greece and the Indus was destroyed, many never to be occupied again. In turn, this brought about adifference in character: ‘The earlier period was dominated by its kings and its professional elites, whereas in the Iron Age the common man counted for something.’2
Drews’ basic thesis, as was outlined in chapter 16, was that a radical innovation in warfare suddenly gave to the ‘barbarians’ a military advantage over the long-established and civilised kingdoms of the palace states. Summarised briefly, his argument – it will be recalled – was that, from the seventeenth century to the thirteenth century BC, the great kingdoms had depended on elite chariot corps, with ‘skirmishers’ alongside, infantry who essentially tidied up after the charioteers – with their bows and arrows – had done most damage. But, Drews argues, the deployment of this formation eventually became vulnerable to a new kind of cavalry and infantry.3 With the invention of riding paraphernalia – horse bits
, reins, proper saddles and stirrups – cavalries became more manoeuvrable than chariots, and therefore more efficient and powerful, and the infantries, with the long sword and the javelin, also acquired more force. These fighting techniques, combined with guerrilla tactics, developed by pastoral nomads, had never been tried out en masse on the plains and against the great civilisations, but the innovations paid off. As a result, power shifted from the Great Kingdoms to what Drews calls ‘motley collections’ of infantry warriors from barbarous, mountainous or otherwise less desirable agricultural lands.
The details of these battles need not detain us. Our concern is with two widespread intellectual changes that were brought about as a result of this set of conflicts. One, the subject of this chapter, came in the religious/ideological realm. The other, considered in chapter nineteen, produced major innovations in the social/political/economic/ intellectual realm that between them pushed the Old World further and further away from the trajectory of the New World.
THE NEW SPIRITUALITY
What happened in the Axial Age was that a number of truly remarkable individuals arose – more or less simultaneously – across a wide swathe of the Old World who had, essentially, the same message. In many ways they were intent on creating a new kind of individual and the spur seems to have been the very great violence that had occurred across exactly that swathe of territory in the late Bronze Age/early Iron Age, a wave of fighting that had essentially been initiated by pastoral nomads whose steppe homeland was drying and therefore yielding much less, forcing them to look elsewhere to subsist. Among other things, this would provoke a marked change in the very concept of religion.
