Contract Archaeology and Indigenous Peoples

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Contract Archaeology and Indigenous Peoples: Reflections on the Brazilian Context Fabíola Andréa Silva

International Journal of Historical Archaeology ISSN 1092-7697 Volume 19 Number 4 Int J Histor Archaeol (2015) 19:832-842 DOI 10.1007/s10761-015-0314-5

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Author's personal copy Int J Histor Archaeol (2015) 19:832–842 DOI 10.1007/s10761-015-0314-5

Contract Archaeology and Indigenous Peoples: Reflections on the Brazilian Context Fabíola Andréa Silva 1

Published online: 3 September 2015 # Springer Science+Business Media New York 2015

Abstract The Brazilian government economic development program has intensified the disrespect for indigenous peoples in Brazil. In reaction they are mobilizing to ensure their self-determination in managing their lands and cultural heritage. At this conjuncture the collaborative research with indigenous peoples has increased especially within the context of contract archaeology. I will examine how some of these researches have been performed and the context in which they operate. I will reflect on these practices with regard to the notion of collaboration in a context where conflicts of interest are the reason of the archaeological research. Keywords Contractarchaeology . Indigenouspeoples . Collaborative research . Conflicts

Introduction In 1988, the Brazilian Federal Constitution consecrated citizenship, recognition, and protection to the indigenous peoples. It was the first time that this occurred in the country. Government policies, until then authoritarian and tutelary, took a new direction. The economical exploitation of indigenous lands was regularized and Indigenous peoples acquired legal rights. However, the expansion of several economical interests during the last 10 years has affected, directly and indirectly, Indigenous lands which have been targeted by economic groups and which have undergone permanent or intermittent exploitation by individuals in last decades. Furthermore, actions against Indigenous interests have increased and a conservative stance that argues that they hinder economical development has been strengthened. On the other hand, in partnership with several organizations, Indigenous peoples have increased their struggle for

* Fabíola Andréa Silva [email protected] 1

Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, Universidade de São Paulo, São Paulo, Brazil

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self-determination and for the preservation of their lands, their cultures, and their ways of life (Baniwa 2012; Souza Lima and Hoffmann 2002). In this conflicting scenario, archeologists have been required to speak up about the impact of development projects on archeological heritage. In the case of indigenous lands and surrounding areas, directly and indirectly impacted by development projects, there has been an increase in collaborative research. It is a rather complex situation due to the conflictive encounter between indigenous peoples, heritage administrators— National Historical and Artistic Heritage Institute, IPHAN (Instituto do Patrimônio Histórico e Artístico Nacional)—indigenist policies—National Indigenous Foundation, FUNAI (Fundação Nacional do Indio)—and environmental and heritage firms working on the behalf and in the interests of entrepreneurs and in the fulfillment of heritage legislation. In this paper I will examine archeological research on indigenous lands in Brazil, with special reference to the conditions in which it unfolds. A discussion on archeological practices will ensue, especially regarding collaboration when conflicts of interest become the raison d’etre of the archaeological presence.

Indigenous Peoples, Legislation, and Indigenous Lands Brazil has an indigenous population of approximately 896,000 people, who speak 274 languages, grouped into 305 ethnic groups on 505 indigenous lands, either in the rural or urban areas. Indigenous lands compose 12.5% of Brazil’s territory (106,000,007ha) on which 517,400 indigenes live (57.7% of the total). Since the sixteenth century, Brazilian indigenous peoples lived under tutelage, made official only in 1910 when the Agency for Indigenous Protection—Serviço de Proteção aos Índios (SPI)—was established. Tutelage aimed at protecting indigenous peoples from extermination and at their Bpacification^ so that they would be gradually transformed into rural workers assimilated into Brazilian society. Tutelage, which wore the clothes of indigenism, survived up to the mid-twenteith century; the establishment of the Parque Nacional do Xingu (1961) is emblematic of this period. FUNAI was founded in 1967 and replaced the SPI. The latter was highly criticized and indicted for corruption and genocide. After 1964 and during the Brazilian military dictatorship, when all civil rights were suppressed, indigenous policies were based on the slogan Bdevelopment and security^, which gave the state a grip of the Amazon, considered a fundamental geopolitical region for economical development. FUNAI was administered by the military and its activities were, during its early period, especially aimed at contacting the indigenous populations of the Amazon and consolidating the developmental project of the military regime (Oliveira 2006a, 2006b; Souza Lima 2005, 2006). A non-governmental or missionary indigenism then appeared, opposing the military dictatorship (1964–85); it was characterized by a counter-stance to the State and to the FUNAI, developing activities in partnership with indigenous peoples and focusing on their rights (Baniwa 2012, p. 208; Souza Lima 2006, p. 122). The enactment of the 1988 Constitution gave new possibilities to this indigenism and promoted participation and co-responsibility through intercultural dialogue (Oliveira and Iglesias 2002; Souza Lima 2006). Moreover, practices and legislation for the definition of indigenous lands were severely criticized in the wake of Brazilian democratization, especially by

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anthropologists involved in the demarcation of those lands (e.g., Oliveira and Almeida 2006; Souza Lima 2005). Defining indigenous land is not merely a technical and administrative procedure; it is Bthe establishment of a legal bond directly linking a social group with a given territory^ (Oliveira and Iglesias 2002, p. 64). Further, indigenous lands make possible and guarantee the maintenance, reproduction and updating of indigenous cultures through self-administration of cultural and natural rights. From legal and practical points of view indigenous lands in Brazil are common property. Referring to indigenous peoples the 1988 Constitution acknowledges Btheir original rights to the lands they traditionally occupy, it being incumbent upon the union to demarcate them, protect and ensure respect for all of their property.^ Indigenous lands belong to the Republic of Brazil but their exclusive usufruct belongs to the indigenes, including the exploitation of their natural resources in the soil, rivers and lakes, excepting underground resources which are strategic and thus belong to the State. Indigenous lands are for the perennial and unconditional use by indigenous peoples and they cannot be bought or sold. The 1988 Constitution, coupled with the incorporation by the Brazilian congress of International Labour Organization Convention No. 169 and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, acknowledges: (a) the civil capacity of the indigenes as individual and collective subjects, with plural citizenship; (b) their social organizations, costumes, languages, traditions and beliefs (legal, political, social, cultural, economic, and religious); (c) foundational and imprescriptibly rights on their traditional lands by permanent belonging, to be regularized by the State; (d) the exclusive usufruct of the wealth contained in the soil, rivers and lakes; (e) the use of their mother languages and their processes of production, reproduction and transmission of knowledge (special learning processes); (f) territorial and ethnic autonomy or self-determination; (g) denomination of the peoples; (h) to be listened to in all that concerns them, especially regarding public and private programs and enterprises that affect them or in which they have any interest; (i) consultation on everything that lies within their interests (see Baniwa 2012, pp. 215–216). Yet, in the last few years State authorities and some sectors of civil society have tried to delegitimize and curtail the rights of indigenous peoples to the traditional lands. In this scenario, the public opinion and the archeologists have been divided on what to do to warrant the integrity of indigenous peoples and their lands.

Development Projects and Indigenous Peoples The Plan for the Acceleration of Economic Growth—Plano de Aceleração do Crescimento Econômico (PAC)—was introduced in 2007 by the Brazilian government to further infrastructure in Brazil. The PAC has triggered major development projects in the Amazon, especially for generating and distributing electrical energy, producing heated discussions. Whereas there are many people who defend these projects as an alternative to Brazil’s energy crisis, others perceive that the projects are against the environment and traditional lives. The Complexo Hidrelétrico do Rio Madeira, the Complexo Hidrelétrico do Tapajós, the Usina Hidrelétrica Dardanelos and the Aproveitamento Hidrelétrico (AHE) Belo Monte are among the most polemical projects. Belo Monte, specifically, has been widely debated. It was activated by the

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government after it was halted during the 1980s due to mounting protests (Santos and Andrade 1989). I will focus my discussion on this project due to my experience in collaborative archeology with the Asurini do Xingu, who live on the Indigenous Land Koatinemo, considered to be non-floodable but indirectly impacted by Belo Monte (Silva 2013; Silva et al. 2011). The AHE Belo Monte, on the Xingu River, is being built on an area historically and traditionally occupied by the Juruna, Arara, Xipaya, Kuruaya and Kayapó Indians. Enviromental Impact Assessment Studies conducted for this huge project were highly criticized and considered inefficient (Hernandez and Magalhães 2011). These studies, one of the many stages in environmental license, evaluated the project’s feasibility and its social and environmental sustainability. The Brazilian Environmental Institute— Instituto Brasileiro do Meio Ambiente (IBAMA)—received the assessment studies of Belo Monte on May 2009 for consideration. Critiques rapidly followed: (1) EIA-RIMA (EIA: Estudo de Impacto Ambiental, Environmental Impact Assessment. RIMA: Relatório de Impacto Ambiental, Environmental Impact Report) were incomplete with regard to the Indigenous component; (2) the final studies failed to comply with research standards; (3) some studies exhibited faulty methodologies; (4) consultation with indigenes were missing; (5) public hearings were impaired by deficient logistics, lack of explanations, and inhibitory and coercive procedures, as a result of which many indigenes did not participate. Nevertheless, construction works on Belo Monte began in 2011 (Baraúna and Marin 2011, p. 113–120; Hernandez and Magalhães 2011). Huge sums of money flowed into the villages to compensate affected populations. In the case of the Asurini do Xingu, money was used for infrastructure, equipment (houses, wells, engines, boats, and fuel), food and commodities, following their own expectations but under the control of FUNAI. However, there was no planning in how the money was invested. Young Indigenous leaders were trapped between an exogenous, vertical management model imposed by the State and the Asurini model characterized by reciprocity and non-centralization of political power. Thus, conflict and distrust arose. Further, such a compensation intensified a growing Asurini dependence on money and commodities. The Environmental Basic Plan—Plano Básico Ambiental (PBA)—of the Indigenous Component Study—Estudos do Componente Indígena—structured following the EIARIMA results, was concluded in 2011 by anthropologists who knew the lives and needs of local populations; it should be noted, however, that the original PBA proposed by the consultants was altered by the corporations for which they worked. In 2013 the conclusions of the PBA were debated in the villages. The Middle Xingu Program— Programa Médio-Xingu (PMX)—one of the recommendations of the PBA, is being executed in spite of delays by the corporations and the national government. Yet, Indigenous peoples are unsatisfied and protests and occupations on construction sites are common. Development projects, especially the construction of hydroelectric plants, cause conflicts due to diffused and opposing interests. The State and the corporations responsible for building and running the plants present those projects as inexorable and the environment as a mere physical space to be appropriated or, better, expropriated in the name of the Bcommon good.^ Public actions and debates are thus seen as just hindrances (Zhouri 2011). Indigenous populations normally oppose them because they feel the lifestyles are threatened and their rights weakened; yet, they end up accepting

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the projects. In fact, they find themselves pushed by bureaucratic expedience, deceptive promises, and compensatory measures. They are experiencing a perverse and subtle colonialism. In fact, Indigenous peoples are the most threatened and disrupted groups in developmental activities. Funding agencies, such as the World Bank, have established new procedures and criteria to evaluate development programs in which norms and requirements to protect Indigenous populations are included. Nevertheless, those procedures and criteria maintain a stereotyped idea of Indigenous peoples and are ambiguous on the protection policies needed to mitigate adverse effects. Proposals to Bpreserve cultural uniqueness^ also stress Bacculturation,^ no matter that the latter furthers the patronizing, authoritarian, and assimilatory policies of the Brazilian state (Oliveira 2006c). In such a context, contract archeology is linked to development projects as a necessary expertise. Therefore, it becomes an accomplice of an economic authoritarianism that disregards Indigenous rights.

Contract Archaeology and Indigenous Populations The process of institutionalization of archeology in Brazil started in the nineteenth century and was characterized by the relationship of the discipline with nationalism, the universalism of science, and colonialism (Ferreira 2010). Influenced by naturalism and evolutionism, archeology was linked to biological anthropology and devoted itself to investigate human origins and evolution and the classification of archeological evidences along races and cultures. In the first half of the twentieth century, archeology became established as the discipline dealing with the pre-history of native Brazilian populations and it was consolidated in academia with research centers and training. In the 1950s and 1960s French and North American researchers lead the technical training of the first generation of Brazilian archeologists. The pre-colonial Indigenous past was delinked from the historical and cultural trajectories of contemporary Indigenous populations, whose struggles were all but ignored. For the most part, archeologists disregarded the knowledge produced by history, linguistics and ethnology (Barreto 1999/2000; Noelli 1999). When a dialogue with anthropology, native history and linguistics was implemented in the 1990s, research with Indigenous populations started to be a part of the archeological agenda (Baptista da Silva 2001; Eremites de Oliveira 2002; Heckenberger 1996; Neves 1998; Silva 2000; Wüst 1991). The last decade has witnessed collaborative archeological research with Indigenous populations and consultation (Silva 2013; Silva et al. 2010). It also witnessed the explosion of contract archaeology, which brandishes old practices; for instance, archeological research by a consulting company in Volta Grande, an area directly impacted by Belo Monte, is being undertaken without the direct participation of the local Indigenous populations. The traditional occupation of Volta Grande is ever present in the historical narratives of several communities still inhabiting lands and villages on the lower and middle Xingu. This is also true for other populations that live on non-floodable areas (for example, the Asurini do Xingu, Araweté, Arara, Kararaô). In this regard, I want to pose four questions: (1) Why was collaborative archaeology bypassed? (2) For whom is archeology undertaken in the area? (3) What is the meaning given to the archeological heritage? and (4) Why archeological research was not done in non-floodable areas,

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given that its results could have been instrumental in supporting the land management proposed by the Environmental Basic Plan—Plano Básico Ambiental (EBP). A collaborative research I have conducted for several years with the Asurini do Xingu on the history of their territorial occupation in the pre-contact and post-contact periods shows they use archeological information in land management activities. The rediscovery of sites occupied by their forebears promotes the revitalization of their memory, oral tradition and identity, besides reinforcing their bonds with the land they now occupy, Koatinemo Indigenous Land (Silva et al. 201; Silva 2013). Since a significant part of the archeological record in the impacted area may be related to the history of the Indigenous inhabitants, it is senseless to recover it without their direct participation. Yet, it routinely happens so, prompting them to oppose and interrupt construction in hydroelectric plants. For instance, in 2004 fourteen groups from the Xingu Indigenous Reservation halted the construction of the Paranatinga II Hydroelectric Plant on the river Culuene. They alleged that the sacred site on which the quarup (ritual of the dead people) was enacted from time immemorial was being destroyed by the construction. The archeological consulting firm determined that construction would not affect the site since it was in another, distant area. A heated debate ensued between the indigenes, the developers, and the archeologists. In the end, the developers were forced to subsidize a study to define and delimit the cultural landscapes of Sagihengu and Kamukuwaká (Fausto 2006; Robhran-González 2006; ). Belo Monte also reflects the authoritarian and patronizing policy of the Brazilian State with regards to Indigenous peoples: while the archeological record has been turned into an object, they have been alienated as agents of their own heritage. Such a situation is emblematic of the Bnaturalization of distance^ between the object of archeology and its subject (Haber 2010). This is an archeology that promotes a gap between the Amerindian past and contemporary Indigenous populations (Gnecco and Ayala 2010) while depriving them of their own heritage. Although other development projects have positioned collaborative archeological research with Indigenous populations, the outright identification of the archaeologists with development and capitalism has alienated native peoples. As it is the case, the archaeologists are not working with, for and by Indigenous peoples but with, for and by developers to abide with current legislation. However, the articulation of developers, archeologists, and Indigenous peoples clearly shows that the latter constantly vindicate their rights. In 2010, the Arara and Cinta Larga demanded to FUNAI and IPHAN the extension of archeological studies on the region that was to be affected by the construction of the Dardanelos Hydroelectric Plant; this claim has been presented to FUNAI in support of their request to enlarge the limits of their lands. As a result, a collaborative research program was established for documenting the history of their territorial occupation and their material culture (Stuchi 2012). The archaeologists working in this program have also served as intermediaries, conveying to the government and the developers the concerns of the Arara and Cinta Larga about the impact of the project on their lifestyle. Even in such situations when research is the result of the demands of the indigenes and the collaboration between them and the archaeologist is more effective, contradictions always exist. For instance, the Dardanelos Hydroelectric Plant is being built without the mandatory environmental license (). An another

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recent case involves the Mundurucu, Kaiabi and Apiaká, impacted by the Tapajós hydroelectrical project. The archeological consulting firm that conducted a collaborative research project since 2011 at the request of the Kaiabi and Apiaká excavated in a section of the Teles Pires plant, a site considered sacred by the Munduruku an another indigenous people who lives in the region.. The Mundurucu claimed that pottery funeral urns found during the project were part of their cultural heritage. In their correspondence with IPHAN the indigenes asked for the immediate stop of archeological research. According to the archeological report, the urns were intact and housed in the archeological laboratory of the Teles Pires plant. Moreover, the researcher invited the Mundurucu to participate in the project since she acknowledged that Bthe traditional knowledge of the ethnic group was relevant for the discussion of several themes involved^ (see ) But the Mundurucu had refused to participate in the EIA and in the collaborative research project since they were against the hydroelectric plant. Although they had wanted a collaborative research since I coordinated a collaborative project with the Kaiabi, whose land borders that of the Mundurucu (Silva et al. 2010), they feared that their participation in this particular project within a EIA could be interpreted as if they were agreeing to the construction of the plant. FUNAI and IPHAN accepted the refusal of the Mundurucu as their democratic right; as a result, the developer abandoned any attempt to undertake collaborative studies with them. EIA were carried out under the cover of armed guards to counter Indigenous protests. Although public authorities abided to the law, an unconstitutional precedent on the alienability of indigenous populations has been introduced. In similar situations the Indigenous demands would have been simply ignored; after all, they had the right to protest. But this case shows an opportunistic appropriation by the State and the developer of the Bdemocratization^ implied on environmental license process. Teles Pires unveils the commitment of the government with development to the detriment of Indigenous rights circumstances (Rocha et al. 2013). Brazilian legislation on archeological heritage and environmental license is fairly unequal. The main agents are the government, the developers, and the archeologists; the indigenes are minor, subaltern players. In 2007 IPHAN proposed to democratize such legislation. A discussion group on the preservation of archeological heritage on Indigenous land was set up, including archeologists, government representatives, and indigenes. A document was prepared in which relevant themes were identified; ethical, scientific and multicultural guidelines were established for researchers to administer archeological heritage; and recommendations were made for the amendment of laws dealing with Indigenous lands (Robrahn-González and Migliaccio 2008). Yet, IPHAN failed to promote an informed and comprehensive debate on the document, which ended up being useless and inefficient. Laws on archeological heritage in Indigenous lands remained untouched, as well as contract archeology linked to environmental licensing. The only change introduced demanded that the Indigenous knowledge on Barcheological heritage^ must be included in all EIA. Additionally, IPHAN now requires ethno-archeological studies and collaborative programs in the context of contract archeology projects; yet, these studies are to be conducted according to casespecific guidelines to be established by IPHAN or by the developers. The guidelines, needless to say, are prepared without consulting Indigenous peoples and are unilaterally approved by IPHAN.

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Contract Archeology and Archaeological Activism Some archaeologists have stated that contract archeology (1) has facilitated the destruction of traditional landscapes; (2) is committed to development and to the mere abidance of the law; and (3) is a private enterprise (La Salle and Hutchings 2012). Contract archeology has benefitted from the ideas of public archeology—from which collaborative research emerged—using as a marketing strategy the idea that demolition also constructs (Ferreira 2013, p. 99). Others maintain that collaborative archeology should be critically assessed since some experiences reveal a gap between a progressive archeological theory and a colonial practice that reproduces asymmetric relationships. Indigenes are informants, excavators, and laboratory assistants but do not participate effectively in research designs, in the management of the archeological record on their own lands, and in the construction of knowledge along their cultural trajectories (Gnecco and Ayala 2010, p. 39–40; La Salle 2010). These serious critiques cannot be ignored, especially in the case of contract archeology, in which the position of the archeologists contracted by developers is ambiguous in terms of collaboration. With whom is the archeologist collaborating? What is his/her stance before Indigenous demands and the restrictions imposed by developers, solely concerned with legal compliances, the execution of the projects and the maximization of profits? These issues are being coped with in practice by archaeologists, facing them in their day-today experience in contract and consulting contexts (Allen 2010; Guilfoyle et al. 2011; Phillips 2010; Rika-Heke 2010; Salazar 2010). My experience with the Arara and Cinta Larga make me doubt the possibility of undertaking collaborative archeology in contract settings. Archeological ethnographies (Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos 2009) are feasible, though, since they target the relationships native populations have with the archeological record; they also strive to understand how these relationships may translate into local historical trajectories and socio-cultural transformation and continuity. However, a critical discussion on the contexts on which these practices unfold is necessary for denouncing the asymmetries inherent to contract archaeology. This debate is linked to issues such as (1) the construction of dialogues between archeology, Indigenous populations, lawmakers and developers; (2) the consequences of archeological practices in the reproduction of social inequalities and in the destruction of the environment and Indigenous life ways; (3) the Indigenous appropriation of these practices to recover, preserve and valorize their own heritages. One should also consider that the management of cultural heritage, which is the raison d’etre of all archeological issues and debates, is related to the social, cultural, political and economical structure in which the recovery, protection and conservation of archeological objects are inserted; the institutionalization of archeology within liberal and colonial discourses; and the construction of cultural, historical, social, and national identities (Smith 2010, p. 62). The archeologist is an actor that wields power and archeological knowledge is always appropriated in power relationships, within and outside the discipline and with different interests and perspectives. In their practice, archeologists occupy two positions, as individuals with specific interests and agendas, and as representatives and participants in broad political and social processes (Smith and Waterton 2010, p. 102). One should reject the purportedly innocent idea that the participation of archeologists in environmental licensing processes is only about scientific matters. Their participation

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occurs in a context where economic interests are at stake and where economic and environmental policies affect different segments of society, especially Indigenous populations. I reckon that the continuous expansion of development projects and the intensification of Indigenous concerns regarding traditional territories will further the demand for contract archeology on Indigenous lands. In this scenario dialogues will certainly increase but also tensions between archeologists and Indigenous peoples. In the last decades the relationship between Indigenous peoples and archeologists has oscillated between overt conflict and open collaboration, between questioning disciplinary practices and forging different research agendas which have enhanced the interpretation and dissemination of archeological information. In the same vein, Indigenous populations in Brazil have challenged how archeological research is performed on their lands under the guise of unbridled developmentalism and progress. Most Brazilian archaeologists have been opportunistic and uncritical before development and have ignored Indigenous demands. However, if we do not take progressive stance as archeologists and as citizens traditional life styles, the environment, and cultural heritages are doomed to destruction. Progress does not justify such losses. Stottman (2010, p. 12) is right when he states that an activist archeology is risky but this does not mean that it should not be done. Acknowledgments I would like to thank FAPESP and CNPq for funding my research. Thanks are due to Adriana Schmidt Dias and Cristóbal Gnecco for the invitation to write this paper; to Francisco Stuchi and Tatiana Fernandes who provided consultation experience in contract archeology; to Francisco Noelli for his suggestions and revisions; and to Thomas Bonnici and Cristóbal Gnecco for the translation.

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