civildigious hierarchies in central Chiapas: a critical perspective

JAN RUS-Harvard University ROBERT WASSERSTROM-Columbia University

Whatever their other disagreements, philosophers and politicians in 19th-century Mexico shared a common, dismal view of the country’s ethnic minorities: indigenous people, op- pressed by virtue of their cultural isolation, must be compelled to forsake their communal heritage and join the modern world. Like their forebears of the Gilded Age, many scholars today continue to argue that indigenous communities have failed to become part of na- tional society because they retain those customs and traditions that arose under colonial- ism, inasmuch as, in some sense, they remain encapsulated within the feudal social order. Some experts even go so far as to claim that these customs have themselves become the primary agent of ethnic discrimination in many remote areas (Pozas 1971; Aguirre Beltran 1967; Stavenhagen 1969; Collier 1975; Friedlander 1975). According to this theory, native people have accepted, more or less passively, a series of practices and institutions which were designed for them by Spanish missionaries and administrators. Among such institu- tions, anthropologists have consistently focused their attention upon cargo hierarchies, that is, upon those civil and religious offices through which native men customarily pass in the course of their lifetimes. By obliging these men to spend their wealth on public ritual, it i s argued, such hierarchies both insure social equality and enforce the principle of com- munity membership. In short, men exchange their cash-a potentially divisive innovation in traditional society-for prestige and the right to participate in a distinctive way of life.

Naturally, not all anthropologists adhere to this view. In 1965, for example, Frank Can- cian published a study of the civil-religious hierarchy in Zinacantan, a Tzotzil (Maya) com- munity in the central highlands of Chiapas, Mexico. Unlike many of his colleagues, Cancian suggested that public service of this type did not prevent social and economic differences from emerging within native pueblos. Instead, he contended, such differences gave the hierarchy i ts very raison d’etre: by requiring wealthy Zinacantecos to invest a greater por-

Civil-religious hierarchies [cargos ystems) have often formed the subject of anthropological research in Mesoamerica; indeed, i t has been said that they p lay an essential role in structuring and organizing native communi- ties. Using ethnohistorical evidence from highland Chiapas, however, we argue that such hierarchies emerged in the late 79th and early 20th cen- turies in response to changes in the regional economy that placed new demands upon Indian laborers. [civil-religious hierarchies, cargo systems, Mesoamerica, economic development]

Copyright 0 1980 by the American Anthropological Association ooS44496/80/030466-1311 .Sot1

10 amerlcan ethnologlrt

tion of their income in public ritual, such offices in fact legitimated their unequal status and permitted them to acquire capital. Moreover, by increasing the ways in which such careers may be conducted, they have successfully prevented both demographic and economic pressures from tearing their communal institutions asunder. To this end, they have created not only new positions, but have also placed on waiting l i s t s those men for whom no openings are available. Essentially, then, he argued that civil-religious hierarchies provide a mechanism whereby economic stratification itself may be transformed into a force for social integration (see also DeWalt 1975).

In the following pages we present an alternative interpretation of civil and religious of- fice in central Chiapas. In so doing, we demonstrate how historical evidence may be brought to bear upon the problem of public service in two Tzotzil communities, Zinacan- tan and Chamula. Like their neighbors throughout the region, these municipios would seem to lend themselves ideally to such an exercise. After all, the central highlands of Chiapas, inhabited today by nearly 500,000 Tzeltal, Tzotzil and Chol people, have provided much of the ethnographic evidence upon which discussions of native life in Mesoamerica have been based. In contrast to the most widely held views, however, we suggest that civil-religious hierarchies arose during the late 19th and early 20th centuries in response to regional pat- terns of economic development and demographic change. Furthermore, we argue that such institutions have assumed quite different forms and functions depending upon the divergent roles which local men and women played in these events. Despite their common heritage and geographic proximity, for example, Zinacantecos and Chamulas reacted in distinct ways to the growth of commercial agriculture in central Chiapas. On the one hand, after 1820, Zinacantecos increasingly derived their livelihoods as itinerant peddlers or as peones on cattle fincas in the adjacent Crijalva river valley; on the other hand, most Chamulas eked out a living as day laborers or (towards the end of the century) as seasonal workers on coffee plantations located along the state’s Pacific coast. Far from constituting a bulwark of traditionalism, then, civil-religious hierarchies seem to have emerged in such communities as local inhabitants were drawn into those relations of social class which evolved throughout the region.

religious service in Zlnacantan, 1792-1975

In order to understand these facts, we must consider briefly the position which native people occupied in Chiapas during the colonial period. Perhaps contrary to our expecta- tions, most Indians in the central highlands did not engage in subsistence farming-or at least they did so only sporadically and with uneven success. Instead, they were required by Spanish officials to participate in a system of agricultural production known as repartimien- to. Taking advantage of their legal authority, provincial alcaldes mayores, “governors,” forced native communities to purchase trade goods or to accept on account large quanti- ties of unspun cotton. In turn, individual families assumed responsibility for a portion of the communal debt, which they attempted to discharge through the collective efforts of their members. In this way, for example, native women spun and wove cotton cloth which the alcaldes sold throughout the region; their less fortunate husbands were required to repay a few pounds of dried beef with such expensive and valuable commodities as cacao, cochineal or indigo (see Table 1). Pressed by these circumstances, Zinacantecos frequently sold their entire corn crop in order to purchase cacao from Zoque growers-cacao which they then transported at their own expense to Tabasco or Guatemala. Given this unhappy state of affairs, it i s not surprising that such men and women, like their neighbors in other highland pueblos, experienced constant hunger and periodic famine (ACE 1955, 1956). So

civil-reiigloua hierarchlea in Chiapaa 467

Table 1. Profits earned by the alcalde rnavor of Ciudad Real on repartirnientos, 1760-65

Activity Profit Spinning 500,000 Ibs. of raw cotton into 100,000 Ibs. of

thread [in central Tzotzil and Tzeltal region) 27,500 pesos Forced production of 100,OOO Ibs. of cochineal (Zoque

region) 16,000 pesos Forced production of 150,OOO Ibs. of cacao [Zoque

region) 10,000 pesos Forced production of 12,000 bunches of tobacco (northern

Tzotzil region) 3.750 pesos Others (largely involuntary sales of trade goods to

native communities) 13,475 pesos Total 70,725 pesos

Note: This information is taken from testimony given by the alcalde's personal assistant, teniente, who claimed that Indian producers were paid in all cases to transport their goods to Ciudad Real or Chiapa. Because such labor was not generally compensated, however, we may estimate that the alcalde's profits approached 100,OOO pesos.

Source: ACCC 1937:476-478.

desperate, in fact, was their situation that in 1778 Bishop Francisco Polanco was moved to complain that

the Indians' vexations, nudity, idiocy are born of, and propagated (in the main) by the excessive repartimientos and general commerce which the alcaldes mayores undertake with the Province's fruits. . . . This commerce. . . consists of buying and selling cacao, cotton, maize, cochineal, dyes, indigo, cattle, horses, mules. bulls, beef, wax, iron, steel, bolts of cloth, mats, wools, hats. , , , In some towns the alcaldes distribute a greater quantity of these than the Indians can pay for, in which case they are forced to buy on prejudicial terms in order to meet their obligations. In this way, although the alcaldes pay only ten pesos for each load of cacao, the Indians, if they do not harvest enough to repay him for his goods, must buy it from him at 18, 20 or more pesos [Orozco y Jimhez 1911)

On the question of religious dues and taxes, however, Polanco was much more circum- spect in his criticism; indeed, his objections to the repartimiento system may be traced in large measure to the fact that native communities found themselves increasingly unable to pay for priestly services and episcopal visitas. Although the church received i t s share of the royal tribute collected in thesepueblos, i t s ministers had quite early sought to assure them- selves of extra revenues. To this end, they had organized a series of cofradias, "brotherhoods," charged with the sponsorship of various festivals-celebrations for which these priests collected additional fees. For their part, such cofradias were endowed with a certain capital which the hermanos were generally required to borrow at five percent an- nual interest. In this way, neither capital nor cofrades were ever exhausted. Upon marriage, Indian boys acquired a lifelong affiliation with one of these societies. Eventually, they became mayordomos, stewards who managed cofradia affairs under the strict guidance of local prelates (AGCG 1680-1911). In theory, native cofrades elected two (or sometimes four) new mayordornos each year. In practice, however, these men were appointed by their parrocos, who also presided over cofradia meetings and kept the books. By 1793, therefore, Zinacantan possessed five of these brotherhoods, each headed by four mayordomos and endowed with a capital of around 200 pesos; together they paid their parish priest 185 pesos each year for 58 masses celebrated in their behalf (see Table 2; APSC 1793).

What pressures, one might ask, caused this system -which existed throughout Mesoamerica for nearly three centuries-to become transformed in ways that are familiar to modern ethnographers? The answer to this question, we suggest, lies in the kind of economic development which took place in central Chiapas after 1824, when the province

468 arnerlcan ethnologist

Table 2. Cofradias in Zinacantan, 1793.

Name Capital No. of funciones Contribucido Santlsimo Sacramento 162 pesos 4 reales 7 35 Santa Vera Cruz 184 pesos 9 42 Nuestra Senora del 240 pesos 7 and

Santo Domingo 203 pesos 4 reales 5 and

Benditas Almas de 200 pesos 2 and

Rosario 12 monthly masses

4 monthly masses

Purgatorio 12 monthly masses

44

33

31 Total 185

was joined to Mexico. No sooner had the international boundary between Mexico and Cen- tral America been drawn than enterprising men on both sides began to engage in that ac- tivity which for half a century formed the mainstay of economic life in the region: smug- gling. In exchange for British cloth and French wine, hacendados along the Crijalva river ex- panded their production of cotton, cattle and sugarcane (for rum). By 1838, for example, they had established 16 new fincas in the area immediately adjacent to Zinacantan; farther to the southeast, they organized no less than 96 plantations during this period (Pineda 1852). Ironically, however, although they soon laid claim to vast amounts of unused lands, they nonetheless faced one serious, indeed almost unsurmountable, problem: a critical shortage of labor. As a result, they began to recruit native people from highland pueblos as peones, baldlos and sharecroppers. As early as 1819, men and women from Zinacantan had formed squatter settlements on the edges of such properties in the nearby municipio of Acala. Simultaneously, many Zinacantecos, numbering around 30 percent of the municipal population, abandoned their homes in hamlets near San Cristobal and settled along the margins of their communal lands; that is, they formed new villages from which they en- joyed much easier access to lowland fincas (AHE 1819). Nor did this movement cease as the century wore on. Forty years later, hamlets along the southern limits of Zinacantan held 45 percent of the community’s inhabitants. And finally, between 1832 and 1855, 80 families left the township altogether and joined the ranks of what official censuses conveniently called the poblaci6n mestiza (APSC 1832, 1855).

Given these facts, it is tempting to suppose that those Zinacantecos who remained in their villages turned their attention once again to such activities as milpa agriculture and the elaboration of traditional handicrafts. And yet, this notion finds little support in the historical record. On the contrary, deprived of their best lands by ladino proprietors, im- pelled by necessity to find wage labor outside of their community, most Zinacanteco men took up an occupation to which in earlier years they had been driven by colonial reparti- mientos: they became arrieros, ”muledrivers,” cargadores and petty traders, Economic pro- gress in the lowlands required not only a plentiful supply of peones, it also created a large force of free laborers who carried cotton, hides and other such products from plantation to port or market. Paradoxically, however, employment of this sort, while it enabled such men to provide for their families, also entailed substantial risks of a very different order. Throughout the 19th century, both hacendados and parish priests complained that the area was regularly depopulated by epidemics of yellow fever, cholera and other diseases (Wasserstrom 1978a). In 1830, for example, the curate of Zinacantan wrote that his hapless parishoners spent their lives on the road between San Cristobal and Tabasco, “whence they return,” he lamented, “only to die” (Orozco y Jimenez 1911). Extravagant as such claims

clvll-rellglous hlerarchles In Chlapas 469

may seem, they do not appear to have been greatly exaggerated: whereas in 1778, 20 per- cent of the households in Zinacantan were headed by women, by 1855 this number had doubled. Indeed, in some parajes, notably Salinas and Nachij, more than half of these families had lost their principal provider (see Table 3; Orozco y Jimknez 1911; APSC 1855).

Let us consider, for a moment, the effect which such events must have exerted upon both social and religious life in Zinacantan. First, it i s important to note that increased mortality was felt almost exclusively by adult men; that is, by men who lived long enough to marry and father two or three children. Between 1778 and 1855, for example, the general ratio of males to females in the municipal population remained fairly stable. At the same time, however, this proportion among adults decreased from 0.81 to 0.61 (see Figure 1). Second, even those men who were spared an untimely death in the lowlands spent very little of their lives in the township. As a result, the cofradla system, which depended upon the active par- ticipation of a large number of hermanos, began to crumble; after 1870, it collapsed altogether.’ Who, after all, could assume the burden which cofradia membership entailed? Even local mayordomos, it would seem, found such service onerous or excessively demand- ing: by mid-century, only 12 of these officials (two from each cofradia and two mayordomo reyes)-about half of the original group of 22-continued to occupy their positions. Then, too, since 1824 Indian communities had not paid regular tithes or tribute: in place of such measures, ecclesiastical authorities demanded that native alcaldes and regidores, ”civil of- ficers,’’ contribute a fixed sum each month to their pastors. Not surprisingly, priestly emolu- ments from these sources also fell throughout the century and did not rise again until 1881 (see Figure 2). Faced with this dilemma, local curates adopted a strategy which proved to be both timely and highly effective. As cofradia funds diminished and finally disappeared, they ceased to celebrate many of those festivals which from time immemorial had given shape and substance to public worship in Zinacantan. Instead they introduced a series of new observances, fiestas dedicated to unfamiliar saints, which became the personal responsibility of each pair of mayordomos. And to assure that these new functions were faithfully performed, the town’s justicias (alcaldes and regidores) undertook to f i l l such of- fices by direct appointment.*

Despite these events, it was not the expansion of long-distance commerce alone which ultimately pushed Zinacantan’s cofradias to the point of extinction. On the contrary, after 1880, a number of foreign investors established large coffee plantations on the slopes of the state’s Sierra Madre mountain range along the Pacific coast (see Wasserstrom 1976 for a discussion of this period). Responding to new opportunities for employment, men from In- dian communities throughout the southern highlands abandoned their other activities and migrated to the Soconusco (coffee zone), where they worked for four to six months each year. With their wages, they not only purchased such staples as corn and beans, but in

Table 3. Proportion of families headed by women in Zinacantan, 1855 (percent).

Percent of total populationa Paraje (N = 2032) by women cabecera 40 46 Na Chii 14 47 Salinas 5 64 Muk’ta Jok’ 19 24 Apas 16 20 Other 6

Percent of local families headed

-

a Percent of the total municipal population resident in locality. Source: APSC 1855.

470 amerlcrrl ethnologlrt

Fig. 1 . The population of Zinacantan by age and sex, 1855 (N = 2032). Source: APSC 1855

201

n CI) Z Q k J m a F z 0 0

3 I

' I I I I I I 1855 1860 1865 1970 1875 1880

c 0

1 1905

20-

c 0

15-

10-

5-

0 I I I I I --1 1855 1860 1865 1970 1875 1880 1905

YEAR

Fig. 2. Average monthly contributions to the parish priest of Zinacantan, 1855-1905.a a Excludes fees for baptisms, marriages, Masses, etc.

Basic monthly stipend contributed by cabildo officials, mayordomo reyes, mesoneros and mayor- domo salinero.

Source: APSC 1830-1914 Cuentas parroquiales de Zinacantan.

clvll~rellglous hierarchies in Chlapas 471

Zinacantan at least they also sponsored public festivals without assistance from other cofrades. Then, too, wage labor in the Soconusco removed such men from those unhealthy lowland regions in which they had earlier been compelled to reside. The most obvious ef- fect of this change may be seen in the fact that, during these years, Zinacanteco men became much more numerous in the municipal population-a state of affairs which breathed new life into the nuclear family. Now, in fact, with the helpof his adolescent sons, in a few years’ time one man might accumulate enough money to take on an important mayordomia-and to increase his own worth by embellishing the rituals which he spon- sored. By the end of the century, therefore, competition of this sort had not only made such positions more expensive, but had also stimulated Zinacantecos to organize the various cargos into a hierarchy of ranked offices through which economic achievement might be measured.

Paradoxically, perhaps, it was the very fact that Zinacantecos did not continue to serve as seasonal plantation laborers that allowed them to elaborate their hierarchy in i t s current form. In 1916, the revolutionary government of Chiapas, anxious to deprive rebellious land- owners of their livelihoods, compelled native peones to return to their communities of origin. At the same time, it enacted a labor code which obliged local finqueros to pay their hired hands in cash-and to provide such amenities as health care and free vacations. Under these circumstances, ranchers in the Crijalva began to rent increasingly large amounts of land to native sharecroppers, men who commuted from highland pueblos throughout the growing season to clear, plant, weed and harvest their parcels. Naturally, such ranchers acquired no legal obligations toward their tenants, whose milpas might easily be transformed into pasture after a season or two (Wasserstrom 1977). For this reason, cat- tlemen in the lowlands turned once again to Zinacantan, a few hours’ walk from the most productive ranches. So successful did this arrangement prove to be that, by 1936 (when state authorities began to enforce Mexico’s agrarian reform law), virtually every landowner in central Chiapas had adopted similar measures. For their part, Zinacantecos were quick to abandon migrant labor in the Soconusco in favor of sharecropping closer to home. As a result. they frequently earned three, four or even five times the income obtained by native men in other municipios-men whom they often hired as day laborers. And finally, it was this income which permitted Zinacantecos to shape the hierarchy of competitive religious offices which Cancian (1965) observed a decade later (see also Wasserstrom 1978b).’

political control and publlc office in Chamule

As we have seen, the growth of commercial agriculture in Chiapas during the final decades of the 19th century transformed highland communities into important reservoirs of cheap and accessible labor. Unlike Zinacantecos, however, most of the area’s residents were reluctant to participate in such enterprises-a reluctance which was finally overcome by official decree. Between 1892 and 1896, for example, the state government-in com- pliance with President Porfirio Diaz‘s policy of encouraging foreign investment-enacted major reforms in the administration of native pueblos. For one thing, such communities were grouped into a series of new partidos, “administrative districts,” under the supervision of appointed jefes politicos. By imposing new taxes and controlling the sale of liquor, these jefes compelled local Indians to acquire large debts-debts which they then worked off on distant coffee plantations (GECh 1896).‘ Furthermore, to assure that none of these men es- caped their fate, the state militia obligingly provided armed guards to escort native work gangs to their destination^.^ For another, indigenous officials themselves were forced to organize crews of reluctant workers and to detain those who resisted impressment.

472 amerlcrn ethnologlst

Although one might guess that they cooperated in this task with great reluctance, it is nevertheless true that they became severely compromised in the eyes of their neighbors.6

Surprisingly, the revolution did little to alleviate such abuses. From 1910 until the winter of 1920-21, highland Indians were left more or less to their own devices. Of course, a few of them, driven by extreme poverty and a complete lack of alternatives, made their way through marauding guerrilla bands to beg for work on fincas where only a short time before they had been kept as virtual slaves.’ Within communities like Chamula, however, the abolition of official labor recruitment in 1910-11 permitted local men and women to reorganize themselves and their municipal cabildos, “councils.” They had learned an im- portant lesson in the previous decades, when the first onslaught of forced plantation labor had caught them unprepared. Now, with the iefes politicos in flight and the state govern- ment in disarray, they strengthened their defenses against the recurrence of such a disaster. To this end, they received some encouragement from the state’s military governor, who in 1914 had conferred positions of official leadership in these communities upon men regard- ed as traditionalists.’ Prompted by such actions, community leaders in Chamula subse- quently declared that all future municipal officers-particularly the presidente, or mayor-would henceforth be chosen from the ranks of monolingual elder^.^ In this way, they hoped to forestall the possibility that their own representatives would again betray them to labor recruiters and ladino politicians.

Despite these measures, however, from 1920 to 1936 Indians suffered as grievously as they had before 1910. Inevitably, the restoration of public order allowed coffee planters to regain lost ground and return to normal operations. Although they no longer relied upon state authorities to supply them with field hands, they soon hired local ladinos to perform the office of enganchador, that is, to recruit native workers by loaning them money or sell- ing them badly needed commodities on credit.” For i t s part, the state government did not help these enganchadores to transport or police native work crews; neither did it fulfil l its legal obligation to assure that labor contracts celebrated under such circumstances met even minimal judicial standards. And yet, although economic conditions in the highlands at this time were deplorable, at least in Chamula the absence of direct political inter- ference permitted local elders to consolidate their hold over both civil and religious func- tionaries-in other words, to establish that kind of social system which Eric Wolf (1955) has called the “closed corporate peasant community.” In so doing, they pursued two separate but related courses of action. On the one hand, in consultation with members of the municipal government, they chose the new slate of officers who each year assumed formal leadership of the town’s civil hierarchy.” In order to be eligible for such a position, however, these men were required to have served at least one religious cargo. On the other hand, positions in the religious hierarchy were generally filled with young men appointed by the municipio’s ranking civil authorities-although occasionally an older resident might request such an office for reasons of his own. By means of such devices, all positions of im- portance in the community were controlled by a group of men-known as prin- cipales-who had worked their way up through a system which in large measure they them- selves had devised: the civil-religious hierarchy.

This situation began to change rapidly after 1936 when state authorities again resumed an active political role in native communities. Significantly, their interest was aroused less by local events than by President Lazar0 Cardenas’s newly proclaimed politica de masas. Reacting to pressures from military caudillos, church hierarchs and insurrectionary land- owners, officials in Cardenas’s administration undertook to organize the country’s workers and peasants into an independent source of support for the federal government. By mobi- lizing Indian voters in Chiapas, cardenistas assumed control of the state governorship and proceeded to adopt a series of measures designed both to improve the lot of native people

clvll-rellglous hierarchles In Chlapas 473

and guarantee their political loyalty. To this end, they appointed as municipal scribes a group of young bilingual men who had distinguished themselves not only by their literacy but also by their desire to please their ladino patrons. Such scribes were necessary, state of- ficials argued, to defend indigenous communities against the depredations of unscrupulous planters and enganchadores.'' At the same time, these officials created the Native Workers' Union, in which all seasonal coffee laborers were duly enrolled. Henceforth, they dectared, contracts between growers and laborers must be celebrated in union offices and must comply strictly with federal labor legislation. And finally, to direct this union, govern- ment indigenisras, "Indian officials," appointed municipal scribes from Chamula and two other highland towns. To these young men (the oldest of whom was 22) then fell the dual task of enforcing the law and sending an adequate number of workers to the plantations." In the end, it was their control of this union which enabled cardenista politicians to bring the state's coffee planters into the newly formed official party, the Partido de la Revolu- cion Mexicana (PRM).

Naturally, within their own municipios, the power and influence of these scribes grew enormously. By the late 1930s, they presided over local agrarian reform committees and represented their communities on the regional agrarian commission; they served as delegates to state and regional congresses; they also chose those local men who were al- lowed to work on publicly financed road construction projects. So successfully did they perform such functions, in fact, that in 1940 state officials tried to install them formally in municipal presidencies. From that time onward, it was declared, government agencies would recognize only those presidents who spoke Spanish. Although most communities ac- ceded to this kind of pressure, a few of them simply refused to comply." In Chamula, for example, local principales -who in general responded quite favorably to cardenista pro- grams -viewed this measure as an infringement upon their right to conduct communal af- fairs; for three more years they continued to name their own presidente. During this period, in fact, the community had two mayors: a traditional cargo holder designated by the elders, and a young scribe who had been named by state officials. Rather than force the issue, however, local progressives decided for the moment to conciliate the principales. Then, in late 1942, the government candidate requested that he be allowed to serve an expensive religious cargo-not immediately, but in five years' time. Simultaneously, the state govern- ment began to enforce a law, enacted in 1937, which effectively permitted only religious officials or those who would soon assume religious office to sell liquor in Indian communi- ties-as a "way of paying the costs of their ~ervice." '~ Essentially, then, this regulation of- fered traditional authorities a new source of income to compensate for their loss of power-a source of income which depended upon their cooperation with the young presidents.

Having formed an alliance with these elders, Chamula's scribes confidently took their place at the head of both civil and religious government in the community. For the next 30 years, they alternately occupied the municipal presidency and served in important religious positions-a course of action which permitted them to consolidate and legitimate their power. In much the same vein, it was they who first spawned the idea of compiling waiting l is ts for prestigious cargos. By placing their names on such lists, they earned the right to sell liquor-an extremely profitable venture-several years before serving the saints. By the 1950s, in fact, their unorthodox political origins had been all but forgotten. In- stead, they had themselves become the town's elders, and had displaced those trouble- some principales whom they had by that time outlived. In this capacity, they played a prominent role in official plans to develop the highlands, plans which the National Indian Institute (INI) began to execute in 1952. As a result, they became not only the first school- teachers in the region, but also the first health workers, owners of improved breeding stock

474 crmorlccrn Othnologl8t

and seeds, trucks and cooperative stores. More important, by carefully husbanding their relationship with state and federal officials, they determined who else might gain access to such resources. Then, too, with the income derived from their activities, they loaned money to their less fortunate neighbors-at a monthly interest rate of around ten percent. And finally, by permitting only loyal followers to pursue religious careers, they continued to decide who might eventually accede to high municipal office-a decision which they con- tinued to make long after they had retired from active public life. Although they certainly did not create the civil-religious hierarchy in Chamula, then, it i s also undeniable that they molded it into i ts current form and endowed it with new functions.16

conclusions

A t this point, one might speculate that after 1942 municipal scribes in Chamula were directed by cardenista officials to volunteer their services as religious cargo holders. Perhaps these officials had come to appreciate the importance of public ritual in native political life. After all, it is at least suggestive that a similar pattern of events occurred dur- ing this period throughout the central highlands. Consider, for example, the question of waiting l is ts which appeared in both Zinacantan and Chamula for reasons which have little to do with demographic pressure. Such lists also became a prominent feature of religious life in Huistan, where ladino authorities, responding to conflicts over land and labor, inter- vened to modify the town’s political structure.” In much the same fashion, it appears that young caciques, “bosses,” rose to political power in communities as diverse as Cancuc, Mitontic and Tenejapa.” Even in Chenalho, where caciquismo of this sort did not develop, we find evidence that cardenistas attempted to alter existing arrangements for their own purposes. In this case, the man whom they selected to represent them had by 1940 already led an active political life; rather than meddle with traditional government, he chose to retire from politics entirely.” What all of these pueblos have in common, and what distinguishes them from Zinacantan, i s that their inhabitants worked on the state’s coffee plantations. Not pure coincidence, it would seem, but rather conscious design inspired state authorities to turn their attention after 1936 to Indian affairs, to create a group of local leaders, beholden exclusively to the governing party, who would ensure the flow of seasonal laborers to their appointed destinations. And it was entirely logical that these leaders should, in turn, utilize local religious institutions to enforce public order in the highlands-the kind of order which permitted commercial agriculture in Chiapas to grow and prosper.

Given these facts, it is perhaps appropriate to consider why civil-religious hierarchies should have emerged at all, why they should persist in various forms until this very day. Certainly, as we have seen, they cannot be explained away as a form of self-exploitation, of a self-sustained mechanism for paying colonial tribute in postcolonial society-still less as the socioeconomic backbone of closed-corporate peasant communities. On the contrary, faced with a dominant ideology which in the 19th century demanded that Indians accept their position as landless (or near landless) laborers, indigenous people-at least those who did not become mestizos-chose to put up the strongest ideological resistance of which they were capable. In so doing, they seized upon precisely that aspect of native life which for centuries had distinguished them as cristianos: their public rituals. Such activities, they maintained. should not be permitted to die out, even if the celebrants, and the saints whom they venerated, changed radically. Exploited as occasional or transient laborers, they responded as Indians, as members of native communities which were themselves being pulled apart into different social classes. It i s this paradox, then, fed by the emergence of

clvll~rellglou8 hlerarchle8 In Chlapa8 475

new social relations within such communities, that cargo systems sought to mitigate and that - ironically, but inevitably-they only exacerbated.

notes

Acknowledgments. This article is dedicated to the memory of Mark Crady, whose untimely death deprived us of a warm friend and a respected colleague: reposat in pace.

Research for this article was supported in large measure by the Centro de lnvestigaciones Ecolbgicas del Sureste, San Crist6baL Chiapas, and the Grace and Henry Doherty Foundation of Princeton, New Jersey, to which our thanks are gratefully extended. Invaluable assistance throughout the project was provided by Lydia Prieto and Juana Carmona, who patiently transcribed and prepared many of the documents cited. ’ Information for the following section is taken from the Cuentas parroquiales de Zinacantan in the APSC. It is significant that, after independence (1821). native tribute was abolished and the burden of supporting local priests was assumed by the town’s afcaldes, regidores, mayordomo re yes, mesoneros, and mayordomo salinero. ’ APSC (1830-1914). See especially the letters from Bruno Dominguez. cum of Zinacantan, to Don Miguel Correa and J . Bonifaz dated June 4,1867, and February 26,1868. In this last communication he details some of the difficulties which he experienced in organizing such a system.

A few moments ago, after Mass, the ayuntamiento and schoolteacher of this town arrived at my house to inform me for the second time that the State Congress had decreed, among other things, the complete dissolution of the mayordomos who serve this holy church, together with the abolition of the position of alfetez, and because without these it is not possible to preserve organized religion or support the priest with decorum . . . I felt it prudent to bring all of this to your attention , . so that as soon as possible you might remove me from here in order that this community might under- stand how sorely they will feel the absence of their priest. . . .

After 1916, a new set of civil officials gradually assumed those political functions which native rusticias have performed. At present, alcaldes and regidores retain only ceremonial obligations in Zinacantan. ‘ Some years earlier, the state had enacted vagrancy and head tax laws which gave jefes politicos

broad authority to intervene in Indian affairs (see CECh 1880,1892). Finally, on June 1,1880, the sale of alcoholic beverages in native communities (illegal throughout most of the 19th century) was permit- ted; eight years later, it was placed in the hands of administrative officers.

Two inhabitants of Chamula, Mateo Mendez Aguilar (interview of April 21, 1976) and Pascual Lopex Calixto (interview of September 15, 19751, provided information about this system. It i s also described in Traven (1950)

Mendez Aguilar (interview of April 21, 1976); also Salvador Lopez Castellanos (interview of Oc- tober 5, 1975). ’ Lopez Castellanos (interview of October 5,1975). Lopez Castellanos, who for the last 30 years has

acted as cacique of Chamula, described this period on the basis of stories told to him by his father and uncle, both of whom had occupied important positions in the community before 1920.

The Partido de Chamula was abolished by revolutionary decree in 1914. The communities of which it had been composed were declared to be municipios libres by the Ley de Municipios Libres of that same year Simultaneously, conservative opponents of native leaders who had tried to join the revolu- tion were imposed in Chamula as municipal officers.

M h d e z Aguilar (interview of April 21,1976). In 1942, Ricardo Pozas noted that. until a few years before, only such traditional elders might serve important political office (see Pozas 1959).

l o Cuadalupe Toledo Lopez, mayordomo of the coffee finca “Maravillas,” (interview of February 27, 1976); Manuel Castellanos Cancino, former state director of Indian affairs (interview of September 6, 1975); Anastasio Trujillo, enganchador (interview of May 5, 1975). ” Lopez Castellanos (interview of October 29,1975). This system i s also described by Pozas (1959). ’ Lopez Castellanos (interview of October 29, 1975); Manuel Castellanos Cancino (interview of

November 8, 1975). It is interesting to note that Lopez Castellanos was one of these scribes, and Castellanos Cancino was among the officials who chose him. ’’ Lopez Castellanos (interview of October 29, 1975); Castellanos Cancino (interview of November

8. 1975). “ Lopez Castellanos (interviews of October 29 and October 30, 19751; see also Pozas (19691.

On June 3, 1937, the sale of alcohol in native towns had again been prohibited by state authorities. This measure was used after 1940 to prevent non-Indians from engaging in such activity

476 amerlcan ethnologist

and was selectively ignored to permit Indians themselves to do so. See GECh 1937; also Castellos Can- cino [interviews of August 8, 1975 and January 17, 1976); Lopez Castellanos (interview of October 29, 1975).

l 6 The information upon which this section is based was drawn from interviews with Salvador Comez Osob and Salvador Lopez Castellanos, two of the original scribes, and Manuel Castellanos Cancino. A more detailed exposition of these events may be found in Rus and Wasserstrom (in press) ’’ Castellanos Cancino (interview of November 16, 1975); John Burstein (personal communication, 1976).

For details about Cancuc, see Siverts 1965; for Mitontic, see Vicente Lopez Mbndez (interview of September 29, 1975); for Tenejapa. see Pablo Ramirez SuArez (personal communication, 1976)

Jacinto Arias (personal communication, 1976). Arias’s father was the political leader of Chenalho during these years.

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Submitted 28 September 1979 Accepted 21 November 1979 Revisions received 18 December 1979 Final revisions received 14 April 1980

478 amerlcan ethnologl8t