Mapping The Political Landscape

J Archaeol Method Theory
DOI 10.1007/s10816-011-9126-z
Mapping the Political Landscape: Toward a GIS

Analysis of Environmental and Social Difference
Steve Kosiba & Andrew M. Bauer
# Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2012
Abstract This paper employs geographic information systems (GIS) to analyze the
relationship between environmental context and social inequality. Using recent archaeological data from the political center of the Inka Empire (Cuzco, Peru), it
investigates how material and spatial boundaries embed social differences within
the environment at both local and regional scales. In doing so, the paper moves
beyond conventional archaeological GIS approaches that treat the environment as a
unitary phenomenon. It develops a methodological and theoretical framework for the
examination of a political landscapethe distinct spaces and materials that differentially shape peoples social experience and perception of their environment.
Keywords GIS . Landscape . Inka . Social inequality
Introduction
Archaeologists have long focused on how ancient peoples perception and use of the
environment influenced their social and economic organization. Geographic information systems (GIS) has recently become the principal analytical tool through which
archaeologists examine humanenvironmental relationships (e.g., Aldenderfer and
Maschner 1996; Arkush 2009; Bauer et al. 2004; Casana 2003; Casana and Cothren
2008; Chapman 2006; Conolly and Lake 2006; Howey 2007; Kosiba 2011; Lake and
Woodman 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 interaction, from phenomenological questions of how past social actors perceived the
S. Kosiba (*)
Department of Anthropology, University of Alabama, 19 ten Hoor Hall, 350 Marrs Spring Rd.,
Tuscaloosa, AL 35487, USA
e-mail: sbkosiba@as.ua.edu
A. M. Bauer
Department of Sociology and Anthropology, DePauw University, Greencastle, IN, USA
Kosiba and Bauer
cultural meaning of particular places to political economic assessments of how past

societies 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 our
view of past social contexts. That is, archaeological GIS analyses often treat the
environment as a singular, independent variablean a priori setting for social action,
or the root of cultural meanings and values. GIS analyses often assume commonalities among past social actors use, experience, and perception of the environment.
Fewer archaeological studies concentrate on how people of different social stations
may experience and perceive the same physical environment in remarkably distinct
ways (cf. Fitzjohn 2007; Kwan 2002). Consequently, GIS is rarely employed to
examine how the environment is itself a social and political product.
This paper explores GIS as a tool to examine how constructed environmental
differencesbarriers, boundaries, and marked placesengender distinct spatial practices and perceptions. By analyzing recent archaeological data from the political
center of the Inka Empire (Cuzco, Peru), we introduce a GIS methodology that
assesses how power relations shape the environment, and by implication, actors
engagements with the land, particular places, and a broader social geography. Our
approach defines the environment less as an independent phenomenon that comprises
systemic economic or cultural values, and more as a true landscape, a geography of
difference that is subject to unpredictable variations, social erosions, and political
fault lines (Harvey 1996). Considered as such, an environment is partly a political
process, an ongoing project that is realized in the very spaces through which different
people perceive themselves and their world. In attending to these themes, we seek to
contribute to an ongoing dialogue about the application, epistemology, and theoretical
relevance of GIS research in archaeology, and more generally (e.g., Bodenhamer et
al. 2010; Conolly and Lake 2006; Kvamme 1992, 1999; van Leusen 2002; Wheatley
and Gillings 2000; Wright et al. 1997).
Contrasting Landscapes Within Archaeological GIS Analyses

Archaeological GIS studies employ sharply contrasting theoretical approaches to
landscapes and environments (see Anschuetz et al. 2001, Ashmore and Knapp
1999, David and Thomas 2010; Smith 2003 for recent reviews of landscape archaeology). Some archaeologists use GIS to examine systemic cultural adaptations to
natural climatic and geographic conditions, frequently framing landscapes or environments as terrains of social or economic resources (e.g., Anderson and Gillam 2000;
Jones 2006; Wescott and Brandon 2000). Others have applied GIS methodologies
that concentrate instead on how societies assign cultural significance to their environment, treating landscape as a topography of meaning and memory (e.g., Chapman
2003; Llobera 1996, 2001).
We term these approaches econometric and interpretative, respectively (see
also Wheatley 1993). In the following review, we suggest that, notwithstanding their
theoretical variance, these approaches constrain our understanding of past human
environmental interaction in strikingly similar ways. Below we use the term environment to refer to the physicalconstructed, geological, and topographicattributes of a
Mapping the Political Landscape
given area. We employ the term landscape to refer to the mlange 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 the
distribution of economic resources and land types. Such analyses often draw upon
cultural ecological theories that view the social landscape as a systemic and economizing response to a natural physical environment. The environment is examined at a
macro-scale, and thus settlement patterns and site locations are often evaluated
relative to general ecological, topographic or economic variables. These studies
generally describe humans as rational actors who optimize their livelihood by maximizing socioeconomic gains and minimizing socioeconomic costs.
In many econometric GIS analyses, socioeconomic gains and costs are calculated
through consideration of the physical attributes of land and the energy capacity of
human or animal bodies. For instance, different kinds of cost surface analyses are
often used to identify the optimal path that people take from one place to another
(e.g., Anderson and Gillam 2000; Gaffney and Stani 1991; Harris 2000; van
Leusen 2002; White and Surface-Evans 2012; Whitley and Hicks 2003). In conducting 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 to
the slope of terrain and cumulative distance between locations. A string of cost values
constitutes a cost distance. Cost distances are used to delineate pathways (Anderson
and Gillam 2000), and/or estimate prehistoric territorial boundaries (e.g., Hare
2004).1 The results of these analyses are based upon the premise that any human
actor within a given regional context would take the path that minimizes their energy
expenditure and transportation costs.
Similar theoretical premises often underpin GIS analyses of relationships between
settlement patterns, site locations, and economic resources (Lock and Harris 2006).
Archaeologists frequently use GIS to predict site locations relative to hydrology, soil
types, vegetation, slope, and/or potential agricultural productivity (e.g., Brandt et al.
1992; Duncan and Beckman 2000; Hunt 1992; Kohler et al. 2000; Mehrer and
Wescott 2006; Wescott and Brandon 2000). They identify relationships between
regional site types and environmental variables by modeling catchment areas, evaluating optimal-foraging behavior, and modeling prehistoric pathways (e.g., Limp
1991; Madry and Rakos 1996; Saile 1997). Considering long-term environmental
dynamics, researchers employ cultural ecological perspectives, GIS, and related
statistical applications to understand relationships between key environmental and
social variables, such as population pressure and agricultural productivity (e.g.,
Murtha 2009; Varien et al. 2007). Some recent applications emphasize dialectical
humanenvironmental relations, especially anthropogenic contributions to environmental processes (e.g., Fisher 2005; Fisher and Feinman 2005).
1
Some GIS researchers have improved upon this approach and its strict econometric logic. They have
generated novel multi-criteria cost surface analyses that consider how cultural choices, such as predilections
toward avoiding landscape features like mortuary monuments, influence peoples movement through and
experience of the environment (Bell and Lock 2000; Howey 2007; Llobera 2000).
Kosiba and Bauer
GIS viewshed analyses are used in econometric approaches to assess how the
visibility of environmental features might have benefited a social group by allowing
people to better monitor game, supervise agricultural fields, and/or oversee important
spaces (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 are
often considered more defensible (e.g., Gaffney and Stani 1991; Jones 2006). In
these applications, site location is interpreted to be the product of a systemic decisionmaking process that seeks to best manage and/or monitor a local environment.
By delineating the contours of regional environments, econometric approaches
offer sound foundational evidence that may be tested with additional archaeological
data. Such approaches often provide crucial data for the investigation of regional
settlement systems, land use practices, and historical ecology. Moreover, they are
essential to the site location efforts of many cultural resource management projects.
Nevertheless, anthropologists have critiqued these approaches on the grounds that
their narrow economic focus provides only a faint rendering of the particular political
agendas and cultural values that often underpin the production of societies and their
settlement systems (e.g. Smith 2003). We add that the overall analytical utility of
these applications is somewhat limited due to the highly generalized units of analysis
that they employ. Econometric GIS approaches conceptualize the environment as a
singular entity reducible to economic valuesa generalized region consisting of
discernable resources and use-values. They assume that researchers can quantify
and generalize the energy capacity of the human body, and classify human motivations, regardless of cultural, historical, or political conditions (cf. van Leusen 2002).
Furthermore, these analyses often take archaeological sites to be units of analysis
and then produce a schematic macro-scale rendering of relationships between sites
(often categorized by size alone) and regional resources. In so doing, the econometric
approach obscures the differences in spaces and practices that might have socially
defined these sites and their inhabitants. Thus, when applied in GIS analyses without
additional archaeological data, econometric approaches frequently assume that all
people within a region would have approached their environment in similar economizing ways.
Interpretive Approach
In response to anthropological critiques of such economizing logics, numerous
archaeologists have employed interpretative or phenomenological approaches to
understand the role of subjective cultural perception in humanenvironment interaction. These approaches are largely grounded in postmodern geographical theories
and/or post-processual archaeological accounts that define landscape as a cultural
system of meanings encoded within places and objects (e.g., Bender 1998; Feld and
Basso 1996; Gosden 2001; Tilley 1994, 2004; Tuan 1989, 2000). They hold that
people affectively engage with their environment and reproduce cultural meanings
through their bodily experience and perception of places. Contrasting the objective
and economizing gaze of the econometric approach, interpretative studies are typically subject oriented, hermeneutic, and inductive.
Interpretive approaches in archaeology reflect a broader trend in the social sciences
and the humanities. Geographers have argued that the abstract and reductive land
attributes of GIS analyses obscure local cultural understandings of the environment

and fail to capture how social differences and values shape peoples spatial perceptions (e.g., Hanson 2002; Joly et al. 2009; McLafferty 2002; Rundstrom 1995). Such
researchers advocate a more humanistic, locally oriented, and interpretative approach
to social geography and history (see examples in Bodenhamer et al. 2010).
The vast majority of archaeological interpretative GIS analyses attempt to replicate
past sociocultural perceptions of the environment by modeling the visibility of places
and land attributes (Gaffney et al. 1996; Llobera 1996, 2000; Maschner 1996; Pollard
and Gillings 1998; Ruggles and Medyckyj-Scott 1996; Wheatley 1993, 1995, 1996).
For instance, in an often-cited early study, Fisher et al. (1997) documented how
Bronze Age cairns on the Isle of Mull (Scotland) consistently afford greater visibility
of the sea than other locales on the island. They interpreted these data as evidence that
the ocean held particular cultural significance for the cairns producers (for similar
interpretations, see Cummings 2003; Cummings and Whittle 2003). Similarly,
researchers frequently use GIS to examine how the intervisibility of sites and features
undergirded local peoples perception of their social relation to other people and
places and to their own past. Chapman (2003), for example, demonstrated visual
relationships among Neolithic monuments in the Great Wold Valley of England that
suggest later monuments were deliberately constructed to provide visibility to earlier
monuments, thereby creating an experiential and perceptual link to the past.
Archaeologists who apply an interpretative approach assert that the visual salience
of select environmental features proves instrumental in shaping broader systemic
cultural perceptions and social values. Such interpretive GIS analyses thus provide
crucial preliminary data that may be tested with more robust archaeological and
ethnohistorical information. However, archaeologists have outlined several theoretical problems associated with interpretative and phenomenological approaches, primarily calling attention to how these theoretical perspectives cannot sufficiently
account for historical change or social agency within a given context (e.g., Brck
2005). Moreover, researchers have emphasized the empirical and methodological
limitations of the GIS techniques typically employed within interpretative studies,
particularly visibility analysis (see Fontijn 2007; Lake and Woodman 2003; Llobera
2007; Tschan et al. 2000; Wheatley and Gillings 2000). For instance, the data used
for viewshed analyses are often too coarse to replicate human perception. Coarser
datasets (3090-m resolution) can be sufficient for macro-scale analysis, but finer
resolution data (115-m resolution) are necessary for more detailed studies (see also
Madry and Rakos 1996; Ruggles and Medyckyj-Scott 1996). Viewshed analyses also
frequently presume that ancient land had the same physical, topographic, or vegetative attributes as those used for the construction of a digital elevation model (Lock
and Harris 1996; Wheatley and Gillings 2000; cf. Tschan et al. 2000; Winterbottom
and Long 2006). Also, many of these analyses presuppose that computationally
visible raster cells stood out, thereby equating their digital visibility with their
actual visibility (see similar critique in Llobera 2007; Ogburn 2006).
We build upon these critiques by noting that interpretative GIS studies often take
archaeological sites (places and prominences) and their region to be basic units of
analysis, therefore homogenizing a range of subjective experiences within and among
the places considered. That is, the approach often assumes a general and systemic
cultural relationship between the high visibility and the high significance of a place,
Kosiba and Bauer
regardless of political and historical particularities. In so doing, interpretative

approaches 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 local
perspectives of the environment. In consequence, subjective differences in experience
and 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 same
ground. Econometric and interpretative approaches alike generalize human behavior
by assuming that people in a given region would have (economically or culturally)
valued an environment in the same systemic ways, regardless of differences in
subjectivity, political agenda, or social station. Econometric studies generalize behavior by reducing human engagement with the environment to either homogenous
energy expenditure or abstract economic calculations of utility. In this model, human
social actions are conditioned by a rational assessment of how the environment may
be used or traversed in ways that maximize economic gains while limiting potential
costs or risks. The interpretative approach generalizes behavior by reducing human
engagement with the environment to abstract and homogenous sensory perception. In
this model, social actors engagement with the environment is largely driven by
structures of meaning that are deeply embedded within landforms and places. Both
approaches empirically reify their generalizations by focusing on the site and the
region as units of analysis. People, and the material differences that constitute a
social 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 alternative
theoretical foundation for GIS analyses, one that might better address the complicated
agent-based and historical questions often posed by contemporary archaeologists (for
novel solutions, see Howey 2007; Wernke 2007; Wernke and Guerra Santander
2010). Indeed, archaeologists and social theorists have recently eschewed approaches
that treat space as a preexisting environmental backdrop, instead emphasizing how
space is continually defined and redefined to further accentuate the social boundaries
that 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 and
Gujar (2002) explore the ecological degradation of what was once a lushly forested
region in Sawar, Rajasthan. They underscore how the intentionalpolitical and
historically dynamicpractices of deforestation redefined this environment and
thereby created a new framework of mourning and loss through which people now
perceive their relationships to the past, social authorities, and the land itself. Here,
politics is understood through conceptual boundaries of past/present and ideal/real
that are etched into the land. Also, in a sociological study of Los Angeles, Davis
(1990) examines how deeply entrenched social boundaries throughout the city
dispose urban dwellers and visitors to perceive and experience the same concrete
and neon environment in remarkably different ways. Finally, Moores (1996a, b)
analysis of space, power, and proxemics in ancient Peru illustrates how archaeologists
might examine social and spatial differences by attending to the ways that public
architecture bolsters a political ideology by directing and constraining peoples

perception and movement (cf. Swenson 2006, 2007).
In recent research, archaeologists have sought to overcome the reductive constraints of econometric and interpretive GIS approaches by examining the social
boundaries, barriers, and differences that constitute ancient landscapes (e.g., Bauer
2011; Johansen 2011; Kosiba 2011; Lindsay 2011; Rizvi 2011; Wernke 2007).
Wernke and Whitmores (2009) comprehensive statistical and GIS analysis of historical, archaeological data, ethnographic, and environmental data reveals significant
inter and intra-community social differences in household consumption, nutrition and
land wealth during the early Colonial period in the Colca Valley, Peru. Moreover,
Arkush (2005, 2009) employs GIS to examine how social and political boundaries
were defined and defended in the pre-Inka (Late Intermediate Period (LIP)) northern
Titicaca Basin of Peru. Arkushs (2009: 207209) viewshed and line of sight analysis
of LIP hilltop sites (pukaras) reveals how imperial Inka accounts of powerful,
centralized polities (seorios) within this area do not accord with regional archaeological evidence for a highly localized and politically fragmented landscapea
geography characterized by claims to locality and social difference (cf. Kosiba 2011).
These examples remind us that the cultural or political economic regions that
archaeologists study are historically contingent, social, and political constructs. In
fact, a region only obtains an appearance of territorial coherence through the
instantiation of clear social (and inherently spatial) boundariesurban/rural, public/
private, ceremonial/domestic (e.g., Alonso 1994; Kosiba 2010: 306307). Such
boundaries are rooted in a geography of difference (Harvey 1996), a politicized
material environment constituted by neatly defined and systematically demarcated
neighborhoods, work areas, public spaces, natural resources, elite properties and
slums. Through the assembly of such a spatial and social order, a particular perspective on environmental and social difference comes to appear as natural, shaping the
practices and places of everyday life. That is, often the political project is to design an
environment in which overtly social categories and boundaries seem to be inherent
properties of places and spaces, and their organization. To understand a regional
environment, then, is to map a political landscape constituted by social categories and
spatial boundaries that influence and guide how people perceive their surroundings.
Our case study exemplifies one way that archaeologists may employ GIS to
investigate such a political landscape. Using recent archaeological data from the Inka
capital in Cuzco, Peru, we investigate how an Inka imperial territory was manifested
through the production of formal spaces designed to restrict movement and direct
perception, thereby cultivating in local people particular bodily dispositions and
spatial practices constitutive of a definitively Inka model of social order. The example
demonstrates how GIS might be used to uncover the social and physical differences
that 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 in
the indigenous Americas (DAltroy 2002). As with many expansionary states, Inka
imperial power was rooted in rigid class distinctions and strictly defined categories of
Kosiba and Bauer
social difference (Patterson 1985, 1992; Silverblatt 1988). Indeed, Inka governance
was undergirded by a theocratic claim that cast the Inkas as divine caretakers of the
social and natural worldthe sole group possessing the otherworldly transformative
power to cultivate order throughout what was claimed to be an otherwise chaotic
Andean landscape (Bauer 1996; Kolata 1996; Kosiba 2010; Ramrez 2005; Urton
1999).
The Inkas sought to realize their vision of social order by sharply defining people,
places, and things. Ethnohistorical sources reveal how Inka sumptuary laws and
restrictions encoded and marked imperial subjects and authorities. Inka elites wore
striking hairstyles, earspools, and fine clothing that defined them as otherworldly and
divine personages (Acosta 1954 [1590]: 193; Betanzos 1968 [1551]: 48; Cobo 1990
[1653]: 208; Mura 19621964 [1590]: Bk. II, Ch. 3, pp. 3435). Their resplendent
litters, boisterous processions, and elaborate seats (tianas) were meant to convey an
impression of the highest authority within the Andes (Garcilaso 1965 [1605]: Bk. VI,
Ch. 1; Guaman Poma 1980 [1615]: 422; Santilln 1968 [1563]: 108; see also
Cummins 1998: 109; Ramrez 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 courtly
spaces was often restricted to the privileged, distinguished classes (see examples in
Bauer and Stanish 2001; Hyslop 1990; Kosiba 2010; Morris and Santillana 2007).
On the other side of the social scale, an Inka commoners life entailed stern
limitations and social boundaries. Inka subjects were often moved or restricted to
specific settlement enclaves and state farms (e.g., Cobo 1990 [1653]: 194, 196;
DAltroy 2001b: 216; DeMarrais 2001: 141; La Lone and La Lone 1987; Rowe
1982; Wachtel 1982). They were distinguished by typical practices and dress, both
of which conformed to a state-mandated, essential socio-ethnic identity (e.g., Cobo
1990 [1653]: 196197, 206; Garcilaso 1965 [1605]: Bk. I, Ch. 22; Las Casas 1939
[1550]: 120). Their communitys lands were partitioned, categorized, and appropriated. Indeed, upon incorporating a region the Inkas redefined the socioeconomic
resources of once-autonomous peoples by sharply delineating which lands and
animals were to be used by the local community and which were to be reserved for
the state and the imperial religion (e.g. Acosta 1954 [1590]: 195; Garcilaso 1965
[1605]: Bk. V, Ch. 1; Polo de Ondegardo 1916 [1571]: 5961; see also DAltroy
2001b: 214215; La Lone and La Lone 1987: 48). The Inkas limited their subjects
possession of valued items, regulated their movement between areas, and relegated
their major ceremonies to select, state-controlled spaces (e.g. Las Casas 1939 [1550]:
126; de Mura 19621964 [1590]: Bk. II, Ch. 13, 6263; see also Coben 2006;
DAltroy 1992, 1994; DAltroy and Earle 1985; Hyslop 1984).
Archaeological research in the Cuzco region has focused on how the Inkas built an
environment that supported and symbolized their power. Systematic surveys have
demonstrated that the Inkas first attempted to support their political economy and
control local populations by establishing an integrated settlement system overseen by
select elites within nested administrative sites (e.g., Bauer 2004; Covey 2006; Kosiba
2010). More localized studies have revealed the symbolic power embedded within
the towering edifices and intricately shaped environmental features of the Inkas
Cuzco region imperial heartland (e.g., Acuto 2005; McEwan and van de Guchte
1992; Niles 1999). The growing body of research within the Cuzco region further
enhances our knowledge of the general spaces and sites that exemplified and
expressed Inka power. Too often, though, archaeological studies infer political
meaning or function from site types alone: for example, large monuments and
administrative 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. Our
intention is to complement previous studies by mapping the overall spatial organization of an Inka political landscapethe integrated network of spaces and boundaries
through which both Inka subjects and authorities engaged with their environment and
perceived their social roles relative to Inka power.
In this case study, we use GIS to examine how distinct kinds of Inka spaces and
architectural forms engendered different social practices and perceptions within the
Ollantaytambo areaan essential part of Cuzco, the Inka capital (Fig. 1). We
concentrate less on the political economic function or symbolic meaning of Inka
buildings, and more upon how Inka spaces themselves created material and social
boundaries that differentially shaped peoples social action, experience, and perception. Data presented here are derived from an intensive multi-scalar archaeological
survey and excavation project directed by Kosiba in the Ollantaytambo area (Wata
Archaeological Project (WAP) 20052009). The WAP included: (1) a full-coverage
pedestrian survey of a 200-km2 area near Cuzco that crosscuts several ecological
zones and contains many archaeological sites that have been characterized as seats of
pre-Inka and Inka political authority (Kendall et al. 1992, Niles 1980; Rowe 1944),
(2) mapping, intensive surface collections, and architectural studies at pre-Inka and
Inka sites, and (3) excavations at Wata, a pre-Inka village and shrine that was
converted into an Inka fortress and ceremonial center (for a description of the
projects methods, see Kosiba 2010: 4056).
Our GIS analysis examines whether and how different kinds of Inka residential
buildingscategorized according to degrees of architectural elaborationcorrespond to different kinds of environmental contexts.2 We concentrate on residential
spaces because researchers have long established that quantitative and qualitative
differences in Inka residential architecture are linked to socio-political status differences (e.g., Kendall 1976, 1985; Niles 1980, 1987, 1999). Our study focuses on the
standard 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 often
flank 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 to
differentiate social practices and positions.
We conduct a regional, synchronic study of architectural and environmental variation in the Ollantaytmbo
area at the apex of Inka power (ca. 14001532 AD). Currently, we lack the chronological precision to study
diachronic 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 throughout
Inka 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 landscapethe settlement patterns, monumental
enclosures, and grandiose elite estates that defined the Cuzco area on the eve of the Spanish invasion.
Kosiba and Bauer
Fig. 1 The northern aspect of the Cuzco region in which the WAP survey was situated. The dashed line
corresponds to the 200-km survey zone
Macro-scale
The WAP survey data provide analytical entre into the spatial and social organization 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 and
shrines link these settlement clusters, ultimately connecting them to Ollantaytambo, a
massive and monumental Inka city (Kosiba 2010; Protzen 1991).
Several (39) of the Inka sites contain well-preserved Inka architecture, including
residential structures bearing stylistic features and construction techniques that conform to the Inka architectural canon (Table 1).3 To constitute our sample of residential
spaces, we established three architecture categories based on notable qualitative and
statistically significant quantitative differences in style, embellishment, materials, construction 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 R1
building interior walls (24%) contain small niches, but such buildings do not exhibit
3
Although there are certainly local variations and styles (see Morris and Thompson 1985), Inka buildings
are typically rectangular, stone, hip-roofed, stand-alone, one-room structures with a single door opening
onto a patio space (see examples in Gasparini and Margolies 1980; Kendall 1976; Niles 1987). Residential
buildings often exhibit only slight variations on this form. Elite residential structures are simply larger and
stylistically embellished versions of archetypical commoner houses. The elite residential structures do not
usually contain any additional internal spatial divisions, like interior rooms, hallways or receiving areas.
Fig. 2 A map of Inka period settlement distribution throughout the Ollantaytambo area. The map illustrates
Inka site sizes relative to the percentage of surface-level-decorated serving vessels at each site while also
showing the location of Inka sites relative to potential maize production terrain (MPT). Sites smaller than
0.5 ha were excluded from the map. Names correspond to the settlements mentioned throughout the article
any other stylistic features. The rear walls of R1 buildings are often flush with a
terrace wall. Based on recent excavations and analyses conducted within these and
similar buildings (Cuba Pea 2003, 2004; Kosiba 2010; Niles 1987), these structures
are probably commoner residential spaces. Rank2 structures (R2) are a bit larger,
Kosiba and Bauer

Table 1 Archaeological sites included in the macro-scale GIS analysis. All coordinates correspond to
UTM zone 18S
Name
Number
Elevation
Inka sv (%)
Ha
Plaza
Kanaqchimpa
W-005
3,475
797907
8516984
11.5
0.4
Perolniyoq
W-006
3,631
796624
8527025
73.8
8.0
Saratuhuaya
W-015
3,487
800839
8518882
35.7
0.6
Pitukaylla
W-01801
3,751
800383
8517302
0.0
2.0
Pitukaylla Alta
W-01802
3,902
800383
8516940
0.0
1.8
Inkavilkana
W-024
3,641
799876
8521296
5.8
2.5
Huamanmarka
W-027
3,434
800584
8518126
46.7
1.5
Kiswarkunka
W-030
3,526
798701
8520340
0.0
2.2
Wata
W-041
3,886
797765
8522641
58.3
27.0
Sulkan
W-043
3,497
798783
8526084
68.0
9.0
Raqaypahua
W-045
3,367
799925
8522492
23.5
2.0
Cabracancha
W-052
3,377
800759
8518530
36.4
1.2
P. Patawasi
W-060
2,873
801006
8530684
65.9
1.0
Kantupata
W-077
4,072
797187
8522242
0.0
0.8
Pachar
W-097
2,886
801452
8530296
94.0
2.5
Chulluraqay
W-100
2,841
798707
8531862
39.0
3.0
Quellorajay
W-101
2,808
797683
8532170
79.0
1.2
Inkapintay
W-105
2,830
797689
8532584
18.2
0.8
Simapukio
W-11002
2,992
795027
8532142
34.6
4.0
Muyopata
W-11301
3,025
794739
8532362
59.3
2.0
Anaqelqa
W-119
3,082
798424
8533982
36.8
0.7
Choquebamba
W-12002
3,478
798570
8534852
43.9
12.0
Hatun Poques
W-122
3,580
799610
8535436
28.0
1.5
Pumamarka
W-12401
3,424
800309
8535644
82.9
20.0
Muyupuqio
W-131
3,490
793186
8531460
0.0
1.0
Pacpayoq
W-135
3,071
793333
8532446
18.3
3.0
Sallaqaqa
W-136
3,611
792970
8531290
43.2
3.0
Palpayoq
W-137
2,986
793438
8532746
76.2
3.4
Rumira
W-139
2,909
795149
8533620
63.0
0.1
Nawpa Colegio
W-142
3,010
794650
8534142
70.0
4.0
Huayllapata
W-14401
3,410
791956
8532556
7.1
6.5
Hatun Huay
W-14402
3,409
791736
8532946
25.0
5.0
Llactallaqtayoq
W-146
3,432
792396
8532330
65.0
7.0
Huaylluhuayoq
W-149
3,097
792298
8533662
20.5
4.4
Chakipukio
W-150
3,463
791835
8534130
30.0
2.2
Chusicasa
W-155
3,751
791398
8532089
67.7
1.0
Markaqocha
W-164
3,453
802715
8536452
44.9
4.2
Inkaperqa
W-166
3,989
798531
8535390
20.0
4.0
Patawasi
W-169
3,879
798492
8536036
0.0
0.2
Andenpata
W-174
3,052
804143
8531522
55.2
0.1
Phiri
W-175
3,041
803957
8531150
70.9
2.2
Markayphiri
W-18001
3,190
791822
8537284
31.2
7.0
Ollantaytambo
W-250
2,817
796289
8532792
60.3
43.7
40
24
R2
R3
7.712.6
6.29.8
5.77.6
9.6
7.8
6.2
1.96
1.03
0.76
3.47.8
2.94.8
2.94.9
6.1
3.8
3.8
1.82
0.81
0.57
IL interior length, ISA internal surface area, WW wall width, DW door width
80
R1
1/1.4
1/1.9
1/1.6
32.185.7
20.940.2
12.229.1
53.7
29.7
20.5
17.2
7.55
5.17
1.24
0.82
0.65
0.961.8
0.660.90
0.540.80
1.82
1.05
0.88
1.42.5
0.721.6
0.631.1
Bldg type Number IL range IL mean IL SD IW range IW mean IW SD Ratio mean ISA range ISA mean ISA SD WW mean WW range DW mean DW range
Table 2 Measurements from a sample of 144 Inka structures in the Ollantaytambo area
Kosiba and Bauer
Fig. 3 The architectural types considered in this study include: largely unadorned and standard Inka
commoner houses that do not typically include shaped stones or quoins ((R1) top); houses featuring more
than 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)
exhibit two or more kinds of stylistic embellishment, and are built upon raised
platforms or terraces. R2 buildings frequently contain niches within their interior
walls (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 their
walls contain worked stone. It is evident that some of these buildings walls were
plastered. Excavations and surface collections in similar types of Cuzco area Inka
buildings have yielded materials that suggest that these are most likely elite residential
structures (Cuba Pea 2003, 2004; Kosiba 2010). Rank3 (R3) structures are the largest
and most elaborate kind of Inka building. These structures typically contain three or
more kinds of stylistic embellishment. All R3 buildings contain niches and quoins,
while a majority (79%) of the sample contains stretchers and fitted stone. R3 buildings
frequently contain worked stone, and it is evident that some of these buildings were
covered in plaster and painted (typically red). Of the three architectural types, R3
building walls often have a shorter length to width ratio (1:1.2). R3 structures also
sit on raised platforms or terraces. Excavations and analyses in comparable Inka
buildings suggest that these are elite residential structures and/or administrative buildings (Covey 2006; Kendall 1996; Kosiba 2010; Niles 1987, 1999).
Our sample consists of 127 structuresthree to five buildings selected from each of
the 39 sites with preserved architecture. This sample is about 8% of the total number of
Inka period buildings recorded within the WAP survey, an adequate representation of
variability throughout the area. We employed a stratified random sampling technique.
That is, we randomly chose structures from distinct strata (sectors or areas) within each
site: higher and lower elevations, opposite sides, and/or discrete neighborhoods. Most of
the sites are relatively small (<2 ha.), and the residential architecture is concentrated
within a single zone. Thus, buildings within each site were most likely subject to similar
site formation processes, and it is probable that the particular, contingent, and localized
taphonomic environment of each site would have affected building preservation, rather
than regional environmental processes. Given these conditions, we expect the general
patterns uncovered by the macro-scale study to reflect the intention of the Inka period
builders, rather than a bias resulting from differences in preservation or taphonomic
processes. Further study of Inka architecture within the Cuzco area will greatly improve
upon the foundational conclusions presented within this paper. Here, we compare
architecture, surface collection data, environmental variables, and viewsheds of these
residential architecture types. Our analysis identifies inter-site patterns for each architectural type and intra-site differences within settlements that contain more than one of
these architectural types.
We first tested overall relationships between the architectural categories and their
environmental setting, particularly their location near productive maize agricultural land
and/or terraced maize fields. We expected R1 buildings to be situated in or near such
lands since ethnohistorical accounts and recent archaeological data suggest that maize
agricultural production and field maintenance practices largely defined the daily life of
commoners (e.g., Bauer 2004: 95; Covey 2006; DAltroy 1992, 2002: 266; Hastorf
1993; Hastorf 2001: 170172; Murra 1973, 1980 [1956]: 1213). Using remotely
sensed data (ASTER GDEM and ASTER multi-spectral), GIS, and field observations, Kosiba (2010) characterized potential maize production terrain (MPT) as land
that adheres to the minimal biological requirements of dry farming maize cultivation,
most generally: land with less than a twenty-percent slope located at an altitude
less than 3,500 m (see Gade 1975). MPT was also delineated based upon an
examination of ASTER images (extraction of areas with soils containing high
gypsum content, areas lacking water sources, and areas with high degrees of erosion),
as well as detailed field observations, including both the documentation of current
agricultural fields and informal interviews with contemporary farmers (see Kosiba
2010, 2011).
The analysis revealed that buildings of different architectural types were situated at
varying distances to potential maize agricultural land. Reflecting a common trend in
Kosiba and Bauer
Inka site location, most (72%) of our sample structures are only a short walking
distance (500 m) from either MPT or terrace systems (Fig. 2). Yet contrary to our
expectations, R1 structures tend to be situated at a greater distance from agricultural
lands (>500 m) than R2 or R3 structures. In comparing the standard (R1; n063) and
more elaborate (R2R3; n064) architectural styles, there is a significant difference in
distance to agricultural land (t03.318; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level) and
distance to terrace systems (t03.841; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level). More
elaborate structures (R2R3) 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 within
MPT).4
This pattern is replicated in many settlements that contain one or more of the
architectural types. Within the majority (10/15, 66.7%) of the sites that contain both
R1 and more elaborate architectural types, R2R3 structures are more commonly
situated much closer to maize fields and terraces than R1 structures. For instance, at
the site of Markaqocha, immense R3 structures are positioned in maize fields, next to
a stream, approximately 200 m below the densely packed R1 house structures of the
main ridge-top town (Kosiba 2010: 167). Similarly, larger R2 structures are located at
the low margin of the Inka settlement at Paqpayoq, at the very edge of the maize
terraces that link the village to the valley floor. These data thus suggest that more
elaborate structures were often spatially connected to productive maize land while
less elaborate structures were often functionally situated between higher elevation
pastoral land and lower elevation maize agricultural terrain.
In addition to these locational differences, we assessed whether spaces and materials for ceremonial practices are more frequently associated with the more elaborate
architectural types. The Inkas staked claims to their authority and performed state
largesse by hosting theatrical feasts within plazas (e.g., Morris and Thompson 1985:
8991; Ramrez 2005: 212213). Special materials, such as finely decorated Inka
polychrome serving vessels (plates and bowls) were essential components of these
feasts (e.g., Bray 2000, 2003, 2009; DAltroy 2001a). Given the importance of these
ceremonies to the constitution of elite authority, we thus expected plaza spaces and
polychrome ceramicsand the ceremonial practices that they constitutedto be
significantly linked to the more elaborate architectural types.
Our analysis reveals a significant correlation between plaza spaces and R2R3
architectural categories (t08.526; df062 (equal variance not assumed); sig. at the
0.001 alpha level). The surface collections uncovered higher densities of Inka
polychrome ceramic types associated with these more elaborate architectural categories (t04.84; df0125; sig. at the 0.001 alpha level).5 Moreover, surface collections at
the 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 regional
and intra-site patterns observed throughout the study clearly indicate that R2 and R3 were constructed in
and near such landsMPT.
5
Fieldworkers walked transects (spaced, 510 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, lowmedium, high-medium and high categories. The chi-square results for Inka polychrome high/low categories
relative to the two architectural categories (R1 and R2R3) are: (2 016.8; df01; sig at 0.001 alpha level),
again showing that such materials and spaces are more commonly associated with more elaborate spaces.
higher densities of Inka polychrome serving vessels in and around R2R3 spaces, in
comparison with R1 spaces. It is clear, then, that plazas and serving vessel sherds are
more commonly associated with the more elaborate residential structures.
However, plazas are also associated with many (46.3%) R1 structures. And more
than half (52.4%) of the R1 spaces also contain high percentages of Inka serving
vessels. Thus, the data suggest that the different architectural types were largely
defined by differences in perhaps the scale or frequency but not necessarily types
of social practices.
These practices may have had different sociopolitical purposes depending on the
kinds of spaces in which they were staged. We find that R3 buildings are more
frequently associated with architectural elements suggesting restricted entrywalls,
platform entryways, single-access pathways or formal doorways. In contrast, few R2
buildings and no R1 buildings are enclosed within walls, accessed through formally
restrictive architecture, or entered through only a single pathway. In other words, the
most elaborate buildings are often marked as exclusive and restricted-access spaces.
This spatial exclusion may have heightened the social importance of events and
activities associated with these structures (see below).
Our viewshed analysis tested whether the architectural categories correspond to
differences in the visibility of surrounding spaces. Archaeologists have suggested that
Inka administrative and ceremonial sites were positioned in places with greater
visibility, and hence social perception, of the environmentwhether to control
resources and pathways, or to establish sight lines with mountain peaks, rock outcrops, lakes, and ancestral places (e.g., Acuto 2005). We thus expected the more
elaborate architectural spaces to have broader viewsheds of the surrounding terrain.
To calculate viewsheds we used a central point and an additional four points
located 20 m in each cardinal direction from the central point. Resultant viewsheds
from these five points were combined to produce an estimated viewshed area for each
given residential space. In addition, we ran viewsheds from the 28 plazas and
compared them to the 127 sample spaces to gauge whether the plaza spaces were
built in areas that afforded heightened visibility of the surrounding environment.
Viewsheds for the residential architecture spaces were also compared with viewsheds
from a randomly selected background sample of 60 points. Altogether, the analysis
considered 1,075 individual viewsheds and 215 combined viewsheds.
The analysis shows that broader overall viewsheds do not always correspond to
more elaborate architecture types or spaces (Table 3; Fig. 4). There is little difference
in the viewshed area of residential spaces and plazas within the same sites, suggesting
that plazas were not situated in loci that maximized visibility of adjacent areas.
Contrary to our expectations, R1 sites have significantly greater potential visibility
of their environs than the other two architecture categories (t03.009; df0125; sig. at
the 0.01 alpha level). Only the R1 spaces have broader viewsheds than our background sample points (t02.899; df0121; sig at the 0.01 alpha level). There is not a
significant difference between the overall viewsheds of all (R1R3) spaces and the
background sample points (t01.737; df0185; sig. 0.084). There is not a significant
difference between the overall viewsheds of the background sample points and R2
spaces (t00.297; df093; sig 0.767) or R3 spaces (t00.477; df087; sig. 0.634). In
short, it does not seem as though the Inkas intentionally built their more elaborate
structures in areas that afford greater visibility of the surrounding environment.
Kosiba and Bauer

Table 3 Results of the macro-scale viewshed analysis
Name
Archtype
VS (ha)
APU
MON
VSALL
VSIM
Anaqelqa
997.9
14
Anaqelqa
960.9
12
Andenpata
4,910.4
Andenpata
4,759.8
Andenpata
4,643.2
Andenpata
4,704.2
Cabracancha
559.8
11
Cabracancha
616.1
12
Cabracancha
740.7
12
Chakipukio
5,066.6
33
26
Chakipukio
5,059.3
28
21
Chakipukio
4,964.1
26
16
Choquebamba
2,597.2
26
11
Choquebamba
3,146.4
25
Choquebamba
2,039.0
Choquebamba
2,825.5
12
Chulluraqay
529.6
Chulluraqay
492.8
Chulluraqay
527.6
Chusicasa
8,093.9
34
Chusicasa
7,604.7
30
Chusicasa
6,722.7
15
Hatun Huaylla
5,432.7
32
17
Hatun Huaylla
4,978.8
31
16
Hatun Huaylla
4,463.1
28
11
Hatun Poques
4,880.2
Hatun Poques
4,747.3
Huamanmarka
972.6
19
15
Huamanmarka
987.2
18
13
Huamanmarka
676.8
17
10
Huayllapata
5,417.6
26
Huayllapata
2,341.3
12
Huaylluhuayoq
3,230.1
30
22
Huaylluhuayoq
2,911.9
27
19
Huaylluhuayoq
3,711.2
29
19
Inkapintay
1,776.6
16
Inkaqvilkana
4,460.2
27
13
Inkaqvilkana
3,243.4
27
13
Inkaqvilkana
2,823.7
21
12
Inkaqvilkana
4,529.0
24
11
Kanaqchimpa
1,270.1

Table 3 (continued)
Name
Archtype
VS (ha)
APU
MON
VSALL
VSIM
Kanaqchimpa
1,626.4
Kantupata
8,738.6
10
Kantupata
10,140.8
11
Kiswarkunka
2,564.5
18
14
Kiswarkunka
2,224.2
15
12
Kiswarkunka
2,362.1
Llactallaqtayoq
6,547.6
36
11
Llactallaqtayoq
5,599.4
23
Llactallaqtayoq
5,966.2
31
Llactallaqtayoq
2,441.3
15
Markaqocha
1,216.3
Markaqocha
1,206.0
Markaqocha
631.4
Markaqocha
568.4
Markaqocha
751.5
Markaqocha
1,170.4
Markaqocha
999.3
Markayphiri
3,544.8
18
Markayphiri
3,408.1
20
Markayphiri
3,267.9
16
Markayphiri
3,428.8
17
Muyopata
3,335.8
17
10
Muyopata
3,264.7
18
Muyupukio
5,158.4
35
22
Muyupuqio
5,395.7
46
21
Nawpa Colegio
2,408.9
28
24
Nawpa Colegio
2,464.4
27
22
Nawpa Colegio
2,389.0
26
20
Nawpa Colegio
2,268.9
22
17
Nawpa Colegio
2,431.9
27
16
Ollantaytambo
1,979.4
21
20
Ollantaytambo
1,970.5
18
13
Ollantaytambo
2,502.4
26
12
Ollantaytambo
3,344.7
20
10
Ollantaytambo
1,129.9
Ollantaytambo
1,552.8
18
P. Patawasi
653.8
P. Patawasi
636.3
P. Patawasi
628.9
P. Patawasi
592.7
P. Patawasi
2,007.6
Kosiba and Bauer

Table 3 (continued)
Name
Archtype
Pachar
Pachar
Pacpayoq
VS (ha)
APU
MON
VSALL
VSIM
620.6
691.5
3,129.6
24
12
Pacpayoq
3,021.8
22
11
Pacpayoq
2,807.6
23
11
Pacpayoq Alta
3,732.1
28
16
Pacpayoq Alta
3,815.4
25
14
Perolniyoq
1,211.6
Perolniyoq
850.1
Perolniyoq
814.6
Perolniyoq
773.6
Pitukaylla
4,113.5
26
14
Pitukaylla
3,341.3
20
12
Pitukaylla
2,540.4
21
11
Pitukaylla
3,556.6
19
10
Pumamarka
1,891.6
15
10
Pumamarka
1,647.7
10
Pumamarka
1,461.7
12
Pumamarka
1,823.4
14
Pumamarka
1,396.0
Pumamarka
1,521.1
10
Quellorajay
1,068.6
20
Quellorajay
1,116.3
14
Raqaypahua
2,465.3
20
14
Raqaypahua
2,453.1
20
13
Rumira
2,404.3
33
24
Rumira
2,381.9
32
22
Sallaqaqa
6,609.1
46
24
Sallaqaqa
6,152.7
42
22
Saratuhuaylla
1,897.7
17
18
Saratuhuaylla
1,059.4
16
16
Simapukio
3,012.2
22
12
Simapukio
2,917.4
23
12
Sulkan
2,463.7
21
14
Sulkan
2,033.7
Sulkan
1,919.2
10
Wata
4,076.7
25
14
12
Wata
3,099.1
22
Wata
4,503.8
13
Wata
4,809.2
10
Wata
3,298.2
10

Table 3 (continued)
Name
Archtype
Wata
Wata
Wata
Wata
VS (ha)
APU
MON
VSALL
VSIM
6,397.8
6,070.3
10
5,480.9
11
3,236.5
VS (ha) the overall viewshed from each locus (in hectares), APU the quantity of glaciated peaks that can be
seen from the locus, MON the quantity of Inka monumental spaces that can be seen from the locus, VSALL
the quantity of archaeological sites that can be seen from the locus, VSIM the quantity of archaeological
sites that can be seen within an immediate area
However, we found that the location of the more elaborate residential types often
affords greater visibility of specific environmental features. For instance, there are
patterned relationships between R3 architectural types and the visibility of the
glaciated mountain peaks (apus), which are especially important to local ceremonial
practice 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, our
analysis considers the differential perception of glaciated mountain peaks. Such peaks
were most likely revered or attributed cultural importance since they were both water
sources and salient environmental features. In our survey area, one or more glaciated
peaks are visible from the majority (89.7%) of R3 spaces (in comparison, one or more
glaciated 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 glaciated
peaks can be seen at once. These more elaborate Inka spaces and residences may have
been perceived in terms of their immediate and more pronounced link to these
mountains, a link that may have bolstered Inka elite claims to divine authority (cf.
Williams and Nash 2006).
Fig. 4 These graphs illustrate differences in the overall viewsheds from the architectural categories
considered within the sample. The box plot (left) shows the mean, range, and outliers of viewsheds among
the architectural categories, as well as the background (BG) sample. The means plot (right) shows the
differences in viewshed means
Kosiba and Bauer
Similarly, it appears as though the more elaborate residential architecture types

were positioned so as to maximize visibility of particular spaces and sites. We
recorded the percentage of archaeological sites and monumental Inka structures that
are visible within a 1-km radius from the R1R3 structures of our sample. Percentages were calculated as the amount of visible sites relative to the amount of recorded
or actual sites within the 1-km radius. Using these parameters, we found that a greater
quantity of such immediate sites was visible from the more elaborate architectural
spaces (R2R3) than the commoner architectural types (t02.031; df0116.8; sig. at
0.05 level, equal variances not assumed). Also, one or more Inka monumental sectors
including R3 architecture or formal plazas are visible from the majority (84.6%) of
R1 spaces, which suggests that it was important for civic or ceremonial architecture to
be visible from the commoner residential spaces (one or more monumental spaces are
visible from 52.8% of the R2 spaces and 37.9% of the R3 spaces). Hence, the more
elaborate residential structures seem to be built in places that maximize surveillance
of commoners residences. The commoner residences are situated within the shadows
of Inka monumental spaces as if to enhance the presence of state authority within the
daily lives of Inka subjects.
Also, the analysis revealed how social distinctions may have been grounded in the
topography of the narrow valleys themselves. The settlement enclaves are located
within 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 within
the 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 the
architectural categories. This intervisibility at the local level may have fostered a
sense of community, facilitated the integration of tasks, provided for (at least an
appearance of) heightened security, and increased communication between residents
of separate villages. In addition, it is notable that only a single glaciated peak (apu) is
visible from the majority of spaces within each settlement enclave. These particular
peaks would have framed the daily experience of the people inhabiting a particular
area, and only that area, perhaps engendering a personal relationship between specific
communities and environmental features, much like how local social groups often
claim genealogical relations with mountain peaks in the contemporary Andes (Allen
2002; Bastien 1985).
Altogether, the regional analysis suggests patterned relations between the Inka
residential architectural types and particular kinds of environmental settings, practices, and perceptions. More elaborate residential types appear to be spatially and
symbolically linked to salient cultural and environmental features: productive maize
land, glaciated peaks, and spaces for collective ceremony. The location and environmental context of these more elaborate residential spaces thus suggest that their
occupants sought to establish privileged social and economic relations to valued
aspects of their environmentperhaps to directly control or oversee specific lands.
Conversely, the less elaborate architectural types are most often situated between the
major socioeconomic production zones and typically have a direct visual relationship
with one or more monumental spaces. Such architectural types appear to correspond
to a commoner/worker social position defined by labor within different economic
resource zones, and a subservient relationship to state-controlled spaces for ceremonial activity. Overall, the macro-scale analysis begins to reveal the contours of a
landscape sharply defined by social and spatial boundaries and categoriesphysical

impediments like the walls that surround R3 spaces, as well as compartmentalized
environmental settings like the special locales within which many of the Inka elite
seem to have dwelled. In order to further comprehend these social and spatial
boundaries, we must inquire into how they were perceived and experienced by the
people that inhabited them.
Micro-scale
The majority of settlements within our sample contain distinct and differentiated
sectors: a patchwork of Inka residences, formal plazas, mortuary sectors, and agricultural terraces. But there are striking differences in the organization and demarcation of these spaces within different settlements. In the following analysis, we
examine the spatial organization of two Inka period sitesWata and Paqpayoq.
We seek to understand how differences in the residential architecture of these sites
corresponded to distinct spatial layouts, and by implication, how different kinds of
spatial organization might have influenced the ways that people engaged with their
local environment.
We focus on these settlements because they allow us to analyze architectural and
organizational differences between Inka elite and commoner residential spaces. Wata
is a relatively large (27 ha), partially fortified elite settlement and ceremonial site
positioned on a ridge-top between maize agricultural land and a high-altitude pastoral
plain (Figs. 5 and 6). Paqpayoq is a smaller (6 ha) commoner village situated on a
Fig. 5 Plan of Wata showing how different sectors are spatially segregated by the sites massive wall
Kosiba and Bauer

Fig. 6 Wata
gradual hillside near verdant maize agricultural land (Fig. 7).6 The majority of
residential structures within Wata are R2 or R3 buildings. Paqpayoq contains
predominantly R1 buildings. Despite differences in residential architecture, the settlements are comparable in various ways. Both Wata and Paqpayoq contain similar
kinds of spaces, such as mortuary sectors, plazas, storage structures, platforms, and
discrete residential areas. At both sites, the WAP intensive surface collections found
higher densities of Inka polychrome serving vessel fragments near plaza and mortuary sectors, suggesting that similar kinds of feasting and mortuary veneration practices were staged within specific spaces of these sites. Moreover, both Wata and
Paqpayoq are Inka settlements built over preexisting pre-Inka sites. Architectural
analysis, excavations, and radiocarbon dates suggest that Wata was quickly reconstructed during the early phases of the Inka period, in the mid fourteenth century
(Kosiba 2010). Architectural analysis and stratigraphy (of looters pits) at Paqpayoq
suggest that it was rebuilt in the mid to late fourteenth century. Since early Inka state
formation in Cuzco was in part predicated upon the spatial reorganization of local
settlements and landscapes (Covey 2006; Kosiba 2010, 2012), the study of these sites
provides a glimpse of how the Inkas implanted a new social order by constructing
new 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 Wata and Paqpayoq examine the Inka period architectural layout of these sites. Kosiba collected over
6,500 topographic points while mapping Wata and over 3,000 points while mapping
Paqpayoq. Topographic points were taken at intervals of 2 m or less. Surface collection
units (5-m radius) were set up throughout both sites using a stratified systematic unaligned
sampling 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
6
The WAP survey initially classified Pacpayoq as two sites located upon the upper and lower portions of a
hillside (W-135 and W-137). In this intra-site analysis, the hillside is treated as a single settlement.
Fig. 7 Plan of Paqpayoq
artifacts and architectural types, potential pathways and intra-site viewsheds. In

particular, we used detailed maps to consider the depth (Hillier and Hanson
1984) of ceremonial or political spaces like plazas and mortuary sectors. Depth refers
to 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 qualitative
dimensions to this study of depth, taking into account the number of windows or
doorways 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 on
a particular path (see Kaiser 2011). We also computed a series of viewsheds to gauge
the degree to which the architecture and topography of each site affect the visibility of
architectural features, ceremonial spaces and/or activity areas.
To conduct the intra-site viewsheds, topographic surfaces (a triangulated irregular
network (TIN) and a digital elevation model (DEM)) of each site were generated from
detailed mapping using a total station. The TIN surface was used to edit errant points
and model terrace walls. Terraces and platforms were added to the TINs as hard
breaklines. The TIN was then converted into a raster DEM. Architectural features
were drawn as polygons, and then converted to raster features corresponding to
feature heights. Building and wall heights were added to the architectural raster
according to estimates and measurements made in the field: R1 and R2 buildings
Kosiba and Bauer
were attributed 23 m in height; R3 buildings were assigned 34 m in height; the

perimeter wall at Wata was attributed 45 m in height; and tombs structures were
allotted 1.52 m in height. These are conservative estimates since they do not take
into account the effect of pitched rooftops. Using a map algebra function, the
architectural-based raster values were then added to the topographic DEM (Fig. 8).
We calculated viewsheds from 35 loci within Wata and 30 loci within Paqpayoq.7
Sample points were taken in open spaces: house patios, platforms and plazas. Viewsheds from a central point and four additional points at a distance of 5 min each
direction were combined to create a patched viewshed from each locus.
Wata
At Wata, architectural styles and forms demarcate distinct kinds of spaces. An immense
wall divides the settlement into discrete residential areas. This wall was raised during the
initial phases of Inka state formation, when the long-occupied political center and town at
Wata was partially demolished and then rebuilt at a monumental, and definitively Inka,
scale (Kosiba 2010). Preexisting buildings and terraces within Wata were converted
into the foundations of Inka structures. The Inka period walls at Wata separate a
commoner residential sector from a ceremonial sector and town. The walled space at
Wata appears to be a fortified elite residential area, not unlike the castles of medieval
Europe or Rajasthan, India. Intramural and extramural sectors are further distinguished by architectural styles. Archetypical commoner houses (R1) are evenly
spaced 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 the
principal pathway of the site. The main ceremonial spaces at Wata (the plaza and
mortuary sector) are conspicuous in their monumentality. Their walls display recognizable symbols of Inka prestige, like double jamb doorways, double frame windows
and trapezoidal niches (e.g., Gasparini and Margolies 1980; Kendall 1976; McEwan
1998; Niles 1987). Enormous buildings (R3) surround the plaza space at Wata,
restricting its access and obscuring it from onlookers (see below), while two walls
enclose the mortuary sector (Wilkapata). In short, intramural spaces are monumental
and stylistically complex, while extramural spaces are simple and unadorned.
In addition to defining different sectors, the sheer walls and steep slopes of Wata
would have limited movement to prescribed pathways. There are only two entrances
within the sites 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. The
pathways themselves constrain movement: as they cut through the sites vertical
terraces and precipitous rock outcrops, they require subjects to enter baffled doorways, ascend formal staircases, and enter multiple platforms in order to access the
patchwork of enclosed spaces across Wata. The platforms are arranged like checkpoints en route to the sites monumental plaza. Narrow ramps or stairs constrain
access 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 much
alike. Similar overall viewsheds were generated. The different surfaces revealed the visibility of the same
environmental features. We used the DEM in this analysis since it yields a smoother surface for visual
analysis and presentation. Since the viewshed analyis largely considers visibility of specific environmental
features, there is no reason to assume that one of these topographic surfaces is more accurate than another.
Fig. 8 Graphics illustrating the 3D models of Wata. The TIN is pictured on the left while the resulting
raster DEM is pictured on the right
groups of people that might proceed to the plaza space. Additionally, doors and
windows of R3 structures open onto the platforms, suggesting that people were
monitored while crossing Wata. In stark contrast to the walled sector of Wata,
houses within the extramural sector conform to the undulating terrain, creating a
network of interlinked and integrated open spaces among structural terraces.
In considering the viewshed analyses within Wata, we see that the architecture and
topography of Wata both directs and constrains ones visibility of key spaces and
environmental features. No point within Wata affords greater visibility of the entire
settlement than any other. But different areas of the site seem to have been specifically
elaborated 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 in
the sites wall, as well as the Wilkapata tomb sector. In so doing, this platform establishes
a connection to history and tradition, using a recognizable idiom to immediately underscore the deeply rooted power of this place and perhaps the people contained therein.
However, the primary ceremonial spaces of Wata are largely hidden from visibility. A person standing within the extramural domestic sector could not see the
activities that took place within the intramural area (Fig. 9). While this person could
have heard ceremonies occurring, and perhaps seen the smoke from fires, their visual
perception of these events was prohibited, just as their entry was barred by the baffled
Fig. 9 A 3D representation (on a
TIN surface) of a viewshed from
the extramural residential sector
of Wata. The topography and
architecture of this site restricts
visibility of intramural ceremonial sectors. The X marks the
viewer location
Kosiba and Bauer
entryways and controlled pathways of Wata. Most remarkably, the sites ceremonial
plaza is only visible once one has traversed the entire siteit is not visible from the
central intramural pathway until one is within 100 m of the plazas edge (Fig. 10a, b).
Likewise, the mortuary complex contained within Wilkapata is hidden from view by
two high walls, even though the central prominence of Wilkapata can be seen from
the majority of our sample loci (81.3%). A person standing in areas lower than sector
Wilkapata could not see the activities that were occurring within this central area.
In addition, the viewsheds suggest that the spatial organization of Wata provides
for surveillance of intra-site spaces and the surrounding terrain (Fig. 10a, b). Select
platforms and buildings within Wata were situated in places that maximize visibility
of pathways and open spaces outside of the sites perimeter wall. There are several
intramural platforms that provide general visibility of the extramural sector, as well as
the area into which an incoming party would arrive before entering the site. Furthermore, there are three distinct intramural platforms that provide direct visibility of the
Inka roads that ascend to Wata. From these points, an incoming party can easily be
signaled or seen at a distance of over two kilometers.
In localities like Wata, physical boundaries are rigid and finite. Architecture and
topography constrain movement, restrict access, and limit perception of different spaces.
The intramural space is defined by an architecture of exclusivity that appears to declare
at once the heightened social and political significance of particular places. In the
Fig. 10 a Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Wata, including the viewshed sample loci
(top); an example of the limited visibility to and from the plaza (middle); and an example the surveillance
potential of intramural spaces at Wata (bottom). b Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Wata,
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 of
the surveillance potential of select platform spaces (bottom)
Ollantaytambo area, we find a similar spatial layout at other Inka settlements that include
many R2 and R3 residential structures. At the partially fortified town of Pumamarka, a
cyclopean wall surrounds a cluster of monumental buildings, plazas, and elite baths
(Fig. 11). This walled sector is architecturally distinct from the agglomeration of R1
and R2 structures that rest upon a hillside below. Internal plaza spaces are not visible
until one is within them. Spaces within Pumamarka are controlled and compartmentalized, while pathways are restricted. Much like Wata, this was most likely the
fortified 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 one
is within the center of the site. There is only one entrance to Perolniyoq, and internal
pathways are limited by sheer rocks and imposing walls. The restricted access and
visibility of the site and the private arrangement of the internal spaces also suggest
that Perolniyoq was an elite residence or local palace. These places are both fortified
and sanctifiedtheir walls materialize claims to absolute authority and exclusivity.
Paqpayoq
In comparison, the spatial organization of Paqpayoq is far less rigidly defined than
that of Wata. Paqpayoqs architecture does not emplace physical or social boundaries
or differentiate spaces. Instead, architectural styles unify the social space of the
village. Residential spaces and terraces at Paqpayoq seamlessly morph into an
agricultural 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 precinct
contains baths, a feasting hall (kallanka) and several plazas. Storage structures, a residential area and
agricultural fields are situated outside of the wall
Kosiba and Bauer
are a common denominator that underlie and define these spaces of production and
consumption, life and death (Fig. 7). Houses (R1) are spaced at regular intervals upon
the terraces. Throughout the settlement, there are minimal differences in the stylistic
elaboration of these housesthe only difference is that small rectangular structures
are attached to some houses, implying storage at the household level. Small, rustic
niches are observable within some of the buildings with preserved walls, suggesting
that this kind of architectural adornment was common throughout the village. The
only discernible buildings that vary from the architectural standard at Paqpayoq are
the larger (R2) buildings that are situated near the plaza. But even though these
buildings are larger, their architectural style is consistent with the rest of the site: they
are made of the same materials and exhibit the same features as the R1 houses, thus
extending the general architectural aesthetic of the village. The tomb sector is also
architecturally uniform. It consists of individual tower tombs (chullpas), each of them
exhibiting analogous orientations, dimensions, morphological attributes, platforms
and doors.
Similar to Watas extramural sector, few architectural features constrain movement at Paqpayoq. Terraces within Paqpayoq are relatively small (an average height
of 1.2 m) and can be accessed from a variety of openings and stairs. Houses at
Paqpayoq often face away from pathways and are oriented toward internal patio
spaces, 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 houses patio if walking
across the settlement. Furthermore, Paqpayoqs ceremonial spaces are relatively
permeable. The plaza is accessible from several points. And although there are two
R2 buildings near the plaza, they do not enclose the plaza space; rather, they flank
one 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 only
restricted spaces within Paqpayoq are the residential patios themselves, which, much
like 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 openness
characterize this residential space (Fig. 12). There is no significant difference in the
Fig. 12 Viewshed sample loci at
Paqpayoq
overall extent of viewsheds within Paqpayoq. But, distinct from Wata, there are
remarkable similarities in what can be seen from the sample loci at Paqpayoq. Tombs
within 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 group
patios (78.6%) (Fig. 14a, b). One can see the plaza sector, or anyone entering it, from
nearly any point within the site. Also, one can see the entire settlement from various
loci. The mortuary sector provides broad visibility of the village (Fig. 14a). Only the
interior patios of the house-building groups cannot be seen from the mortuary sector.
Overall, the viewsheds emphasize visibility of mortuary and plaza sectors while
constraining perception of individual house patios.
At Paqpayoq, there is little indication of a general surveillance framework. R2
structures do not allow for greater visibility of other spaces within the settlement, as
would be expected if these R2 spaces housed elites who watched over the community.
There is limited intervisibility between the patios of the house groupstypically,
only 23 patios of other houses are visible from a single house patio.
But an Inka subject within the terraces or pathways of Paqpayoq could have seen
and been seen from many spaces within the site. The only hindrance to movement or
perception would perhaps have been ones knowledge of or inclusion within the
community. That is, the distinct boundaries of this village as a whole suggest that it
was a sharply defined space. Due to the open sightlines and pathways of the village, a
stranger entering Paqpayoq might have appeared just as conspicuously out of place
as one entering Wata. Thus, at Paqpayoq, an open spatiality would have accentuated
the social proximity of community members while distancing them from outsiders.
In sum, the absence of physical boundaries at Paqpayoq most likely corresponded
to a distinct kind of social practice and perception. The architecture and topography
of Paqpayoq heightens a sense of inclusivity that orients people to the local community and accentuates the village as a whole while emphasizing distinctions between
people from this particular village and another. This kind of spatial organization is
also apparent at other settlements throughout the Ollantaytambo area, especially
villages 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 (on
a TIN surface with polygon architectural features added) of a
viewshed from a household patio
in Paqpayoq. The analyses
revealed how one could see the
tomb sector from the majority of
house patios within Paqpayoq.
The X marks the viewer location
Kosiba and Bauer
Fig. 14 a Schematic 2D representations of viewsheds from Paqpayoq, including an example of the high
visibility 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 visibility
of plaza and tomb sectors from such household spaces
verifies that, by and large, settlements dominated by R1 architecture types replicate

the kind of relatively open and permeable spatial layout exemplified by the extramural sector at Wata, or the dramatically open and highly permeable layout of the
undulating 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 to
understand the key differences in spatial organization that assembled an Inka political
landscape. Throughout the region, distinct kinds of residential spaces coincide with
local differences in architectural and environmental design. Boundaries are evident
within the spatial layout of some places while they are conspicuously absent in others.
More elaborate residential structures are often situated in locales that afford physical
and perceptual access to culturally salient environmental features: expansive plazas
for collective ceremony, the snow-capped mountain peak deities that literally held
invaluable sources of water, and the verdant maize fields that provided both subsistence and ceremonial foods. Conversely, less elaborate residences are most commonly located outside of the towering walls of monumental precincts, or within small
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. More
elaborate residences are often situated within a rigid spatial layout meant to control
movement, direct perception and heighten a sense of propriety and obeisance. Indeed,
within the cyclopean walls of Wata, social actors are required to conform to the spatial
layout of the site itself. Generally, pathways within the intramural space of Wata are
restricted, and viewsheds reflect an architectural layout designed to foreground the
exclusivity of ceremonial spaces. In contrast, the spatial organization of Paqpayoq
emphasizes physical connections and linkages between buildings, tombs and agricultural terrace spaces. The permeable environmental design at Paqpayoq seems to emphasize the inclusion of community members within a tightly knit, planned spatial and
social structure that stresses spatial (and perhaps social) homogeneity.
These kinds of Inka spatial organization and environmental design are not limited
to the Ollantaytambo area, suggesting that the Inkas were particularly concerned with
creating elite spaces that emphasized exclusion and commoner spaces that accentuated inclusion. For instance, the multiple perimeter walls, formal doorways and
monumental buildings of Pisaqan Inka royal estate within the eastern Vilcanota
valleyrestrict access and direct movement in a similar way to spaces within Wata.
The culturally salient features of Pisaq are not visible until one is very close to them.
The carved boulders and intricate fountains of the Intiwatana sector are enclosed
within monumental structures, suggesting that such spaces were highly regulated and
controlled (Angles Vargas 1970: 4041; Hyslop 1984: 299). Distinct sectors of the
site are connected only by a singular pathway, which is hewn into the exposed rock of
the 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 rock
outcrops can only be seen once one has climbed a formal Inka stairway, and they can
only be accessed through discrete walled entryways, flanked by massive buildings. A
feeling of panoptical surveillance is pervasive at Tipon: as one ascends and traverses
its 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 sites
is similarly restricted, limited in access, and hidden from view (Gasparini and
Margolies 1980: 188190; Niles and Batson 2007; Protzen 1991). Looking farther
afield, we see this propensity to demarcate, define, and control space at monumental
sites throughout the Inka domain (see Morris and Santillana 2007).
Furthermore, a permeable and homogenous spatial layout similar to Paqpayoq is
evident at many planned Inka commoner villages throughout the Cuzco region. At
Raqay Raqayniyoq in the Cuzco Basin, architecturally standard residential structures
are arranged along a gradually sloping hillside, with several potential pathways
between them (Niles 1987: 3137). Our architectural measurements of 25 buildings
at Raqay Raqayniyoq are remarkably similar to R1 structures within the Ollantaytambo area, suggesting that a standard house design roughly corresponded to a
standard village design. Above the airport in the Cuzco Valley, the remains of
Qotakalli present a more ordered picture of Inka commoner village organization.
Buildings within this settlement conform to an orthogonal layout. But, much like
other Inka commoner villages, pathways and access points within Qotakalli are open
and permeable (see Niles 1987: 3740).
Kosiba and Bauer
In attending to these differences in spatial organization, we see how a

unitary Inka political landscape was assembled through the production of
diverse environments. The Inka landscape of the Cuzco region was certainly
constituted by a recognizable aesthetic of power, a claim to absolute authority
that was expressed and supported by august monumental architecture and
strategically positioned administrative centers. Yet this aesthetic, this appearance
of regional coherence, relies upon a fragmented and fractured landscapea
series of sharp internal boundaries that would have influenced the ways that
different people engaged with and perceived their environment.
The data thus provide a preliminary glimpse of a political regimes strategy to
shape social experience and perception, and in so doing, to create an ordered social
and political landscape. The social and spatial boundaries recorded here are the
remains of a state project to create a legible landscape (Scott 1998; see also Mitchell
1988; Smith 2003). Such a project seeks to monitor, divide, and differentiate space
according to a governmental and administrative fantasy of rational order (Alonso
1994; Rose 1996). In considering such a state project, we must also examine how
space is often designed to be read by users in specific ways. The example here
suggests that Inka subjects inhabited an environment that bolstered and produced
ideas of social distinction. Space appears to be ordered and classed. Put simply, to
be an Inka subject was to know ones 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 perspective
complements more conventional econometric and interpretative approaches by
revealing how a semblance of cultural or social consistencya region
coexists alongside, and is constituted by, a geography of discernable social
and environmental differences. Archaeological GIS analyses would do well to
further develop techniques for uncovering how social categories and distinctions
are constituted in multiple, often contrasting environments. After all, the social
distinctions and boundaries that underpin a political landscape do not simply
emanate from monuments or settlement networks. Such boundaries are reproduced in the very places, practices, and perceptions through which people
define, engage with, and live within their environment.
This paper provided a view of how archaeologists might use GIS to examine how
distinct subject positions and social statuses are in part constituted through material and
environmental differences in the perception and experience of spaces and places
differences that social actors must have managed and mediated through practice (sensu
Harvey 1996). The analysis demonstrates how the investigation of interrelated multiscalar spatial data sets can lead to productive interpretations of how various social
actors may have perceived, experienced, and used spaces and places in different
ways. Such an approach demands that we consider how political power is produced
and maintained through space by examining how visions of social inequality are often
supported by geographies of difference.

Acknowledgments We thank Adam Smith, Alan Kolata, Kathleen Morrison, Royal Ghazal, Maureen
Marshall, Alan Greene, Michelle Lelivre, Rebecca Graff, and Meredith McGuire for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. We also appreciate the insightful comments of three anonymous
reviewers. Brian Bauer, Alan Covey, Luis Cuba Pea, Vicentina Galiano Blanco, and Graham Hannegan
provided invaluable advice throughout the Wata Archaeological Project. The Paqpayoq map was drawn in
part by Axel Aroz Silva, with important corrections provided by Yeshica Amado Galiano. A FulbrightHays fellowship and a National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement Grant provided funding for
the Wata Archaeological Project. The University of Chicagos Committee on Southern Asian Studies and
the Department of Anthropology provided travel support for the delivery of an early version of this paper at
the Society for American Archaeologys 71st annual meeting. The ASTER data used in this study are a
product of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) and Japans Ministry of Economy,
Trade and Industry (METI).
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Mapping The Political Landscape - Steve Kosiba y Andrew Bauer

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J Archaeol Method Theory

Mapping the Political Landscape: Toward a GIS

# Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2012

Kosiba and Bauer

cultural meaning of particular places to political economic assessments of how past

Contrasting Landscapes Within Archaeological GIS Analyses

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

attributes of GIS analyses obscure local cultural understandings of the environment

Kosiba and Bauer

regardless of political and historical particularities. In so doing, interpretative

Mapping the Political Landscape

architecture bolsters a political ideology by directing and constraining peoples

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Similarly, it appears as though the more elaborate residential architecture types

Mapping the Political Landscape

landscape sharply defined by social and spatial boundaries and categoriesphysical

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Fig. 7 Plan of Paqpayoq

artifacts and architectural types, potential pathways and intra-site viewsheds. In

Kosiba and Bauer

were attributed 23 m in height; R3 buildings were assigned 34 m in height; the

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

verifies that, by and large, settlements dominated by R1 architecture types replicate

Discussion: Legible Boundaries and Inclusive and Exclusive Spaces

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

In attending to these differences in spatial organization, we see how a

Conclusions: A Geography of Difference

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

Kosiba and Bauer

Mapping the Political Landscape

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