1491 (42 page)

A better answer might be one implicit in Robert Temple’s book,
The Genius of China,
a history of Chinese science and technology published in 1998. According to Temple, the Chinese invented the moldboard plow by the third century
B.C.
Made of cast iron, the plowshare was shaped like a V, with the blade carving into the ground and the two arms arcing away like gull wings. Because the arms were curved, they turned the earth away from the blade, which both reduced friction and more effectively plowed the soil. (The “moldboard” is the curved plowshare; the name comes from
mold,
the Old German word for soil.)

The design of the moldboard plow is so obvious that it seems incredible that Europeans never thought of it. Until the Chinese-style plow was imported in the seventeenth century, farmers in France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, and other states labored to shove what amounted to a narrow slab of metal through the earth. “The increased friction meant that huge multiple teams of oxen were required, whereas Chinese plows could make do with a single ox,” Temple explained. The European failure to think up the moldboard, according to science historian Teresi, was “as if Henry Ford designed the car without an accelerator, and you had to put the car in neutral, brake, and go under the hood to change speed. And then we did this for 2,000 years.”

European agricultural production exploded after the arrival of the moldboard plow. The prosperity this engendered was one of the cushions on which the Enlightenment floated. “So inefficient, so wasteful of effort, and so utterly exhausting” was the old plow, Temple wrote, “that this deficiency of plowing may rank as mankind’s single greatest waste of time and energy.” Millions of Europeans spent centuries behind the plow, staring at the blade as it ineffectively mired itself in the earth. How could none of them have thought of changing the design to make the plow more useful?

The complexity of a society’s technology has little to do with its level of social complexity—something that we, in our era of rapidly changing, seemingly overwhelming technology, have trouble grasping. Every society, big or little, misses out on “obvious” technologies. The lacunae have enormous impact on people’s lives—imagine Europe with efficient plows or the Maya with iron tools—but not much effect on the scale of a civilization’s endeavors, as shown by both European and Maya history. The corollary is that widespread and open trade in ideas is the best way to make up for the lacunae. Alas, Mesoamerica was limited in this respect. Like Europe, it was an extraordinarily diverse place with a shared cultural foundation. But where Europe had the profoundly different civilizations of China and Islam to steal from, Mesoamerica was alone in the world.

Or seemed to be, anyway.

A SLICE OF PERU

About a hundred miles north of the Peru-Chile border, the coastal highway passes by an uninhabited beach ringed by a tall chain-link fence. The fence has an entrance with a gigantic, stylized statue of a woman with huge earrings. By the statue hangs a faded banner:
Bolivia Mar.

When Bolivia declared its independence it had a territorial pseudopod that extended southwest from its Andean heartland through the Atacama Desert to the sea. The land was useless for agriculture but had four plausible seaports and huge underground deposits of prehistoric guano, which Chilean companies mined and shipped to Europe for fertilizer. (Bolivia, then as now impoverished, didn’t have the capital for this industry.) In 1878, Hilarion Daza, the illegitimate son of an Italian acrobat, seized power in Bolivia. Immediately he raised taxes on the Chilean-owned guano mines, which the previous Bolivian government had promised not to do. Outraged, Chile rolled its army into the area. In vain did Bolivia counterattack with its ally, Peru; Chile simply repelled their incompetently led forces and took over the entire territory, as well as a chunk of southern Peru. Ejected in an outburst of popular anger, Daza fled to Europe, taking most of Bolivia’s treasury with him.

Chile finally returned most of Peru’s territory in 1929 but never gave back any land to Bolivia—an outcome that nation has never accepted. To this day, Bolivia’s parliament has a representative from the lost maritime province. The Miss Bolivia contest always includes a contestant ostensibly from the coast. Maps are sold in which the conquered land is still part of Bolivia.

In a gesture to its longtime, long-suffering ally, Peru symbolically gave two miles of its shoreline to Bolivia in 1992. Bolivia Mar—Bolivia-by-the-Sea—is a little island of Bolivia entirely surrounded by Peru. It has no facilities of any kind, so far as I could tell when I passed by. Private enterprise was supposed to build an industrial duty-free port in Bolivia Mar. Thus far the free market has not accepted the challenge. Every now and then parties of Bolivians drive down to Bolivia Mar to swim—a political gesture.

The main highway from Bolivia Mar to Bolivia itself follows the Osmore Valley, cutting a perfect sectional slice through Peru on the way. For the first fifteen miles the road climbs through a desert landscape almost devoid of settlement and prone to fog. Then the road hits a plateau and the fog dissipates. The landscape that comes into view is so dry that in most years the Osmore River simply disappears into the desert.

Around the small city of Moquegua the river hoves back into view and the highway abruptly pitches into the Cordillera Negra. The windshield fills with enough canyons, bluffs, mesas, and cliffs for a dozen
Road Runner
cartoons. Standing higher than its neighbors, at an altitude of about eight thousand feet, is a wide pillar of rock with a rounded, convoluted top that vaguely resembles the rounded, convoluted top of a human brain. The pillar is called Cerro Baúl. For about two hundred years, it was the sole meeting ground of two of the Americas’ largest societies—societies similar in scale to, say, the Maya realm, but much less well known.

The two states, Wari and Tiwanaku, were probably the greatest of the Inkas’ forerunners, and certainly the predecessors from whom they took the most. In their separate ways, both were children of Norte Chico. They worshipped figures in Staff God poses, lived in networks of vertical exchange, and had public architecture with designs based on templates from the coast. But in other ways they were as different from each other as Sicily and Scandinavia. Of the two, Wari was the more conventional, centralized state. Based east of Lima in the Andes heights, it first became prominent in the sixth century
A.D.—
a bad time to be launching a nation on the Pacific side of South America. At about that time, Andean societies were assailed by the first of several decades-long droughts, paradoxically interrupted by El Niño–induced floods. Some polities may have disintegrated beneath the climatic assault, but Wari thrived. The principal reason for its success was its innovative techniques of terracing and irrigation, the latter being used to implement the former. Surprisingly, Peru has more arable land above nine thousand feet than below. By diverting snowmelt from the ever-present Andes icecaps to high farm terraces, Wari was able literally to rise above the drought and flooding of lower elevations.

 

An anomaly in the southern Andes foothills, the great stone of Cerro Baúl dominates the neighboring slopes. On its summit are the remains of a Wari city.

 

The staple crop of the highlands was the potato, which unlike maize regularly grows at altitudes of 14,000 feet; the tubers, cultivated in hundreds of varieties, can be left in the ground for as long as a year (as long as the soil stays above 27°F), to be dug up and cooked when needed. Even frozen potatoes could be used. After letting freezing night temperatures break down the tubers’ cell walls, Andean farmers stomped out the water content to make dried
chuño,
a nigh-indestructible foodstuff that could be stored for years. (The potato’s cold tolerance spurred its embrace by European peasants. Not only did potatoes grow in places where other crops could not, the plant was an ally in smallholders’ ceaseless struggle against the economic and political elite. A farmer’s barnful of wheat, rye, or barley was a fat target for greedy landlords and marauding armies; buried in the soil, a crop of potatoes could not be easily seized.) Maize, though, was what people wanted, the grain of choice for the elite—it was what you made
chicha
from. Its prestige was another reason for Wari’s success. Because terraces soak up more sunlight than steep slopes, maize can be grown at higher than usual altitudes on them; irrigation similarly increases the area available for maize farming.

In a process that Michael Moseley has likened to “patenting and marketing a major invention,” the Wari passed on their reclamation techniques to their neighbors, bringing a thousand-mile-long swath of the Peruvian Andes under their cultural sway. A sign of their influence was the spread of the Wari religion, in which the figure archaeologists call Staff God was dominant—though the Wari transformed the staff, as if to remind others of their agricultural beneficence, into a stalk of maize. By the end of the first millennium
A.D.,
Wari techniques had reclaimed more than a million acres of cropland from mountainsides that almost anywhere else would have been regarded as impossibly dry, steep, and cold. Today three-quarters of the terraces are abandoned, and the alpine landscape has not regained the productivity it had a thousand years ago. But until the Spanish conquest Andean valleys were so thoroughly punctuated by Wari-inspired terraces that to the Jesuit Bernabé Cobo they looked “as if they were covered with flights of stairs.”

Wari’s capital city, also named Wari, occupied an alpine plateau near the modern city of Ayacucho. Construction began in the first few centuries
A.D.
The city ultimately spread across two square miles, an array of two- and three-story buildings in compounds behind massive walls. Both peasant homes and great palaces were built in similar styles, according to William H. Isbell, an anthropologist at the State University of New York at Binghamton, and Alexei Vranich, an archaeologist at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Everything was enclosed behind high, white walls, in what the two researchers described in 2004 as a hive of “repetitive, modular cells organized in high-walled geometric blocks.” There were no standout public buildings, no great public spaces, no spectacular vistas—only a thicket of walls and narrow streets strewn with garbage (archaeologists have turned up so few clean floors and surfaces, Isbell and Vranich wrote, “that it is apparent that Wari people experienced domestic refuse as benign and unthreatening”). Apparently the walls ringing and crisscrossing the city were intended for privacy, not protection; Wari was not located in an easily defended spot. Along the spine of the Andes the empire set up a string of a dozen administrative centers that were like smaller versions of the capital. These were not built with defense in mind, either. Indeed, there is little record of Wari warfare. Its supremacy was commercial and intellectual; it was based less on infantry troops than on innovative technology. All of which may explain some of its behavior in Cerro Baúl.

Wari emissaries arrived in Moquegua around 600
A.D.,
according to Patrick Ryan Williams and Donna V. Nash, Field Museum archaeologists who have been working there since the early 1990s. A simpler culture had already staked out the best farmland in the area. The Wari neither aggressively threw them out nor withdrew in dismay. Guided, one imagines, by instructions from headquarters, they quickly set up living quarters on Cerro Baúl itself. The big mesa is to this day regarded as an
apu,
an ancient spirit transfigured into rock. Thus putting a city directly on top of it was an arresting statement:
Here we are.

On a practical level, living on a five-hundred-yard-long mesa was a daunting task. To supply water, the Wari carved a fifteen-mile canal through the mountains from the peaks to the bottom of Cerro Baúl, an engineering feat that would be a challenge today. “And even that got water only to the bottom of the hill,” Williams told me. “After that, it was bucket brigades.” As I huffed and puffed on the wickedly steep, thirty-minute hike to the summit, he invited me to imagine a continuous line of servants exchanging ceramic jugs (slopping, brimful ones going up; light, empty ones going down) along the path, working day in and day out to provide water for the priests and princes above.

Small, rudely fashioned models of farmhouses and farmyards covered the top of the butte. Most of the models simply outlined walls, fences, and doors with loose stones, but some were elaborate constructions complete with plastic model cars, toy animals, and thatch roofs. People were climbing Cerro Baúl, building their maquettes, and praying that the heavens would give them the real-life equivalents. The miniature farms extended for hundreds of yards in all directions. Here and there, makeshift crosses and pictures of saints added a veneer of Catholicism to indigenous Andean belief. Some of the ruined Wari walls were covered with ruined model walls. “This is getting out of hand,” Williams said. “I don’t want to knock down somebody’s dream house to get to an archaeological site.”