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A Movement Misconstrued? AResponse to Gabriela Ramos'sInterpretation of Taki OnqoyJaymie HeilmanPublished online: 01 Jul 2010.

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Colonial Latin American Review, Vol. 11, No. 1, 2002

A Movement Misconstrued? A Response toGabriela Ramos’s Interpretation of Taki Onqoy*

Jaymie HeilmanUniversity of Wisconsin—Madison

Turning the fragile pages of a set of sixteenth-century documents in Seville’sArchivo General de Indias one 1963 day, historian Luis Millones found himselfreading a startling set of testimonies. The notarized words of Peruvian priests,encomenderos, and notables told of a millenarian movement among Indianpeoples from the highland region of Huamanga, a movement whose adherentspredicted the imminent and violent end of Spanish colonialism. Soon, very soon,Andean deities (huacas) would bring defeat to the Spaniards’ God and death toboth Spanish colonizers and their Indian collaborators. Only those Indians whorenounced all connections with Spaniards and Spanish culture would escape thisdeadly fate. The huacas’ plans were frightening, and so too was the way theyannounced those plans. The deities were using Huamanga Indians—men,women, and children alike—as their mediums, invading Indians’ bodies tospread word of their intentions . The possessed Indians would tremble, shake, anddance insanely, preaching of the impending doom. These taquionqos—thosesuffering from the “dancing sickness”—gained a following of over 8,000 Indiansover the course of the 1560s, and their rebellion threatened to overtake Lima,Jauja, and Cuzco.1 It was only because of a diligent anti-idolatry campaign underthe direction of the secular priest and visitador Cristobal de Albornoz thatSpaniards � nally managed to bring an end to the movement in mid-1571(Millones 1990, 11).

Luis Millones quickly published news of his discovery, � nding in that set ofsixteenth-century documents a powerful example of Andean resistance againstSpanish colonial abuses. Historians like Pierre Duviols, Nathan Wachtel, andSteve J. Stern among numerous others soon moved to study the Taki Onqoymovement in more detail, analyzing that same set of documents—the informa-ciones de servicios de Cristobal de Albornoz—for clues into the nature andmeaning of the movement. Historians interpreted the informaciones’ testimoniesas evidence of Indian agency, rebellion, and millenarian vision, and during the1970s, 1980s, and early 1990s they generated nearly two dozen books, articles,and chapters pertaining to the revolt. And then in 1992, the Peruvian scholarGabriela Ramos published her perspective on Taki Onqoy. Like so manyhistorians before her, Ramos had also carefully examined the informaciones . Butshe saw in those documents something very different from what her predecessorshad seen: she saw proof that much of the Taki Onqoy movement was a

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fabrication, an imaginative lie put forth by a careerist cleric and a power-hungryCatholic Church (Ramos 1992).

Ramos’s forcefully revisionist take on Taki Onqoy warrants a response. Hercareful attention to textual problems inside the informaciones raises criticalquestions about the nature—even the existence—of the Taki Onqoy movement,and her interpretation of those problems as evidence of clerical cunning is farfrom unreasonable. This brief essay attempts such a response, looking closely atthe informaciones’ purpose, construction, and contents to reinterpret the docu-ment set’s silences and discrepancies. What Ramos reads as ecclesiasticalmanipulation, I regard as a product of the informaciones’ function and makeup.My reading suggests that traditional scholarly understandings of the Taki Onqoyrebellion are accurate.

Building on earlier revisionist arguments that questioned the extent of the TakiOnqoy movement and linked Cristobal de Albornoz’s struggle against thetaquionqos with his careerism, Gabriela Ramos has charged that historiographi -cal takes on Taki Onqoy suffer from their undue reliance on a thoroughlyunreliable source, the informaciones.2 Ramos argues that historians were sointrigued by the exotic descriptions of millenarian revolt contained in theinformaciones that they simply accepted those descriptions literally and failed toproperly question their source’s credibility. Had historians actually taken acritical look at the informaciones , carefully examining each of its four compo-nent documents, they would have discovered the source to be full of troublingsilences, inconsistencies , and dubious claims. Four textual problems are es-pecially prominent: a total silence on Taki Onqoy in the 1569 informacion,witnesses’ failure to mention taquionqo dancing or huaca possession in the 1570text, discrepant accounts of the movement in the 1577 informacion, andwitnesses’ dependence on hearsay in both the 1577 and 1584 documents.

These textual problems are of serious consequence in Ramos’s interpretation.To her, the differences between and within the four informaciones establishproof of ecclesiastical mischief in relation to the Taki Onqoy movement. Thetremendous shifts between each successive document’s depiction of the move-ment suggest that the informaciones ’ compiler—Cristobal de Albornoz—pro-gressively constructed a tale about Taki Onqoy, inventing ever more dramaticdetails about the movement as his careerist ambitions heightened. Just asimportant, the disconnect between the testimonies from eyewitnesses to the TakiOnqoy revolt and the statements from those who learned of the movementthrough ecclesiastical circulars demonstrates that the Catholic Church alsoexaggerated claims about the rebellion, aiming to af� rm and consolidate Churchpower in early colonial Peru. These two factors compel Ramos to deem TakiOnqoy a quotation-marked “movement” and to argue that historians havemisconstrued both the scale and the nature of the rebellion. Ramos stops justshort of saying Taki Onqoy never happened, but that is the conclusion herargument implies (Ramos 1992, 149, 167).

As I hold the informaciones in my hands—my copy not the fragile originalbut a typewritten transcription with neatly bound and numbered pages—twoforms of response to Gabriela Ramos’s argument seem necessary. The � rst formentails a look beyond this set of documents to the much larger realm of colonial

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Latin American religious life. Existing historiography of that massive subjectarea shows that, for all its strange details, the Taki Onqoy case was not overlyexceptional. From Diego de Landa in the Yucatan to Juan Sarmiento de Viveroin Chancay to Hernando Ruiz de Alarcon in the New Spain parish of Atenango,colonial clerics found themselves in a continuing struggle against the religiousrecidivism of indigenous peoples (Clendinnen 1987; Sanchez 1991; Taylor 1996,63–68). In colonial Peru, ecclesiastical authorities’ concern about “idolatry”—their usual term for Andean religion—was so great that they launched“campaigns of extirpation” that ran intermittently from 1609 to 1670. Con-sidered in view of other colonial idolatry cases carefully examined by scholarslike Pierre Duviols, Nicholas Grif� ths, Pedro Guibovich, Kenneth Mills, andothers, Taki Onqoy seems in keeping with the general patterns of colonialAndean religious life, distinguished from other idolatry cases mainly by itswidespread popularity and its militancy. This contextualization alone helpsrender Albornoz’s claims about Taki Onqoy believable. But we can go furtherstill. In the Peruvian parish of San Pedro de Acas, Cajatambo, idolatry investiga-tor Bernardo de Novoa learned that local religious leaders were teaching that“the malquis and huacas are angered with the Indians” for worshipping theSpaniards’ God and these leaders predicted that if Indians continued to neglecttheir Andean gods they would suffer terrible illnesses and be condemned “towalk poor and desolate and […] all waste away” (Mills 1994, 116–17). Thereligious leaders’ message was strikingly similar to that preached by thetaquionqos , but what is especially interesting is the issue of timing: Novoa’sinvestigation in Acas began in 1656, almost a century after Cristobal deAlbornoz made his claims about Taki Onqoy (Mills 1994, 28). Indeed, Albornozcompiled his informaciones decades before any of the formal extirpationinvestigations even began in Peru. If Albornoz in fact invented many of thedetails of the Taki Onqoy movement, he proved incredibly prescient in hisimaginings of what an Andean religious rebellion would look like.

Reference to historical context is helpful, but contextualization alone cannotadequately address the queries that Gabriela Ramos has rightly raised. A secondform of response is needed, one that considers the composition and purpose ofAlbornoz’s informaciones . By thinking about what these documents were, andabout how and why Cristobal de Albornoz compiled them, I can begin to builda counter-interpretatio n of the textual problems that Ramos has pointed out.What I need � rst is a de� nition, a statement explaining what the informacionesactually were. The de� nition I have arrived at is this: the informaciones werenotarized testimonials from witnesses who detailed Albornoz’s clerical accom-plishments and merits for the purpose of recommending him for ecclesiasticalpromotions. Rather than judicial records documenting the statements of peoplesaccused of religious recidivism or of� cial reports detailing the situation inHuamanga, the informaciones were essentially four elaborate and legalisticletters of reference for Cristobal de Albornoz.

A consideration of the informaciones as a text makes one thing very clear:Gabriela Ramos is right, in part. Cristobal de Albornoz was indeed desperate fora promotion and he cast his efforts at combating Taki Onqoy as grounds for thatadvancement. There can be no mistaking that Albornoz sent these informaciones

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to the Spanish Crown with the express purpose of winning a higher clerical post.The opening lines of each document carefully noted that Albornoz was suppli-cating the Crown to promote him to a speci� c post. In 1569, Albornoz wasseeking a move from his position as visitador in Huamanga to one of tworecently vacated clerical posts. In 1570, he was seeking a transfer out ofHuamanga and in 1577 he wanted the Crown to place him in charge of idolatryextirpation in Cuzco. By 1584, Albornoz aimed for the Cuzco bishopric(Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 45, 60, 167, 204). Albornoz was ready to do muchto win these promotions. He was prepared to collect witnesses, hire notaries, anddraft leading questions for his witnesses to answer.3 He was also prepared to lie.As Ramos correctly notes, Albornoz admitted his reliance on a Quechua-speak-ing translator in the 1570 document, but in the 1577 and 1584 informaciones heclaimed to have spoken directly with Quechua Indians during his stay inHuamanga, so � uent in Quechua was he (Ramos 1992, 151–52; Albornoz[1569–1584] 1990, 64, 169, 205).

References to the Taki Onqoy movement played a primary role in Albornoz’spetitions for promotion. To win the advances he sought, Albornoz had to meetone or more of three Crown guidelines for ecclesiastical promotion: universityeducation, experience in similar positions , and anti-idolatry efforts (Taylor 1996,121–22). Albornoz, it seems, could satisfy only the last criterion.4 As such, heclearly needed Taki Onqoy to make himself appear worthy of promotion, and themore exotic and threatening the movement, the better he would look. Thepriest’s dependence upon the movement only increased as the late 1560sadvanced into the 1570s and 1580s, for Albornoz was not winning his desiredpromotions. The Church was instead awarding him only horizontal transfers,punctuated occasionally by temporary stays as provisor in substitution of anabsent bishop (Guibovich 1990, 30–34). Albornoz’s understandable temptationwould have been to exaggerate details of the movement to bolster his careeristprospects. Other Peruvian priests in different contexts and times had certainlydone as much (Acosta 1987; Grif� ths 1996, 149, 170). That temptation wouldhave been greatest in 1584, when Albornoz compiled the � nal—and mostdetailed—informacion. Not only had he gone 15 years without a meaningfulpromotion, Albornoz had also suffered a humiliating arrest two years earlier asa consequence of a complicated power struggle between his clerical superiors(Guibovich 1990, 32–33, 37). Though Albornoz’s incarceration was short-lived,that jail stay was a stain on his reputation and probably made the temptation toexaggerate the scale and character of Taki Onqoy almost overwhelming. It maywell be, as Ramos argues, that Albornoz actually succumbed to that temptationand fabricated details of the movement. It may also be that the Catholic Church,eager to ensconce its power, readily accepted and trumpeted that fabrication inan attempt to prove to lay Spaniards and Crown of� cials alike that the Churchwas crucial to the success of Spain’s colonial project.

Ramos’s argument that informaciones’ silences and shifts represent ecclesias-tical manipulations is a persuasive interpretation, but it is only that—an interpret-ation. By looking closer still at the informaciones , a different interpretation ispossible. This counter-interpretatio n holds that some of the silences in theinformaciones were actually intentional . Reaching this counter-interpretatio n

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requires recognition of the informaciones as a carefully constructed set ofdocuments. We need to understand that Cristobal de Albornoz exercised tremen-dous control over the informaciones; he made the choice to produce them andhe decided what form they would take. The priest also determined whichwitnesses he would ask to speak in his defense, selecting individuals respectableenough to make their words warrant attention and cooperative enough torecommend him highly. It seems no accident that the priest Luis de Olvera wasnot included in Albornoz’s group of witnesses for the 1569, 1570, and 1584documents, even though this priest had direct knowledge of Albornoz’s workagainst Taki Onqoy. The trouble with Olvera was twofold: the Church hadrecently reprimanded him for his abusive behaviors toward Indians, and Olverabelieved himself the � rst Spaniard to have discovered Taki Onqoy, probablymaking him none too eager to accept Albornoz’s claim of having single-hand-edly uncovered the movement (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 178–79).

The most critical source of Albornoz’s control over the informaciones camefrom the leading questions he posed to his witnesses. These questions—if theycan even reasonably be called questions—did not invite input from the witness;they invited straightforward af� rmation. Questions usually began with the phrase“Does the witness know that …” and then offered a paragraph-long burst ofinformation that the witness was to corroborate (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990,45–47, 62–66, 168–70, 204–6). One typical question asked if the witness knewthat Albornoz’s upstanding lifestyle served as an example to all Indians andSpaniards, and that he did all his work diligently and carefully as was suitableto the service of God. The same question went on to ask whether the witnessknew that Albornoz had provided Indians with Christian doctrine and castigatedtheir rituals, ceremonies, and public sins with moderate punishments. Thatquestion went further still, asking if the witness knew Albornoz did much fruitfulwork, all without a salary, using his indefatigable work and his exemplarybehavior both to reform Indians’ beliefs and to hire responsible clerics whocould properly tend to the Indians (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 63). All ofthese queries appeared in just one lone sentence! Given the nature of thequestions, witnesses usually replied, “That which the question says is true” orsimply repeated the contents of the query. Rare would be those witnesses in anyplace or time who, having agreed to testify on someone’s behalf, would have thecon� dence to admit, “No, I did not know that” or “No, that is not true” whenconfronted with questions such as these. Rarer still would be the witness whoasserted, “Excuse me, but there is an additional issue that your questions havefailed to address.” Such witnesses certainly did not appear in any of Albornoz’spetitions.5

There were, of course, limitations to Albornoz’s control over the informa-ciones. Albornoz could invite speci� c witnesses to speak in his defense, but hecould not force them to accept his invitations . It is possible that Luis de Olverafailed to testify in three of the four petitions because he simply declined to doso, and not because Albornoz refused to ask him. Albornoz could also phrase hisquestions in a manner determined to elicit a formulaic response, but he could notcompel witnesses to restrict themselves to that formula. Some broke from theformula in a most helpful way; one witness provided unsolicited information

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about Albornoz’s work in building local churches; another claimed the priest haddestroyed 20,000 idols rather than the 6,000 that Albornoz himself claimed(Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 72, 99). A few others, however, added infor-mation that Albornoz would probably have preferred left unsaid. The priestCristobal de Molina stated that Albornoz was “one of the � rst to discover TakiOnqoy” in response to a question that deemed Albornoz “the � rst” to expose themovement (my emphasis), for Molina believed that Luis de Olvera had been the� rst Spaniard to learn of Taki Onqoy (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 226; Molina[1574] 1989, 129). That tiny revision in language may have upset Albornoz, buthe could do little to erase it. Nor could Albornoz force his various notaries torecord witnesses’ responses verbatim, and those notaries may well have passedover details or omitted speci� c twists of speech if they were too tired, bored, orrushed to be fully attentive.

But even granting such slips in his power, Albornoz retained tremendouscontrol over what was said and what was not said in these informaciones . Whatmatters most for my response to Ramos is a consideration of why Albornozmade—or, more accurately, may have made—the choices he did in controllingthat narrative. Albornoz certainly had good reason for preferring silence on theTaki Onqoy movement when he compiled the 1569 informacion. That reasoncentered on his dif� cult task as a visitador . Charged by Crown of� cials with theduty of inspecting lax tithe payments among Huamanga’s encomenderos—not,as some informaciones witnesses claimed, with studying Taki Onqoy—Albornozheaded to Huamanga in 1569 (Guibovich 1991, 209). Having just come to Peruin 1567, Albornoz had barely had time to establish himself in the country, muchless in all of its diverse regions. Huamanga was an area Albornoz had never evenseen before, an area where he had few—if any—connections. He was an outsidercoming into a burgeoning colonial world � lled with its own set of relationships,rivalries, and con� icts, and it was his task to investigate and reform the regionalstate of affairs, punishing those responsible for any problems or shortcomings inthe process of building colonial rule (Guibovich 1990, 24–25).

Learning the details of a major religious rebellion among Huamanga Indians,Albornoz found himself in a troublesome position. His responsibility as visitadorwas not just to punish the taquionqos and stamp out their movement; it was alsoto reprimand Huamanga Spaniards for allowing that movement to persist andgain strength. Those Spaniards included priests, whose primary duty was tobring Christianity to the heathen masses, and encomenderos , the individuals whowon grants of Indian tribute and labor in exchange for their promise to helpChristianize their newly won subjects. Even ordinary Huamanga Spaniards weretechnically at fault, for their responsibilit y as Spanish Christians was to guardtheir faith against recidivist offenses (Mills 1997, 26; Taylor 1996, 163–64).According to the strict dictates of his role, Albornoz had an astonishing numberof Spaniards to blame and punish.

Had circumstances been different, Albornoz might have wagered that theCrown would not actually expect such a sweeping indictment of HuamangaSpaniards. But circumstances did not lend themselves to generosity: the Crown’snascent colonial project in Peru had recently been endangered by threats ofcollective Indian violence in Charcas in 1564, instances of such violence in Jauja

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two years later, and a 1565 religious scandal in the Huaylas Valley (Varon 1990,332, 381; Wachtel 1977, 175). Economic crisis compounded this political crisis;declining colonial revenues and plummeting numbers of Indian laborers furtherjeopardized the survival of Spanish colonialism in Peru. The Spanish Crown wasindeed so concerned about its colonial project that its foremost representative inPeru, Viceroy Don Francisco de Toledo, initiated a massive set of reformsduring his 12-year rule (1569–1581) to radically reorganize the regime. Hua-manga’s pivotal place in Spain’s colonial project only complicated matters. Theregion was crucial economically—linking major commercial zones, holdingsubstantial mercury and silver deposits, and housing large populations ofpotential Indian laborers—and it was also vital militarily, bordering the Vilca-bamba region where the still-unconquere d rebel Inca government based itself(Stern [1982] 1993, xviii, 49). With circumstances such as these, the Crownwould likely have expected Albornoz to act quickly and relentlessly against theHuamanga Spaniards.

Now, Cristobal de Albornoz might not have cared much about the fate ofSpanish strangers, but he did have two pressing reasons to proceed cautiously inhis efforts against them. The � rst reason was linked to ecclesiastical rivalries.Tensions between the different Catholic orders—the Dominicans, the Francis-cans, the Augustinians, the Jesuits, and the seculars—were ubiquitous in theAmericas, and Albornoz probably wanted to guard the reputation of his owngroup, the seculars. Doing so would not be easy. The person who had � rst foundevidence of a religious rebellion among Huamanga Indians was Luis de Olvera,a secular priest, but Olvera had blundered in his efforts to combat the movement.Though he claimed to have sent word of the rebellion to Crown of� cials shortlyafter discovering it in 1564, Olvera had failed to convey to those of� cials justhow serious a problem he had uncovered (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 178).Had Olvera better alerted the Crown to the extent of the problem, chances seemgood that the Crown would have acted quickly and forcefully to investigate andpunish the taquionqos , but the Crown did no such thing. Worse still, Olvera hadmanaged to get into considerable trouble with Crown of� cials. He and hisclerical assistant, Alonso Pareja, were the focus of a 1567 investigation by thevisitador Francisco Toscano into complaints made by Indians from the Hua-manga parish of Parinacochas. Toscano’s visita lasted ten months, and at the endof those ten months he � ned Olvera and Pareja for abusive behaviors toward theparish’s Indian peoples. That Toscano did not reprimand any of Parinacochas’smany Dominican priests only made the seculars look worse (Ramos 1992, 160;Varon 1990, 398–400). Albornoz likely worried that his own visita mightirreparably damage the already suffering reputation of Huamanga’s secularpriests.

Albornoz also had himself to consider. He had no idea how long his visitawould continue, unsure if it would last a few more weeks, a few more months,or a few more years. To proceed hastily with mass punishments against priests,encomenderos, and average Spaniards would risk angering and alienating a hugeproportion of Huamanga’s Spanish population. Even encomenderos who escapedreprimand would be likely to resent Albornoz, feeling that his actions jeopar-dized the encomienda’s tenuous future in colonial Peru. Albornoz just could not

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afford this risk. He needed the friendly company of his fellow Spaniards, at veryleast for their cooperation in proceeding with his visita, since angry Spaniardscould easily have blocked his investigation with delays, obstructions, or evenviolence. And, of course, Albornoz needed Spaniards to speak on his behalfwhen he supplicated the Crown for promotion.

What we see in Albornoz’s � rst informacion, then, is a joint exercise incaution. Petitioning the Crown in 1569, Albornoz was sanguine enough about hischances for promotion that he could exclude reference to the tricky matter ofbattling Taki Onqoy from his list of questions, con� dent that his other meritswould suf� ce to advance his career. By not mentioning the movement, he wouldkeep the Crown unaware of the rebellion and thereby grant himself more timeand freedom to determine which Spaniards to punish and how to punish them.The local priests, encomenderos , and Huamanga residents who testi� ed onAlbornoz’s behalf shared the visitador’s con� dence and avoided any mention ofTaki Onqoy. Doing so, they spared themselves from the potentially hostileresponse of Crown of� cials upset by their failures among Huamanga’s Indians.

But Albornoz did not win either of the two positions he was seeking in 1569.That failure made it clear that reference to his general merits alone would notbe suf� cient to earn him a promotion. So Albornoz dramatically revised theshape of his next informacion, compiling this subsequent document just one yearafter the � rst informacion. Not only did he mobilize three times more witnessesfor the 1570 informacion than for the 1569 one, making for a text that was seventimes longer than its predecessor, but Albornoz also asked his witnesses to speakof his role in combating the Taki Onqoy movement. He posed questionspertaining to his discovery of Taki Onqoy and his � ght against the movement,and he used those questions to describe the rebellion at length, detailingtaquionqos ’ renunciations of Christianity, their fasts, their millenarian predic-tions, and their other “abominable vices” (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 63–64).Possibly grateful to Albornoz for his extirpation efforts and for his yearlongeffort to avoid implicating them, two dozen Huamanga Spaniards agreed toanswer those questions. Faced with a choice between risking the wrath of localSpaniards or sti� ing his career, Albornoz chose the former. His careerist endspushed him to inform the Crown of Taki Onqoy, even if that informationimperiled Huamanga’s Spaniards. Just as silence had been a strategy in 1569, sotoo was the 1570 turn to discussing Taki Onqoy.

Other silences remain for me to explore. One such silence is the 1570informacion’s failure to reference huaca possession and taquionqo dancing. Anexplanation for this silence rests with questions of timing. Albornoz pulled theinformaciones together at moments he deemed expedient for his careerist ends,moments that hardly coincided with pivotal points in his investigation into TakiOnqoy. The 1569 and 1570 informaciones came while Albornoz’s visita was stillunderway, still incomplete. The 1577 and 1584 informaciones , in turn, camewell after the visita’s 1571 end. The peculiar timing of the informaciones leadsme to suspect that the 1570 witnesses failed to mention huaca possession anddancing simply because they had yet to comprehend that those were majorelements of the movement.

This incomprehension about Taki Onqoy could have had either of two

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sources. The � rst possible source was the frenzy of Albornoz’s visita. Albornozhad been a busy man from the moment he arrived in Huamanga. Along with histranslators, notaries, and clerical assistants, he had set about inspecting titheproblems and—somewhere, somehow—had learned of the Taki Onqoy move-ment. Putting aside the original purpose of his visita, Albornoz and his entouragebegan investigating Taki Onqoy, castigating its adherents, and working to stampout all vestiges of the movement. This was no small task. Walking fromdwelling to dwelling in numerous villages, Albornoz and his assistants carriedout hundreds, maybe thousands, of interviews, heard dozens of tearful confes-sions and angry denunciations , and interrogated countless Indians. Beyondinvestigating , Albornoz was also in charge of punishing—publicly humiliatingreligious deviants, smashing and burning their idols, and sentencing taquionqosto corporal punishments and/or incarceration.6

Added to the sheer volume of Albornoz’s work was a probable sense ofdesperation. Albornoz was new to Huamanga—new even to Peru—and heconsequently had little familiarity with Andean religion and cosmology. In� ghting Taki Onqoy, Albornoz was � ghting a movement he lacked the experi-ence to understand, and he may even have feared a connection between thetaquionqos and the neo-Inca rebels situated in nearby Vilcabamba.7 Worse still,Albornoz and his entourage did not have the comfort of precedent; as theirs wasessentially the � rst major anti-idolatry campaign in Peru, they could not look toprevious efforts for ideas about procedure or for consolation about their chancesfor success. Even visitas were still only a nascent institution at this point(Grif� ths 1996, 9, 31–32; Guevara-Gil and Salomon 1994, 23). Albornoz hadonly had one year to wage this rather frantic battle against Taki Onqoy when hecompiled his 1570 informacion, a time period too short to have allowed him tostep back from the � urry of his visita activities and thoroughly analyze what hehad learned of the movement.

That Albornoz had not yet been able to build his own consolidated interpret-ation of the Taki Onqoy rebellion—much less share his formulations withworried Huamanga Spaniards—can be seen from the diverse character of the1570 witnesses’ testimonies. Though most witnesses gave standard, formulaicresponses repeating the contents of Albornoz’s question about Taki Onqoy,several witnesses added crucial details that Albornoz had left out of hisparagraph-long question. Two witnesses spoke of how certain female taquionqoscarried the names of Christian saints like Mar õ a and Mar õ a Magdalena; anotherwitness detailed how taquionqos gained new adherents by besmirching Chris-tianity. The translator Geronimo Mart õ n, in turn, alluded to taquionqo shakingand falling, explaining that the huacas intended to punish Hispanized Indians bymaking them “walk around with their heads on the ground and their feet in theair” and “tumble down foolishly” (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 128, 89, 99,147). The disparate nature of these testimonies suggests that HuamangaSpaniards, including Albornoz, had only a partial, fragmented, and unconsoli-dated knowledge of the Taki Onqoy movement. It would be no surprise, then,that some details—even seemingly critical ones like dancing and possession—would get left out of the 1570 informacion.

A second possible explanation for why no witness spoke of taquionqo dancing

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or huaca possession is that Albornoz had not yet discovered those elements ofthe movement when he compiled the 1570 informacion. Albornoz’s investigationinto Taki Onqoy was far from complete in 1570; he carried out almost a fullyear-and-a-half of further inquiry into the movement. It could well be thatAlbornoz simply had not yet discovered information about taquiongo dancing orhuaca possession when he drafted the 1570 informacion. This possibility seemsall the more likely when we look to the 1577 testimony of Luis de Olvera.Olvera explained that Huamanga Indians had carefully guarded those individualspossessed by the huacas, sheltering them in enclosed areas where their adherentscould come and adore them. Just as colonized peoples in other times and placestook care to hide “idolatrous” elements of their religions, taquionqos took painsto hide and protect those Indians possessed by huacas (Albornoz [1569–1584]1990, 178; Grif� ths 1996, 157, 190). It seems reasonable, then, to wager thatAlbornoz and his entourage had yet to discover evidence of huaca possessionand the consequent dancing when the visitador compiled his 1570 informacion.

Still more silences are attributable to the informaciones’ function and purpose.Moving through the pages of the informaciones and studying their testimonies,the careful reader will notice inconsistencies not just in the 1569 and 1570 texts,but in the later ones as well. Though Albornoz and his witnesses had had severalyears to consolidate their understandings of the Taki Onqoy movement by thetime of the 1577 informacion, discrepancies still appeared in the document. Onewitness would mention a critical detail or point about Taki Onqoy; anotherwitness speaking to the same notary just a few days later would say nothing ofthat all-important piece of information. Recognizing the informaciones as elabor-ate letters of reference makes these later inconsistencie s seem almost trivial.Because witnesses were speaking of Taki Onqoy only to establish Albornoz’smerits as a cleric, it was easy for them to leave out details about the movement,to skip over some issues and to neglect to mention others. Those details weresimply not crucial for answering Albornoz’s questions, questions that didnothing more than ask witnesses if they were aware that Albornoz had battledthe Taki Onqoy movement (Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 169). Had witnessesbeen testifying about Taki Onqoy in and of itself, purposefully telling all thatthey knew of the rebellion and its various characteristics, then inconsistenciesbetween testimonies would be much more important, much more revealing ofserious discrepancies in different witnesses’ understandings of Taki Onqoy. Suchtestimony, though, lay outside the informaciones’ intended purposes.

This attention to the informaciones ’ function leads me to disagree withRamos’s interpretation of the textual discrepancies she sees in the 1577 testi-monies of three different witnesses: the priests Luis Olvera, Cristobal Ximenez,and Cristobal de Molina. Ramos correctly points out that although Olvera andXimenez claimed that taquionqos believed themselves possessed by huacas,Molina made no mention of such possession. To Ramos, this inconsistency is atelling one. Molina had much knowledge of Andean religion—he had spent mostof his life in Cuzco, had carried out two visitas, and was versed in the Quechualanguage, Andean cosmology, and Incaic history.8 Ramos argues that Molina’s1577 testimony re� ected his knowledge, for he spoke in detail of thingsconsistent with Andean religious practices: preachers, idols, and the belief that

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those who disobeyed the huacas would be transformed into animals as apunishment. Molina did not speak of huaca possession because such bodilyinvasions lay outside the Andean religious frameworks that he understood sowell—notions of possession were far more in keeping with European beliefsabout the Devil than with Andean cosmology. His 1577 testimony should castdoubt, then, on the veracity of the con� icting testimonies from Olvera andXimenez (Ramos 1992, 158–59).

Ramos’s reading of the inconsistencie s between these three clerical testi-monies is interesting, but it is also riddled with problems that center on the key� gure of Molina. The � rst such problem is one of experience. Though Molinadid know much about Andean religion, he had not traveled to Huamanga duringthe Taki Onqoy revolt and he had not seen evidence of the movement � rst-hand,as Ramos herself notes (Ramos 1992, 159). Why, then, ought we privilege anexpert’s perceptions of a movement he had not actually witnessed over thetestimonies of two priests who had direct, personal knowledge of the TakiOnqoy rebellion? Ramos’s assertion that huaca possession was a Christian ratherthan Andean concept is likewise problematic. Though it is clear that sixteenth-century Spaniards placed their own Christian conceptions of demonic possessionat the forefront of their religious consciousness , at times misinterpreting Andeanreligious frameworks because of their own European convictions about theDevil, this does not necessarily mean that huaca possession was foreign toAndean religion (Mills 1997, 218–19, 227; Ramõ rez 1996, 135). Andean deitieshad long delivered oracles through the voices of human beings, using humanmediums in a way akin to the Christian concept of possession (MacCormack1991, 183; Curatola 1978). Most importantly, we need to recognize that Andeanreligion was a dynamic, � exible system of beliefs, able to incorporate foreignreligious concepts into its frameworks. Scholars like Tristan Platt, Frank Sa-lomon, and Kenneth Mills, among others, have treated this point in convincingdetail (Platt 1987, Salomon 1990, Mills 1997). By the 1560s, Huamanga Indianscould easily have begun assimilating Christian ideas about demonic possessioninto their own cosmologies.

The most pressing limitation of Ramos’s argument about Molina’s wordsrelates to the inconsistencies in the priest’s own statements. Though he wassilent on the issue of huaca possession in 1577, his 1574 book Relacion de lasfabulas y ritos de los incas contained detailed references to deities’ bodilyinvasions of the taquionqos (Molina [1574] 1989, 130–31). Ramos accounts forthis inconsistency by suggesting that Molina came to accept popular and Churchinterpretations of Taki Onqoy and huaca possession at some point after his 1577testimony, and that he wrote the Relacion passage on Taki Onqoy much laterthan the presumed date of 1574 (Ramos 1992, 162). But even if we agree withRamos’s revision of the Relacion’s publication date, her argument is ultimatelyself-defeating, for it fails to explain why a � gure so knowledgeable aboutAndean religion would come to believe those ideas about demonic possessionthat Ramos deems to be incompatible with Andean religious frameworks.Ramos’s reading of the inconsistencies in the 1577 informaciones is just toocomplex and contradictory to satisfy. A simpler and more convincing expla-nation for those inconsistencies is to suggest they do not matter much—Molina

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had no reason to mention huaca possession in his 1577 testimony because hewas only responding to a speci� c question about Albornoz’s role in � ghting TakiOnqoy. Molina certainly did not deny that taquionqos believed themselvespossessed by Andean deities, and his silence on the question of possession in noway amounts to anything more telling or revealing than simple silence.

Noses buried inside Albornoz’s informaciones , we will probably never � nd ade� nitive answer to questions about Taki Onqoy’s existence. Gabriela Ramoshas produced a reasonable argument based on her careful reading of this sources;I have produced a reasonable counter-argument based on my reading of thissame source. The witnesses inside the text certainly do not offer clear answers.Ramos can point to the numerous witnesses who had never even been toHuamanga and who spoke only from hearsay, admitting throughout theirtestimonies that they knew of Taki Onqoy because “it was public and well-known information”, or because they had received a Church circular informingthem of the movement (Ramos 1992, 154–55). I can counter with the assertionthat distance from Huamanga was actually an asset, for witnesses withoutconnections to the region had few reasons to censor their commentary. Theywould not be the ones punished by angry Crown of� cials or alienated by theirneighbors for revealing troubling information about Taki Onqoy. I can also makereference to witnesses who claimed direct knowledge of Taki Onqoy, witnesseswho testi� ed that they knew speci� c individuals caught up in the movement orwho had actually seen Huamanga Indians engaged in Andean religious behaviors(Albornoz [1569–1584] 1990, 147, 76, 157, 75, 100, 121, 103, 144, 89). All weare left with, then, is an unresolved debate between academic perspectives.

This lack of resolution inclines me to turn my attention away from theinformaciones and look elsewhere for clues and insights about the movement. Iam hardly the � rst scholar to be so inclined—historians have been seeking outdifferent sources and materials on Taki Onqoy since Luis Millones � rst pub-lished news of his � ndings in 1964 (Varon 1990, 336). Some of the materialsthat scholars have found bolster Ramos’s argument. Gabriela Ramos herselflooked past the informaciones and found evidence to question the credibility ofcertain key witnesses. The encomendero Diego de Gavilan—the � rst witness totestify in 1570—had actually been excommunicated from the Catholic Churchone year earlier for his failure to pay the tithe (Ramos 1992, 153). That Albornozwould ask such a witness to testify, and that such a witness would agree to assistAlbornoz by testifying on his behalf, suggests the possibility of a rather shadyalliance between the two men. Perhaps Albornoz agreed to work to reinstateGavilan in the Church if the encomendero spoke well of Albornoz in theinformacion. Whatever the relationship, there is reason to doubt Gavilan’sreliability as a witness. Ramos has found other sources that similarly compro-mise different witnesses’ credibility (Ramos 1992, 156, 160–61).

But some of the evidence scholars have found also supports my counter-argu-ment that Taki Onqoy did indeed exist. Historians have looked to correspon-dence from the in� uential Viceroy Francisco de Toledo, who traveled toHuamanga in 1570 as part of his own inspection tour. Like so many informa-ciones witnesses, Toledo referenced the dangerous links between Indian dancingand religious recidivism (Guibovich 1991, 231; 1990, 29). Scholars have also

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turned to the writings of Fel õ pe Guaman Poma de Ayala, the renownedindigenous chronicler and critic of colonialism. Though Guaman Poma held littleesteem for most Spanish priests, deeming them violent, hypocritical , andarrogantly proud, he had much regard for Cristobal de Albornoz, whom he hadassisted in the 1569–1571 visita of Huamanga. It seems unlikely that GuamanPoma would have cast Albornoz as “honest, holy, and fearless” had the priestbuilt his reputation on a lie about Andean millenarianism (Adorno 1986, 162).Guaman Poma also explicitly addressed the Taki Onqoy movement in hiswritings, condemning the movement and accusing its preachers of speaking withdemons (Adorno 1991, 242–43). Historians need to keep searching for moreinformation of this kind, adding to the academic arsenals of the revisionist andpost-revisionis t sides. Inquiring historians, though, may not � nd much. Thosedocuments most pertinent to the Taki Onqoy movement—Albornoz’s visitareports, testimonies of the thousands of Huamanga Indians arrested for partici-pation in the movement, and correspondence about the Taki Onqoy that variousinformaciones witnesses refer to—remain hidden despite numerous searches byscholars (Varon 1990, 336). We cannot yet know what happened to thesedocuments or what these documents said, but we should still continue looking.The 1569 informacion, after all, did not surface until the late 1980s (Albornoz[1569–1584] 1990, 43). That key discovery suggests that further searches remainworthwhile.

The Taki Onqoy movement facilitates a history that many scholars andactivists very much want to believe in—a history of Indian agency, culturalsurvival, and rebellion against colonial abuses. By publishing an article thatquestioned the very existence of the Taki Onqoy revolt, Gabriela Ramos took abrave academic risk. Though there had been other revisionist assessments of themovement prior to Ramos’s piece, her take on Taki Onqoy was easily the mostradical. Because she cast the informaciones— the document upon which studiesof Taki Onqoy have necessarily relied—as a thoroughly unreliable source,Ramos gave reason to doubt that the Taki Onqoy revolt ever even happened. Myresponse to Ramos’s argument does not aim to defensively champion thosedearly held pre-revisionis t understandings of Taki Onqoy, but rather to developa plausible counter-interpretatio n of the textual problems Ramos has rightlyhighlighted . By looking at how, when, and why Cristobal de Albornoz compiledhis informaciones , I have argued that the four component documents’ manifoldsilences and discrepancies are a consequence of the informaciones’ peculiar formand function, and not the products of ecclesiastical mischief.

This re-reading matters. On the most basic level, its counter-interpretation s ofthe informaciones’ textual problems, like its discussion of the colonial Andeancontext of idolaters and extirpators, suggest that traditional interpretations ofTaki Onqoy movement remain valid and that the movement did indeed exist. Butthis brief essay also has two larger implications. First, it offers a twist on thequestion of careerism. Gabriela Ramos is absolutely right in arguing that theinformaciones are clear proof of Albornoz’s desire for a clerical promotion. Yetmy reconsideration of the text shows that Albornoz’s ambitions do not under-mine the historical legitimacy of his assertions about the Taki Onqoy movement.Because both careerism and corruption were commonplace among colonial Latin

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American priests, and because discoveries of idolatry facilitated ecclesiasticalpromotion, it is easy to doubt the validity of any cleric’s claims about idolatry.(See Acosta 1987; Duviols 1977, 1986; Sanchez 1991; Urbano 1993, 26–27.)This essay puts a check on such doubts, showing that historical invention wasnot a necessary consequence of careerist ends.

This essay’s second implication stretches into questions of historical evidence:it helps demonstrate that problematic sources are not useless sources. GabrielaRamos is in no way the only scholar to question the validity of informationgleaned from texts laden with silences, biases, and contradictions . Iris Gareis hasraised concerns about documents produced by other idolatry extirpators, StevenHaber has questioned the sources favored by the “New Cultural History” school,and other examples are legion (Gareis 1990; Haber 1999). The frequency of suchconcerns suggests that perhaps the trouble lies less with the sources and morewith the standards that academics have expected them to meet. As Kenneth Millshas asserted, “there is virtue in adding to the mix of our requisite caution andsuspicion a certain alertness to prospects—an openness to how apparent incon-sistencies and contradictions got pulled together by colonial writers who (notsurprisingly ) often trip their way across the categories we and our historianpredecessors have erected for them” (Mills forthcoming, 4). This essay’sconsideration of the informaciones shows that while a problematic source’sinformation about subalterns has to be treated both cautiously and creatively, thatinformation is still there for the mining if scholars are willing to spend the timeand energy necessary to effectively extract it.

Notes* I would like to thank Steve J. Stern and the two anonymous readers for their especially generous

comments on an earlier version of this article.1 Taki Onqoy has been translated several ways, including the dancing sickness and the singing

sickness. I utilize the more traditional “dancing sickness”. (See Varon [1990, 357–58] for adiscussion of Taki Onqoy’s Quechua meaning.)

2 Previous revisionist arguments include Urbano (1990), Guibovich (1991), and Varon (1990).3 Even after the Consejo de Indios examined Albornoz’s case for promotion in 1586 and turned

him down, the priest kept on trying, writing a lengthy letter to the king in 1602 to urge thecreation of a bishopric in Arequipa, which he, of course, could head (Guibovich 1990, 38–39).

4 I have inferred Albornoz’s lack of university education from his failure to reference hiseducational background in the informaciones. Several scholars have lamented our general lackof knowledge of Albornoz’s intellectual formation (see Ramos 1992, 156; Guibovich 1990, 35).

5 Varon suggests one exception may be Damian de la Bandera, who failed to provide detailedresponses and would not answer � ve of Albornoz’s eleven questions. Varon also suggests thatBandera’s previous conviction for perjury can perhaps explain his reticence to testify (Varon1990, 342).

6 That Albornoz carried out the type of visita that involved walking is suggested from his 1584Relacion de la visita, where he lists the villages he visited and the people whom he punished(Albornoz [1584] 1990, 255–96). Albornoz also described his work efforts in his workInstruccion para descubrir todas las guacas del Piru con sus camayos y haziendas (Albornoz[1584?] 1989, 196–97).

7 Sabine MacCormack notes just how dif� cult it was for Spaniards who lacked familiarity witha region to understand the subtleties of local religious beliefs (1991, 143). That Albornoz didfear such a connection is suggested from his reference to Vilcabamba in his Instruccion(Albornoz [1584?] 1989, 193–94). There do not, however, seem to have been any tangible tiesbetween taquionqos and the rebel Incas (Varon 1990, 350).

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8 Discussions of Molina appear in Guibovich (1990, 28); MacCormack (1991, 200); Grif� ths(1996, 54); and Varon (1990, 334).

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