SEA FLUIDITY: RECORDING INDIGENOUS SEASCAPES and MARITIME
CULTURAL LANDSCAPES IN SAIPAN, COMMONWEALTH of the NORTHERN
MARIANA ISLANDS
by
Julie Mushynsky
A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Master of Maritime
Archaeology, Department of Archaeology, Flinders University
Front photographs: Children fishing in Laulau Bay.
Declaration of Candidate
I certify that this thesis does not incorporate without acknowledgement any material previously
submitted for a degree or diploma in any university and that to the best of my knowledge and
belief it does not contain any material previously published or written by another person without
due reference made in the text.
Julie Mushynsky
December 2011
I
Abstract
Seascape archaeology views the sea as connective rather than divisive and recognizes the
sea as a part of forming social and cultural identity. Studying seascapes can help describe the
relationship people have with the sea, how it influences culture and how it can be manipulated
into a cultural space. Seascape studies have largely focused on Indigenous interaction with water
and the sea, while maritime cultural landscape studies primarily focus on historical, Western
heritage, investigating the combination of terrestrial and underwater heritage related to maritime
activities. This project borrows concepts and methods from both approaches to investigate the
Indigenous maritime heritage of Saipan, Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands.
In 2011, Flinders University archaeologists worked with local Chamorro researchers to
identify sites of significance. Using community archaeology methods, the sites were
collaboratively located, photographed, mapped and their importance to the community recorded.
This work adds to the bodies of literature in this area of archaeology and combines concepts and
methods commonly associated with four areas of archaeology: maritime archaeology, Indigenous
archaeology, community archaeology and cultural heritage management. A significant outcome
of this project is that researchers were able to establish continuity of how the past maritime
cultural landscapes and seascapes still manifests itself today in fishing practices, rituals and
issues surrounding sea tenure.
II
Acknowledgements
Several people deserve at least an acknowledgement for this project and thesis. Firstly,
to Herman Tudela and Genevieve Cabrera, I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to open
up your past and your lives to share with me the most important parts of this thesis. Thank you
so much for your continued communication and friendship, wisdom and encouragement. I learn
something new every time we communicate.
To my supervisor, Jennifer McKinnon, thank you for giving me the opportunity to work
in such a beautiful place with wonderful people. I appreciate all the assistance you have given
me. You truly go above and beyond to help your students. You inspire me to continue to work
hard and learn. Thank you to all the people on the research team in Saipan, particularly Jason
Raupp for the scholarly advice and comic relief, and Sarah Nahabedian and Ania Legra for
assistance in the field. I would like to thank Inter-Library Loans at the Regina Public Library for
processing and re-processing my hundreds of requests even after I decided to buy the book and
missed pick-up dates.
To my mother and father, Doreen and Roman, thank you for your constant support, biweekly chat sessions and for taking care of all my business while I was away studying whatever
I’m studying. You have done so much for me and are always there for me. I could not ask for
better parents. Thanks to my brother Troy for reminding me weekly that no university degree
will ever make me smarter than him. Finally, thank you to Tyler Harnett for being the best
human being to ever live, enough said.
III
Table of Contents
Declaration of Candidate.......................................................................................... I
Abstract…………………………………………………………………………….. II
Acknowledgements………………………………………………………………… III
List of Figures……………………………………………………………………… VI
List of Tables...………………………………………………………………………IX
Chapter1: Introduction...................................................................................................... 1
1.1 Introduction…………………………………………………………………….. 1
1.2 Location………………………………………………………………………... 2
1.3 The “Indigenous” People of the Marianas……………………………………. 3
1.4 Seascape and Maritime Cultural Landscape………………………………….. 6
1.5 Research Question and Aims..........…………………………………………… 8
1.6 Community Archaeology as Methodology……………………………………. 9
1.7 Study Area…………………………………………………………………….. 12
1.8 Methods……………………………………………………………………… 13
1.9 Significance of Study……....…………………………………………………. 14
1.10 Chapters……………………………………………………………………… 15
Chapter 2: Literature Review……………………………………………………………
2.1 Introduction……………………………………………………………………
2.2 Island Archaeology…………………………………………………………….
2.3 Seascapes………………………………………………………………………
2.4 Maritime Cultural Landscapes…………………………………………………
2.5 Conclusion……………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter 3: Historical Analysis…………………………………………………………..
3.1 Introduction……………………………………………………………………
3.2 History…………………………………………………………………………
3.3 Sea Tenure……………………………………………………………………..
3.4 Conclusion…………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter 4: Methodology…………………………………………………………………
4.1 Introduction……………………………………………………………………
4.2 Community Archaeology………………………………………………………
4.3 Community Archaeology in Saipan……………………………………………
4.4 Traditional Archaeological Methods…………………………………………..
4.5 Conclusion……………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter 5: Data Analysis………………………………………………………………… 61
5.1 Introduction……………………………………………………………………. 61
5.2 Occupancy Sites……………………………………………………………….. 61
5.3 Artistic Expression…………………………………………………………….. 67
5.4 Procurement Sites……………………………………………………………… 89
5.4.1 Possible Fish Trap………………………………………………….. 90
IV
5.4.2 Possible Fish Weir…………………………………………………. 93
5.4.3 Netting Site…………………………………………………………. 95
5.5 Access Points………………………………………………………………….. 101
5.5.1 Canoe Channel (Sagua)……………………………………………… 102
5.5.2 Chamorro Legend Site………………………………………………. 108
5.6 Navigational Sites……………………………………………………………… 110
5.7 Herman Tudela’s TEK………………………………………………………… 114
5.8 Site Connections……………………………………………………………….. 116
Chapter 6: Discussion and Conclusion………………………………………………….
6.1 Introduction……………………………………………………………………
6.2 Aims Revisited…………………………………………………………………
6.3 Discussing the Research Question…………………………………………….
6.4 Sea Fluidity…………………………………………………………………….
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127
References………………………………………………………………………………… 128
Appendices……………………………………………………………………………….. 142
Appendix A: Collaborator Consent……………………………………………….. 142
Appendix B: Creation Story from Bo Flood and Father Peter Coomans………… 145
Appendix C: Gemma Tully’s Community Archaeology Methodology…………… 147
Appendix D: Daily Operations for Fieldwork Conducted April 12–April 24,
2011……………..............………………………………………….. 151
Appendix E: Rock Art Recording Form………………………………………….. 153
V
List of Figures
1.1 The Marianas in relation to the Pacific…………………………………………....
1.2 Map of the Mariana Islands……………………………………………………….
3.1 Geographic boundaries of the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands……………..
5.1 Location of all visited latte sites.............................................................................
5.2 Model of latte structure from the NMI Museum of History and Culture………….
5.3 Latte pillar at Unai Bapot latte site……………………………………………….
5.4 Latte capstone at the Sabanettan i Toru latte site…………………………………
5.5 Example of associated potsherds at latte sites…………………………………….
5.6 Grinding stone at Unai Bapot latte site…………………………………………..
5.7 Latte airport sign…………………………………………………………………..
5.8 Latte road signs…..………………………………………………………………..
5.9 Seal of the CNMI with latte……………………………………………………....
5.10 Latte image in shop window………………………………………………………
5.11 Location of Kalabera Cave....................................................................................
5.12 Mud map of Kalabera Cave, east and south wall.……………………………….
5.13 Mud map of Kalabera Cave, north wall………...………………………………..
5.14 “Gecko/lizard” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K1)……………………………….
5.15 “Man in canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K2)………………………………
5.16 Drawing of “man in canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K2)………………….
5.17 “Headless woman” pictograph (K3)………………………………………………
5.18 “Headless woman” pictograph (K4)……………………………………………..
5.19 “Headless woman” pictograph (K5)……………………………………………..
5.20 “Fish and clavicle bone” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K6)……………………..
5.21 “Octopus lure/chumming device” in Kalabera Cave (K6)………………………
5.22 Chumming device (Fritz 2001:71)……………………………………………….
5.23 Drawing of “chumming device/octopus lure, fish and clavicle bone”……………
from Kalabera Cave (K6)
5.24 “Woman with head” petroglyph (K7)……………………………………………
5.25 “Headless/armless body” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K8)……………………
5.26 “Headless man” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K9)……………………………..
5.27 “Man carving out canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K10)………………….
5.28 Diagram of “man carving out canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K10)………
5.29 Sketch of K10…………………………………………………………………….
5.30 Approximate location of Laulau Bay rock art site...........................................
5.31 “Coconut crab/turtle” petroglyph (L1)……………………………………………
5.32 “Coconut crab/turtle, moon, fish and southern cross” petroglyph (L1)…………..
5.33 Diagram of L1…………………………………………………………………….
5.34 Photograph of coconut crab………………………………………………………
5.35 Photograph of turtle hatchling……………………………………………………
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VI
5.36
5.37
5.38
5.39
5.40
5.41
5.42
5.43
Sketch of L1…………………………………………………………………….. 85
Approximate location of west coast rock art...................................................
86
“Fruit bat” petroglyph (S1)……………………………………………………… 87
Drawing of “fruit bat” petroglyph………………………………………………. 87
“Headless female guardian” petroglyph (S2)…………………………………….. 88
“Female body” petroglyph (S3)………………………………………………….. 88
“Headless woman” petroglyph (S4)………………………………………………. 89
Panoramic view of Laulau Bay facing southeast…..……………………………. 90
(Photograph courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera)
5.44 Location of possible fish trap.............................................................................
91
5.45 Possible fish trap in Laulau Bay………………………......……………………… 92
5.46 Possible fish trap in Laulau Bay……...…………………….....…………………. 92
5.47 Map of possible fish trap in Laulau Bay…...……………………………………. 93
5.48 Diagram of possible fish trap………....………………………………………… 93
5.49 Location of “fish weir”............................................................................................ 94
5.50 “Fish weir” in Laulau Bay in relation to the beach……………………………….. 95
5.51 Example of contemporary fishing net…………………………………………….. 97
5.52 Fishers in Laulau Bay…………………………………………………………….. 97
5.53 Location of netting site...........……………………………………………………. 98
5.54 Netting site. Shelter on right.................................................................................... 98
5.55 Netting site facing southwest…....………………………………………………... 99
5.56 Diagram of netting site…...………………………………………………………. 99
5.57 Netting site smoothed wall…..........………………………………………………. 100
5.58 Flattened floor/standing area……………………………………………………… 100
5.59 Netting site wall, facing southwest, flattened floor bottom left….........………….. 101
5.60 Netting site facing north. Smoothed wall on left.....………………....…………… 101
5.61 Location of sagua.................................................................................................... 104
5.62 Aerial view of sagua……………………………………………………………… 104
5.63 Sagua in Laulau Bay facing southwest…………………………………………… 105
5.64 Map of sagua……………………………………………………………………… 105
5.65 Sagua facing north.................................................................................................... 106
5.66 View of the “track’ showing deeper impression (top) and shallower impression
(lower)........…..........................................................................…………………… 106
5.67 Cross-section of sagua track impressions…………………..…………………….. 107
5.68 “Launching” section. Person standing at the 2m opening……………………….. 107
5.69 Photograph of ship loading with ox cart at Laulau Bay in the late 1920s
(Photograph courtesy of Ronnie Rogers and Genevieve Cabrera)........................ 108
5.70 Laulau Bay from similar vantage point. Note float on right side also found in
Figure 5.68. (Photograph courtesy or Genevieve Cabrera)...................................... 108
5.71 Location of Chamorro legend site........................................................................ 109
VII
5.72
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5.76
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5.80
5.81
5.82
Overall photograph at Naftan Point……………………………………………….. 109
Access point of Chamorro diver at Naftan Point…………………………………. 110
Location of navigational sites............................................................................... 111
Profile of face, part of lying man in topography from east side of island…..……. 111
Leg portion of lying man in topography from east side of southeast……………. 112
Ankles and feet of lying man in topography from southeast side of island……... 112
Photograph-mosaic of lying man in topography………..………………………… 112
Faces in topography from west side of island…………………………………….. 113
Close up of northern face from west side of island………………………………. 113
Close up of southern face from west side of island……………………………….. 114
Map of archaeological sites from 2011 and some known site locations…............. 116
VIII
List of Tables
Table 1: Components of community archaeology methodology and those used during
the Saipan project. Adopted from Moser et al. 2002:229 and Tully
2007:176–178........................................................................................................
Table 2: Rock art data from Kalabera Cave……..........…………………………………..
Table 3: Rock art data from Saipan’s east coast…...…………………………………….
Table 4: Rock art data from Saipan’s west coast...............................................................
55
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IX
Chapter 1: Introduction
1.1 Introduction
If you were to break it down into Western and local perspective [sic] you’d say oceans divide, but for us
oceans unite. You say typhoons are devastations, yes it is devastation, but it’s also a blessing for us.
Without those storms we wouldn’t get our fair shares of our [fish] runs, our oceans will not shift, provide
[sic] us with our annual [fish] runs [H. Tudela, Saipan, 2011].
For many years explorers and researchers portrayed Pacific Island nations as remote and
isolated by the sea. Due to their small land mass and the apparent seclusion caused by the sea,
Pacific Island nations carried the “MIRAB” stereotype, denoting the islands as nonviable with
economies dependant on MIgration, Remittances, Aid from colonial powers, and Bureaucracy
(D’Arcy 2006:7; Gosden and Pavlides 1994:162; Pelzer 1950; Spoehr 2000:73). In the late
1990s, in an effort to denounce ideas of obscurity and fruitlessness, anthropologist Epeli Hau`ofa
defended Pacific Islander independence and self-sufficiency in a paper entitled “Our Sea of
Islands.” He explains that
The world of our ancestors was a large sea full of places to explore, to make their homes in, to breed
generations of seafarers like themselves. People raised in this environment were at home with the
sea…Theirs was a large world in which people and cultures moved and mingled, unhindered by boundaries
of the kind erected much later by imperial powers [1993:8].
To many Pacific Islanders, the sea is in fact not a boundary, but a way of connecting
littoral cultures, or even groups of islands, and a part of daily island life. The opening quotation
from Herman Tudela, a Chamorro man, archaeologist, and traditional fishing expert from Saipan,
Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) in Micronesia, also conveys the idea
that oceans do not isolate and are in fact central to the islands’ economy and to his livelihood.
For many Pacific Islanders, life does not begin and end at the edges of continents or islands, but
continues in, on and around the water (Gillis 2007:22). This notion that people are “of the sea”
and that a community draws its understandings of the world through associations with the sea is
the premise for this thesis.
1
1.2 Location
Fieldwork for this thesis occurred over fourteen days in Saipan, CNMI. The Mariana
Islands are situated 2,400 km east of the Philippines arcing in a north-south orientation for
approximately 800 km (Figure 1.1). The islands are politically divided into Guam and a fourteen
island archipelago called the CNMI (Figure 1.2). Claimed by the United States (U.S.) in 1898,
Guam is administered as an unincorporated territory of the U.S. and is the southernmost island in
the Marianas. The CNMI is a self-governing Commonwealth under the U.S. with the islands of
Saipan, Rota and Tinian having significant populations. Saipan holds the most commercial and
economic development and serves as the seat of the U.S. Commonwealth government (Office of
Historic Preservation (OHP) 2011:1; Pelzer 1950:252; Spoehr 2000:xxii; U.S. Department of the
Interior (DOI) 2010). Although archaeologists were restricted to working on Saipan, Guam and
other Mariana and Micronesian Islands are incorporated in this thesis.
Figure 1.1: The Marianas in relation to the Pacific (Butler and De Fant 1991:6).
2
Figure 1.2: Map of the Mariana Islands (Russell 1998:4).
1.3 The “Indigenous” People of the Marianas
This thesis focuses on the Indigenous community of the Mariana Islands. However,
determining exactly who the Indigenous people of the Marianas are is challenging. To start,
actually defining the word “Indigenous” is difficult. Anthropologist Adam Kuper (2003)
explains that the term typically refers to origins and bloodlines where descendants of original
inhabitants of an area are considered Indigenous. The term also refers to foraging activities and
“tribal” lifestyles. Even more problematic is that what constitutes being Indigenous is often
defined by Western societies through Indigenous rights organizations such as the United Nations
(U.N.) and Survival International (Kuper 2003:389–390). Attempts at defining the word may
3
only contribute to essentialist and colonial ideas of Indigenous; however it can also work to
benefit Indigenous advocacy efforts. The complexity of the word also emerges when discussing
the Indigenous people of the Mariana Islands.
Originating from Southeast Asia and reaching the Marianas via the Philippines, the
Chamorro people are the earliest-known inhabitants of the Mariana Islands and Micronesia as a
whole. Archaeologists and anthropologists have determined the Chamorro people inhabited the
Mariana Islands for over 4,000 years (OHP 2011:2; Russell 1998:74; Spoehr 2000:2).
The first Mariana Island sighted by Europeans is not known for certain, although
documents name Magellan as the first European to arrive in 1521 (Fritz 2001:1; Russell 1998:13;
Spoehr 2000:5). The Marianas eventually became a European colony in 1668 with the
establishment of the first Spanish mission on Guam. For the next thirty years the Spanish
converted the Chamorro people to Christianity in what Spoehr (2000:24–36) calls the
“Hispanicization” of Chamorro culture. Hispanicization refers to the impact of Spain on
Indigenous people resulting in the emergence of a new cultural type. Spanish impact was
deliberate and included complete political, social, economic, biological and physical control
(Spoehr 2000:9, 16, 24–36). Despite the imbalance in power between the Chamorro people and
the Spanish, Chamorro people negotiated their place in this process and both Chamorro and
Spanish people were also involved in a process of “Indigenization” at the same time (Sahlins
1999:ix–x).
Guam was the centre of Spanish colonial administration in the Mariana Islands and Jesuit
priests were sent out via Chamorro-navigated outrigger canoes to Christianize the people of the
northern islands. By the late 17th century, in an effort to control the increasing Chamorro
backlash, the Spanish forced Chamorro people to resettle from the northern islands onto Guam
4
(Bowers 2001:35; Spoehr 2000:23). Consequently, the majority of the contemporary CNMI was
uninhabited for over 100 years. In the 1800s, Carolinian Islanders from a Micronesian island
group southeast of the Marianas, who had contact with the Marianas prior to Spanish arrival,
resettled on Saipan, Tinian and Rota to access more fruitful land (Bowers 2001:37; Spoehr
2000:39).
While on Guam, Chamorro people were subjected to new beliefs: they lived by
subsistence farming, land went from collective ownership to individual ownership and people
attended church. The Spanish stifled important maritime activities and traditions such as
building and sailing canoes, yet fishing was still a large part of Chamorro life. Carolinian
people, however, held a long tradition of open-sea sailing and canoe building. The Spanish
capitalized on the skills of the Carolinian newcomers, allowing them to resettle in the Mariana
Islands in exchange for supplying the transportation of people and goods between Guam and the
northern islands (Spoehr 2000:32–34, 39).
Upon arrival in Saipan, Carolinian people populated the area known as Garapan (Russell
1984:1). In 1869, the colonial government brought a large group of Carolinians to Tinian in an
effort to establish a settlement. A number of years later, this group moved to Saipan, inhabiting
the area now known as Tanapag. Documents indicate Chamorro people did not return to Saipan
until the late 1860s (Spoehr 2000:41).
Revisiting the meaning of Indigenous, a sole Indigenous population is difficult to
establish in the CNMI. Although archaeologists and some U.S. Government agencies name the
Chamorro people as the original inhabitants of the Marianas, Carolinian people had longstanding contact with and presence in the Marianas prior to European colonization (D’Arcy
2006:63–64, 157; Spoehr 2000:XXVII; U.S. Committee on Indian Affairs 1974). Contemporary
5
boundaries likely did not exist in Micronesia pre-contact and to any inhabitants the area was
truly a “sea of islands” where people intermingled and were connected by the sea. To further
complicate matters, the CNMI in particular has been occupied by four different colonial powers
since 1668. Over the years intermarriage and relations occurred between Chamorro and Spanish,
German, Japanese and people from the U.S. Additionally, intermarriage occurred between
Carolinian and Filipino people who arrived during the Spanish colonial period. Consequently,
intermarriage obscures blood connections with the original inhabitants of the islands.
In 1983, the Australian Government established a definition for Australian Indigenous
people in a High Court decision. The High Court ascertained that “an Aboriginal or Torres Strait
Islander is a person of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent who identifies as an
Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander and is accepted as such by the community in which he or she
lives” (Australian Bureau of Statistics 2006). Similar to the Australian definition, this thesis also
uses “Indigenous” as a conditional, socially constructed and self-defined term (Geertz 1973:5).
“Indigenous,” as it pertains to the Mariana Islands includes any group of people who identify as
being “Chamorro,” “Carolinian,” “Pacific Islander” or any combination of these, regardless of
intermarriage with non-Indigenous people, and documented as such in historical records. With
that established, the term Indigenous will no longer appear within quotation marks.
1.4 Seascape and Maritime Cultural Landscape
This thesis is grounded in the theoretical frameworks of two closely related
archaeological concepts: seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes. To study seascapes goes
well beyond the simple description of a sea or coastal landscape. First addressed in 1994,
archaeologists Chris Gosden and Christina Pavlides (1994:163) used the concept of seascape to
explain how space and culture influence each other. Debunking the idea that Pacific islands
6
developed in isolation, they argue that similar to the land, the sea can be manipulated by humans,
making it part of cultural space just as much as the land (1994:170). Since 1994, seascape theory
is used to describe how the sea and coastal landscape are used to actively shape identities and
senses of place socially, economically and spiritually (Bentley, Bridenthal and Wigen 2007;
Cooney 2003:323; McNiven 2003:332–333). It is used to examine how the sea contributes to
identity, and both past and contemporary cultural narratives.
Similarly, the maritime cultural landscape is about how space influences culture. Set
forth by archaeologist Christer Westerdahl in 1978, the concept is based on the idea that the
material culture and experiences within a maritime space can affect or shape a distinctly
maritime culture. Thus, it is a way of looking at terrestrial and underwater remnants of a
maritime culture or community from a mariner’s perspective. It is about human utilization of
space for maritime use (Oxley 2001:414; Westerdahl 1992:5). Many archaeological studies
incorporate this theoretical perspective analyzing maritime economies, ships as symbols, ship
and coastal rituals, and maritime-related mortuary practices (Ford 2011a; Stewart 2007;
Tuddenham 2010; Westerdahl 1992, 2005, 2007).
Archaeological and historical documents indicate that Chamorro culture influenced the
sea and was influenced by the sea. For the first 3,000 years on Saipan, Chamorro people lived
exclusively in the coastal areas of Saipan and nearly every human endeavour involved
interaction with the water (Carrell 2009:465; Russell 2009:70). The sea was an important part of
economic and social life for the Chamorro people. Their main source of food came from
catching pelagic fishes, crabs and clams by constructing weirs, fish traps and various types of
canoes to aid in procurement. They used the sea and coast as places for developing fishing,
navigational and boat building techniques and as places for games and sport. By 1000 BP
7
settlement expanded into the interior regions of Saipan, yet the sea continued to influence social
organizational patterns allowing only noble-class Chamorro people (matua) the advantage of
settling on the coast (Fritz 2001:31–34, 43–46, 73–76; Hunter-Anderson and Butler 1995:66–68;
Russell 1998:51, 93–95, 103, 111–112, 139–140, 162, 180–192; Russell 2009:70; Spoehr
2000:124–128, 299). The sea, as much as the land, was an instrumental part of daily Chamorro
life.
Evidence of the above sea-culture influence in the Marianas appears in a number of sites.
This thesis identifies and records such sites on Saipan through historical research and
archaeological fieldwork and demonstrates how these can be considered part of Saipan’s
Indigenous seascape and maritime cultural landscape. This thesis adds to the existing body of
knowledge in both areas, highlighting the sea as an important space in an adaptive, changing and
dynamic Indigenous Pacific Island culture.
1.5 Research Question and Aims
This thesis seeks to answer the following question:
What do Indigenous coastal and submerged sites reveal about Indigenous seascapes and
maritime cultural landscapes in the CNMI?
The research question aims to do the following:

To determine how archaeologists define and utilize the concepts of seascapes and
maritime cultural landscapes.

To develop a framework for identifying the types of sites that may be included and
considered a part of Indigenous seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes.
8

To identify Saipan’s seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes through historical,
ethnographic and archaeological research.
1.6 Community Archaeology as Methodology
This thesis employs a community archaeology approach as its methodology. The
simplest explanation for community archaeology is archaeology done for communities rather
than on them (Nicholas et al. 2008:294; C. Smith, pers. comm. May 4, 2011). Community
archaeology emerges from a need to decolonize the practice of anthropology and archaeology,
ridding the disciplines of what authors Chris Walton and Michael Christie (1994) describe as
“Aboriginalism.” Aboriginalism in its Australian context refers to “the story about Aborigin[al
people] told by whites using only white people’s imaginations. Aboriginal voices do not
contribute to this story, so in Aboriginalism, the Aborigin[al people] always become what the
white man imagines them to be” (1994:82). In order for Indigenous people to have a voice and
exercise agency in their cultural heritage, archaeological studies must be driven by the
community at every step of the project and include perspectives of non-archaeologists (Clarke
2002:251; Moser et al. 2002:220, 229). By encouraging more Indigenous interpretations and
developing more community-directed archaeological projects, Indigenous communities take
control of their own past and more informative and accurate archaeological studies are produced
(Cohen and Swindler 2000:40–41; Marshall 2002:212–213; Rowlands 2002:109; Smith and
Wobst 2005:5; Wobst 2005:17–28).
This research is the result of a continuing community archaeology project originally
developed by archaeologist Jennifer McKinnon in 2007. McKinnon has been working with
organizations such as the Historic Preservation Office (HPO), Coastal Resources Management,
the Division of Environmental Quality and a number of community members in Saipan to
9
develop a WWII maritime heritage trail. Community members expressed the need and desire to
promote Saipan’s WWII heritage and through collaboration, archaeologists recorded a number of
sites. The ultimate goal of the project is to stimulate Saipan’s economy through tourism and to
help protect the island’s submerged WWII cultural heritage.
The research for this thesis follows a similar path as the WWII heritage trail. Firstly, it is
directed by Indigenous community members and HPO staff. Secondly, it also addresses a
community need and one with a sense of urgency. Dialogue between community members and
McKinnon since 2007 raised community desire for more Indigenous site documentation and the
prospect of developing an Indigenous maritime heritage trail in Saipan. Genevieve Cabrera, a
Chamorro woman and trained historian, indicated that early Indigenous cultural landscapes and
seascapes are changing, and in some cases disappearing. This is due to land-use conflicts,
commercial development, natural disasters, and lack of funds, resources and support for cultural
heritage protection from the government and the public (Coastal Resources Management n.d.;
OHP 2011:24–28). Moreover, a need exists for more literature on Saipan from an Indigenous
perspective. To mitigate this, Cabrera explains that “many Chamorro feel that the more
information pertaining to Indigenous culture that can be put down on paper for young people to
read, the better” (G. Cabrera, 2011, pers. comm. April 24, 2011). Sites need to be recorded and
knowledge of irreplaceable links to the past retained in order to pass down to future generations
(OHP 2011:24).
Using community archaeology as a methodology comes with a number of limitations.
Complications can occur when communities work with people with whom they have not
established relationships. Collaborations with community members and the information gleaned
are almost entirely based on human character and relationships. People may be reluctant to
10
participate and divulge information to researchers they have never met before or to share
information for a number of political reasons. Furthermore, even if trusting relationships
developed, collaborators may still be reluctant to share information. Another limitation is that
community archaeology lacks an “official” methodology. Despite the host of such projects
around the world (see for example Clarke 2002; Field et al. 2000; Mills 2000; Moser et al. 2002;
Nicholas 2000; Spector 2000), this area of archaeology is criticized for lacking a clear sense of
research focus, a sound methodological structure, a set of interpretive strategies and clearly
defined roles (Truscott 2004:33–34).
The relationships already established with the community since 2007 help to alleviate
some of the limitations regarding unfamiliarity and trust. Collaborations take time and this
collaboration is the result of approximately four years of dialogue and successful relationship
building. Even with successful relationships, collaborators may have an agenda in mind that
differs from the goal of the research. However, let the reader be reminded that archaeology is
about searching for validity, not the truth (Colwell-Chanthaphohn and Ferguson 2008:15;
Zimmerman 2008:58) and the purpose is to make well-informed conclusions from a range of
data sources. Perhaps community archaeology’s lack of official methodology may be a benefit
and not a hindrance to archaeological research. Each situation and collaboration is unique,
which means that collaborations need to be flexible and adaptable. Establishing strict roles and
rules defeats the larger purpose of collaboration. The purpose is to decolonize the practice and
establishing structure could arguably neo-colonize the practice under the guise of community
archaeology. Indigenous archaeologist Eldon Yellowhorn indicates that a willingness to be
open, honest and flexible is the most important component of successful collaboration (Nicholas
et al. 2008:293). Honest relationships were developed for this project and researchers took heed
11
of community timelines, customs, beliefs, perceptions and welfare. The benefits of this project
for communities far outweigh the limitations.
1.7 Study Area
This research investigates current sites on Saipan that Indigenous collaborators identified
as being part of the Indigenous seascape and maritime cultural landscape. It also studies
historically documented sites in the Marianas that fall under the same category. Available grant
funding limited fieldwork to two weeks on one island. However, the study area is expanded by
including written documentation of other areas in the Marianas. Sites investigated include
possible fish weirs, caves with rock art depicting maritime themes, canoe channels in intertidal
zones, ocean access points, ancient coastal latte occupation sites, Indigenous fishing locations
and maritime navigational features in the island’s topography.
Due to Saipan’s extensive colonial past and role in WWII, Indigenous and nonIndigenous people on the island have a lengthy period of shared heritage. Shared heritage is a
way of looking at contact periods in history as periods of cultural pluralism where different
cultures influence each other, but still retain themselves. Often in archaeology, prehistoric or
pre-contact studies focus on Indigenous culture. Historical, or contact studies, focus on colonial
European cultures and how European cultures affect Indigenous people (Lightfoot 1995:202).
Shared heritage is largely about recognizing that once Europeans and colonial powers arrived,
Indigenous culture did not cease to exist. Indigenous societies are active and evolving cultures
and cultural change is not the result of Indigenous societies passively receiving Western values.
As archaeologist Rodney Harrison (2004:219) explains, shared heritage means history is being
experienced by all, alongside each other. It does not mean the history is homogenous, but a
period of mutual self-definitions by Indigenous and non-Indigenous people who lived at the
12
same time and in the same place. The experiences of colonization and war are a part of
Indigenous memory and heritage, thus, many of Saipan’s historical sites such as shipwrecks,
aircraft, barges, tanks, anchorages and piers have cross-cultural significance (Carrell 2009:432,
467–468). This research acknowledges the shared, yet separate experiences Indigenous and nonIndigenous people have and incorporates the perceived Indigenous value and self-definition of
historical sites (McIntyre-Tamwoy 2002:175, 178, 182; Torrence and Clarke 2000:5).
1.8 Methods
Methods for this research include reviewing a range of historical, archaeological and
ethnographic accounts of Indigenous culture in the Marianas. Documents include reports by
early occupiers and administrators on the islands, post-WWII studies, current heritage
management reports and unpublished surveys obtained from Saipan’s HPO. The centrality of the
sea in Indigenous life and history is expanded by incorporating Indigenous knowledge and
recorded Indigenous histories and narratives. Archival and ethnographic accounts are limited to
those translated into English, published or republished and accessible via libraries or repositories.
Community collaborators determined site selection. The primary community
collaborators were two individuals with backgrounds and training in archaeology, history and
heritage management. One individual currently works for Saipan’s HPO while another worked
for the same agency in the past. Preliminary discussions were conducted prior to going out into
the field with each collaborator. Discussions summarized the aims and goals of the research and
collaborators identified sites that would be of interest to this research. The decision to visit these
sites depended on the collaborators and whether they had the time or ability to access these sites.
Collaborators used their business or personal vehicles to visit the sites with researchers. All sites
were initially recorded and mapped in the company of and with assistance from the
13
collaborators, but if conflicts in availability occurred, and if required, researchers went out on
their own to revisit the sites for further survey.
Archaeological survey methods included scaled photographs, sketches, area survey
measurements and component measurements. Global Positioning System (GPS) points were
taken of each site’s general location as well as certain substantial components of particular sites.
For sites in the tidal zone, archaeologists noted the date and time of each visit in order to
calculate water depth. Several map types were constructed including site plans, field sketches
and site location maps.
Indigenous community members collaborated with researchers in the layout and
development of this thesis and in all public interpretation efforts, including all publications and
informational materials developed from all data. Archaeologists obtained consent from
collaborators to quote them where relevant (see Appendix A) and collaborators were sent
pertinent sections of this thesis for approval.
1.9 Significance of Study
Despite the belief that “archaeology is archaeology is archaeology” (Clarke 1968:13),
perhaps significance lies in how this study combines concepts and methods commonly associated
with four areas of archaeological research: maritime archaeology, Indigenous archaeology,
community archaeology and cultural heritage management. Many archaeologists proclaim that
maritime archaeology currently lacks knowledge of how to incorporate Indigenous maritime
sites and collaborative research into its study and methodology (Duncan 2011:269). Likewise,
many of Saipan’s Indigenous archaeological sites are not recorded and are explained from a
distinctly maritime perspective. This work fills the gap in the Marianas’ Indigenous literature
and bridges the divide between maritime and Indigenous archaeology. Since the 1970s
14
Indigenous groups in many parts of the world have demanded control over their land, sea and
heritage (Clarke 2002:250; Morphy and Morphy 2006:68–69; Young 2008:127–128, 168). In
terms of cultural heritage management the documentation of these sites can assist in the
identification, management and protection of such sites, and can assist in sea and land tenure
claims. These combined efforts of otherwise disparate theoretical and methodological
approaches create a more ethically sound, accurate and broader understanding of Indigenous
maritime-related activities in the Marianas and contribute to the body of knowledge within
several fields of archaeological study.
Perhaps the most significant and important aspect of this research is that it assists the
Indigenous people of the Marianas in recording their maritime history and culture. Indigenous
people expressed a need and it was addressed. Nevertheless, this is by no means an exhaustive
study of Indigenous maritime culture in the Marianas. Anthropologist Clifford Geertz explains
that “it is not necessary to know everything in order to understand something” (1973:20). The
intention is to enable the reader to understand something about Indigenous maritime heritage in
the Marianas.
1.10 Chapters
The thesis is divided into six chapters. Chapter 1 introduces the location and identifies
the cultural groups on which this thesis focuses. It then briefly introduces the study area,
research question and aims, theoretical approach and methodology used during fieldwork.
Chapter 2 further develops the anthropological theory guiding this study. It elaborates on ideas
and origins of seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes, appropriately situating them into
island archaeology. Chapter 3 describes the history of the Mariana Islands from an Indigenous
perspective and describes Indigenous marine tenure in the area, highlighting the significance of
15
this research. The methodology and archaeological methods used during fieldwork are described
in Chapter 4. Chapter 5 presents and analyzes the data and discusses each site individually.
Chapter 6 restates the research aims and discusses how the data fits into the theoretical
perspective, assembling the ideas and perspectives into a concluding discussion about the
seascape and maritime cultural landscape of the Marianas — a sea of islands.
16
Chapter 2: Literature Review
2.1 Introduction
Seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes have recently been subjected to
archaeological frameworks. This delay can be largely attributed to historical events, hegemonic
ideas and beliefs about the sea and about islands, particularly those in the Pacific, as isolated bits
of land where the sea impeded the inhabitants’ access to any form of “civilization.” Explorers,
researchers and colonial powers characterized land as “home,” a source for food and settlement,
while the sea was and often still is “foreign,” threatening, and something to be crossed at one’s
own risk in search for more land (Gosden and Pavlides 1994:162).
2.2 Island Archaeology
Non-European anthropology and archaeology were made possible by the voyages of
geographical “discovery,” which put Europeans in contact with the anthropological “other.”
Intrigued by such distant locations, and supported by colonial agendas, researchers such as Thor
Heyerdahl, Margaret Mead, Bronislaw Malinowski and Raymond Firth visited the “distant”
Pacific in the late 19th and early 20th centuries (Erickson and Murphy 2003:30–31, 59–60, 103104; Parkin 1988:327). As more researchers visited the islands, maritime activities such as
canoe construction, navigation and fishing were found to be an important part of island life
(Johannes 1981:3). At the same time, island archaeologists in the Pacific were interested in
determining the origins and cultural expansion of Indigenous peoples. A debate emerged
regarding the ability of Pacific Islanders, particularly Polynesians and their Lapita ancestors, to
purposefully navigate and consequently populate the Pacific. Some researchers, including
anthropologist Ward Goodenough and historian Andrew Sharp, argued against the ocean-going
capabilities of Pacific Islanders, suggesting the islands were perhaps populated from what is
17
today considered South America and by people who drifted or were exiled out to sea (Sharp
1963:16). Goodenough did not believe that Indigenous islanders had the skills or technology to
accomplish long-distance voyaging and referred to the islands as “inbreeding isolates”
(Goodenough 1957:147). Other researchers such as Elsdon Best, Richard Feinberg, Ben Finney
and Geoffrey Irwin advocated for purposeful navigation by ocean-wise Pacific Islanders who
acquired intimate knowledge of the sea and surrounding environment over thousands of years of
living near it. With close proximity to the sea, islanders had specific knowledge of tides,
currents, waves, winds and stars (Best 1918:176–177; Feinberg 1988:12; Finney 1979:333–334;
Irwin 2008:21). The debate resulted in a host of experimental archaeological studies to test
whether long voyages were possible in the Pacific. Researchers constructed traditional canoes
and encouraged Indigenous islanders to navigate the expeditions without the use of modern
navigational tools. Expeditions were never flawless and did not come without their sceptics
(Holmes 1958:127). As Finney points out, today ocean-going capabilities are difficult to prove
as modernization renders lengthy voyages and master navigators unnecessary (Finney 1979:325,
333–334, 338). This Pacific Island belittlement and scepticism for islander ingenuity from both
archaeologists and non-archaeologists triggered Hau’ofa’s timely address. Hau’ofa, a Pacific
Islander and trained anthropologist, proposed the notion that smallness and isolation is a state of
mind. He explained that the D’Urvillean classification of the Pacific into the smaller areas of
Micronesia, Melanesia and Polynesia are inaccurate. These areas are connected by the ocean, so
in fact the areas of habitation in the Pacific are quite large. To help convey this, Hau’ofa prefers
to refer to the area as “Oceania” which incorporates all the islands and the ocean in between. In
Oceania, the sea is just as important as the land and is a part of daily life. In fact, for the
inhabitants of Oceania, the sea was and is “home” (Hau’ofa 1993:3, 6, 8, 10; D’Arcy 2006:8,
18
61). Hau’ofa accelerated the idea of seeing the land from the sea, a common thread in both
seascape and maritime cultural landscape theoretical frameworks.
2.3 Seascapes
Given the historical context of seascapes, there is no surprise that seascapes’ theoretical
underpinnings lie in landscape archaeology. One of the earliest definitions of landscape as an
area of academic study emerged in the 1920s from geographer Carl O. Sauer. Sauer explains
that the word “landscape” essentially means “land shape,” which can be physical and cultural. A
cultural landscape is a natural or physical landscape shaped by a cultural group; culture is the
agent or “shaping force,” made up of social, political and ideological components and the natural
landscape is the medium. He explains that the natural does have some bearing on how the
cultural landscape is created and conceptualized, but first and foremost cultural landscapes are
cultural expressions; when the culture changes so does the cultural landscape (Ford 2011b:1–2,
4; Sauer 1996:300, 309–310). Anthropologist Barbara Bender takes this definition a bit further
explaining that cultural landscapes are intimate encounters between culture and land that are
experienced with all the senses. They are not only about ways of engaging with the land, but
looking at exactly who is doing the interacting and how, ultimately explaining and understanding
other “views” and ways of “being” in the world (Bender 2002:135–137). Simply put, landscape
archaeology is an exploration of how land and culture influence each other and who it influences.
Seascape archaeology takes this terrestrially-based concept and applies it to the maritime world
examining how sea and culture influence each other.
The term “seascape” first appeared in 1994 in an article by Gosden and Pavlides. Clearly
influenced by Hau’ofa’s belief that islands are not insular, the authors use the material culture of
the Arawe Island group in Papua New Guinea and the pottery of the Lapita cultural expansion to
19
demonstrate sea-culture interdependence. The authors determine that Arawe material culture
related to rituals and rites of passage are obtained from sea trade links with neighbouring islands.
In return for these items Arawe people trade items raised on land such as taro, yam and pigs.
What they planted on land and what they can raise is dependent on what they need to supply
overseas as a part of larger exchange system created by maritime contacts and not on basic
physical needs or sustenance. The sea bridged the islands to form this coastal trading system in
order to sustain Arawe spiritual life (Gosden and Pavlides 1994:162–163, 166).
Just as the Arawe used the sea as a bridge for procuring ritual items, their Lapita
ancestors also used the sea as a bridge, but for communication. Lapita pottery, for example, can
be found over a large geographical area spanning hundreds of islands and their surrounding seas.
The pottery is identified by specific designs and motifs. Interestingly, changes in these designs
occurred over this large geographic area around the same time. Gosden and Pavlides suggest
that this is evidence of continual contact between the Lapita people on different islands and of
co-ordinated changes in pottery decoration, and not simply coincidental simultaneous change.
This particular area in the Pacific was, thus, an “interaction sphere” created by the sea (Gosden
and Pavlides 1994:163, 168–169; Irwin 2008:12).
Despite the delayed inception of the term “seascape,” researchers addressed the notion of
culture-sea influence and interaction more than a decade prior. Most of these previous studies
focused on the coastal landscape and portrayed the sea as a place for subsistence and
procurement technology discussing coastal occupation patterns, fishing methods, watercraft, diet
and fish traps (McNiven 2003:330, see for example Colley 1987 and Stockton 1982). Similarly,
marine biologist Robert Johannes (1981) provided an in-depth and exhaustive account of Palauan
fishing practices. However, he related these practices to Palauan concepts of time and ecological
20
knowledge. This type of ecological knowledge provided a deeper understanding of local
culture’s understandings of and its relationship with the sea. Johannes took a more emic
perspective rather than applying Western conceptualizations to understandings of environment,
subsistence and technology. This ecological knowledge is often referred to as traditional
ecological knowledge (TEK) or sometimes Indigenous technical knowledge (ITK). TEK is
defined as “the knowledge base acquired by [I]ndigenous and local peoples over many hundreds
of years through direct contact with the environment. It includes an intimate and detailed
knowledge of plants, animals, natural phenomena, the development and use of appropriate
technologies for hunting, fishing, trapping, agriculture and forestry, and a holistic knowledge, or
“world view” which parallels the scientific discipline of ecology” (Bourque et al. 1993:vi).
Authors such as Finney (1979, 1989) also touched on this idea in terms of Indigenous knowledge
of sea movements, wind patterns, currents and stars and how they are used in navigation
(1979:333; 1989:262, 266).
TEK is also central to anthropologists Matthew Lauer and Shankar Aswani’s (2009)
study. In an effort to develop a marine conservation project in the Solomon Islands, Lauer and
Aswani set out to take inventory of coastal resources and produce habitat maps identifying
distinct ecological areas and fish species. The authors found that the Roviana people have
intimate and detailed maritime ecological knowledge, more detailed and thorough than what the
authors could obtain using scientific methods and surveys. The Roviana people obtain this
knowledge through socially situated activities of people engaging with others and the
environment. Epistemologically speaking, knowledge is attained using different modes of
understanding. For the Roviana people it is a practiced-based knowledge. Scientific knowledge
21
is another mode of knowing, not necessarily more efficient or more accurate, but in the case of
ecological understanding in the Solomon Islands, it proved limited (2009:319, 322, 326).
Not only do TEK studies identify unrecorded Indigenous knowledge, but they also
become the basis for many environmental management programs and Native Title claims. Lauer
and Aswani’s (2009) study, for example, revealed the unit of habitation called the pepeso. The
pepeso represents a land-sea concept with four socio-ecological zones each with specific
habitation, history and social activities. Each pepeso has ecological boundaries demarcating
territorial estates, historical claims and ownership by kin-based groups (2009:320, 326).
Understanding these types of local divisions can assist in developing more effective and
alternative conservation and management plans and help acknowledge Indigenous land and sea
ownership. Anthropologists Howard Morphy and Frances Morphy (2006) also discuss division
of estate areas in the sea and Indigenous ownership of these areas based on Yolngu ecological
knowledge in Blue Mud Bay, Northern Territory, Australia. Sections of the water are
demarcated by ecological features that represent ancestral beings. Instead of describing these
features in scientific terms, the Yolngu use metaphors to articulate these phenomena. For
example, the coral reef in the bay is the ancestral stingray’s transformed tail. Another particular
circular coral reef is interpreted as the transformation of an ancestral turtle harpooned by a turtle
hunter. Ecological features of the sea are described metaphorically in terms of how ancestors
related to these features. This is then articulated in terms of sea ownership where each ancestral
being is part of a moiety within which are patrilineal landowning clans. However, just as the
waters are connected, so were the ancestors and so is sea ownership. Sea ownership is shared
between clans and moieties based on the social connectedness of ancestors. This Yolngu ecomythology is used in Native Title determination cases (Morphy and Morphy 2006:69–74, 81).
22
Although an important area of study in terms of Indigenous self-determination, Lauer and
Aswani do point out that TEK studies can sometimes implicitly identify who is qualified to know
and who is not, labelling some Indigenous individuals more credible for information than others
(2009:326).
As the term “seascape” appeared more frequently in archaeological discourse, a themed
volume of articles aptly titled “Seascapes” in the World Archaeology Journal in 2003 helped to
clarify the concept. The volume incorporated several different approaches and included a wide
range of geographic areas. Seascapes were used to describe several ways of relating or possibly
relating to the sea. Socio-economic status and identity, for example, can be influenced by searelated activities. Archaeologist Robert Van de Noort (2003) explains that long distance
exchange and boat building determined status in the British Isles. Long distance journeys meant
that the boat’s crew went to distant places and gained knowledge and experience that others did
not, increasing the crews’ status and foreign knowledge. Gifts obtained on these journeys were
representative of that. Over time only the elite were able to attain this knowledge so boats were
constructed specifically to maintain their status. In this example, Van de Noort expresses the
seascape as an ideological concept representing a way in which people signified themselves and
their world through their imagined relationship with nature (Van de Noort 2003:405, 407–412).
Similarly, archaeologist Aidan O’Sullivan (2003) describes how fish weirs in medieval Britain
and Ireland can be used to describe identity and social status. O’Sullivan explains that those who
live and work within these estuaries have intimate knowledge of the maritime environment,
which is likely passed down to their children. The local maritime culture involved in daily
operations likely had a concept of time that coincided with the cycles of the tides and seasonal
23
movements of marine animals, rendering them a distinct social group and identity (2003:462,
464–466).
Seascape literature also discusses relationships with the sea in a more ontological way,
expressing the ways in which places have stories, myths, legends, and rituals attached to them.
Archaeologist Ian McNiven is influential in this regard. As he explains, seascapes include more
than just simple ecological relationships between people and their natural environment; they
include a number of symbolic practices as well. The “Saltwater Peoples” of the Torres Strait off
Northern Queensland take part in what McNiven calls “the ritual orchestration of seascapes,”
where subsistence activities are imbued with cosmological meaning. This cultural group views
the sea as a site for spiritual forces that may be engaged through ritual. Marine specialization
and activity have deeply cosmological contexts for “Saltwater Peoples,” shaping the seascape
into a “spiritscape” of sorts. “Fish traps” and other marine arrangements of stone, shells or bone
are not methods of fish procurement, as their construction is not conducive to such activity.
Rather they are spiritual offerings to ancestors to promote large migrations of fish. For the
Saltwater Peoples, the sea also permeates cultural legends and myths. For example, a woman
becomes pregnant once a spirit child, emanating from coastal reefs and rocks, enters her body.
Marine features are also formed and described as the result of or manifestations of ancestral
beings. McNiven explains that people construct seascapes into spiritscapes in order to make
them comprehensible. People use ritual to engage with spirits, which in turn make them more
meaningful. Seascapes are socialized and all societies ritually orchestrate seascapes and
landscapes (McNiven 2003:330, 334–336, 338–339; McNiven and Feldman 2003:169, 171–172,
188–189). In a more recent study by archaeologists Jeremy Ash, Louise Manas and David
Bosun (2010), socialized seascapes by Torres Strait Islanders become even more evident when
24
considering the effects of missionaries in the area during the 1800s. In an effort to assimilate
Indigenous people, ritual seascape spaces and places were destroyed. Despite the encroachment
of Europeans on the land, the contact period was one of shared heritage. “Saltwater Peoples”
and their seascape did not cease to exist during this contact period as new structures on the land
and their locations were negotiated with the Torres Strait Islanders. The “Saltwater Peoples” had
the Europeans build structures in such a way as to coincide with Indigenous beliefs, such as
having churches face the sea. Where ritual spaces were destroyed, rituals were conducted in new
spaces, socially reproducing and restructuring the seascape (Ash et al. 2010:77–78).
The coast or shore is often considered a tangible liminal place as it is neither sea nor land
(Cooney 2003:326; Flatman 2011:314–315; Westerdahl 2011a:294). Van de Noort (2003)
applies this aspect of ritual to his analysis of the Bronze Age British elite. He explains that the
British considered the long trip out to sea to procure foreign goods and knowledge a rite of
passage for young British elite and the coast was the liminal boundary. Long-distance voyages
enhanced their social and political status as leaders, but they were only considered leaders once
that boundary (the coast) was crossed (2003:412). The boat itself, while out at sea, is also
described as a liminal space (Westerdahl 2007:3, 9; 2011:304). Archaeologist Catherine
Frieman (2008) takes this concept a step further describing the Manx prehistoric seascape as one
that is constantly liminal. Islanders on the Isle of Man lived on such a small piece of land that
they never experienced a separation between landscape and seascape; all areas were coastal areas
and, therefore, the Manx culture existed in an entirely liminal environment. Frieman describes
this unique experience as an “islandscape” where the island is understood as a synergy of sea and
land. This also makes sense considering its geographical location as an island between the
mainland United Kingdom and the open ocean that early navigators would have inevitably
25
encountered on their way out; something physically between the land and the sea. Periodic
coastal and social interactions with off-islanders were a large part of being a Manx Islander. The
erection of monuments and structures on the coast to aid in navigation and increase the
occurrence of these interactions taking place are the archaeological remnants of what it meant to
be a Manx Islander. Frieman suggests these monuments also had political, ritual and funerary
importance to the Manx. Structures were possible boundaries for protection from the dangers of
the Irish Sea or were a way of creating the land-sea divide the Isle of Man did not have (Frieman
2008:134, 137, 145–148).
Given what has been discussed about seascapes, several views of the world as they relate
to the sea are considered. However, Frieman’s islandscape argument conjures up questions in
terms of who is doing the interacting. When, in Frieman’s case, does a seascape stop and an
islandscape begin? What types of cultures experience seascapes? The literature indicates that
island inhabitants and littoral cultures are more likely to be influenced by the sea, but if
seascapes are essentially emic and a cultural groups’ worldview incorporating the sea, can larger
islands or even landlocked peoples experience a seascape? Anthropologist Rita Astuti (1995)
adds another dimension to this discussion. Astuti evaluates identity among the coastal-dwelling
Vezo and inland-dwelling Masikoro people in western Madagascar. She explains that to the
Vezo people of the area, identity is not a state of being, or what people were born into, but
behaviour. To be Vezo is to live on the coast, struggle with the sea, paddle a canoe and fish. To
be Masikoro, one must live in the interior, raise cattle and cultivate rice, maize and manioc. One
becomes Vezo or Masikoro by learning and studying “Vezoness” or “Masikoroness” for a period
of time. The Vezo are not a “kind” of people. Masikoro can become Vezo and Vezo can
become Masikoro (Astuti 1995:465, 467, 469). Considering how this relates to seascapes, would
26
previously Vezo, yet current Masikoro people experience a seascape? Can coastal dwellers have
no interaction with the sea? Do cultures have to be in or on the space to experience it or be
influenced by it? Some of these questions are further explored through a related concept
identified as the maritime cultural landscape.
2.4 Maritime Cultural Landscapes
Scandinavian archaeologist Christer Westerdahl introduced the concept of maritime
cultural landscapes in 1978. Its basis lies in the sub-discipline of maritime archaeology and
emerged out of ethnographic interests of a maritime culture, beyond the ship. It became a way of
incorporating more post-processual and theoretically based studies into maritime archaeological
studies and is used as a part of cultural heritage management (CHM) (Firth 1995:3–6; Ford
2011b:5; Tuddenham 2010:2; Westerdahl 1994:266, 269).
Like seascapes, maritime cultural landscapes have the same landscape archaeology
underpinnings. The maritime cultural landscape is also about the space-culture interaction and
influence. Westerdahl (1992) describes the maritime cultural landscape as a scientific term for
the unity of remnants of a maritime culture on land and underwater. He defines it as the “human
utilization (economy) of maritime space by boat” (1992:5–6). Utilization of space refers to
settlement, fishing, hunting, shipping, or for more commercial purposes such as pilotage,
lighthouse and seamark maintenance. An amended definition includes sailing routes, ports,
harbours and all related constructions and other remains of human maritime activity, underwater
and terrestrial. Westerdahl also acknowledges how the sea influenced language, as in the case
with culturally significant place names (Duncan 2011:272; Ford 2011b:5; Ford 2011c:71–72;
Westerdahl 1992:5–6, 9; 2008:212; 2011a:291).
27
Researchers studying maritime cultural landscapes propose the existence of a distinct
maritime culture and identity (Tuddenham 2010:6). However, some researchers question
whether a distinct maritime culture exists, stating that all humans experience both sea and land
and are often influenced by both (Rönnby 2007:66; Tuddenham 2010:8; Westerdahl 2008:191).
Can the maritime environment and the sea impact social and cultural experiences in a way that is
distinct compared to the wider society, thus, making this group of people with distinct
experiences and understandings a maritime culture? Archaeologists point out that cultural and
ethnic divisions are often more pronounced between coastal and interior communities than
between coastal communities on neighbouring islands (Ballard et al. 2003:390). Westerdahl
(1994) uses anthropologist Harald Prins’ definition of culture and applies it to the understanding
of maritime culture. He explains that if culture is, as Prins indicates, a patterned set of recurrent
events, then a maritime culture can be defined by a recurrent set of maritime traits and repetitive
maritime behaviour, which can be archaeologically identified by maritime material culture.
These maritime traits and behaviours are endless and can include myths concerning the sea,
children playing with toy boats and crowds gathering at ship launchings, among others
(1994:265–267). Archaeologist Johan Rönnby (2007:66–68, 79) describes Swedish coastal
dwellers as having maritime traits indicative of a maritime culture. He notes that Swedish
exploitation of the sea and the activities associated with it such as fishing, hunting and sailing
were present in the archaeological record for thousands of years despite shifts in climate and
vegetation. Despite changes through time, Swedish coastal dwellers continued to practice
coastal and maritime activities suggesting these activities are part of a maritime culture that
continues to exist and adapt regardless of change. Areas of such maritime activities are referred
to as centers of maritime culture. Centers include places where maritime economies exist
28
including fishing, hunting, shipping, transport and coastal zones where boat building and
navigation is taught and learned. There can also be concentrations of maritime activity, referred
to as maritime enclaves, in areas slightly different from the main maritime economic activity
(Westerdahl 1994:265, 267–268).
In line with Westerdahl’s idea of human experience of both land and sea, researcher
David Tuddenham (2010) proposes using the term “maritimity.” Maritimity is used to describe
how much or how little material culture can be considered maritime or terrestrial. In essence it is
a sliding scale or spectrum, where material culture can be distinctly maritime or terrestrial or a
little of both if it does not fit into one of the two extremes. Phenomena and material culture are
placed into the scale and are sorted based on how much maritime or terrestrial cultural purpose
they serve. Those that fall into the middle of the scale as possible maritime and terrestrial
objects are referred to as “quasi objects.” The idea of maritimity is meant to acknowledge that
material culture can have both maritime and terrestrial significance, which blurs the divide
between maritime and terrestrial archaeology. Yet, as Tuddenham acknowledges, maritimity
may even perpetuate a divide between maritime and terrestrial as extremes exist on the spectrum
that some archaeologists may be more inclined to side with (2010:8, 10–11, 14–15).
As maritime cultural landscapes continue to be utilized in archaeology, local
perspectives, oral histories and symbolism acquired through interviews with local people become
part of the theoretical analysis (Westerdahl 1992:5; 2011:291). These local perspectives are
about “the mapping and imprinting of the functional aspects of the surroundings in the human
mind,” (Westerdahl 1992:5) and about exploring those cultural aspects that are invisible to the
archaeologist (Ford 2011c:73). These perspectives are often designated as landscapes in their
own right, such as the cognitive landscape, ritual landscape (Westerdahl 1992:5) and the
29
ephemeral landscape (Ford 2011c:73–74). In this area, researchers explore shipboard behaviour
and symbolism in Northern Europe, English and American maritime memorialization, human
ingenuity in fish weir construction in the United Kingdom and the folklore, oral histories and
typonymy of fishing cultures in Australia (see Bannerman and Jones 1999; Duncan 2011:271–
274; Flatman 2011:323; Stewart 2007; Westerdahl 2005; 2007; 2011:293). As maritime cultural
landscape studies develop and as the social and local aspects become increasingly important,
Westerdahl suggests establishing maritime communities rather than maritime cultures, as it is the
societal connection and understanding between people rather than a predetermined culture that
archaeologists seek to find (Westerdahl 2011b:337).
2.5 Conclusion
Both seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes are based on the same space-culture
interdependency and influence. Both frameworks are about various human relationships with the
sea, whether the culture is coastal or sea-going and whether or not the material culture analyzed
is found on land or underwater. Seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes have active
presences, which cultures create and manipulate overtime (Flatman 2011:325). They are imbued
with vitality, have history, memories and myths (Bender 1992:735; Pollard 2011:388). Just as
landscapes are open-ended, polysemic, untidy, contestational, and infinity variable (Bender
2002:137), seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes can be regarded in the same way.
Despite the overlap between seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes, few studies
combine components of both theoretical perspectives (Duncan 2011:270–271). This thesis
incorporates aspects of sea-culture interdependency typical of both seascapes and maritime
cultural landscapes. It incorporates a range of influences the sea has on culture, exploring a
phenomenological, practical and economic approach.
30
Chapter 3: Historical Analysis
3.1 Introduction
The following is a historical analysis and overview of Indigenous life in the Mariana
Islands. The analysis provides some insight into Indigenous experiences and relationships with
the sea from historical, archaeological and ethnographic accounts. Since history is typically told
from a non-Indigenous perspective, this analysis describes a history with Indigenous people as
the focal point. This helps to make some inferences and conclusions about how Indigenous
people interacted or did not interact with the sea in the past. The history section begins with the
Chamorro creation myth as retold by author Bo Flood and Father Peter Coomans. The two
stories from Flood and Coomans are summarized for the purposes of this thesis. The original
retellings can be found in Appendix B. A discussion about sea tenure in the Mariana Islands
follows the historical description to set forth how this information can be practically applied to
benefit Indigenous groups on the islands.
3.2 History
In the beginning, before anything, there was nothing. Caretaker of this emptiness was
Puntan, a man born without a father and with one sister named Fu’uña. When Puntan sensed that
he would die, he became sad knowing that his sister would be alone and decided to create. He
called on his sister for help in his plan. She promised to complete what he began, assuring the
creation of the mighty stars, the vast ocean, then the earth, the whisper of wind, the softness of
the Plumeria’s petals, and the fresh smell of rain. As Puntan breathed his last breath, Fu’uña
held him and wailed woman’s first birth song. She then lifted his head and let life flow into the
emptiness. Although Puntan’s breath and body became the world he imagined for her, Fu’uña
was sad and alone. She swam with the sharks and followed the whales until she reached a string
31
of islands. She walked their beaches chasing ghost crabs, collecting shells, and watching tropic
birds soar. She laughed as hermit crabs scampered sideways and sea cucumbers spit out sand.
She watched as fish nibbled on coral, but she was still lonely. She stood in the surf then rolled
herself into the sea and decided that she needed people. She then walked into the sea, and there
near the southern part of Guam she became a rock. The sea crashed over her and broke her into
many pieces. Each new stone held her spirit and transformed into a new kind of people. As
Fu’uña’s rock dissolved, the grains were carried throughout the world giving birth to all
humankind. Men and women filled the world. Some were good, tending the earth, caring for the
taro, and sharing breadfruit and coconut. Some were not good, fishing out the seas, claiming
islands as their own, muddying the streams, trampling the reefs, cutting down the taro, banana,
and coconut without replanting, only wasting and destroying. To this day many remember to
take time to watch the surf rolling back to the sea, calling to their children to listen to the story of
the beginning (Coomans 2000:15–16; Flood 2001:2–4).
The islands Fu’uña reached and walked on are today known as the Mariana Islands. The
original settlers of these islands were seafaring explorers from island South East Asia, arriving
approximately 4,000 years ago (OHP 2011:2; Russell 1998:74; Spoehr 2000:2). Today the
descendents of these people are known as the Chamorro people. Not much is known about the
early settlement of the Mariana Islands, but archaeological evidence determines that for the first
3,000 years, people settled in coastal areas for proximity to fishing grounds and fresh water
sources (OHP 2011:2, 5). The early period is also characterized by the existence of Marianas red
pottery, suspected to have ties with pottery from the islands known today as the Philippines
(Pellett and Spoehr 1961:321–323). Between 1,100 BP–800 BP ancient Chamorro people began
building what is known as the latte structure. Latte structures are paired, two-piece foundational
32
stones believed to have supported Chamorro residences and other structures such as canoe
houses (OHP 2011:5). The emergence of the latte is the divide between the Pre-Latte Phase of
prehistory and the Latte Phase of prehistory. As the names suggest, the Pre-Latte Phase is
identified archaeologically by the absence of latte, and the presences of Marianas red pottery,
while the Latte Phase is identified by the quarrying and construction of latte structures and
production of Marianas plain pottery. The Latte Phase lasted from 1000 BP until European
contact in 1521 (Cabrera 2005:12; Spoehr and Fleming 1986:116–120).
Ancient villages consisted of ranked matrilineal clans with residents of coastal villages
enjoying higher status. Three endogamous classes of Chamorro people existed: the lower class
(mangatchang), the high class (matua), and the middle class (atchaot) (Cabrera 2005:36; Fritz
2001:75; Russell 1998:20). Higher status meant receiving respect, assistance with manual tasks,
and choice seating and special foods at gatherings (OHP 2001:6). Work was gendered; men
fished, performed construction work and fought in times of war. Women tended to gardens,
wove various baskets and nets, and were in control of family life, property and inheritance.
Subsistence came from fishing and root crops, which were traded between the coastal dwellers
who fished and the inland dwellers who harvested. These items and rice were also used during
ceremonial events (Fritz 2001:75; OHP 2001:6).
Chamorro people practiced ancestor worship during the Latte Period as well. Chamorro
people buried their dead, often beneath their houses, but skulls were extracted from the
gravesites after decomposition and kept inside the home for good luck (Cabrera 2005:35; Fritz
2001:18). The skulls of deceased relatives (manganiti) were also used by shamans (makana) to
communicate with ancestral spirits to ensure success during fishing and battle, to cure illness,
and to foresee the future (Fritz 2001:89; OHP 2011:6). The ancient Chamorro also used the
33
clavicle, leg and arm bones of the dead, which were imbued with ancestral spirits, to create spear
points and fishing hooks (Coomans 2000:25; Fritz 2001:4).
Europeans first arrived to the Mariana Islands in 1521 when Magellan landed on Guam
while en-route to the Spice Islands. A number of Chamorro people sailed to meet Magellan in
their small outrigger canoes with lateen sails, bringing gifts from their land (Barratt 2003:xii;
Fritz 2001:1; Spoehr 2000:6). In return the Chamorro people helped themselves to any
obtainable metal components from Magellan’s ship. Magellan and his crew fought off the
Chamorro people, killing a number of them with firearms, while the Chamorro people fought
back with spears and slings. The next day Magellan further retaliated by burning down a small
Chamorro village on the beach (Fritz 2001:1; Hezel 1983:1–2; Spoehr 2000:6).
Forty-four years later the Mariana Islands were claimed by Spain, using Guam as a
provisioning stop on the Manila-Acapulco galleon trade route (Fritz 2001:1; OHP 2011:7). At
this time the Chamorro people had little contact with the Spanish. That changed when the
Spanish Jesuits, led by Father Luis de San Vitores, established a mission on Guam in 1668
(Coomans 2000:19; Fritz 2001:2; OHP 2011:7; Spoehr 2000:6, 9). When the Jesuits arrived,
they were well received by the Chamorro people. The Spanish quickly began the process of
converting Chamorro people to Christianity, baptizing them almost immediately. In order to
infiltrate the islands north of Guam, the Chamorro people provided inter-island canoe
transportation for the Spanish. In the 1670s Chamorro people on all islands thwarted the
pressure from the missionaries to convert with several acts of resistance (OHP 2011:7). For
instance, Chamorro people killed Father Medina in Saipan, a Chamorro man named Huraw
staged a rebellion in Guam and Chamorro chief Mata’pang killed San Vitores while he
performed an unapproved baptism on a Chamorro child (Fritz 2001:3; Spoehr 2000:10, 16–19).
34
Not all groups resisted Spanish efforts as some sided with and assisted the Spanish in their
operations (Fritz 2001:5). The motivations for this are unclear, but perhaps these groups either
feared for their livelihood or utilized their cooperation to gain power.
Nonetheless, the retaliation provoked the Spanish government to move all residents in the
Mariana Islands to Guam in 1684 in order to attain better control (Coomans 2000:4–5; Fritz
2001:5; Hezel 1983:14, 48; OHP 2011:7; Spoehr 2000:20–23). Whether or not all Chamorro
people were relocated is debatable, as the Spanish likely did not succeed in transferring every
Chamorro person from the Northern Mariana Islands (NMI). In Rota, for example, Chamorro
people hid from the Spanish in caves during resettlement (Bowers 1950:39). The next 200 years
was a period of transculturation and ethnogenesis (Van Buren 2010:157) for both the Chamorro
people and the Spanish. Despite the assumption Chamorro people were “hispanicized” by
colonial powers and the fact Chamorro people were prohibited from taking part in various
activities (Spoehr 2000:24–36), this period of time was likely more complex where each culture
negotiated their own social and cultural identity marked by differences in class, race, gender and
other parameters (Van Buren 2010:159). The Chamorro people were exposed to European
values such as patrilineal family organization, Western dress, church, food preferences for
Spanish and Mexican cuisine and the idea of private ownership. For example, Chamorro people
were prohibited from taking part in ocean-going activities and inter-island fishing, and the
Spanish implemented the Ley Hipotecaria par alas Provincias de Ultramar of 1863, which
determined that everyone who could prove even short possession of a piece of land could register
it under his or her name (Amesbury et al. 1989:8; Fritz 2001:2, 50). The Spanish were also
exposed to Indigenous cultural values and often used latte structures for Christian rituals
(Cabrera 2005:20). Chamorro people kept their own language and several aspects of traditional
35
culture including customary fishing techniques (Coomans 2000:7; Fritz 2001:8–9; Hezel
1983:48; Spoehr 2000:24–36).
A second Indigenous group from the central Caroline Islands re-appeared during the
Chamorro resettlement on Guam, effectively renewing an ancient sea link that was severed for
one hundred years after the Spanish subjugation (D’Arcy 2006:156–157; Hezel 1983:48; OHP
2011:2; Spoehr 2000:39). Carolinian people had contact with the Mariana Islands prior to
Spanish arrival, but stopped after they learned of Spanish brutality. The first Carolinian people
are reported to have arrived as three drift voyagers from Ulithi in 1721 and cared for by Guam
authorities (D’Arcy 2006:157). In 1788 canoes from Lamotrek under the direction of the
navigational expert Luito sailed to Guam in search of iron (Fritz 2001:9–10; Spoehr 2000:39).
Luito’s first voyage restored the trade route between the islands of Gaferut and Guam, called
Mutau-uol in Carolinian navigational chant. Luis de Torres, a Chamorro man and sargento
mayor ensured Luito received iron and goods and encouraged them to return (D’Arcy 2006:157).
After Luito’s voyage, the Spanish attempted to sail to the Caroline Islands, to establish a mission.
The Spanish succeeded in baptizing several Carolinians, until 1733 when the Carolinian people
killed one of the visiting priests (Hezel 1983:55–58). Contact with the new mission ceased, yet
Carolinian people continued to visit Guam for goods in the 1750s. Luito once again sailed to
Guam in 1789, but this time he became lost at sea on his return. Relatives in the Caroline Islands
thought the Spanish caused Luito’s disappearance, which deterred Carolinian people from
returning to the Mariana Islands. When Luis de Torres became Vice Governor of Guam he
sailed to the Caroline Islands in 1804 to determine why Carolinian people stopped visiting the
Mariana Islands (D’Arcy 2006:157; Hezel 1983:48–49; Spoehr 2000:39). Word spread through
36
the islands and yearly voyages and trading fleets resumed every April/May (D’Arcy 2006:157–
158).
Political unrest and natural disasters in the Caroline Islands caused the Carolinian people
to look north for new territory. After several visits to Guam, Carolinian people became aware of
the “deserted” northern islands. From 1815–1816 Carolinian people were granted permission
from the Spanish administration to resettle on Saipan as long as they agreed to embrace
Christianity and to provide inter-island transportation of goods (Fritz 2001:10; Russell 1984:11;
Spoehr 2000:39). The two groups to initially settle Saipan were from Elato led by chief
Nguschul and from Satawal led by chief Agrub. Nguschul called the newly settled area Ppiyol
Oolng (view of the sand and sky), while Agrub called it Arabwal after the green vine that grew
there and on his home island. They chose the area for the lagoon, beaches, swamps for taro
cultivation and reef passages to the ocean, essentially selecting a place to recreate their old
Carolinian environment. They also established a school for canoe building and navigation,
presided over by navigator Arrumiat. Later, the Carolinian settlers’ collectively referred to the
area as Arabwal (Russell 1984:1). Another Carolinian group from Lamotrek and Tametam also
arrived in Saipan. In 1839 about one hundred Carolinian refugees sailed to Guam and again in
1847–1849 (D’Arcy 2006:161; Spoehr 2000:40). Both groups along with a leper colony were
moved to Saipan. In the 1860s Carolinians came to Saipan and Rota as labourers to develop new
plantations. Despite requests by the Spanish for the Carolinian settlers to convert to Christianity,
they had little contact with the Spanish and were, thus, able to continue Carolinian traditions.
Visitors to Saipan in 1840 found the inhabitants living chiefly off fish and turtle, cultivating plots
of taro and yam, and practicing traditional dancing (D’Arcy 2006:161).
37
In the late 1850s–1860s Chamorro people started resettling on Saipan, primarily near
Arabwal, which Carolinians renamed Garapan. Tinian and Pagan were also repopulated at this
time. In 1889 a group of Carolinian plantation workers from Tinian were relocated to Saipan
establishing the village of Tanapag 8km north of Garapan (Bowers 1950:39; D’Arcy 2006:68,
74–75; 159–162; Fritz 2001:10, 14, 19; Spoehr 2000:40–41).
With the revolt of the Spanish colonies in America in the 1820s and the Manila galleon
trade no longer in operation, Spain’s empire began to crumble. After the Spanish-American
War, the U.S. claimed Guam in 1898, while Germany purchased the NMI in 1899 and the
western Caroline Islands in 1907 (Spoehr 2000:44–45). The German agenda planned to use the
islands for the economic development of copra. As German administrator Georg Fritz indicates,
when copra became a cash crop, Chamorro people became interested in possessing fixed
property on land (2001:58), likely due to prior facilitation by Spanish law. Under German
control, people were awarded land ownership as long as they utilized the land “properly,” which
meant for planting coconut trees. The remaining land was public domain (Spoehr 2000:101).
Germany also aimed to build infrastructure, increase health care and education and encourage
European values. They divided the land into districts, encouraging the Chamorro and Carolinian
people to become craftsmen and develop professions. They aimed to instil German values such
as employment, efficiency, punctuality, and progress (Fritz 2001:50, 77; Spoehr 2000:29, 48–
49).
To increase the economy, Germany needed to increase the population of the NMI.
Therefore, in 1901 the Chamorro people on Guam were encouraged to and indeed relocated
along with 100 Carolinian people to Saipan. In general, Chamorro people reminisce about the
German period by calling it “the good old days” where no bloody invasions occurred and
38
“Chamorro people were able to be Chamorro” (Fritz 2001:14, 77; H. Tudela, 2011, pers. comm.,
April 14, 2011; OHP 2011:8, Spoehr 2000:47, 50).
In 1914, Japan’s Navy seized the NMI at the outbreak of World War I. At the end of the
war, Japan made a formal claim on the NMI, which the League of Nations acknowledged in
1921 (OHP 2011:9; Spoehr 2000:51). In the 1930s the Japanese focused on rapidly acquiring
natural resources and increasing commercial development with the sugar cane industry,
developing refining mills in Saipan, Tinian and Rota under the South Seas Development
Company (Cabrera 2005:12). To achieve these goals, Japanese workers were brought in, making
Chamorro and Carolinian populations the minority (OHP 2011:9). Japanese leaders allocated
public land to Japanese agricultural development. Many Chamorro and Carolinian people leased
their land to small Japanese farmers and the sugar company who cleared it to make way for sugar
cane development (Cabrera 2005:41; Spoehr 2000:52). The colonial government justified this
reconfiguration of land by promising a higher standard of living. Consequently, Indigenous
people no longer used land primarily for subsistence, as it became monetarily valuable. This
also caused disputes among heirs, which were settled by reverting to the traditional customs
concerning the inheritance of real property (Spoehr 2000:54, 102).
Japan’s ultimate goals were to establish military self-sufficiency and enforce and
maintain peace and order. In return for this higher standard of living, all inhabitants needed to be
loyal subjects of the Japanese Emperor. To gain this loyalty, the Japanese enforced the
“Japanisation Policy” on the people of the NMI, which was set in full force when Japan bombed
and invaded Guam on December 10, 1941 (Higuchi 2001:19). Japan believed the U.S. and
Britain were culturally stifling occupied areas of the world and thought the Mariana Islands
could benefit from unifying its citizens into the races and cultures of Asia. The Japanese
39
believed the Chamorro people were too small to be one distinct race and too devastated to be one
tribe so they needed a mother body to promote their growth (Higuchi 2001:20–22). The
Japanese proposed that the best way to plant Japanese thought into people was through language,
so they enacted the policy into schools, teaching Japanese to people from 7–30 years of age for
up to ten hours per week (Higuchi 2001:24; OHP 2011:9; Spoehr 2000:58). Children were also
required to recite an oath in school and teachers placed emphasis on being good Japanese
children of the Japanese Emperor (Higuchi 2001:31).
All propaganda seized during World War II as the Japanese needed the Chamorro and
Carolinian people as labourers more than anything. Chamorro men, women and children were
used to construct several airfields on the Mariana Islands. The Japanese attempted to convince
the Chamorro people that helping in time of war was their duty as a part of the Japanese nation,
which was further exerted when Chamorro people in Saipan were drafted into the army, fighting
on the same front lines as Japanese troops. Schools were closed in December of 1942, turning
teachers into village chiefs concerned primarily with food production. At the same time the
Chamorro on Guam considered Japan less advanced than the U.S. and were especially opposed
to Japanisation. The Chamorro people on Saipan were considered well “Japanised” and, thus,
employed by the Japanese on Guam as interpreters and police aids. This created resentment
among the Chamorro people on Guam, creating a new Guamanian identity, one that was proAmerican, anti-Japanese and anti-Saipanese (Higuchi 2001:26, 29, 34–35; OHP 2011:9).
On June 15, 1944, the U.S. under code name Operation Forager, invaded Saipan and
Tinian on July 24, 1944 (Cabrera 2005:10, 37). The U.S. never invaded Rota, but the island was
still affected by the bombing. Approximately 900 Chamorro and Carolinian people were killed
during the war, totalling approximately one fifth of the total Indigenous population, while others
40
managed to avoid battle by seeking cover in caves and other hiding places (Cabrera 2005:3;
Spoehr 2000:60). The U.S. fought against the Japanese on Saipan for three weeks, claiming
victory on August 26, 1945. The war left the islands devastated. Japanese nationals were
removed from the Mariana Islands, while the U.S. army placed the rest of the surviving
population in crowded internment camps such as Chalan Kanoa and Camp Susupe in Saipan,
Churo on Tinian and on any remaining land in Rota, providing Indigenous and non-Indigenous
survivors with aid, shelter, medical supplies, and food (Bowers 1950:49–52, 56–57; Cabrera
2005:17; Spoehr 2000:62).
In the 1940s and 1950s, the military controlled Saipan. Guam became an unincorporated
territory of the U.S. while the NMI became a Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands (Figure 3.1)
administrated by the U.S. on behalf of the U.N. with Saipan as the capital (Spoehr 2000:67–68).
Once the U.S. released the population from internment camps, the survivors were moved into
Chalan Kanoa while new villages were built and equipped with utilities, police and fire
protection, shopping centers, schools and public transportation (Taylor 1951:344; Spoehr
2000:71). In 1947 the U.S. administration established a system of irrevocable permits. The
government gave an individual a permit to use a tract of land of private or public domain for
farming purposes. The permit carried no assurance of permanent tenure and the government
could revoke it on 30 days’ notice. The government granted land lots in order to encourage a
return to agriculture after the war, yet the permit carried no guarantee of ownership (Spoehr
2000:98–99). In terms of land inheritance among the Chamorro people, equal benefits went to
all children (Spoehr 2000:103). For Carolinian people, after death, daughters inherited land and
the family shared all products from the land (Bowers 1950:90–91; Spoehr 2000:331–334, 337).
41
Figure 3.1: Geographic boundaries of the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands (Bowers 1950:61).
Military control ended in 1962. Around this time, government questioned whether the
NMI should become one with Guam, a move that was proposed to increase the standard of living
for all. Guam residents voted against unification in a referendum and delegates decided to split
from Guam and create the CNMI. Government enacted the CNMI Covenant in 1976 allowing
residents U.S. citizenship, self-governance and federal programs (OHP 2011:11). To compete
with Western arrangements of boundaries and ownership, the CNMI Constitution proposed that
the acquisition of property be restricted to people of Northern Marianas descent (CLRC 2011).
Shortly after, Saipan became the focus of tourism development, leasing land to outsiders for
development of resorts, golf courses and restaurants. The CNMI’s garment industry was
established under the Covenant’s provision promising duty-free access to U.S. markets for
CNMI manufactured items. With the influx of foreign-owned factories and Chinese guest
workers, the Chamorro people were again a minority. After 2000, U.S. policy altered the
CNMI’s working conditions, forcing Chinese guest workers out of the CNMI and leading to the
collapse of the garment industry. International events such as 9/11 and SARS heavily affected
42
Saipan’s tourism industry, and the 2011 Japanese earthquakes stifled tourism from one of
Saipan’s largest tourist markets (OHP 2011:11). Despite the uncertainty of the CNMI’s future
and despite what the history says, Chamorro children learn how once there was nothing, only
Puntan and Fu’uña. From the love and respect shown between brother and sister, the world
began (Flood 2001:4).
3.3 Sea Tenure
Sea tenure is largely about property, or more accurately, “the product of social practices
and processes, or the relationships among people in regard to objects owned” (Scott and
Mulrennan 1999:148). In terms of contemporary Indigenous property rights of land or sea, a
similar pattern emerges throughout most colonized countries. As dominant cultures move in and
utilize natural resources for capital gain, these cultures infringe upon Indigenous peoples’
practices and methods of land and sea management, disregarding self-regulation and effectively
marginalizing their existence (Valencia and VanderZwaag 1989:125–126). In order to establish
Indigenous sea rights in contemporary society, professionals often have to prove long-standing
Indigenous relationships with the sea. This can be done by tracing cultural links and practices to
the sea over time (Scott and Mulrennan 1999:149–150).
In Oceania, contemporary infringements on sea management impact Indigenous fishing
practices. Over-fishing for capitalist gain can often deplete fish species and contaminate the
water, effectively limiting Indigenous access to fishing and disregarding their mode of
subsistence. Sea tenure is about the ways fishers perceive, define, delimit, defend and own rights
to fishing grounds. It refers to the management of access to fishing space, but also how fishing
activities are organized and fishing technology is used (Begossi 1995:395; McGoodwin
1990:108–109). In terms of the CNMI, the historical description points to some ways sea tenure
43
can be established among the Indigenous people. However, establishing sea connections in the
CNMI is problematic for a number of reasons. Firstly, the historical documents neglect to fully
describe sea tenure aside from fishing techniques and navigational skills. Even then, the
documents downplay the Chamorro involvement in both of these activities, often contradicting
themselves. For example, both Fritz and anthropologist Alexander Spoehr explain that
Chamorro people lost their ocean-going abilities during the Spanish period and are more land
oriented than sea oriented (Fritz 2001:68, 73–74; Spoehr 2000:32–34, 39). However, in the same
documentation, they explain that Chamorro and Carolinian people both used a vast array of
fishing techniques, both commercial and subsistence-based. Fishing was so ubiquitous that
women were reported as fishers as well. Secondly, the colonial administrators were so focused
on agriculture that they drastically changed Indigenous sea activities causing the Chamorro in
particular to view the sea from the land. However, despite years of encouragement to become
land owners, geographer Neal Bowers (1950) points out that Chamorro and Carolinian people
should not be considered farm dwellers as they only visit their farm houses when labour is
required or when produce is needed at home (1950:127).
Sea tenure did exist in prehistoric times and was determined by status and proximity.
The higher-class matua enjoyed the benefits of living near the coast, and the ability to acquire all
the resources the sea had to offer using fish as a trade item with the inland dwellers (Russell
1998:139–140; OHP 2011:6; Russell and Fleming 1986:121). This can also be confirmed by
archaeological evidence as coastal Latte Period sites typically contain deposits of pelagic fish
remains and remnants of fishing technology (Amesbury et al. 1989:7). Prehistoric fishing was
subsistence-oriented. Ancient Indigenous boundaries and rights were based on certain features
and were not about “ownership” but “stewardship” (Ford 2011c:66; Fritz 2001:58; G. Cabrera
44
pers. comm. April 23, 2011; H. Tudela pers. comm. April 14, 2011). People supervised areas to
ensure its environmental survival, but anyone could access land and sea.
Spanish accounts describe skilful canoe construction and fishing in fleets of 30 or more.
Visitors in the Marianas in the 1600s state that the Chamorro people were such accomplished
swimmers and sailors that one would think they had a treaty with wind and water (D’Arcy
2006:159). The Chamorro proa still sailed between Guam and Tinian as late as 1742 and the
Chamorro people fished with hooks made of iron or wood. Women fished along the shores
(Coomans 2000:12–15; D’Arcy 2006:159). Due to limited contact with the Spanish, the
Carolinian people on Saipan continued sailing to their home island and continued to fish in the
waters off Saipan (Amesbury et al. 1989:9).
During German occupation, besides a dwelling in the village, each Chamorro family
owned a rancho in an often distant plantation used as a place for hunting and fishing. Most
people lived on their rancho land, rather than their farm land (Fritz 2001:25). Fishing during this
time was documented as subsistence-based and was conducted inside the reef, yet Carolinian
people sailed out to Aguiguan to dive for trepang and constructed weirs to catch turtles.
Chamorro and Carolinian people used several fishing techniques. They most frequently used
nets, but also constructed fish traps by building a closed-in area of rocks near the reef. At high
tide they pulled a net around the trap, trapping the fish and then spearing them. Hooks were
fashioned of iron for hook-and-line fishing. On Rota, people were documented to have fished
with a chumming device called the achu poco, a half stone with half a coconut on top containing
ground coconut meat. As the achu poco is dragged through the water, the coconut lures the fish
in while others catch the surfacing fish with hook and line or net. Occasionally, fishers would
sprinkle fish poison made from the bark of the mangrove into the water, catching fish as they
45
rose. They also used fish gardens. This technique consisted of stakes driven into the ocean
bottom, tied with bamboo poles plaited with Pandanus root, cut lengthwise. They also used fish
lures made by threading fishing line through the jaw of a parrotfish, which lured other fish in,
catching them with nets as they surfaced. At low tide people caught fish, crabs, and turtles with
their hands or a spear (Bowers 1950:127–128; Fritz 2001:67–73).
The Japanese took advantage of the fishing opportunities in the CNMI and established a
fishing industry that sent most of the catch to Japan. The 1916 Regulations for Fishing Industry
in the South Sea Islands stated that persons desiring to engage in the fishing industry should
obtain permission from the authorities. If they decided to work in the industry, locally
recognized fishers were allowed to conduct business without a permit. In 1922, the Director of
the South Sea Bureau granted subsidies for purchasing boats or fishing implements. Japanese
fishers received 80 percent of these grants. Indigenous people received low wages under
Japanese rule, making boat purchases difficult and, therefore, heavily impacting the ability to
subsistence-fish. During World War II fishing activities were halted as people were used for
labour and food production. During WWII, most fishing operations were destroyed, especially
on Saipan (Amesbury et al. 1989:11, 37–39; Bowers 1950:55, 77).
After the war the people in the Northern Marianas attempted to develop commercial
fishing. Fishing bases were established in Saipan and Tinian and a seine crew operated in
Saipan’s lagoon. A group of Carolinian people developed the government-sponsored Saipan
Fishing Association (SFA) in 1948, but it collapsed by 1950. With the fall of the SFA, fishing
went back to subsistence-based (Amesbury et al. 1989:12; Spoehr 2000:128–129). Post-war,
Spoehr explains that men fished to support families and to sell to other residents on the islands
(2000:124). Post-war subsistence fishing occurred in reef and lagoon areas, where people used
46
spears while free-diving, and using nets, seine, weirs, traps, boats and hook-and-line (Spoehr
2000:124–127). The government also raised a number of submerged Japanese fishing boat hulls
from Saipan’s lagoon to use for subsistence fishing. Also in the 1950s the U.S. government
encouraged locally owned shipping vessels to provide inter-island transportation (Bowers
1950:122, 171–172, 174–177).
Post World War II, pelagic fishing increased both commercially and as a tourist activity.
Consequently, more and more fishing vessels trolled in CNMI waters, effectively reducing
fishing resources (Amesbury et al. 1989:12; Bowers 1950:177; Castle Resorts 2011). To
regulate the modern market, congress enacted the Magnuson Stevens Fishery Conservation and
Management Act (MSFCMA) in 1976 to help stop overfishing by foreign vessels in the U.S.
exclusive economic zone. The Act prohibits all foreign commercial fishing, except when an
agreement is established, but allows foreign recreational fishing under permit (U.S. Department
of Commerce 2007:14, 21). Implementation of this act in the CNMI is the responsibility of the
Western Pacific Regional Fishing Management Council (WPRFMC), one of eight Regional
Fishery Management Councils established as part of the MSFCMA. Their objectives are to
prepare, monitor and revise fishery management plans and data collection for domestic and
foreign fishing under the Secretary of Commerce (U.S. Department of Commerce 2007:6;
WPRFMC n.d.a). In 1986, these regional regulations indicated that fishers did not require a
license for catching fish with rod and reel, line tackle, or spear, but fishers required a license for
net-fishing, heavily impacting one of the highest employed traditional fishing methods. In 1988
in order to provide a system of preferential access rights to the sea for Indigenous fishers in the
CNMI, the WPRFMC and the Micronesian Archaeological Research Services reported on the
historical evidence for proving sea connections and the basis for giving Indigenous fishing rights.
47
Consequently, amendments to the MSFCMA in 1996 and 2006 recognize the CNMI and Guam
as a single fishing community and also recognize the special rights of entry for the native people
of both areas (Amesbury et al. 1989:1–2; WPRFMC n.d.b.).
The MSFCMA recognizes Indigenous fishing activities in the Marianas and the CNMI
Division of Fish and Wildlife allows Indigenous fishing in No Take, Limited Take, Restoration
and Rehabilitation, Restricted Entry, Active Use and Passive Use Zones under a special use grant
(Abbott and Ruak n.d:4; DFW n.d.; Schroer 2005:17). Yet, no preferential rights have been
granted (U.S. Department of Commerce 2007:23–33, 108; WPRFMC 2008). What adds another
layer of complexity is that the U.S. Department of the Interior, Indian Affairs does not list the
Chamorro or Carolinian populations in the CNMI as one of the 565 federally recognized
American Indian tribes, thus, they are not entitled to any federal benefits, services or protection,
including fishing rights (U.S. DOI 2011a; U.S. DOI 2011b). This could heavily impact or
disregard any potential claims for sea tenure in the CNMI.
3.4 Conclusion
The MSFCMA does not give Chamorro or Carolinian people in the CNMI fishing rights,
despite the connection to the sea in prehistory and historical documents. This is surprising as
countries like Canada, Australia and even the continental U.S. established Indigenous fishing
rights and treaties for commercial, social, cultural and ceremonial purposes (LeRoy et al.
2003:1–5; Macintosh et al. 2009:23–25; Recksiek and Hinchcliff 2002:51–53). As Bowers
(1950) indicates, the CNMI underwent drastic changes and transformations that were never
requested or wanted. The U.S. now has the responsibility to act in a way that benefits the local
inhabitants and allows them the quality of life they once had (Bowers 1950:1, 76). One way to
48
do this would be to recognize the Chamorro and Carolinian people as a federally recognized tribe
and to grant them sea tenure. Secondly, a more elaborate discussion on Indigenous seascapes in
the CNMI would prove beneficial, which this thesis aims to do.
49
Chapter 4: Methodology
4.1 Introduction
This thesis is based on a community archaeology project with local Indigenous people in
Saipan. In the past, community archaeology was an area of CHM where communities were
consulted to be custodians of artefacts and cultural remains after archaeologists completed the
work (Marshall 2002:213). As community archaeology developed, it became part of the
research framework. This project continues to contribute to the development of community
archaeology studies and employs this approach as part of academic research. As will become
clear in this chapter, community archaeology is not simply a part of post-fieldwork, but guides
the entire research process from beginning to end, becoming more than a component of the
study, but rather a set of principles and rules regulating the research—a methodology.
Customary archaeological methods were also employed during research within the community
archaeological framework.
4.2 Community Archaeology
Archaeological studies often involve researchers from dominant cultures with unlimited
and unrestricted access to people, landscapes, seascapes, sites, artefacts and archival material.
Such studies place the researcher in a superior position vis-à-vis the Indigenous subject, profiting
from the researchers’ own stories about Indigenous heritage and pasts (Ardren 2002:386, 391–
392; Clarke 2002:250; Frederickson 2002:289). Archaeologists choose what to interpret and
what is important for cultural heritage, preserving this information for the future. Such preserved
information can have more than just archaeological influence, as the same information was and
often is evoked politically to form nationalist identities (see for example, Sen 2002:350–352,
355). These archaeological interpretations did not consider either alternative interpretations or
50
input from descendants of the cultures being studied (Rowlands 2002:110–111). Archaeologist
Marilyn Truscott even goes so far as to refer to archaeology as “prostitution of the local people.”
She explains that researchers take what they want, using local people as labourers at a site, just to
leave, publish their findings and receive status and prestige from “their” work (Truscott
2004:29).
Indigenous communities have since recognized this power imbalance and are often
reluctant or even opposed to outsiders coming to study their culture (Allen et al. 2002:326;
Ardren 2002:386, 396; Thorsgard 2010:289). Consequently, legislation in a number of postcolonial countries emerged requiring archaeologists to obtain permits to work on Indigenous land
(Truscott 2002:30). However, legislation was not enough to adequately protect the material
culture and heritage archaeologists deemed significant. Archaeologists needed the community to
value these resources in order to help preserve them (Smardz-Frost 1999:60–61). Consequently,
community archaeology and more collaborative efforts became a priority.
At first, community archaeology was largely about convincing Indigenous people that the
research proposed by a researcher was interesting and valuable to their community in order to
gain access to sites. Project collaboration simply meant periodically informing the community of
what archaeologists were doing on their land. Indigenous people still had little agency in the
work being done. Community archaeology then became a part of CHM, where communities
were consulted as part of the management plan and presentation of cultural resources (Ardren
2002:380; Greer et al. 2002:267; Marshall 2002:213, 215; Truscott 2004:30).
Today, community archaeology is about recognizing the power imbalance in
archaeological studies and trying to mitigate this by placing local people in control of how
research on their culture is conducted. It is about incorporating the community in all facets of
51
archaeology, becoming a partnership between researcher and community (Anyon and Ferguson
1995:913). It is about decentring the archaeologist as the expert, a change in power and
establishing archaeology as an amalgamation of many important voices (McDavid 2002:305–
306). Community archaeology is archaeology for the community; not just involving community
members, but collaborating in the decision making about research topics, research sites, analysis
of data, curation, management of collections and the production of materials that are culturally
appropriate and useful (Clarke 2002:251–252; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008:8–9;
Moser et al. 2002:220). Finally, it is about archaeologists becoming more culturally conscious,
more accountable to the culture they study and, consequently, conducting more ethically sound
and accurate studies.
4.3 Community Archaeology in Saipan
Community archaeology is an appropriate methodology for studies in Saipan and the
Mariana Islands. Considering the prehistory and occupation by four colonial nations since 1521,
if archaeologists were to conduct research or excavate in the Mariana Islands without local
participation, they would only be further perpetuating this colonial pattern. Furthermore, from
the work completed in 2011, local people clearly have knowledge of Indigenous experiences and
stories from the different time periods in history that are far more substantial than any
information one can extract from historical literature. Finally, with the collapse of the garment
industry in the CNMI and lack of economy, archaeology can become a way of giving back to the
community by developing cultural tourism, rather than perpetuate the self-interested manner of
traditional archaeological studies and historic Western presence in the Mariana Islands (Diaz
2010:30–32; Truscott 2004:29).
52
Determining what constitutes the “community” or “communities” is sometimes difficult.
Communities most commonly emerge after an archaeologist identifies a site or sites. They are
seldom mono-cultural, differ from project to project, and can include a number of groups with
interest in the site(s) selected (Marshall 2002:215–216). Like the term “Indigenous,” the term
“community” should also be recognized as a social construct not to be interpreted as an essential,
homogenous, cohesive group of people. Although community archaeology typically works for
Indigenous and local groups, other interest groups and communities are important to
acknowledge, including the landowners whose property the sites are on and other nonIndigenous local people.
For this project, the research topic and sites were selected by the community first, and
then the archaeologists emerged. The community identified the need to record specific sites and
archaeologists responded (J. McKinnon, pers. comm. August 2010). The major participants
from this cultural group included Herman Tudela, a Chamorro man, archaeologist, traditional
fishing expert and employee of the HPO in Saipan, and Genevieve Cabrera, a Chamorro woman
and trained historian. People from this community initiated the project by stating maritimerelated Indigenous sites were in need of being recorded. The Chamorro community then chose
the archaeologists to record these sites based on previous relationships developed with
archaeologists on the project. Several more communities then emerged as interest groups during
research, including the Carolinian community, the Saipan community, the Mariana Islands
community and the Pacific Islanders community.
Despite explanations that no standard approaches to community archaeology exist
(Truscott 2004:33), it is not a free-for-all, or simply getting people involved just to call it
community archaeology. In community archaeology the opportunity for involvement exists and
53
every opportunity is taken to include locals. With a host of community archaeology projects
developing since the 1970s and 1980s, more explicit methodological structures, approaches and
strategies can be gleaned and formulated from these projects. In 2002, a group of archaeologists
led by Stephanie Moser published an explicit seven component methodological approach to their
project in Egypt. To further this approach and create a more general and consistent
methodological structure, archaeologist Gemma Tully (2007:157) analyses and compares six
major community archaeology and museology projects spanning across the globe. Using
information from other studies, Tully (2007) expands on the same seven components found in
Moser et al. (2002) to create a more comprehensive methodology. Under each major
component, Tully proposes methods and practical ways to incorporate each of the seven
components into a project while aiming to empower the community at all times. (For Tully’s
full proposed general community archaeology methodology, see Appendix C).
Tully’s methodology is not an explicit formula, but a range of options for an
archaeologist to take when undertaking a community archaeology project. Not all seven
components are relevant to every project. Some projects are smaller in scale and, hence, do not
involve merchandising, or a museology component. The methods may not be relevant to every
community either. Therefore, community archaeology must remain flexible, adapting to the
needs of each particular community. This project is loosely based on Tully’s assembled
methodological approach and intends to add to the dialogue on community archaeology
methodology. The components assembled in Tully 2007 and the components used in this project
are listed in Table 1.
54
Table 1: Components of community archaeology methodology and those used during the Saipan project.
Adopted from Moser et al. 2002:229 and Tully 2007:176–178.
Component
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
From Moser 2002 and Tully 2007
Communication and collaboration
between the archaeological team and
the local community at all stages of
research.
Employment, training and
volunteering of local people in all
areas of the project
Public presentation, a vital element in
the transfer of knowledge to the wider
community and other non-Indigenous
and non community members
Interview and oral history to see how
local people respond to the
archaeological excavation (if
applicable), and the objects being
discovered/being presented to see how
this links into the communities
traditional ideas about the past
Educational resources to introduce
people from all generations to the
cultural heritage
Photographic and video archive to
create a record of the archaeological
work and experiences of the project, to
enhance the visual element of local
authority and knowledge production in
site interpretation and for the
development of exhibition centres
Community controlled merchandising
considering the tourist market (where
applicable) and offering quality
alternatives to the typical, stereotyped
souvenirs on offer.
Used During Saipan Project 2011
Communication and collaboration
between the archaeological team and
the local community at all stages of
research.
Volunteering of local people in all areas
of the project
Public presentation, a vital element in
the transfer of knowledge to the wider
community and other non-Indigenous
and non community members
Interview and oral history to see how
local people respond to the
archaeological excavation (if
applicable), and the objects being
discovered/being presented to see how
this links into the communities
traditional ideas about the past
Educational resources to introduce
people from all generations to the
cultural heritage
Photographic and video archive to
create a record of the archaeological
work and experiences of the project, to
enhance the visual element of local
authority and knowledge production in
site interpretation and for the
development of exhibition centres
Possible future component
The following discusses the use of the community archaeology components found in
Table 1. A detailed outline of the daily operations for fieldwork conducted from April 12–24,
2011 can be found in Appendix D.
55
Communication and collaboration is imperative in community archaeology (Clarke
2002:254–256; Moser et al. 2002:223, 229). For this project, both began in 2007 with the
maritime heritage trail and were a large part of the entire process. The transition from
collaboration on one project to another exemplifies an important component of community
archaeology which asserts that collaboration does not end at the completion of an excavation, but
should continue to develop new archaeological projects for the community (Crosby 2002:363;
Tully 2007:159).
While working on the WWII project, individuals from the HPO and other independent
community members expressed to McKinnon the need to record more Indigenous maritime sites
and heritage. Subsequently, McKinnon, the community and the author discussed Indigenous
sites of interest, fieldwork dates and community availability. From here, the author drafted a
research proposal identifying the theoretical perspective the project and thesis would take and the
logistics of the project.
Collaboration and communication continued throughout fieldwork and did not end on
April 24. Throughout the writing process the author contacted both Tudela and Cabrera about
information pertaining to the CNMI and for clarification. The author obtained approval via
email to directly or indirectly quote both Cabrera and Tudela (Appendix A), and sections of the
thesis where they were quoted were sent to them for revision and endorsement.
One of the fundamental objectives of community archaeology is the public presentation
of archaeological findings, thus, ensuring that the wider community is informed of the results
and significance of work undertaken in their region (Moser et al. 2002:234). To achieve this,
shortly after fieldwork the author wrote and submitted a few brief articles for local archaeology
newsletters. Prior to submitting these articles, they were emailed to Tudela and Cabrera for
56
input. A large part of decolonizing the archaeological practice is about asking permission and
gaining approval for disseminating information about another person’s culture, even when it is
not necessarily required (McDavid 2002:308). The author also obtained permission to include a
certain level of detail on the location of sites included in this thesis. These are not only ethical
practices, but obligations to the community for allowing the author to study in their country and
write about their heritage. Members of the research group and collaborators developed a
conference poster, which was presented at the Inaugural Asia-Pacific Regional Conference on
Underwater Cultural Heritage in Manila in November, 2011. This poster will also be taken back
to Saipan where it can be displayed locally.
Two important details need to be noted about the post-fieldwork email communication.
Email communication is not always the best way to contact all participants, especially when they
live in areas with little or no computer access and when computers have different or
incompatible software. Additionally, emails were not only sent for business purposes.
Participants were also contacted because the author considers them as friends and is generally
concerned about their well-being.
Reaping the material and intellectual benefits of someone else’s culture is no longer
acceptable in archaeology (Moser et al. 2002:221). Thus, community archaeology includes
sharing the success of the work. Collaborators will have input and co-authorship in all public
interpretation efforts, including all publications and informational materials developed from all
data. Beyond the scope of this thesis, the information gathered here may perhaps assist in
creating an Indigenous maritime heritage trail in the CNMI. The community would also have a
part in merchandising and tourism at this stage of the project in the future.
57
During research, the community collaborators were in control. This project was
archaeology from below, in which fieldwork was rooted in the community, open to volunteer
contributions, and organised in a non-exclusive, non-hierarchical way (Faulkner 2000:21).
Archaeology became part of daily social practice, including meeting with people outside of
typical work hours, visiting their homes and respecting collaborators’ timelines (Clarke
2002:252). For example, researchers were aware of the fact that Tudela had prior personal
commitments to optimal fishing hours and that Cabrera had commitments to working on her
family’s farm. Researchers made every effort to accommodate collaborators’ livelihoods. The
group maintained a two-way information exchange with shared and equal decision making and
mutual understandings of each others’ aims. The research and thesis content was open to
reassessment and renegotiation by any of the parties involved (Clarke 2002:251; Truscott
2004:30–33). The project was undoubtedly not about employing, teaching or training
participants in archaeological methods, but quite the opposite. Participants taught the author
about their heritage and the proper and appropriate ways of studying it.
4.4 Traditional Archaeological Methods
Some critics question whether community archaeologists can maintain scientific
objectivity in archaeological practice, when control is in the hands of communities (Truscott
2004:30; Tully 2007:158). Projects need to have local and scientific importance and indeed both
do exist in this project. Firstly, this particular thesis is theoretically based which is not
compromised by community archaeology methodology. Secondly, this critique assumes that the
collaborators have no knowledge of archaeology at all. In this project, collaborators had full
knowledge of archaeological theory and methods. Thirdly, researchers understood that
collaborators could not join the team every day. With permission and when required, researchers
58
went into the field and visited sites without collaborators if they were unable to join. Traditional
archaeological methods were employed at each site in the presence of and alongside
collaborators, but even more so when the research team went out alone. In community
archaeology, consultation does not mean that everyone does everything together all the time.
Consultation should be about which of the two partners is best suited to do whichever task
(Truscott 2004:34). This project had researchers doing the “work,” that is, all the traditional
archaeological work needed to fulfill academic requirements. As anthropologist Max Friesen
(2002:333) indicates, the practice of interviewing and obtaining information in the context of the
landscapes and specific places experienced in the past proves to be much more productive of
detailed histories than interviews elsewhere. Therefore, during the days when researchers were
with collaborators, they paid more attention to the conversations, discussions and information
gleaned from collaborators than the technical needs. Researchers conducted whatever further
archaeological work was required on days when collaborators could not join the team.
GPS points were taken of each sites’ general location as well as substantial features or
perimeter positions of particular sites. The length, width, circumference and height
measurements of several latte structures were also taken. Scaled archaeological photographs
were taken of each site and its major components. The author used a field notebook at all times,
recording measurements, GPS points, drawing mud maps and sketches. The author developed a
rock art recording form to record dimensions, bearings, sketches and details of pictographs and
petroglyphs (Appendix E). At sites in the intertidal zone, the date and time of each visit were
noted in order to calculate water depth based on the tides. Materials used at these sites included
snorkelling gear, mylar, measuring tapes and underwater cameras.
59
As mentioned, a range of historical, archaeological and ethnographic accounts of
Indigenous culture in the Marianas were reviewed pre and post-fieldwork. Documents include
reports by early colonial administrators on the islands, post-WWII studies, current heritage
management reports and unpublished surveys obtained from the HPO. Researchers also
obtained information from the American Memorial Museum and the Northern Mariana Islands
Museum of History and Culture. Recorded Indigenous histories and narratives were also
consulted.
The author conducted all post-processing out of the field. Post-processing included
producing databases of sites, tables, site plans, mapping, photograph labelling, photograph
mosaics and artefact drawings.
4.5 Conclusion
Working with local communities not only enriches projects, but provides a broader
continuity from past to present (Field et al. 2000:46). Identifying continuities of culture helps
attach more meaning between the past and the present (Ardren 2002:395; Truscott 2004:30). It
makes for more accurate studies, which could only be made possible with insight from
community members, more ethically sound studies, and attempts to break down the long history
of tension and boundaries between archaeologists and descendant communities. Leaving
descendant communities out of future archaeological discourse is essentially denying them a
future (Rowlands 2002:110–111, 113).
60
Chapter 5: Data Analysis
5.1 Introduction
This chapter presents the sites visited and data collected in 2011 that can be considered
part of Saipan’s and the Mariana Islands’ Indigenous seascape and maritime cultural landscape.
These sites are divided into six categories: Occupancy, Artistic Expression, Procurement Sites,
Access Points, Navigational Information and TEK. Some sites were not accessible with the
resources allotted to the archaeological team, so photographs were taken and location noted in
order to conduct future research. On request from Chamorro collaborators, details of some sites
are omitted. Finally, the above sites were mapped to provide a visual of the interconnection of
the sites.
5.2 Occupancy Sites
Houses on stone piles were first recorded in 1565 (Thompson 1940:459). Today, these
are referred to as latte structures (Figure 5.2). The foundations of latte structures are made up of
latte stones—a megalithic structure with a trapezoidal shaft, pillar or column known as hotku or
haligi in Chamorro (Figure 5.3). Set upon the hotku is a hemispherical capstone, known as a
tasa (Figure 5.4). A latte structure normally consists of two parallel rows totalling eight to
fourteen latte stones and most latte structures and quarries are found on the coast parallel or
perpendicular to the shoreline (Thompson 1940:447). Stones found in Guam, Saipan, Rota and
Tinian are typically made of coral limestone bedrock, while those north of Saipan are primarily
made of basalt (Cabrera 2005:12; Hunter-Anderson and Butler 1995:xi). Latte stone height and
width varies, however latte stones within one structure are normally the same size and the land is
built up to compensate for any sloping. The tallest latte stone was located as part of the House of
Taga on Tinian’s southwestern shore and measures approximately 4.6m high. Each latte stone
61
can weigh several kilograms and, again, the heaviest was located on Tinian weighing about
15,000 kg (Cabrera 2005:12, 25; Thompson 1940:447–448). Entire latte structures are
approximately 3.5m wide, but structure length varies depending on the total number of latte
stones used (Hunter Anderson and Butler 1995:xi; Thompson 1940:448). The height and
number of latte stones are suspected to indicate social status (NMI Museum of History and
Culture).
Many studies describe latte as bases for homes, and villages consisted of multiple latte
structures (Hunter-Anderson and Butler 1995:xi; OHP 2011:5; Thompson 1940:460). Evidence
for this comes from the latte site as a whole. Pottery, potsherds (Figure 5.5), stone implements,
food, midden remains, and basalt mortars (Figure 5.6) are often found buried between the two
rows and between the latte and the shore, suggesting they were occupation sites (Cabrera
2005:29; OHP 2011:6; Russell 1998:107; Thompson 1940:458). Some archaeologists suggest
that latte houses were not everyday homes for Chamorro people, but built for higher-status
individuals only (Russell 1998:110–111). As archaeologist Laura Thompson (1940:458–461)
points out, in 1668, San Vitores estimated that 50,000 people lived on Guam (Graves 1986:148).
The number of latte structures reported from Guam at the same time could not have housed
everyone. Considering this and the latte’s location on the coast, these structures may have been
homes for the higher-status matua. Despite the propensity for coastal locations, inland latte
structures were built around 1000 BP (Graves 1986:140). This stimulates another argument
where latte structures are interpreted as specialty houses. The inland latte may have been used
for the purposes of council meetings and coastal latte for housing canoes (Cabrera 2005:25;
Hunter-Anderson and Butler 1995:xi; OHP 2011:5; Russell and Fleming 1986:120; Thompson
1940:459). As Cabrera points out, Chamorro people carried canoes in and out of the water,
62
rather than leaving them on the rocks and beach where waves and tide could damage them. This
could explain the differences in sizes among the latte structures, as different sizes were needed to
accommodate different sized canoes (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 24, 2011; Thompson
1940:459). Interestingly, the only known inland latte site in Saipan is referred to as Chalan
Galaidi, where “galaidi” in Chamorro means “canoe” (Topping and Ogo 1980:309, 318).
Cabrera also indicates the matua may have supervised or directed inland activities, such as
gardening (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 24, 2011). Latte structures may have had multiple
uses by multiple people, as not all latte sites exhibit the same related artefacts and debitage
(Graves 1986:145, 148).
Six known latte sites exist on Saipan: Laulau Kattan, Sabanettan i Toru, Unai Obyan,
Unai Bapot, I Maddock and Chalan Galaidi (Cabrera 2005; NPS 2011; Russell and Fleming
1986:119–120). Three latte sites were visited during fieldwork including Unai Bapot, Unai
Obyan, and Sabanettan i Toru (Figure 5.1). GPS coordinates and photographs were taken of
these sites and their components.
A noteworthy observation while on the island is that latte stones are likely the single
most well known object of Indigenous material culture. Today the latte image is used for
political, commercial, aesthetic and cultural purposes in Saipan. The use of the latte image in
many facets of life today is a testament to its importance as a symbol of Chamorro culture and
identity (See Figures 5.7–5.10).
63
Figure 5.1: Location of all visited latte sites.
Figure 5.2: Model of latte structure from the NMI Museum of History and Culture.
64
Figure 5.3: Latte pillar at Unai Bapot latte site (1m scale).
Figure 5.4: Latte capstone at the Sabanettan i Toru latte site (1m scale).
65
Figure 5.5: Example of associated potsherds at latte sites.
Figure 5.6: Grinding stone at Unai Bapot latte site (1m scale).
66
Figure 5.7: Latte airport sign.
Figure 5.9: Seal of the CNMI with latte.
Figure 5.8: Latte road signs.
Figure 5.10: Latte image in shop window.
5.3 Artistic Expression
Rock shelters in the Marianas were utilized from the Pre-Latte Phase to post-war periods.
Prehistorically, these rock shelters are suspected to be burials for the dead (Cabrera and Tudela
2006:44). Former U.S. Marine and artefact collector Hans Hornbostel first suggested the above
in the 1920s when he photographed skulls found within the rock shelter known as Kalabera
Cave. The ancient Chamorro people extracted the skulls of the dead, placed them in specialized
containers, and brought them into the home (Cabrera 2005:35; Fritz 2001:18). Part of ancestor
worship included keeping ancestral skulls in the home, which provided direct familial
communication with ancestors. The skulls found at the rock shelter’s entry are also likely to be a
part of ancestor worship (Cabrera and Tudela 2006:44–45).
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A large part of ancestor worship also included the use of the physical remains of
ancestors in manufacturing tools. People who used ancestral bones invoked the spiritual strength
of the ancestor to increase success in battle, craftsmanship, farming, hunting, and fishing
(Russell 1998:155–156). Clavicles, arm bones and leg bones were removed for use in the
manufacture of tools, weapons, fish hooks, spears and awls or needles for sewing fishing nets.
Although a skilled fisher or brave warrior may have died, the use of his/her bones as fish hooks
or spear points meant that he/she was still able to provide food and protection for his/her family
(Cabrera and Tudela 2006:48–50). The utilization of human remains may explain why only the
skulls of the dead remained in the shelter.
Kalabera Cave (Figure 5.11), named for the Chamorroized version of the Spanish word
calavera, meaning “skull,” (Cabrera and Tudela 2006:43) is the best-known rock art site on
Saipan. The cave is situated along a northeast-southwest axis and its entrance measures
approximately 9–14m in length, 17m in width, and 14m in height. This area is a receding slope
of clay dirt and worn rock formations leading to a vertical drop of approximately 30.5m into a
chamber that branches out into two subterranean tunnels (Cabrera and Tudela 2006:44).
Figure 5.11: Location of Kalabera Cave.
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During the 2011 fieldwork, researchers recorded and photographed nine rock art images
in the first 9m of Kalabera Cave and Cabrera supplied one image’s photograph and
interpretation. These images are labelled K1–K10 (Table 2). The images are located across a
number of concave, recessed niches along the southern wall and on the flattened portions of the
northern and eastern wall (see Figures 5.12–5.13). All pictographs in these three locations are
rendered in white pigment which Cabrera and Tudela (2006:44) suspect to be slaked lime. The
majority of the images depict human figures, often headless. As Cabrera and Tudela (2006:44–
45) indicate, the fact the majority of the pictographs are rendered headless and skulls were still
present in the cave from the Spanish Period through the 1920s are strong indications that
Kalabera Cave was a burial site for the ancient Chamorro people and one that perhaps included
the ritual painting of pictographs and the carving of petroglyphs as part of the overall cultural
emphasis on ancestor worship (Cabrera and Tudela 2006:44–45). One image in particular, K8,
depicts a headless and armless body which is interpreted as an ancestor whose bones were used
to construct tools. A number of the images have a line protruding from between two legs which
is interpreted as the male penis and is the only distinguishing feature between the human figures
(Cabrera and Tudela 2006:45). This is especially evident in pictograph K2 which portrays a man
in a canoe with an elongated penis emerging at a 45 degree angle and K9 which portrays an
upright headless male.
A few zoomorphic images are present, including K1 and K6. K1 (Figure 5.14) is
interpreted as a gecko or monitor lizard, as seen on Chamorro pottery from the German period
(G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 24, 2011; H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 14, 2011). K6 is
suspected to be the chumming device (achu poco) described by Fritz (2001:71), a fish and a
clavicle bone (Figures 5.20–5.23). The image has also been interpreted as an octopus lure
69
instead of the achu poco (H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 14, 2011). The images within the cave
that depict human activities are maritime-related as in K2, K6 and K10. K10 is interpreted as a
male figure carving out a canoe with an adze (Figures 5.27–5.29). This is not to suggest that no
terrestrial-related images exist, but if those do exist, they are not outwardly visible. Tudela
suggests that since Kalabera Cave is not littered with rock art, and only certain images are
presented on the walls of the cave, caves were not burials for all people, but for those who
excelled in fishing, hunting, teaching or something beyond normal daily activities. Thus, the
cave was less frequently visited and only renders images specifically related to those few visitors
(H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 14, 2011).
Table 2: Rock art data from Kalabera Cave
ID
Number
K1
(Figure
5.14)
Bearing
Motif
Interpretation
Gecko/monitor
lizard facing
down
Color
Size
2900
Motif
Description
Pictograph
White
2500
Pictograph
White
2500
Pictograph
Man in canoe
with implement
and possible
elongated penis
Headless woman
2400
Pictograph
Headless woman
White
1200
Pictograph
Headless woman
White
1400
Pictograph
Octopus lure, fish
and bone
White
Thickness of paint:
1–2cm
8cm high, 6–7cm
wide
Thickness: 2cm,
4cm at bottom of
canoe, 11cm high,
29cm wide
Thickness: 1.5cm,
12cm high, 9cm
wide
Thickness: 1cm,
7–8cm high, 6–
8cm wide
Thickness: 1cm,
6cm high, 4–5cm
wide
Thickness: 1.5cm,
Octopus lure:
18cm high, 9.5cm
wide Fish: 23cm
high, 13cm wide
Bone: 21cm long
K2
(Figures
5.155.16)
K3
(Figure
5.17)
K4
(Figure
5.18)
K5
(Figure
5.19)
K6
(Figures
5.20–
5.23)
White
70
K7
(Figure
5.24)
K8
(Figure
5.25)
K9
(Figure
5.26)
K10
(Figures
5.27–
5.29)
600
Petroglyph
woman with head
1100
Pictograph
Headless/armless
body
2700
Pictograph
Headless man
Information Pictograph
and
photograph
obtained
from
Genevieve
Cabrera
Man carving
canoe with adze
White/yellow Thickness: 1cm,
11–12cm high,
7.5cm wide
White
Thickness:1.5cm,
10.5cm high, 9cm
wide
Orange,
Thickness: 2cm,
white on red 13.5cm high, 9cm
rock
wide
Figure 5.12: Mud map of Kalabera Cave, east and south wall.
71
Figure 5.13: Mud map of Kalabera Cave, north wall.
Figure 5.14: “Gecko/lizard” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K1) (8cm scale).
72
Figure 5.15: “Man in canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K2) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.16: Drawing of “man in canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K2).
73
Figure 5.17: “Headless woman” pictograph (K3) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.18: “Headless woman” pictograph (K4) (8cm scale).
74
Figure 5.19: “Headless woman” pictograph (K5) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.20: “Fish and clavicle bone” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K6) (8cm scale).
75
Figure 5.21: “Octopus lure/chumming device” in Kalabera Cave (K6) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.22: Chumming device (Fritz 2001:71).
76
Figure 5.23: Drawing of “chumming device/octopus lure, fish and clavicle bone” from Kalabera Cave
(K6).
Figure 5.24: “Woman with head” petroglyph (K7) (8cm scale).
77
Figure 5.25: “Headless/armless body” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K8) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.26: “Headless man” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K9) (8cm scale).
78
Figure 5.27: “Man carving out canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K10).
Figure 5.28: Diagram of “man carving out canoe” pictograph in Kalabera Cave (K10).
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Figure 5.29: Sketch of K10 (courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera).
Rock art also exists on Saipan’s east coast on the flattened wall of a coral outcropping
(Figure 5.30). The petroglyph images found in this location are interpreted by Tudela as locus
images consisting of a coconut crab, crescent moon, fish (tiau) and Southern Cross (Figure 5.31–
5.33). The coconut crab (ayuyu) was an important edible animal in the Marianas and is
suspected to have bred in this same area (Russell 1998:10, 179). According to Tudela, in May,
female coconut crabs are full of eggs and travel to the ocean to wash them off to hatch. This is
usually during a time when the moon is in its crescent phase (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. October
17, 2011; H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 15, 2011).
Alternatively, the “coconut crab” petroglyph is interpreted by Cabrera as a turtle rather
than a coconut crab. When compared to live specimens (Figures 5.34–5.35) the manner in which
the “claws” are depicted neither matches the way a coconut crab’s claws are connected to its
body nor the way the claws are segmented. Furthermore, as Cabrera explains, if the petroglyph
is a crab, then an incorrect number of claws are depicted: one rather than four. The “claws”
could represent a turtle’s flipper, slender and becoming larger and extended away from the body
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at a slight angle and curved in appearance (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. October 17, 2011). The
“head” in the petroglyph may even resemble the straight and slender head of the turtle rather than
the shorter, wider head of the coconut crab. Turtles were also hunted and eaten by the ancient
Chamorro (D’Arcy 2006:161; Fritz 2001:33).
According to Cabrera, the “tilt” or angle in which the “Southern Cross” is depicted is
how it appears in Saipan’s night sky throughout the month of December to early January. For
the green sea turtles, nesting season lasts from April through September (Saipan Tribune 1999;
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 2011), and they are found throughout Laulau Bay. A fish (tiau)
run also occurs during the month of December and May. Considering this, Cabrera suggests the
combination of the turtle, cross, and the fish may be a reference to a “calendar” of sorts (G.
Cabrera, pers. comm. October 17, 2011; Figure 5.36). The L1 petroglyph was recorded and
photographed (Figures 5.31–5.32; Table 3).
Table 3: Rock art data at on Saipan’s east coast
ID Number
Bearing
L1 (Figures
5.31-5.36)
Approx. 1700
Motif
Description
Petroglyph
Motif
Color
Interpretation
“Coconut
Beige
crab/turtle,
tiau, crescent
moon and
Southern
Cross”
Size
Crab/turtle:
20cm high,
21–22cm
wide
81
Figure 5.30: Approximate location of Laulau Bay rock art site.
Figure 5.31: “Coconut crab/turtle” petroglyph (L1) (8cm scale).
82
Figure 5.32: “Coconut crab/turtle, moon, fish and southern cross” petroglyph (L1) (courtesy of Genevieve
Cabrera).
Figure 5.33: Diagram of L1.
83
Figure 5.34: Photograph of coconut crab (courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera).
Figure 5.35: Photograph of turtle hatchling (courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera).
84
Figure 5.36: Sketch of L1 (courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera).
Rock art in the form of petroglyphs exists in a shelter on Saipan’s west coast (Figure
5.37). The images in this location are located on all walls and are similar to the anthropomorphic
figures found in Kalabera Cave. However, the “limbs” on two particular images (S1 and S2) are
notably different from those in Kalabera Cave. The limbs on these two images appear to create a
wing-like shape. Cabrera interpreted S1 as the image of a fruit bat (Figures 5.38–5.39), which
ancient Chamorro people ate and considered a delicacy during the German colonial period (Fritz
2001:31). S2 is interpreted as a possible female “guardian” on account of its “female” anatomy,
its proximity to the cave entrance and its wing-like arms depicting a guardian figure or possibly a
figure with her hands on her hips (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 23, 2011; Figure 5.40). More
than four images are visible in this particular location, but only the four most accessible that also
expressed the range of images were photographed and recorded during the 2011 fieldwork
(Table 4).
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Table 4: Rock art data from Saipan’s west coast
ID Number
Bearing
2700
Motif
Description
Petroglyph
Motif
Color
Interpretation
“fruit bat”
Beige
S1 (Figures
5.38–5.39)
S2 (Figure
5.40)
3200
Petroglyph
Headless body, Brown
“female
guardian”
S3 (Figure
5.41)
900
Petroglyph
Female body
with head
Black/blue
S4 (Figure
5.42)
800
Petroglyph
Headless
woman
Beige
Size
Thickness:
2cm, 19cm
high, 16.5cm
wide
Thickness:
2.5cm, 12cm
high, 13cm
wide
Thickness:
2.5–3cm,
16cm high,
13cm wide
Thickness:
2.5cm, 16cm
high, 13cm
wide
Figure 5.37: Approximate location of west coast rock art site.
86
Figure 5.38: “Fruit bat” petroglyph (S1) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.39: Drawing of “fruit bat” petroglyph.
87
Figure 5.40: “Headless female guardian” petroglyph (S2) (8cm scale).
Figure 5.41: “Female body” petroglyph (S3) (8cm scale).
88
Figure 5.42: “Headless woman” petroglyph (S4) (8cm scale).
5.4 Procurement Sites
Laulau Bay on Saipan’s southeast end has been a hub of activity for both non-Chamorro
and Chamorro people over time (Figure 5.43). Laulau Bay was and is a productive location for
procuring a variety of marine foodstuffs including fish, crabs and turtles. Laulau Beach (Figure
5.44) in particular has been in continual use since prehistoric time for these purposes (Tudela
2007: 4–5). Part of this use is evident in a number of sites such as a possible fish trap, possible
fish weir and netting site in Laulau Bay.
Fish traps and weirs are generally built where adequate tidal range and a source of
building materials occurs (Bannerman and Jones 1999:72). In coastal and estuarine waters, fish
tend to move up the shore with the flooding tide, attracted by nutrients in freshwater streams and
rivers and then drift back down with the ebbing tide (O’Sullivan 2003:451). Ancient Chamorro
stone fish traps and weirs (gigao) and triangular-shaped, multi-chambered weirs built from
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wicker framing and stakes were reported in the 19th century (Amesbury and Hunter-Anderson
2003:99). Spoehr, in the 1950s, also documented that Chamorro people erected a number of
weirs constructed of stakes and wire mesh (Spoehr 2000:125). On Guam, remnants of weir walls
consisting of a series of rectangular-shaped pools with walls built of limestone and coral were
located in 1998 and 2002 (Dixon 2009).
Figure 5.43: Panoramic view of Laulau Bay facing southeast. (Photograph courtesy of Genevieve
Cabrera).
5.4.1 Possible Fish Trap
A possible fish trap in Saipan is located in the reef off the northern section of Laulau Bay,
in the southwest portion of Laulau Beach (Figures 5.44–5.46). Data on this site are compiled on
April 19, 2011, between 17:00 and 18:00; low tide was –0.5 at 14:43 (NOAA 2005). The
possible fish trap lies in a northwest/southeast orientation and is in a rectangular shape stretching
approximate 61m–63m from the shoreline and approximately 30m wide. Depth at
approximately 30m out from the shoreline was approximately 1m deep (Figure 5.47). The north
and west side of the site appear to create a square angle while the east boundary tapers off as it
angles toward the shoreline. The farthest southwest and southeast points are naturally
demarcated by coral outcroppings (Figure 5.48). The eastern boundary, or the top of the
rectangle, is not a straight line in the reef, but rather creates a semi-circle at the top of the
rectangle. If a straight line were drawn between the two outcroppings, the farthest point of the
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semi-circle would be 3m east from that line. From here the reef stretches about 70m to the reef
line and is exposed at low tide.
Figure 5.44: Location of possible fish trap.
Interpretation of this particular site varies. Tudela interprets the site as an ancient fish
trap or canoe holding site (H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 19, 2011). The basic features of a fish
trap exist here. It is located in the intertidal zone in a productive fishing area. In terms of
construction materials, the coralline limestone of the island’s bedrock could have been used to
construct walls for fish traps. The particular shape and location of this potential fish trap
exemplifies the same feature as that of the Type 1 fish trap described by archaeologists Nigel
Bannerman and Cecil Jones (1999). Type 1 fish traps are simply modified tidal pools where fish
are trapped by the receding tide and subsequently speared (Bannerman and Jones 1999:77). Fritz
also documented such traps (Fritz 2001:73) and indeed this potential fish trap appears to be
carved out of the natural reef.
91
Other interpretations have also been put forth. Locals suggest the site may have been a
latte quarry site. Cabrera indicated the site is a “swimming pool” for leisure activities and
excavated by U.S. military personnel, post-WWII (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 24, 2011).
The angles and lines of this particular site suggest it is cultural and perhaps once was a fish trap
subsequently reused and modified over time.
Figure 5.45: Possible fish trap in Laulau Bay.
Figure 5.46: Possible fish trap in Laulau Bay (Note depth).
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Figure 5.47: Map of possible fish trap.
Figure 5.48: Diagram of possible fish trap in Laulau Bay.
5.4.2 Possible Fish Weir
A possible fish weir also exists in Laulau Bay at Laulau Beach, northeast of the possible
fish trap (Figure 5.49). The site is located between two coral outcroppings, a short distance from
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the beach and stretches between these two outcroppings. The weir is parallel to the shoreline and
consists of a simple isolated impression in the sand/coral (Figure 5.50). From the basic survey
and photographs, this weir exhibits features of Bannerman and Jones’ (1999) Type 3 Modified
Natural Feature Trap. Type 3 fish traps are usually in the form of wooden or stone walls with
sluices built between rock outcrops in the intertidal zone (Bannerman and Jones 1999:73–77;
Langouёt and Daire 2009:135–136). No sluices are evident at this site, but its location in a
narrow channel between outcroppings makes it suitable for netting. The impression in the sand
and coral could be the result of a heavy stone wall or the preparations for laying a stone wall
(Bannerman and Jones 1999:73; Langouёt and Daire 2009:132). As Bannerman and Jones
(1999:73) indicate, with organic material erosion and sediment distribution, portions of trap
walls, such as wooden stakes, may be found under the sand. Excavation of this site to determine
whether remnants of a weir structure exist was beyond the scope of this research, but could be a
possible focus for future study.
Figure 5.49: Location of “fish weir.”
94
Figure 5.50: “Fish weir” in Laulau Bay in relation to the beach.
5.4.3 Netting Site
Traditional fisherman Herman Tudela and a number of other Indigenous fishers often
spend their weekends fishing in order to provide for their families. They frequent a number of
fishing locations, but two popular locations include Unai Lagua and Laulau Bay. Fishers fish in
the Laulau Bay area using nets, slings, spears and small boats (Figures 5.51–5.52) to catch a
variety of pelagic and reef fish found in the bay (Tudela 2007:1). Historical records indicate
Chamorro and Carolinian people also fished using similar methods in Laulau Bay in the past.
Just north of the center of Laulau Bay and south of the possible fish trap exists an isolated
outcropping forming somewhat of a shelter (Figure 5.53). Researchers visited the site between
15:00 and 16:00 on April 21, 2011, when low tide was –0.5 at 16:18 (NOAA 2005). This
particular shelter is located adjacent to the shoreline opening up to the south into a flattened
lower surface where the tidal waters flow (Figure 5.54). The jaggedness of the outcropping
changes only on the floor and the west wall of the shelter when facing south. Both the floor and
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the wall in this location appear to be smoothed (Figures 5.55-5.58). When walking through the
shelter, the floor is slanted and uneven, but flattens for about 3m from the shelter overhang to
become manageable to walk on when facing south. The west wall appears to be eroded at
approximately 1.5m from the floor. The texture of the shelter changes here from jagged to
slightly smooth with slight horizontal lines consistent with the grain of the rock (Figures 5.59–
5.60). The features of this site enable Tudela to use it as a netting site (H. Tudela, personal
comm. April 21, 2011).
The flattened floor of this site could be the result of foot wear from standing on the area.
The wall texture could be the effect of human manipulation of the natural environment to smooth
the wall, making throwing a net much easier as it does not catch on jagged edges. Alternatively,
the texture could be caused by continuous erosion from the net being dragged across the wall
prior to throwing it out into the incoming flow of water. The contemporary height of the water at
high tide likely did not erode the wall into the texture and shape it is in today. However,
according to Hunter-Anderson and Butler (1995:6, 11), in the Mariana Islands, sea and land
levels have risen at different rates for the last 3,000 years. Water erosion on this wall could have
been possible during times when sea levels were much higher. If this is the case, it does not
negate the fact that this area could still have been a location for Indigenous fishing practices in
the past as well as in the present and future.
96
Figure 5.51: Example of contemporary fishing net.
Figure 5.52: Fishers in Laulau Bay.
97
Figure 5.53: Location of netting site.
Figure 5.54: Netting site. Shelter on the right.
98
Figure 5.55: Netting site facing southwest (1m scale).
Figure 5.56: Diagram of netting site (1m scale).
99
Figure 5.57: Netting site smoothed wall (1m scale).
Figure 5.58: Flattened floor/standing area (1m scale).
100
Figure 5.59: Netting site wall, facing southwest, flattened floor bottom left (1m scale).
Figure 5.60: Netting site facing north. Smoothed wall on left (1m scale).
5.5 Access Points
This category of sites consists of places where Indigenous people accessed deeper pelagic
waters. This includes access by canoe or areas of safe access to swim or procure marine
101
foodstuffs. Sites of this category can be found in Laulau Bay, which includes a canoe launching
site, and a Chamorro legend site south of Laulau Bay at Naftan Point.
5.5.1 Canoe Channel (Sagua)
In northern Laulau Bay an impression in the reef is identified as a canoe channel (Figures
5.61–5.62). Indigenous people on the island refer to this feature as a sagua, two of which are
within Laulau Bay. Chamorro people use the term sagua when referencing canoes, navigation,
and other Indigenous marine activities (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 23, 2011). Oriented in a
northeast/southwest direction, the impression in the reef curves for approximately 15m then
stretches out for approximately 30m, deepening seaward. At the 45m point the reef forms a
rounded cut depression approximately 3m–4m wide at the reef line, narrowing to a 2m wide
opening into the ocean. The depth just before entering the deeper waters is approximately 1.8m
(Figures 5.63–5.65, 5.68) measured between 16:00 and 17:00 on April 22, 2011, when low tide
was –0.4 at 17:09 (NOAA 2005).
Laulau Bay was the site of I Pantalan Aliman (the German port/pier) where ox carts and
canoes were driven and pushed down a sagua to transport goods and people to larger vessels
beyond the reef (Bowers 1950:96, 128; G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April 24, 2011; R. Rogers, pers.
comm. April 21, 2011; Tudela 2007:4–5). This channel is the sagua the Germans and Japanese
used. Photography during the 1920s and in 2011 from similar vantage points also suggests this
is the same sagua area (Figures 5.69–5.70).
This sagua displays the imprint of two wheel tracks. The imprint of two wheels is most
prominent and impressed in the last 30m, while the first 15m of both tracks are shallow and
determining whether a second track imprint is present is difficult (Figure 5.66). Of the two
tracks the southern track is much more prominent than the northern track, measuring 60cm wide
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and 35cm wide, respectively (Figure 5.67). The width between the outer points of both tracks is
approximately 1.9m.
Although the impressions appear to be consistent with the ox cart track interpretation, the
deeper impression could be the result of v-shaped canoe hulls being hauled into the ocean
(Feinberg 1988:37–39). Furthermore, the 3m depression portion at the end of the track could
have been used to launch canoes or other small vessels into the ocean, where the ox carts would
likely have stopped before reaching this point.
The sagua, and other saguas on the island, are connected to Chamorro traditional beliefs.
According to Tudela, the sagua is closely related to the rebirth of the Chamorro ancestors’
spirits. For Tudela, the ocean is always referred to as a “she” and, traditionally, most pelagic
fishers were men; women fished primarily in the lagoon. In order to enter the ocean, a man must
not walk through the reef, but use the sagua, which in Chamorro means “to have” or “having”
the ocean. Asagua means two people having each other, or marriage. The word emphasizes the
sexual act between man and woman, which is re-enacted in the ocean where the man represents
the penis and the sagua the vagina. When a man enters the water through the sagua, he is
symbolically penetrating the ocean. When a man returns to the shore back through the sagua, it
is explained as an act of being re-born (H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 14, 2011). Local people
also report saguas on the northeast side of the island, near the Talafofo area and in the Sabanetta
area on Saipan’s northwest side, north of Wing Beach (Figure 5.61).
103
Figure 5.61: Location of sagua.
Figure 5.62: Aerial view of sagua.
104
Figure 5.63: Sagua in Laulau Bay facing southwest.
Figure 5.64: Map of sagua.
105
Figure 5.65: Sagua facing north.
Figure 5.66: View of the “track’ showing deeper impression (top) and shallower impression (lower) (1m
scale).
106
Figure 5.67: Cross-section of sagua track impressions.
Figure 5.68: “Launching” section. Person standing at the 2m opening.
107
Figure 5.69: Photograph of ship loading with ox cart at Laulau Bay in the late 1920s. (Photograph
courtesy of Ronnie Rogers and Genevieve Cabrera).
Figure 5.70: Laulau Bay from similar vantage point. Note float on right side also found in Figure 5.68.
(Photograph courtesy of Genevieve Cabrera).
5.5.2 Chamorro Legend Site
At Naftan Point, on Saipan’s southeastern most point (Figures 5.71–5.72), is an access
point associated with a Chamorro legend from the Spanish Period. This particular site reminds
Chamorro people of their ancestors’ exceptional maritime abilities and ingenuity. At this point
one of the Spanish colonists on the island wanted to test the swimming capabilities of a particular
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Chamorro man (Figure 5.73). The Spaniard threw a gold hoop into the water, telling the
Chamorro man to dive down and retrieve it. The Chamorro man was aware that if he retrieved
the gold hoop, the Spaniard would take it away. Cunningly, the Chamorro man put his
swimming capabilities to good use by diving down into the water and resurfacing on the west
side of the island, keeping the gold hoop for himself (H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 15, 2011).
Figure 5.71: Location of Chamorro legend site.
Figure 5.72: Overall photograph at Naftan Point.
109
Figure 5.73: Access point of Chamorro diver at Naftan Point.
5.6 Navigational Sites
The two sites in this category are associated with the topography of the island.
According to Tudela, when viewing the island from the east side, Saipan’s topography forms the
shape of a man lying face up towards the sky (Figures 5.74–5.78). The man’s position changes
and portions of his body are more prominent from particular directions. From the northern
perspective, these same features are viewed as a woman, with Mount Susu shaping her breast.
For Tudela, this relates to the story of the creation myth. This outline is not visible from the west
side. Instead, full-face images in the topography are visible from the west side (Figures 5.79–
5.81). These sites may have, and possibly still do, aid in navigation, particularly for the
Carolinian people who voyage between Saipan and the Caroline Islands every April (G. Cabrera
pers. comm. April 24, 2011).
110
Figure 5.74: Location of navigational sites.
Figure 5.75: Profile of face, part of lying man in topography from east side of island.
111
Figure 5.76: Leg portion of lying man in topography from east side of southeast.
Figure 5.77: Ankles and feet of lying man in topography from southeast side of island.
Figure 5.78: Photograph-mosaic of lying man in topography.
112
Figure 5.79: Faces in topography from west side of island.
Figure 5.80: Close up of northern face from west side of island.
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Figure 5.81: Close up of southern face from west side of island.
5.7 Herman Tudela’s TEK
During fieldwork, Herman Tudela provided researchers with his own TEK through
conversation and writing. The following is a summary of those conversations and documents
written by Tudela. Some language and grammar are changed due to space constraints.
In Chamorro there are names for the same fish at different stages of growth. If a
traditional fisher hears the name of that fish, that person will automatically know the size of that
fish without actually seeing it. For example, for the first several days the juvenile rabbit fish
bears the name ma’nahak when it arrives. Not a fish for immediate consumption, people catch
and salt the ma’nahak. Because this is an annual fish run, people need a protein source when
resources recede. Catching and salting the ma’nahak (asni tukon) dictates life. People store the
salted fish which can last for more than a year. After several days the ma’nahak’s name changes
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to ma’lesso because the juvenile fish starts to eat. Chamorro people prohibit the extraction of
fish during the ma’lesso stage to allow the juvenile rabbit fish to reach the reproductive stage and
spawn. According to Tudela, this is why the modern Chamorro people are able to tap into the
same fish that has been part of the ocean and their diet since the arrival of the first Chamorro
people to the Marianas. The ma’lesso then changes to ‘dagi when the fish is about 3–4 inches in
length. The ‘dagi feeds heavily with the adults from previous runs and spawning cycles. ‘Dagi
are also able to reproduce at this stage. From the ‘dagi stage they will turn into the adult or fully
developed rabbit fish, or what Chamorro people call sesyon, hiteng, hating or kahlo. These are
the several species of rabbit fish that are extracted. According to Tudela it is up to Chamorro
people to prevent unintended catches of the rabbit fish at the reproductive stage.
Tudela also uses the moon, tides, astronomy, bird behaviour and weather patterns to
predict what type of land and sea resources are available to catch. The use of these connects
Tudela to his forefathers like a bridge into their lives. In the eyes of a seasoned traditional fisher,
the rain plays a vital role in the arrival of seasonal juvenile fish, especially reef fishes that depend
on the changes in the eco-system. For example, after a rain or storm, organic material enters the
lagoon and is deposited for the bottom feeders and reef fishes. On the shoreline and reef line
many seasonal juvenile fish are a bottom-feeding species. The runoff that gives life to these
juvenile fishes, will also take life. This organic runoff material kills certain vegetations that
thrive in hot, dry situations, only to be replaced by organic-thriving vegetations. For example,
during the summer, low tides occur during the day and expose sea grasses that cannot withstand
direct sunlight, causing them to die. Many, if not all, reef fishes constantly feed and are
dependent on this natural cycle for spawning. That same organic runoff settles on sandy bottoms
from which bottom feeders can filter for food and life-giving nutrients, depositing clean sand in
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the process. This is where mother earth is working in harmony with her sister the ocean,
according to Tudela.
5.8 Site Connections
After placing an icon to represent each recorded and known site on a single map, the
picture indicates that these sites are connected (Figure 5.82). The sites appear as clusters which
could possibly indicate and identify ancient Chamorro villages (Tudela 2007:2).
Figure 5.82: Map of archaeological sites from 2011 and some known site locations.
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Chapter 6: Discussion and Conclusion
6.1 Introduction
In Chapter 1, the following research question and aims were proposed:

What do Indigenous coastal and submerged sites reveal about Indigenous seascapes and
maritime cultural landscapes in the CNMI?

Determine how archaeologists define and utilize the concepts of seascapes and maritime
cultural landscapes.

Develop a framework for identifying the types of sites that may be included and
considered a part of Indigenous seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes.

Identify Saipan’s seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes through historical,
ethnographic and archaeological research.
The following discusses how this project addressed each question and aim.
6.2 Aims Revisited
To answer the main research question, the aims first need to be addressed and clarified. The
definition of seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes discussed in Chapter 2 determines that
seascape approaches view the sea as connective rather than divisive and recognizes the sea as
part of forming social and cultural identity. Seascapes studies are primarily associated with
Indigenous studies and describe the relationship Indigenous people have with the sea, how the
sea influences culture and how it can be manipulated into a cultural space. Maritime cultural
landscapes are also about sea use and how it influences culture and identity; however, these
studies primarily focus on historical, Western heritage. Maritime cultural landscape studies
investigate how terrestrial and underwater heritage relate to maritime activities and try to find the
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maritimity in archaeological sites and material culture. This approach erases the artificial
boundary at the water’s edge to look at maritime culture in a more holistic, geographically
undivided way.
The way archaeologists use these two concepts overlaps extensively. Both are used to
explain how maritime-related activities such as fishing practices and sailing activities relate to
culture and how cultural practices such as trade, language, art and iconography relate to the sea.
Seascapes, however, describe these practices in a more ontological way. Consequently, seascape
studies often describe TEK and are used for establishing sea tenure in post-colonial countries.
Maritime cultural landscapes use these practices to explain more economic and commercial
purposes, highlighting a maritime culture and identity within Western culture. Seascape studies
incorporate more ethnographic methods and emic perspectives, while maritime cultural
landscapes involve analyzing practices with archaeological signatures and more etic perspectives
(Duncan 2011:268).
This study developed a framework for identifying sites associated with the Indigenous
seascape and maritime cultural landscape. Developed from the sites included in previous
archaeological studies and 2011 fieldwork, the framework divides sites into six categories:
Occupation, Artistic Expression, Procurement, Access Points, Navigational Sites and TEK. This
type of framework can be applied to other cultural groups to record their seascape and maritime
cultural landscape. It allows for each culture’s specific sites and material culture to be included
under each category. For example, latte sites as a form of occupancy and rock art as a form of
artistic expression are specific to Saipan’s Indigenous culture. The framework also allows both
theoretical concepts to be utilized to identify sites, allowing for identification of sites that are
ontological, traditional, economic and commercial in nature. The framework also acknowledges
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the change in use of sites and their shared heritage. The sagua in Laulau Bay is an example of
this, as it was a part of prehistoric use as a canoe channel and later used for colonial economical
purposes. This makes for more all-encompassing analyses of sites.
Through the above framework, Saipan’s Indigenous seascape and maritime cultural
landscape are identified by gathering information from historical and ethnographic materials,
previous archaeological research and the fieldwork conducted in 2011. Previous research on
some of these sites identifies them as having an Indigenous and sea connection. The 2011
research, through collaborative efforts and collaborator description, also identifies sites that were
of significance to the Indigenous community. Indigenous participants and previous research
allowed this study to elaborate and corroborate on the connection of these sites to Indigenous
people and to the sea. The framework also includes sites where Indigenous connection is
unsettled. Although collaborators may not agree on a site’s Indigenous meaning or use, the site
is significant to at least one Indigenous collaborator and is interpreted as such. An example of
this is the possible fish trap. Despite the uncertainty of its origins, it is interpreted as an
Indigenous “fish trap” or “latte quarry site.” Thus, this site is included in the framework as a site
that Indigenous people on the island find significant.
6.3 Discussing the Research Question
Much can be gleaned about seascapes and maritime cultural landscapes from the coastal and
submerged sites analyzed in this thesis. Possibly the “earliest” cultural connection to the sea
appears in Chamorro myths and legends. The Chamorro creation story, paraphrased in Chapter
3, describes the sea as the element that creates life. The Chamorro creation myth parallels the
beliefs Hau’ofa describes about the nature of Pacific Islanders and their seascapes. Like Hau’ofa
and the idea at the crux of seascape theory, the creation myth highlights the sea as connective.
119
Life and humankind came to be because of the sea, a substance that is connected across the
globe, transporting people around the world. People are linked to the same ancestor, via the sea.
Furthermore, the idea behind this creation was that Fu’uña was lonely and needed other people.
Despite having created the land, the trees and the animals, people were what she really needed
and what was necessary to make the world complete. The idea behind Fu’uña’s decision to
become a rock was to create other people, culture and togetherness. Not only is the sea the link
to the ancestor, it is also what connects people to each other.
Proximity to the sea and maritime activities influenced culture by dictating social class,
occupation patterns and structural design. Prehistorically, those who lived on the coast (the
matua) near the ocean enjoyed higher status, took part in maritime related activities and were the
guardians of the islands. Evidence of coastal occupation exists in the latte sites documented by
early Spanish colonists and still studied today. Whether Chamorro people used the latte
structure as a coastal dwelling or as canoe storage, the latte was part of the matua way of life and
identity as coastal dwellers and related to the sea as places for storing maritime material culture.
By restricting lower castes from the coast, the latte and coastal activities were components of
maintaining matua identity. Even the rarer inland latte structures were linked to the matua. For
example, Chalan Galaidi, as its name suggests, may have housed canoes. Or as Cabrera
suggests, the matua were possible custodians of these structures and their associated gardens.
Coastal occupation was not only a benefit prehistorically, but also during the Spanish period,
particularly for the Carolinian people. From historical documents, the Carolinian people who
arrived in Saipan during the 1800s also established themselves on the coast in areas such as
Garapan and Tanapag. They sought coastal lagoon areas in an effort to replicate their residences
in the Carolinian atolls (D’Arcy 2006:68, 74–75). Even though the Chamorro hierarchy is no
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longer readily apparent, activities associated with the coastal matua are still practiced today
through maritime activities such as fishing, snorkelling, scuba diving, surfing, swimming and
boating.
Saipan’s Indigenous seascape and maritime cultural landscape always included seafood
procurement, regardless of gender or social class. Prehistorically, fishing was an activity
associated with the higher class Chamorro people, for subsistence and for providing an internal
economy between the fishers on the coast and the gardeners inland (Russell 1998:51, 93–95;
Fritz 2001:75). Throughout all historical periods, documents indicate that Chamorro and
Carolinian men and women fished using traditional methods such as netting, lures, fish traps,
fish weirs, and spears for internal and external trade and had a small part as labourers in
commercial ventures (Fritz 2001:68–74; Spoehr 2000:124–128). Despite, Spoehr’s (2000:124–
125) indication that Indigenous fishing primarily took place in the lagoon on Saipan’s west coast,
these data indicate that fishing also took place in Laulau Bay and other areas, including sailing to
locations surrounding Tinian, Rota and Aguigan for seafood (Bowers 1950:127–128; Fritz
2001:25, 67–73). Past fish procurement is evident at sites investigated in 2011, including the
possible fish weir, possible fish trap, and netting sites, and is communicated by the number of
rock art images depicting procurement activities.
Fishing permeates the seascape and maritime cultural landscape today as it is a large part of
subsistence for many Indigenous people. Traditional and contemporary fishing methods are still
practiced in a variety of areas including places like Laulau Bay, Unai Lagua (Parrotfish Beach)
and Tanapag Lagoon (G. Cabrera pers. comm. April 23, 2011; H. Tudela, pers. comm. April 14,
2011). The importance of Laulau Bay as a current fishing area is exemplified by Tudela’s
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request published in the Marianas Variety and Saipan Tribune to designate a portion of Laulau
Bay for launching small fishing boats (Tudela 2007).
Today, fishing is not only about subsistence, but also is about preservation, both
environmental and cultural. This is evident in Herman Tudela’s TEK. A fisher uses his or her
understanding of how the sea and marine life are interconnected with other ecological systems,
which is passed down through generations, to dictate the catch. To Tudela and many Chamorro
fishers, the knowledge pertaining to fish nomenclature, the moon, the rain, astronomy, birds and
fish symbiosis is a way of ensuring future fish runs and a way of continuing Chamorro traditions.
This knowledge is not simply something learned from science, but also is an understood
interrelation between these systems, and a practice-based knowledge attained from Chamorro
people engaging with their environment (Lauer and Aswani 2009:319, 322, 326). This
understanding is further demonstrated in the petroglyphs found at Laulau Bay (L1), which can be
explained as an illustration of this understanding. This is a tangible testament of Chamorro
identity as a fishing people and a culture with profound understanding of the ocean environment.
Part of preservation is also evident in what Cabrera describes as the “etiquette” practiced by
fishers today. When a fisher goes out netting, he or she cannot net in the same area if another
fisher is already in that area (G. Cabrera pers. comm. April 24, 2011). This is not only about
consideration of others, but about preservation. The act is linked to TEK, acknowledging that
too many fishers in one area can lead to over-fishing and can impact the reproductive cycle of
the fish. It also is related to ancient land and sea boundaries. Tudela explains that Chamorro
boundaries are about stewardship and not “boundaries” in the sense of property boundaries
around areas of outright ownership (Ford 2011c:66; Fritz 2001:58; G. Cabrera pers. comm. April
23, 2011; H. Tudela pers. comm. April 14, 2011). Chamorro people collectively managed the
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land and sea. Again, today, specific acts are about continuing Indigenous sea life preservation
and about continuing to practice preservation and traditional stewardship as the ancient
Chamorro practiced.
How Indigenous people accessed the water is also a large part of the seascape and maritime
cultural landscape. Places such as the sagua in Laulau Bay are evidence of where Indigenous
people accessed the water in the past for a variety of economic reasons, such as fishing and trade.
The sagua may have also been a social meeting place with residents of other islands. A site of
shared heritage, German and Japanese people used this same sagua for similar ventures during
colonial periods, where Indigenous canoes were replaced by ox carts.
The sagua and other access points hold traditional and spiritual significance as well.
According to Tudela, just as a woman gives life, the ocean also gives life in the form of
sustenance, or fish through the sagua which is symbolically equated to a birth canal. In order to
give life and fish, men must enter and exit via this canal. The act of entering and exiting the
ocean to obtain a life giving substance (fish/food) is the same penetration as the sexual act that
gives life which is birthed of the same canal. The significance of male penile penetration of the
sea is evident in the enlarged penis of the male renderings in the pictographs in Kalabera Cave.
The access point at Naftan Point also holds a traditional story reminding Chamorro people of the
maritime-related characteristics that define them as Chamorro.
Canoe construction and navigation are also a part of the seascape and maritime cultural
landscape. Indigenous watercraft is documented as the outrigger type with lateen sails by
Magellan or the flying proa by early Spanish visitors (Fritz 2001:1; Hezel 1983:1–2; Spoehr
2000:6). Canoe construction is evident in the pictograph in Kalabera Cave as well. Carolinian
canoes also were documented by the Spanish. An example of a traditional sailing canoe from
123
Puluwat Atoll called the Waherak Maihar is housed in the CNMI Museum of History and
Culture.
Navigational features identified by collaborators can be found in the island’s topography.
Master navigators through the Pacific were known to use geological features to assist them in
their travels, and the navigators around the Marianas are no different (Finney et al. 1986:46–47).
These distinct and apparent images in the landscape allowed navigators to determine exactly
where they were when travelling near the island. These features may have been used by
Carolinian and Chamorro navigators for pre-contact exchange of goods and services, and during
the Spanish period when Chamorro and Carolinian people provided the Spanish with inter-island
transportation and the distribution of goods (D’Arcy 2006:51, 63–64, 68). Navigation is still
practiced by the Carolinian people today, and voyages between Saipan and the Caroline Islands
occur every April (G. Cabrera pers. comm. April 24, 2011). However, Carolinian navigators do
not rely on topographical features alone (McCoy 1973:358–363). Despite this change in
technology, to the Indigenous navigators and non-navigators today, the shape of the island itself
is a constant reminder of the sea.
Little in the seascape and maritime cultural landscape relates to Chamorro ancestors more
than the rock art found scattered in Saipan’s rock shelters. The rock art represents the ancestral
role in maritime activities and maritime ecology. Discussed in Chapter 2, the maritime activities
practiced by the Saltwater Peoples of Northern Queensland (McNiven 2003) have deeply
cosmological contexts. Described by McNiven as the “ritual orchestration of seascapes,”
maritime activities in, on and near the water are ways of engaging with ancestral spirits. These
activities and rituals are maintenance and increase rituals intended to control and manage
resource productivity (McNiven 2003:335–336). Kalabera Cave can also be understood as a
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place for the ritual orchestration of seascapes for the Chamorro people. However, in Saipan, the
sea is not the site for this orchestration, but rather the inland cave. As a burial place for ancestors
and a storage area for their skulls, the caves were imbued with ancestral spirits. These spirits
were also infused into the bones of these ancestors and, consequently, were an inherent part of
the tools people made with those bones. Utilizing these spiritual tools made activities more
successful. These activities included fishing, canoeing and canoe construction, as represented in
Figures 5.15–5.16, 5.20–5.23 and 5.27–5.29 in the cave. The relationship between ancestors and
marine activities is most clearly exemplified in Figures 5.20–5.21, 5.23 where the clavicle, the
fish and the chumming device are painted together to convey a clear connection between the
ancestral and spirit laden bones and fishing practices. Figure 5.25 could depict the limbless body
of the ancestor whose limbs were used to construct fishing materials. The ritualistic and
recurring activities conducted in the cave, burying the dead, depicting the ancestors and
significant activities on the walls of the cave, are ways of engaging with ancestral spirits. As
Cabrera and Tudela (2006:48–50) explain, the rock art represents reliance upon knowledge
provided by the ancestors during their lifetime and the powers they transmitted from the realm of
the after-life. These powers increase the resources from the sea and allow the Chamorro people
to sustain themselves. This reliance is evident in a pictorial language between present and past
Chamorro people (Cabrera and Tudela 2006:48–50).
The ancestors were also guardians for the Chamorro people in many ways. As suggested by
the depiction of guardians at the entrances of the northwest cave, ancestors can be understood as
guarding the sacred remains and skulls within the caves. Suggested by Cabrera, this particular
cave could demarcate the boundary of a small village, where these depictions represent ancestral
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guardianship and exude the power of the ancestors for protection (G. Cabrera, pers. comm. April
23, 2011).
Ancestral relationships with the sea and fishing are still acknowledged in fishing practices
today. According to Tudela, ancestral permission needs to be obtained prior to fishing. This is a
personal request done internally and is a way of acknowledging the ancestral spirits associated
with marine activities. To Tudela, he is always being guided by the ancestors and is constantly
aware of his past: “You need to know where you have been to know where you are going” (H.
Tudela, pers. comm. April 14, 2011). This is a way of connecting the past to the future and
preserving Indigenous maritime understandings.
By aggregating the data on a map (Figure 5.82), the inter-relationship of these sites becomes
clear. Sites are located in close proximity to one another forming three clusters, where each
cluster surrounds a latte site. These clusters can be understood as centers of maritime culture
and as places where maritime economies exist (Westerdahl 1994:265, 267–268). For example,
the section of Laulau Bay depicted on the map includes latte, fish procurement, and access
points. The existence of these sites in the same area suggests this is indeed a center of extensive
maritime economic activity: canoe storage, shipping, commercial and subsistence fishing, food
procurement, and trade. As this thesis shows, describing the economic activity associated with
these sites does not fully describe the Indigenous sea-culture relationship. As discussed, these
economic sites also hold deeper, ontological and cosmological meaning. This cosmological
meaning is most evident in the rock art shelters also situated within these site clusters.
This research not only identifies sites with maritime traits, it also erases the artificial
boundary between land and sea. Rock art shelters, navigational features and, to an extent, latte
sites are inland sites that are largely maritime related. These sites exhibit a maritime cultural
126
layer, yet are located more inland. The sites themselves not only erase the boundary but also
demonstrate how the sites extend beyond the immediate space. Fish procurement sites, latte sites
and access points are associated with the interactions and trade between the inland and coastal
Chamorro. Similar to how the Arawe harvested food items inland for trade and to maintain
maritime contacts (Gosden and Pavlides 1994), the Chamorro fishers procured food items from
the sea to maintain connections with inland Chamorro and procure inland food items (Russell
1998:139–140; OHP 2011:6; Russell and Fleming 1986:121). Today, largely through colonial
occupation and being forced to farm, Chamorro people can be considered fisher-farmers (Spoehr
2000:124–125), and traditionally recognize and understand the land and sea connection.
6.4 Sea Fluidity
The sea is not the isolating substance of the past. What the seascape and maritime
cultural landscape of Saipan conveys in the larger sense is the true fluidity of the sea. In this
instance the fluidity of the sea has more than one connotation. It refers to the sea as a substance
and an idea that permeates and flows into several aspects of Indigenous life in Saipan: economic,
ritual, traditional and social. It also is about how the importance of the sea flowed into
Indigenous cultural understandings over time. From navigating to the Marianas 4,000 years ago,
to the 2011 fieldwork, Chamorro and Carolinian people identify themselves as having a
connection with the sea. These maritime-related sites with Indigenous significance are indicative
of that connection. Rather than viewing the sea as a stationary place where culture is practiced,
it should be viewed as a mobile and truly liquid substance that can flow into cultural areas inland
and overtime. This study is about remembering Indigenous culture as it relates to the sea and
providing links to these memories. Hopefully, this stimulates more memories of Indigenous
maritime heritage for future collaborative study and recording.
127
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141
Appendix A: Collaborator Consent
To:
Julie Mushynsky [mush0008 flinders.edu.au]
June 27, 2011 7:44 AM
Hi again Julie,
Sorry, long day at this end. Yes, do consider this e-mail reply as my consent to have you quote
me where relevant in your thesis. I additionally appreciate an e-mail copy of the portions of the
paper wherein the quotes are made. I'm still getting a copy of the paper for my library right:-)?
I do apologize for not having forwarded to you a copy of the write-up I did for Herman and his
fellow fishermen re; their project to allow small marine craft to launch from Laulau Bay's
southwest beach (including photos). I'll get these emailed to you this week.
Things are pretty much the same here with work and the farm. I've gone back to some of my old
field survey sites to do spot checks -- hiked up Hill 767 and came across more evidence of precontact habitation (Latte Period mostly) as well as WWII artifacts (including the right portion of
a human pelvis with what appears to be impact from some kind of projectile. There is residual
discoloration of the bone in the affected area. A Japanese gas mask was lodged in the layer of
silica-laden dirt that produced the disjointed pelvis. The bone literally fell through the almost
powder-like dirt along the sloped edge of a shallow rock overhang about 100 feet above a now
dry stream bed in what the 4th Marine Division mop-up units called "Paradise Valley.". This will
be your next hike site when you guys come back out!:-)
It must be exciting to be finally writing the thesis although I suspect that the field research still
proves to be the more enjoyable part.
Just give me a holler should you need anything additionally.
Cheers,
Gen
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device
-----Original Message----From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, 27 Jun 2011 06:17:31
To: Julie Mushynsky<[email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: Statement of Consent
No worries! @ the farm now, will b home in a few hours.
------Original Message-----From: Julie Mushynsky
142
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: Statement of Consent
Sent: Jun 27, 2011 4:14 PM
Wow, thanks so much for the quick response! You're the best.
Talk soon.
Quoting [email protected]:
Just verified with HPO -- Herman's e-mail address is:
[email protected]
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device
-----Original Message----From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, 27 Jun 2011 04:14:10
To: Julie Mushynsky<[email protected]>
Reply-To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Statement of Consent
G'Day Julie,
How wonderful to hear from you! I'm well thank you. Just a short note to let you know that I've
received your e-mail. I'll write more this evening once I'm home. Don't know if the HPO e-mail
is still active -- a lot of services are being cut because of budgetary constraints on the local gov't.
side of things. Will try to find out for you.
Thanks, more later.
Gen
------Original Message-----From: Julie Mushynsky
To: [email protected]
Subject: Statement of Consent
Sent: Jun 27, 2011 1:29 PM
Hi Gen,
How are you? Whats new on the island? Hope things are going well for you in Saipan.
I am beginning to write part of my thesis and want to quote you throughout the paper. I know
you have orally consented, but would you just reply to this email or provide me with some sort
of written statement of consent? Whatever way is easiest for you. There is no rush.
143
Would you like me to email you any portions of the paper where I do quote you?
Also, do you happen to have an email address for Herman, or should I just get it off of the HPO
website?
Thanks for your help Genevieve, much appreciated.
Take care,
Julie Mushynsky
Herman C. Tudela [[email protected]]
July 10, 2011 9:50 PM
Just use what i said and maybe that emailing me the quotes so i can read if it is correct ,ok for
you. Oh sorry that the last trip i wasn,t really with you guys i guess you know how the office
operates here, they dont really seethe value of what these knowledge can do and how it can help
us get a beeter understanding of the cycles of our earth and the life the live in it including us .
Keep me in the loop Remember the MA' --<({{< <{{)<
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
June 26, 2011 11:31 PM
Hi Herman,
How are you doing? Hope you are well and work doesn't feel too much like work, haha.
I am starting to write my thesis on seascapes and all the coastal and rock art sites you took us to
in April. I would like to quote you throughout the paper. I know you gave me verbal consent,
but could you respond to this email or write some sort or statement of consent that I can include
in my thesis? Whatever way is easiest for you Herman. No rush either, just whenever you have
time.
Also, as I write, would you like me to email you the sections of the paper where I do quote you
so you can approve?
Thanks so much for your help Herman, much appreciated.
Again, whenever you get the time.
Julie Mushynsky
144
Appendix B: Creation Story from Bo Flood and Father Peter Coomans
Chamorro Creation Myth
From the Chamorro people of the Mariana Islands, retold by Bo Flood.
I shall tell you of the beginning.
Before there were fish and banana, before the coconut and breadfruit grew tall, and even
before there were crabs that hid in the coconut’s feet or scurried through sand to the sea-even
before there was a sea-there was nothing. More empty than we can imagine, the world was
nothing. Caretaker of this emptiness was Puntan. He ruled with his sister, Fu’uña.
Puntan sensed that soon he would die. Sad to leave his sister alone and the world still
unformed, he imagined a way to fill the emptiness. He called his sister. As they stood alone in
the silent void, Puntan foretold his death and described his plan for creation. Fu’uña held her
brother and wailed woman’s first birth song. She lifted his head upward and let life flow into the
emptiness. Then Fu’uña plucked out her eyes and flung them high above her. Their brightness
became the sun and moon.
Up, up she pushed his heavy breast until it arched across the heavens and became the sky.
The drumming of his heart continued to beat the rhythm of night following day, turning, seasons
turning-day following night.
Fu’uña rested her brother’s back along the bottom of the nothingness. She pounded and
tilled until he became the earth-rich and giving of life. Soon taro sprouted thick and green.
Pandanus stood on crooked limbs and grew long slender leaves for weaving mats and sails that
would capture the wind. The first coconut tree shook its topknot fronds, surprised to find bees
buzzing around the blossoms tucked under each branch.
Fu’uña smiled. She picked up Puntan’s eyebrows and tossed them into the sky. They
slid through the sun’s warm light, splitting the brightness into an arch of colors. The first
rainbow stretched between earth and heaven.
Fu’uña nodded. All was done as her brother had directed.
Then Fu’uña began to cry. Her brother was gone as she had known him. His breath and
body had become the world he had imagined. But she was lonely.
She swam with the sharks and followed the whales until she reached a string of lovely
islands. She walked their beaches chasing ghost crabs, collecting shells, watching tropic birds
soar between clouds. She laughed as hermit crabs scampered sideways and sea cucumbers spat
out sand. She watched as fish nibbled on coral, amazed at their colors and shapes.
Her brother had planned well. The earth was a beautiful place. But still she was lonely.
Fu’uña stood where the surf rolled back into the sea and thought, “I need people.”
Then Fu’uña walked into the sea, and there near the southern part of Guahan she became
a rock. As the sea crashed over her, she broke into many pieces. Each new stone held her spirit.
Each new stone was transformed into a new kind of people. As the great rock of Fu’uña
dissolved, the grains of sand were carried throughout the world, giving birth to all humankind.
Soon men and women filled the world. Some were not so good. They argued and
fought. Others fished out the seas, claiming islands as their own. They muddied the streams and
trampled the reef. Some cut down the taro, banana, and coconut without replanting, only
wasting and destroying.
But others tended the earth, caring for the taro and sharing breadfruit and coconut. To
this day, many remember to take time to watch the surf rolling back to the sea. They call to their
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children, “Come near and listen while I tell of the beginning.” And in the telling, the children
begin another remembering of how once there was nothing. Only Puntan and Fu’uña. From the
love and respect shown between brother and sister, the world began.
The Creation Myth
As told by Father Peter Coomans
Puntan was a man born without a father and only one sister. He lived in imaginary spaces, but
alone. When the moment came for him to die, he called his sister, and let her know his last will
and testament, which was, that out of his body and limbs something for the common good be
done... He also ordered that out of his belly the sky be made; that out of his lice and their eggs be
made the stars in the firmament, out of his eyebrows originated the sun and the moon, and out of
his eyelashes that rainbows. From his shoulders the earth was ordered, and from his ribs and
bones the trees were to grow; from his hair issued forth the branches and the green grasses, his
bladder became the sea, and the lower extremities the banana trees and the reeds. His intestines
became the sea straits and the ports...The above came from his body, but fable has it that the
whole human race issued forth from a rock, at least themselves; as for other men, it was a long
time ago, and they do not know.
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Appendix C: Gemma Tully’s Community Archaeology Methodology
The seven key components remain consistent with the CAPQ methodology (Moser et al. 2002:
229–242).
1. Communication and collaboration between the archaeological/museological team and the local
community at all stages of research
A – Continuous two-way flow of dialogue to facilitate interpretation and presentation
acknowledging the fact that opinions are fluid and changing both within communities and
between different interest groups.
B – Partnerships with local organizations (councils and heritage organizations) to integrate
results into local plans for the future management and presentation of the archaeological
resource.
• These organizations are likely to know other interest groups and therefore introduce
new community members to the project.
C – Work updates and strategy documents. Regular reports for local organizations and other
community groups informing them of developments, providing structure and an ‘official’ context
for the project.
• These are bilingual, plain language and compiled in collaboration with community
members.
D – Openness. Keeping no secrets, making sure everyone is informed on all aspects of the
project, including the project’s initial goals and limitations, to develop a greater understanding
when/if proposed or requested elements of a project cannot be achieved, i.e. ‘open
communication’ (Moser et al. 2002: 231).
• Doing all jobs together no matter how small, to build trust and ensure that local people
feel included. Making it clear that the project is interested in the views of all members of
the community.
• Attempting to learn the local language and living within the community to enhance
levels of equality and further develop trust.
• Keeping in contact and informing community members of work in progress while the
archaeological team is absent.
E – Authority and ownership. Putting local people in the role of facilitator, allowing for a full say
in terms of presentation and display.
F – Social interaction. Developing friendships to show long-term interest as opposed to pure
‘business’.
• This involves addressing issues of cultural difference and visiting the community when
no work is being undertaken, the acceptance by research teams of community beliefs at
face value and willingness from all parties to compromise.
G – Acknowledging difficulties and considering feasibility. Realizing that problems and disputes
are inevitable and that all goals may not come to fruition making such problems easier to deal
with when they do occur.
H – Acknowledging successes and sharing them equally.
I – Acknowledging bias by maintaining self reflexivity at all times.
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J – Academic publications involving both archaeologists/researchers and local community
members to acknowledge and further promote the authority of local perspectives.
2. Employment, training and volunteering of local people in all areas of the project
A – Helps maintain the central role of the local community and develop their skills.
B – Provides a continuity of decision-making by maintaining the same team even when the
project archaeologists are absent.
C – Volunteering to allow for the involvement of community members in diverse areas of the
project which may not have the funds for employment.
D – Benefits employees and volunteers in terms of future employment through the development
of new skills.
E – Employees and volunteers can pass on ideas and knowledge to others.
F – Full-time employment rather than part-time to maintain the momentum of the project and
show commitment.
G – Training to pass on formal qualifications and informal skills.
H – Community members as site and/or museum guides maintaining their control and authority
over the heritage and encouraging different cultural groups to interact.
I – Community employed or ‘invited’ archaeologists acting as cultural brokers to enhance the
equality of the collaboration and to develop the authority and power of local groups in the wider
national and global arena.
3. Public presentation, a vital element in the passing on of information to the wider community
and other non-indigenous/ non-community members
A – Communicating the results of work undertaken to show its significance to the region.
B – Finding appropriate forms and methods of presentation and traditional care.
• Incorporating bilingual display text where requested.
C – Development of a heritage centre which ties together current traditions/recent history, rather
than focusing purely on the past.
D – Front end evaluation involving the community in the choice of themes and formats for
presentation.
E – Consideration of the recent museological approaches in working with different cultural
groups as a starting point for exhibition development but an acceptance that it may not suit the
requirements of the local community.
• Training up museum designers and educators, as well as curators, to ensure full
museum involvement in the collaborative display process.
F – Preparing the site for public presentation.
G – Exhibition strategies. Providing the community with regular reports and plans to encourage
feedback and involvement.
H – The construction of temporary exhibitions while the permanent space is being constructed,
to encourage feedback and provide information for local people OR where permanent display is
not possible (museum loans to communities etc.).
I – International connections exchanging knowledge and experience to benefit all parties (e.g.
Quseir and the Petrie Museum of Egyptology, London).
J – Summative evaluation to discover how effectively the museum/heritage centre communicates
its intended message to both the community involved and outside visitors.
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4. Interview and oral history to see how local people respond to the archaeological excavation (if
applicable), and the objects discovered/being presented to see how this links into the
communities traditional ideas about the past
A – Providing ‘more diverse cultural interpretations of the evidence and facilitating the
construction of a total life history of the site.’
B – Discovery of the community aims for the project and the development of involvement.
based upon the structure and points of the CAPQ (Table 1), as the research thus far
clearly illustrates its relevance. However, I will adapt the language and add extra
features to propose a less context-specific framework for collaborative practice.
Obviously I am not suggesting that this is an explicit formula to be followed
unconditionally, however I hope that it will provide a wider range of options for
• Discussions concerning previous encounters with archaeologists/anthropologists in the
area, allowing for connections to be made between the past and present, helping reduce
any negative views towards researchers that may have been created by previous projects.
C – Interview questions. Investigation of significant, appropriate themes and interview
techniques before hand.
• Investigation of the appropriate methods for treating human remains and objects before
work begins.
D – Analysis to discover local thoughts on the project and their past while maintaining
communication to ensure that the information is being used in the way that the community
desires.
5. Educational resources to introduce people from all generations to the cultural heritage
A – Site visits for school children to build upon knowledge of the local heritage.
B – Children’s books to develop their imagination in terms of the past and to help fund projects/
heritage centres.
C – Culturally appropriate teaching materials for schools.
D – Artefact database. The creation of digital resources to allow wider community access to the
archaeological discoveries and knowledge.
E – Learning for all promoted through site and museum visits, workshops, seminars and other
activities for both the community and visitors.
• This can be through more imaginative and culturally relevant means beyond the
traditional didactic approach, to encourage the involvement of wider sections of the
community.
6. Photographic and video archive to create a record of the archaeological work and experiences
of the project, to enhance the visual element of local authority and knowledge production in site
interpretation and for the development of exhibition centres.
A – Photographic record. Documentation of collaboration with the local people to compliment
the scientific archaeological photographs and to act as something tangible to return to the
community to enhance local empowerment and pride in their role through photographic
ownership.
• To show the importance of local involvement and to communicate the integration of the
community within the project.
B – Video record to show the day-to-day activities of the excavation alongside video footage of
community interviews.
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7. Community controlled merchandising considering the tourist market (where applicable) and
offering quality alternatives to the typical, stereotyped souvenirs on offer.
A – Local decision making in design, production and sale of souvenirs with the possibility of
enhancing the local economy and sustaining the heritage centre.
B – Creation of a project logo and T-shirts in a collaborative effort to promote and establish an
identity for the project and to enhance local involvement.
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Appendix D: Daily Operations for Fieldwork Conducted April 12, 2011 – April 24, 2011
Date (2011)
Who
What
Where
When
April 10April 12
Julie Mushynsky,
Jason Raupp,
Jennifer McKinnon,
Della Scott-Ireton,
Sarah Nahabedian,
Ania Legra
Jennifer McKinnon
Julie Mushynsky
Herman Tudela
Arrive in Saipan
Saipan
Afternoon
April 12
Julie Mushynsky
Jason Raupp
Sarah Nahabedian
Ania Legra
April 14
Herman Tudela
Julie Mushynsky
Ania Legra
Herman Tudela
Julie Mushynsky
Jennifer McKinnon
Jason Raupp
Ania Legra
Della Scott-Ireton
April 15
Herman Tudela,
Julie Mushynsky,
Ania Legra, Sarah
Nahabedian, Jason
Raupp
April 19
Genevieve Cabrera,
Julie Mushynsky,
Jennifer McKinnon,
Ania Legra, Della
Discuss
project/meeting
time over the
phone
Museum research
Flame Tree
Terrace,
accommodation
in Saipan
American
Memorial Park
Museum
Northern
Mariana Islands
Museum of
History and
Culture
meeting/discussing Flame Tree
aims, sites and
Terrace,
desired outcomes
accommodation
of the project
in Saipan
Fieldwork
Kalabera Cave,
Suicide Cliffs,
Banzai Cliffs,
Northern Saipan
for island
topography,
Herman Tudela’s
home
Fieldwork
latte sites,
Laulau Bay rock
art, possible fish
trap and weir,
fishing access
points and
possible canoe
tracks
meeting
Local restaurant
Early afternoon
Afternoon
Morning
Afternoon
All Day
evening
151
April 21
April 22
April 23
April 24
Scott-Ireton, Jason
Raupp
Herman Tudela,
Julie Mushynsky,
Jennifer McKinnon,
Jason Raupp, Ania
Legra
Herman Tudela,
Julie Mushynsky,
Ania Legra, Ronnie
Rogers, Jason Raupp
Herman Tudela,
Tudela’s fishing
partner, Julie
Mushynsky, Ania
Legra, Jason Raupp
Genevieve Cabrera,
Julie Mushynsky,
Jennifer McKinnon,
Jason Raupp, Sarah
Nahabedian, Ania
Legra, Della ScottIreton, Peter Harvey,
Fiona Harvey,
Winnie Harvey,
Callum Harvey
Genevieve Cabrera,
Julie Mushynsky
Julie Mushynsky,
Jennifer McKinnon,
Jason Raupp, Sarah
Nahabedian, Ania
Legra
fieldwork
Netting site
morning
Archival research
HPO
afternoon
fieldwork
Canoe track site
afternoon
fieldwork
Northwest rock
shelter, canoe
access points,
Japanese tunnels
and Japanese
shrines,
Cabrera’s farm
land
All day
fieldwork
previously
studied
Chamorro sites
and to obtain
overall photos of
the coast,
including views
of the canoe
track and
possible fish trap
morning
Depart Saipan
afternoon
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Appendix E: Rock Art Recording Form
Recording Form
Date:
Location:
Recorder name:
GPS Coordinates:
Elevation:
Site Name:
Orientation/bearing:
ID Number:
Color/s:
Motif Interpretation:
Motif Description: Petroglyph, pictograph, petroform
Motif and surrounds condition/conservation:
Sketch:
Accompanying motifs (ID by #):
Indicate superimposition by #:
Length (cm)
Width (cm)
Max dim.
(cm)
Photo number(s)/Camera
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