‘It’s similar to how Google can map your home without your consent’: Why using aerial lasers to map an archaeology site should have Indigenous partnership
Imagine a plane streaking through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, releasing millions of laser pulses into a dense rainforest. The goal: to map thousands of square kilometers, including the ground beneath the canopy, in detail within a few days.
Once the stuff of science fiction, aerial lidar – light detection and ranging – is transforming the way archaeologists map sites. Some have hailed this mapping technique as a revolutionary investigation method.
The darker side of lidar
Lidar is a remote sensing technology that uses light to measure distance. Aerial systems work by firing millions of laser pulses per second from a moving aircraft. For archaeologists, the goal is for enough of these pulses to pass through gaps in the forest canopy, bounce off the ground, and return to the laser source with enough energy to measure the distance traveled. Researchers can then use computer programs to analyze the data and create images of the Earth’s surface.
The power of this mapping technology has led to a wave of research globally, with some even calling for the technology to be implemented. laser mapping of the whole continental mass of the Earth. Yet, despite all the enthusiasm and media buzz, there are important ethical questions who have remained largely unanswered.
To map regions quickly and in detail, researchers need national, but not necessarily local, information. authorization to perform an aerial sweep. It’s similar to how Google can map your house without your consent.
In archaeology, a point of debate is whether it is acceptable to collect data remotely when researchers are denied access to the field. War zones are extreme cases, but there are many other reasons why researchers may be prevented from setting foot in a particular location.
For example, many indigenous people in North America do not trust archaeologists or want them to study their ancestral remains. The same is true for many indigenous groups around the world. In these cases, aerial laser scanning without local or descendant consent becomes a form of surveillance, allowing outsiders to extract artifacts and appropriate other resources, including knowledge about ancestral remains. These harms are not new; Indigenous peoples have long lived with their consequences.
A high-profile case in Honduras illustrates how complex lidar technology can be.
Controversy over La Mosquitia
In 2015, journalist Douglas Preston sparked a media frenzy with his National Geographic report on archaeological work in the La Mosquitia region of Honduras. Joining a search team using aerial lidar, he said investigators had discovered a “lost city,” widely referred to in Honduras as Ciudad Blanca, or the White City. Preston described the newly mapped settlement and its surrounding areas as “remote and uninhabited…barely studied and virtually unknown.”
Although Preston’s statements could be seen as another captivating adventure story intended to popularize archeology, many pointed out the most disturbing effects.
The Miskitu people have lived in La Mosquitia for a long time and have always known the archaeological sites of their ancestral lands. In what some call “Christopher Columbus syndrome,” such tales of discovery erasing Indigenous presence, knowledge and agency while allowing dispossession.
The media hype led to a expedition that included Juan Orlando Hernándezthen president of Honduras, pardoned from drug trafficking by US President Donald Trump in 2025. Expedition members Artifacts removed from La Mosquitia without consulting or obtaining the consent of indigenous groups living in the area.
In response, MASTA (Mosquitia Asla Takanka—Unity of La Moskitia), an organization led by the Moskitu people, issued the following statement:
“We [MASTA] demand the application of international agreements/documents related to the process of prior, free and informed consultation in Muskitia, in order to formalize the model of protection and conservation proposed by indigenous peoples.
Their demands, however, seem to have been largely ignored.
The La Mosquitia controversy is an example of global struggle. Colonialism has changed its appearance somewhat, but it has not ended – and indigenous peoples have been fighting for generations. Today, calls for consent and collaboration in research on Indigenous lands and heritage are growing louder, supported by frameworks such as the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the Convention 169 of the International Labor Organization.
A collaborative path forward
Despite the dilemmas raised by aerial lidar mapping, I argue that it is possible to use this technology in a way that promotes Indigenous agency, autonomy, and well-being. As part of the Mensabak archaeological project, I in partnership with the people of Hach Winikcalled by foreigners Lacandon Maya, who live in Puerto Bello Metzabok, Chiapas, Mexico, to conduct archaeological research.
Metzabok is part of a UNESCO biosphere reserve, where research often requires multiple federal permits. The inhabitants protect what, from Hach Winik’s point of view, is not objectified nature but a living, conscious forest. This land belongs to the Hack Winik community under agreements with the Mexican federal government.
Building on the collaborative methodology of the Mensabak Archaeological Project, I developed and implemented a culturally sensitive informed consent process prior to conducting aerial laser scanning.
In 2018, I spoke via Whatsapp with the community leader of Metzabok, called the Comisario, to discuss potential research, including the possibility of an aerial lidar survey. We agreed to meet in person, and after our initial discussion, the Comisario convened an “asamblea” – the public forum where community members formally deliberate on issues that concern them.
At the meeting, Mensabak Archaeological Project founder Joel Palka and I presented past and proposed research. Local colleagues encouraged the use of engaging images and helped us explain concepts in a mix of Spanish and Hach T’an, the Hach Winik language. As Palka speaks Hach T’an and Spanish fluently, he was able to participate in all the discussions.
Above all, we made sure to discuss potential benefits and risks of any proposed survey, including an aerial scan of the community.
The question and answer part was lively. Many participants said they saw value in mapping their forest and the ground beneath the canopy. Community members saw lidar as a way to record their territory and even promote responsible tourism. There has been some hesitation about the possibility of increased looting due to media attention or the federal government’s release of some mapping data. But most people felt prepared for this eventuality thanks to decades of experience protecting their forest.
Finally, the community formally agreed to continue. However, consent is an ongoing process, and one must be prepared to stop it at any time if the consenting party withdraws their permission.
Aerial lidar can benefit all parties
Too often, in my experience, archaeologists remain oblivious – or even defensive – when confronted with issues of Indigenous oppression and consent in aerial lidar searches.
But another path is possible. Obtaining culturally sensitive informed consent could become standard practice in aerial lidar research. Indigenous communities can become active collaborators rather than being treated as passive objects.
In Metzabok, our aerial mapping project was an act of relationship building. We have demonstrated that cutting-edge science can align with Indigenous autonomy and well-being when grounded in dialogue, transparency, respect and consent.
The real challenge is not to map more quickly or in more detail, but whether researchers can do it fairly, humanely, and with greater accountability to the people whose lands and ancestral remains we study. Used well, aerial lidar can spark a revolution, aligning Western science and technology with Indigenous futures.
This edited article is republished from The conversation under Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
