Vodou Hermeneutics and Vodou's Transatlantic History Thoughts

Although it took a while, we have finally finished A Transatlantic History of Haitian Vodou: Rasin Figuier, Rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites by Benjamin Hebblethwaite. An ambitious work, Hebblethwaite explores the African background of the Rada and Gede rites in Haitian Vodou. Using what he terms Vodou hermeneutics, Hebblethwaite draws from ethnomusicology, linguistics, history, and other fields to explore Vodun in Benin as a source (and foil) for Vodou in Saint Domingue (and Haiti). Although previous generations of Haitian ethnologists or foreign academics have explored the African background of Vodou, observable to some extent already in Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic sketch, Hebblethwaite seeks to explore more seriously African history and religious cultures. This means that the book is structurally divided into two halves, focusing on Vodun in Benin and Vodou songs in Haiti read through the author's "Vodou hermeneutics.'

The first two chapters focus on the historical context of Vodun in Benin, particularly Allada, Hueda and Dahomey. This historical context is key for understanding what the author sees as royalist Vodun tied to the slave trading states of Dahomey, Allada and Vodou versus the communal or local Vodun cults or traditions of victims of the slave raids. Unsurprisingly, in Haiti, where many victims of these slave raids were eventually trafficked through the French slave traders on the Slave Coast, the more familial or communal aspects of Vodun were more relevant for the development of Vodou. That said, elements of Haitian Vodou retain, perhaps, memories of Agaja of Dahomey. But this intervention here is key for understanding why some African "traditional" religions in Saint Domingue were associated with rebellion, as dissident Vodun priests or groups were sometimes targeted by Dahomey for enslavement and export. Indeed, Hebblethwaite compares the royalist Vodun slave trading states like Dahomey to the royalist Catholic French slave traders and enslavers, with our ancestors as the victims of both. Of course, one could also explore why, if what became Vodou in Haiti was not marked by royalist sentiments, why is it that many of the hieratic titles used in Vodouist groups, rara bands or other manifestations of Haitian popular culture featured kings, queens, generals, and the like?

Overall, these two chapters on the politics and practice of Vodun in the Slave Coast are the richest chapters of the text. While one has some quibbles over the author's interpretation of Dahomey's origins and its relations with Allada, Hueda and other polities, he demonstrates how Vodun was inextricably tied to power and community (Law and other historians specializing in this region seem more skeptical or ambivalent on the traditions of Dahomey tying their royal dynasty to Allada, as well as other traditions of origin). This included slave raids, conquests, the incorporation of foreign Vodun into the expansionist Dahomey state, and the proliferation of Vodun cults through migration and refuge. In Saint Domingue, the victims of these processes who were sold to the French inherited these practices. As for why the Rada and Gede rites became so prominent in Sèvis Ginen, the structure of Vodun and its ability to incorporate new or "foreign" ideas and concepts provided a foundation for Vodou. This surely cannot be merely a result of the timing of the arrival of huge numbers of "Arada" captives in Saint Domingue (though it probably played a role). After all, if the timing of arrival was such a significant factor, why is it that the Senegambian and Upper Guinean African "nations" have less influence in the formation of Vodou? 

This is also relevant to the Central African influence, which the author admits has a huge legacy in Haitian Vodou. And while their numbers may have increased exponentially later in the 1700s, the impact of Kongo Catholicism and other religious traditions from West Central Africa must be considered as foundational to the development of Haitian religion. Indeed, even Allada, whose own history of relations with Portugal and Catholicism are worth exploring, may provide signs of Catholic influence in the formation of Vodou in the African past. We can only hope Hebblethwaite or other writers explore these dimensions of Haitian Vodou's transatlantic past.

The last two sections of the book shift to analysis of songs. The Rasin Figuier recordings are fascinating examples of not only retentions of Vodun spirits, Fon or Aja words, but reworkings of Aja-Fon concept and theology. The fourth chapter's analysis of songs from the Gede Rite, however, are less successful. Despite offering a persuasive case for a Gedevi or Gedevi-Yoruba origin for the rite, the historical Gedevi are less visible in the book's historical chapters. Although undoubtedly due to their conquest, absorption and sale to Europeans, the lack of clarity regarding these peoples hinders a deeper historical context for them. The Gede spirits are numerous in Haiti, and while they too reflect African origins, they appear very much Creolized with Miragoane being the source of some (according to Vodou myth). Despite their prominence and their irreverent allusions to sexuality, death, or taboo-busting possessions, the Gedevi connection appears elusive. It also didn't help that many of the Gede songs analyzed here, while lamenting or criticizing social inequality, remind one of the role of "signifying" and tricksters in African American culture. In short, it's less revolutionary or egalitarian than some would like to think...

In spite of the issues with the final two chapters, it is wise to see Hebblethwaite's Vodou Hermeneutics as an analytical tool for a work in progress. With so many rites and traditions of Haitian Vodou to explore, as well as the larger histories of West and Central Africa to help contextualize it, one can only hope the Nago, Kongo, and other rites receive their due for a more comprehensive study of Vodou. One should also extend the field of analysis to more sections of Haiti to see which areas have preserved or maintained some traditions rather than others, and what the impact of urbanization and migration was on those regions. As always, the analysis must include linguistics, African and Haitian history, religious studies, and other fields for an interdisciplinary approach.

Exploring Caizcimu, or Higüey Chiefdoms

  

Eastern part of Hispaniola (including Caizcimu and Higuey) from the 1517 Morales Map.

Higüey, or Caizcimu, the eastern part of Hispaniola, represents another region which hosted a major cacicazgo in the time of Columbus. But when one examines surviving documentary evidence, the theory of a paramount chiefdom in eastern Hispaniola becomes much weaker or ambiguous. Instead, as Alice Sampson has hinted, the peoples of Caizcimu, the face of the island of Haiti or Quisqueya, may have been part of a shifting network of chiefdoms which were not necessarily dominated by a single one for long.[1] This model is perhaps more appropriate for understanding how the societies in eastern Hispaniola were organized before colonialism. Alternatively, the area may have once been under the rule of a paramount cacique. But, at some point early in their conflicts with the Spanish, this paramount chief, Cayacoa, died. Succeeded by a wife, who later converted to Christianity, the area may have reverted to a shifting network of alliances without one single cacique paramount. In order to explore these theories, what follows will be our attempt to trace the history of Higüey (or Caizcimu) over time using documentary sources.

Spanish Colonial-Era Sources

            Naturally, one must begin with the sources from the early colonial encounter, conquest, and the rest of the sixteenth century. Beginning with Columbus, early Spanish sources provide important glimpses of various aspects of indigenous societies on the island. While few answer the types of questions we have today about the origins and political organization of the indigenous peoples of the island, the standard chronicles usually imply a powerful, paramount chiefdom existed in the eastern part of the island. Some sources name it as Higüey, yet others, like Oviedo, center it on Cayacoa, also called Agueibana.[2] The discrepancy on which cacique in the east occupied a dominant position is not clear.

Furthermore, another limitation is that our most detailed sources on the eastern tip of the island are often centered on the two wars to “pacify” the region in the time of Ovando. This means that they rarely provide historical context or background of the region’s political landscape before the wars. Except for emphasizing the leadership of Cotubanamá in these military campaigns, they cannot easily be used to claim Cotubanamá was a paramount cacique of this region. In addition, the later sources associated with the encomienda system in the 1514 Repartimiento name many caciques of the east. Depending on which chronicler one prefers, Higuanamá, Higüey, or Cayacoa each appear on the list with large numbers of indigenous followers assigned to different encomenderos in Santo Domingo, Higüey, or other towns. But from this alone, one cannot easily presume which cacique was once the most powerful before 1492.

Nonetheless, the 16^th century sources do provide some clues. One important chronicler, who never went to the Americas but was well-positioned to read the works and speak with travelers who did cross the Atlantic, was Peter Martyr d’Anghiera. Through him, readers discover that the districts of Caizcimu, the eastern “face” of Hispaniola, included Higüey, Guanama, Reyre, Xagua, Aramana, Arabo, Hazoa (Azua), Macorix, Caicoa, Guiagua, Baguanimabo, and the mountains of Haiti (Haitises). Springs of an exceptional character were in Iguanamá, Caiacoa and Quatiaqua. Further, Caizcimu extended from the eastern point of the island to the Ozama river.[3] This information, derived in part from Andrés de Morales, whose excellent map of the island drew from indigenous toponyms and references, establishes the boundaries of Caizcimu. Within this much larger space, Higüey was just one district or section of the island’s “face.”

Additional cronistas in the 1500s wrote about Higüey. For Oviedo, perhaps one of the more racist and Hispanocentric writers of this period, Cayacoa was the paramount cacique. Ruling from the Santo Domingo area to Hayna River, and to the Yuma, Cayacoa died soon after the Christians warred with him. Succeeded by his wife, Inés de Cayacoa who converted to Christianity, Oviedo unfortunately did not elucidate further.[4] Nevertheless, Oviedo, who came to the island several years after the “pacification” of the east, believed Cayacoa was once the most powerful cacique in the region. With Higüey, his area of influence extended to the mouth of the Yuma, this included Cotubanamá and Higüey under his authority.

On the other hand, the testimony of Las Casas, who arrived in the Indies earlier than Oviedo, contradicts Oviedo’s understanding of the east. In his Historia de las Indias, Las Casas specified that Cotubanamá’s settlement was near La Saona island (although the indigenous pueblos were often located in the montes). He also believed that Higuanamá was the king or cacique of Higüey, although he expressed uncertainty regarding his memory.[5] Moreover, Las Casas provided an overview of the 2 campaigns against Higüey, led by Juan de Esquivel. Despite the first one ending with a guatiao between Esquivel (who later led the conquest of Jamaica) and Cotubanamá, the second one ended with the demise of the latter. Interestingly, the Spanish forces were accompanied by indigenous auxiliaries from Ycayagua in the second campaign. This is yet another instance in which political divisions and conflict between competing chiefdoms in the eastern part of the island were implied. To what extent Ycayagua was opposed to Cotubanamá or Higüey in precolonial times is unsure, but they clearly believed it was in their interests to align with the Spanish against Cotubanamá.[6] Even more intriguing is the long-distance ties to indigenous peoples in Puerto Rico, since they enjoyed constant contact through canoes across the Mona Channel.[7] As the aforementioned name of Agueybaná for Cayacoa makes clear, there may have been alliances with indigenous peoples in Puerto Rico that shaped how different groups within Caizcimu related to each other.

After the cronistas, some Spanish sources in the form of letters or records generated by or affiliated with the encomienda system provide some clues. For instance, one letter by Pedro de Cordoba, perhaps written in 1516, alluded to Higüey. Its importance as a source of casabe for Santo Domingo was highlighted. This correspondence also blamed Salamanca’s dog for the attack on a cacique which triggered one of the wars with Higüey. Likewise, the letters also allude to 1500 indios allegedly killed whilst 17 caciques hung in Higüey.[8] If true, then many caciques of the eastern part of Hispaniola were eliminated or removed in the early 1500s. This makes it even more arduous to attempt any reconstruction of Caizcimu’s political landscape based on the 1514 Repartimiento of Albuquerque. It nonetheless hints at an alliance of at least 17 caciques who joined forces with Cotubanamá against the Spanish in the second war of Higüey. Meanwhile, the 1517 Hieronymite Interrogatory clearly establishes a link between caciques in Higüey and those of Puerto Rico who had revolted against the Spanish in the 1510s. There a cacique named Andrés celebrated the victory of indigenous people in Borinquen whilst plotting to spread a revolt against the Spanish in Hispaniola.[9] This suggests, once again, the relevance of Puerto Rico to Higüey’s indigenous leadership in the past. With exchange, migration, and alliances being relevant factors in the area before 1492.

Map of eastern Hispaniola from 1566, showing Aguiebana near Santo Domingo (Gallica).

As for the 1514 Repartimiento, multiple caciques with names linked to paramount status appear. Some even led hundreds of followers, often split to serve different encomenderos in Santo Domingo, Salvaleón de Higüey and other towns established by the Spanish. In Salvaleón de Higüey itself, Arranz Márquez’s tabulation of the figures points to about 922 indios assigned to encomenderos in the area. The following caciques were listed: Carolina de Agara, Juan Bravo, Catalina del Habacoa, Maria Higüey, and Isabel de Iguanamá. Apart from Catalina del Habacoa, who likely came from the western tip of the island, these others were apparently from Caizcimu (or near it?). Note the appearance of cacicas with Higüey and Iguanamá in their names. Based on the names alone, one may presume some continuity with preconquest chiefly lineages or territorial divisions. Yet the occupation of the office of cacique by two women in Higüey and Iguanamá may be a sign of the role of the Spanish wars in decimating the previous leadership.[10] Either way, these two women oversaw about 85% of the indigenous population enumerated in the repartimiento, a remarkable figure.[11] Besides these two women, other caciques whose names indicate some kind of relationship with major cantons of Caizcimu also led substantial numbers of indigenous people. Take (Gonzalo Fernandez) Cayacoa, whose 405 subjects were allotted to encomenderos in Santo Domingo. Besides Cayacoa, 241 people were affiliated with Diego Leal de Aramana. Moreover, another 284 were associated with Catabano del Higüey and 211 with Agueybaná de la Saona.

Naturally, using demographic data from 1514, many years after the “pacification” and the encomienda system had drastically impacted the indigenous population, can lead to misleading results. In addition, Santo Domingo as the colonial capital with encomenderos sometimes associated with the Spanish king, colonial officials, and the upper echelons of society, undoubtedly drew upon indigenous communities from various parts of the island. One wonders how the dislocation, indigenous flight from colonial centers, and deaths caused by the “pacification” campaigns of Ovando affected the population of Caizcimu, especially those close to Santo Domingo. Despite the problems with this demographic information, it suggests Maria Higüey (and her at least 2 nitaínos) led the largest number of indigenous people in the East, 443. After her, Cayacoa, closer to Santo Domingo, led 405. Catabano del Higüey, a cacica we highly suspect led the remnants of Cotubanamá’s area of  Higüey only led 284.[12] The admittedly problematic demographic evidence points to Maria Higüey, Isabel Iguanamá and Cayacoa as leading larger communities than Catabano. If this pattern was true in precolonial times, and each of these cacicazgos included similarly large numbers of people, one can speculate that Cayacoa, Iguanamá, Higüey, and Catabano were the dominant chiefdoms in the region, perhaps without one achieving permanent superiority.

Considering the limited evidence from documentary sources and the plethora of unanswered questions and contradictions, sources from the 1500s only provide glimpses of Higüey, or Caizcimu’s indigenous sociopolitical organization. That Higüey was perceived as one of the larger kingdoms or confederations of the island, and associated with both Cayacoa and Iguanamá, may be proof of the lack of a singular paramount cacique. Perhaps the region was briefly dominated by Cayacoa to the west, then Iguanamá or Higüey achieved temporary success as most powerful cacicazgos in Caizcimu?

Analyzing Later Histories of Higüey

Moving forward to the 1700s, scholarship on the topic has not progressed much. While archaeology would later become especially important in the 20^th century, in the 1700s and 1800s, most writers usually repeated the earlier accounts by cronistas. Fortunately, ethnohistorians and archaeologists with all the advantages of new methods and perspectives in these respective fields, will raise deeper questions and challenge the narratives. This section shall briefly review writings on Higüey’s indigenous past from the 1700s and 1800s. Then, a swift reading of some of the more important studies of the island’s indigenous past will follow, focusing on modern historians writing in the late 1900s and early 2000s.

First, the 1700s. Here one often comes to Charlevoix, the Jesuit priest whose history of Saint Domingue was quite good for its time. To Charlevoix, Higüey’s population were distinct for using arrows. Like Oviedo, he named the cacique as Cayacoa, who allegedly died soon after the arrival of the Spanish. For Charlevoix, Cotubanamá then succeeded the widow of Cayacoa, Agnez Cayacoa, after her death. The familiar narrative of the 2 wars between Higüey and the Spanish then followed, with Juan de Esquivel and Cotubanamá’s guatiao relationship.[13]

Besides Charlevoix, Luis Joseph Peguero, whose history of the Spanish conquest of Hispaniola was published in the 1760s, stands out. Peguero sometimes deviated from the chronicles of prior centuries, occasionally making mistakes in his analysis. However, like Charlevoix, Peguero also viewed Cayacoa as one of the principal “kings” of the island (Guarionex, Caonabo, Behechio, Cayacoa, and Guacanagari). For him, Cayacoa “dominava toda la tierra oriental.” This encompassed the cabo de Samana to San Rafael, and from Rio Hayna to Rio Yuma. Further deviating from the standard narrative, Peguero wrote that Cayacoa’s court “se llamo Acayagua.”[14] Although Las Casas wrote of the people of Ycayagua collaborating with the Spanish in the campaign against Higüey, there is no hint of Cayacoa’s capital at Acayagua or Ycayagua. To contribute further to the confusion on the part of Peguero, he later wrote that Cotubanamá was killed alongside Cayacoa in the second war of Higüey. Nevertheless, Peguero did emphasize the significance of the montes for the indigenous people of the area: Tenían los indios de Higüey las más poblaciones dentro de las Montañas.”[15]

Next, the 19^th century witnessed the appearance of Haitian writer Émile Nau’s magisterial history of the caciques of the island. Even before Nau, Beaubrun Ardouin, in his Geographie, repeated the common claim of Cayacoa as the ruler of Higüey.[16] Nau, on the other hand, wrote extensively on the indigenous peoples and their conquest by the Spanish. Like Peguero, Nau preferred a sequence in which Cayacoa, then his widow, and finally, Cotubanamá, were the rulers of Higüey. He expanded further by speculating on “Carib” ancestry in Higüey and the allegedly colossal stature of Cotubanamá. Nau also wrote about the use of smoke signals by the Indians of Higüey during their war with the Spanish. In terms of the provinces of Higüey, he broke it down in the following list: Azoa, Maniel, Cayacoa, Bonao, Cayemi, Macao, and the capital was at the town of Higüey.[17] Nau’s focus understandably centers on Higüey’s two wars with the Spanish, but his speculations about “Carib” admixture in this part of Hispaniola may be related to the use of the bow and arrow in this region. It may be a sign of Ciguayo influence or Macorix presence.[18]  But in the main, Nau follows the standard narrative of the early chronicles with an emphasis on Cayacoa as the original “king” of Higüey.

An area of Alonso de Santa Cruz's map of Hispaniola seems to read Cotubane or Cotubano in the area of Higuey. 

In the following century, one can begin to trace the advances in the field of indigenous Caribbean archaeology, history, and linguistics. Unsurprisingly, one of the early major figures in this was Sven Loven, whose Origins of the Tainan Culture represented a major contribution. Nonetheless, he too repeated the Cayacoa narrative, in which Cayacoa and then his wife, Inés, were the rulers of Higüey.[19] Dominican historian Casimiro N. de Moya followed this, except Higuanamá succeeded Cayacoa before Cotubanamá. Moya also claimed that the people of Higüey sold captives to the Caribs and Juan de Esquivel allegedly ordered the hanging of Higuanamá.[20] Later, the Haitian academic, Michel Aubourg, in Haïti préhistorique, emphasized the bellicose nature of the Higüey Indians was due to their fighting with the Caribs. They were ruled by Cayacoa, succeeded by Cotubanamá.[21]

Subsequent authors of the last century, particularly in its second half, contributed greatly to a more nuanced reading of the various cacicazgos of Hispaniola. Anderson-Córdova’s Surviving Spanish Conquest noted the uniqueness of Higüey in the 1514 Repartimiento. Indeed, Salvaleón de Higüey was the only town that had a high average number of Indians per community (172.60 in her reading of the numbers). Although about 28% of Higüey’s remaining indigenous population was expected to provide labor for encomenderos in Santo Domingo, Anderson-Córdova was correct to note the special demographics of this part of the island.[22] Stone’s Captives of Conquest: Slavery in the Early Modern Spanish Caribbean was similarly important for stressing the enslavement of many Higüeyanos in the wars of “pacification.” She also viewed Cotubanamá as a lesser cacique of the region who, despite his lower status, was the first to rise against Ovando’s labor policies. In all, the Spanish may have brought a minimum of 4000 slaves from Higüey in those two wars, suggestive of the scale of enslavement and the dislocation experienced by communities in the early 1500s. Notarial records even indicate that dozens of Taíno slaves were in Sevilla in 1503, many likely the product of the war in Higüey.[23]

Besides these aforementioned authors, several other academics or writers have addressed the issue of Higüey’s precolonial past. Gilbert Valmé, for instance, drew from archaeological and historical literature to approach the topic. According to Valmé, Higüey, the site of El Atajdizo, of 0.47 hectares and built 1000-1300 CE, may have been at least one of the centers of the region. Caizcimu supposedly contained about 11 of what Valmé considers to be simple caciquats. Yet once again, Cayacoa (considered to have been located around Los Llanos) was presumed to have been the greatest caciquat of Caizcimu.[24] In fact, archaeological evidence does support the importance of El Atajadizo and La Aleta as ceremonial centers of the region in the past.[25] Indeed, Samuel M. Wilson has referred to El Atajadizo as a large ceremonial center, meeting the expectations of a possible center of a major cacicazgo.[26]

Last but certainly not least, more recent scholarship has produced some of the most useful works on tentatively determining the confines of Higüey. Bernardo Vega, for example, drew from various maps, the chronicles, and other sources. According to Vega, Higüey, or Higuei, was centered on the zone of the Yuma. Guaygua was located at an affluent of the Soco river. Guanama may have been an area east of La Romana. Cayacoa was in today’s Los Llanos. Aramana, by his reckoning, was to the east of Hato Mayor. Arabo was likely between La Romana and Cumayasa. Vega even proposed an etymology for the name Higuei, linking it to jaguey. This may be true since the region was full of jagueyes or springs.[27] Indeed, Peter Martyr d’Anghiera reported the presence of exceptional springs in Iguanamá, Caiacoa (Cayacoa), and Quatiaqua, perhaps support for Vega’s theory. Vega’s theory also shifts our attention to Caizcimu as a larger region encompassing Higüey and other centers, presumably based on Andrés de Morales.

Besides Vega, Jose Oliver has also investigated Higüey’s history. Whilst also reporting the general narrative of Spanish-indigenous conflicts that triggered two wars, Oliver also raises more interesting questions of the area’s precolonial antiquity. Thus, the shared material culture in cemis, stone collars, and other artifacts suggest potent ties between caciques of Puerto Rico and eastern Hispaniola, stretching back to 600 CE. Oliver contextualizes this within a larger period of 450-800 years of sustained relationships connecting Higüey to Puerto Rico.[28] Consequently, Higüey’s cultural similarities with Puerto Rico’s indigenous groups point to some inter-island or broader Caribbean exchange and relations. Moreover, one could suggest these ties may have been a factor in the appearance of common names like Agueybaná on both islands. If Cayacoa, or Agueybaná and Agueybaná in Saona were bound by kinship with what may have been the leading chiefdom in Puerto Rico, the story of Caizcimu’s competing polities or perhaps peer polities may have been related to the international dimensions of its relations.

Conclusion

Upon consideration of many of the available sources on Higüey from the 1500s to the present, its status as a paramount chiefdom remains in doubt. From sources in the 1500s, one hears of either Higuanamá or Cayacoa as the dominant cacique. While this contradiction may have been related to the different wars between the Spanish and indigenous peoples in eastern Hispaniola leading to the capture or execution of some caciques, Higüey is remarkable for the persistence of indigenous cacique names or toponyms tied to the precolonial past. Led by women, Maria Higüey and Isabel de Iguanamá, Higüey was unique for one of the only regions of the island where two women still led substantial communities comprising most of the indigenous people assigned to encomenderos in a town. Since one cannot use demographic data from 1514 to fully reconstruct what the situation was like in 1492, the data tentatively supports the existence of at least a handful of substantial chiefdoms in the “face” of Hispaniola. Later data often inherited the same confusion or contradictions in the early colonial sources, but often emphasizing Cayacoa, Cotubanamá, or Iguanamá as the paramount leaders of Higüey. This conflicting data best fits the model proposed by Alice Samson. Essentially, Higüey was not a singular or unified chiefdom but more of a network of intricately connected chiefdoms. Occasionally, one may have achieved dominance, but the available sources do not allow for a clear identification. Unlike, say, Xaragua, where sources concur with Behechio and, after him, Anacaona, as paramount chiefs, Higüey may have lacked a singular leader or matunheri chief.

---

[1] Alice Sampson, Renewing the House: Trajectories of social life in the yucayeque (community) of El Cabo, Higüey, Dominican Republic, AD 800 to 1504, 95.

[2] The appearance of the name Agueybaná in Cayacoa (near the site of Santo Domingo), Saona, and Puerto Rico is hardly a coincidence. Given the longstanding ties between eastern Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, and the fact that at least one cacique in Higüey claimed to be related to caciques in the neighboring island, one can assume the name was part of the system of guatiao fictive and biological kinship relations.

[3] Peter Martyr d’Anghiera, Francis Augustus MacNutt (trans.), De orbe novo, the eight Decades of Peter Martyr d'Anghera, 366-367, 379.

[4] Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Historia general y natural de las Indias, Primera Parte (1851), 65.

[5] In his Apologética historia sumaria, 244. Las Casas wrote of Higuanamá as an old woman who ruled Higüey in his time (presumably referring to when Las Casas participated in the second Higüey War of 1504-1505?). Cayacoa or Agueibana was to the west of Higüey, but he clearly viewed Higüey, under Higuanamá, as the paramount cacique of this region. The reference to an old woman named Higuanamá raises questions. Was she the widow of Cayacoa? And what does one make of Macao, supposedly a large pueblo of the Indians in the region (Apologetica historia sumaria, 116)? One is inclined to view large settlements or villages as more likely capitals of paramount chiefs.

[6] Bartolomé de las Casas, Historia de las Indias Vol. 3, 41-42, 46-47, 85.

[7] Ibid., 235. For a speculative theory which traces the origin of the three-pointer cemi in Puerto Rico to eastern Hispaniola, see Marcio Veloz Maggiolo, Arqueología prehistórica de Santo Domingo, 251. There the author offers a fascinating theory for cultural influences from Hispaniola to Puerto Rico, which undoubtedly made Higüey an important part of this relationship.

[8] Medina, P. M. A. “CARTAS de Pedro de Córdoba y de La Comunidad Dominica, Algunas Refrendadas Por Los Franciscanos.” Guaraguao 21, no. 54 (2017): 182-183, 206.

[9] “Interrogatorio jeronimiano, 1517” in Emilio Rodriguez Demorizi, Los domínicos y las encomiendas de indios de la Isla Española, 346-347.

[10] Women leaders, or cacicas, were not necessarily a result of Spanish conquest and wars. However, the predominance of women cacicas, Catabano del Higüey, Higüey, Iguanamá and Aramana, may be partly a consequence of the brutal Spanish wars killing off or enslaving males.

[11] See Luiz Arranz Márquez, Repartimientos y encomiendas en la Isla Española: el repartimiento de Albuquerque de 1514, 560-564 for numbers of indigenous people associated with caciques assigned to encomenderos in Higüey and Santo Domingo.

[12] The map of Alonso de Santa Cruz in Islario general de todas las islas del mundo depicts a region called Cotubano or Cotubane across the sea from Saona. We highly suspect this part of Higüey was ruled by Cotubanamá given his proximity to Saona.

[13] Charlevoix, Histoire de l'Isle espagnole ou de S. Domingue. Tome 1 (1730), 63, 222.

[14] Luis Joseph Peguero, Historia de la Conquista, de la Isla Española de Santo Domingo trasumptada el año de 1762: traducida de la Historia general de las Indias escrita por Antonio de Herrera coronista mayor de Su Magestad, y de las Indias, y de Castilla, y de otros autores que han escrito sobre el particular, Volume 1, 79, 110.

[15] Ibid., 147, 149.

[16] Beaubrun Ardouin, Géographie de l'ile d'Haïti: précédée du précis et de la date des événemens les plus remarquables de son histoire, 3. Haitian historian Thomas Madiou had little to say on this, although he did note that Higüey and Seybe contained a population of mixed Spanish-Indian ancestry. See Histoire d’Haiti, 1492-1807, 452.

[17] Émile Nau, Histoire des caciques d'Haïti (1894), 51, 62, 235, 242, 248, 318.

[18] The use of the bow and arrow by indigenous people in Samana was noted by Columbus in the 1490s.

[19] Sven Loven, Origins of the Tainan Culture, West Indies, 504, 526.

[20] Casimiro N. de Moya, Bosquejo histórico del descubrimiento y conquista de la isla de Santo Domingo y narración de los principales sucesos ocurridos en la parte española de ella desde la sumisión de su último cacique hasta nuestros días. Epoca de la conquista y gobierno de los españoles hasta la sumisión de los últimos indios. Libro primero, 30, 114. This notion of the Higüey Indians selling captives to the Caribs is interesting but appears nowhere else (to our knowledge) in the sources.

[21] Michel Aubourg, Haïti préhistorique: mémoire sur les cultures précolombiennes, Ciboney et Taino, 48.

[22] Karen F. Anderson-Córdova, Surviving Spanish Conquest: Indian Fight, Flight, and Cultural Transformation in Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, 100-101.

[23] Erin Woodruff Stone, Captives of Conquest: Slavery in the Early Modern Spanish Caribbean, 44-45.

[24] Gilbert Valmé, Atabey, Yucayequey, Caney: 6000 ans d'amenagement territorial prehispanique sur l'ile d'Ayiti / Haiti/ Republique Dominicaine, 180, 200, 214-215.

[25] Kathleen Deagan, En Bas Saline: A Taíno Town before and after Columbus, 40.

[26] Samuel M. Wilson, Hispaniola: Caribbean Chiefdoms in the Age of Columbus, 21. In terms of Higüey’s leadership, Wilson also repeats the narrative of Higuanamá as the major cacique, based on Las Casas.

[27] Bernardo Vega, Los cacicazgos de la Hispaniola, 23-24, 77.

[28] Jose Oliver, Caciques and Cemi Idols: The Web Spun by Taino Rulers Between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, 203-204.

Dieux en diaspora, Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin)

Guérin Montilus's Dieux en diaspora. Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin) is a short but richly detailed study comparing the Rada Rite in Haitian Vodou with Vodun in Allada. Based on fieldwork in both Haiti and Allada, Montilus is able to trace the origin of various lwa in Haiti and offer a model for why the mythology around many deviated so greatly from source materials in Allada. However, an African sedimentation of the mythology around many lwa persists, as do some of the concepts and larger framework in which these entities operate. But the destructive impact of the slave trade and enslavement in Saint Domingue, as well as contact with Christianity and various other African peoples undoubtedly led to many transformations and shifts in the conception of the Rada Rite. Montilus hints at this when examining the Simbi spirits, for instance, or theorizing how Congo or Petro rites incorporate more Central African ideas of magic. Montilus's main weakness is perhaps not examining the ways in which Vodun in Benin is a living tradition, hence another cause for its differences from Haitian practice. After all, if Haitians were able to develop a radically new mythology in some cases involving Erzilie, Ogou, Agwe, or other lwa, why wouldn't people in Benin have also adapted the spirits to meet their changing world? One can imagine Dahomey's conquest of Allada in 1724, their conquest of Ouidah, the French colonial conquest, and Christianity also had some impact here (perhaps even before colonialism through contacts with the Portuguese?). The diversity of legends and stories about Legba, Chango, and other vodun in Benin is perhaps a remnant of this great diversity in practice and mythology in today's Benin that has deep historical roots. Anyway, we hope to now read a recently published history of Vodou (again, focusing on the connections to the Slave Coast) that investigates more deeply the political factors shaping religion and spirituality in this part of West Africa. 

1691 Slave Conspiracy

Whilst checking Gallica for something unrelated to Saint Domingue, we came across more digitized items from the Collection Moreau de Saint-Méry. One document, entitled De l'introduction des nègres à Saint-Domingue de leurs révoltes, de leur traitement, etc., outlines the history of black people in Hispaniola from the early Spanish period to the early 1700s French colonial era. Reading through it, we were reminded of one conspiracy to revolt and kill the white planters in the Leogane region. Jean Fouchard has written briefly about this plot in his book on Haitian marronage, but it seems to not have been extensively documented despite allegedly including a plan for at least 200 slaves to rebel. Interestingly, around the same time, slaves in the Nord were also plotting a revolt...

Marie Pierre Haoussa of Aquin

 

IC=inconnu

One document we have been thinking about the last few days is a notarized contract from 1792. Establishing a société d'habitation de Marie Pierre Haoussa avec Louis Baronnet fils, the document is interesting for the surname of Marie Pierre: Haoussa. Although most documents in colonial Haiti spell "Hausa" as Aoussa, not Haoussa, we were nonetheless curious about Marie Pierre as a person of possible Hausa extraction. After all, colonial legislation did attempt to push free people to bear African names. Furthermore, people of African origin were sometimes known by a first name and their alleged "nation," too. 

In the case of Marie Pierre Haoussa, however, we could not trace her exact origins. It would appear that she was a free black woman owning land in Aquin, presumably i an area that may be today's la Colline à Mongons. When checking the parish registry, we did come across a Marie Pierre, black Creole, who married her "mulatto" master in 1781. But there is no indication of Marie Pierre's parents' origins in the parish books for Aquin. We were also wondering why she did not use her husband's surname, but he may not have been of legitimate birth either. Either way, Gabriel and this Marie Pierre had a number of children, he married her, and, from what we could gather, the Marie Pierre Haoussa named here could be the same woman.

In terms of her 1792 partnership with a man from Bainet, we were struck by the huge diversity in slaves both brought into their planned coffee farm. Marie Pierre was responsible for bringing 6 slaves, most apparently female. They consist of a mix of Arada, Mandingue, Thiamba, Ibo, Canga and one "nation" we could not decipher in the notary's handwriting (perhaps Aguiam?). Baronnet fils, on the other hand, was responsible for bringing in more slaves who were mostly male. Since the land was apparently held by Marie Pierre Haoussa, he may have been required to supply more of the forced labor. Either way, his enslaved workers were also very diverse in origins. One, whose "nation" looks like Guialuuka, is from a background we could not figure out. But others included Thiamba, Bibi (Ibibio), Biny (possibly Edo, for people from the kingdom of Benin), Congo, Creoles, Ibos, and a Mine. 

Naturally, we will have to conduct further searches in the notarized documents and parish registry to see if we can locate more records of Marie Pierre. But, the fact that she owned land and slaves is consistent with someone who was married to a free "mulatto" landowner for some time in the region. We suspect the "Haoussa" part of her name comes from an African-born father but have to dig deeper into the archives to prove it. 

Ayiti Toma

While perusing various readings pertinent to another project, we came across references to the land of Allada as Aizönu Tome or Aida Tome. Apparently, the tome part means something like "country of" or perhaps "land of." This, of course, reminded us of the phrase Ayiti Toma in Haitian Creole. I guess it's somewhat obvious and unsurprising, but this seems to be an example of the influence of Fongbe or related languages in Benin shaping Haitian Creole. But what explains the shift in Haitian Creole pronunciation of tome to toma?

Port-au-Prince (1804-1888)

The volume covering Port-au-Prince from 1804-1888 in Georges Corvington's Port-au-Prince au cours des ans is very important for establishing the pattern of urban (under)development that has characterized Port-au-Prince throughout Haiti's history as an independent nation. Of course, Corvington focuses on the history of Port-au-Prince's urban confines, characteristics, economy, and cultural life means the larger story of Haitian underdevelopment and peripheral status in the world system of the 19th century are largely ignored. But any full understanding of why Port-au-Prince, despite some positive reforms in the years of Geffrard's presidency, or even part of the Salomon years, often failed to consistently maintain urban policies to rebuild or expan infrastructure, must be seen within the larger structural problems of Haitian political economy beyond the capital. By narrowing one's focus on the capital, however, the nefarious consequences of Haiti's structural woes are immediately clear, elucidating why the city in 2026 is unfortunately like its 19th century counterpart.

While the seeds were undoubtedly sown in the colonial era, this volume demonstrates how the various governments for most of Haiti's first century after the Revolution failed to manage and sustain the capital's growth. The perennial problem of instability and frequent revolutions, fires, natural disasters, or economic woes made the capital one which often lacked the infrastructure to adequate house its people. In addition, a large class of urban poor who were either unemployed or underemployed were already evident, with beggars known for congregating in public places and sleeping by the cathedral. Like today, the city's poor roads, badly managed tramway service (driven by horses in the 1870s and 1880s), and the failure of the municipal and national authorities to maintain sanitation, roads, or the distribution of water made much of the capital an unagreeable place. 

Despite these many problems, the capital was not without its charms. For instance, the Geffrard years witnessed a flourishing moment for the elite and bourgeois while Salomon's tenure saw the city expand further, beginning to look more like the capital of today spatially. Various governments did endeavor to improve infrastructure (often running out of funding before completion or relying on questionable concessionaires). The city's urban poor and laboring classes were actively involved in Carnival and the bourgeois homes formed elite salons or patronized theaters and high-end shops. Some degree of mixed neighborhoods could be seen in Bel-Air when petite-bourgoisie families established homes in the area or even parts of the Bord-de-Mer where families with means lived relatively close to impoverished quarters. Naturally, the seeds of the suburbanization and wealthy enclaves also developed in the 1800s, with Turgeau being one of the desirable neighborhoods of the time. 

But those on the other side of the tracks became a burgeoning problem for different neighborhoods, not just Bel-Air or Morne-a-Tuf. The capital's frequent fires, political turmoil, and the government's dependence on German or other foreign interests severely limited the ability of the state to adequately manage and restore the city after its numerous fires. These sadly meant that, as the population gradually grew, the state was usually not able to ensure urban infrastructure or services that would make the city livable. Naturally, this problem became extreme in the second half of the 20th century, but one can already detect traces of it in the 19th century. Even a Salomon who partly encouraged home ownership on the new outskirts of the city or the growth of charity, social aid, and Catholic churches, schools, and hospitals werenot adequate to meet the challenge. Not wholly explained by Corvington but very significant, the urban masses who supported the charismatic Salnave represent one eruption of proletarian or urban poor assertion. Although failing with the fall of Salnave and the return to power of the old bourgeois interests, the specter of the urban poor remained a threat to established interests. For that reason, one wishes Corvington explored more deeply the question of crime, labor (domestic servants, artisans, stevedores), and religion or spirituality of the urban poor and workers. For instance, how did Vodou shape the lives of the urban poor and neighborhood organization or politics? To what extent did the Church's new chapels and parishes in the growing city shape popular Catholic identity and practice? Their lives are partly represented in his numerous references to areas like Bel-Air, but a deeper sense of their class position and daily experienes may have helped readers to understand how inequality was exacerberated whilst benefitting the elite and political classes. 

In other words, we should probably read the subsequent volumes of the series. There Corvington would have had more sources to draw from to paint a more complete social picture of the Haitian capital. Nonetheless, this is a fine start for a basic overview of how Port-au-Prince did evolve in the 19th century. Corvington is careful with sources, often relying on newspapers from the period in question, foreigners' accounts, memoires, and using maps and photographs to display the changes over time. Perhaps engaging with oral traditions and family histories, especially among families frrm the lower-class or middle classes could have helped to fill in the gaps for much of the 19th century.