Houngan in Cayes-Jacmel

While perusing Jean Desquiron's anthology on the Haitian press, we came across this fascinating but too brief article from a Vodou priest, or houngan. Francois Cesar apparently took to the press to denounce the Catholic priest in the Marigot area, going so far as to say he was the real priest. According to Francois Cesar, the priest, Moizan, took to persecution and ignoring authority, perhaps a reference to his attempts to crack down on Vodou in the area. Indeed, he accused the priest of thinking that he was white, he could get away with abusing his authority and taking money from the people. Being white led him to think he was a Rochambeau! It would be interesting to know what happened, but by 1907 Moizan was dead. Sometime before his death, he had been transferred to Dessalines. 

Mandingue of Morne Rouge

Gerson Alexis's Lecture en Anthropologie Haitienne, a book we randomly encountered at a library today, includes the ethnologue's Notes on the Haitian Mandingues, in French and a slightly different English translation. Supposedly part of an unpublished manuscript, all we have, sadly, are the notes. While Alexis acknowledged the tentative nature of some of his conclusions of his study of the Mandingue cult in Morne Rouge, in Plaine du Nord, some of his conceptualizing of the community he observed struck as bizarre. Indeed, when one reads of this syncretic religious community, perhaps about 1000 people in Balan and a few nearby areas, one reaches the conclusion that this cult perhaps represents what Haitian Vodou was actually like in the 19th century. Indeed, after reading Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic observations, from the late 19th century, one can see that "Vodou" in those days often revolved around African "nations" with particular rites, taboos, and customs. But over time, some of these distinctions were lost as the Africans and their Creole descendants became Haitian. The intriguing thing about the Mandingues of Morne Rouge, however, is that their distinctive practices and claim to a Mandingue ancestry persisted so late into the 20th century. 

To explain what we mean, consider Alexis's observation of congo, yanvalou and djuba rhythms in the Mandingue ceremonies. He seems to conclude that the Mandingue, perhaps due to their ancient Islamic influences and medieval empires, were culturally "advanced" and influenced the other "nations" of Africans in Saint Domingue/Haiti. Due to their allegedly advanced state, these Mandingues influenced other Africans in Saint Domingue. In fact, Alexis goes so far as to suggest words like mambo and houngan actually come from the Mandingue! However, yanvalou actually comes from Benin and the other rhythms noted by Alexis likely derive from other regions of West and Central Africa. Vodou terms such as houngan and many other aspects of the religion clearly owe more to other parts of West Africa, too. It is far more likely that the Mandingue cult observed by Alexis in 1967 had already been heavily influenced by the same forces that shaped the development of Haitian culture and Vodou. This would explain why Alexis observed rhythms from other traditions in the Mandingue ceremonies or "ordonnances." Indeed, this has to be the case since the "Mandingues" observed by Alexis are scarcely different from the other peasants in the area. In addition, while most of their members were descendants of past members claiming Mandingue lineage, new members could join the community through initiation. This process, in addition to the shared general culture of the region, might explain the appearance of rhythms from other traditions. 

But let us revisit the distinct features of the Mandingues. According to Alexis, the members of the community possessed a strong group consciousness, reinforced through ritual communion and a pact with degue, a type of rice flour with cane syrup. The members of the community claim African authenticity and distinguish themselves from the Canari dances and Vodou. They even claim to be members of the Society of King Mahomet! Unfortunately, the way Mahomet's name is transcribed by Alexis is somewhat ambiguous (MA-RO-MET) but it is probably the Prophet Muhammad of Islamic tradition. Besides referring to Muhammad, the Mandingue believe in a Supreme Being, sometimes associated with the Sun. Their cult is oriented to the adoration of this Creator being and their ancestors. In their prayers, they address Allah, Moussa (Missa?), and Mahomet. Moreover, their rituals take place at two times: dawn or early morning and in the evening. These meetings take place after a member dies, to commemorate the dead. These ceremonies, per Alexis, are called fran-gan-dan-man. 

A Mandingue Muslim wrote the above in 1773 in Leogane.

The leader of the Mandingue community is called mori. According to Alexis's Liberian informant, mori means "patriarch" among in Bambara and Malinke. However, mori is used by the Bambara to refer to Islamic diviners, something closer to the function of the mori among the Haitian Mandingue. By the time Alexis wrote his study, the Mandingue had only 1 mori, Barthelemy Exhalus, son of Exhalus Medard, the previous mori. It is probable that the position of mori was passed down from father to son, though Alexis does not provide evidence to prove it. This would fit, however, Vodou of the past in which the position of houngan was often passed down within the family. As for the Haitian mori, his main function is to communicate with the great Spirit through dreams and serve as a depository of the cult secrets. He understands the messages of the dead, who possess members of the community during ceremonies. Through prayer, song, dance, and sacrifices, to this Great Spirit and ancestors, members can be possessed. Perhaps as a remnant of their Islamic past, offerings excluded pigs (according to the English version). These spirits of ancestors, or zanges (anges) were never called lwa. Much like Haitian Vodou as we commonly know it, the mori used Catholic prayers in ceremonies. Their music, including a dance called Ronde du Mort, featured rhythms familiar to Alexis through other parts of Haitian culture. Unlike other Haitians, the Mandingue mori sang an incantation to Allah. Relying heavily on Balenghien, Alexis interpted one song as a deformation of the Islamic Shahada: Bi si mian y mi alahum- a ki baou Assa dan ila-a ilala. Elsewhere, the mori said Missa, Man-n Ma De, which is interpreted as Missa (Moses, or Musa) and Mamadu (Muhammad). 

To his credit, Alexis consulted specialists of Malian and West African languages and cultures. He relied heavily on a priest, Balenghien, who directed a center for the study of African languages at Taldye, Mali for confirmation of his theories. For instance, the burial practices of the Mandingue of Haiti included placing the corpse in a L-shaped hole, covering the body to prevent contact with the ground. According to Alexis's informant in Mali, the Bambara have similar customs. For identifying the Shahada in the incantations of Barthelemy Exhalus, he also relied on this Mali-based informant. In what may even be a possible reference to past Mandingue kings, Alexis saw a reference to a great Mandingo who introduced Islam when members of the Mandingue society claimed descent from the family of "Popotte Moussa." We, on the other hand, are inclined to think this "Popotte Moussa" may have been a prominent local "Mandingue" in the 19th century. 

Overall, the evidence suggests the persistence and survival of a strong Mandingue identity well into the 20th century in this part of Haiti. That they were influenced by Islam can be seen in the title mori, allusions to Muhammad, and that their religious ceremonies only commemorate the Creator (Allah?) and the souls of ancestors. Since they participated in the everyday rural culture of Morne Rouge, their religious ceremonies unsurprisingly acquired many traits of other contributions to Haitian culture. But Alexis's great contribution is in identifying the survival of one religious community in Haiti that preserved such a distinct, Islamic-influenced tradition. One must assume a sufficient number of Mandingue and West African Muslim captives were in the area so that the community did not die. Unlike, say, the Fulani and Borno Muslims described by Descourtilz, these Mandingue persisted well into the 1900s. Their willingness to accept new members through initiation and veneration of ancestors must have attracted Haitians from other traditions.

Early Alexandre in the Valley

Although we still require far more evidence, a possible connection to an Alexandre living in the valley of Bainet in 1804 raises possibilities. In this case, Louise Alexandre, had a child with a Pierre Minaud. Both were residents in the valley of Bainet. However, the godmother of their child was a Rose Adelaide Lacour. This woman was also the godmother of a child of Jean Baptiste Alexandre and a Marie Therese Cange registered in Jacmel, in 1820. Does this mean that Jean Baptiste Alexandre was probably in the valley of Bainet and related to Louise Alexandre?

In the case of Jean Baptiste Alexandre and Marie Therese Cange, Rose Adelaide Lacour's name was tied to the 1820 date their son's birth was registered. While Alexandre is a common name, Lacour is less so. In Bainet and the Jacmel area, the name can be traced back to a white who married a woman of color. So, the name Lacour seems to have been attached to old habitations or those may have been actual descendants of the colonial-era family.

But our main interest is not with the Lacour name. We believe the Alexandre and Cange marriage here, including both of them hailing from the valley, was significant. We wonder if this early marriage proved a connection of sorts for the later Alexandre-Cange pairing we are trying to uncover that developed in the valley during the 1860s. Our theory is that Jean Baptiste Alexandre and his wife, just as a Jean Charles Cange had an Alexandre as the godfather of his son in the 1820s, were proof of close ties between the families.

Quebrada de Doña Catalina

One of the more interesting finds is recently realizing that the Boletín histórico de Puerto Rico, Volume 12 contains some of the surviving documents on an "Indian" community in Puerto Rico. Although not enough to reconstruct the story of this community, the indios of the Quebrada de Doña Catalina, living near San Juan, were active in 1568. However, the writings of the governor of the island at the time, Francisco Bahamonde de Lugo, establish that their community, cultivating conucos as their own hacienda, were multi-racial. Indios, mestizos and blacks (negros horros) formed part of it. Interestingly, Bahamonde de Lugo, who was accused of having Indian slaves in his house, actually admitted to having 2 Indian servants that he treated very well! So well, in fact, that they chose when and how to serve him and were treated like his own children! Elsewhere, this very same man bragged about being loved by the poor, including negros, indios, mestizos and mulatos. 

Although living outside San Juan, this community tried to defend itself from white landowners and elites eager to take their land. According to Sued Badillo's contribution to Making Alternative Histories, the community sought redress for the abuse and harassment of its members.  Unfortunately, the reality was even worse. A man using the title Protector de los indios y mestizos actually went against the provisor, Cristobal de Luna, in the ecclesiastical judge in 1568. First of all, it is astonishing that as late as 1568, when indios were supposedly few or extinct, that there was a man, Francisco del Rio, possessing a title that presupposes the existence of indios and mestizos on the island (while also claiming to be a protector of grifos, too. 

The particular man who particularly wounded the Indian community of Quebrada de Doña Catalina was also guilty of violently attacking its members as well as interfering with their lands. According to the governor, Bahamonde de Lugo, two members of its community died and they also wanted restitution for the economic losses caused by the attacker (who cost them more than 500 pesos). The case was somewhat confusing, since it was unclear if the Governor of the Bishop should resolve the issue. Bahamonde de Lugo apparently had a low opinion of the Church on these matters, but mentioned that Franciso del Rio wanted to petition to the Audiencia in Santo Domingo and the royal government This shows just how far the community was willing to go to seek compensation for their losses. Although it was likely a different person, a Cristobal de Luna was supposedly sent as a prisoner to a monastery in Spain in the year 1578, perhaps connected to this case?

Overall, the Quebrada de Doña Catalina community, which cultivated conucos and was of unknown size, appears to have acted like some of the documented indio pueblos of other parts of the Spanish Antilles. Relying on protections allegedly bestowed upon Indians by the Spanish Crown, they claimed protection from others to protect their lands. However, they also appear to have been under the Church, which failed to protect or stand up for their interests. Considering how Church officials often underreported the Indian population of the island in the period from the 1540s through the 1580s, and their own interests as landowners (including access to slave labor and cheap labor), it seems like this rural community knew it had to rely on the "protector" of the Indians and other forms of redress. While not a pueblo de indios like those of Boya, Cibuco, Guanabacoa, or El Caney in other Antillean colonies, the community appears to have perhaps acted like one. Their dedicated to conuco agriculture was probably also rooted in the precolonial people's agricultural practices, too. 

What happened to them? If these people, already indios, mestizos and free blacks, were cultivating conucos near San Juan, they presumably became pardos in the 1600s and 1700s. Similar patterns likely occurred elsewhere in late 16th century Puerto Rico, as "indios" in areas like Arecibo, San German, Mona, and other locations were reclassified or reconceived as other "ethnicities." That Indians of Mona were still recognized can be found in the 1590s, as officials discussed what to do with their trading with enemies of Spain and the presence of a "cacique of Mona" in San German. Overall, Indios and mestizos must have been a major component of the population, but as a distinct group, they gradually disappeared in much of the island. Except for San German and La Indiera, where local definitions of "Indio" remained relevant, the indios and mestizos of Puerto Rico became pardos and jibaros of later centuries. After all, from the testimony of Abbad y Lasierra in the late 1700s, we know that "indios" did not disappear but, as the example of Anasco illustrates, "disappeared" through racial mixture with people of European and African origins. As the "Indian" population "transformed" into mestizos and pardos, one can presume titles like "Protector de los indios y mestizos" also disappeared or completely lost their relevance. 

Mesoamerica and the Taino

Influencias mayas y aztecas en los taínos de las Antillas Mayores: del juego de pelota al arte y la mitología by Osvaldo Garcia Gocyo is another speculative study on Mesoamerican influences in the precolonial Antilles. Following in the footsteps of Eugenio Fernandez Mendez, Garcia Goyco suggests the number of parallels between Taino and Mesoamerican cultures in religion and the ballgame are proof of Mesoamerican & Taino contact. He even goes further than Fernandez Mendez in his analysis of the religious and mythological parallels, believing the similarities could not be the product of deep archetypes or independent evolution. In order to affirm this theory, Garcia Goyco takes the reader on an excursion through Taino and Mesoamerican art (usually less persuasive than other evidence), religion, and mythology, with occasional references to the Carib and South American indigenous groups for comparative purposes.

In terms of the actual evidence, like Eugenio Fernandez Mendez, Garcia Goyco's argument is strongest with regard to the ballgame and the plazas or courtyards associated with it. The astronomically-aligned Taino batey does not have an equivalent in the northern South American regions their ancestors came from. Moreover, there is possible evidence for human sacrifice in the plazas and the use of stone collars that are reminiscent of those found in Mesoamerica. While the ballgame and courtyards associated with it can be found as far back as the Olmecs, there is so far no evidence for the construction of elaborate plazas in Venezuela or the Orinoco Basin. Thus, Garcia Goyco finds it quite likely that Mesoamerican influences reached Hispaniola and Puerto Rico by or around the 600s or 700s of the Common Era, around the time for the earliest known courtyards in the Greater Antilles. Why we do not find evidence of such elaborate plazas in western Cuba or Jamaica early on is perhaps, according to our author, a product of the later spread of the Taino culture to those islands. It is suggested that the less "advanced" cultures resident on the island were less interesting for economic or cultural purposes to Mesoamerican peoples (perhaps akin to the Putun Maya traders?). 

Besides the evidence from Taino and Mesoamerican ballgames, the rest of the evidence is more suggestive than anything else. The fact that the Taino on one side and Mayas and Aztecs on the other believed in cosmogonic eras and believed there was once a flood or deluge is one example of the types of sources utilized by the Garcia Goyco. It is certainly interesting that in Taino myth children are transformed into frogs, an animal associated with rain. However, it could be purely random that the mother goddess figure of the Aztecs, called Tona, happens to have a name similar to the cry of the children-turned-frogs in Taino myth. Indeed, the association of the frog with rain among the Taino, Aztecs, and Maya does not constitute evidence of Mesoamerican influence on the former. Furthermore, the deity or god Juracan or Hurakan, supposedly tied to the Yura-can of the Galibi Caribs, may not be connected to the Maya Hurakan. Garcia Goyco tries to develop this theory based on Coatrisquie, a deity associated with Guabancex. Coatrisquie's name is similar to the Aztec Coatlicue, who was associated with subterranean waters. Perhaps Guabancex had multiple names like other cemis of the Taino, so Garcia Goyco postulates that Juracan was one of these additional names. Moreover, the Hurakan of the Maya in Guatemala is part of a trilogy of gods associated with the sky, sea, land and life. Indeed, Hurakan to the Maya meant heart of the sky and "a leg." For our author, Jurakan may also be another reference to Anacacuya, whose name points to the Polar Star (hurricanes also rotate around the Polar star).

In addition, the author suggests more parallels between Taino and Mesoamerican mythology. For instance, take the Xibalbay mentioned in the Popol Vuh. Since it bears a slight resemblance to the Taino Coaybay and both were the land of the dead, it is possible there may be a connection between Taino and Maya beliefs. The two cultures also associated bats with death or spirits. Similarly, the Taino Opiyelbuobiran, a cemi with four legs, is linked to the Chacs of the Maya, which also are associated with dogs, forests, and lagoons. Perhaps even more intriguing is the alleged relationship between the Aztec montecitos and the three-pointer cemis of the Taino. Believing the three-pointers to be identified with Baibrama and fertility, Garcia Goyco argues for similar practices among Taino and Aztec communities with regard to the reverence attached to these objects. He even argues that the myth of Deminan and his three brothers has a Maya parallel in a tradition collected from the Yucatan by Antonio Mediz Bolio. Indeed, the tale of Deminan, Yaya, Yayael and the deluge does bear some common features with the Yucatecan tradition of Giaia and his two sons, Giayala'el and Halal. In the the Maya version, however, the father, Giaia, is killed by one of his sons but the same ending with a flood caused by siblings occurs. In fact, perhaps even the 4 Bacabes or brothers in Maya tradition is also an influence on the Taino myth of Deminan and his twin siblings (gemelos divinos). Something similar may also be seen in the Taino and Maya perception of the land as a giant iguana or reptitle floating in water. 

Overall, Garcia Goyco's study finds some interesting parallels between Taino and Mesoamerican cultures. While his evidence is strongest with regard to the ballgame and plazas, some of the similarities in mythology might point to deeper shared influences or cultures. Mesoamerican cultural influences spread far and wide so it is certainly not impossible for elements of them to be found among the Taino of the Greater Antilles. However, is it not possible that some of the mythological similarities might be a product of later influences? Perhaps Taino who accompanied the Spanish to Mesoamerica introduced elements of these myths and traditions? And one cannot discount the possibility of Taino (and Carib) seafarers in the Caribbean traveling to Mesoamerica in the distant past. Perhaps some of the similarities are also merely a coincidence of similar mythologizing based on animals like bats, frogs, and reptiles. By and large, studies pointing to greater similarities with South American lowland Indians are more convincing. Of course, it does seem likely that Mesoamerican influences must have also reached the Antilles either via Central America or directly from Mesoamerica at some point in the precolonial past. 

"Indien" Connection of the Gory/Pitiot of Baynet

One surprising and random discovery made from examining the Baynet and Grand-Goave parish records is the find that the Prunier claimed "Indian" ancestry. Although we are missing adequate details on the origins of the Prunier, it would seem that two daughters of Michel Pitiot and Marie Victoire Gory married Prunier men. The earliest indication of a connection is the 1782 marriage of Christophe Prunier to Therese Anne Zabeth. Christophe Prunier's father's name is not given, but his mother was identified as a deceased "mestive indienne" named Marie Louise Petit. Christophe Prunier was thus claiming part "Indian" heritage or ancestry through his mother. This could have been something done at a time of increased racial prejudice against those of African ancestry. Again, to indicate what a small world Bainet and Grand-Goave were, our friend Jean-Baptiste Marillac was a witness to this wedding.

However, other sources from Baynet parish may elucidate this alleged "Indien" ancestry of the Prunier. There was indeed a teenager named Marie Louise, of the "Indian" nation, who died in in 1755. Marie Louise's father's name is difficult to read, but it looks like Don Pedre, Indien. She also died on the habitation of Peronneau (Louis?), which could be a useful clue. After all, the Perronneau habitation in 1764 appeared in a map, showing it to be on the coast and not too far from Baynet's bay. It was likely a cotton or indigo plantation. So far, however, it establishes that there was an "Indien" man with a daughter who passed away in 1755, supposedly around the age of 13. If that age is accurate, she probably is not the mother of Christophe Prunier. If the estimated age is off by a few years, and she was perhaps closer to 16, then perhaps she was indeed the mother of Christophe Prunier.

Another possible connection to the "Indien" origins of Prunier can be found in the death of a Pierre Petit, an "Indien." This Pierre Petit, who died in Jacmel in the year 1780, was around 50 years old and married to a Marguerite. Her surname is difficult to decipher and we have not figured out who she was. However, if this Pierre Petit was the same person as the "Don Pedre" identified as Marie Louise's father, this could be helpful. After all, Baynet and Jacmel were neighboring parishes and perhaps, by 1780, Pierre had moved there. 

Alternatively, in 1771, a Marie, with no name but designated as an Indien, died in Bainet. Said to have been around 40 years old, this Indian Marie could also have been the mother of Christophe Prunier. Unfortunately, the surname Petit does not appear. Moreover, no connection to the Pruniers or Pierre Petit is obvious from this. If Marie Louise Petit was from Baynet or Jacmel, then she may have been the one who passed away in 1755. Exactly where she came from is unknown, since they could have had Amerindian or Asian Indian ancestry. Alternatively, Christophe Prunier may have also called his mother a "mestive indienne"to just avoid the stigma associated with blackness?

Enslaved Ancestors

Although we are more interested in Haiti, genealogical research in Puerto Rico is usually easier. Much of the parish books are available online and quite a few have been indexed on the Family Search Website. This, plus the large volume of digitized material on the site, makes it somewhat easier to trace ancestry back to the 17th century. This time, we would like to emphasize on an ancestor, Maria Faustina baptized in the early 1700s but born to an enslaved woman.

We know Maria Faustina, the wife of a "pardo libre" named Marcos Rosado (also known as de la Rosa), was baptized in 1703. Her mother, Simona, was a "negra esclava" owned by the estate of a Maria (?) or Andrea Amezquita in the San Juan area. Her godfather, Jacinto Gomez, is unknown. However, perusing the parish registers of San Juan for other Amezquita reveals it to have been a large family. They were presumably related to the Amezquita who defended the city against a Dutch attack in 1625. Jacinto Gomez was also the godfather to another "pardo" child in 1709, this time to the daughter of the alferez Agustin Ruiz and Maria de la Cruz. Jacinto Gomez may have been in the military and knew the father of Maria Faustina. 

What do we know about Simona, the black slave mother of Maria Faustina? Sadly, nothing. However, it is possible that the inheritors of the estate that owned her came from the family of Juan Amezquita, the owner of an ingenio and slaveholder in the late 1600s. According to the 1673 "census" of San Juan, studied by David Stark, Juan Amezquita owned 25 people. Perhaps Simona was one of them? Slaves in late 17th century and early 18th century San Juan were also of diverse origins. The African-born ones were often from Angola, but Maria Amezquita and Isabel Amezquita also owned "Tari" slaves who had their children baptized in the San Juan church. According to David M. Stark, the Tari were from the region of the Slave Coast (modern-day Benin) but West Africans were outnumbered by Central Africans in the early 18th century. Overall, adult slaves baptized in San Juan during the end of the 17th century were from Angola, Loango and Tari. Assuming Simona was African-born, and probably came to the island in the later decades of the 1600s, she was probably from West Central Africa. 

Details on Maria Faustina's life can only be gleamed through the baptisms of her children with Marcos Rosado. Marcos Rosado and Maria Faustina appear to have been "pardos" (or classified as such). Marcos Rosado, the son of a Maria de la Rosa, was baptized in 1702. His mother may have been the Maria de la Rosa baptized in 1688, the daughter of two slaves, Geronima and Tomas, owned by the Andino. If true, then her parents were owned by Don Baltazar Andino's family, a captain in San Juan who was also involved with illicit trading. If Geronima and Tomas were typical adult slaves of the 1680s, and they were born in Africa, perhaps origins in West Central Africa are most likely. 

Of course, we need more proof of the identity of Maria de la Rosa, Marcos's mother, before we can confirm our theory that she was the daughter of two slaves owned by Captain Baltazar de Andino. Interestingly, the priest who recorded her baptism in 1688 described her parents as legitimately married. However, when searching San Juan marriage records, we could not find them. Nonetheless, some of the general trends scholars have noticed among the enslaved population of San Juan in the late 1600s and early 1700s does tell us something about the world in which our ancestors lived. 

Full Circle on Victoire Gaury

After revisiting old parish registers and notes, we have returned to believing the mother of our Anne Marie Joseph Gaury was indeed Victoire Susanne Monteise. The other possibilities we know about either do not fit or are too unlikely. For instance, we once thought a woman baptized in 1778, Marie Victoire Sanite, could have been the mother. Sanite was the illegitimate daughter of a Marie Magdelaine Beaubrun Dupuy and her godmother was none other than Marie Victoire Susanne Monteise. However, Baynet parish records indicate that a Marie Victoire died about 5 years later in 1783. The mother is only identified as a Marie Magdelaine, but this probably means that Marie Victoire Sanite died in 1783, about ten years before the birth of Anne Marie Joseph Gaury. 

Another candidate for the mother, Marie Victoire Pitiot, appears to have been married to a Diegue Prunieu (or Prunier?). Marie Victoire Pitiot, baptized in 1765, was incorrectly identified as a Pichot by the parish priest. However, it becomes rather clear that Pitiot was her surname since her mother was identified as a Marie Victoire Gory. We later learn when Marie Michelle Gabrielle Pitiot was baptized that her godmother was Marie Victoire Pitiot, the wife of Diegue Prunieu. If Marie Victoire Pitiot was married to a Prunieu by 1787, and descendants of the Gory/Pitiot would also marry them in 1800s Grand-Goave, it is probably unlikely for Marie Victoire Pitiot to have been the mother of Anne Marie Joseph in 1793.

The original Marie Victoire Gory is also worthy of attention. Baptized in 1749, Marie Victoire Gory was the daughter of Francois Gory and Francoise Saugrain. She married Michel Pitiot in 1765. They went on to have at least a few children, including Marie Victoire Pitiot, Jean Joseph Gabriel Pitiot (baptized in 1781), Marie Michelle Gabrielle Pitiot (baptized in 1787) and even another child, Marie Anne Francois Pitiot, in an unknown year. It seems highly unlikely that this Marie Victoire Gory was the mother of Anne Marie Joseph. She was more likely to have still been married to Michel Pitiot in 1793. 

The loss of Marie Victoire Gory (baptized 1749), Marie Victoire Pitiot (baptized 1765) and Marie Victoire Sanite (baptized 1778) as possibilities leaves us with Victoire Susanne Monteise. Baptized in 1764, she was the daughter of a white Frenchman and Marie Francoise Gory. Her godmother, Marie Victoire Gory, was the source of her name (which was written as Marie Victoire Susanne Monteise by the priest who recorded Sanite's baptism). We know that this Victoire Susanne's sister married Jean Baptiste Marillac, a frequent witness to events affecting members of the Beaubrun Dupuy, Pitiot, Gory, and other Baynet families in the late 1700s. We also known that all these women were related to or connected to each other in Baynet during the second half of the 18th century. 

Of course, one still needs to understand why Anne Marie Joseph's mother was recorded in 1793 as simply Victoire Gory. Was it due to to her illegitimate birth? Or was there yet another Victoire Gory living in the same area of Baynet and part of the same kinship networks? And who was the Joseph mentioned as Anne Marie Joseph's father in her 1859 death certificate? The only Joseph Gory was the son of Jean-Baptiste Gory, a cousin of Victoire Susanne. A Joseph Deslande was also present, but he married Agathe Gaury in 1775. With Agathe, he had a son named Joseph Guillaume Deslande, baptized in 1776. It seems improbable that Joseph Deslande was the father of Anne Marie Joseph, although we cannot rule it out. After all, Agathe Gaury died in 1788.

An alternative clue to the identity of Anne Marie Joseph's origins may also be found by looking at her godparents again. Both of her godparents were from the Marillac family, and siblings. Indeed, her godmother, Marie Marillac, was a widow who also had an illegitimate child after her husband's death. According to the Bainet parish books, Jean Baptiste Marillac's sister had her illegitimate daughter baptized in 1788. She used her own name, Marillac, and had her relatives, including the sister of Victoire Susanne Monteise, serve as a godparent. Whatever stigma of an illegitimate child in this era clearly did not stop men like Jean Baptiste Marillac from acting as a godparent to the children of his relatives. We are inclined to believe the same thing applied to Anne Marie Joseph Gaury, whose mother's name was inexplicably written as Victoire Gory. There may have been another Victoire Gory out there, perhaps in Grand-Goave, whose existence we cannot affirm. Based on the sources we currently possess, the simplest explanation is that Victoire Gory and Victoire Susanne Monteise were indeed the same people. Indeed, Jean Baptiste Marillac was her cousin through shared Saugrain ancestry. 

Africanisms in Haiti

Using Haiti as a case study of evaluating African cultural retentions or survivals in the New World is not a new endeavor. However, J.B. Romain's Africanismes Haitiens presents a short but useful overview of the various manifestations of African culture in Haiti. Names, folklore, arts, totemism, taboos, domestic architecture, language, Vodou, music, dance, herbal lore, proverbs, and conceptions of the soul and personhood all indicate traces of Africa. Of course, since we are overwhelmingly African in origin, none of this is a surprise. What's more interesting are the number of Africanisms that can be traced directly to specific African ethnic groups and cultures, such as Wolof words and phrases in Haitian Creole or the Gedevi people of Benin and the Gede spirits in Vodou. Romain knows very well that much of this heritage has changed or experienced modifications over time. Indeed, French and Catholic influences, rites, and allusion have undoubtedly shaped the formation of Haitian culture. But learning of the specific Fongbe expressions that survive in Vodou's langage or the Yanvalou dance in its Benin context is fascinating. The preemince of cultural survivals from the area of Benin, Togo and southern Nigeria is especially interesting since Haitians also descend from huge numbers of captives from West Central Africa.

The Slave Coast

Robin Law's The Slave Coast of West Africa 1550–1750: The Impact of the Atlantic Slave Trade on an African Society offers a fascinating analysis of the Slave Coast during the era of a growing slave trade with Europe. Differing from scholars like Polanyi or Akinjogbin, Law focuses on the impact of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade as a stimulus to commercialization of the economy. The growth of European trade in the region appears to have fueled monetization and market forces through currencies (cowries), imported goods that reached local markets (not just elites or kings for redistribution), sources of iron and thread for smiths and weavers, foodstuffs trade (to provision slave ships), exports of textiles and akori beads for the Gold Coast, and the rise of mercenaries and soldiers for hire. While features of this commercial economy likely existed in the pre-Atlantic trade era, particularly the trade in salt from the coast or trade in textiles, beads, provisions, ivory, and slaves, the trade with Europeans fueled this process. 

In a sense, one could argue that the Atlantic trade did not hinder economic development of the Slave Coast. However, the unknown demographic impact and the necessity of violence to procure captives undoubtedly led to instability and conflict over access to European trade. This process, according to Law, favored the eventual emergence of a hinterland kingdom, Dahomey, as the dominant power due to its military ethos and ability to procure captives for the coastal ports. Dahomey, like Allada and Whydah, learned to combine a mixed position as middleman and supplier of captives yet ultimately failed to create a new kind of state or "revolution" in Slave Coast precolonial polities. Dahomey, despite some decline in the number of captives exported after the conquest of Whydah and Allada, eventually stabilized its exports and was certainly heavily influenced by the European trade. 

Indeed, besides being more autocratic and, eventually, integrating conquered peoples, Dahomey appears to have become rather similar to Allada and Whydah, the two earlier dominant states in the region. Allada, whose decline was already visible by the late 17th century, was once the paramount power in the region (despite also once being under the overlordship of Benin and Oyo). Like the future Dahomey, at least the Dahomey of Tegbesu, Allada and Whydah were ruled by kings who practiced some degree of ritual seclusion, patronized specific cults that were public festivals, engaged in trade with Europe, and competed with each other and subordinate coastal ports and regions for a share in the market of slaves. Women, unlike men, were favored for local slavery while occasional trade wars between Allada and Whydah destabilized both. The western Slave Coast was also impacted by Gold Coast refugees, mercenaries, and bandits who became an additional source of instability and conflict over control of the Slave Coast's lucrative trade. In fact, Dahomey inherited this as post-conquest Whydah rulers fled west for refuge and a branch of the Allada ruling family emerged in Porto Novo. The eastern portion of the Slave Coast increased in importance for the trade with Europe via towns like Badagry while Dahomey's rulers struggled to consolidate their hold over Allada and Whydah. Over time, the Dahomey kingdom seems to have created a provincial administration and endeavored to combine royal control and private share in the slave trade with a supplier and middleman role. 

Ultimately, despite acting as a stimulus to commercialization and economic exchange, the the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade's legacy in the Slave Coast appears to have created disastrous demographic impacts and a reliance on violence in one form or another to continue. Dahomey's catastrophic depopulation of Whydah, for instance, plus the raiding of various inland communities, must have, at best, neutralized the economic stimulation from trade with Europe. Nonetheless, history of Allada, Whydah and Dahomey during these pivotal centuries illustrates how the trans-Atlantic economic networks were deeply linked to interior African polities, such as Oyo. Through these links to Oyo and the Malais or Muslim traders active on the Slave Coast by the early 1700s, one can connect trans-Saharan, trans-Atlantic, and intra-West African trade networks that illustrate global connectivity. Through the trade of captives native to the Slave Coast, one can also detect their legacy in the Americas through religion, culture, and even, for a time, Allada textiles exported to Barbados. In the case of Haiti, one can detect elements of Whydah, Dahomey, Allada, and other Slave Coast polities and cultures to this day, showing how the complex history of the region and its various cults survive on the other side of the world. 

Encomiendas and Indian Slavery in Puerto Rico

Eugenio Fernandez Mendez's Las encomiendas y esclavitud de los indios de Puerto Rico, 1508-1550 is a brief study of the forced labor and coercion in the first half of 16th century Borinquen. Drawing primarily from the Spanish chroniclers and sources such as those compiled in Tapia's Biblioteca de Puerto Rico, this short book focuses on the Spanish conquest and the various repartimientos and divisions of Indians into encomiendas until the final dissolution of the encomiendas. Unfortunately, by c.1550 their population was decimated and devastated by the encomiendas and outright enslavement. "Carib" and Indian slaves from Yucatan, Panuco, or Tierra Firme were still not enough to address the labor shortages and other problems facing the colony. However, the indigenous population of the island survived and went on to form part of the Puerto Rican population. Fernandez Mendez cites sources attesting to an Indian presence larger than that asserted by Rodrigo de Bastidas for the 1540s. Indeed, even after the Laws of 1542, illegal enslavement of Indians continued. These and other "free" Indians not enumerated in the 1540s undoubtedly persisted, helping to explain some of the markedly "Indian" features in Puerto Rican culture long after the demise of encomiendas. What would have made this study more valuable would have been an examination of Taino resistance to the encomiendas after the 1511 rebellion. Perhaps a deeper look at indios alzados and African slave rebels could have shed light on this other dynamic in 16th century Puerto Rico. 

Langue et littérature des aborigènes d'Ayti

Jean Fouchard's Langue et littérature des aborigènes d'Ayti is an incredibly problematic text. Consisting of short chapters on language, literature, history, and the legacy of the indigenous peoples of Haiti, it is rather obvious that Fouchard's work was already outdated by the 1970s. One expected better of Fouchard given the more careful scholarship in his work on maroons in Haiti, but his questionable scholarship and unpersuasive attempts to find remnants of areytos in 19th century Haitian literature were shocking. Fouchard failed to offer enough context for the examples of areytos provided in the book to be taken seriously as likely survivals of the Taino past. For instance, the war song associated with Caonabo appears to be lifed from a book by Edgar La Selve on Haitian literature and a play by Henri Chauvet. Since Fouchard's sources are ambiguous, we are inclined to regard his Caonabo example as inauthentic. Something similar could be said of Emile Nau's elegy to Racumon, which appears to be based on earlier accounts of Kalinago funerary song but appears irrelevant to Haiti's aboriginal literature. 

Moreover, the Song of Cacique Henry, about Enriquillo, is reproduced in full in a version published in Frederic Marcelin's journal in the early 1900s. Supposedly Marcelin first encountered it in 1893 while in the north of the country. While it is a riveting poem extolling the just war of Enriquillo against the Spanish, and it contains references to cemis and aspects of Taino culture, there is nothing in the poem that suggests it was actually based on a real song or areyto of Enrique. Indeed, if anything it's another example of the ways in which 19th century Haitian authors drew from the history of Taino resistance to colonialism in their own struggles against the French. In this light, it is perhaps not surprising that the Song first appears in the court of Henry Christophe. Learned members of his court, particularly Baron de Vastey and other educated elites would have been in the perfect position to compose a poem in the Indianist mode that would soon become popular in the Spanish-speaking Caribbean.

Furthermore, the attempt to prove aboriginal survival through references to runaway slave ads in colonial Saint-Domingue or the death certificate of an "Indian" woman who died after 1804 are fundamentally dishonest. A perusal of these aforementioned runaway slave ads plus the writings of Moreau de Saint-Mery and other 18th century sources would make it abundantly clear that the vast majority of these "Indiens" were from other parts of the Americas or even the Indian subcontinent. To suggest otherwise, especially without providing any additional evidence, is just lazy. That said, Fouchard did draw on the research of Suzanne Comhaire Sylvain, Louis Elie, and other Haitians who argued for a Taino or aboriginal influence on Vodou veves, Haitian folklore, and in the pockets of Haitian communities alleged to be of partial Indian origin. Unfortunately, we have not yet located the essay by Comhaire-Sylvain on Indian influences in Haitian folklore. However, arguments in favor of a Taino origin of veve or lwa has yet to be demonstrated (Loko is from West Africa, veve is also of African origin). 

In spite of its numerous problems (such as asserting that Breton had lived in Saint Domingue) and the outdated beliefs of Fouchard on the peopling of Hispaniola and the Caribbean (somehow we are led to believe Macorix was the dominant language of Hispaniola, the people of the Bahamas spoke Carib, and Caonabo was from Guadeloupe), this short work contains some essential references. Now it will be easier for anyone seriously pursuing the topic to locate key articles by Haitian intellectuals on the subject. Moreover, the text does include a French translation of our favorite friar's recordings of Taino belief. This plus the addition of some of the literary texts are additional resources. If only Fouchard had included all of the nearly 500 words of indigenous origin collected by Nouel, then this could have been an even better resource for those perusing the topic of the Taino influences on Haitian Creole and culture. There is undoubtedly potential insights and new discoveries to be made with this topic. Lamentably, some of the key studies remain inaccessible, lost or obscured in Haitian texts read by few. 

Theories of Caonabo

Although the author admits to the speculative nature of some of his conclusions, Taino Indian Myth and Practice: The Arrival of the Stranger King, Keegan's study is a thought-provoking work on the basis of cacical authority and the inter-island connections in the late precolonial Caribbean. Using Las Casas's claim that Caonabo was from the Bahamian archipelago, Keegan endeavors to use ethnohistoric and archaeological methods to identify the possible village site Caonabo came from. Of course, since the sources are problematic and our understanding of Taino worldview less than ideal, Keegan must use potentially misleading or unrepresentative writings on Taino mythology (mainly Pané) to make meaning of the Spanish sources. Indeed, this is a necessity but there is always the danger of generalizing and homogenizing based on Pané's recordings of the specific beliefs of one particular cacicazgo of Hispaniola. Despite these risks, and  the author's recognition of far greater diversity among the peoples of the Taino Interaction Sphere, he still uses Pané (and the interpretations of Taino religion from Stevens-Arroyo's scholarship) heavily to reconstruct the mythic geography of the Taino. Caonabo's alleged origins at a specific site in Middle Caicos requires heavy allegiance to Stevens-Arroyo's work on Pané.

Since Keegan accepts the greater diversity of Taino peoples and the antiquity of ceramics in Cuba and Hispaniola soon after the Saladoid culture reached Puerto Rico, the deeper history of migrations, cultural exchanges, and eventually colonization of the Bahamas is a more complex process than one would think. Indeed, if Keegan is correct about the matrilineal and avunculocal nature of the Taino chiefdoms, perhaps some specific sites in the Bahamas were short-term and long-term settlements meant to provide fish, salt, and shell beads to Hispaniola. Caciques, whose power was at least partly based on marriage alliances with numerous other communities (as well as their ability to communicate with numinous beings), could have been linked to Middle Caicos sites from northern Hispaniola. Marriage alliances could have meant Caonabo was born at the MC-6 site excavated by Sullivan and Keegan, but his mother was from Hispaniola, perhaps Maguana. Caonabo then would have been eligible to succeed to the office of cacique in Hispaniola through his mother's kin, and perhaps would have embodied aspects of a stranger "king" with roots in an island that provided salt and marine resources (or salted fish) to Hispaniola. This remains rather speculative and uncertain, and one still has to consider the reason why Las Casas believed Caonabo rose to position of chiefdom: his military prowess. Perhaps his background on Middle Caicos may have prepared him, or he displayed distinct warrior talent in his early youth after relocating to the cacicazgo of his mother? 

Since so much remains unknown of Caonabo's origins and the Spanish sources, beginning with Columbus, were guilty of creating their own myths and legends of Caribbean indigenous peoples, much remains uncertain. Columbus himself, according to Keegan, was guilty of misunderstanding the Taino reference to the Carib as part of a mythology that also included notions of guanin and an island inhabited only by women. The fact that Columbus was sometimes mistaken to be a Carib himself has apparently escaped critical attention by many scholars. In fact, if the Spanish could also be perceived as Caribs, then the alleged cannibalism of the Caribs should be seen as part of Taino mythic geography. Indeed, perhaps this is why Caonabo, who was not born on Hispaniola, could be referred to as "Carib" by Oviedo and at the same time embody some of the mythic characteristics equated with outsiders. Indeed, Keegan goes even further, suggesting that Caonabo may have cultivated or been associated with Deminan and his 3 brothers (Caonabo was said to have 3 brothers) and possibly was seen as the guardian of the Cave of the Jagua from which humans first arose. In addition, Keegan produces evidence from MC-6 and the site of El Corral de los Indios in today's San Juan de la Maguana to point to certain patterns of astronomically aligned plazas and Taino monuments reflecting the culture's mythology or cosmovision. 

Indeed, the MC-6 appears even more unique in this regard with its own plaza recalling those of Hispaniola. Since Caonabo was ruler of Maguana, and would have been familiar with the plazas of MC-6 and Maguana, one can link him to MC-6 for its exceptional qualities. After all, it is possible that only an exceptional site in the Lucayan islands would have produced someone capable of becoming the most powerful cacique of Hispaniola. And due to his position, Caonabo would have intervened with Guacanagari's chiefdom by destroying La Navidad, in order to protect his own position as the "dominant" stranger king of Hispaniola. Even if Caonabo was, through his mother, actually part of the kinship structure of Maguana or another Hispaniola chiefdom, he was still remote or enough of a stranger to accumulate possible mythological characteristics linked to his political office. He would have felt a strong threat from Columbus as a potential contender, or perhaps someone through whom Guacanagari could have become a threat. Caonabo, already allied with Beheccio through his marriage to Anacaona, may have dominated half of Hispaniola with Jaragua. A newcomer allied with a different cacicazgo could have threatened the political stability of the island.

Perhaps most interesting is the archaeological evidence for cacical authority reflected in sites such as En Bas Saline, MC-6, San Juan de la Maguana. Citing evidence from another archaeologists analysis of En Bas Saline, Keegan presents evidence that the households of caciques were not exempt from the daily tasks and chores of commoner households. Moreover, it is possible that caciques did not actually impose sumptuary restrictions on their population, but monopolized the distribution of luxuries like iguana meat for festivals or feasts. Indeed, it remains unknown to what degree caciques actually controlled production in their polities through tribute or other means. However, caciques must have had access to skilled labor for the production of luxury crafts, communities for long-distance trade or manufacturing of shell-beads and salted fish off Hispaniola, and the construction of elaborate plazas and ballcourts. Undoubtedly, the cacique's rise to supremacy over behiques with regards to contact with the divine through the cohoba ritual was an important aspect of the ideological basis for political authority. As a result, the form of a Taino village and the most elaborate plazas with astronomical alignments for the solstice and Orion must have reinforced the cacique's authority as leader of a community spatially organized in recognition of the cemis. Whether or not this means the most powerful cacicazgos were en route to state formation from a "tribal-tributary" model is up for debate. But one is led to think that at least the matunheri caciques wielded tremendous power. Indeed, some may have even sponsored short-term and long-term colonization in nearby islands to harvest resources for use in Hispaniola.

Myths of Indigenous Caribbean Extinction

Tony Castanha's The Myth of Indigenous Caribbean Extinction: Continuity and Reclamation in Borikén (Puerto Rico) is an infuriating and exciting read. For anyone interested in the neo-Taino movement and indigenous reclamation among Puerto Ricans, this book is full of rich details from oral history and everyday Jibaro culture. These do support the author's contention that the indigenous population of Puerto Rico is not extinct. This is now clear from the combination of genetic, historical, and ethnographic evidence supporting a major indigenous component in the making of Puerto Rican culture. Indeed, even in the 1800s, foreign writers noted an "Amerindian" element in the Puerto Rican peasant population's culture and physical appearance. Furthermore, Castanha uses the word Jibaro (and imaginative etymology) to designate the indigenous people of Puerto Rico. They were Jibaros and part of the "Carib" culture of the Antilles. Instead of buying into theories of Taino-Carib dichotomies, Castanha appears to prefer a cultural unity of the two while rejecting the idea of Carib ritual cannibalism (one of the other myths, according to him). 

By drawing on non-mainstream research by Puerto Rican intellectuals like Lamourt-Valentin and numerous local informants, Castanha basically argues against most of the conclusions of mainstream academics in academic "Taino Studies." Instead of primarily South American origins, Castanha believes the indigenes of Puerto Rico were of Mesoamerican origin. Lamourt-Valentin, Fernandez Mendez, and some of his informants support this notion of a Mesoamerican, Mayan influence on the Jibaro. While there may indeed have been a Central American origin for some of the "Archaic" population of the Antilles, and perhaps a Mesoamerican influence on the batey ballgame, the academic mainstream researchers present far more convincing evidence of a South American origin. The Taino dependence on yuca, linguistic evidence, the corpus of myths and religious practices recorded in the Spanish chronicles, and archaeological evidence does seem to support a much stronger origin for the "Taino" along the Orinoco. For example, the numerous similarities between Taino myths as recorded by the Spanish and a number of Amazonian indigenous myths clearly supports a South American link. Unfortunately, until we can locate a copy of Lamourt-Valentin's Cannibal Recipies Fernandez Mendez's study of Taino art and its Mesoamerican affiliations, we have the unconvincing work of Castanha to evaluate. 

Since Castanha borrows heavily from Lamourt-Valentin's work and alternative, non-mainstream paradigms for the study of the indigenous Caribbean, it is no surprise that he also reaches questionable conclusions about the nature of indigenous survival in post-conquest Puerto Rico. While the indigenous population definitely survived, Castanha believes in an alternative on colonial demography for the island. According to him, the Jibaro fled to the mountainous interior of Puerto Rico relatively early in the 16th century. Other historians, such as Sued Badillo, suggest the population movement into the mountains during the colonial era occurred later. Castanha also asserts population numbers that are unbelievably high for the precolonial and colonial eras. Despite the careful estimates of scholars, Castanha accepts estimates that are unbelievably high for the Greater Antilles before conquest. More disturbing, however, is the analysis of late 18th century censuses. Based solely on local informants, the author somehow reaches the conclusion that the actual population Indian origin of La Indiera (which was supposedly much larger than the later Indieras of the 19th and 20th centuries) was in the hundreds of thousands. The colonial censuses were undoubtedly flawed and many regions, especially in the mountainous interior, were undercounted. However, Castanha's estimates appear to be significantly inflated and would suggest Puerto Rico's population in the late 18th century was several times larger than the recorded population of the island. Even if one accepts the idea that most of the pardos designated in the censuses were people of partial indigenous origin, in addition to the nearly 2,000 recorded for the San German area, Castanha's figures are implausibly high. 

Despite our problems with some of the conclusions of the author, this is still worth reading. By drawing on the family histories and traditions of his informants, one can see how family narratives of Indian origin and certain customs do reflect indigenous heritage. The oral histories also refer in surprising detail to 19th century events, an era in which the Spanish conquest of the interior was finally completed. For instance, family traditions of the tortures inflicted on the population during the compontes are a powerful demonstration of how descendants of 19th century Jibaros remember the Spanish colonial era. Traditions of Espiritismo, healing, and syncretic Catholic rituals likewise suggest the maintenance of some indigenous traditions in Puerto Rico. Just as interesting is the case of the Puerto Rican diaspora, which is largely left out of this study. However, Arroyo's research on Puerto Ricans in Hawaii refer to traditions of Indian descent or origin that would be fascinating to explore further. Are there Puerto Rican Diasporic communities in other states of the US with similar traditions of specific Indian ancestry and heritage? Oral history and folklore indicate the indigenous legacy was and is more significant than we initially thought. Perhaps that should be one of the areas of concentration for future researchers. A systematic collection and analysis of these traditions, one more meticulous than that offered here, could shed light on the ways the largely unlettered Jibaro defined themselves and related to the colonial state. 

La palma del cacique

Alejandro Tapia y Rivera is one of the most important figures in 19th century Puerto Rican literature. An ardent, forward-looking believer in Puerto Rican independence and abolitionism, he also wrote a short novella fusing fact, fiction and legend on the Spanish conquest of the island. Indeed, his Taino-inspired leyenda was what Betances responded to with Les deux indiens. Using the form of a legend and somewhat adhering to the historical rebellion of Agueybana and allied caciques against the Spanish in 1511, Tapia uses a frustrated love triangle of Guarionex, Loarina and Cristobal de Sotomayor to narrate colonial conquest and indigenous revolt.

Although the characterization is limited and the novella ends with the death of Sotomayor and suicide of Guarionex (and Loarina, who chooses to die with him), writing a story like this in the 1850s must have incurred the wrath of Spanish censors. After all, reclaiming the indigenous past was partly an assertion of local autonomy and identity for criollo elites of Tapia's background. Even if the narrator of the tale identifies with the Spanish race, there is no doubt that the legend extolls the landscape and indigenous culture of the island. Guarionex is a hero, in this legend. One short chapter on his role in resisting a Carib attack and liberating his sister establishes his bravery and martial ability. Indeed, had he been European, he would have been a nobleman, like his rival for Loarina's heart.

Betances, on the other hand, seems to have seen the legend of his peer as insufficient, perhaps, for asserting Puerto Rican independence. He seems to have taken more liberty with history to create a tragic romance between an Indian man and a white woman. Instead of Tapia's tale involving Loarina traitorously warning the Spanish of the impending indigenous revolt (due to her love for Sotomayor), there is more Indian unity and purpose in Betances's fictionalized vision of the past. Betances also uses a strong pairing of brothers resisting the Spanish, but only as minor characters with one sibling avenging the death of another. 

Tapia, however, appears to have followed the chroniclers more closely by bringing to life a number of customs and beliefs of the Taino, particularly cemism and the burial of wives with a deceased cacique. Although Tapia's depiction of a cemi ritual does not seem historically accurate, as it involved more than caciques and behiques (or buhitis), he clearly endeavored to portray some of their worldview and belief in fate and divine intervention to justify war and inspire confidence against the Spanish. Thus, despite being outnumbered in some battles and wielding bows and arrows or macanas against Spanish swords and firearms, they could still occasionally resist. The assembly of principal caciques, presided by Agueybana, symbolizes the power of Puerto Rican unity against greater foes. Tapia, Betances, and other supporters of independence must have believed in this essential unity to resist the greater power of Spain. 

Irving Rouse's The Tainos

Although trying to catch up with the current trends in Caribbean precolonial history and archaeology is an ongoing process, Irving Rouse's The Tainos: Rise & Decline of the People who Greeted Columbus is more nuanced and relevant than we thought. As a towering figure in "Taino Studies" and Caribbean archaeology during the 20th century, Rouse's work is inescapable. However, we were under the impression that today's scholars are more skeptical of some of Rouse's framework and assumptions of "primitive" pre-ceramic indigenes in the Greater Antilles. However, after reading Rouse, one finds that he recognized the cultural complexity of the "Taino" peoples in his division of their societies into Eastern, Classic, and Western branches. Moreover, he acknowledged that migration should be not be presumed to be the major factor behind major changes in culture or ceramics in the Antilles. 

While he perhaps exaggerated by referring to the Saladoid expansion in the Antilles as the cause of a "genocide" of archaic, earlier populations in the Antilles, they undoubtedly were among the important ancestors of the people who went on to become known as "Tainos" by today's scholars. Studies of the ancient DNA samples and mythology also suggest a rather pronounced South American Amazonian origin for the population of the Antilles. The two earlier cultures identified by Rouse, the Casimiroid and Ortoiroid, undoubtedly helped shape the development of "Tainoness" in ways that younger generations of archaeologists can hopefully uncover. But the later "Saladoid" expansion through the Antilles does seem to have played a major role among the ancestors of the Tainos. The numerous interaction spheres across bodies of water that connected different parts of the archipelago and the South American mainland are also fascinating topics, pointing to how movement across maritime highways was the avenue for exchange. Caribbean people have always been on the move, between islands and between islands and the continent.

However, Rouse's study is somewhat outdated despite its recognition of the Taino cultural legacy in the Spanish-speaking Caribbean. Despite acknowledgment of the cultural, linguistic, and biological legacy of the Taino in Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, Rouse believed the Taino disappeared by 1540 or so. The full story of the disintegration of Taino communities and their role in shaping the colonial period is worthy of monograph-length study itself. Rouse did not do justice to this in the chapter on the fall of the Taino, and we are sure neo-Tainos would take issue with Rouse's description of it. In addition, a more detailed analysis of the rise of chiefdoms or more complex polities on Hispaniola and Puerto Rico could have been included in the chapters on the origins of the Classic Tainos to assist readers with understanding the origins and dynamics of political organization. If zemis, for instance, date back to the early Cedrosan Saladoid expansion in the Antilles, and evidence for conuco mound agriculture in the Cibao perhaps began in the 1200s or so, is it possible that some indigenous societies had reached the chiefdom stage earlier without conucos for yuca cultivation? What was the role of long-distance trade in this process?

Once in Puerto Rico

Although we had first learned of Pura Belpre several years ago, it is only recently did we develop an interest in her work collecting and disseminating Puerto Rican folklore for children. What is most intriguing about her work is the inclusion of multiple stories from or about the indigenous past of Borinquen. Almost half of Once in Puerto Rico consists of stories about the Taino past of the island or the early Spanish conquest and settlement of the island. Some of the tales must certainly postdate the Spanish arrival. For example, the tale of Guani involves an Indian boy who plays a flute to restore his flock of goats. With the help of Yukiyu, Guani saves his goats from a spell cast by an evil toad. This tale refers to a cemi, magic, and an animal that did not exist on the island of Puerto Rico until the Spanish introduced it to the Caribbean. 

Perhaps this tale does reflect a far earlier legend or tradition that was "updated" during the colonial period with animals of Old World origin? Other tales about the Indian past, such as that of Milomaki and "The Legend of the Royal Palm," appears to be a legend explaining the singing of a tall palm tree when the wind blows through its branches.  This tale, like the "Legend of the Hummingbird" endeavors to explain a natural phenomenon and relies on references to magical or supernatural events transforming people into plants, animals, or things. The tale of Amapola and the colibri, however, has a more tragic romance feel since the the former is not allowed to have a relationship with a Carib male, eventually causing both to transform into a flower and a bird.

Other tales of the Indian past, like that of Iviahoca, unambiguously allude to events associated with the conquistadors of the island and the cacique Mabodamoca. In the case of this last story, the wife of a powerful cacique stands up to Becerrillo and manages to impress Ponce de Leon and Diego de Salazar. Through doing so, she frees herself and her son from the Spanish. The last tale with an Indian character, about Yuisa and Pedro Mexias uses the marriage of a mulatto and a cacica as a symbol for the Puerto Rican people. The two meet, fall in love, and, despite having to relinquish her power as cacica, Yuisa chooses to marry Pedro Mexias. Intriguingly, a council of bohiques is responsible for forcing Yuisa to abdicate her political office. Unfortunately, Carib raids eventually target the village and the two lovers die fighting to defend the island. The tale extolls the two for dying to defend the island and inspiring the governor of the island to attack the Caribs at Vieques. This is lovely and all, but seems to be a justification of the Spanish colony. Perhaps these stories reflect the morally ambivalent feelings of Puerto Rican society about its colonial origins. Moreover, some of these tales were passed on or inherited by others in colonial society who may have changed the tenor to fit their own interests. Nonetheless, it is interesting to note the frequent allusions to caves, cemis, and aspects of belief that mirror those of the Taino cosmovision.

The Tainos of Hispaniola

Roberto Cassá's Los taínos de La Española is one of important studies of the Taino past. Although somewhat dated as it was first published in 1974, Cassá's work is an interesting example of historical materialism applied to the precolonial past of our island. His work highlights the ways in which Taino societies were at a stage of "incipient" artisan class formation and other features of a society whose processes, in the final stage of Taino culture, was disrupted by the Spanish conquest. However, unlike Moscoso, Cassá seems more orthodox in his Marxism. According to the latter, the absence of private landownership prohibits the formation of social classes. Instead, the Tainos developed social "ranks" based on chiefs, or caciques (with nitainos and behiques as part of this group) and laborers. Nonetheless, the evidence cited by Cassá himself from the Spanish chronicles, documentary sources, and archaeological insights suggest the reality was perhaps closer to that described by Moscoso.

In other words, there are frequent contradictions in this seminal study of the Taino past. At times, the author provides numerous examples of social inequality and "incipient" class formation and state centralization yet he's insistent on seeing Taino society as one of simply chiefs and workers or laborers, with the behiques (Shamans) and nitainos as appendages of the chiefs. Yet he points out how the caciques had control over some of the labor of communities and received tribute. They and others also were buried with more prestige goods, used more luxury products and were supporting, to some extent, long-distance exchange and an "incipient artisan class" freed from agricultural labor. This would suggest something closer to Moscoso's model of tribal tributary production in which caciques wielded significant power. 

The development of sophisticated art (and artisans to produce them), long-distance systems of exchange, and control over tribute of various aldeas seems to affirm the idea of a society transitioning to one with more defined social classes and greater inequality. This obviously varied based on the region, as Cassá astutely notes. After all, some caciques were simply in control of a single community or area, while others appeared to, like Xaragua, wield significant authority over an extensive area. However, the sources of authority for paramount chiefs was likely built on various foundations, including kinship, marriage alliances, an exchange of cemis, and gifts. And this was already in a stage of "incipient despotism" that enhanced the authority of the cacique. Behiques, who may not have been a priestly class, may have become one had the Spanish not arrived in the Caribbean.

By being perhaps overly orthodox with his historical materialism, Cassá endeavors too hard to force Taino societies in stages that match the modes of production of classical Marxism. So, since the Taino lacked private ownership, their societies were said to have not reached a more advanced stage. However, this ignores the insightful analyses of other Marxist scholars. In the case of Africa, Bernard Magubane comes to mind. Magubane's analysis of exploitation in precolonial sub-Saharan Africa demonstrates quite clearly how societies without private land tenure could still feature political centralization and outright exploitation. The Taino of Hispaniola, in at least some cases, had caciques with similar political power and ability to exploit the labor of others, even without private land tenure. 

Moreover, at least some Taino societies had achieved a "higher stage" in religious beliefs with abstract deities and with obvious evidence of social inequality. Caciques, for instance, buttressed their authority with religion and also possessed more luxury goods, consumed higher quality alimentation, had more wives, and were often a subject of celebration in areitos. In order to produce exquisite duhos and other works of art and refinement for this ruling class or group, there must have been some increase in the population of skilled artisans and workers. Thus, even if the Taino maintained communal land tenure and continued to supplement their diet with hunting, fishing and gathering, despite their productive system of yuca mounds, they were likely heading towards a society with more social inequality and political centralization. The redistribution of part of the surplus through communal feasts and celebrations like areitos and batey may have also contributed to the prestige and authority of the cacique and assist with attracting or retaining dependents. 

Cassá also raises a number of interesting questions about Taino society in other respects. For instance, what was the total population of the island in 1492? He estimated somewhere between 225,000 to 275,000, which is perhaps too high by today's better estimates. Certainly some parts of the island, especially with montones and irrigation canals, could have supported substantial populations, like Xaragua. But our sources are too ambiguous or provide gross overestimates or underestimates. Without more information, it remains unclear. Moreover, what was the relationship between the sexes really like among our indigenous predecessors? Cassá presents evidence of a patriarchal society with ambilineal or bilineal rules of descent. 

Evidently, the importance of accumulating women as wives among the powerful and the laborious tasks expected of women with casabe preparation and domestic life suggest a more burdensome lot for women. Women were also suggested to be of lower status in some of the myths recorded in the chronicles. Yet what does one make of the possible female cacicas or chiefs then? And did Taino peoples include something akin to a third gender or two-spirit in their societies? Men, dressed as women, were mentioned by Oviedo and Las Casas as "sodomites" who likely adopted female roles. Was there a similar system in place for female-bodied persons to become men? And of the Taino legacy in the Dominican Republic of the colonial and independence eras, what can be found of the Taino legacy besides material culture adopted by Africans and Europeans?

Caciques of Haiti

 Emile Nau’s Histoire des Caciques… is justifiably a classic. As elucidated by Francisco Moscoso, the 19th century classic text, despite rarely sharing its sources, presents a compelling historical narrative on the European conquest of the island of Haiti. It is less of a history of precolonial Taino cacicazgos of the island than a harrowing tale of their subjugation and disintegration under colonial rule. Since Nau was part of a literary and intellectual movement espousing Haitian cultural nationalism, he felt it necessary to include the history of the aboriginal Haitians as part of this project. Interestingly, his brother, Ignace, also wrote several nouvelles which reflect a similar Haitian cultural project, albeit one that is more rooted in the African-derived cultural influences and practices of the Haitian countryside of the 19th century. 

That said, it is interesting to recall Ignace Nau’s tale of the rustic monteros of the east, and the fact that the eastern part of the island was once part of Haiti. Moreover, some of the ancestors of today’s Dominicans were considered to have “Indien” or indigenous ancestry. Perhaps claiming the Amerindian past as Haitians was linked to this larger conception of the island’s shared history? Indeed, Nau’s introduction suggests that it was through the fraternal links of suffering enslavement and colonialism that the African and Indian were joined together. Maybe Nau’s Romantic depiction of the indigenous past, one in which the “simple” Indiens were en route to civilization and, in the case of Xaragua, refined and skilled in poetry, was tied to the literary movement of the 1830s, in which Haitian authors sought to use poems and short stories to valorize the land and its diverse peoples? 

We know Nau also, despite denying any biological continuity between Haitians and the exterminated indigenous population, also sought to identify Amerindian traits in aspects of Haitian popular culture and language. Such an attempt to do so may be part of this movement to define Haitianite broadly, with Amerindian, African, and European elements. The Taino elements, particularly in poetry, song, and language (deduced to be beautiful by the specimens of the Taino tongue resurrected by Nau, which proves that they were a refined people!) could be reimagined as part of the cultural patrimony of all Haitians. Maybe such a move would also be a common ground for Haitians of all backgrounds to unite, through the landscape, history, literary legacy, and eventual vengeance of the Taino through Haitian independence. 

Unfortunately, due to the time period it was composed and some of the ideological currents and limitations of Haitian Romanticism, Nau’s history presents a number of problems. The author’s admiration for Colombus as a thwarted genius representing science, religion and progress partially undermines the sympathy for the indigenes of Haiti. If Columbus and the Spanish conquest represented a giant leap in terms of expanding Christianity and civilization, and the Indiens were, outside of Xaragua, savages like the Caribs, simple, and lacking effective leaders, then there is a sense of inevitability in their extinction. Naturally, Nau opposed the subjugation by force and outright enslavement and exploitation of aboriginal Haitians. But this is sometimes contradicted by the fulsome praise for Colombus and the three ideals of Christianity, Civilization and Progress represented by European expansion. In other words, Nau was not quite ready to completely discard the Eurocentrism of his intellectual era. He could recognize that the Taino were on the path to civilization, however. La Yaguana or Yaguana, the capital of Xaragua, was said to have had over 1000 houses, which would likely mean it was a town or city with thousands of people. Their “tributary” system of government was able to generate enough resources for caciques and a leisurely class to develop, albeit not yet reaching the level of the Indiens of Mexico and Peru. Unfortunately, the tragedy of history was against them as Spanish expansion preempted fuller development of their societies.

Despite some of its ideological flaws and unclear sources (Charlevoix, Herrera, Las Casas, maybe Oviedo and Irving are some of the few we could identify), Nau’s account is full of interesting allusions to caciques and historical junctures that parallel those of the Haitian Revolution. The capture of Caonabo, for instance, brings to mind the trap used against Toussaint Louverture during the Haitian Revolution. Henry, or Enriquillo, whose refusal to submit for several years, must have reminded Nau and his readers of the familiar maroons of Saint-Domingue. Perhaps even a figure like Goman, who led a long-lasting rebellion against the Republic could be seen as a 19th century equivalent? Or, perhaps more obviously, the Bahoruco maroons of the colonial period who used the same territory of Enriquillo to resist the French. Of course, Nau also explicitly compares Ovando to Rochambeau for his brutality. Indeed, Ovando’s unprovoked massacre of Xaragua’s elite and execution of Anacaona is surely matched by Rochambeau’s barbaric violence. These parallels must have been rather explicit to Nau, and would have been obvious to him as his brother also wrote short stories of episodes of the Haitian Revolution. Moreover, the magisterial tomes of Madiou and works by other Haitian historians would have facilitated the identification of similar episodes and themes in the history of Indian resistance and the struggle for Haitian independence. Doing so confirms a teleology in which the conquest and destruction of Indian Haiti is avenged through Haiti’s singular struggle for abolition of slavery and restoration of independence. Haiti, under Dessalines, achieved what was impossible for Enriquillo.