Charlemage Péralte and Hinche

Due to Charlemagne Péralte's origins in a part of Haiti was once Spanish colonial territory, we decided to check what remains of the libros parroquiales of colonial Hincha (available on the Family Search website) for anyone with the Peralta surname. Unsurprisingly, there was indeed a Pedro de Peralta, the husband of a Juana de Medina (whose parents were Bartolome de Medina and Beatriz Moron). One of their children's baptism was registered in the 1780s and identified as a free, legitimate child of Pedro and Juana. The parents also had another child in this period, a Thomas.

Unfortunately, surviving parish records only cover part of the 1780s and 1790s, but these individuals are likely the ancestors of Charlemagne Péralte. According to historian Roger Gaillard, Charlemagne's great-grandfather was a Juan Peralta who was the commandant of nearby Lascahobas in 1822, a fact mentioned by Thomas Madiou. Is it safe to assume Juan Peralta was a son of Pedro Peralta and Juana de Medina? If the Peralta were an established family in the surrounding area of Hincha in the late 18th century, then perhaps so. Indeed, Pedro Peralta was also a slaveholder, as indicated by the baptism of a child born to his chattel, Agustina, in 1788. 

The birth record of a child of Juan Peralta, or Jean Peralte, was also made in the 1820s, when he was still commandant of Lascahobas. When his name was Gallicized is unknown, but presumably that change in the surname's spelling was made in the 1820s. According to Gaillard, Jean Peralte was the father of Santiague or Saintyague Peralte. Santiague was probably born in c.1809, if indications of the ages of his son who married in the 1884 at the age of 44 and the marriage of another child are any indication. Santiague was the father of Remi Massena Peralte, who married Marie Claire Emmanuel, the mother of Charlemagne.

So, from what remains of the Hincha parish books, our theory is that Juan Peralta was probably a son of Pedro de Peralta and Juana de Medina. It would explain the family's local prominence in Hinche well into the next century. And unlike other prominent families in Hinche, like that of Dominican president Jose Maria Cabral, the Peralta stayed in Hinche. Juan Peralta, his son, Santiague, and grandson Remi Massena all served in the military or government of Haiti.

If, however, Santiague was born in or around 1809, then his father Juan was possibly born in Hincha in a year before those of the surviving parish books for the town. The father of Juan was probably Pedro de Peralta, but without direct confirmation, it is only a likely theory. Nonetheless, it would fit the other evidence we know of the Peralta in Hinche and Lascahobas. 

Encrusted Taino Sculpture

Ricardo Alegria's El uso de la incrustación en la escultura de los indios antillanos covers a potentially important topic, but sadly does not take it anywhere. Essentially, it is quite similar to his work on ball courts and plazas but with fewer theories or conclusions. However, the study emphasizes how the Taino encrusted so many works of wood, cotton, stone and other materials that served utilitarian and ritual or ceremonial purposes. Some of these pieces were true masterpieces in indigenous Caribbean art, featuring gold, conch shells and other objects. The fact that gold and shell were usually used for teeth and eyes of idols, three-pointer cemis and other objects is undoubtedly significant, too. Why the mouth was filled in gold for some of the most elaborate duhos, for instance, must surely have some deeper meaning in the Taino worldview and culture. Unfortunately, Alegria does not delve into those questions here, but the number of cohoba holders, duhos and other objects that featured gold or shell encrustrations is suggestive of deeper meaning. The use of shell to represent teeth seems natural enough for anthropomorphic or zoomorphic idols and cemis, but gold for the mouth, eyes or ears might have associations with turey, and the divine realm. As for why the only remaining duho to still possess its original gold is its mouth may have been linked to the belief that the spiritual world could communicate in rituals. 

Boyá and Enriquillo

Source

One thing that has become exceedingly clear after reading Juan Daniel Balcácer's Enriquillo: historia y leyenda is that the legendary cacique did not die at the site of Boyá. When he passed away in 1535, the written sources describe his community as living near Bahoruco. Indeed, he may have been buried in Azua. A letter from 1547, cited by Balcácer, mentions the destruction of Enrique's pueblo by African maroons, after stating that these subjects of Enrique lived in the foothills of Bahoruco. In addition, a letter by Las Casas from 1534 describes Enrique's pueblo as about 7 leagues away from Azua. This does not sound like it would have been anywhere near Boyá in Monte Plata. However, what if the remnants of Enrique's community did move to the area of Boyá later on? While the survivors were said to be few, 8 or 10, perhaps they were joined by other survivors and then later joined by other indigenes of Hispaniola.

The evidence to support this theory is very thin. However, the rather detailed and perhaps elaborate Indian pueblo of Boyá described by Charlevoix does not strike one as entirely fictional. According to Charlevoix, the pueblo was headed by the self-titled "cacique of the island of Haiti." Supposedly, the bourgade attracted around 4000 Indians when first founded, which must be an exaggerated. However, according to a document he claimed to have seen, the population of the pueblo had dropped to 30 men and 50 or 60 women. Most of the subsequent scholars who described this community often repeated some or parts of Charlevoix's description, all agreeing that it was the town of Enrique's followers and last bastion of the island's native population. For an example of another French Jesuit who mentioned the pueblo, a short allusion to it was made in a letter by Fr. Margat from 1729. According to Margat, this small canton of indigenous people was unknown for a long time. Perhaps he meant unknown to the French, since Boyá was usually the only town of Indians mentioned in the 1600s and 1700s.

Rodriguez Demorizi's Relaciones Históricas De Santo Domingo is a priceless resource.

In addition to Charlevoix and Margat, one can also find early Spanish references to the town. One early reference to the community by Luis Geronimo Alcocer, was written in 1650. Already, in 1650, he wrote of a pueblo de indios "que oi no tiene seis vecinos."Intriguingly, Alcocer did not make any reference to Enrique, solely describing the town as the only place where Indians could be found. Elsewhere, fortunately, he offered an explanation for the town's depopulation. Apparently, several residents of the town had migrated elsewhere in the colony to search for work. Their community still had 6 houses and perhaps those who had left retained some tie to the community. If many of its vecinos had already left the pueblo for economic reasons by 1650, perhaps that is why the gender imbalance was so pronounced when Charlevoix wrote of the community in the 18th century. A somewhat later source, Domingo Fernandez Navarrete, also wrote about Boyá. According to him, in 1678, the town only had 2 Indians, both mixed-race (mestizo and castizo). 

Another Spanish source on the community can be found in a work by Domingo Pantaleon Alvarez de Abreu, written in 1740. According to this source, Boyá's population had 65 Indians and 11 slaves. So, the community included about 65 Indians in 1740, and about 80-90 adults according to Charlevoix. Perhaps due to the community's pattern of male outmigration, their numbers were in constant flux. According to Antonio Sanchez de Valverde, however, the community by the late 18th century only consisted of mestizos, some of whom descended from people from the mainland. This could be also related to the possible relocation of Indians from other parts of the Americas to Boyá. For example, Indians from Campeche or other indigenous peoples brought to the island by the French but intercepted or seized by the Spanish colonial authorities. Nevertheless, by 1785, the town only had 25 or 30 mestizos. 

The late 18th century brings us to Moreau de Saint-Méry, one of the most interesting on the question of Boyá and Enriquillo. While he mostly repeated what was already written on the subject by Charlevoix, something Thomas Madiou also did in the 19th century, he added a few new elements. First, he testified to the claims of indigenous ancestry by some of the mixed-race people in the Spanish colony. As Nau later observed, Dominicans, especially women, of certain features and long hair, were called indios. For our French observer, they also laid claim to aboriginal ancestry with pride. This is evidence for the longevity of the "indio" self-ascription among the mixed-race population in the Spanish Caribbean. Long before Trujillo and the conflicts between Haiti and the DR, some of the multiracial Creoles of the island called themselves Indians and claimed indigenous ancestry. Of course, Moreau de Saint-Méry saw them as people of mixed-race ancestry in which, for some, indigenous features could be occasionally observed. In addition, our author also claimed that several Indians in Banique successfully proved their descent from Enriquillo's subjects in 1744. While Banique, close to Hinche, is rather distant from Boyá, this anecdote could be a reflection of outmigration from the community, some of which reached Banique by this time. Unfortunately, there are no sources to corroborate this claim by Moreau de Saint-Méry. As for our pueblo of interest, he mostly restated past descriptions of the town, particularly those of Charlevoix and Sanchez Valverde.

After this brief review of some of our sources on the pueblo, what can one actually say about Enriquillo and Boyá? First, that the town was not associated with Enriquillo during his lifetime. If it has any connection with the followers of Enriquillo, it must have developed after the destruction of the original settlement. That said, the claim by Charlevoix that the town claimed a connection to Enriquillo may have had a kernel of truth. Since we do not know what happened to the survivors of the maroon attack that destroyed the original town, perhaps the survivors were resettled in the area of Boyá. Indeeed, perhaps Enriquillo's cousin or his wife, assuming they were still alive, had an opportunity to lead the community in the new town. Then, assuming Charlevoix was not entirely incorrect, other indigenous people of the island may have been resettled in Boyá, boosting its population. This theory, while not verifiable with sources, may explain why so many writers associated Boyá with Enriquillo. Alternatively, it is possible the founders of Boyá invited the survivors of Enriquillo's community and sought to use them to ensure legal protections and privileges from the government. Regardless of how and under what conditions the connections were made, the claim by Moreau de Saint-Méry that people claiming descent from Enriquillo's subjects were found in Banique, near Hinche, if true, provides evidence that his followers may have reconstituted themselves at Boyá. Then, dispersing to make a living, some reached Banique. While these Indians described by Moreau de Saint-Méry may have also been motivated by legal protections and the honor attached to Enriquillo, their success in convincing the colonial authorities must have relied on some strong evidence, perhaps origins in Boyá. 

History and Legend of Haiti's Last Cacique

Enriquillo at the Museo del Hombre Dominicano

Juan Daniel Balcácer's Enriquillo: historia y leyenda is a fascinating read on the "last cacique of Haiti. A person admired and commemorated by Dominicans and Haitians alike, Enrique's rebellion inspired nationalist movements among both peoples. The reality, however, was rather different from the legend we have constructed. While undoubtedly an important figure and one whose alzamiento inspired resistance among Africans and Indians during his lifetime, including indigenous people in other islands, such as Cuba, the actual history of Enrique is a more ambivalent legacy. By highlighting the actual history of Enrique from what can be verified with written sources, what emerges is a complex figure who merged aspects of Spanish and Taino culture. 

His resistance, sparked by personal abuse and affronts from his encomendero, only transformed into a long-lasting alzamiento in the Bahoruco region after he failed to find justice through the colonial system. However, once peace was accorded in 1533, Enrique agreed to police the countryside in order to hunt runaway Indians and Africans. In exchange for having a recognized community of his own close followers, not too far from the Bahoruco (and not the Boya near Monte Plata, as many of us have erroneously assumed), Enrique clearly agreed to cooperate with the brutal, dehumanizing systems of the encomienda and chattel slavery. Indeed, according to a letter from 1547, included in the text, the community founded by Enrique was actually destroyed by African maroons, who had a score to settle with them. This implies that the community was probably supporting the Spanish by spying on and fighting African runaways in Bahoruco after Enrique died in 1535. The very same primary sources included in the appendix of the text also allude to cultural survival of aspects of Taino culture. For example, the areitos were very much still observed in 1547, much to the chagrin of the Spanish. Indeed, the survival of areitos was believed to also be one of the reasons non-Christian religious practices were revived or maintained. One wonders to what extent Enrique's community maintained these practices, despite their leader's Catholicism and the meeting with Las Casas in which Tamayo was baptized. 

In light of Enrique's past as someone who, despite suffering from the massacre of Jaragua's elite ordered by Ovando, was raised and educated by Christians and therefore at least partially Hispanicized, his collaboration with the colonial system is perhaps not too surprising. However, this collaboration, which involved defending the very same system that other Indians and Africans continued to resist, makes it difficult to justify the legends of Enrique as a liberator who fought for the freedom of  Indians, an end to colonialism, and emancipation for Africans. The reality, based at least on the documents and Spanish chroniclers, was closer to Enrique acting in his own interests and only for those of his community. His resistance movement, however, was costly for the Spanish crown and inspired other Indians to flee to the mountainous areas. Nonetheless, their resistance was not unified and perhaps this was due to Enrique coming from the acculturated Taino elite, one that had been pacified or destroyed in the conquest and, in some cases, reared in Spanish culture. Other Indian rebels of Hispaniola, such as African maroons, may have been more likely to have desired an end to the encomiendas and slavery. However, it is interesting to note, as mentioned by Pichardo Moya's study of Cuba's Indians, how some Indian rebels of Guama were recorded in 1533 as hoping for Enrique's arrival. Perhaps the immediate legacy and influence of Enrique was to inspire other communities to resist, even after he made peace with the colonizers when Francisco de Barrionuevo met him. Indeed, if the letter written by Enrique is any indication, it is possible he truly saw himself as a worthy vassal of the Emperor and accepted Spanish rule.

Due to the aforementioned collaborationist agreement of Enrique, Balcácer finds the legends created around him to be worthy of historical criticism. Despite the numerous places named after him and literary tributes to Enrique, the legends have masked the reality of an "Hispanicized" Indian who, ultimately, only fought to secure his own community's survival. The fact that they were later destroyed by runaway Africans further illustrates the complex rivalries and conflicts that prevented unification of the oppressed majority of the island's population. Indeed, the ultimate destruction of Enrique's pueblo by Africans makes it interesting to see Haitian nationalist legends about Enrique. Whatever African-Indian collaboration in marronage that occurred, Enrique was probably far from exemplifying. It is lamentable for us Haitians due to Enrique's kinship with Anacaona and the fact that his wife, Mencia, was said to be a granddaughter of Anacaona. As much as we would like for things to have been different, the legend of Enrique at least helps both Haitians and Dominicans claim deeper, precolonial roots. Like so many protagonists in our legends, the real Enrique was far more complex and contradictory than one would like. Nevertheless, let us hope that his tomb is one day found in Azua and he continues to receive our admiration for the longevity of his movement that inspired others to combat colonial oppression. 

San Pablo de Jiguani

The church of San Pablo in Jiguani, Cuba, as it looked in 1801. The pueblo was one of the Indian communities in Cuba, although only founded in 1701. Sadly, PARES does not have more digitized records of this community.

Indios Macurijes

It is astonishing to us that there were Macurije Indians of Cuba who were not subjugated until 1576. While their ultimate fate is not clear, they were presumably forced to labor for Cristobal Sotolongo after he encountered and relocated them from their hideout. This reminds us of similar references in Hispaniola to Indians residing in hidden spots of the mountains and hills to escape colonial rule and exploitation. PARES is a priceless resource. 

Houngan of 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. 

Indios Naturales in Hispaniola

While randomly perusing PARES, we encountered more documents that allude to indigenous communities surviving in Hispaniola after 1550. One document, from 1555, mentioned 3 or 4 different hidden communities of Indians native to the island. One of them was apparently in the the area of today's Haiti. Another was located in Samana and the one located in "Aguayo" was probably in the area once associated with the Ciguayo Indians, perhaps. The last one mentioned with a specific location was located near Puerto Plata. Indeed, it was this one, where a white man named Villapando seized people. Villapando, looking for runaway Africans, must have been surprised to find a community of native people. Apparently, the government knew little about these hidden communities and there could have been more than 4, since unknown communities of were said to exist in Cabo Tiburon. While the government called for Villapando to let those Tainos seized from the pueblo near Puerto Plata go free, the fate of these communities is unknown. Given the fact that Indians were still secretly enslaved or sold in nearby Puerto Rico and the similar complaints of labor shortages from Santo Domingo, one would expect that Tainos seized from these communities were forced to provide labor in the colonial settlements. A few, perhaps in the more remote areas such as Cabo Tiburon, may have been able to resist longer.

We know that in 1563, hidden communities of Indians were still suspected on the island. One priest even went to the trouble of searching for them in the mountains and hills of Hispaniola. They were said to be in Aguayo, Cape San Nicholas, and Cabo Tiburon, again areas where indigenous people were hiding in 1555. The priest, Francisco Juan de Ortega, was tasked with trying to convince them to move to areas where it would be easier for the Church to convert them. However, by promising them they would not have to serve any Spaniards, Ortega was mistreated by the whites and faced opposition from them. How long these indios naturales were able to resist Spanish attempts to control their labor is unknown. In 1571, when Lopez de Velasco's Geografía y descripción universal de las Indias was published, he wrote that Hispaniola only had 2 pueblos de indios with a population of 50. However, his sources may have been outdated or incomplete. And if his reports of depopulated towns such as Yaquimo were correct, it is possible indigenous people were able to remain hidden in parts of the island like Cabo Tiburon. 

Despite the paucity of details, the survival of indigenous communities into the 2nd half of the 16th century challenges the theory of Taino extinction. Similarly, the fact that the Church was, at least on paper, expressing great concern over their religious salvation, suggests that indigenous religious practices were still maintained. The fact that they had to be promised protection from the abuse of the Spanish certainly supports the contention of scholars like Guitar and certain Taino revivalists. The colonial government was unable to actually know how many indigenous people were on the island and they also had motives to lie or minimize it when they illegally enslaved or abused them. In addition, "indios naturales" also appear in the archive for the 17th century. Indeed, we have a record of Ignacio Dominguez, indio natural of Santo Domingo, returning to the island in 1621. While it is possible his parents were not natives of the island, the evidence overall supports Taino survival.

Indios Secretly Sold as Slaves in 1550

 

As pointed out by many modern historians since Salvador Brau, Indians did not disappear from Puerto Rico. One reference to them can be found in a letter from Governor Vallejo to the Crown on PARES, mentioning how some Indians were still secretly sold and treated like slaves in the colony. This is interesting since Charles V had already outlawed Indian slavery. When it was implemented in Puerto Rico, according to Brau, in 1544, only 70 native Indians of the island were found and freed. Undoubtedly, this was an undercount as some vecinos of the island hid their Indians. Even Vallejo himself, in another letter from August 1550, mentioned a monastery run by the Dominican order that possessed black and Indian labor. There were also indios on the island of Mona, supposedly devout Christians. At some point, a pueblo called Cibuco was also established with indios (mentioned by Lopez Velasco). References to "indios" in Arecibo as well as Quebrada de Doña Catalina in the 1560s certainly suggests Indians, both native and foreign, were still around.

What is most intriguing about the December 14, 1550 letter is the hints it provides about the Indians of Puerto Rico. The complete letter, for instance, mentions the superstitions of the Indians and discusses the need to ensure their instruction in the Catholic faith. Thus, Vallejo seems to be in support of Indians remaining with an amo, provided they are paid for their labor, dressed and receive religious instruction. Indeed, it was better to leave them with white employers than risk them joining the negros or persisting in their religious errors. Indeed, why separate them from their owners and risk them turning into vagabonds? Moreover, Vallejo described them as "liviana" and "supersticiosa" people who liked to join blacks. This letter, despite its brevity, nonetheless indicates Spanish elite fears of African and Indian collaboration.

Royal Commentaries on the Incas

El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega's Comentarios Reales de los Incas has long been on the reading list. Using the translation of Maria Jolas, based on the annotated French edition of Alain Gheerbrant, provides easy access to one of the major sources on the Inca. This blog's ongoing obsession with the past of the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean has, of course, led us to South America. Although the Andean civilizations of South America were very distinct from the Taino, it is interesting to read about other cultures in precolonial South America. In addition, references to the Inca emperors during the final stage of the Haitian Revolution, perhaps due to the mistaken belief that the indigenes of the island originally came from Peru, has always sparked a desire to learn more about the Inca. Of course, the Taino were not from Peru. But one must wonder why the idea was influential enough on Dessalines and how the memory of a great indigenous empire in South America may have shaped him.

But let us return to El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega. A mestizo born to a mother from the Inca royal family and a Spanish conqueror, he was part of both worlds. However, his desire to portray Inca civilization as a great, peaceful society in which the rulers were, with the exception of Atahualpa the usurper, expanding the empire through persuasion and eradicated sinful customs like human sacrifice, idolatry and sodomy, is contradicted by other sources. And due to his devout Catholicism and Spanish heritage, El Inca Garcilaso also sought to justify the Spanish conquest since it spread the light of the Gospel. That said, the great Inca civilization, radiating from Cuzco, a city he compared to Rome, was almost preparing Peru for Christianity. The Incas, believing themselves to descend from the Sun when their first ruler, Manco Capac appeared, promoted the worship of the Sun and attempted to end the idolatries and human sacrifices committed by various subject peoples. In addition, their wondrous roads, monuments, palaces, promotion of a uniform language, and spread of their culture through state-directed migration and provincial administrators and vassals assimilated into Cuzco's culture and rituals suggest Peru was a "civilized" land of peace, laws, justice and equality. 

Clearly, El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega exaggerated a little bit and downplayed customs of the Inca that were abhorrent to European or Christian perspectives. Furthermore, he relied on oral traditions passed down from his mother's family, sources from one camp of the Inca elite and likely to have promoted a vision of their past as benevolent, excellent rulers. According to this narrative, the Incas, the sons of the Sun, consistently expanded their empire (often through peaceful means), built wondrous palaces and temples to the Sun, and established an orderly society in which everyone received their subsistence. This version of the history of the Inca rulers did not completely omit setbacks and internal discord. Occasionally, some of the more "savage" Indians on the frontiers of the Empire rebelled, dissimulated or resisted conquest. But overall, until the conflict over the throne between Atahualpa and Huascar, the Inca rulers were almost invariably great, just, lovers of the poor, conquerors, and able administrators. Thus, one must be cautious with El Inca Garcilaso's portrayal of the 12 Inca rulers.

Despite the aforementioned limitations of his work, his Royal Commentaries are nonetheless a major source of information on a major indigenous civilization from within (or, partly internal). His detailed references to the khipu, for instance, reveal how knots could be used so skillfully to record numbers for imperial administration. At other points in the text, he mentioned the use of quipus to record a speech of Atahualpa in Cajamarca. Elsewhere quipu and those trained in their use could also use them to record history, a process not fully explained by our mestizo historian. According to him, quipucamayoc learned, via oral tradition and memorization, how to record speeches, events, and historical narratives that they sometimes recited to curacas and Inca rulers. Consequently, khipu must have served a function besides counting people or supplies for administrative purposes. Exactly how, for example, were khipu used to record speeches is unknown. Perhaps it was truly through oral traditions and the use of quipu as a mnemonic device that allowed them to be used for recording narrative? It is a pity El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega left Peru without learning more about this topic. His royal connections and ties to those closer to Inca traditions could have potentially elucidated khipu to him and enriched his historical reconstruction of the Inca past. That would have resulted in a history that went beyond earlier chronicles written after the conquest or the traditions and stories passed down from his mother's family. 

Besides the overview of the Inca rulers, El Inca's account also includes some interesting reports, legends, and traditions of maritime expeditions and visitors across the sea. One of the Inca rulers, according to Sarmiento, even left for a maritime expedition of 9 months from the coast of modern Ecuador. Topa Inca Yupanqui supposedly returned after the discovery of the islands of Auachumbi and Ninjachumbi. He also brought back "black" men, gold and a copper chain. The annotated edition of the text suggests this Inca ruler may have reached Easter Island. However, the references to gold, copper, and "black" men are somewhat uncertain. Did the Inca ruler really travel with 20,000 people on balsas specifically constructed for a Pacific voyage? The traditions as reported by Sarmiento are surprisingly detailed but include mention of "horse" bones brought back to Cuzco. Since the Inca were, according to El Inca Garcilaso, unfamiliar with and amazed by horses when they encountered the Spanish, surely it must have been some other type of animal. What to make of the gold and brass chair is also unclear, but the "black" people may have been Melanesians? Of course, El Inca Garcilaso's earlier comments about fishing and ships suggest "rudimentary" shipbuilding technology and very little seafaring beyond a short distance from the coast. But coastal populations later subjected by the Inca could have had provided the skills, labor and technology for a large-scale Inca expedition into the Pacific. After all, genetic evidence of contact between populations related to indigenous peoples of Colombia and those in Polynesia hint at contacts, which could have included navigational and sailing knowledge. El Inca Garcilaso even reported a legend about "giants" from across the sea with beards and long hair who stayed on the coast in the distant past. Last but certainly not least, one of the late Inca emperors may have even plotted to conquer as far north as what is now Colombia's Caribbean coast, perhaps illustrating Inca knowledge of the Pacific and Atlantic. 

As for why the Inca of all indigenous civilizations, appealed to Dessalines, who even associated the Indigenous Army with them, a number of theories have been proposed. Since El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega had been available in French and other pro-independence movements had drew from his work and the history of the Incas, perhaps the Haitians were also recalling the past of a grand indigenous empire that, going by El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega's analysis, was an advanced state that administered its territories well. The quasi-utopian society described by the Peruvian probably influenced Dessalines through his educated secretaries and supporters. As proposed by Geggus, perhaps the theory of a Peruvian origin of the Taino that was in a novel published during the Haitian Revolution also contributed to the fascination with the Inca among the Taino. 

Taino Art and Duhos

 

While appreciating some of the brilliant pieces of polychrome ceramics produced in ancient Puerto Rico, included in Mela Pons Alegria's book on Saladoid ceramics, we could not help but notice certain patterns and designs that recur in later Taino art. While some of these similarities may be explained by recurring patterns and geometric designs influenced by hallucinations, others suggest deeply rooted practices and aesthetics that were likely inherited by the later "Taino" civilization. The above piece, a rather remarkable decorative plate with 3 circles, each one with a distinctive central circle within. The circles are organized along a line and each one appears to have what may be legs, perhaps something akin to a frog?

The similar arrangement of 3 circles along a line was a frequent motif in Taino duhos, or stools. While the stools were produced centuries later, the fact that the back often had the similar design of 3 circles is likely significant. Perhaps the 3 circles, representing the Sun, Moon, and horizon, signified the cosmos that was supporting a Taino cacique? The above example, from Hispaniola and reproduced in Arrom's careful study of Taino art and mythology, is one of the best examples of the pinnacle reached by duho sculptures. Other pieces with even more elaborate backs included intricate panel designs with faces. Indeed, the pattern of 3 circles on high-backed duhos can even be seen in stone stools found in Puerto Rico and some of the stools from the Bahamas.

Undoubtedly, the similar designs on duhos from Hispaniola, Puerto Rico and the Bahamas points to some degree of common culture and cultural exchange. In addition, if women were the potters among the Saladoid culture in ancient Puerto Rico as well as the producers of some of these elaborate duhos, as suggested by Pieter Martyr d'Anghiera for the case of Xaragua in Haiti, perhaps female artisans inherited some of the same designs and applied it to a different medium, wood and stone. For instance, one can see stylistic similarities in the faces of anthropomorphic and animal figures in stone trigonolith cemis from Puerto Rico and wooden duhos from Hispaniola. This suggests that the artists of these works were competent with stone, wood and possibly ceramics or pottery. Granted our evidence for women producers of duhos is only available for the inhabitants of La Gonave, but it is suggestive of a possible deeply rooted tradition of circular patterns from pottery adjusted to duhos. 

Thus, in our minds, the consistent pattern of 3 circles on high-backed duhos from 3 different island cultures that shared the "mosaic" of Tainoness points to trade and common origins. The pattern of the 3 circles must have held some deep meaning, which the ancient Hacienda Grande decorative plate may have shared. As mentioned previously, it likely had religious relevance and could have been tied to a common cosmovision. We know the Sun was important in the Taino cosmovision, and perhaps the 3 circles symbolized the stars? Alternatively, the Hacienda Grande pot features what may be legs, perhaps an allusion to frogs or another animal associated with life. In addition, the designs might symbolize life if the squatting position are associated with frogs, water, and birth. 

The remarkable continuity of motifs and styles across different mediums like pottery, stone and wooden sculpture strongly suggest cultural continuity and exchange in Hispaniola, Puerto Rico and the Bahamas. The deeply rooted Saladoid tradition must have influenced subsequent cultural development, particularly in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. Unfortunately, we have not seen more examples of ceramics and sculpture from the Hacienda Grande and other cultures of Puerto Rico, but we suspect like later Taino art, some of the patterns of their ceramics were reproduced in their sculptures.

Our theory, of course, is pure speculation. But it does suggest some possible antiquity to aesthetic styles found on the ornate duhos of Puerto Rico, Hispaniola and the Bahamas. That the symbol was found on the more elaborate of stools, associated with caciques and cohoba ceremonies, one must assume its frequency was related to the Taino cosmovision and spirituality. Despite the several centuries separating the elegant Hacienda Grande pottery and the later duhos, one might see elements of later "Taino" beliefs reflected in their art. 

Gerson Alexis and the Mandingue of Haiti

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 the custom of shared veneration of ancestors must have attracted Haitians from other traditions.

In the Valley of Bainet

Although the Cange of the valley of Bainet are only one group of interest to us, we decided to revisit them in our efforts to piece together the origins of families in that part of Bainet. Again, we were forced to consider that some of the Cange in the valley are indeed descendants of people living there in the colonial era. For instance, Pierre Louis Cange, identified above as the owner of a habitation at Petit Harpon in 1806, was probably the same Pierre Louis Cange born in the valley of Bainet in 1791. 

Baptized in 1792, Pierre Louis was the son of Pierre Louis Cange and Marie Elisabeth Barreau. Interestingly, his godmother was a Bejin or Begein, Marie Jeanne Begein. The Bejin name survived in the valley of Bainet, and Habitation Bejin was where our great-great-grandmother was born. This suggests that the Cange of the valley of Bainet and the Bejin were connected in the late 18th century. Pierre Louis Cange was also still living in the area after independence, too. 

Indeed, it was probably this very same Pierre Louis Cange who registered the birth of a son, Jean Baptiste Cange, in 1826. The godfather of the child, a Julien Cange, is unknown to us but presumably a relative. Nonetheless, the evidence supports the idea that this Pierre Louis Cange was likely the one born in 1791. In addition to him, we have suggested that another Cange in the valley of Bainet, Jean Charles, was probably Jean Charles Celin Cange born in the 1780s in the valley of Bainet. There was also a Barthelemy Cange residing in the valley of Bainet during the 1820s, who served as the godchild of a child of a Francillon and a Varache (of Cange origin). 

Knowing the pattern of naming children after their grandparents, we wonder if a later Barthelemy Cange, born sometime in c.1841 in the valley of Bainet, was related to him. This later Barthelemy Cange, the son of Zamir Cange and Alphonsine Fiefe, married in 1884. His marriage certificate indicates he was 43 years old, so we assume he was probably born in c.1841. His father, Zamir, however, would have been probably born in the 1810s or 1820s, and was perhaps a son of Barthelemy Cange. Considering the longevity of the Fiefe and Cange names in the valley of Bainet, we consider it possible that Zamir was related to our Jean Michel Cange in some form or another. 

We also know that an Alexandre was married to a Marie Therese Cange, having a child together in 1818. Their child had the same godmother, Rose Adelaide Lacour, as a child born in 1804 of a Louise Alexandre in the valley of Bainet with Pierre Minaud. And the godfather of Louise Alexandre's child was a Louis Jean, the same name given to a son of Jean Charles Cange with Marie Jeanne Barthelemy. All of these people, living in the valley, must have known each other, assuming Louis Jean and Louise Alexandre were still around in the 1820s. Jean Baptiste Alexandre, married to Marie Therese Cange, may have been married to one of the Cange related to Pierre Louis or Jean Charles Cange. The godmother of Louise Alexandre's child was the same godmother to Jean Baptiste Alexandre's child, perhaps suggesting that she was a friend or relative of both. Louise Alexandre's child had a godfather named Louis Jean, which was also the name of Jean Charles Cange's son born in 1825. And last but certainly not least, the godfather of Jean Charles Cange's son was a Desire Alexandre. Our theory is that Jean Michel Cange and Cherilise Alexandre may have been a product of these Cange and Alexandre families.

El Cacique

A legend of the mountain peak, Cacique, quoted in full by Fewkes in The Aborigines of Porto Rico and Neighboring Islands, is said to represent Indian retentions in Puerto Rican folklore. Indeed, according to Fewkes, the folklore of the peasantry in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic was a rich area of research into Indian cultural survival in the region. While the jibaros living in the region of Yunque are not described in any ethnographic detail by Fewkes, the legend, first recorded by "Federico Vall y Spinosa" in a San Juan newspaper, may indeed represent a fragment of Indian belief or traditions. 

In the case of this modern legend, the mountain peak called El Cacique is said to have what is considered a cave. Popular legend or tradition claims this area was once inhabited by King Cacique, who ruled the northern coast of the island in the days when spirits wandered the land. Through a deal from the devil, or El Enemigo, he was later trapped in the cave at the peak of El Cacique, with his wife and daughter. This story includes supernatural events such as the flight of the the cacique and the devil to the mountain peak, where the former is trapped by the latter. The moral of this story seems to be a warning to avoid those who seek to distract one from one's path or labor, which the cacique failed to do this one time. However, trapped in the mountain cave, he at least received the company of his wife and daughter. The daughter, a princess, escaped through a hole in the cave and received honey from a man named Juan. Later, when the devil discovered this, he tried to close the aperture but compromised, allowing the princess to, one day per year, talk to a Juan on the feast day of Saint John. 

The above legend clearly features elements drawn from Catholic and perhaps European folklore. The "Indian" element, however, seems significant due to the ritual importance of caves in Taino mythology and legends. This cacique or King Cacique appears to have lived in some distant past when spirits still wandered the earth, or before historic times. However, his daughter was able to interact with a man named Juan, suggesting the legend probably should be considered to describe conditions in the 16th century. The devil, represented by El Enemigo, and the moral of the story, seems to be rather Christian in nature, too. Nonetheless, the fact that the king is considered a cacique trapped in a cave could be representing, through a Christianized peasant understanding, how the devil (perhaps a cemi) had misguided the Indian leader into a sinful path. Consequently, the chief was trapped in the cave and could not escape. His daughter, however, one day per year, gets to speak and this legend might explain why some heard voices (or what they considered voices) speaking from this cave. 

So, while this legend may reflect Indian traditions, it's probably an example of a Christian interpretation of Taino religion. Since we know caves were important in Taino mythology and sometimes the site of rituals, the fact that King Cacique was led by the El Enemigo is probably an example of a Christian interpretation of the cemis as demonic entities corrupting Indian life. Intriguingly, another traveler who visited the sierra de Luquillo in the 1800s also wrote about a "Cueva de los Indios." In 1870, Jose Maria Gutierrez de Alba's Apuntes de Viaje de San Juan de Puerto Rico a la sierra de Luquillo was published. Although not reporting legends of the jibaros in the area, he described a certain cave of the Indians, possibly the El Cacique peak. On page 25, he wrote, 

Habíanme asegurado con toda la buena fé del mundo, que en aquella cueva encontraría restos muy notables de antigüedades indias, que sus paredes conservaban aun gravadas ciertas figuras alegóricas que 'nadie podia descifrar ; que al rededor de la gruta, había asientos tallados en la roca, donde sin duda los habitantes primitivos debían celebrar sus misteriosas asambleas, y por último, que hasta hallaría restos de sepulcros de aquella época remota, que no podrían menos de darme alguna luz sobre una dé las manifestaciones que mas carácter suelen tener, entre los pueblos salvajes.

However, upon investigation of the cave, he found no evidence of Indian artifacts or human presence. However, knowing what we know of caves as important, sacred places in Taino mythology, and that Taino artifacts were discovered by peasants in caves, the legend of the King Cacique and his daughter may have been inspired by similar cave sites elsewhere in Puerto Rico. Sites with evidence of petroglyphs, seats or duhos, sculptures and other finds. Indeed, according to Fewkes, peasants in Puerto Rico associated Indian cave pictographs with gods or spirits, suggesting that peasants viewed the cave site at El Cacique as a similar abode for spirits. Thus, the actual Taino religion, by this time long gone except for elements that merged with European and African traditions, was an influence on peasant folklore in a way that both maintained and demonized aspects of indigenous belief. 

The Jibaro's Indian Inheritance

Although Jose Colomban Rosario's 1935 MA thesis, The Development of the Puerto Rican Jibaro and his Present Attitude Towards Society is rather dated and relies on a problematic framework, it is actually a worthwhile read for strong legacy of the indigenous peoples of the island. Despite viewing the jibaro as a problem in need of solutions for Puerto Rico to achieve true progress, there are number of interesting observations on the historical development of the jibaro to support the theory of significant Amerindian (cultural) survivals. While the author often neglects or treats the African inheritance as an afterthought among the jibaro and he occasionally posits that the jibaro is mainly of Spanish "racial" stock, there are even allusions to indigenous phenotypical features and miscegenation that suggest the jibaro culture was very much an "Indian-Spanish" one with African influences.

First, the biological and cultural inheritance. Rosario alludes to the 1530 de Lando census's enumeration of 14 vecinos who were married to Indian women. Of course, there must have been a far higher number of Spanish males involved with Indian women as concubines due to the paucity of European and African women in those days in the colony. Evidence such as the mestiza heir of Antonio Sedeño also suggests that many mestizo children were born in the first century of the colony. These mestizos, in addition to indigenous survivors of the colonial conquest wars and encomienda system, bequeathed much of their culture (and genes) to what later emerged as the Puerto Rican people. Africans, according to the occasionally racist perspective of Rosario, who often quotes extensively from Bryan Edwards, were less influential due to their low status as slaves and their quick assimilation into this "Indian-Spanish" hybrid culture. Colonial society, with the decline and imperial neglect of the later 1500s and the remainder of the colonial period, saw the spread of the population across the island in isolated patterns with Spanish settlers (and their descendants) adopting Indian customs and practices of domestic architecture, agriculture, musical instrumentation and other aspects of material culture. Indeed, a jibaro bohio without hammocks, music without guiro and maracas and the use of the machete to serve the same function as the coa of the Taino was rather rare. 

Intriguingly, yucca was not a major staple of the jibaro diet. Instead of yucca and the old Taino casabe, the jibaro as encountered by Rosario was more likely to rely on rice, beans, green bananas, codfish, sweet potato and yams with only rare consumption of meat or eggs. In this respect, the jibaro diet was probably less nutritious than that of their indigenous forebears, despite the addition of European domesticates in the island. The high rates of disease, lack of medical care, insufficient diet, and low wages and lack of land ownership ensured the jibaro family operated at subsistence levels. In temrs of family structure and relations between the sexes, the jibaro practice of concubinage may also, in part, stem from indigenous influences. While the Spanish and African inheritance also included concubinage and polygamy, the relatively wealthy jibaro with a woman or two on the side may also be a product of their indigenous ancesetry. After all, caciques and some nitainos had multiple wives. In addition, records from the encomienda era point to Indian men at the Real Hacienda de Toa who had more than one woman as a sexual partner and marriage was not widely practiced. This same feature was noted among the jibaro by Rosario, as consensual marriages were still very common. 

In addition to the adoption of much of indigenous cultures and practices, actual biological descent from the indigenes was even remembered in oral traditions by some jibaros interviewed by Rosario. The father of one child in Utuado with conspicuous "Indian" features reported that the great-grandmother of the boy was an Indian woman from the mountains of Lares, seized by a Spaniard and having a number of "half-breed" children with him. Lares, not far from Maricao and other regions which were documented as having "Indians" as late as the early 19th century, when the boy's great-grandmother probably met the Spaniard, must have had a sizable population of "Indians" or people who considered themselves as such, to be remembered by jibaro descendants in the early decades of the 20th century. The jibaro man reporting this "Indian" ancestor was probably not alone. This means that perhaps many jibaro of that region of Puerto Rico remembered indigenous ancestry. Furthermore, Utuado was one of the regions of the island noted by Fewkes to possess a significant number of people with marked "Indian" features. This suggests that the tale of Indian ancestry reported by Rosario from one jibaro family was likely common among other jibaros of the region of Utuado, which combined with cultural survivals of the indigenous past, point to the significant "mestizo" element of jibaro origins. It is unfortunate that more oral traditions were not collected from jibaros of this region of the island to collect more family histories of Indian ancestry. Perhaps these oral traditions and folklore could have some bearing on our understanding of cultural identity, race, and popular culture in colonial Puerto Rico. 

While the indigenous legacy is most evident in the material culture of the jibaro, Rosario's study hints at possible legacies in religion and spirituality. The jibaro, for example, frequently consulted the spirits through mediums for cures or solutions to their problems. Of course, some of these practices also have European and African influences, but the Taino traditions of behiques, cemis and ritual healing likely influenced this. Similarly, Salvador Brau's report that the jibaro believed that spirits of the dead roamed the Earth at night could also be, in part, a remnant of Taino belief (despite obvious parallels with African and European beliefs and superstitions). Due to the promotion of Roman Catholicism by the colonial government for centuries, the official religion of most jibaros was Catholic. However, they rarely went to mass, lived isolation from churches, and seemed to associate religious celebrations of the saints with less pious festivities. Indeed, jibaros loved the celebrations on the feast days of particular saints, often providing time for dances, banquets, racing, "sinful profanities" and and celebrations. However, the celebration of the saints was possibly also a survival of Taino and Spanish religious practices. Instead of God, the jibaro prays to the saints for intercession and assistance. These saints may have replaced the cemi just as the Spanish traditions of venerating the saints undoubtedly influenced Puerto Rican Catholicism. In the Puerto Rican context, Rosario cites an interesting example from the colonial era that may reflect Indian-Spanish fusion of belief. In this case, festivities and masses for Saint Patrick were believed to protect yucca from worm infestations. The process in which this saint was chosen to protect the cassava from infestation was believed to be a miracle or result of divine intervention and was actually decided upon by the episcopate of the island. Nonetheless, in 1641, worms attacked the cassava crop after less than enthusiastic festivities for Saint Patrick, so a grand festival was held in his honor to protect the cassava. This anecdote from the 17th century possibly hints at a spiritual blending of ancient Taino and Spanish Catholic customs. We know from Hispaniola in the 1490s that some Taino used wooden images of Catholic saints to promote the growth of crops, an earlier instance of Taino adoption of the Catholic saints in their own framework. Perhaps the jibaro also believed that Saint Patrick required faithful veneration and tribute in order to earn his protection or assistance, a legacy of the indigenous past.

Last, but certainly not least, music and dance among the jibaro suggest indigenous survivals. Rosario quotes Manuel Alonso on the "Indian" features in the garabato dances. We already know that the guiro and maraca were of Indian origin. While the Spanish guitar, decima, and "African" cuatro and bailes de bomba were very much a part of musical culture, the Indian areito or areyto may have survived in the long dances of the jibaro. The Indian dances of the pre-Hispanic past were known to persist for several hours and to be associated with recording history of caciques and for major festivities. The jibaro dance similarly could last all night and could be associated with religious celebrations or secular purposes. The jibaro dance used some of the same instrumentation as those of the areyto and, according to Agustin Stahl, probably represents a remnant of the areito. Naturally, the jibaro dance lost some of the grandeur of the areito, but their length, mixture of secular and religious motivations, maintenance of indigenous instruments, and function as a major pole for bringing people together could also represent indigenous legacies. In addition, the function of decimas and oral poetry that described events and people, while a Spanish legacy, could also have adopted aspects of indigenous areitos and oral history. Perhaps the early campesinos, as Spanish became the dominant language, found it more expedient to adopt Spanish forms like the decima as the lavish areitos of the indigenous past were less common and harder to organize as campesinos lived further apart and lost the village life of the yucayeque. The batey, too, once associated with the ballgame and areito, became just the area cleared of weeds in front of one's house, no longer the center of a community in which community-wide events took place. 

In summation, Rosario's study presents evidence from historical and ethnographic observations that support a significant Indian influence on the jibaro. Some of this evidence points to biological inheritance, which is further supported by genetics and genealogical research. Cultural continuity from the indigenous past to the present can be seen in material culture, music, spirituality and family structure. Of course, to properly address this question of Taino influences upon the jibaro, modern scholars would have to collect more oral traditions. In addition, a serious consideration of African influences is also necessary to avoid the racial bias and omissions of past scholarship. The African influences in this work are usually an afterthought, and this in spite of the author pointing to African survivals in the funeral practices, music, and regard for parents and elders among the jibaro. In order to properly ascertain, to the extent possible, our indigenous legacy, one must not reject the African root. Furthermore, a detailed study of spirit mediums, healing, and popular Catholicism must also be undertaken to fully investigate the matter.

Annales du Roi Yohannes I

Although the Gondarine era of the Solomonic Dynasty has long been an area of interest, we are only recently digging into more of the European translations of primary sources from that era. In this case, Guidi's French translation of the chronicle of Yohannes, who reigned from 1667 to 1682, serves as a brief introduction to royal chronicles from this era in Ethiopian history. The son of Fasiladas, a number of important events and developments occurred during the reign of Yohannes. Yohannes, for example, finally expelled the "Franks" or remnants of the Luso-Ethiopian population. Perhaps to maintain the image of the Emperor as just, pious, and peace-loving, the chronicler attributes the expulsion to agitation among the mons of Ethiopia. Thus, decades after the end of the Jesuit mission, the legacy of religious strife and conflict with Roman Catholicism lingered in Ethiopia's monastic circles. As for the remnants of the "Franks" in Ethiopia, they were marched toward Sennar, in today's Sudan, and their firearms were supposedly kept by the Ethiopians. Only those who converted to Ethiopian Christianity were allowed to stay. Franks who came to Ethiopia to promote Roman Catholicism were even executed, as happened to "Franks" who endeavored to pass as Egyptians. Yohannes also decreed residential segregation, forcing Muslims, Falasha and Turks to live in separate quarters or areas instead of cohabiting the same quarters as Christians. To what extent this was actually implemented across the kingdom is unclear. 

The son of Fasiladas also attempted to unify the Church through councils that promoted a single view on the nature of Christ and the Trinity. These theological disputes and debates led to the development of "heretics" in Lasta who opposed Yohannes. In addition, the "pagan" Agaw rebelled against the Solomonic authority while occasional rebellions, Oromo attacks, "Paysan" revolts, conspiracies from members of the royal family and monk rebels threatened royal authority. Interestingly, the chronicler of Yohannes mentions the strategic practice of deforestation to clear paths and subdue Agaw rebels. In addition, Yohannes used his authority and court-affiliated Church leaders to promote unity in religious doctrine and attempt to reunify the state. Indeed, it was quite amazing how Yohannes managed to find enough time to spend the rainy season in Gondar after so much time in most years of his reign campaigning across the empire. In fact, one of the rebels, Fares, even invited the ruler of Adal to help dethrone Yohannes. Certain iniquitous persons in Gondar even promoted discord between Yohannes and his future successor, Iyasu I. 

Since the chronicle is written from an official standpoint, and must, to a certain extent, only record what the emperor or his successor would have allowed to be written, one must look at other types of sources to assist with the reconstruction of Solomonic Ethiopia under Yohannes. For example, looking to Egyptian, Funj, Ottoman, Portuguese, and other sources certainly elucidates aspects of this era hidden or peripheral to the interests of royal chronicles. Since the chronicles also very much depict the ruler as a legitimate heir to Solomon and ruling in accordance with Christian principles, Yohannes emerges as a just, generous, wise, capable, God-fearing man with few or no faults. One must wonder if he really was not the driving force behind the incarceration of his siblings when he acceded to the throne. Likewise, one must wonder about the conflicts between him and his son, or for that matter, between him and some of the peoples against whom he campaigned throughout his time on the throne. Nonetheless, his ability to maintain some degree of stability after the foundations established by Fasiladas is a testament to his capability to reign effectively. Unfortunately for him, it seems that Ethiopian Christianity, perhaps due to the recent controversies and conflict with the Jesuits, was set on course for more internal conflicts which contributed to the weakening of royal authority. As long as the Gondar-period rulers were competent, some degree of balance could be maintained between the various warring segments of the Church, state, and provinces. When that was lost, all centrifugal tendencies were intensified.