Cric Crac

 

Georges Sylvain's Cric? Crac!: Fables de La Fontaine racontées par un montagnard haïtien et transcrites en vers créoles is a fascinating work. More of a reimagining or adaptation than a faithful translation, Sylvain Haitianizes La Fontaine while satirizing and reflecting upon Haitian society. While several stories or fables are recognizable, they usually have Haitian settings, include Haitian Creole proverbs, and allude to historical or social factors of Haiti life. For instance, setting some stories during the reign of Emperor Soulouque, using Bois-Verna as a setting, or referencing popular songs of the day throughout the fables. The best fables are those with direct implications to the state of Haitian society. For instance, the tale of the shepherd and his two goats who mistakenly thinks he can, through contraband and illegal trade at the port, become wealthy, learns the hard way to forsake a life of dishonesty. Clearly, the widespread practice of contraband was a recognized ill of Haitian society and the economy to Sylvain. 

Similarly, one of the last fables includes a farmer telling his three sons to work hard and maintain their farm, also passing on a story of buried treasure from colonial times. The sons dig and search persistently, but after failing to find it, continue to cultivate the land left by their father. The three brothers become prosperous and overtime, learn that the real treasure was land and their labor to make it prosperous. Similarly, the tale of the woman from Bois-Verna who dreams of selling milk and becoming a wealthy food vendor who dresses up for the balls in Bel-Air, learns the hard way to not get distracted by dreams when in the middle of her task. These vignettes and fables in Creole and French offer a poignant social commentary on the problems facing the country at the beginning of the 20th century. Of course, they are filtered through the lens of an elite male writer who borrows from the montagnard narrator and Haitian oral traditions to offer this perspective.

Other fables reference the belief that the poor or lower-classes should stay in their place or avoid the the corrupting influence the state, usually through animal fables. Unsurprisingly, there is a strong sense of justice as well as a conservative stance reflected in these tales. Ultimately, the lower-classes are supposed to know their place, be productive (useful, laborious), and stay out of politics or intrigue. Vodou, surprisingly, makes an appearance here or there or in the story when referencing music or popular customs. However, Sylvain seems ambivalent about these aspects of Haitian culture, perhaps simply including them because they were a real part of everyday culture in those times. Nonetheless, it is interesting to finally read this and think back on the lodyans of Lherisson and Antoine Innocent's novel. Written around the same time, each of these 3 authors wrote a "national" literature that reflected Haitian language, culture, spirituality, and worldview. Lherisson, despite not completely writing in Creole, was perhaps the most successful in terms of capturing the linguistic question while offering a more successful satirical look on the state of Haiti. 

Vodou Adjaie

Hearing this brings back to mind our youth. Not that we were ever huge fans, but a parent loved listening to this band back in the 1990s. There's even a nice tribute to the Taino.

Ollanta

Markham's undoubtedly dated translation of Ollanta: An Ancient Ynca Drama from 1871 is an interesting read. Firmly believing that the play was preserved orally from precolonial times, probably during the reign of Topa Inca Yupanqui or Huayna Capac, Markham sees the play as one of the few or only surviving theatrical works from the time of the Incas. Indeed, we know from sources such as Garcilaso de la Vega and the eventual colonial suppression of it after Tupac Amaru's rebellion that theatrical works from and about the Inca past were preserved. Sadly, the version of Ollanta, here based on the surviving manuscripts written down in the 1700s and 1800s, appear to be a condensed or incomplete version. Inexplicably, ten years pass before the eventual reunion of the lovers Ollanta and Cusi Coyllur. The battles between the general sent by the Inca to defeat Ollanta after his revolt are quickly glossed over. One would think that the original narrative included more scenes or episodes for a fully fleshed story. The play also seems to contain an implicit critique of Pachacuti for his excessive punishment of his daughter yet the Inca is presented as the source of all moral authority and order. Why is it that his son, the Topa Inca Yupanqui, who eventually pardons Ollanta for his revolt in Antisuyu and promotes him to the highest rank, is presented as the complete opposite? Is the message here that the Incas were not infallible, and access to the higher ranks could be opened, rarely, to those without aristocratic backgrounds if they proved their merit?

An Account of the Antiquities of Peru

 

Although far shorter and featuring cruder artwork, Juan de Santa Cruz Pachacuti-Yamqui Salcamayhua's "An Account of the The Antiquities of Peru" is a fascinating historical source on the Incas. Written from the perspective of an elite Indian Christian, it offers an interesting perspective on the precolonial past with some similarities and differences from Guaman Poma's more detailed chronicle. Unlike Guaman Poma, there is no indication that this Indian writer had an obvious political motive for writing his brief account, except perhaps as a Christianized indigenous perspective on the rise and fall of the Incas. Indeed, the author's Christianity has profoundly shaped and perhaps distorted the history of the Incas who, at various times, were presented as opponents to the huacas, idolatry and demons which had plunged Peru into heathenism before the Spanish conquest. 

It would appear that our chronicler hear believed Viracocha may have been St. Thomas, the apostle, an idea also found in Guaman Poma's work. According to this Christianized interpretation of Viracocha, the apostle promoted the worship of the Creator or universal Creator while opposing idolatry and the worship of huacas throughout Peru. This Tonapa, another name reported for this figure Juan de Santa Cruz merges with St. Thomas, is attributed an important role in the origin of the Incas since it is his staff that is inherited by Manco Capac. In other words, the Incas were, early on, at least, exposed to some ideas of a single God or Creator. The chronicler, however, appears to consistently mistake the worship for the Sun with the worship of the Creator, causing a number of problems in his portrayal of this or that Inca ruler as an enemy to the huacas. Nonetheless, some of his reports of Incas opposed to huacas from one province or another may reflect historical moments in which the religious policy of the Inca state opposed those of other peoples or provinces. Other moments in the lives of the Inca seem a little questionable or perhaps of Biblical inspiration. For instance, the report of Manco Capac sacrificing his son to receive a sign from the Creator bears an uncanny resemblance to the Judeo-Christian Abraham. 

Overall, this brief account provides the usual overview of the lives and deeds of the Incas, with some occasionally rich detail, report of a miracle or exceptional event. The Incas were occasionally corrupt and unjust, abusing, exploiting and promoting idolatry. Others, however, established good laws and supported the worship of the Creator. By the end of the Empire, Huascar, portrayed as more sinful and incompetent than Atahualpa, is presented as so corrupt as to allow men to have their way with the virgins in the square of Cuzco. The Spanish conquest, therefore, helps to reestablish monotheism and the "true faith" as the "Viracochas" return with the Bible. Perhaps the believe that Tonapa was St. Thomas was a way to reconcile the brutal shock of two different worlds when Pizarro arrived? By accepting Christianity, they were just returning to the ways of Tonapa that they had deviated from under the Incas. Does this also help to understand what the sources are indicating when they claim Tonapa carried a book with him during his travels? Was this mysterious "book" in precolonial Peru a reference to what they would later know as the Bible? Or some other type of holy text and writing besides the usual records in khipu? 

Aji Caribe

An amazing salsa number from a Venezuelan group, Septeto Karibe, this song includes some irresistible percussion.

Bam pam san douce

A classic mereng recorded by Dodof Legros. Trying to find the origins of this song is difficult, but a song of the same name was published by Fernand Frangeul. If so, this means the song probably dates back to the early 1900s. Did Legros sing an altered or modernized arrangement of it? All we learn from Constantin Dumerve is that the piece was a popular tune.

Polo de Ondegardo's Report

The unfortunately brief report of Polo de Ondegardo, included in Markham's Narratives of the Rites and Laws of the Yncas in a probably problematic translation, is an interesting read on the Inca Empire and colonial Peru. Written by one who had traveled and benefited from close observation of Inca records (quipu), monuments, shrines and traditions, Polo de Ondegardo's report and lost writings must have been a major source of information for subsequent Spanish chroniclers. While too brief to offer a full breakdown on the Incas, de Ondegardo reasonably traces the origin of the Incas back 350-400 years before his time. Relying on their memory of their history as preserved in their quipus, he traces Inca expansion to the successes of Pachacuti and his successors. Indeed, according to him, the wars of expansion of the Incas were recorded in the registers of the Incas, presumably the quipu. What is somewhat unique, at least from what we can recall of our readings of the chronicles on the Incas, is the allusion to the mother of Pachacuti. In Polo de Ondegardo's retelling, Pachacuti's mother had a dream in which the initial success of the Chancas against the Incas was due to the Incas showing greater veneration to the Sun than the universal Creator. Thus, in this version of that pivotal moment in Inca history, Pachacuti's mother was important for her dream which led to the Incas showing greater dedication to the Creator. 

The rest of the brief report offers a number of observations on the Inca system of taxation, tribute, land ownership in ayllus, and the administrative success of the state. Polo de Ondegardo clearly was describing these things since the Spanish Crown succeeded the Incas as the legitimate rulers of Peru, and borrowing from the Inca system offered a model for creating an orderly colonial system. Instead of, say, taxation that ignored the precolonial system, which led to an unjust burden, following the Inca practice could pave the way for a more stable colony. Indeed, the Inca system of tribute was, in some ways, less onerous and more favorable to the common good. In fact, those who worked the lands for the service of religion or the Inca, ate and drink at the cost of the Inca. In addition, the impressive efficiency of the Inca postal system and their custom of preserving forests, hunting grounds, and protecting the population of their livestock all seemed like excellent practices the Spanish should adopt. One cannot help but detect some admiration for the Inca when de Ondegardo reports that the Incas sometimes received fish from the coast of Tumbez via their roads and postal system. 

Jean Fouchard and the Meringue

Fernand Frangeul from Histoire de la musique en Haïti by Constantin Dumervé

Jean Fouchard's La méringue, danse nationale d'Haïti is another one of his interesting and infuriating works on Haitian history and culture. In this work, Fouchard focuses on the méringue as a national dance intimately linked to the history and culture of Haiti since the colonial period. Tracing its development from the chica, calenda, and the fusion of sorts that occurred between the chica of African origin (probably of Central African provenance) and the menuet (and contredanse), the early antecedent of the méringue, the carabinier, was likely born by the late 18th century. Surely, the carabinier was around before its earliest written attestation in 1824. Furthermore, Fouchard's deconstruction of the legendary story of the carabinier's creation during the 1805 siege of Santo Domingo is quite persuasive. The campaign was brief and while that particular mistress of the Emperor was likely present for the campaign, other sources point to the popular dance resembling the contredanse already popular in the balls attended by Dessalines in 1805. In other words, Dessalines, an avid dancer and man with many mistresses in various towns across the nation, was indeed fond of the carabinier. But the carabinier appears to have already been in existence before the 1805 campaign and was, based on descriptions of its rhythm and movement, a creolized descendant of the chica with European menuet or contredanse influences. The voluptuous, sensuous chica and its fusion with dances and instruments of European origin mastered by some slaves and free people of color were popular, alongside with the sacred and profane Vodou and other forms of African dance. 

Thus establishing the origin of the earliest méringue by the end of the colonial era, Fouchard posits that the meringue developed from the carabinier Fouchard associates the early carabinier with the bal or balanced rhythmic version particularly popular with Henri Christophe's court and the carnaval version that was used by the carnaval bands, for coundialle, and the type of music commonly heard in the streets. Rejecting theories of a significant Spanish influence, at least before the 1920s with the invasion of jazz, Cuban music, and Dominican merengue, Fouchard more reasonably asserts a Haitian origin of the Dominican merengue. Indeed, citing Dominican sources, which trace the origin of their merengue to the 1820s, and appearing as merengue after 1844, Fouchard believes the Haitian carabinier was the basis for the méringue and merengue. Like the later méringue of Haiti, carabinier was also associated with popular songs and satires lampooning politicians, mistresses of powerful politicians, or others. Fouchard cites a few examples of these poking fun at the Haitian president in 1844 as well as others poking fun at various late 19th century or early 20th century presidents. In addition, some carabinier-méringue may have melodies that originally developed from French berceuses that possibly traveled to Cuba and Louisiana with the exodus of Saint Dominguans during the Haitian Revolution. Fouchard mentions a few interesting examples of this that traveled to Cuba with Saint Dominguans then later returned to Haiti.

By the 1840s, Haitian meringue and merengue were taking form. In Haiti, carabinier was still used to describe the dance in the 1860s by Ducas Hyppolite and Spencer St. John. Nonetheless, Fouchard postulates that the introduction of new instruments by the 1840s and the suspicion around the word carabinier after Izidor Gabriel's conspiracy favored the use of the word meringue. The clarinet especially became popular for bands playing meringue music. Indeed, an early example of a Haitian composition using the word meringue is a song composed by Occide Jeanty's father, Occilius, in 1860. As further evidence against the Dominican origin of the Haitian meringue is the Dominican versions's absence in the list of Dominican influences Ducas Hyppolite encountered in 1863 at Mirebalais. If the Dominican version was the origin of the Haitian meringue, why was it not present near the Haitian border in the 1860s? The Spanish influences, particularly from danza or the habanera, appear to actually have been limited to some of the salon pianists like Ludovic Lamothe, and not representative of the majority of popular meringues such as "Nibo" or the music of Candio. 

Therefore, the Haitian meringue was simply a modified version of the old carabinier dance already so popular since the end of the colonial period in Haiti. Its name, according to Fouchard, is not of French origin but may have derived from the mouringue dance of the Bara of Madagascar. Sadly, the evidence for this is not as strong as Fouchard wants us to believe, though there were enslaved Africans from Mozambique and Madagascar in Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, it is certainly possible that the name for the dance comes from Africa while its actual development was a local creation in Saint Domingue and early Haiti. The fact that by the mid-1800s a dance called meringue or merengue was found in Haiti, Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico cannot be a coincidence. The name may indeed derive from the accepted French source, but became the name for similar dances based on the creolized contredanse that was already present around the Caribbean. 

The rest of Fouchard's observations on Haitian music are interesting yet perhaps limited by his nationalist bias. In his desire to construct Haitian music's legitimacy on the foundation of tradition, he sees the jazz, Cuban, and compas as deviations, especially the first two whose consumption spread in Haiti at the same time as the US Occupation and Jean Price-Mars's indigenism. That said, there is a kind of irony to this moment where just as some Haitians were looking to Vodou, folklore and what was considered traditionally Haitian, the youth were drawn to jazz, Cuban styles, and the spread of radio and recorded music favored this. The meringue, of course, stayed relevant throughout Haitian history. Indeed, even our elites with their bovarysme collectif still preserved it as the closer of concerts and dances while the masses never forgot it. Indeed, even the contredanse and carabinier are remembered in the countryside dances. Ultimately, our "national dance" is closely linked to the history of our people, but has not been static. One wishes Fouchard had been able to explore more deeply the various incarnations of the meringue since the mid-19th century until the 1970s, exploring how its popular and elite manifestations diverged and their relationship with other forms of dance in Haiti. 

Juan de Betanzos and the Incas

Juan de Betanzos's Narrative of the Incas is yet another chronicle by a Spaniard on the history of the Inca Empire. The advantage of this chronicle is that it was composed in the 1550s and its author was married to a woman who was a mistress of Pizarro and a wife to Atahualpa. Through her and her elite Inca relatives and connections, Betanzos undoubtedly received many traditions and narratives on the past of the Inca Empire. By and large, he provides what became the standard account of Inca origins beginning with Pacaritambo and the early Inca kings or rulers If one reads between the lines, there may be a story of conflict among the 4 brothers and their wives who left Pacaritambo since one of them, Ayar Cache, was tricked into returning to the cave and trapped.. He has less to say on the period preceding Pachacuti and that final century of imperial expansion. Basically, Pachacuti established all the greatest aspects of Inca civilization, laws and urban planning in Cuzco and beyond. Indeed, Betanzos credits him with rebuilding Cuzco, establishing storehouses, building the Temple of the Sun, and probably with the practice of reciting narrative poems on the exploits of past Inca rulers at their statues. His role in the creation of an Empire after the defeat of the Chancas is undoubtedly idealized. Indeed, according to Betanzos's informants, Pachacuti was so great that he applied the laws equally to nobles and commoners alike. 

The rest of the first part of the chronicle covers the conquest of Quito, wars and conflicts against rebel provinces or peoples, the Andesuyo campaign against Amazonian peoples, and Pachacuti's prediction of the Spanish conquest after the reign of Huayna Capac. The ethnographic details reported in the Andesuyo campaign are fascinating since the description of its people reveals similar customs with those of indigenous people in the Caribbean (storing the bones of deceased relatives on the top of the wall of one's home). Perhaps the Incas also saw the "naked" Amazonians as savage, too, since they were reported to be lazy cannibals. Yet from their region gold dust, jaguars, parrots, amaro snakes and Amazonian people were brought to Cuzco. I could be entirely wrong here, but I wonder if Guaman Poma de Ayala's reference to an Inca ruler who could transform into a jaguar was actually a reference to the brother of Topa Inca Yupanque. According to Juan de Betanzos, this brother was famous for killing a jaguar and then actually ate Amazonian enemies after their rebellion. Maybe there's some kinda mystical or shamanistic belief that this guy, Inca Achache, actually "became" a jaguar when he killed/ate enemies. And somehow Guaman Poma mixed him up with his brother? This leads one to think about the subtle changes in the portrayal of the Incas in the different oral traditions.

The rest of the chronicle covers the conflict between Huascar and Atahualpa and the Spanish conquest. Perhaps due to the bias of his wife, who was in Atahualpa's camp, Huascar is portayed as an alcoholic and incompetent ruler who triggered the disastrous war with his half-brother. Atahualpa, also apparently drunk at inopportune times, was more skilled and had excellent generals and warriors that defeated Huascar. The Spanish, of course, benefit from the confusion caused by the belief of some that they were viracochas and the recent war between Atahualpa and Huascar. The long, murderous section on this violent end of the empire largely ignores the conflict between Pizarro and Almagro but ends while describing the Vilcabamba Incas. Sadly, a black woman of Diego Mendez, who warned the Inca that his Spanish allies were about to betray him, was killed after the assassination of the Inca. Overall, some of Betanzos's account of this period is difficult to follow and certainly reflects the bias of his informants. But it is interesting to think about what would have happened if Atahualpa had not been captured by Pizarro. Would he have finished the move of the capital from Cuzco to Quito? Would the war-torn empire have been able to recover and survive longer into the 16th century?

Tombouctou et l'empire Songhay

Sékéné Mody Cissoko's Tombouctou et l'empire Songhay is a fascinating yet problematic work. Originally published in the 1970s, and by an author who accepted the theories of Cheikh Anta Diop and believed in the need of connecting postcolonial African nation-states to their precolonial past, the Songhay Empire is presented as the apogee of Western Sudanese civilization. We are led to believe or accept a number of premises, including that the Songhay state was a modernizing one and that the pyramidal character of buildings and mosque construction in the region may be a reflection of connections with Ancient Egypt. Cissoko also asserts that the level of learning at Timbuktu was comparable to a university, despite his acknowledgement that the city lacked the madrasas characteristic of Egypt or the Maghreb and the decentralized nature of instruction which emphasized Islamic religious education or law. In addition, Timbuktu, as the intellectual and economic capital of the vast Sudanese empire, characterized the Islamic influence that was largely marginal or absent in the South and east of the Empire. Indeed, Cissoko's work reflects this dichotomous view of Songhay civilization as one torn between the "high" Islamic culture and literacy of the towns and western provinces versus the found of traditional beliefs and religions in areas like Dendi. In fact, Sonni Ali's infamous relations with the ulama of Timbuktu is presented as an example of anticlericalism while the Sonni were and are associated with magic or sorcery in the "traditional" Songhay culture. 

Despite it's flaws, perhaps Cissoko's synthesis is worthwhile as a testament to the methodology and value postcolonial African historians practiced with regard to the Western Sudan. Cissoko clearly sought to balance the usual written sources with oral traditions and ethnographic work based on his own work and that of scholars like Jean Rouch and Boubou Hama. While it was not especially successful in Cissoko's case, and perhaps he overstates the "clash" between "animist" traditional religion and Islam, Cissoko's study raises a number of relevant historical questions and contemporary dilemmas. For instance, is it true that the Songhay Empire, at its zenith under the Askias, created a modern state in which the rulership was independent and dissociated from the individual with a greater degree of political centralization? The evidence utilized by our author, mainly restricted to the Tarikhs, al-Maghili's responses to Askia Muhammad and Leo Africanus, do not suffice to adequately answer this question. Furthermore, if the masses of the population of Songhay were slaves, why was it not a slave society? Surely the lack of sufficient documentation makes the demographic analysis of Cissoko questionable, particularly in his high estimates for Timbuktu's population. 

Furthermore, one could ask if it is a fair portrayal of the bourgeoisie marchande in Cissoko's analysis? Was it true that they did not invest their profits locally into things like land, new enterprises, or industries that could have revolutionized the economy? If 16th century Songhay truly enjoyed such a prolonged period of commercial success and growth, is it fair to make Cissoko's generalization given our paucity of sources? One can see how Cissoko thought addressing that question would be rather relevant to 20th century postcolonial Malian or African readers of his work. As their postcolonial states sought economic growth or development with different models, perhaps Cissoko's critique of the alleged wastefulness of the Askias and Songhay elites had more to do with the modern political and economic elites in Mali. That said, Cissoko's study does offer a (dated) comprehensive overview of the Songhay Empire that raises a number of interesting questions. We shall endeavor to explore some of those questions with Michał Tymowski. Subsequent authors have perhaps more delicately sought a balance in the "traditional" Songhay worldview and the Islamic culture represented by Timbuktu and Djenne in the Western Sudan. 

Mestizos and Zambos of San Juan de la Maguana

While perusing Exquemelin on the boucaniers, we came across another reference to Indians, mestizos and zambos in 17th century Hispaniola. According to Exquemelin, St. John of Goave, presumably San Juan de la Maguana, was a village with a mixed-race population of mulatos, mestizos and zambos. Instead of zambo, Exquemelin uses the word alcatraz, the first time we have encountered that term for people of African and indigenous ancestry. While too brief to be very useful, this mention of people of indigenous ancestry in the 2nd half of the 17th century demonstrates Taino survival well into the colonial era. It may also contribute to our understanding of the belief in Indian spirits and Taino customs evident in modern Dominican belief and spirituality in the area of San Juan de la Maguana. 

Muisca, Nicarago and Taino Cacicazgos

Francisco Moscoso's Cacicazgos en el caribe y continente americano was something of a disappointment. We were hoping for a detailed comparative analysis of the cacicazgo among the Taino, Muisca and Nicarao but the chapters were too brief to flesh out a full analysis. This is no surprise, since the book was part of a chapter of a UNESCO General History of the Caribbean series. However, we still hoped for something new or deeper here. For those who have already read Moscoso's work on the Taino chiefdoms or his work on precolonial Nicaragua, this study basically restates the general proposition of the cacicazo as a state of political development somewhere between the tribe and the state. In general, all three of the highlighted indigenous civilizations here were somewhat similar in that all developed systems of tribute, caciques, some degree of stratification, and a form of production beyond that of bands. Assuming one shares his view on the historical stages of production societies undergo, Muisca, Nicarao and Taino are all similar. However, the Nicarao case does seem to be, in part, a product of ancient Mesoamerican migrations and cultural influences which might explain some of the features of the Nicarao civilization. Nonetheless, it is important to recognize and study the specific transitional state of development represented by the cacicazgo. As something akin to an incipient state, elucidating its origins could shed light on the process of state formation elsewhere.  

Espiritismo and Puerto Ricans in NYC

Jose Morales-Dorta's Puerto Rican Espiritismo: Religion and Psychotherapy is a study of Espiritismo's appeal among poor and working-class Puerto Ricans in New York City. Relying on surveys, observation of Espiritismo centros and statistics and studies of the low status, marginalization and impoverished conditions of Puerto Rican life in NYC, Morales-Dorta's sympathetic portrayal of Espiritismo stresses its positive relationship on mental and physical health. Unlike the institutions offering care to those in need of psychotherapy, which often were disconnected to Puerto Rican communities, alienating and lacking Spanish-speaking social workers, therapists or doctors, Espiritismo centros featured members of the community who drew from long-standing traditions of spirits as the cause of ailments, methods to invoke spirits through mediums, and healing practices from herbal remedies and spiritual intervention. The Puerto Rican seeking aid for ailments both physical or mental could find a supportive community which used action via mediums and spirit possessions as psychodrama that allowed the "patient" a space for the expression of emotions. This exteriorization of the patient's psychological woes in the environment of a centro reminds one of certain Haitian interpretations of Vodou, too. 

However, our main purpose in reading Morales-Dorta was for insights on the indigenous influences in Puerto Rican Espiritismo. According to him, statues of Indians are common at centros. In addition, Indian and African spirits were predominant among Cuban and Puerto Rican mediums. Indian spirits were associated with a high spiritual level, too. In addition, some of the healing practices do, vaguely, recall Taino or indigenous Caribbean shamanistic practices. However, since Espiritismo clearly owes at least some of its terminology to Kardec and has undeniably incorporated the Bible, Christianity and African influences, the Taino legacy is not always so clear. In order to truly elucidate the depth of Taino influence in Puerto Rican Espiritismo, one must dig deeper into the history of Taino religion, Puerto Rican folk healing, and the "Creolization" of Espiritismo in Puerto Rico. Nonetheless, this brief study, too brief for a proper analysis of this topic, does point strongly to some Taino influence. As of now, it seems less obvious than that of the ceremonia del cordon in Cuba. 

Oswald Durand's Le Vaudoux

So interesting to read Oswald Durand's Vodou-inspired poetry which, like that of non-Haitian authors, relies on perhaps primitivist discourse on the Haitian religion. 

   

  

A Jesuit and the Caribs

De la Borde’s Relation on the Caribs of the Caribbean, or Kalinago, is a fascinating document. Despite his view of the need to humanize and civilize the Carib before successfully converting them to Christianity, the Jesuit’s account of 17th century Caribs of St. Vincent is filled with interesting details about the lives, customs, religion and healing practices of this indigenous group. While denigrating the Caribs and their “barbarous” practices and religions, one can still detect some degree of respect for the success of the Caribs in their lifestyle. Moreover, for those of us interested in ethnographic and historical sources on an indigenous Caribbean population related to our Tainos, it is interesting to compare our Jesuit with the earlier 16th century sources on the Taino of the Greater Antilles. Indeed, by the time French Jesuits were proselytizing in the Lesser Antilles, the local population of the region had already been interacting with Europeans and Africans for over a century. Moreover, indigenous people from the Greater Antilles had already, at least in the case of Puerto Rico, fled to the Lesser Antilles. That Taino exodus from areas like Puerto Rico plus the already shared culture, to some extent, between the Kalinago and the Taino, makes for interesting readings. For instance, the Carib lunar calendar and important symbolism attached to stars, the sun, and the moon may have been shared elements with the Taino. Some of the similar religious and healing customs of the boye or piaye with the Taino behique, including even the act of sucking on parts of a patient’s body, suggest another commonality. The similar veneration of cemis or zemis points to another deeply rooted aspect of indigenous Caribbean spirituality. Clearly, despite the Kalinago claiming a relationship with the continental Galibias, their culture and language was also immersed in Caribbean island customs and civilizations. What we would like to know is to what extent Louquo of Carib myth, the first man, may have some correspondence with Yucahu and the characters in the corpus of Taino myths collected by Pane. The Caribs, at least as understood by the French, lacked the type of higher ceremonialism attached to political leadership or caciques so one might be justified in concluding that their religious and spiritual practices were less elaborate than those of the Taino. 

3 Dominicans, a Puerto Rican and Vodou

Las bailarinas de judú en la calle Santa Ana

by Juan Antonio Alix

A ¡os amigos Domingo Russo y
Ventura Silverio, Ciudad.

Cumplíendo con sus deberes
La señora policía,
Ayer como a mediodía
Sorprendió cuatro mujeres
Que bailaban con placeres
El judú con un haitiano
Que también le echaron mano
Y lo tienen en chirona,
Porque esa buena persona
Del judú es buen hermano.

En la calle ‘Santa Ana”
Allí fué la fiesta armada,
Pero que a puerta cerrada
Celebraban su bacana.
Y como costumbre haitiana
El baile tuvo lugar,
Delante de un altar
Cubierto de lamparitas,

--------------
(1) A última hora hemos sabido que
el baile judú tuvo lugar en la calle de
la “Victoria” y no en la de “Santa Ana”.

Con siete mechas toditas
Para más iluminar.

Y unos infelices santos
En dicho altar se encontraban,
Y aquel baile presenciaban
Sin cubrirlos con sus mantos.

Y al son del tambor y cantos,
Bailarinas y gazones
Hacían miles contorsiones
Pero el chans, o proserpina~,
Atacó a una bailarina
Con muy crueles convulsiones.

También en aquel altar
Había un plátano asadó,
Maíz y maní tostado,
Pimienta y sal de la mar.
Y en ese mismo lugar
Encontró la policía,
Una lata que tenía
Agua verde y tan hedionda,
Que con repugnancia honda
El público la veía.

Entre dichas bailarinas
Había tres dominicanas,
Fragatas de cuatro andanas,
Y con buenas culebrinas.

La otra es de las vecinas
De la tierra borinqueña,
Corbeta puertorriqueña
De cien cañones por banda
Que por estos trigos anda
Alegre y siempre risueña.

El gran musié del judú
O ya sea el gran papá,
Es un tal musié Grambuá,
De la societé D’Otrú.
Pájaro muy lugarú
Y gran profesor haitiano,
De ese fandango africano
Que se nos mete de lleno;
Y si no hay Gobierno bueno
Adiós pueblo quisqueyano!

Al fin comeremos gente, si Dios no
mete su mano.

Santiago, Julio 30 de 1904. 

The Areito in Espiritismo

Huellas vivas del indocubano by Jose Antonio Garcia Molina, Mercedes Garrido Mazorra and Daisy Fariñas Gutierrez presents a strong case for Taino retentions in the ceremonia del cordón in Cuban Espiritismo. Basing their theory on ethnographic observation, historical sources and the Cuban and Caribbean anthropological tradition, the authors argue that the specific type of Espiritisma ceremony described in the book, in Cuba's Oriente, is based on the Taino areito. Since historical sources attest to indigenous survival in that part of the island, and ethnographic analyses of campesino religion, spirituality, material culture, genetics, folklore, and popular healing demonstrate a palpable indigenous legacy, one can see how the Taino areito was adapted into a particularly Cuban form of Espiritismo. Since the worldview of Espiritismo overlaps with Taino or indigenous Caribbean beliefs, as well as those of Afro-Cubans, Taino ritual healing customs and the areito as a healing process were adaptable to the ceremonia del cordón that developed in eastern Cuba by the 20th century.

What is astonishing about this study is the wealth of details attesting to indigenous survival and retentions in Cuba's east. Perhaps something similar could be found for Indiera in Puerto Rico and, perhaps, the Dominican Southwest? Either way, it is remarkable the degree to which some indigenous customs and traditions persisted, besides the obvious ones related to material culture. For instance, the Cuban healing practice derived from the behiques, of sucking on the patient, was practiced in Cuba as recently as the 1930s. Matrilineal inheritance was also practiced by some families of probable Indian descent. In addition, veneration of the Sun, belief in the transformation into animals, and characteristics of mediums and guides in Cuban Espiritismo seem to owe something to the behiques of the Taino. While sometimes the authors may be wrong about the Amerindian origin or root of this or that Cuban custom or ritual practice, overall their case is strong for a significant legacy to Cuba's first, primordial, root. Indian survivals even surface in Cuban Espiritismo with a commission for Indians and commemoration of Guama. Cuban transculturation makes it sometimes difficult to distinguish all the components in the national stew, but the indigenous ingredients are very clear in Cuba's eastern provinces. 

While our understanding of the areito saw it as less of a healing practice than a community-wide ceremony for celebrating, remembering the past, and commemorating the accomplishments of caciques. However, the specific type of singing, dancing in a circle while holding hands, and absence of more typical African influences suggests that the Cuban Espiritista ritual might be the closest glimpse we have of what the areito looked like in the distant past. We know from Spanish sources that the areito was still practiced by Tainos in Hispaniola several decades after the Spanish conquest. In Cuba and Puerto Rico, where documented indigenous communities also survived, one can assume the areito was practiced there well into the colonial era. Agustin Stahl even suggested that elements of the areito may be found in the country dancing of the Puerto Rican peasant. However, nothing from the rural or ceremonial dances of today's Puerto Rico seems to bear such a clear or plausible indigenous origin. 

Sultans of Waday

Marie-Jose Tubiana's "Un document inédit sur les sultans du Wadday" is a useful article for anyone interested in the history of Waday. Consisting of 2 similar documents attributed to a Usman ibn Fodde or Uthman ibn Fodda, the translated source is a chronological list of the sultans of Waday. In addition to collating 2 versions of this source, one of which came from the sultan of Waday, Tubiana uses other sources to corroborate and comment on the list. Like the Diwan of Kanem-Borno, it's basically a list of the sultans with a few sentences describing what the said ruler accomplished or experienced during his reign. In addition, there is some confusion in the source as it incorrectly places Sabun into an earlier chronological moment in the history of Waday. 

Despite some of the obvious problems of the source, it's chronology seems to be generally accurate. Like, perhaps, the Diwan of Kanem-Borno, there may be some mystical value to certain numbers attached to reign lengths (66, for instance, was special in this source) and the earlier kings appear to have existed in a more "mythical" context. Sadly, what actually transpired between Abd el-Karim and the Tundjur kings who ruled previously is not entirely clear. One is still unsure about Abd el-Karim's connection to Bidderi in Bagirmi, too. All one can say is that Abd el-Karim probably reigned sometime in the first half of the 17th century and he was a propagator of the Islamic faith. Subsequent rulers are also mentioned but it is mainly only beginning with Sabun in the early 19th century are the events of Waday's political history better known. The wealth of sources for the 19th century allows for more corroboration and detail on the kings of Wadai, while the events of the years prior to Sabun can only be glimpsed with occasional references to the Tunjur, Darfur or the larger Central Sudan. Indeed, even the origins of Abd el-Karim are unclear as some source ssuggest roots in the modern-day Sudan while other traditions, such as those reported by Barth and Nachtigal, suggest some kind of connection to the Islamic settlement of Bidderi and a Muslim movement against the pagan Tunjur. 

Interestingly, some later research suggests some degree of Islamic observance among the Tunjur. In fact, the Tunjur rulers were remembered by Arab names, including the final one, a Dawud, who was overthrown or replaced by Abd el-Karim. In addition, O'Fahey cited evidence of a Tunjur king from the region of Darfur and Wadai who was reported in Muslim sources. To what degree Abd el-Karim was the first Muslim ruler in what became Waday is difficult to say, but the realities of Tunjur, Kanem, and Bornoan influences in the region suggest Islam may have had some influence in Waday before the 17th century. Later Borno influences and conflict with Borno, Darfur, Bagirmi, Rabeh, the Mahdists in Sudan, and, finally, the French, continued to shape Waday's sultans while a number of contenders, dignitaries, and rival claimants for the throne frequently clashed. Furthermore, some Waday rulers clashed with their own dignitaries who resisted kings who became too powerful. This frequent instability and conflict over power helps explain why Waday could occasionally rise to a hegemonic status in the Central Sudan but very quickly, within a reign or two, suffer severe declines, population exoduses, plagues, and even do nothing while Rabeh ravaged tributary states like Dar Kuti, Dar Runga and Bagirmi.

Sarmiento de Gamboa and the Incas

Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa's 1572 chronicle of the Inca Empire, The History of the Incas, is one of the more fascinating early Spanish colonial histories of the Incas. While undoubtedly a product of Francisco de Toledo's vision for the colony and Sarmiento de Gamboa's pro-colonial outlook that sought to delegitimize the Incas as tyrannical despots, the chronicle was also based on oral testimony and traditions from members of all the royal ayllu of Cuzco. In addition, Sarmiento de Gamboa had planned the chronicle to be the second of a three-part work covering the viceroyalty, based on extensive travels around the colony. Indeed, Sarmiento de Gamboa's chronicle even included the names of various Cuzco Indian witnesses who were present for a reading of the work and whose commentary on it was incorporated into the text. That said, Francisco de Toledo and the colonial officials likely exerted pressure on the Cuzco indigenous informants. And since the actual testimonies collected by Sarmiento de Gamboa appear to have been lost, it is possible that the author changed or modified things or perhaps misunderstood some of the oral traditions he heard. In addition, the overriding goal of Sarmiento de Gamboa, to portray the Incas as tyrants and to legitimize Spanish possession of Peru, undoubtedly contradicted the perspective of the descendants of the Incas.

Despite these aforementioned problems with Sarmiento de Gamboa's work, and its problematic chronology that places Manco Capac's death in 665, thereby distorting the chronology of the Incas, he reports a number of interesting traditions and accounts of the 12 Inca rulers. For instance, a detailed version of the Inca origin myth from Pacaritambo and the days of Manco Capac that led to the conquest of Cuzco from its native inhabitants is presented in a way that points to internal conflict among the Inca and their alleged tyranny and despotism. Surely this way of presenting the Incas, similar to that of the later work of Cobo, may not have been the most faithful retelling of the myth.  Sarmiento de Gamboa's work also mentions historical details and an earlier tradition of Inca history from the times of Pachacuti. Indeed, it is possible that Sarmiento de Gamboa, and the painted cloth that similarly reproduced the history of the Incas, was based to a great extent on the painted boards and the collected historical narratives produced after Pachacuti gathered elder historians from across the provinces to Cuzco. Pachacuti, as such a prominent ruler and pivotal figure in the Inca state's expansion, probably helped consolidate and organize an "official" history of the Incas that drew from oral traditions and quipu. While the oral traditions maintained by members of the royal ayllu were naturally major sources to Sarmiento de Gamboa, the Cuzco royal ayllus would not have escaped the influence of Pachacuti's historical investigations. Unfortunately, since none of the painted boards Pachacuti had designed have survived, one cannot ascertain further details of this.

Besides reporting a number of traditions and sometimes conflicting accounts of the reigns, rebellions, achievements, and conflicts of the Incas, Sarmiento de Gamboa recorded a fascinating tradition of an Inca's travels in the Pacific Ocean after the conquest of Quito. In short, Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa's account of Topa Inca's Pacific expedition to the islands of Avachumbi and Ninachumbi was based on an account given to him by Urco Guaranga, an important Inca who was one of the Inca elite informants of Sarmiento's chronicle. Apparently Urco Guaranga also owned the skin and jawbone of the horse brought back from the Pacific island by Topa Inca. In addition, Urco Guaranga also named several of the prominent Inca who accompanied Topa Inca on their expedition into the Pacific. Sarmiento is sure that the islands visited by Topa Inca must have been the ones he "discovered" in 1567, about 200 leagues west of Lima (the Solomon Islands). But something doesn't add up. If Topa Inca had really visited the Solomon Islands after his conquest of Quito, how could he have brought back the skin and jawbone of a horse? There were no horses in the Solomon Islands or Polynesia during the 1400s, right? 

But the account does seem to describe something that actually occurred before Topa Inca became emperor. During the conquest of Quito or Ecuador, merchants who traveled across the Pacific with sailboats described their island homeland as possessing gold and Topa Inca, after using the supernatural abilities of Antarqui, confirmed the story of the merchants. Then he traveled with 20,000 soldiers on rafts into the Pacific, disappearing for at least 9 months. However, when Topa Inca returned, he brought "black" men, a brass chair, and the previously mentioned skin and bone of a horse. If all this did indeed occur, as seems likely, the coast of Ecuador was in contact with traders from the Pacific (somewhere in Oceania) and these islanders included "black" people (Melanesians?) with access to brass and a "horse." If the horse parts were those of some other type of animal, which seems likely, and the Polynesian sailors were from a part of Polynesia which engaged in a trade of gold, metals (brass?) and other goods with the coast of Ecuador, this is probably evidence of transoceanic trade contacts between South America and Polynesia in pre-Columbian times. Contacts between coastal Ecuador and/or Colombia with Polynesian people has been proposed based on genetic evidence, so it is certainly plausible that an Inca prince could have journeyed to Polynesia after meeting said merchants.

Ultimately, however, Sarmiento de Gamboa sought to portray the Incas as illegitimate rulers and oppressors of the Indians of Peru. The tale that began with Manco Capac having a brother killed and the Incas usurping Cuzco ends with the fratricidal war and massacres of Huascar and Atahualpa. As admitted by Sarmiento de Gamboa, Pizarro and the Spaniards were only able to defeat the Incas because of the war between Atahualpa and Huascar that had decimated the empire and led to divisions within the ruling elite. Moreover, Inca expansion from Pachacuti to Huayna Capac relied on, to his eyes, oppressive and extreme exploitation, overtaxation, and control of the conquered Indians. They didn't even respect or observe their own customs when dealing with their kin and fellow Incas. Thus, such a tyrannical dynasty that was only able to control its subjects through extreme brutality, was wholly illegitimate and the Spanish were morally justified to replace them. Despite Sarmiento de Gamboa's obvious bias here, one can read between the lines and detect how imperial overexpansion and an unstable system of succession perhaps led to the Inca Empire's rapid dissolution. 

The Muisca of Colombia

A good Youtube channel has an episode on the Muiscas now. The Muisca are one of the indigenous cultures of South America we are very interested in learning more about, so please check this one out.

Bilongo

One of the classics. They were cookin' in this lively rendition of "Bilongo" from Eddie Palmieri.

The Dominican Southwest

While we were hoping for more references to indigenous retentions or symbolism in this short documentary from Martha Ellen Davis, the overall result is an interesting one. Showcasing the regional identity and uniqueness of the Dominican Southwest, the film takes the viewer on a journey through various towns or areas of the Southwest. Along the way, one sees different cultural traditions, musical genres, and aspects of life and folklore, drawing on African, Taino, Catholic, and Haitian influences. It is unfortunate that the veve-like cosmogram drawn in the first third of the film and the corral de los indios in San Juan de la Maguana never receive significant analysis that would shed light on Taino influences in this part of the island. After all, the southwest of the DR is said to have retained Indian spirits as a part of their form of Dominican Vodou, usually associated with water. Why not include interviews with Dominican practitioners who serve these Indian spirits?

Shiva-Loka

Listening to someone playing Alice Coltrane recently has rekindled our interest in Coltrane's music. This particular piece, a live recording of from 1971, captures that ethereal and otherworldly quality of Alice Coltrane's unique brand of jazz. Even without the best audio quality, the ambience and tone of Alice is unmistakable here. 

Infinite Ryvius

In our quest to watch all of the classic and overall decent science fiction anime of the 1990s and early 2000s (except mecha anime, which we still largely skip), we finally gave Infinite Ryvius a second chance. As a Lord of the Flies in space story with several dark, intense moments for the young, beleaguered crew, it was occasionally painful to watch. Some of the sub-standard animation and the lack of explanation for a lot of the technobabble and science fiction mumbo jumbo also made the story a little hard to follow. In other words, the show could have been so much better. Indeed, in some ways its young crew reminds one of Martian Successor Nadesico while Aiba Kouji is somewhat similar to the famous Shinji of Evangelion. The young crew, left to its own devices without adult authority or supervision, descends into chaos, violence, and by the end, fascism. The adult authority, represented by corrupt factions on Earth, however, are revealed to be no better given the extent to which they will go retrieve the ship and put the adolescents at risk. 

Still, seeing the extreme depths to which the teenagers descend will shock and disturb any viewer. One sees this in their highly unequal ranking system for the crew, the abuse of authority, and the problematic ethical systems used by the different groups which successively rule the ship. Blue, representing sheer power and fear, seizes power in a coup. A Spock-type character and the Zwei students retake the ship and use one character as a "puppet" captain while Heigar controls from behind the scenes. When that does not work, Aiba Kouji's friend, Ikumi, later seizes power and, despite having the noblest intentions of them all, establishes the most despotic, authoritarian regime that nearly destroys the ship. And while all this is going on, the Ryvius is attacked by other Vaia ships and Fiona is establishing a cult based on her religion from Uranus. The show does not take it in this direction, but she appears to be the force behind a theocratic type of authoritarianism while Ikumi, Stein, and Blue represent different types of authoritarianism, fascism, and police states. Oh, and the ship, like Moya in Farscape, is alive or rather is powered by a living organism that assumes a human form. 

The main protagonist, Kouji, wants to please everyone, is anxious, unsure of himself and lacks the skills of his younger brother or the willfulness of the other leaders. Yet Kouji, who seems occasionally pathetic, useless and perhaps even naive, never loses his sense of basic decency. By the end of the series, Kouji is more determined and willing to shape things instead of going with the flow, although events beyond the control of the students ultimately resolve the situation. Ultimately, what could have made this show great rather than "good" would have been a little more fleshing out of the post-disaster solar system and a little more background to some of the characters. For example, what was happening on Earth with the 2 groups involved in the conspiracy was not as clear as it could have been. I also would have liked learning a little more about the science of ship navigation and the origins of the alien lifeforms in the Geduld and part of the 6 advanced ships. It also would not have hurt to see what conditions were like in the other parts of the solar system, why were some groups independent of the Solar System Alliance government, and how class and religion operated in the 23rd century. 

Toda Menina Baiana

A classic from Gilberto Gil we have been listening to repeatedly this week...

Song for Ogunde

A lovely tribute to Ogun, our orisha, from the legendary John Coltrane. Coltrane appears to have based his arrangement of the song on a version harmonized by a Brazilian composer and sung by Bidu Sayão. One can also find a Cuban group performing the song in 1957 with what appears to be different lyrics in Lucumi (Yoruba). Ogun arrives, chief of Ire. I vaguely recall once finding a recording of the same song (or a variation of it) from Dahomey (modern Benin) but was unable to locate it. Fortunately, Yoruba speakers have sought to enlighten us with the actual meaning of the song in its Cuban incarnations.