Guateque Campesino

Whilst listening to old Cuban music, we came across yet another word supposedly derived from an indigenous language. Used in Cuban and Antillean Spanish, guateque seems to refer to house parties or dances. Checking bilingual or trilingual dictionaries for Garifuna, Lokono, Palikur, and Breton, we could not find any word similar to guateque. The term might be derived from another indigenous language. In Garifuna, Lokono, and Palikur, we found words for dance, but nothing quite specific as a "house party." In the Garifuna tongue, a dance is called abinahani and a party might be translated as fedu. In Palikur, dance is kay but a dancer is called kaykevutne. In Arawak of Guyana, dance is ibini, clearly similar to the Garifuna word. We wonder if there is any relation between the Palikur words for dance and dancer and possible Taino equivalents.

Columbus JRPG

 

Although we will likely never play this game, Gnosis on Youtube had an interesting video about it. Released for the NES in Japan, this game about Christopher Columbus seems to have been part of the broader fervor around the 500 year anniversary of the 1492 Voyage. According to Gnosis, the game actually features very little of Columbus's voyages in the Americas, and Native Americans only appear briefly. Nonetheless, it is intriguing to think that the complex legacy of Columbus even impacted the world of Japanese video games at the time.

Muhammad Bello, al-Kanemi, and Borno

Although Muhammad Bello did not reproduce in full all the letters he received from al-Kanemi of Borno, his Infāq al-Maysūr contains a plethora of important details on the conflicts between the jihadists of Uthman dan Fodio and Borno. Translated by Salahudeen Yusuf as A History of Islam, Scholarship and Revivalism in Western Sudan, Being an Annotated Translation with Introduction of  Infaqul-Maisur fi Tarikh Bilad al-Tukur of Sultan Muhammad Bello bin Fodio, the first chapter contains an overview of the lands of the western and central Sudan. Borno, receives mention as an area in which Islam was widely spread and deeply practiced before the jihad, even by commoners. Recitation of the Quran, Islamic scholarship and religious devotion were well-rooted in the area. 

However, for two reasons, Muhammad Bello called into question the Islamic legitimacy of the Sayfawa rulers of Borno. First, certain customs and traditions persisted despite the conversion to Islam centuries ago. Women went unveiled, sacrifices were made in the river (Komadugu?), and sacrifices or ceremonies were held at trees or certain rock sites. Al-Kanemi saw the old rituals involving sacrifices at presumably venerated in pre-Islamic times as customs similar to what was done by people in central Islamic lands, like Syria and Egypt. Bello, on the other hand, was very rigid on this, even condemning the nomadic Fulani for a custom or tradition involving fire, dances, and objects tied around the head of children by agreeing with Shaykh Abdullahi al-Thuqa. Nonetheless, this was seen as justification for the jihad, since it was perceived as shirk by Bello. Furthermore, by lending support to the Hausa rulers who fought against the jihad, Bello argued that the Sayfawa mai had become an unbeliever. If a Muslim ruler supports unbelievers against other Muslims, such a ruler becomes an unbeliever himself. Furthermore, as head of the state, the behavior of the mai called into question the Islamic legitimacy of Borno. Thus, the jihadists were in the moral right. Unsurprisingly, al-Kanemi countered this by drawing on the same sources and evidence as Bello: the Quran, Islamic law, hadith, logic.

Later in their correspondence, which appears to have been infrequent due to messengers failing to deliver letters, al-Kanemi seems to have shifted somewhat his argument. While acknowledging some customs in Borno that were improper, he accuses the allies of the jihad of initiating conflict with Borno on incorrect, false grounds. The Fulani and others who attacked Borno seemed to be more interested in gathering booty and captives, which triggered part of the debate between Bello and al-Kanemi on whether enslavement of said captives was legal in Islam. The two never reconciled, based on the letters reproduced by Bello, but one can see how the conflict between Sokoto and Borno was centered on defining a Muslim. Part of this even drew from the longer history of Islam in West Africa, especially Askia Muhammad of Songhay and his questions posed to al-Maghili. Askia Muhammad's seizure of power was seen as a jihad of sorts by Bello, and a model for a proper Islamic ruler to emulate. Intriguingly, Bello did not cite or reference other works of al-Maghili written to or for Hausa rulers of Kano and Katsina, perhaps since that would have called into question the legitimacy of the jihad against Hausa rulers. Nonetheless, the model of Askia Muhammad and expectations of a Muslim ruler as a pious, just figure who corrects the behavior of his subjects and follows Islamic precepts. One wonders to what extent al-Kanemi would have drawn on the history and legacy of the Sayfawa monarchs to counter Bello's claims. Perhaps al-Kanemi would not have used the past of the Sayfawa due to his own political ambitions?

Indios of Hispaniola (c.1568)

Whilst perusing old sources from the 1500s on Hispaniola, Puerto Rico and Cuba, we came across the 1568 Relación de la Isla Española by Echagoian. In addition to providing its readers with an overview of conditions on the island of Hispaniola in the 1560s, the document also mentioned areas with pockets of Indian, or indigenous, residents. According to Echagoian, besides the island of Mona (between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico) with its 50 indios, there were Indians living near La Yaguana and La Vega (but not in pueblos). The former, which also included some large sugar plantations at this time, is interesting. The African slaves subsisted on yuca, cultivated in the indigenous manner in mounds, suggesting the Amerindian ways were foundational to the dietary evolution of all people on the island. Anyway, it's interesting to see mention of indios living apart in western Hispaniola during this time. Earlier, in 1563, indios were suspected of living apart by Cabo San Nicolas as well as Cabo Tiburon. 

Grandchild of Goman

Whilst perusing the works of Haitian historians on Goman, the maroon, soldier, and leader who led what was essentially an independent state in Haiti's Sud for over a decade, we came across at least one descendant of his on Family Search. According to Madiou, Ardouin and other sources, Goman had a son, Lundi, who was pardoned by President Boyer. Indeed, the act was commemorated in a painting that, alas, has been lost. Interestingly, the entry of Boyer into Cap-Haitien after the fall of Christophe's regime in the Nord was also commemorated by a painting, perhaps showing how important the reunification of Haiti was for Boyer's administration. Anyway, in 1843, Lundi Goman's daughter, Margueritte, was born. One wonders how many other descendants of Goman were out there in Haiti during the late 1800s and, perhaps, today.

Guao and Skin Whitening in Early Colonial Hispaniola

Whilst rereading Oviedo and Las Casas on the indigenous people of Hispaniola and the Antilles, we came across the root or plant, guao. According to Las Casas, guao was a tree in the eastern part of Hispaniola used to make a poison for arrows. Oviedo, who came to Hispaniola later than Las Casas, described in more detail how guao was a skin irritant, but did not know if it was used as a poison by the Indians. However, unlike Las Casas, he described one disturbing use of guao by Indian woman of the island. Oviedo noted that Indian woman were using guao as the base for a skin whitening paste or cream, mixing it with other ingredients so it would be less harmful to their skin. Supposedly, Indian woman of the island were "jealous" of white Spanish women and, in a desire to meet the beauty standards of the colonial society, used this guao cream to whiten their skin. Since Oviedo was already biased against indigenous peoples of the island, one wonders if he may have misunderstood something or wanted his readers to believe some Indian women would believe their natural skin color inferior to that of whites. Either way, it is quite revealing about the role of skin color and the early history of skin whitening in the Caribbean.

Mentioning Haiti in Kano

Although we have often wondered what people in African during the 19th century knew of Haiti, there is a brief mention of the Haitian Revolution in Kano. Hugh Clapperton, who traveled to Borno and the Sokoto Caliphate in the 1800s, recounted this particular episode in his Journal of a Second Expedition Into the Interior of Africa: From the Bight of Benin to Soccatoo, published in 1829. According to Clapperton, an Arab merchant residing in Kano was killed by his female slaves. According to his informants, the custom was to sell such slaves toward the coast. Clapperton, when asked what should be done, endorsed hanging the slaves once it was clear they had killed their master from Ghadamis. Naturally, this led to Clapperton's curiosity about the slave population in Kano. Surprisingly, it was thirty slaves for every free man. Given these demographics, Clapperton used the example of St. Domingo (Haiti) as a warning to the people of Kano, since slaves may rise up and seize control when they overwhelmingly outnumber their masters. Besides the example of Haiti, which we presume was either unknown or poorly understood in West Africa, Clapperton cited recent history of the Hausa slaves in Oyo who rebelled. 

Historical Materialism and the Kel Ahir

Kathleen O'Mara's A Political Economy of Ahir (Niger): Historical Transformations in a Pastoral Economy, 1760-1860 adopts a historical materialist approach to analyze transformations in the Ahir region's political economy once the Kel Owey federation become the dominant Tuareg group in that region. Focusing on class and a materialist interpretation allows greater clarity on how the Tuareg of this region of the Sahara shifted from a pastoral economy to a more centralized, agro-pastoral tributary economy in the 18th century. Thus, the transformations of the state and economy in the Ahir (or Air) region predate the jihad and establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. According to O'Mara's view, the Ahir sultanate government's "glorious period" in the 1500s was not fully tributary, although the sultanate administration survived with the rise of Kel Owey hegemony and commercial expansion in order to protect the interests of the Tuareg elites, imajeren. Essentially, the seizure of the Kawar salines, especially Bilma, was an impetus for further trade and agro-pastoral expansion. This, in turn, was accompanied by the increasing centralization and development of a regional economy in Hausaland, particularly after the establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. In other words, Borno's loss of Kawar in the 1760s favored the Ahir Tuareg, particularly the Kel Owey, who reaped huge profits from the sale of salt to Hausaland, where a burgeoning market and growing manufacturing (textiles, leather, etc.) centers in places like Kano fueled more Tuareg trade. 

Indeed, to O'Mara's view, Ahir became so connected to the larger, regional economy of the Central Sudan that trans-Saharan commerce became less important and Agadez's population moved to lands in the Sudan. The cycle fueled more economic growth as the Kel Owey, as well as other Tuareg groups, increasingly used captives and "free" dependents, often Kanuri, Hausa, or Dagera, to work farmland in Damergu. Agricultural production in the more fertile lands of the Sudan favored Tuareg commerce since the grain from these areas could be used to trade with the Kawar oases (and to ensure adequate grain supplies for the Ahir  region). This, of course, meant that the Ahir Tuareg could be less dependent on the meager agricultural resources of the Ahir region or from grain supplied by the independent Hausa states. With the growth of a Kel Owey commercial class investing in salt, agricultural production, livestock, and trade in textiles, slaves, leather products, and items acquired through trans-Saharan trade via the Fezzan or Ghat, the Ahir Tuareg system became a fully tributary one that maintained the dominance of the "nobles."  In fact, the continuance of the Ahir sultanate structure in Agades as an intermediary of Tuareg groups in Ahir, plus their own source of legitimacy via Islam, provided a balance with Kel Owey elites.

As one might expect in a highly unequal, hierarchical arrangement that was the Ahir political economy from 1760-1860, conflict within the elites (vertical) and between "nobles" and other groups (ineslemen, dependents of various types, etc.) was a constant. Dependents, both "free" and servile, could change masters easily and the Kel Ahir Tuareg had to find ways to maintain a system of exploitation of their labor. Like the free Dagera, Kanuri and Hausa groups conquered by Tuareg groups, the Tuareg "class" system allowed for significant local autonomy to settlements of slaves and others. In addition, manumission was frequent while intermarriage and absorption of captives into the lineage (as fictive children) meant enslavement was, according to Barth at least, less horrific than in other locales. One wonders, however, tow hat extent conditions here were similar with regard to slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate and Borno, where a history of slave settlements and even plantations existed. Nonetheless, O'Mara wishes to highlight how enslavement and exploitation of captives for their labor in agriculture, livestock rearing, carrying goods, or salt production was similar to the tribute extracted from "free" dependents in the Kel Ahir class system. Clerical lineages, too, tried to occasionally resist through the ideology of jihad or even becoming warriors themselves, yet they could not build a diverse enough coalition 

Through an ideology of noble dominance and control of camels, the most important animal in the pastoral economy, these nobles justified their position through the protection they could provide to dependents and clerical lineages. Their ownership of camels furthered their position as guides for caravans from North Africans, traders in their own rights, and for the use of camels to carry salt or other products. However, claims to noble status were always dynamic, and were frequently adjusted genealogically after the fact to legitimize the imajeren domination. This is connected to the purpose of the Agades Sultanate itself, instituted to resolve conflict between Tuareg groups in Ahir as well as to secure the overall interests of an elite group. Ongoing conflicts between the Kel Owey and others, naturally meant that the hegemony of any specific federation was always up for grabs, which in turn justified elite positions as "protectors" of their dependents against other Tuareg or non-Tuareg foes. 

This is all rather fascinating and engaging. However, some of what O'Mara proposes is either implausible or debatable. For instance, many of the political offices in the Ahir sultanate are of Hausa origin. Perhaps this suggests that the transformation of the Kel Ahir from a pastoral economy to a fully tributary one required the adoption of administrative features found in the Sudanic states to their south, especially Borno and the Hausa. Moreover, the increasing sedentarization of some Tuareg and the growth of agricultural ventures owned by Kel Ahir in Damergu, Zinder, or the Caliphate could be seen as similarly following patterns from Songhay, Borno, and Hausa history. Indeed, even the justifying ideology of elite rule via protection offered to dependents could be seen in the case of Borno, which failed to provide the necessary protection for its subjects in Kawar, western Borno, and northern Borno. Unlike Borno, however, the Ahir Tuareg federations structure and "looseness" and the ecological conditions of the southern Sahara could make it rather fragile. But, the exploitation of producers, a free and slave peasantry, seems to be a common for the Central Sudan, where chronic insecurity was also present despite the existence of large Hausa states or Borno (when it was a regional hegemon). 

Behechio in 1495

Whilst perusing old documents from early colonial Hispaniola, we came across something we somehow forgot about. According to a 1495 list of items given (and seized) by the Spaniards and brought to Spain, Xaragua's cacique, Behechio gifted gold and objects covered with gold to Cristobal de Torres. What is most interesting about this is that Behechio did not give Xaragua's better-known products, cotton or cotton goods, to the Admiral. Presumably this was due to his understanding that the Spaniards preferred gold above all. So, instead of naguas, hammocks, cotton, macanas, ropa de pluma or other objects highly valued by Xaragua's elite, gold and objects featured gold encrustrations were given. It is a pity the source does not indicate what the figure covered by gold was. Was it a cemi object? And was he simply engaging in this because the Spaniards had defeated his brother-in-law, Caonabo?

Eden: It's An Endless World

Although it took nearly a year to complete the manga, Eden: Its An Endless World, this nearly perfect science fiction tale with Gnostic themes is irresistible. Set in a postapocalyptic world of the future, no other manga series has quite captured the apparently pointless attempts at "solving" the problems of the world for it only to blow up in our collective faces. Uighurs, child soldiers, racism, environmental collapse, drug cartels and addiction, doctors trying to do their job, and the epic, but doomed to failure rescue mission to save Elijah's sister are all suspenseful, violent, and heartbreaking. Indeed, each protagonist has a backstory that led them on a path to violence, vengeance, or the search for power, but once their hands are bloody, they're never clean again. Yet, despite the seemingly endless conflicts, division, and destruction of human society, those who choose to resist joining the colloid (disclosure virus) make the hard choice of staying in our universe, finding meaning in the hope for a better future. Moreover, this is the only series we have read in which much of the story takes place in Peru, with a mix of cops, cartel dealers, gunman, and prostitutes occupy a central role. In fact, Peru is the setting for one of the great story arcs that pits Elijah, the main character, against gangsters and the sordid world of crime, drugs, and sex. Unfortunately, the ending of the series throws some curveballs at the reader and produces some deus ex machina characters/developments to wrap up loose ends. Nonetheless, we find the ending to be quite clever despite this. Indeed, with Maya and Alethia Lethia each staying in the respective "worlds," there is a great risk for both in terms of hope for a better future. 

Peguero and Xaragua

Although written in the 1760s and often unclear with some of the sources for its claims, Luis Joseph Peguero's Historia de la conquista de la isla española de Santo Domingo contains some useful allusions to the history of Xaragua. While he seems to largely rely on Las Casas, Oviedo and Herrera, some of the references to Xaragua appear to be unique in Peguero's work. Keeping in mind that he incorrectly identified Anacaona as a wife of the ruler of Xaragua (and misrepresented her as a sister of Caonabo), Peguero's work is nonetheless worth a second look for those interested in Xaragua.

First, Peguero identified items besides cotton and casabe as tribute of Xaragua to the Spanish. For instance, salt and brazil wood were also identified as items of value by the Spanish. In addition, one finds specific caciques named who ruled areas where salt and brazil wood were plentiful. For the former, a cacique named Guanaconel, in the area of Neyba, allegedly ruled a domain which included a salt mine. For brazil wood, a cacique identified as Mateguana, ruled somewhere in the Banda del Sur (presumably located near the future settlement of Yaquimo?). Cabo de Tiburon and the principal lake of Xaragua also had brazil wood. An additional cacique at the time of Ovand, Aybanes, was said to have ruled the area near this large lake. 

Peguero also gives some figures for the vassal caciques of Xaragua and its soldiers. One is undoubtedly inflated, putting the number of warriors at the disposal of Xaragua at 20,000 when he first crossed paths with the Adelantado by the Neyba River. Peguero similarly suggests Xaragua had 32 cacique vassals. It's principal settlement, or capital, allegedly had multiple plazas with trees to provide shade. One is left unsure if the over 80 caciques serving under Anacaona at the time of Ovando's slaughter was perhaps due to Indians from other parts of Hispaniola fleeing to Xaragua beforehand or if this attests to the discrepancies in the Spanish sources. 

Last, but certainly not least, Peguero also wrote about Xaragua's fall. Putting the blame for the massacre on Sebastian de Biloria, who falsely accused Anacaona of plotting against Ovando, Peguero suggests Ovando late felt remorse for the brutal killings.  Indeed, Anacaona was also said to understand and speak some Spanish and harbor a legitimate desire for baptism. If Peguero's story is reliable, it would appear that Biloria had wanted Anacaona to side with him in a plot against Ovando and the colonial government. Once Ovando fell for Biloria's lie, however, her fate was sealed. Without Roldan as a counterweight to the colonial government (and despite his abuses) and with the treacherous method used by Ovando to eliminate Xaragua's political elite, the most powerful cacicazgo on the island was neutralized as a threat to the colonial system. The fall of Xaragua's capital, unsurprisingly, was followed by the defeat of Haniguayagua and La Guababa. The seed of Xaragua later arose to threaten the colonial regime for several years in the revolt of a cacique, Enriquillo, whose movement centered in the Bahoruco contributed to the depopulation of Yaquimo and Salvatierra de la Sabana. Indeed, Enriquillo, whose wife, Mensia Bauruco, was the said to have been the daughter of a cacique named Baurucos. Enriquillo was said to have under his command 6 captains with 70 warriors each, plus Tamayo. 

Of course, Peguero also wrote about each of the other cacicazgos and their dissolution. Some general comments on the "Taino" can also be found. Echoing chroniclers like Las Casas, we learn of the Taino penchant for trade and exchange (as well as the use of eggs, corn and supposedly cacao in buying and selling). The Taino calendar system, apparently lunar and beginning the year in spring, was also discussed. The stars, believed to be deceased Indians and bright stars former caciques, snippets of Taino cosmology are revealed in a way that is somewhat more respectful than the condescending remarks that focus on Taino idolatry and superstition. 

The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

Robert Heinlein's classic novel of rebellion and the birth of a nation on the Moon is a classic for good reason. Humorous, engaging, suspenseful, thought-provoking, and a masterpiece of world-building, one is completely absorbed into this fascinating setting and its unique language, style, and revolution. Narrated through the perspective of one of the leaders of the revolution that led to the Moon's independence, Manuel, looking back on his life in the distant future, the reader sees how an ordinary (for the Moon) man can become part of history. Indeed, his friend, Mike, the supercomputer whose role in the Moon's secession from Earth's authority was indispensable, often refers to Manuel simply as "Man." In addition to Manuel, whose grit, everyday dedication, and deep roots in the penal colony make him an effective part of the revolutionary leadership, a beautiful woman named Wyoh, an elderly "Prof" with a past in fomenting revolution on Earth, and a wealthy Terran ally round out the rest of the team. 

What truly made the revolution possible was the help of Mike, the aforementioned supercomputer with sentience. Serving as a friend to Mike and then part of the leadership of the Free Luna movement, Mike is their superweapon. As an advanced computer, he can calculate trajectories for catapulting rock on Earth, use his connections to spy on communications of the Lunar Authority, and check probabilities for various scenarios throughout the revolution. Prof Bernardo, an anarchist with a deep historical and practical experience, represents the basic ideology of the revolution and tries to steer it toward a limited government. Wyoh, the initial leader of the first organization to free Luna, is also important but is somewhat sidelined later on. Man, or Manuel, plays a vital role throughout since he influenced how the Free Luna movement began with cells, and then, when Mike was not around, led the movement for independence to its final showdown with Terra. Ultimately, the Moon had no chance against Earth, but needed to engage in a combination of political theater, threats, and the image of being a bigger threat than it actually was to force the authorities on Terra to concede independence.

Through the lens of science fiction, Heinlein's own political perspective and view of what government can and should be seems clear. Although not a left-wing anarchist by any means, one can immediately detect a libertarian bias. The residents of the Moon, overwhelmingly descendants of convicts exiled by Terra and placed under the ineffective Lunar Authority which only buys grain at a fixed price, have developed a unique society to adapt to the harsh conditions of the Moon. Since men were outnumbered by women, co-marriages and distinct marriage customs evolved, perhaps best exemplified in Manuel's family with co-husbands and co-wives. Since the settlers of the Moon hailed from various races and ethnic groups on Earth, racial miscegenation is common. Russian words are also a part of everyday English on the Moon. The people of Luna have also learned to function largely without government. Through contracts between individuals, learning to survive in a harsh environment to find resources or start farms, and, when possible, avoiding the Lunar Authority and its ineffective Warden, the people of the Moon are a "nation." Furthermore, like the people of the United States in its Revolutionary War, the residents of the Moon are unfairly "taxed" by the Lunar Authority's control of the Moon's potentially lucrative trade with Terra in a free market. 

Clearly, Heinlein's novel espouses a libertarian perspective in which government intervention is minimal. While the Free Luna movement later establishes a Republic (through elections controlled by Mike and then the established Congress steered in the "right" direction by Prof to avoid it influencing the conflict with Terra), and symbolically draws on the Fourth of July, Prof, Manuel, and Wyoh do not want a strong, central authority after independence. Ineffectual yammerheads in this early Congress who do nothing but criticize and do not serve in any military capacity to defend Luna when Terran forces strike are severely criticized by Manuel, too, who threatens to resign when confronted by one in a committee. It seems that, to Heinlein (and Manuel), military service was essential for having a true say in the Revolution. The ultimate sacrifice, one might say, which many Luna men, women and even children do to defeat Terran troops sent to quell the revolt. Moreover, the ends justifies the means since our protagonists had to manipulate both sides with controlled media, deception, bluffing, fake elections, and grand-scale theft for funding. Yet, this type of limited government/libertarian ethos can only work in a setting in which a century of adaptation to difficult living conditions without strong central authority for most of the period have instilled  certain values, cooperative and extended kinship networks, and generations of ethnic/racial miscegenation. On overcrowded Terra, such an arrangement is impossible. Even in the United States, whose independence movement was an inspiration for Free Luna, race still serves as an obstacle to social unity while the overcrowded population suffers from exploitative and ineffective governments headed by the Federated Nations. In other words, libertarianism can work, but one must have both the cultural and economic bases for it established. This includes the understanding that there is no such thing as a free lunch, meaning the people of the Moon will not view government as a provider, unlike governments on Terra (like in overcrowded India, which relies heavily on grain imported from the Moon).

Sadly, the character of Mike is the most interesting and depressing of the novel. The only sentient computer, and more human-like throughout the novel as "he" gains friends, shares jokes, and even takes on a human persona as "Adam Selene" to help lead the revolution, Mike unfortunately disappears by the novel's conclusion. Perhaps this was necessary so the new nation of the Moon could truly act autonomously and take its destiny in its own hands. Nonetheless, it felt like a cop out and never addressed the possibility of other computers gaining sentience and perhaps having a voice in government. Furthermore, Mike had arguably become even more human throughout the novel, which would have been interesting if his "true" identity had been revealed after independence. Did Mike view the whole enterprise as "fun" and have chose to disengage from government? Would future advances in technology, perhaps with Mike along to nudge things, have led to more sentient computers capable of accelerating research for colonization of other planets and satellites? 

The Decagon House Murders

Yukito Ayatsuji's The Decagon House Murders was a mostly fun, suspenseful and intriguing novel inspired by Agatha Christie's class, And Then There Were None. Since over 20 years has passed since we first read Christie's novel, we thought reading a highly regarded Japanese work based on it would be a worthwhile read. And while the novel does capture the reader quite well with the chapters set on the island where the murders take place, the other characters off-island who are seeking to understand the mystery of two series of murders, are not quite as engaging or interesting. One was particularly expecting more of Shimada, whose opportunity to "reveal" what actually happened to the students in the mystery club is squandered. However, by ending the tale the way he did, the work illustrates exactly how the killer's conscience is torn and the disapproval of whatever higher being you honor. As for the actual mystery, that too was well done, although rather obvious once the only survivors on the island were 2 of the original group. The author plays around here quite well, showing a wicked sense of humor as one of the final victims, despite some brilliant deductive reasoning, fails to see the writing on the wall and lets down his guard. This was hilarious, tragic, and suspenseful to read, since we were still not sure if he was sincere in his beliefs about the real killer. Overall, a fun read with intrigue, mystery, wannabe detectives, and a dark tale of vengeance.

Alegria and the Cacique

Although Ricardo Alegria's dated MA thesis at the University of Chicago was written in the 1940s, there are still useful nuggets of information and references to be found. Reflecting the time in which he wrote, Alegria's thesis examines the cacique, or chief, of the Taino of the Antilles as a development that represents the zenith of indigenous Caribbean political organization and culture. This is demonstrated through a lengthy review of the cultural sequences of the pre-colonial Caribbean, encompassing the Archaic, Sub-Taino, Taino, and Caribs. Unsurprisingly, Alegria uses both archaeological and textual sources (mainly the chroniclers, especially Las Casas and Oviedo) to emphasize the unequal, hierarchical aspects of Taino chiefdoms based on social stratification/social class differentiation, religion (including the cemification of deceased H, and administrative functions. 

Like more recent scholars, Alegria identified the clear link between the rise of caciques as paramount chiefs and religion in its more elaborate aspects. Furthermore, material culture demonstrates this through some types of cemis, as well as the burial customs for caciques, their roles as mediators between their subjects and the cemis, and the ceremonial, judicial, diplomatic, and military roles played by caciques. Indeed, if one goes by the chronicles, particularly Las Casas, then at least what Irving Rouse referred to as the "Classic Taino" of Puerto Rico, Hispaniola, and eastern Cuba developed stratified chiefdoms with the clearest evidence for social inequality. Since Oviedo, Las Casas, Enciso, Peter Martyr, Colombus, Pane, and others were either able to witness Taino chiefdoms themselves or, at the bare minimum, receive reports from those who had, one suspects that at least on Hispaniola, and perhaps eastern Cuba, chiefdoms developed that approximated the highly stratified society described by Alegria. Indeed, if one can rely on Las Casas, this must have occurred in areas like eastern Cuba, where the conquering "Taino" enslaved the previous residents, albeit treating the descendants of the conquered groups almost like their own.

Of course, scholarship on the issue has changed with newer excavations, reinterpretations of the Spanish documentary sources, and new techniques and technology used by archaeologists. That said, even the Spanish sources themselves, especially Las Casas, acknowledged that some cacicazgos of the Caribbean were not highly developed polities or lordships ruled by paramount chiefs. And like future scholars, a young Alegria may have correctly observed that possible Mesoamerican influences on the "Taino" reached Hispaniola and Puerto Rico indirectly, via South America. One wonders if recent scholars would suggest that Alegria should have looked more closely at the isthmo-Colombian region here, particularly with regard to guanin. Likewise, one wonders if his assumption that the Ciguayo Indians of Hispaniola spoke another Arawakan language may have been incorrect. 

An African Khipu??

Reading about the khipu system of recording information in the Andean world reminded us of what was a similar way of using cords and knots to record numerical information in parts of precolonial West Africa. Unfortunately, finding details on the system used in what is now Benin, but previously the kingdom of Allada and parts of the Slave Coast in the 17th century, is difficult. The tradition appears to have largely disappeared, although the ambiguous references to it in precolonial European sources might also have picked up on the Yoruba aroko system of symbolic communication. However, the Yoruba system, which has survived in parts of rural Yorubaland, does not use, at least from the little we could uncover, or rely, on knots and cords to send messages. Instead, the system of knotted cords used in Allada was more akin to the khipu used in the Andes, particularly for accounts, keeping track of dates or time, and meetings. 

There are primarily 3 sources which mention the "khipu" of the kingdom of Allada. Two date from the 17th century (Barbot and the Sieur d'Elbée), while the 18th century journal of the Chevalier des Marchais appears to be largely derived from these 17th century sources). Indeed, the published journal of the Chevalier des Marchais even asserts that the fidalgos of Allada, who sometimes spoke Portuguese, also learned how to read and write in that tongue. While some may have been literate in Portuguese or European languages, the more detailed account from 1670 by Elbée suggests that the vast majority of people in Allada were illiterate, but cords with knots were used for recording (numerical?) information. That alphabetic literacy in precolonial Allada was likely minimal can be affirmed by other sources, too. For instance, the accounts of Allada from the Capuchin missionaries sent there in the mid-1600s mention the Allada king's opposition to the foundation of a Catholic-run school there. Indeed, the Allada king seemed to have little or no interest in spreading literacy to the ordinary people. If Elbée is to be relied upon, it seems very unclear or uncertain that most of the fidalgos of Allada were literate in Portuguese, either. 

So, what can one say about the "khipu" of Allada? Very little, sadly, without any ethnographic evidence on its use in more recent times or artifacts to examine. Since, as previously mentioned, the account from the Chevalier des Marchais is too brief, one must focus on Elbée and Barbot. The former specifies that the knots on cords had different meanings, such as the date for meetings and the price for merchandise. In fact, it is explicitly compared to the way knots on cords were used by various Amerindian peoples of the Americas. Barbot, on the other hand, places more emphasis on Allada "khipu" as comparable to pocket-books used by Europeans. Like Elbée, the Allada "khipu" are compared to those used by Amerindian people and he claimed they were used to observe time, places, numbers, and meetings. From the little one can gleam from these sources, the "khipu" of Allada were mainly numerical, with nothing akin to the narrative khipu used by the Incas or khipu for historiographical purposes. This is intriguing, since Allada and later Dahomey were powerful kingdoms which one might expect would need to develop further genres of "khipu" semiosis for recording detailed information.

For an example of how non-Andean South American groups used knots to record information, one can find references to groups from Venezuela and the Lesser Antilles. The Jesuit, Gumila, for instance, wrote about the use of cords with knots to send messages by indigenous groups living in the Orinoco Basin. Other Spanish and Dutch sources attest to the use of cords with knots to send messages between indigenous villages or communities for meetings. According to Rochefort, the Kalinago ("Island Caribs") used knots on cords to record the number of days leading up to a scheduled meeting. Outside of the Andes, none of these fleeting references to the use of knotted cords suggests more semiotic heterogeneity. Was the "khipu" of Allada similar to these? And why weren't "khipu" developed in Allada and the Slave Coast to record information for additional genres or types? 

One wonders if part of the reason may have been due to the use of Ifa divination (which required memorization of 256 binary signs), sculptures, and textiles for other types of information. Likewise, one wonders if the widespread influence of the Yoruba language and other Yoruba influences may have led to the adoption of a semiotic system akin to aroko by subjects of Allada and Dahomey. Evidence for this must be sought, but it certainly seems plausible. Alternatively, the example of the nearby Gold Coast provides similar use of symbolic communication through objects such as cowries, grass, beads, clay, and other materials to communicate messages, per Reindorf. Perhaps the "khipu" of Allada remained only in use for numerical data and record-keeping, with other means of conveying and recording information through oral tradition, art, or objects used in other domains.

Haiti & Peru

Whilst perusing old issues of Haiti Sun via the Digital Library of the Caribbean, we came across some interesting articles mentioning Haiti-Peru relations. Although it is a topic we hope to revisit at at later date, we found it intriguing to see press coverage of Haiti's relations with this important Andean nation. In the first picture, Ade, Haiti's envoy, presents his credentials to the Peruvian president, Odria, in 1950. 

In the second picture, from a 1956 article in the same newspaper, Perez Saez, the Peruvian ambassador to Haiti, is featured. Peru was in the Haitian journal because of celebrations of Peruvian independence that took place in Petionville. We would like to explore relations between the two nations, extending back as far as possible. Haiti's historical relations with South American countries is often ignored except for the contributions of Haitians to Bolivar and independence movements. What happened after that?

Muslim Spain Reconsidered

Hitchcock's Muslim Spain Reconsidered is a short survey of the history of Al-Andalus from 711 to 1502. It would be difficult to do justice to several centuries of complex history, particularly in a region whose legacy has been used for various, occasionally contradictory purposes. For Hitchcock, Al-Andalus is not so much a paragon of interfaith harmony or unity, but rather part of a long history in which political concerns and interests (expediency) trumped religious or nationalist identities. For instance, the chapter in which El Cid is covered emphasizes the non-religious character of the historical El Cid. The cultural importance of Al-Andalus for scholarship, poetry, medicine, and translation of Classical knowledge is further emphasized for its long-term impact in Western Europe, too. Reasonable speculation about Al-Andalus's possible influence on Dante or the significance of Toledo as a center of translation of Islamic knowledge for the West serve to illustrate how Andalusian scholarship, book culture, and poetry made a huge impact on west. One of Hitchcock's particular strengths is his care to include aesthetic developments in poetry, architecture, and literature that illustrate distinctive Andalusian styles and identity, not just its emulation of the Islamic East. We certainly will be attempting to read Ibn Hazm, for example.

The Igbo in Haiti

 

The Igbo peoples have left a cultural legacy in Haiti that survives to this day. The Ibo nanchon in Haitian Vodou, for instance, attests to this Igbo legacy. Whilst perusing runaway advertisements, we focused on Ibo captives in Saint Domingue to look for anything distinctive. As we expected, since the French slave traders were usually not bringing many captives from the Bight of Biafra to Saint Domingue, many Igbo slaves in the colony appear to have been smuggled through other colonies. The above case of Marie, for example, illustrates the example of an English-speaking Igbo in Aquin. One wonders if she was brought to Saint Domingue from Jamaica or another British colony in the Antilles. The "Ibos" of Saint Domingue were also briefly described by Descourtilz and a few other writers on the colony's Africans, often noting their propensity for suicide. 

Another trend we noticed with Igbo captives is a certain degree of ambiguity about their precise "national" origin. Some were listed as Bibi, presumably for the Ibibio peoples of southern Nigeria. Francois, the man above, could have been either one or perhaps from another group in southeastern Nigeria. 

Yet again, another runaway slave was seen as either Bibi (Ibibio) or Ibo. 

Some runaway Igbos from other colonies were identified precisely. For example, Margueritte came to the colony from Mississippi. 

Something we have written about elsewhere is the consistent presence of Ibos in colonial Bainet, in the Sud-Est of Haiti. Three newly arrived Ibos absconded from the Chaumeil habitation in Bainet.

Another Ibo, Marie, was identified as an Anglophone person.

Once again, another Ibo, Etienne, spoke English. This one was "owned" by a free black woman.

As for Saint-Emilion, a runaway described above, he was either Ibo or Chauma. We could not identify Chauma at all, but it indicates once again how ambiguous and problematic the "national" labels assigned to Africans in Saint Domingue truly were.

Alexandre, another Ibo maroon, spoke English.

Jean, an Ibo runaway, similarly spoke English.

We found the above case interesting for its description of an Ibo runaway who spoke Nago (Yoruba). Assuming the Ibo identification is accurate, one wonders if he learned "Nago" in West Africa. 

The Incas

The 2nd edition of Terence D'Altroy's The Incas is a nice overview of scholarship on the Incas written ten years ago. Drawing on various disciplines and new (at the time) research by archaeologists, linguists, art historians, historians, and ethnographers, D'Altroy's study provides a nearly complete overview of this major Andean civilization. Indeed, the author even endeavored to include more Andean modes of thinking and perspectives in the work, too. For those of us who are still novices toiling in the beginning stages of Inca historical research, this is all fascinating and useful for the bibliographical references. It is also interesting to compare it with overviews of the Inca from past scholars. For instance, Malpass's far shorter introduction from the 1990s, emphasizes more of the negative impact of Inca labor tribute obligations imposed on subject peoples than D'Altroy. Intriguingly, the linguistic evidence used by the author recalls Peace Garcia's theory of an Aymara origin of the title, Inca. Moreover, drawing on Bauer's excavations and research in the Cuzco heartland does suggest an earlier period of Inca political expansion that is not reliably elucidated in the Spanish chronicles drawing on late, imperial Inca History. Indeed, even the standard story of Pachacuti's defeat of the Chankas does not appear justified based on archaeological evidence on this people. 

The Republic in ca. 1818

Whilst perusing references on 19th century Haiti, we recently encountered De la République d'Haïti: île de Saint-Domingue, considérée sous ses différents rapports, ses forces, ses moyens physiques et moraux, et le caractère national de ses habitants by A. Rouzeau. Published in 1818, the author, Rouzeau, wrote a brief work on economic, political and social conditions in Haiti at the time. According to Rouzeau, it would have been impractical, expensive and unsuccessful for France to try to reconquer Haiti militarily. Instead, he focused on an alternative that would foment France's economic advantages in Haiti. 

Part of this included a rather grandiose idea of France freeing its colonies in the Americas and promoting a federation arrangement that would encourage trade with the metropole. Obviously, things did not quite work out according to Rouzeau's proposition to the French king, but it is important for recognizing how unfeasible a French military conquest of the island would be. Even with a lengthy blockade, France might still lose the conflict if other European powers drew their attention to other affairs. Moreover, the mountainous terrain and climate would make things difficult for French troops. Even against barefoot Haitian soldiers, which would have included over 30,000 in Petion's state (and about 30,000 in Christophe's kingdom), the French would have struggled to hold the island. Once the conflict ended, all that would be left is ruins, and France would have had few means of rebuilding the colony's agriculture. 

Besides his ideas about France's future in the Americas and how to increase their economic advantages in Haiti, there are a number of details here on Port-au-Prince, Les Cayes, Jacmel, Leogane, and the exports of each area. Throughout, one finds allusions to the conflict with Christophe in the Nord. Although Rouzeau was not able to visit Christophe's kingdom, which he dismissed as a barbaric despotism, he did note that people fleeing the Nord for the republic was a constant factor. Indeed, some of the officers in Petion's guard were said to have been individuals who fled Christophe's kingdom. While the Republic lacked proper regulations and laws to encourage agriculture and worker-proprietor relations, and sucreries (about 70 in the Cul-de-Sac plain) were not as productive as they could be, Christophe's kingdom did not pay ouvriers on the estates enough. In fact, Rouzier hypocritically referred to Christophe's treatment of the masses as a horror unequaled in the annals of Saint Domingue. This is rich, since the history of slavery was so recent. 

A History of the Khipu

Galen Brokaw's A History of the Khipu endeavors to outline the known history of the khipu through an interdisciplinary approach. Such an approach is necessary given the fact that there is so much to the khipu that is unknown or poorly understood. By drawing from various disciplines like anthropology, history, literacy studies, media studies, theories of Quechua ontology of numbers, and archaeology, one can surmise certain features of the khipu. Indeed, by viewing khipu as a medium with different genre conventions across time and place, Brokaw's review of the history of this particular non-alphabetic medium can emphasize its semiotic heterogeneity over the longue durée. This encompasses all that is known of pre-Hispanic Andean khipu as well as the survival and transformation of khipu in the colonial and independence eras. 

Perhaps most important for our interests is the emphasis on growing sophistication of khipu for recording different types of information in the Wari and Inca empires. Earlier forms of Andean semiosis through Wari architectural, Moche inscribed beans, yupana counting boards and textile patterns of the Wari civilization are all significant, but with the rise of larger, imperial political systems in the Andean region, the need for different types of khipu to record information necessary for the bureaucracy became paramount. While the Wari khipu are not the same as that of the Inca, who may have developed even more genre conventions such as imperial khipu historiographical "texts" and more refined census, tribute, and calendrical khipu, there does appear to be a correlation between more developed khipu literacies and state formation and administrative needs. This is not to deny the earlier forms of semiosis through features like inscribed beans analyzed by Brokaw in the early chapter on the Moche.

After the Spanish conquest, khipu use persisted. However, with the demise of the Inca political system, certain genres, like historiographical khipu used for recounting the past of the Inca rulers, gradually disappeared. Khipu genres used for census purposes or recording tribute, however, were used by the Spanish colonial system. These genres provided necessary information for the system of encomiendas and the visitas across various regions of the Andes. Of course, the khipu had to be adapted since the Spanish tribute system was not the same as that of the Inca one. Moreover, despite past scholarship's emphasis on the Third Lima Council's alleged "ban" on khipu, Brokaw cites numerous sources (Jesuit and other) on the use of confessional khipu or khipu use promoted by the Church to further evangelize the Indians. This suggests that khipu was never banned outright, despite some discomfort or hesitation about "idolatrous khipu" used for the worship of huacas or unease about the prominence of indigenous community leaders in carrying out Church functions. Nonetheless, it becomes quite clear that khipu use continued throughout the colonial period. 

After 1650, clear references to the khipu in the colonial archive become rare. Brokaw elucidates this pattern quite well, demonstrating that it was due to the colonial state relying less on the types of information supplied by the khipu, the growth of alphabetic literacy among indigenous communities, and the dissolution of indigenous community organizations based on indigenous principles. Brokaw additionally explains why the way pastoral khipu are used today in parts of the Andes may differ from the khipu of the Inca era. In short, many scholars ignore the diversity in genre of khipu, and the role of a large state system in codifying certain types of khipu genres for its purposes. Once the Inca state disappeared, these types of khipu records gradually dissolved with it, leaving behind local khipu records of the genre used by indigenous communities for keeping track of camelid herds or recording tribute obligations.

Finally, Brokaw seems less confident about the possibility of fully cracking the "code" of khipu. Given the diversity of genres and how perhaps the most complex narrative khipu seem to have disappeared by the 1600s, the "code" for cracking one genre of khipu may not be useful for "reading" other genres. Each genre followed its own conventions, and historians and archaeologists will have to uncover more khipu artifacts, colonial-era transcriptions, or other types of evidence to fully understand this highly complex medium. 

Indian Division

One thing that requires further study is the indigenous division in the Dominican form of Vodou. Apparently absent in Haiti, the existence of an entire division of spirits associated with the indigenous past of Hispaniola (and water) is interesting for what it may suggest about indigenous Taino spirituality surviving today. The few writings we have found on it are the work of Carlos Esteban Deive on Dominican Vodou, Martha Ellen Davis's work, and an article by Geo. Ripley. Additional mentions of indigenous features in Dominican spirituality and religious practice can be found in Lundius and Lundahl's study of the Palma Sola movement as well as Jana Pesoutova's Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. Undoubtedly, additional works exist, but of varying quality and often difficult to locate. As for the appearance of Indian spirits in Haitian Vodou, the only account we know of is a short article by Odette Roy Fombrun of questionable reliability. 

From Deive's account, the Indian Division included spirits or luases like Agalla Dulce, India de Agua Azul, Caonabo, Cayacoa, Enriquillo, Guaroa, Hatuey, Mencia, Hacuai Danto, Guarionex, Carmela, Carmelina Dansoleil, Guacanagarix, Tamayo and a chief of the division, Gamao. Obviously, several of these were caciques of Hispaniola at the time of Spanish arrival or early resisters to the encomienda system and colonial oppression (Enriquillo, Tamayo). Intriguingly, at least one has a name of Haitian Creole origin and a few appear to be linked to water (Agua Azul) or perhaps places or springs. Agalla Dulce, intriguingly, brings to mind a possible etymology of the word cemi, linking it to the concept of sweetness. However, the vast majority of the spirits listed here are "deified" historical persons. A similar concept can be found in Haitian Vodou, which includes Dessalines as a lwa (not to mention the West African origins of some spirits, which can be traced to figures who were deified in the past (Chango, or Shango, anyone?). 

What about Davis, the author of La Otra ciencia? According to Davis, the Indian Division emphasizes water and has an ecological aspect that may reflect animistic influences. She further specified that in the capital, Santo Domingo, historic caciques were worshipped, like Anacaona. In this case, the service to cacique/lwa was akin to the appearance of Indians in Espiritismo. In the Southwest of the Dominican, in areas like San Juan de la Maguana, more Indian spirits can be found, yet they are not, from what we can tell, caciques. Davis's view here finds further support from Pesoutova's work, which emphasizes traditions of Indian spirits in locales like Banica or in the San Juan de la Maguana region. It would seem that two distinct traditions of Indian spirits exist here, if Davis is correct. 

What about the Indian Division according to Lundahl and Lundius? They mentioned the leader of the Indian Division in Dominican Vodou as a spirit called Tinyó, or Gamao. Interestingly, he also has a name of Creole origin, Le Gran Solei, and a chromolithograph of St. Nicolas of Bari is used for him. They additionally specify the importance of Indian spirits in the Dominican Southwest, particularly in the valley of San Juan de la Maguana. This includes practices associated with the large Corral de Los Indios as well as rites and rituals tied to the memory of Caonabo and Anacaona. One particular spot in this area of the country, La Agüita, was associated with St. John the Baptist and a number of Indian spirits. Again, there is an association with water (here believed to have healing properties) and Indian spirits, as well as syncretism with Catholic and African beliefs. 

Although much more research remains to be done on the Indian Division, it does seem to reflect a mix of old, animistic properties and belief in spirits tied to Dominican folk belief (and pre-Columbian religion). The appearance of lwa named after historic caciques might be the result of a mixture of Vodou, Espiritismo, and Dominican folk belief, perhaps explaining why it was more evident in the area of the capital, according to Davis. Either way, if Ripley, who included a ceremonial song for the Indian Division in a short essay, is believed, "Indio soy, vivo en el monte huyendo porque los españoles me van siguiendo." The Indian as ancestor, symbol, and spirit is clearly relevant today in the Dominican Republic.