Guatiao, mi hermano

Another surprise, although it probably shouldn't be, is the use of a word akin to guatiao in the Kalinago tongue. In Breton's dictionary, it is rendered as Itignaom, quite distinct form the Galibi banaré in Pelleprat's dictionary. Clearly, Itignaom is etymologically related to guatiao, and how the word was used by the Kalinago who traded with the French may give us an idea of how it worked. The system of ritual kinship and alliance cemented by an exchange of names was used by the Kalinago and the French for trading purposes. If the Kalinago equivalent was similar to the Taino version, then the appearance of the name Agueybana in both Saona, eastern Hispaniola, and Puerto Rico could possibly have been through a ritual kinship sealed by the exchange of names. This would have facilitated trade and alliances and perhaps explain a lot of the similarities in ritual iconography, art, and even the exchange of areitos between indigenous groups in Puerto Rico and eastern Hispaniola. 

Bambara Runaways in Saint-Domingue

 

Samba, runaway "Bambara" in 1767. Samba as first name may be more indicative of a Fula or perhaps other Senegalese origin. Actual "Bambara" origins may be more likely when paired with a description of runaway slaves bearing evidence of facial scarification.

Part of the problem with gathering precise information on "Bambara" captives in Saint-Domingue is that the French themselves didn't seem to know much about them. They appear to have learned that there was indeed a "Bambara" language but runaway ads like the one above express confusion. We suspect "Mandingue" was meant instead of Bambara, particularly since Mandingues and Bambaras spoke related tongues.

Yet another example of the ambiguity of "Bambara" and other nations in Saint-Domingue. If the Tacoua were Nupe, then it seems unlikely for a Nupe person to speak "Bambara." If "Bambara" here is interpreted broadly as a Mande-related language, then it is possible for a Nupe woman to have also spoken or learned a language related to "Bambara." But it raises questions about the accuracy of labels like "Tacoua" and "Bambara" in the colony.

Another example of the ambiguity or perhaps broad meaning of "Bambara" can be seen in the case of a runaway named Fevrier. His nation, Saufo, probably Soso (Susu), a group present in the colony in larger numbers than we think, is described as a "type of Bambara." This suggests any group of peoples speaking languages similar to Bamana and probably non-Muslim could become a "Bambara."

Another ad for a runaway includes someone who spoke both Bambara and Thiamba. If Thiamba referred to the broader cluster of Gur peoples, then it is possible this man spoke Mandingue or Bambara. 

Even free blacks in Saint-Domingue called themselves Bambara. The case of Jacques dit Bambara is an interesting one, since he owned slaves and property near Mirebalais. 

Other "Bambara" runaways appear with Islamic names. Moussa, or Musa, could have been from another of different ethnic groups. We have encountered Bambara runaways with names like Boucary (Bakari) and Mamadoux.

Another ambiguous case involved a Bambara runaway who supposedly spoke Nago (Yoruba). If accurate, this is rather remarkable unless the "Bambara" maybe learned Nago in Saint-Domingue? The runaway ads also include one for a Bambara who spoke Mine, which is a bit more plausible.

Madagascar and Haiti

 

Thomas, a Madagascar captives listed in a notarial record from Jacmel, 1739. He may have arrived in Saint-Domingue on the ship, Saint-Michel, which imported 267 slaves into the colony in 1735.

One of the more interesting facets of the horrid annals of the French Slave Trade is the movement of over 20,000 captives from Southeast Africa to Saint-Domingue in the 18th century. Although only a fraction of the total imported slave population to colonial Haiti, this late 18th century trade (since most of the captives arrived from 1773-1792, though about 534 "Madagascar" captives were imported across the 1720s and 1730s on two voyages), the trade connected Haiti and the Atlantic with France's Indian Ocean trade and colonial interests in the Mascarenes. Unsurprisingly, most of the East African and Southeast African captives purchased by the French during the 18th century were destined for the Mascarenes, which even included a sizable enslaved population of Indians imported (which explains the tiny Asian Indian population in Saint-Domingue, too). 

Maroon Ali, a Griffe of Madagascar, posted in 1785.

The trade with Saint-Domingue was quite connected with this, however, as French ships traveling to India purchased goods that were then used to acquire slaves on the coast of Africa and Madagascar. Some of these ships then purchased captives from different parts of the Indian Ocean coast, sometimes acquiring captives from both Mozambique and Madagascar, before continuing into the Atlantic. Other ships, according to Jean Mettas's Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises au XVIIIe siècle, even stopped at the Cape of Good Hope (purchasing things like vine) or on the coasts of Angola to acquire slaves for sale in Saint-Domingue. The full story of the role of the Mascarenes as a base for the French slave traders active in both the Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean is a story worthy of attention, as it fully connects the trade in bonded labor in both oceans/worlds while also presaging the later movement of indentured Indian labor and "liberated" Africans in postemancipation years.

Runaway ad for 2 Madagascar Africans, 1785.

Let us return to Madagascar, however. The fascinating thing is that, despite their relatively early appearance in the colony the Trans-Atlantic Database at slavevoyages.org only has 534 captives from Madagascar arrived in Saint-Domingue. Charlevoix, the Jesuit historian who wrote a history of the island in the 1730s, also mentioned small numbers of "Monomotapa" and Madagascar slaves in the colony, but neither group were highly esteemed in the colony. This may indicate that some of the 534 captives imported over the course of the 1720s-1730s included people who were later called "Mozambiques" or perhaps slaves purchased in Madagascar but from the mainland. A study of the Sakalava state and its role in the supply of slaves to Europeans in the period would be potentially fruitful for understanding the origins of Madagascar captives in the Americas. Regardless, the presence of Southeast Africans was clearly very minor in the first half of the 18th century. Perusing the notarial records for different parishes of the colony may reveal more of their numbers, as our example of Thomas, an enslaved person in the Jacmel area illustrates. Some free people of color in the colony were also reputed to be descendants of Madagascar slaves, such as the Roumat of Jacmel. Perhaps Jacmel received a disproportionate share of "Madagascar" slaves in the 1720s and 1730s? If they were not highly desired, some of the indigo and coffee planters in the Jacmel quarter may have been more desperate and willing to accept them?

Runaway ad for Zephir, a Malgache with an Indian accent, 1788.

However, with the rapid expansion of the slave trade with Southeast Africa in the last 2 decades of the 18th century, the Madagascar captives reappear. And this is in spite of the overwhelming majority of captives from this region being acquired from Mozambique. According to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade database, 15,280 "Mozambiques" were disembarked in Saint-Domingue with another  2644 purchased from the area of Kilwa. Clearly, for the Malagasy to reappear in Saint-Domingue during the final 2 decades of colonial rule, some must have been acquired from the Mascarenes, unspecified ports, or ships that purchased captives at multiple areas in Southeast Africa. Consulting the work of Mettas provides a few examples of slavers that did exactly this, purchasing some captives in Madasgascar and the Mascarenes but bringing cargos mainly consisting of "Mozambiques" to Saint-Domingue. One particular example, La Victoire, picked up around 80 captives at Bombetoc before continuing its voyage toward the Atlantic in 1785. We suspect this may have occurred more often than recognized or detectable from surviving sources, particularly given the large Madagascar component of the enslaved population in the Mascarenes during this era. Perhaps a decent chunk of the 1,449 slaves from unspecificied Southeast African ports were Malagasy.

A 1773 runaway ad for a Malgaffe, or Malgasse, slaves. 1773 is also the year of the earliest known direct slave imports from Mozambique to Saint-Domingue. A baker in Leogane also posted for sale a Madagascar domestic, Bourbon, in 1775.

As the above runaway ad illustrates, the reappearance of Madagascar slaves in Saint-Domingue coincided with the year of the first documented slave ship bringing captives from Mozambique to the colony. Since the return of Malagasy captives to Saint-Domingue happened at the same time as the larger scale trade in Mozambique captives to the Mascarenes, ethnic groups appearing there likely indicate the same origins of Madagascar slaves in Haiti. Madagascar natives enslaved in the Mascarenes were drawn from the following groups and areas: Antateimo, Betsileo, Hova, Sakalava, according to Baron d'Unienville. Allen, citing a 1817 slaves register on Mauritius, lists the following groups found there: Ambanivolo, Amboalambo (Merina), Andrantsay, Antaisaka, Antalaotra, Antanosy, Antatsimo, Betanimena, Maninga (sic), Marvace (sic) and Sakalava. Although these are the known ethnic groups for 19th century Malagasy slaves in the Mascarenes, one is probably on safe ground to suspect that it was similar in its ethnic distribution in the late 18th century. Interestingly, we do not see the Bara people listed, a group who, per the speculative reasoning of Jean Fouchard, may have provided the name or at least influenced Haiti's national dance. 

The sale of a Madagascar slave sailor who could speak very good French, in 1786.

To what extent these Malagasy peoples contributed to the formation of Haitian culture is unclear. Their numbers were far smaller than those of "Mozambique" origin, and the "Mozambiques" do not appear to have bequeathed too much to Haitian culture. However, genetic studies of the Haitian population undoubtedly reflects Southeast African ancestry, as a survey of Haitian African matches by the Tracing African Roots project indicates. Nonetheless, an African person of Madagascar origin was the subject of a Haitian newspaper article in 1839. Named Lundi, this Madagascar native was a slave and master sucrier on the Santo habitation in the Croix-des-Bouquet area. Apparently, he saved the estate 3 times during the tumultuous years of the Haitian Revolution and post-1804 conflicts. The article, published in L'Union, praises Lundi while also lamenting the demise of Haiti's sugar production. Due to the class biases of the author and the interests of some of the journal's contributors in reviving large-scale plantation agriculture, one should probably interpret the story of Lundi very carefully. However, it is one of the few accounts mentioning people of Malagasy origin in 19th century Haiti. 

Areito in the Batey

Depiction of the type of drums used by our forebears

In order to continue our exploration of possible origins and alternative meanings of well-known words from the Taino lexicon, we decided to continue our journey with areito and batey. Both words are connected, as the batey has been conceived of as a central place or plaza in which areitos were likely conducted or held while the same space was also used for the ballgame. Therefore, exploring the etymology and development of these words may be useful for understanding the origins of three central components of "Taino" civilization in the prehispanic Greater Antilles. Relying on our usual dictionaries of Warao, Lokono/Arawak, Palikur, Kalinago, Wayuu and Garifuna, we decided to see what looking for similar words and concepts in other languages may reveal.

First, batey. This word does not seem to have close equivalents in other languages besides Kalinago. In Palikur, wetri or higiw can signify place. In Warao, a Spanish-Warao handbook gave us auti autu as en todo el centro. Plaza in Warao is jojonoko or kotubunoko, neither one sounding anything like batey. Lokono doesn't give many clues, either. Central is rendered as anakubo. A Garifuna trilingual dictionary provides amidani for middle. We must look to other languages to see possible ideas on the origins of the word.

It is only in Kalinago where a word sounding somewhat close to batey can be found. In this case, a 17th century French-Kalinago dictionary of Breton uses the word bati to designate the place or corner of someone, as in the space used by someone to hang their hammock in the house. This very specific and limited meaning suggests batey in Taino may have once held a similar meaning for a small corner or space used by someone. Somehow, over time, Taino speakers began to expand their definition of the term to encompass larger plazas or central spaces (as well as retaining the original, restricted use of it, as its survival in Caribbean Spanish attests). Interestingly, the Kalinago used the word bouellelebou to designate a yard or the place between the carbet and houses. The word they used for the place where cabins or homes were established was bouleletebou, clearly related to their word for yard. It seems likely that the Taino batey originally referred to a smaller area or space associated with a particular person, then was expanded upon to designate a larger central plaza (and the associated ballgame). It was possibly also a local development and not particularly influenced by plazas or the ballgame in Mesoamerica, if the linguistic evidence is clear. 

Areíto likewise presents a challenge. In Warao, dokotu warakitane or dokoto wara mean to sing. A party is oriwaka. In Wayuu, to sing is ee'irajaa and party is mi'raa. In this same tongue, to remember is so too aa'in. None of these words are particularly close to the Taino word. Neither does Palikur come close, except for one word. However, in that language, musique is arigman. To play an instrument is arigha. More intriguingly, the word for rumor is aritka. This could actually be etymologically linked to the Taino word in the sense of rumor being related to story, storytelling, and narratives. This is also linked to the Garifuna words for remember and remembrance. Indeed, in Garifuna, a trilingual dictionary renders remember as aritagua. Remembrance is aritahani. This is close to the Taino word and the Palikur aritka. Thus, areíto, though accompanied by music and dance, was etymologically related to remembrance, history, tradition and stories. This sense is very clear in some of the Spanish chronicles. Indeed, Oviedo explicitly compared the Taino way of recording history to romances in Spain. It also makes it quite clear that a clear historical component was central to the areíto. 

Surprisingly, however, the Kalinago language, at least based on the 17th century French dictionary did not possess such a close equivalent. Nonetheless, the word for storyteller, arianga-lougouti and the word for to speak, arianga, may be related to the Garifuna terms for remember and remembrance. It is also possible that speakers of Taino who fled to the Lesser Antilles during and after the Spanish conquest introduced their version of the word? But, the fact that a similar word was present in Palikur, in South America, suggests that this was not necessary for all 3 languages to develop similar-sounding words for related concepts. 

So, what does this foray in language tell us? It establishes quite clearly a historical character for the areíto. The Spanish chronicles are reliable here in describing it as one whose central purpose was linked to history, or at least a "Taino" conception of history and genealogies. The word must have held deep roots and was clearly linked to historical narratives, myths, legends, and tales of lineage (for those of chiefly rank?) that were accompanied by song and dance, possibly to  facilitate memory as well as entertain. The batey, on the other hand, seems to have originally designated just a small space, corner, or area of a particular person, which was presumably linked to the idea of a "yard" near their home. This was, at some later date, expanded to refer to larger central plazas and the ballgame. The antiquity of large plazas in the Caribbean suggests that this may have happened much earlier in the history of the language, and part of the reason why it didn't use words of continental origin for the space. 

Inca Civilization in Cuzco

This is probably not the best place to start with for Zuidema. A translation of lecture series from the 1980s he gave in France, the book attempts to analyze myths reported in the chronicle, fieldwork based on the ceque system, and kinship structure theories to make sense of how Inca civilization in Cuzco was tied to the calendrical, agricultural, and ritual cycle. Somehow it's all connected to moieties in which, however, each ruling Inca did not have a panaca that continued after his death. I'm still not sure what to make of Zuidema, but I'm definitely in favor of the more historicist approaches to the chronicles. Zuidema, on the other hand, seems to think that viewing more of the information recorded in the chronicles as myth can actually free our minds to develop alternative models which might be closer to the realities of pre-Hispanic Andean civilization. He even compares the age-class system of the Inca to the Ge peoples of Brazil, raising a possible area of exploration by looking at the Andean age-grade system in comparison with all of South America's Amerindian peoples.

I guess I keep falling back on the historicist bias since some of the chroniclers, like Sarmiento de Gamboa, even had representatives of each 'panaca' listen to the chronicle and offer feedback for any points they disagreed with. It's possible that each group had its own 'mythohistoric' view of their collective past and were able to agree on a coherent enough vision that was written down by Sarmiento de Gamboa. But I suspect the Inca, at least since Pachacuti, had a keen interest in history in both our "modern" sense and one related to myth. I don't think they interpreted their past as entirely "mythohistoric" and the evidence of possible quipu "records" and specialists in the interpretation of said records undoubtedly meant that a core "historic" tradition must have been propagated since at least Pachachuti in the 1400s.

A Correction...

A correction is in order. In an old post for this site, we wrote about the tiny population of Asian Indians in Saint Domingue. In that brief foray into the slave trade of Asian Indians and their presence in the pre-19th century Caribbean, we repeated what we have recently learned is most likely an error about one of those exceptional voyages that allegedly carried captives from India to Saint-Domingue. Well, consulting the sources that are accessible has clarified the matter. 

In brief, we relied on Richard Allen's scholarship for insights on the nature of slavery and the slave trade in the Mascarenes. His work was invaluable for beginners like us who were (and are) still struggling to make sense of the Indian Ocean World and its ties to important Atlantic World colonies like Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, it appears like Jean Mettas, whose Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises au XVIIIe siècle is an excellent source of information on the French Slave Trade, made a mistake with regards to at least one slave ship. This was La Cibele, or Cybele, a ship which arrived in Le Cap after a long voyage from the Indian Ocean. According to one archival source cited by Mettas, La Cybele reached Saint Domingue from the "coasts of India." However, Mettas or Allen did not consult Saint Domingue's newspaper for details on the human cargo of the vessel. 

According to Affiches americaines, the 400 or so slaves were actually acquired from Mozambique, not India. This is more logical and fits with the pattern of French slaving voyages to Mozambique, Madagascar and the Mascarenes acquiring goods from India for the purchase of slaves in Africa, then bringing said African captives to the Americas. The ship was also carrying Indian merchandise, so it likely did travel to India (or purchased the goods in the Mascarenes?). But the approximately 400 African slaves brought to Le Cap were, at least according to the press, from Mozambique. 

This suggests that ships which did travel from India to Saint-Domingue and brought slaves from the subcontinent were probably more akin to the cases we found in our past exploration of the newspaper. One at least 2 occasions ships coming from India to Saint Domingue included slaves for sale (40 and 16), but it is still not entirely clear said captives were actually from India. However, it is probable that some were, as the appearance of "Negro Indians" and references to specific regions of India for some runaway slaves or slave sale advertisements suggest. "Blacks" from the Malabar Coast, Bengale, the Coromandel Coast, or "black Indians" from Mauritius (Ile de France) and Bourbon or Madras undoubtedly prove the presence of said Indians in the colony. 

The Hausa in the Saint Domingue Press

 

Although it mainly provides limited information, consulting Saint Domingue's newspaper, Affiches américaines, available at the Digital Library of the Caribbean, is a wondrous resource. One can see advertisements for the sale of imported slaves, runaway slave notices, and, occasionally, individuals selling slaves. Sometimes the level of detail on the captive African population can be very meaningful or relevant for gaining more insight on their origins, experiences, and exploitation. Perusing it for references to the Hausa in Saint Domingue was actually quite illustrative of certain trends and theories about the Central Sudan's involvement in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade before the 19th century.

For example, one can find references to Hausa runaways that may bear African names. This above example, Boupa (Bouba?) is ambiguous, but could point to possible backgrounds for captives from northern areas who reached the Slave Coast. 

Some of the advertisements for newly arrived ships carrying captives are similarly worthwhile. The example from above, from 1787, reveals that the cargo included Hausa as well as Arada captives. Intriguingly, Hausa captives had been imported since at least the 1760s, but it seems like the diverse "nations" from the Bight of Benin only began to be distinguished more regularly by the last 20-30 years of colonial rule. One wonders if the French slave traders, who probably had little ability to demand only specific "nations" when waiting to fill their cargos for the Atlantic voyage, were responding to growing demand and stereotypes of Saint Domingue slaveholders.

Occasionally, the "Nago" and other nations besides Aradas and Hausas appeared as part of the cargo for arriving slave ships, like the example from 1786 demonstrates. One suspects that the Hausa captives were perhaps mainly taken from ports like Porto Novo, Badagry, and Onis. Indeed, historians such as Adamu pointed out Lagos, Porto-Novo, Badagry and Whydah as the most important ports for exports of slaves from deep in the interior.

In addition, perusing the newspaper reveals some of the exceedingly rare female Hausa in the colony. Since it seems likely that female slaves exported from the Central Sudan were favored for trans-Saharan trade rather than the Atlantic one, the Hausa in the colony experienced one of the highest gender imbalances of the enslaved population. Yet some, like a woman, Suzanne, estimated to be around 50 years old, were brought to Saint-Domingue and ran away in 1790. It's possible her advanced age made her less valuable in the northern trade. Yet in the very same year, a young Hausa woman was a runaway, estimated at 24 years of age.

One can even find sales for individual Hausa in the colony. For instance, a young Hausa with experience at a coffee plantation, was posted for sale by a colon in Grands-Bois in 1790. This young Hausa's background on a coffee estate seems to have been a common experience, as Hausa, largely imported in the North, St. Marc, and the West would have largely labored on sugar and coffee plantations.

And for Haiti, the links to the Central Sudan did not end with independence. Besides being visited by Nicholas Said of Borno later in the 19th century, some of the Africans liberated from slave ships and brought to Haiti included Hausa. La Gazette Royale of Henri Christophe's state, for instance, alluded to some of the Hausa brought to Haiti from a Portuguese ship. Indeed, the publication even alludes to a troop of Hausa or Nupe who performed a dance in 1811. One Hausa child from the intercepted ship performed an impressive dance by himself.