Saint Domingue Slave Imports in 1786

Another gem from ANOM's collection of digitized census rolls and similar information from Saint Domingue includes a 1786 document on slave imports and the colony's enslaved population. This is interesting in that it records only 2 slave ships visited the port of Jacmel that year, unloading 312 captives. The port was clearly of marginal importance for the slave ships visiting the island from Africa. Unsurprisingly, this indicates that the majority of the slaves in Jacmel must have been purchased from Port-au-Prince, other parts of the island, or smuggled illegally.

Yaquimo in 1514

Although our beloved Bainet during the French colonial period and Haitian era is quite distinct from the earlier Spanish colonial period, we believe a holistic view of the history of our region must include the Spanish and precolonial periods. As part of this process, we would like to share some lists of caciques from the Yaquimo (Jacmel under the Spanish) area included in the Albuquerque Repartimiento of 1514. The tables are by Luis Arranz Marquez's Repartimientos y encomiendas en la Isla Española: el repartimiento de Albuquerque de 1514. Of course, a lengthy period of time between the eventual abandonment of Yaquimo during Spanish rule and the French establishment of Bainet in 1698 means there is likely no direct continuity from the earlier period. Indeed, some sources point to the depopulation of the town of Yaquimo by 1520 (along with that of Vera Paz) for the town founded at La Yagauana.

From the names of the caciques, the vast majority using Spanish names, it might be possible to explore, speculatively, of course, any possible toponyms that might be associated with the area of modern Bainet. We know brazilwood was one of the early exports exploited by the Spanish in Yaquimo, which may correspond with the section of Brésilienne. In addition, the area's population was also significantly impacted by forced relocations through the encomienda system. One Spanish source from 1515 enumerated 1039 Indians of service in Yaquimo but after relocating some mining or other parts of Hispaniola, Yaquimo was left with only 863 Indians. By the late 1500s, Yaquimo was also described in 1577 as including a hato owned by a resident of La Yaguana, but the only people living there were blacks and Indians. These residents apparently notified French and Portuguese traders about possible danger from Spanish ships and supported illegal trading. The town was already abandoned but a small population of mixed-race people, blacks, and Indians were still living in the region by the end of the 16th century. By the second half of the 17th century, and before the French establish a presence at Jacmel, Exquemelin referred to Jacmel and Jaquina (Aquin?) as ports on the coast of the island.  

Yaquimo's name seems to a reference to the large river that passed through the area to the Caribbean Sea. While the more famous Yaque rivers to the east (sometimes spelled Yaqui in 16th century Spanish sources) are rather distant from Jacmel, perhaps the name Yaquimo was a reference to the Grande Riviere de Jacmel? According to Granberry, mo alluded to rivers. Perhaps the Yaque or Yaqui referred specifically to large rivers? The name Iacchi was said to be in Bainoa by Peter Martyr d'Anghiera, who also identified the Yaque del Norte as Iaccha. It seems very likely that Yaquimo's name was given as Iacchi in the map of Morales which later became Jacmel to the French. According to Granberry and Vescelius, the Taino mo signified river. Thus, one can see how Iacchi plus mo became Yaquimo, a name retained by the Spanish (who initially referred to the area by Brazil due to the brazil wood from the forested region). Alternatively, the toponym Jaquimeyes in the Dominican Republic might suggest an etymology. That Dominican town's name comes from a local term for a type of bejuco. Perhaps the Iacchi or yaqui or jaqui reffered to this type of plant? It seems unlikely since the herb or plant identified by Descourtilz as very common in Jacmel was not the jaquimei, or Hippocrotea volubilis. 

Sorrir e cantar como Bahia

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

E até pode ser baby também

Tukano Stool

While researching duhos from the South American mainland, we came across this nice video at the BEĨ Collection on the making of a Tukano stool. It's a fascinating process and quite beautiful. A number of the stools in their image collection are also rather remarkable, with intricate designs, animal features, and colors. Perhaps our Taino duhos were similarly vibrant and colorful when they were "new." It is interesting that high-backed stools appear less common among the various indigenous cultures in Brazil. 

Swinging Tangerine

 

We are finally learning to appreciate the genius of Oscar Peterson. Here he is swinging one of our favorite standards from the 1940s, "Tangerine" by Victor L. Schertzinger. One can almost hear, for a second, "Tea For Two." 

Eugene Gaury

"Jacmel, Jacmel, Sud-Est, Haiti records," images, FamilySearch (https://www.familysearch.org/ark:/61903/3:1:3Q9M-CS9W-LKRC?view=explore : Sep 8, 2024), image 187 of 259; Archives Nationales D'Haiti, Port-au-Prince, Haiti..

We may have identified another Gaury branch, based in the Jacmel area in the 1800s. In 1844, a Marie Joseph Gaury and Jean Denis Meauchil, registered the birth of their daughter, Marie Rose. One of their witnesses was a man named Louis Eugene Gaury, aged 63. One should also note that Marie Joseph Gaury was a resident of the Montagne district of the Jacmel commune, the same area Marie Elizabeth Gaury was from when her death was reported in 1802.

Thanks to ANOM's digitized records, we think we may have identified Louis Eugene Gaury. His age matches that of a Eugene Pitiot, whose baptism was recorded in 1781 in Bainet. The fils naturel of an Elizabeth Pitiot baptized in Bainet in the year 1752, the identification of Eugene's father remains a mystery. Moreover, the man identified in 1844 as living in Jacmel was named Louis Eugene Gaury, raising the question of whether or not we are speaking of the same individual. In addition, we also think it possible that this Louis Eugene Gaury was the sous-chef of movements of the port in Jacmel in the year 1845, according to Maurice Lubin's L'administration de Jacmel en 1845.

What makes things even more confusing is that the surname of Elizabeth in 1752 is that of her father, a Michel Philipon (?) who owned her mother, a black slave. It seems like Pitiot became the preferred name later on, a surname that also surfaced among Gaury descendants. For instance, a Marie Victoire Gory married Michel dit Pitiot in 1765, but only his mother was identified, a slave of a Renard. Was this Michel dit Pitiot a sibling of Elizabeth Pitiot or another relative?

We will have to revisit the Pitiot of Bainet again to make sense of this relationship. But it seems like Elizabeth Pitiot's son, baptized in 1781, was indeed the Louis Eugene Gaury mentioned as a Jacmel resident in 1802. Was Louis Eugene Gaury's father Jean Louis Gaury or another Gaury established in Jacmel? 

Marie Elizabeth Gaury

Came across another Gaury on ANOM's digitized records from Jacmel, this time a fille naturelle who died in 1802 at age 25. So, Marie Elizabeth Gaury would have been born in c.1777. 

The man who declared her death, a "mulatto" tailor named Jean-Baptiste Colon, was baptized in 1756 in Jacmel. We assume that Marie Elizabeth Gaury's mother was a sibling of this man, and therefore her mother was probably the child of Jean-Baptiste Colon and Marie Lemoine. But who was her father, Jean-Louis Gaury? 

Her father was the son of Jean-Baptiste Gory baptized in 1747 (in Bainet), meaning she was a great-granddaughter of Louis Gory, the earliest known Gory in the Bainet area. What surprised us is another link to a different family, the Colon in Jacmel. It also appears like Marie Elizabeth Gaury passed away on the habitation of a Lacour. 

Talaka

Talaka or talakawa means commoner in Hausa, but various sources attribute the word's origin to Kanuri or Tuareg (Berber). The term's widespread use among Berber-speaking communities as well a various Sahelian and West African cultures with links to trans-Saharan trade point to a Berber origin. The term's Berber origins can be seen in the following passage from Dictionnaire des racines berberes communes: Suivi d’un index français-berbère des termes relevés by M. A. Haddadou:

L£W luqqet « être pauvre, p. ext. être humble et doux , être humble, doux et pieux » selleqqet « rendre pauvre » taleqqe, pl. tileqqewîn « homme, femme pauvre » (To) taleqqi, pl. tleqqiwin « homme, femme pauvre » (Ghd) taleqqi « misère, pauvreté » (Wrg) taleqqi, pl. tileqqwin « pauvreté, misère » (Mzb)

Indeed, even deep into the Sahara, among the Tedas and Dazas, the word is used. Others point to its existence in Mandingue, Bambara and other West African languages. It is remarkable that a word to designate commoners and the poor is shared across so many cultures with links to the Sahara, Sahel, or trans-Saharan trade. Intriguingly, the word does not appear to be of Arabic origin. Perhaps its widespread occurrence across many languages in and around the Sahara is a testament to the increased role of trans-Saharan trade in social divisions and status? And, undoubtedly, the strong presence of Berber speakers among the Muslim traders and residents in the Sahel. 

Cacique

One thing we have long wondered about is why political leaders or chiefs were designated as cacique in the Taino language. While it has been demonstrated since Brinton's scholarship in the 19th century that the Taino cacique has the same root as the Arawak or Lokono kassiquan or, in Goeje's work, isikwa (rendered by Marie-France Patte as kashikoali to signify male ownership of a house in which one is in charge of, or kashikoa as a verb for owning a house, or shikoa as the verb in Guyane). Why is it that to own a home became attached to political leadership in the Taino language to a marked degree but not the Lokono or Kalinago languages? There is embedded in the word for owner of a house a degree of political power or authority of some kind, but the Lokono word for chief or leader is usually given as afodo, shi or barhosen. The second of these Arawak terms seems to be etymologically related to the word for head, and shi or ishi could potentially be the -ci in cacique. Another Arawakan language, Wayuu, uses the word alaülashi for chief or owner, as well as the word laülaa, which is also used to describe elders.

Yet Goeje's alphabetical index of Arawak words of Guyana defines translates chief as adaierobi-ci. To be a ruler or have authority is given as adaia. Why such a stark difference between this Lokono way of expressing chief or authority and the more familiar cacique? Some of this may just reflect the local differences between different communities of Arawak-speakers in Guyana, Guyane, and Suriname. Nonetheless, it is interesting how the Kalinago words related to chiefs, leaders, and leadership were also distinct from Taino's cacique. For example, Garifuna uses ábuti and arúneri for chief and captain, respectively. House is muna. In the Kalinago language dictionary of the 17th century, one sees youboutou for village chiefs or captains. In addition, amachi appears for the female speakers of the language for captain. This amachi sounds a bit like the Wayuu word for chief, whereas youboutou could descend from a Cariban language. In Palikur, another rather distinct word for chief is used, kivara.

From what we can see in the Arawakan languages of northern South America, with the exception of some Arawak speakers and the Taino in the Antilles, chiefs  may not have been usually called caciques. But following Oliver's fascinating work on the "Taino" civilization which is centered on caciques, cemis and cohoba, one must look at mainland societies which also shared this ritual and political geography. In terms of the duhos or dujos utilized by the Taino, the only Arawakan language with a word resembling it to express stool is Wayuu. Both may have borrowed the term from Warao or a Warao-related language in the distant past. Despite Brinton's claim of identifying an Arawak word for stool resembling duho, modern dictionaries usually translate it as ahabula, ala, hala or balutukoana, which could be derived from the Warao. Intriguingly, Goeje recorded a very similar word for servant in Warao to the Taino equivalent, suggesting that Taino speakers likely interacted with Warao peoples in the mainland or, perhaps, in the Caribbean itself. In Kalinago, the word for stool resembles that of Lokono. What about cemi? Breton's dictionary does include a Kalinago equivalent to the Taino, just as Goeje included semehe as an Arawak equivalent as seme or semehe, speculating a link to the word for sweet. Intriguingly, it is only in Arawak where it is recorded that the word for shaman was based on seme or semehe. As for cohoba, we know the shamans of the Arawak or Lokono included smoke or tobacco in their healing rituals. The Arawak word for tobacco is actually close to that of Garifuna (iyuri). Arawak dictionaries also suggest a close connection between smoke and shamans, with Patte's dictionary including the word korhedoan, to smoke. This was also given in Goeje's work as ahakobu-(in) or ahakubu-(n), to breathe, to relax. Cohoba among the Taino may share a similar etymology, although one wonders if the mainland Arawak ritual paraphernalia were similar.

Undoubtedly, shamanistic and religious practices were built around some deeply shared conventions, beliefs, and practices when it came to healing, tobacco, and the use of other substances. But it is interesting nonetheless to see how Taino appears more unique in that they incorporated a word of possible Warao origin for a major item associated with chiefly power and ritual, the duho. If Las Casas is reliable, the ranking of caciques also attests to a deeper stratification and division of authority achieved by the cacicazgos in the Antilles. With the possible exception of Arawak, which includes more than one word for chief, Taino political organization seems more stratified and, unsurprisingly, distinct from related mainland cultures. There is no doubt, however, that these cultures were interacting in various forms and the words used by them to express political, ritual, religious or social relations or dynamics reflect a dynamic region in the precolonial period. One should consider the Kalinago and Taino words for shaman, for instance. A close examination of shamanistic and healing practices across these diverse cultures, with an open eye to broader patterns and similar vocabulary with other parts of South America would be quite illustrative for the exchange of ideas and practice.

For now, the origin of the cacique seems to be rooted in heads of households who, through that basis, must have became village chiefs and, later on, paramount chieftains in some areas. Keeping in mind the large number of people living in some households in these lowland tropical South American societies and in the Antilles, a single house could have included a significant number of people. Then, over time, the caciques among the "Taino" were able to consolidate their power through ritual and the support of the shamans. The subordinate "class" of naboría may have developed, at least initially, from young men who owed service to the heads of households, although there undoubtedly were other ways to fall into that status. The caciques in the Antilles, at least, according to Las Casas, developed different ranks of chief and achieved some degree of control on subjected households, who paid "tribute." If we could dig deeper into the ritual and religious foundations of the cacique's authority, and the degree to which the bohiti were incorporated in this political arrangement, perhaps we can more easily see the development of the Caribbean cacique. 

The Byzantine Republic

Anthony Kaldellis's The Byzantine Republic: People and Power in New Rome is a provocative yet perhaps inaccessible text. To properly understand what the author was doing with this one requires a certain degree of familiarity and comprehension of the historiography on Byzantium's political order and origins. Alas, as novices to the field, some of the references here and critiques of ideas or old narratives championed by past generations of historians and scholars sometimes flew over our heads. Nonetheless, we were already indoctrinated by some of these old, inaccurate characterizations of Byzantium's republican monarchy, sometimes seeing it in comparisons made with medieval Ethiopia. And the legacy of the old stereotypes and "established" facts about Byzantium as a case of "oriental despotism" or theocracy were ingrained in our high school and university history courses. 

Rescuing the history of Byzantium from these aforementioned problematic, outdated, or outright biased perspectives is a must. Some of them were built on the flimsiest foundation by older generations of scholars who had been in taught to view Byzantium as less of a continuation of the Roman tradition but as something of an aberration or deviation. Instead, Kaldellis proposes that we accept the Roman self-identification of the Byzantines, including the way they conceived of and organized the state on a republican model. By republic, or res publica and politeia, Kaldellis means the emperor always had to rule with the consent of the governed in such a manner that promoted the common good of society. While the emperor had replaced the Republic in Antiquity, this ideal of a "republic" based on rulers who must abide by this ideal or risk losing the throne, remained relevant for Byzantium for most of its history (though Kaldellis focuses on events before 1204). Thus, instead of despotic emperors who ruled through divine will, the actual reality was one in which the "people" regularly played a role in legitimizing or toppling various emperors. 

The various civil wars, however, never sought to transform the polity, merely to pass imperial authority into new hands. Society, representing various classes, played a role in this process through popular acclamations, riots, supporting rebels, voicing opposition to specific emperors or officials, songs and chants, or actively promoting others to the throne. Indeed, the most stark example of this can be seen in the sorry fate of Michael V, who triggered the populace of the City's fury after turning on Zoe. However, numerous similar episodes can be found throughout the history of Byzantium from the 5th century to 12th, indicating a long-lasting tradition of popular consent as a requirement for the throne. Yes, the emperors did develop an imperial ideology reflected in court literature and claims of God's favor, but any emperor who did not cultivate his popularity with his subjects, pursue the common good, and win their consent, was not likely to last very long. This model has the benefit of elucidating the frequent coups and revolts throughout Byzantium's history while also demonstrating how the Empire was indeed Roman in its foundation. The several "states of exception" in Byzantine history now make a little more sense, since we can see how the politeia could engage in illegal or extralegal measures to establish or confirm an emperor they saw as promoting the interests of the people.

But I wonder if someone who specializes in, say, the history of China, would reach somewhat similar conclusions about a civilization with very distinct political traditions. The emperor had to rule on behalf of his subjects and win their consent or face rebellion, coups, riots, or assassination. And the theocratic elements of imperial courts were not necessarily reflective of the political reality. After all, so many kingdoms, empires or rulers sought to legitimize or sanction their rule with religion and ritual yet faced resistance, revolts, coups, or dynastic changes. Nevertheless, a distinctively Roman trait is discernable in the pattern of Byzantium, suggesting that it was indeed a republican monarchy. The lens of continuity helps us better contextualize the history of the Byzantines, who are more appropriately viewed through the Roman political tradition rather than misleading Christian theocracy or "oriental despotisms" of the past. 

Cannonball's Rose Room

It's always interesting to hear how bop and post-bop jazz artists interpreted some of the gems from the era of early jazz or swing. Since we've been fond of Benny Goodman's recording of "Rose Room" featuring Charlie Christian for so long, we sought more modern interpretations of the standard. Adderley does not disappoint.

Exploring the Meaning of Xaragua

Another word from the Taino language we would like to explore is Xaragua. According to Granberry and Vescelius's Languages of the Pre-Columbian Antilles, Xaragua meant something like "Lake Country" but the authors do not present any evidence to support this assertion. However, it remains a plausible translation for the place name of Hispaniola's most powerful cacicazgo. If the gua or wa at the end of the name signifies land, then the first part of the word (xara or jara) should be the Taino word for lake. And various Spanish sources refer to the lake or lakes of Xaragua. The Diccionario de voces indígenas de Puerto Rico lists amá as the Taino word for river or body of water, but it seems the language must have included another word for lake.

Let's look at other Arawakan languages to see if xara or jara probably meant lake. In Garifuna, lake is dúnaha. In Palikur, lake is mahakwa. In another Arawakan language, Lokono, sea is bará and, according to Goeje's The Arawak Language of Guiana, lake is kiraha. In Wayuu, on the other hand, lake is lamuuna and sea is palaa. In the Kalinago tongue, one sees tona for water or river and taonabo for pond or small lake. The 17th century French dictionaries for the language are not particularly useful here. Nonetheless, one can see some degree of resemblance between the Taino Xaragua and the Palikur mahakwa or the Lokono kiraha.

Interestingly, its on the Venezuelan coast, near the mouth of the Yaracuy river, where early European sources recorded a large village or town called Xaragua. According to Nikolaus Federmann's account of his explorations of the interior of Venezuela, this town or village was called Xaragua and located on the coast or near the shore, about 80 leagues east of Coro. This is actually not too far from the modern state of Aragua in Venezuela, which happens to include a large lake (Lake Valencia) in its territory as well as river also called Aragua. It is not entirely clear who the residents of the area were (another group of Caquetios, like the ones who guided Federmann to the area or Ciparicotos, who spoke a different language than the Caquetios?), but the appearance of the word Xaragua for an area near large lakes and rivers in both Hispaniola and Venezuela is not entirely coincidental, is it? The inhabitants of the area around Lake Valencia and today's Aragua may have been Caquetios or another Arawakan-speaking group, according to Los aborígenes del occidente de Venezuela, su historia, etnografía y afinidades lingüísticas by Alfredo Jahn. If so, perhaps the Xaragua name for the more distant coastal village was possibly reflecting a much larger area of connected peoples with rivers and lakes like the Yaracuy and Lake Valencia? It is difficult to say since Xaragua was not especially near Lake Valencia.

In short, Xaragua does indeed seem likely to mean lake or Lake Country. The Lokono and Palikur examples are close enough. The Venezuelan village visited by Federmann may have been populated by a Caquetio-speaking group, though that is pure speculation on our part. In Venezuela, the village or pueblo does not seem to have been exceptionally close to lakes, but Lake Valencia and the modern state of Aragua seem to be possibly linked to Caquetio or Arawakan-speakers in the precolonial area. If so, it may be additional evidence of Xaragua implying some type of connection or relationship with lakes and large bodies of water. 

Naboría and Related Words in other Languages

Another word that appears to be a possible link between Taino and Kalinago languages can be seen in the case of Naboúyou. Defined briefly in Breton's dictionary of the Kalinago language as "mon serviteur" and in Rochefort's vocabulaire as "mon serviteur à gage," the word seems to express a personal ownership of a servant or laborer (but not a slave). From Breton, one can see that the Kalinago language had a few words for slave based on gender, but one example is támon. To express the idea of "my slave" one changed the word to nitámoni. The ni and na in the words nabouyou and nitámoni appear to express possession in the first-person. Did the -na in naboría also expression possession in the Taino language? It seems to be the case for Garifuna, itself derived from Kalinago, which uses nani to express my and mine. 

A quick perusal of Breton's dictionary for other words or information related to servant, worker or laborer provides a few more clues. In order to express "il sert encore" in Kalinago, Breton translated it as áboúyoukeili. Clearly, one can see commonalities with nabouyou. However, Kalinago also possessed a few other words for servant, including liboüitoulicou or libouitoúlicou. These terms may be related to boüittonum, bouitonum, boüitonú, Bouiiíttoucou, all related to service, subjection or serving others in one capacity or another. Is it possibly related to a Cariban-derived root word that entered the Arawakan speech of the Lesser Antilles? Its possible connection to Taino makes that seem unlikely. In fact, if Taino naboría (or naborí or naburia as it was sometimes recorded in Spanish sources) means something akin to "my servant" then one can assume aboria or boria is somehow connected with the idea for serve, service, or subjection. Indeed, the Diccionario de voces indígenas de Puerto Rico makes this exact claim with boria as the Taino equivalent to labor.

One can see this in a modern Arawakan language rooted in the Caribbean, Garifuna. In that tongue, one of the words for worker or trabajador is ubuein. One sees here in the first syllable something that sounds like it is probably derived from the Kalinago words for servant recorded in the 17th century. Lokono may also hint at a deeper Arawakan origin for labor or work. In this case, the Lokono dictionary using the word emekhebohu for work. To work is translated as emekhebo. The dictionary's word for servant, however, is sanano, which sounds nothing like the words in Taino and Kalinago. However, note the ebo in emekhebohu and emekhebo. My workman in Lokono would be expressed as da'khabo, according to Twenty-eight lessons in Loko (Arawak): a teaching guide by John Peter Bennett. The Lokono words for work and to work may be distantly related to the Taino and Kalinago words, which seem to be based on -aboria/aburia and -abou and ubu.

Looking at another Arawakan language, Wayuu, is also important. Consulting a Spanish-Wayuu dictionary revealed a few terms for servant, worker, work, and slave. Work and to work is translated as a'yatawaa. A worker is called a'yataai or a'yataalü. Slave and servant, however, are translated as achepchia or piuuna. None of these fit directly with our model, although a'yatawaa has the -awaa at the end of the word. Piuuna could potentially be a case of the b and p sounds changing, yet biuuna does not closely match the Taino or Kalinago. Palikur's kannivwiye or kannivwiyo (to work) is also an outlier despite its Arawakan classification. 

Surprisingly, in Warao, a language isolate, one finds the word nebu for worker. This sounds somewhat close to naboría or naborí, and it would be interesting since the word duho may also be of Warao derivation. But yaota appears to be the Warao word for work and often associated with workers, workmanship or salaries. So, from where did nebu come, which seems to be closer to Arawakan words pertinent to labor and servants? In the case of Warao, nebu appears to be linked to young men, or minor dependents of elders and chiefs in their communities. This implies that it was primarily related to generation or age, with expectations of service or labor for one's superiors in the community. 

Ultimately, we are left with the theory that the Taino term naboría is indeed derived from the word for work, or labor. Boria (or perhaps aboria) signifies labor or work and similar words in Kalinago, Garifuna and Lokono illustrate it. In the Taino case, it is not entirely clear who the naboría were in precolonial times. One suspects it may have had a similar sense to the words for servant in Kalinago, encompassing young men and men who owed service to their elders or male heads of households.

René Depestre

Arnold Antonin's René Depestre: On ne rate pas une vie éternelle is a fascinating documentary. Perhaps one of his better projects, this one benefits from extensive interview footage with Depestre himself. A compelling speaker and one who has experienced much of the major movements of the post-WWII years, Depestre explains his life and work in the context of literature, politics and exile. Since is nearly 100 years old, each chapter of Depestre's long life receives section of the story, beginning with his Jacmelian childhood. Depestre's adventures in Europe, both in France and behind the Iron Curtain, plus his travels in Latin America and the "Global South" demonstrate his place and contributions to Communist, anti-colonial, and literary movements.

While the film could have benefited from including more interviews with people who know Depestre in Cuba, Haiti and Europe, especially those who could have added another perspective on Depestre's Cuban period, Antonin's documentary includes the testimony and interviews with Haitians like Suzy Castor, Michel Hector, and Pierre Buteau to furnish more historical context or additional perspectives. Antonin seamlessly fuses Depestre's poetry with the film, too, giving the viewer several opportunities to appreciate Depestre's literary work or maybe encounter poems they may not be familiar with. Nonetheless, to better corroborate some of Depestre's claims about, for instance, the Padilla Affair, or to dig deeper into his polemic with Alexis and the intricacies of the Haitian Left's internal conflicts, this documentary would have required interviewing far more people (many of whom are, alas, probably deceased). Without this additional context and other perspectives, we are relying almost entirely on Depestre himself, whose political and personal biases may have occluded or omitted aspects of his political career or activities.

In spite of these problems, it is excellent to hear Depestre's story "straight from the horse's mouth." The struggles of his seamstress mother, his youthful political activities with La Ruche, or the incredibly tense interview with Francois Duvalier are engaging episodes of his life. To think he could have been "domesticated" by the Duvalier regime with an offer of a diplomatic post is frightening, yet illustrates how shrewd and cunning Duvalier was. The unsavory experiences in today's Czech Republic were another early indication of political danger for Depestre whilst Cuba, perhaps the most interesting chapter, is seen as a disappointment after the Padilla Affair. Depestre, however, saw something worthwhile and beautiful in the Cuban Revolution and the way it brought together so many intellectuals, writers, and activists. His quip about Fidel and Che being like Don Quixote was also quite amusing, and perhaps tragically accurate. A biography of Depestre is simply a must. 

Dita and Kalinago?

Another word we think may come from the Kalinago language or the related Taino is dita. Used in Puerto Rican Spanish to designate a "vasija hecha de media higüera, que se destina a varios usos como platos, orinales, etc., entre la gente pobre." According to the Diccionario de voces indígenas de Puerto Rico, dita is probably of indigenous origin and connotation. Luis Hernández Aquino is probably correct. A quick search of the Garifuna and Kalinago languages indicate a very similar word used to designate a drinking cup. In Garifuna, the word is rida, translated in English as calabash drinking cup. In 17th century French sources on the Kalinago or "Caribs" of the Lesser Antilles, a similar word for drinking cup is listed as ritta or rita. Clearly, the Garifuna word for cup is derived from the Kalinago. The question, however, that remains, is determining if the Puerto Rican dita is derived from Kalinago or from a similar Taino word. To our knowledge, no Spanish sources clearly indicate the Taino word for drinking cup or vessel. However, the Spanish word for similar dishes or vessels in part of Latin America is guacal, which sounds more "Taino" than dita or rita or rida.

But other scholars, like Bernardo Vega, believed guacal was the word for basket in Taino. Others also point to Nahuatl for the origin of guacal in Spanish, defining it as basket or crate. Since it is unclear if guacal is actually derived from Nahuatl, it will perhaps be better to avoid any definitive conclusions about the Taino word for drinking cups or vessels. Moreover, since Kalinago was an Arawakan language, it is possible that the Taino word for drinking cup was indeed similar to ritta. If so, it would be interesting to look for other examples of similar words in Kalinago and Taino in which one can see the switching or d and r sounds. This could have been the case due to long-standing precolonial relations between indigenous peoples of Puerto Rico and those living in the Lesser Antilles. Moreover, frequent conflicts between the "Caribs" and the Spanish colonial regime in the 1500s might have introduced Kalinago-speaking captives who left behind their word drinking cup.

Kanari and Canari

Examples of canary vessels in figures 8 and 10 included in Sieur de la Borde's relation.

Although we admit to being generally ignorant of linguistics and lack the requisite background to properly research this, we would love to explore possible influences from the Kalinago language in Caribbean Creoles like that of Haiti. Although Haiti was not inhabited by speakers of that Arawakan language, the early French colonies (with their African slaves) interacted with speakers of Kalinago in the Lesser Antilles for decades before Saint Domingue became an officially recognized colony by Spain. So, it is not unreasonable to suspect that the early Creoles with a French lexifier probably acquired or absorbed some words from the Kalinago language in the 1600s. That early linguistic stew also included words like ajoupa and boucan, which appear to be derived from mainland South American languages like Tupi (though Rochefort's Vocabulaire does include ajoupa in one form as a Kalinago word). 

In addition, there were small numbers of "Caribs" in the French colony as slaves or free people, occasionally appearing in runaway slave ads or other documentary sources. The word also appears in other Creoles with a French lexifier, such as Saint Lucian Creole or in proverbs included in J.J. Thomas's The Theory and Practice of Creole Grammar. The word is also present in the Creole of Guadeloupe, albeit with more connotations of a cooking pot. It thus seems quite likely that the word was acquired in the early French colonies of the Caribbean and thereby entered the associated Creoles of these colonial possessions. It is perhaps not too surprising that words of such a utilitarian and everyday relevance were adopted by Europeans and Africans in the Caribbean environment. After all, that was presumably part of the reason why Taino words like bohio and conuco were retained in the Spanish Caribbean for centuries, long after the disappearance of the indigenous languages of those areas.

With this background and historical context established, let's examine the case of the word kanari. In Haitian Creole, kanari refers to an earthen jar, or vessel that is sometimes included in ritual uses associated with Vodou, such as kase kanari. The overall, basic definition is in accordance with the original Kalinago sense of the term, as a clay pot (Breton's Caraibe-French dictionary is a good example). Moreover, like the Haitian usage, the Kalinago apparently also used their earthen pots in rituals. According to Sieur de la Borde, the Kalinago or "Caribs" also left behind a drink as an offering to the "chemeens" or zemis in a kanary. While the ritual uses of the kanary among the "Island Caribs" differs from that of Haiti, it is interesting to see how earthen pots or vessels designated by a name from an indigenous Caribbean language were absorbed into an Afro-Caribbean religion using earthen pots in a different ritual sense.