Alzire and Voltaire

Voltaire's short play, Alzire, was a surprisingly popular piece in colonial Haiti. Performed at least 7 times between 1765 and 1783, and in 3 of the important towns of the colony, the play must have resonated with audiences. Voltaire's sympathies for the Incas aside, the play seems to be praising a type of selfless Christianity represented by Alvarez, the father of the tyrannical, ruthless leader, Guzman. Unlike Guzman, Alvarez is critical of the Spanish thirst for gold and violence against the indigenous peoples of Peru. Moreover, Alvarez was saved earlier by Zamor, a rebel and the lover of Alzire, the princess (and daughter of Montezuma) who was pushed into marriage with Guzman. 

As one can likely imagine, the romances and sense of loyalty (to one's father, to one's people, and to one's faith) come to occupy a major role in the story, which ends well despite its tragic setting. The Incas, represented by Montezuma and the "cacique" Zamor of Potosi, are also intriguingly presented as both morally superior to the "barbarian" Spanish while at the same time, suffering from the delusions of their idolatry. Hence, the conflict between Montezeuma and Zamor, who was believed to have been killed earlier, is fueled by the former's acceptance of Christianity and submission to the Spanish while Zamor pledges vengeance. Those familiar with Haiti and Dessalines might feel their Spidey senses tingling here, since Zamor's position as the avenger of the Americas may have influenced the writers of Dessalines, who famously repeated the same proclamation. 

Perhaps the moral redemption of Guzman at the play's conclusion, which demonstrated to Zamor that Christianity could have virtue, may have hinted at a possibly fruitful future for Alvarez, Zamor and Alzire as Christianity and a benevolent regime developed. One could see this message appealing to people of color and some Creoles in Saint Domingue, who, while rejecting enslavement and the inevitable exploitation and abuses that accompanied it, still saw value in Christianity and European civilization. Indeed, perhaps Zamor and Alzire, with Alvarez representing the "benevolent" white father, could usher in a new world that, whilst still drawing from their past as the ruling elite of the old, promised a brighter new New World.

Bélisaire's African Languages

Whilst perusing Guy-Joseph Bonnet's Souvenirs historiques, we were delighted to find more details on the linguistic skills of Bélisaire, a "mulatto" who, for a brief time at least, led African rebels in the early days of the Haitian Revolution. According to Bonnet, Bélisaire could communicate with Aradas, Mandingues, Hausas, Congos, and Nagos, a feat which made him a respected figure among these bossales. It is unfortunate that we lack any surviving writings by Bélisaire in which he documented some of his understanding of these various African languages spoken in colonial Haiti. 

Didi

One of the classics by Cheb Khaled. The first 30 seconds are already perfect.

Inka History in Knots

Gary Urton's Inka History in Knots: Reading Khipus as Primary Sources proposes the idea of using khipu as primary sources for reconstructing the history of Tawantinsuyu, or the Inca Empire. Doing so would also make it possible for future historians to write a history of the Inca Empire in the style of the Annales school. That is why he focuses on administrative or numerical khipu found at various sites across the Inca domains. In addition, focusing on the khipu as 'archive' and accounting system connects it to systems of power and hegemony of the Inka state. Alas, how khipu may have been related to earlier, pre-Inca states, such as Wari, is unknowable. Unfortunately, Urton's hypotheses and speculative reasoning are just that, too speculative. For instance, he tries to view one khipu from Chachapoyas as a biennial calendar recording tributaries in the region based on early colonial records enumerating around the same number as recorded on the khipu. But his interpretation of the Chachapoyas khipu, as well as the interpretations of the data linking some Khipus to censuses and even population decline across during the colonial period is still too speculative. 

As much as I would love for historians and specialists to be able to use khipu as primary source "documents" to record a history of the Inka in the style of the Annales school, we are still so far from understanding the khipu. It also seems that "cracking the code" for phonetic or narrative khipus may be helpful for interpreting the administrative khipu, particularly when the some of the notation and meaning of much of the numerical ones are still up for debate? Nonetheless, Urton's work and the Khipu Database Project does represent a significant step forward. His attempts to match some of them with known colonial records and Andean systems (such as dualism, ayllus, etc.) and possible matching colonial-era censuses raises a number of exciting questions about what may be achievable by future specialists.  

State and Nation in the First Half of the 19th Century

One of the more rewarding readings of the end of 2024 has been Le Culte de l'égalité: une exploration du processus de formation de l'État et de la politique populaire en Haïti au cours de la première moitié du dix-neuvième siècle (1804-1846) by Jean Alix René. René's study really challenges us to rethink the relationship between the early state in postcolonial Haiti and its relationship with the rural majority. Instead of, say, adopting the theory of postcolonial Haiti as a maroon state, a more accurate way of looking at it may have been one in which cultivateurs and peasants viewed the state as a legitimate source of protection and an aid in their search for justice. If, as René suggests, the early Haitian state and early constitutions were based on the idea of protection of the governed and a fraternity of suffering based on the racial discrimination, slavery and colonialism in which all Haitians were at least partly affected by, then the state could occasionally be seen as a force in which subaltern groups sought redress, respect, honor, and dignity. We, unfortunately, are not doing justice to all the nuances of this important study, but its implications are quite suggestive. Drawing on various archival sources, including petitions from subaltern groups, governments acts and proclamations, Haitian constitutions, and the press, this other dimension of the state's relations with the nation are more nuanced. 

Of course, as various scholars have argued (Trouillot, Gonzalez, Barthelemy, etc.), the state during the Haitian Revolution and after 1804 sought to limit the extension of smallholder property, the partition of estates, and, at times, even the movement of cultivateurs. According to the author, Dessalines tried to build a Haitian economy based on state control of production through the leasing of habitations for 5 year terms and usage of the military to police or control cultivateurs and limit squatting. However, he faced the problem of both soldiers and cultivateurs resisting his state plans. The emergence of the de moitié system itself was at least partly motivated by the cultivators themselves, who chose to either sharecrop, engage in logging, squat on lands, or, later on, purchase small parcels from the recipients of land under Petion. On the other hand, practices that dated from marronage in the colonial period and forms of resistance among cultivateurs during the Revolution, some Haitians (soldiers and cultivateurs) formed runaway communities that Christophe and others endeavored to crush during the early years of Haitian independence. 

Under Petion, however, relations between state and nation took a different path. Petion's agrarian policy of land concessions or grants and preference for la douceur to gradually change or influence Haitians of the lower classes, appears to have strengthened bonds between the state and its rural majority. While still basing itself on protection, Petion also sought to use land grants and more subtle methods to encourage the cultivation of export crops while also rejecting measures like forced placements of cultivateurs. Moreover, it would appear that Manigat was incorrect when he posited the importance of the commercial oligarchy in Petion's decision to concede small properties in 1809. That Petion's change in policy was at least somewhat effective and supported by the rural majority, one notes how it roused desertions from Goman's rebel state in the South. Although not stated in the study of René, one imagines that Petion's agrarian policies were also contributing factors for the flight of Haitians from Christophe's kingdom to the Republic. But for deeper, specific case studies, René cites the case of Cupidon Guillotte, an African-born former slave whose 1828 petition may represent how peasants viewed or conceived of the state. The petition emphasizes the role of the government as a protector and one in which the peasants saw state power as a source for legitimacy of smallholders. Naturally, this process during the tenure of Petion was not the benevolence of a magnanimous president, but a result of years of peasant and cultivateur resistance and the conflicts with Christophe in the North.

Unfortunately, the more positive aspects of Petion's policies, which still sought to exclude the masses, were magnified by President Boyer. Jean-Pierre Boyer would, as early as 1818, restore corvee labor. He also agreed to the horrible conditions of the 1825 indemnity to France, despite vociferously opposing it in 1814. Boyer similarly excluded cultivateurs from juries, national guard gatherings, and, most infamously, promulgated the Code Rural. Seen by René as the most systematic attempt to control the labor of the rural population of Haiti, through domination, coercion and force, Boyer still failed due to resistance from the peasantry and some of the local and provincial government officials or military officers. Yet even as Boyer sought to exclude the rural majority and control their labor, Haitians continued to petition the state for justice. This identification with the state emerges more clearly with the peasant revolt in the South in the 1840s. Led by peasant smallholders rather than the landless, this middling group, influenced by the liberals who held banquets with peasants in 1842 and overthrew Boyer in 1843, went even further by demanding education for their children, an end to exclusionary practices, and participation in the formal political process. 

Although the peasant revolution only lasted a short time, the proclamations of Acaau and other sources fascinatingly point to the ways in which the peasantry drew on the legacy of the Haitian Revolution and relations with the state, demanding participation rather than isolation. Alas, the resistance of the elites prevented this from fully occurring, while occasional peasant rebellions and use of violence did open some positions in government to some peasants. The tragedy seen in the failure of the Piquets nonetheless lingered, as the "nation" was still largely excluded by the state. Hopefully, future scholarship revisits the themes raised by  René for the second half of Haiti, in the 19th century. 

Zagada in the Haitian Revolution

Source

After reading Geggus's essay on "Kongomania" and seeing his reference to one of the few known African leaders in the North during the early days of the Haitian Revolution, we had to consult ANOM's digitized collection of Moreau de Saint-Méry's papers. Geggus briefly mentioned Zagada as the leader of a band of Aradas and Aoussas (Hausas), but based on his name, we wondered if he was possibly Hausa. Well, after consulting ANOM, we found the source cited by Geggus, a 1792 letter addressed to Moreau de Saint-Méry. According to the document, Zagada's band of rebels were armed with arrows, which is not too surprising. But the combination of Aradas and Aoussas is interesting, since another leader of a band of rebels, La Fortune, was said to lead a group of Nagos (Yorubas) in Limonade. Our guess is that Zagada was Hausa, although we would have to consult the names of various groups sometimes lumped into the "Zagada" category in order to confirm it. 

Encuentros Live

A live rendition of Gato Barbieri's "Encuentros" from 1973. It's interesting to hear it live with some of the South American instrumentation of the album version. It's still not "working" to the same degree as the version of the song with a more Afro-Brazilian/latin rhythm, but fascinating nonetheless. We still believe Gato Barbieri's musical output of the first half of the 1970s represented one of the more creative dimensions of Latin Jazz. Another live performance of the song, running for over 19 minutes, is also worth a listen.

Creole Sauvage for Sale

Whilst perusing digitized copies of Saint-Domingue's colonial newspaper, Affiches américaines, we encountered a reference to the sale of what may have been a Native American person from North America. Up for sale by a wood seller, Gaignard, in what is now Cap-Haitien, the unnamed "sauvage" was described as a Creole of New Orleans. Assuming that "sauvage" in 1770s Saint-Domingue was still a reference to Amerindian peoples or indigenous peoples of the Americas, we suspect this enslaved person was of indigenous origin, probably from a group in today's United States, but born in New Orleans. Reference to small numbers of Native American people from Louisiana or the Midwest sold into slavery in the Caribbean can be found in a variety of sources, so it is plausible that someone of Native American origin ended up in Au Cap via New Orleans. 

A Letter from Pierre Cangé (Nov. 1802)

Whilst perusing Slave revolution in the Caribbean, 1789-1804: A Brief History with Documents, edited by Laurent Dubois and John Garrigus, we came across a short letter penned by Pierre Cangé. A member of a family from our region of the island, we found his letter fascinating as it captured that solidarity felt by former slaves and people from families that were free before the Haitian Revolution. Addressed to Delpech, Cangé endeavored to convince the former to abandon the French. It demonstrates quit clearly how white French hostilities and racism actually united, for a time at least, those from free people of color families and former slaves. Cangé himself had fought alongside Gilles Bambara and other former slaves, so we assume his words here are sincere. 

Taino Words

A short but pleasant video on the Taino language. Unfortunately, I think they made an error with the Taino word for Moon. Overall, however, very well done and featuring cute graphics.

History of the Inca Realm Thoughts

History of the Inca Realm by Maria Rostworowski de Diez Canseco is a major study of the Inca Empire by an important Peruvian scholar. Rostworoski's scholarly contributions include careful research in the colonial archive for insights on political, economic, and social arrangements in precolonial Peru, particularly the coastal region. This work is a culmination of sorts of this scholarship, highlighting how the very specific conditions that enabled a rapid rise of the Incas as the largest state in the Americas were also the reasons for its rapid fall to Pizarro and the Spanish. For Rostworoski, the Andean tradition of reciprocity as the basis for one ruler to demand labor tribute or service from others meant that as the Incas expanded their state with Pachacuti and his successors, they required additional conquests to receive the necessary gifts, luxuries and women to receive service from vassal or conquered lords. In other words, due to the relations of reciprocity that required the Inca to have gifts, women, and feasts for the Inca nobility and provincial elites in order to extract labor and tribute, the state had to continue imperial expansion for additional areas to extract labor from. But, as the Inca state expanded, they needed more luxury goods, gifts, etc. to give to the newly conquered provincial elites in exchange for their tribute/labor. 

This created a situation in which the Lords of Cusco had to continue to conquer or incorporate other areas to maintain relations of reciprocity with areas they had recently incorporated. In order to counterbalance this tendency, the Incas used yana administrators who were entirely loyal to the Inca, thereby avoiding the expectations of reciprocity. But this administrative move would have angered or alienated some of the conquered peoples, who were already discontent with the the forced relocations of mitmaq laborers and tribute burdens. Ultimately, the discontented provincial elites and commoners, in addition to the competition for the throne among the Inca elites who could justify seizing the throne based on ability, meant that the vast Inca state system had not unified its heterogeneous population and fell as indigenous peoples opposed to Cusco joined or supported the Spanish.

Rostworowoski endeavors to support this thesis with a broad analysis of Inca imperial expansion's social, political, and economic conditions. To understand how the Inca state became a great empire from its humble beginnings as one Andean chiefdom among many, the historian draws on ethnographic evidence, the chronicles, archival sources and reports, and archaeology to make sense of the general patterns of Andean socio-political organization. With this background, one can then develop plausible models for understanding how the Incas, whose final victory against the Chancas during the reign of Pachacuti, paved the way forward for expansion. Intriguingly, Rostworowski suggests that it was via the plunder seized from the Chancas that Pachacuti was able to expand his state by receiving enough goods, gifts, and supplies to bequeath to Cuzco-area and neighboring chiefs and vassals for tribute. Then, with this system of reciprocity requiring further gifts in which the Inca had to provide food and goods to allies and subjugated leaders, the Inca state developed into a vast empire over the reigns of his successors. Throughout the text, Rostworoski proposes a number of interesting theories about this process and even early Inca origins, illustrating how much they were part of a broader Andean civilization. Indeed, perhaps the very name Pachacuti was derived from the Wari past in the highlands? The Incas also certainly borrowed from coastal societies in terms of importing artisans, and clearly built their state on past Andean practices that included coastal trade, herding, irrigated agriculture, and infrastructure projects.  

Despite its achievements in administrative efficiency, roads and census-keeping, and producing surpluses, the Inca state was unable to survive an ambush from a small Spanish party led by Pizarro. This part of Rostworoski's analysis focuses on internal factors rather than external for understanding the fall of the Incas. Since, as mentioned previously, the Inca state was not a cohesive one in which conquered peoples felt themselves a part of the state, it was no surprise they joined or supported the Spaniards. However, the other internal factor, dissension within the Inca ruling elite, was equally disastrous. The brutal civil war between Huascar and Atahualpa over succession to the throne after Huayna Capac's death exposed how fragile the political system was. According to Rostworoski, the conflict between the half-brothers reflected their different ayllu affiliations and how matrilineal ayllu ties were key for royal succession. The fact that succession could be justified by ability and the competition among various ayllus or panacas for the throne added another dimension to the collapse of the Incas. These competing factions with the Inca elites, plus the willingness of some provincial lords and conquered peoples to support the Spanish, helped seal the fate of the Incas. 

Nitaino

Since we are novices to the world of linguistics, consulting what others have done to reconstruct the Taino language is very important. In this case, Casa Areyto's video on nitaino is actually quite interesting. Instead of viewing it as a term designating a social elite or upper class, it may have been more rooted in kinship. I think something similar could be relevant for naboria, too.

Madras Indian

One must be careful when interpreting the "nations" reported of runaway slaves in Saint-Domingue. This is also true for cases of "Negro Indians" or "Black Indians," who may have usually been people from India or South Asia. Although undoubtedly only a very tiny part of the slave population in Saint-Domingue, they occasionally appeared in the colony's press as runaway slaves. Sometimes they are assigned very specific regions of India, such as Bengale, Coromandel, Malabar, or the Mascarenes (where the French enslaved many Indians). In this case, however, we have encountered, for the first time, an Indian from Madras. This specific Indian runaway, Jean-François, was probably the subject of a runaway ad posted in May 1790. Without this additional description of him in the newspaper, we would not have figured out he was from Madras, or supposedly from Madras (a Tamil, then?).

The Word For Farm Is Forest

One of the most fundamental words for understanding the culture and history of the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean is conuco. Still used in Caribbean Spanish and Papiamento, conuco referred to the mound plots of yucca and other crops cultivated by the "Taino" in the Antilles. Among the Lokono or Arawak on the mainland, however, a forest is called kunuku. How is it that among the "Taino" in the Caribbean, a word for forest was used for agricultural plots clearly human-made? Some scholars, such as Sven Loven, interpret this as evidence that in their ancient past, the "Taino" used to construct their mounds after clearing a wooded area. This could be the case, yet it is intriguing that none of the other Arawakan languages spoken nearby have adapted the word for forest to an agricultural plot or mound. 

Let us take a brief look at words for related concepts in other languages spoken in northern South America, as well as Garifuna and Kalinago. In Garifuna, a farm is méinabu. The word for forest, however, is árabu. This same word is used for flora, too, while to cultivate is ábunagua. This latter term may be related to the word for to bury, ábuna. Looking to the Kalinago or "Island Carib" language, obviously similar to Garifuna, one finds a few more words. A garden, according to Rochefort, is maina. A forest is arabou, clearly the origin for the Garifuna term. Breton's dictionary, however, provides a few more words for garden. One word given in his dictionary is oubácali. Other synonyms for garden include máima, as well as Icháli. The second term actually survives in Garifuna as ichari, or large vegetable patch. To our knowledge, neither Rochefort nor Breton listed a word similar to conuco for farm, plot, soil or mound. However, one can see that Icháli is the "female language" word for garden, and presumably the Arawakan-derived term used in the Lesser Antilles before the expansion of Cariban-speakers in the archipelago. 

Examining South American languages may provide additional clues. The aforementioned Lokono, for instance, uses ororo for earth, according to Goeje's The Arawak Language of Guiana. To plan is abone whilst land or farm is o-horora. A tree is called ada and a planted field is kabuya. Only kunuku, or forest, is close to the "Taino" word. Indeed, Palikur, another Arawakan language provides few clues, too. Terre is translated as wayk, but forest is ahavwi. A farmer is called a wasevutne and wood is ah. In Wayuu, another Arawakan languages, selva is translated as wuna'apü, tree or wood is wunu'u and una'apü. To sow is in apünajaa and cultivo is pünajüt. The Wayuu term for forest may be related to the Kalinago and Garifuna words. The even more distant Ashaninka language of the Amazonian region uses inchatoshi for forest, and quipatsi for earth. Last, but certainly not least, the non-Arawakan Warao tongue uses daukaba for conuco and hacienda. Their word for wood or forest is dauna/daina. Intriguingly, the Warao use dau for wood and tree. Their word for tierra, Jobaji, is unlike other words we have encountered just as namú for sembrar is unique. Like the "Taino" in the Antilles, the Warao seem to use a word for conuco that ultimately derives from their word for tree and forest. 

Although we have barely scratched the surface, one wonders if the unique character of the "Taino" conuco deriving from a term for forest can be seen as a parallel with speakers of Warao. Although they did not share the same terminology for their plots of land, both languages seem to have adapted their words for forest for agricultural lands used for cultivating crops. This etymology also makes more sense than that proposed by Vescelius and Granberry, who sought to trace the origin of conuco to uku (meaning earth, soil, or terrain) and ko, for planting of crops. Is it possible that the early speakers of the "Taino" tongue, who we know interacted with Warao speakers they borrowed the word duho from, were similarly influenced by terminology or ideas traced to agriculture? A lot more work remains to be done. 

Hatk al-Sitr and Bori in Ottoman Tunisia

Ismael Montana's study and translation of Hatk al-Sitr is an interesting study of the manifestation of the Bori cult in Ottoman Tunisia. Although, sadly, too brief of a treatise, al-Timbuktawi's biased yet provocative denunciation of the religion as shirk requiring state intervention to eradicate it and reenslave recalcitrant "Sudan Tunis" in the Regency is both disturbing and illustrative of West African jihadist intellectuals of the late 18th and early 19th century. To Montana, al-Timbuktawi's views and his intervention in the state of affairs in Tunis, through which he passed whilst performing the pilgrimage, represents an instance of West African Islamic intellectual currents and interactions with both Wahabbism and North Africa. 

Surprisingly, however, Montana did not fully explore the deeply misogynistic element of al-Timbuktawi's work, which sees Bori's threat to the Islamic state and society of Tunisia as particularly dangerous due to the role of its female priests, "lesbianism" and the local Tunisian women enthralled by this cult of ritual healing and polytheism. This gendered dimension is mentioned in terms of the prominent role played by women as ritual leaders and priestesses in Bori, but its gendered impact on local Tunisian society seems to us as particularly important, since it reflects both the misogyny of al-Timbuktawi (and probably many of the pro-jihad intellectuals in West Africa) and another aspect of the great role of women in Bori. 

We hope to read Tremearne's later account of Bori to gain deeper insights into this gendered dimension of the religion as well as its practice in both Hausaland and North Africa. Since al-Timbuktawi was mainly writing for the purpose of convincing the authorities in Tunis to suppress Bori, he does not cover in great detail the religion or the ethnic origins of its practitioners. Certainly, the Hausa influence is predominant based on some of the names and titles used in the cult (referring back to political titles in Borno or Hausa kingdoms, for instance, or using Hausa words). But, one wonders about the Bambara, Songhay, and Nupe mentioned by al-Timbuktawi. Indeed, if Bori in North Africa is similar to Gnawa in Morocco, one also wonders if a degree of syncretism was also emerging within West Africa itself due to the slave trade between the areas of the Niger Bend and the Central Sudan. For instance, were there "Bambara" and Songhay groups present in the Hausa kingdoms who introduced aspects of the Bamana boli and Songhay holey? And what of Hausa captives, Nupe and even Yoruba groups who may have also interacted with the ritual and theological facets of "indigenous" African religions in Hausaland? While some of the similarities with Vodun and Yoruba practice may be superficial, the prominence of animal sacrifice in specific rituals, spirit possession, and the ways in which Bori could coexist with Islam like Vodou and Yoruba religion with Catholicism have always struck us as areas worthy of further exploration.

Bélisaire and African Languages

Although he is occasionally problematic as a source and must be interpreted cautious, Mollien's Haïti ou Saint-Domingue includes a fascinating account of the "mulatto" rebel leader, Bélisaire. In the first tome of his work, Mollien described him as a mason who spoke several African languages. Indeed, his facility with African languages elucidates his success becoming a leader of slave rebels in the West of the colony of Saint-Domingue. Supposedly, he led a band that grew to be as many as 150, and he may have spoken Hausa, if Mollien is to be believed. Other sources, more reliable on this figure, include Thomas Madiou and Beaubrun Ardouin. According to Madiou, Bélisaire Bonnaire led his band of rebels in an African style, too. From Ardouin, we learn that Bélisaire was still around after the Haitian Revolution, loyal to Petion's Republic. If Mollien is correct about Bélisaire speaking Hausa, one wonders about the degree to which African languages spoken by smaller minorities of the African-born population were learned by others. And to what extent Bélisaire is exceptional among Creoles and people of color in learning African languages is another area worthy of exploration.

The Last of the Haitians

Whilst perusing Mollien's book (unpublished during his lifetime) on Haiti, we could not help but miss his strange summary of the history of Boya and the remnants of the indigenous population. Boya, which he miswrote as Baya, was said to be the bastion of the last "pure" Indians of the island. According to Mollien, about 40 years before his writing (and he was in Haiti from 1825-1831), the last "pure" Indian woman of Boya died. Since Mollien does not usually indicate his sources and he's problematic in other ways, one does not know how to interpret this strange view of the end of Boya's indigenous population. However, the idea that there were no more "pure" Indians in Boya is echoed by Thomas Madiou, too.

Western Desert...

Sahara

We were once fascinated by 9th and 10th century Arabic sources referring to an oasis route that was formerly full of Rum and Copts whilst also partaking in a trade network that stretched as far as Ghana and Kawkaw in West Africa. Whilst the Arab sources say the route was in use until the 860s, and was utilized by Egyptians and Nubians to reach Libya, the Magrib or the Sudan (the land of "blacks") to the southwest. Although other trade routes did replace the one banned by the Tulunids, we are interested in the history of pre-Islamic trans-Saharan trade that linked the Western Oases of Egypt to sub-Saharan Africa. The evidence for this is slim. And what we could find in archaeological studies is simply an urbanization in the area during Roman Rule, which subsequently declined by the 4th and 5th centuries. Thus, it is possible that the growth of towns in the Oases during Roman and Byzantine rule was merely linked to a regional trade network to Egypt, Nubia, and parts of today's Libya. However, Ibn Hawqal's 9th century description of the area does suggest travelers from Egypt and Nubia used a route through these oasis region before the Arab conquest. And even after the shift in routes and the decline of the oasis town of Srbuh, the area was described in the 11th century by al-Bakri as being linked to today's Siwa oasis. The Egyptian oases were still full of people, including Copts living in their own village or in mixed contexts. 

We wonder if, perhaps, this earlier desert that was discontinued by the Tulunids may have once connected Egypt (and Nubia) with the Fazzan and, by extension, further south with Kawar, Marandet, Gao, and Ghana. If true, this could have been another avenue for Christian traders to reach the central Sahara and Sudanic regions. Of course, the picture of decline in the region centuries before the Arab conquest makes this less plausible. But we find it interesting how Kawar was described as exporting alum, like some of the oasis towns in the Western Desert. Kawarian traders were also described as traveling to the east using a route through the northeast by the 12th century. The Garamantes and their related peoples in the Fazzan would have already been linked to Augila and other oases to the east before the Islamic period, and it is likely that Kawar was known to the Garamantes (perhaps for a trade in salt, slaves, ivory, and other commodities?). Also, the survival of Christian communities in the aforementioned Egyptian oases could have been another vector for Christian influences in Sudanic Africa during the Middle Ages. For instance, perhaps Qasr Umm Isa in Kawar was named because of Coptic and/or Nubian travelers and traders who reached the area? We lack adequate knowledge of what transpired in the area of Darfur and Wadai but it seems likely that a medieval Nubian presence was felt much further west than we realize. One could imagine Christian influences via Nubia and, perhaps, the Saharan route that led to Egypt via its western desert played a role here. And, furthermore, from Ibn Hawqal, we learn that the Abdun rulers of the Oases had been in conflict with Nubia. Perhaps that conflict in the 9th century favored a Nubian route further west through Kordofan and Darfur to reach the Maghrib or Fazzan. 

Discovering the Amazon

Amazonian Indians in a drawing by Guaman Poma

After finally reading Friar Carvajal's account of the expedition down the Amazon of Francisco de Orellana in The Discovery of the Amazon: According to the Account of Friar Gaspar de Carvajal and Other Documents, one is left with nothing but confusion. The brief yet exciting report includes numerous fights, close calls, multiple bouts of hunger, and, surprisingly, few deaths. One also suspects that Carvajal may have exaggerated the numbers of indigenous combatants they defeated, suggesting almost superhuman powers, military skill, and brilliant leader from Orellana. The reality was likely more complex, and as suggested by Carvajal himself, the initial successes of Orellana may have owed more to his ability to communicate in an indigenous language and a generous exchange of gifts with "overlords" or Indian rulers. However, what is even more interesting of the account are the numerous references to streets, temples, large settlements (large enough to be cities), fortified sites, monuments, and "overlords" with control of substantial areas, some quite densely inhabited. Machiparo, for example, was said to have as many as 50,000 men for war with many settlements, including one of about 5 leagues. 

With recent archaeologists and new technology uncovering evidence of cities in the ancient Amazon, Carvajal's writings have taken on more importance. However, it is often so vague or ambiguous (and problematic) to make sense of some of his observations. For instance, many of the "advanced" cultures he described seem more like the Incas or Peruvian highland cultures than Amazonian. Indeed, one powerful lord or ruler, Aparia, reported to the Spanish expedition that a very wealthy lord named "Ica" possessed gold and great wealth further in the interior. Well, Ica almost sounds like Inca. Some of the other advanced peoples either unseen or barely observed by the expedition also allegedly possessed camels, gold, silver, woven textiles, and even stone architecture. Moreover, some of these peoples allegedly possessed fine, multicolored or painted cups, jars and porcelain as well as idols made of woven feathers (featuring pierced ears resembling that of the Incas). They were also said to worship the Sun (called Chise in one context) and give chicha to the solar deity. 

With the exception of some Indians wearing golden attire who came to bring gifts to Orellana, receiving trinkets in exchange, these wealthy, gold-rich Indians are sadly enigmatic. Somehow, however, a powerful society of women rulers, living in stone homes, were able to conquer and impose tribute on various peoples closer to the Amazon River, including feathers from birds as part of their tribute exacted from vassals. Even more strange, these Amazon women were, according to Carvajal, white, tall warriors with long, braided hair. His legendary-like description of their society surely suggests more fiction than reality. Their society seems that of the Incas except with female rulers, even down to the temples dedicated to the Sun (caranain). According to Carvajal, some of these female Amazon women were actually killed by the Spaniards in their battles with vassal "overlords" closer to the river. But, the obviously fantastical nature of the Amazonian women plus their unreliable informant (an Indian male unable to communicate well with Orellana), suggests either a misunderstanding or perhaps a myth with European imagination filling any gaps in the miscommunication. 

So, was there an Inca-like civilization in the Amazon? Conditions were undoubtedly more complex, but one wonders if some Amazonian peoples paying tribute in tropical bird feathers may have been part of a process that began far earlier with long-distance trade connected to the Andes. Some groups in the vast region were definitely once more urbanized or had larger populations, and they may have woven cloth, built more temples, and designed "hewn tree" monuments in the center of large urban plazas. And certainly people were moving across vast distances along the River or via other routes, such as Tupinamba who reached Chachapoyas in 1549.

Blacks, Race and Colonial Quito

Three mulatos of Esmeraldas (Wikipedia)

Sherwin Bryant’s Rivers of Gold, Lives of Bondage: Governing through Slavery in Colonial Quito offers an analysis of slavery in colonial Ecuador to suggest the centrality of slavery to colonial development and the emergence of race as a modality of early modern colonial governance (29). Bryant suggests that scholars sometimes lose themselves in their focus on the labor metaphor of slavery so they do not heed adequate attention to slavery’s role in colonialism, social practice and race (28). According to Bryant, “This book argues, however, that race was inscribed and conditioned through early modern practices of differentiated rule, insisting that it is possible to recuperate an early modern history of race as constituted over time through a series of colonial governing practices” (35).

Fundamental to Bryant’s analysis is a theory linking the formulation of race as a constitution of Europe and non-Europe through systems of governance (37). The first chapter contextualizes this development through the history of Castilian expansion, an expansion based on war and making slaves out of captives. Enslavement and the encomienda were dual modes of establishing colonial authority, extracting labor, and extending Christian discipline (60). Moving on to colonial Quito, Bryant draws on examples of maroons, slave codes, and the use of slaves in the battles between royalists and Pizarrists in the 1540s and 1550s. Bryant concludes, “Laws governing slavery aided, therefore, in the extension of royal sovereignty” (69). The colonial government naturalized slavery’s association with blacks and to foreign African territorial subjection while indigeneity was associated with vassalage (72). Additional examples of his argument tie slaves to the development of markets, claiming new territories, and the gold-mining labor force of Barbacoas (90). The second chapter shifts to an analysis of of the slave trade, diverse origins of Africans, varying rates of arrival and points of entry. The mechanisms of slave trading to and within Quito helped form Castilian governance based on race relations (97).  Africans who entered the Americas were a people identified as having “black” territorial origins, dubious “national” affiliations and physical or moral qualities legitimizing their enslavement (98). This governance based on race relations marked by slave status formed the context in which Africans developed diasporic kinship practices (103). Thus, the “social death” of blacks relied on the living processes of racial governance through the marking, constitution, and governance of non-European bodies for the elaboration of imperial power (104). Blackening, branding, and baptizing became the constitutive practices of slavery (105). Blackening, in short, binds subjects to territorial origins and assemblages of power (105). Baptism served to incorporate blackened subjects as new but debased subjects of servitude. 

The third and fourth chapters shift to communities and enslaved rebels, fugitives and litigants. In the former chapter, Bryant analyzes black cofradias, the role of the Church in legalizing the status of slaves, and the racializing practices of Church baptism and marriage. To the author, African "nations" were productions of the racialized colonial gaze (167). The fourth chapter uses examples of civil cases and the strategies of slaves in political and radical ways before and after 1750. The combination of slave marronage, the use of courts for redress, and rebellion coexisted, with the threat of violent resistance shaping the legal system. Per Bryant, “The legal system thus served as a safety valve, allowing an avenue for redress so they did not have to resort to more violent, extralegal measures” (224).  The overall thrust of the text is a call for the importance of slavery in the shaping of societies like Quito, where slaves were a minority of the population. Also important are the larger role of racialization and Spanish crown authority in the development of slavery in colonial Quito and Spanish America. Beyond its function as a source of labor for the development of markets and the economy, slavery also functioned as an assertion of crown rule and power. In order to legitimize their enslavement, the foreign territorial origins of Africans and their moral and physical qualities were used by pro-slavery voices to create a subject people. Slavery in colonial Quito, therefore, was vital to the foundation of the colony, the establishment of colonial governance, and the formation of race.

Black subjectivity in Rivers of Gold is best exemplified in chapters 3 and 4, where the focus shifts to slave marriage, family structures, sacred communities, and the legal system. In those areas one comes closest to glimpses of black subjectivity, of blacks as subjects whose lives were within, but not entirely defined by social structures. While the overall argument of the book appears to be one based on the structural factors of slavery in colonial Quito as related to colonial governance, black subjectivity was part of this process. Slave marriage, family or kinship networks, and sacred communities provides some of the best examples of articulations of black subjectivity. Indeed, “Their processions, marriages, and baptisms reveal how the enslaved crafted moments to seize pleasure, repossess their bodies, fix kin, and pool resources as sacred communities.” (167). Although their African diasporic ethnicities reflected the colonial gaze, people of African descent created forms of kinship and belonging among themselves. For instance, in baptisms, enslaved people sometimes chose free blacks as godparents for their children, but not the other way around (184). This suggests the strategic choices made in determining kin that illustrate slaves choosing kin who could help their progeny. Examples of black women serving as godmothers to Indian children also complicate notions of kinship (187). Slave marriages additionally point to exogamous, or interethnic partners in Barbacoas (201). Moreover, slaves appealed to authorities to protect their conjugal rights, as in the case of Joachin and Ysabel Congo, who sought new owners (196). In the case of slave communities on Jesuit-owned plantations in the 18th century, one finds even more evidence of slave kinship and community formation. For instance, Jesuits did not disrupt families on the estates. However, after the expulsion of the order and the sale of their complex of plantations to various buyers, slaves were relocated or resold and estates were neglected. This led to a petition by Pedro Pascual Lucumin in 1778, alleging that the Concepcion estate was neglected and its enslaved laborers mistreated (212). The Jesuit-owned complex points to forms of kinship and solidarity among its workers that lasted for generations, as well as forms of collective resistance. Indeed, the 266  enslaved workers at the Quajara sugar plantation threatened to kill the new owner’s indigenous workers and flee to the mountains if he continued with plans to prohibit their movement and sell some of the estate’s labor force (230).

Using civil cases and testimonies from people of African descent also indicates examples of black subjectivity. According to Bryant, slaves used the courts in political and radical ways throughout the colonial period. They used their right to bring suit while also engaging in marronage and violent resistance. When presenting their cases to the audiencia, slaves quickly learned how to perform within what was European-derived and European-ordered spectacle to achieve their goals (232). One fascinating case from 1675 involved the free black, Adan Pardo, who defended his family honor after the alcalde ordinario of Cali forced his children to serve him (235). Thus, notions of family honor were also used by people of African descent in the colony. Or another case, from 1690, of a free black suing for the freedom of his wife, Phelipa. According to Bryant, “Pedro and his wife endeavored to showcase their honorable, law-abiding behavior while highlighting the deplorable actions and disposition of Phelipa’s master” (236). This discourse of honor in lawsuits of people of African descent predated the Bourbon era and suggests some of the ways in which people of African descent thought of themselves, their family units, and their place in a society. Undoubtedly, this discourse of honor shaped the case of Juana, who sued her master who promised to free her after purchasing her. Unfortunately for Juana, her lawsuit failed to win her freedom, but gave her an opportunity to find a new owner (251). 

Thus, black subjectivity, in Bryant’s account, is one in which black historical subjects, though constricted by slavery and racialized forms of colonial governance, asserted themselves in kinship choices, marriage patterns, and civil or criminal cases against abusive slaveholders or whites who they saw they as disrespecting their sense of honor. While still acting within the confines of the larger racialized structure of colonial governance, one finds glimpses of the interior lives, thoughts, and strategies of people of African descent in colonial Quito. They displayed agency as historical agents, but also as historical subjects with a consciousness and awareness of their own vocality.

Gender & Class in Inca and Spanish Peru

Famous painting depicting St. Ignatius of Loyola's nephew and his wife from the Inca nobility, Beatriz Ñusta

Irene Silverblatt's Moon, Sun, and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Peru is a provocative analysis of gender and class in Peru under two different imperial systems. The first, that of the Incas, drew from Andean traditions and kinship structures while "genderizing" class. The second, the more brutal Spanish colonial imposition, brought more destructive changes that included private land tenure and Christianity with a Judaeo-Christian patriarchal religious and social structure. Silverblatt's study, using chronicles, archival sources and the literature produced by Catholic missionaries and priests eager to extirpate idolatry in Peru, chronicles this development across time from Incan into colonial Peru. 

The early chapters establish the importance of gender parallels in kinship/ayllu structures, gender parallels in religion and increasingly, how the expansion of the Inca Empire promoted its own supremacy through kinship that was both gendered and class-based (yet used the discourse of kinship to mask exploitation). In its pre-imperial Inca phase, Andean gender parallelism was based on complementary principles, with gendered roles for men and women that included inheritance on female lines as well as a role for women as political and religious leaders. Inca imperial expansion, however, drew on the conquest hierarchies of ayllus as well as a gendered discourse that made conqueror ayllus or lineages "male" and the subjugated "female." The Incas, or Lords of Cuzco, drew on this plus their control of women as acllas to buttress their imperial ideology. 

In other words, that the Incas were able to expand their cult of the Sun and take women and girls from conquered provinces to later redistribute as wives (as a favor of the Inca) or as religious/ritual specialists in Inca imperial religion as part of their imperial ideology and class system. Through the control of the Cuzco elite of women's sexuality (by demanding virgin acllas or the privilege of the Inca to give them as wives to relatives, subordinates and vassals) and labor, class was heavily gendered. However, in spite of the gendered dimensions of Inca imperial ideology and expansion, women exhibited power in a number of ways. As mentioned previously, they could exert authority as religious leaders and political leaders at a local level. The Inca Queen, too, possessed power of her own that complemented that of the male Inca ruler. Nonetheless, the Inca imperial structure favored males as conquerors and their subjects as "conquered women" in the empire. This gendered dimensions is also clear due to the fact that Inca elites and favored subjects could possess multiple wives but the Inca Queen and female nobility were still restricted to a single husband. 

The chapters on women under colonial rule are a bit more interesting, although one wonders if relying too heavily on Guaman Poma may slightly distort the conditions in the colony. This is not to dispute the generally correct view of Guaman Poma of colonialism's negative impact on indigenous peoples in Peru, but rather to call to attention the class position of indigenous chroniclers like Guaman Poma who also profited from or exploited the conditions created by the Spanish conquest to enrich themselves. Either way, we can assume peasant women and poor Indian women were exploited in every way to a degree inconceivable in Incan or pre-Columbian times. As detailed by Silverblatt, this included forced labor, rape, taxation/tribute burdens, accusations of witchcraft, and the loss of political rights to own or bequeath land or exercise political leadership. Indigenous women of the elite, of course, were less disadvantaged by Spanish rule yet still faced drastic changes that limited their autonomy. This is expanded upon in subsequent chapters on witchcraft and Andean pre-Christian religion. Throughout the book, Silverblatt had already made reference to the role of women in religion and spirituality and how that position was undermined or came under attack from the Spanish colonial system and Church. 

The voluminous corpus of written sources on the attempt by the Jesuits to eradicate indigenous religions in the Andes, however, provides another perspective on the experience of indigenous women under colonial rule, however. One learns that women who fled to the puna to avoid the Church and/or Spaniards, for instance, played a key role in the survival of indigenous beliefs and culture since they were less "corrupted" than Indian men who were more likely to serve as curacas or be incorporated into the colonial administration as intermediaries. Women likewise resisted colonial rule and the Church through continued ritual practices that were outlawed or persecuted by the Church. Many women also continued to take their surnames from their mothers or bequeath land to female children, even if forced to act via male "tutors" the colonial regime expected. There is even a remarkable episode of women continuing Andean practices of confession that incorporated the quipu! Undoubtedly, much of the survival of indigenous religion, worldview and culture in the Andes can be attributed to the role of peasant women who upheld pre-Hispanic values and traditions against the utter destruction wrought by the Spanish conquest and colonial system.

Black Indians For Sale

Again, perusing the colonial newspaper of Saint Domingue can reveal some surprises. For instance, in 1786, when the Chevalier de Valmont announced he was departing for Europe, several "Black Indians" were put up for sale. Since other cases of "Black Indians" turned out to be Asian Indians, we suspect these domestics were similarly from India.

Descourtilz and the Africans in Saint Domingue

Source

The third tome of Michel Etienne Descourtilz's Voyages d'un naturaliste: et ses observations includes a fascinating essay entitled Essai sur les mœurs et coutumes des habitants de Guinée à Saint-Domingue. One of the few detailed accounts of African "nations" in the colony based on interviews and observations, Descourtilz's brief essay provides information and impressions on about 18 African "nations" in colonial Haiti, concluding with a longer chapter on Creoles which contrasts the natural simplicity of the Africans with Creole immorality. Sadly, some of the chapters are far too brief, while other chapters cover "nations" which are obscure or very difficult to identify. He also gathered his data from Africans and Creoles interrogated or observed in the area of Saint-Marc and Artibonite Valley, aided by an unnamed domestic presumably enlisted to make the Africans more comfortable. Of course, this means the Africans he wrote about may not have present in large numbers in other parts of the colony. Nonetheless, Descourtilz provides some of the few detailed descriptions of Mozambiques, Borno ("Beurnon"), and Fulanis (Islamic nomadic ones) in the colony. To our knowledge, Descourtilz was also the only one to write about the Dunkos, a group likely hailing from what is today northern Ghana. 

In the first chapter, on the Dunkos and Aradas, Descourtilz wrote admiringly of their features. Scarification is big, but the infamous practice of poisoning among the Arada occupies a large section of the chapter. One particularly infamous case involved an elderly Arada woman said to have killed 70 infants to prevent them from growing up as slaves in the colony! Then, Descourtilz wrote about the "Arada" king subject to ritual seclusion and customs, before a brief description of Arada religion. Noting the power of their priests, they also adored a variety of beings or Gods, including the Moon, water, and serpents. It is a little unclear who exactly these "Arada" were. Presumably they were not natives of the Porto-Novo kingdom of Arada, and like the Dunkos, represented a composite group. The "Dahomet" nation, however, appear to have been subjects of the Dahomey kingdom. Descourtilz's description fo the burial of Dahomey's kings and the sacrifice of captives seems to be accurate or at least partly based on reliable accounts. 

Fida Africans, the subject of the next chapter, presumably came from Ouidah (or were sold via Ouidah). Commenting negatively on their physical features, Descourtilz has little to say about them. Following Fida are the Essa blacks. Essa, a "nation" or ethnicity we could not identify, were known for worshipping their previous kings. They also embalmed the corpses of deceased and placed the bodies on a throne. Likewise, the Urba "nation" are difficult to identify. According to Descourtilz, they possessed a god named Brataoth. Their king was surrounded by magicians whose arbitrary judgements sometimes caused the unjust punishment of soldiers. Human sacrifice was also practiced after military defeat. However, at least one king of Urba converted to Christianity after speaking with a missionary, miraculously recovering from a a malady. This would imply Urba was probably located closer to the coast. 

Other nations are mentioned for their religious and theological views. For instance, the belief in the transmigration of souls was attributed to the Aminas and Ibos. A particularly depressing case of an Amina mother on the Desdunes plantation was said to have killed herself and her 2 sons out of a belief that after death, they would return to their country of origin. Naturally, due to his own political and racial biases, Descourtilz also praised Monsieur Desdunes as a benevolent master who treated his slaves like a father treats his children. In contrast with the horrifying suicides trigged by enslavement, Descourtilz also shared the positive story of a reunion of 2 Ibo lovers owned by M. Pelerin of Cayes Saint-Louis. Unfortunately, despite reproducing a song attributed to these two, Aza and Evahim, Descourtilz changed the melody. But it is still worthy of attention for its Creole lyrics, even if one would expect Aza and Evahim to have communicated in their Igbo lover when reunited across the Atlantic. 

Although we have discussed Descourtilz's chapter on Bornoans in Saint Domingue, they are worth mention again. A number of customs, practices, religious zeal, and gender relations are subjects of importance here. For instance, Descourtilz viewed Borno Africans as a nation in which women were submitted to men. This is interesting, given the high divorce rates among the Kanuri in the 20th century (which was probably the case in the 1800s and possibly the 1700s, too). One wonders if Descourtilz mainly or only had access to male informants from Borno, which may have exaggerated the degree to which women were subjugated. Nonetheless, it was clear that Islam was very influential in social relations and the attachment to books, prayer, and social conduct. No other Islamic nation were mentioned in Descourtilz's essay besides the Fulani. What is so confusing about this account of Borno is that a long anecdote about a corrupt African prince who killed a child for recreation and went unpunished, triggered a conflict with a pagan ruler that resulted in many of his "nation" being sold into slavery. Several of them ended up in Saint-Domingue, where the Rossignol-Desdunes plantation received many. If this prince was a Sayfawa maiwa, it would be interesting if any traditions or written sources can attest to his corrupt, violent behavior. This would match the sense in some sources that Borno in the 18th century had become corrupt and the Sayfawa were less able to control vassal chiefs and rulers. Also, assuming it is true, the Sayfawa rulers testing the morality of their subjects by leaving items in public spaces and using spies to capture any thieves for sale as slaves (plus their families) is an extreme measure. 

Surprisingly, 3 Gold Coast "nations" (Acra, Crepeens, Asante) are discussed separately from the Dunkos, who one would expect to have been somewhat more similar to them. Descourtilz praises their fishing talents while accurately acknowledging that they believed in a distant, Supreme Being. Because this Supreme Being is too distant, they worship a number of "fetishes" like the snake, or heron. Their prodigious memory similarly impressed Descourtilz, who noted they could easily refer to events or circumstances from long ago with surprising exactness. Unfortunately, for some of these nations and the subsequent chapters, the "nations" are either too ambiguous to identify or, in the case of the Congos, shockingly incomplete. For example, the Diabon were said to have sacrified strangers to their gods. For the Congos, we learn little. 

In the final chapters, on Vodou and Creoles, one sees the most detailed accounts of black culture in the colony. Relying in part on the testimony of an educated black woman named Finette, Descourtilz expresses familiarity with the Arada origin of the word, Vodou, as well as the Dom Pedre (Petro). Despite spilling much ink on the superstitions of the blacks and their beliefs in sorcery or the power of their idols, he draws from examples of cases of people falling ill after disputes with Vodou priests. Indeed, according to his source, Finette, Tousaint Louverture himself consulted a Vodou priest specializing in divination. According to this oracle, Tousaint was warned that his first chief, Dessalines, was to later betray him to the French. Vodou ritual leaders are even accused of abusing their power to receive extra food during a famine in the Artibonite region in 1803, using religion as a pretext to demand additional offerings that they consumed themselves or later sold. But it is in the ultimate chapter where one suspects Descourtilz's political and racial biases most mislead him. Creoles, according to him, suffered from feelings of enmity toward whites, were lazy, immoral, and cruel. Indeed, a particularly egregious case of a man who rejected his own mother led to Descourtilz writing to Toussaint Louverture to have the arrogant man punished for abandoning her. Even black mid-wives and medical practitioners were dismissed as ignorant and dangerous. In addition, Creoles did not raise their children properly, spoiling them in their youth so they were ill-prepared for their future life in the colony. If it isn't clear already, Descourtilz's own sentiments about the Haitian Revolution shaped his writings about the Creoles. 

Cemí and Religion

Photo of a three-pointer cemi from Hispaniola in the Dominican National Archives. 

It looks like Jose Oliver was probably correct about the etymology of the word cemí. Rendered as chemíjn, chemijn in Breton's dictionary as the equivalent of God, the Kalinago word is undoubtedly related to the Taino cemí. Intriguingly, the word for sweet in Arawak is seme. Sweetness is translated as semehi while to cure is semechihi. A shaman is called semeti, a name whose use has been attested since the mid-16th century in Rodrigo de Navarrete's account of the Aruacas. As noted by scholars like Oliver and Goeje, a possible link to the word for sweet is very plausible in this case. 

However, we had not found a similar word for "sweet" in Kalinago or Taino to match the seme of Arawak or Lokono. Looking to Garifuna provided a possible clue. In that language, the word for tasty or delicious is semeti. Sweet is actually bimeti, which can be found in Breton's 17th century dictionary. However, the concept of sweetness definitely overlaps with that of tasty or delicious. Thus, it is possible that the word for "God" or spirits associated with positive attributes may derive from a word linked to tasty or delicious. We cannot say for sure what the Taino word for sweet or tasty was, but it was likely similar.

Looking to Taino words or concepts related to spirits and gods in the context of other South American languages is also worthwhile. For instance, goeiz as the equivalent of soul of a living person, does not have a close cognate in the other Arawakan languages or neighboring languages we consulted dictionaries for. However, Rodrido de Navarrete's account uses the word Gaguche, for souls. Ga may have signified great, and guche, soul. Perhaps a sense of this can be seen in yawahu, an Arawak word for Spirit in Bennett's dictionary? Intriguingly, Taino's word for the spirits of the dead, or hupia, has a close match in Kalinago or Island Carib's oupoyem or opoyem. In Wayuu, Spirit is aa'in while a phantom of spirit could also be called ayolojo or ayaluju. A demon or devil is yolujaa, which might be related to hupia. Garifuna uses afurugu for Spirit and mafia for devil, or fiend. Soul is uwani and ghost is ufioun. 

Palikur, on the other hand, uses uhokri and giwohkiga for God. A demon is wavitye which isn't particularly close to hupia. Surprisingly, one of the Palikur terms for God may be etymologically related to one of the Taino terms for God, Guamiquina (Great Lord, or God). This is quite different from the Hubuiri for the Great Lord in the Sky recorded by Navarrete in the 1500s for the Arawak. Indeed, we also wonder if the Palikur uhokri is also related to a part in Yucahu's full name, Yúcahu Bagua Maórocoti. Is the Maórocoti perhaps similar to uhokri, with the ma negating the rest? In Arawak, one term for God is wa-malhita-koanathi. This refers to God in the sense of our collective Father or begetter, while in Palikur, nahawkrivwi, refers to our grandparents. Perhaps the last part of Yucahu's full name really does refer to him as lacking a creator, since Yocahu was the first principle or Creator.

Foullani

While we are not usually listeners of Gnawa music, "Foullani" is quite enchanting. Very repetitive lyrics also trance-inducing with the deep sounds of the stringed instrument (guimbri?). A shorter but still hypnotic rendition can be heard here. 

Bornoans in Saint Domingue

A map of colonial Haiti (Wikipedia)

We wanted to continue our method by applying it specifically to the "infinitely rare" Borno captives in Saint Domingue. The only detailed source on the Bornoan presence among Saint Domingue's African population comes from the French naturalist Descourtilz, who described those of the Rossignol Desdunes plantation in the Artibonite region. We are only told "plusiers" of this nation were present in the area. Checking the runaway slave ads posted in Saint-Domingue's newspaper only revealed 2 Borno captives, one of whom actually ran away in a group with 3 Hausa males. However, with very rough estimates based on the share of reported Borno maroons, we can perhaps get a clearer picture of their total numbers in the colony.

First, as only 2 out of 12,857 individuals reported in the press as runaways, we know Bornoans only represented about 0.015% of the maroons. If that proportion was similar to their share in the total population, we can estimate a total Bornoan population of about 78 to 124. Since their presence is only attested rather late in the colonial period, we prefer to base the estimate on the slave population in 1789-1791. Using an estimate of about 500,000 for the slave population in 1790 (although Geggus has suggested perhaps as many as 510,000) would mean that perhaps 78 were of the Borno nation. Of this estimate, it is probable that several died during the "seasoning" period of their adjustment to colonial slavery in the Caribbean. However, a total estimate of about 78 (possibly far less due to the paucity of documented Borno maroons) is at least somewhat plausible. After all, if a total of 153,057 slaves in the colony were imported on French ships from the Bight of Benin, 78 would represent less than 1% of that total. It is at least historically plausible that, in the second half of the 18th century, that 0.05% or so of the African captives from the Bight of Benin may have ultimately come from Borno. 

The figure of 78, again, is only a very rough estimate. But it might be consistent with perhaps a handful of large continents of Bornoans being sold to Europeans on the coast. Alternatively, the number could also be the result of small numbers of Borno captives being sold to traders at Porto Novo or Ouidah or Badagry over a long period of time. Once one takes into account the high mortality rate among African slaves, this general estimate of 78 could be significantly reduced to possibly as low as 39 or even fewer Bornoans, split among slaveholders in the Artibonite region and other parts of the colony.

Blacks, Indians and Casta in Colonial Peru

Guaman Poma had "interesting" views on blacks in colonial Peru.

The main theme of O’Toole’s Bound Lives: Africans, Indians, and the Making of Race in Colonial Peru is the construction of casta in northern colonial Peru, emphasizing the 17th and 18th centuries. Her study seeks to understand exclusion and exchange to illuminate how coastal Andeans (“Indians”) and people of African origin or descent understood casta in their quotidian existence (O’Toole 2). It also destabilizes notions of casta to distinguish it from modern ideas of race. The text additionally calls into question the framework of conflict to understand relations between Andeans and Africans, demonstrating how their interactions and behaviors shaped constructions, categories, and expectations of property and vassalage (4). The body of the text uses examples from notarized records, judicial cases, petitions, criminal and civil trials, sales, wills, and inventories to support its argument, which illustrates performative strategies as an example of agency (12). Her microhistorical and ethnohistorical techniques aid our understanding of how Africans and Andeans engaged with casta as well.

The initial chapter demonstrates the malleable nature of casta categories during the 17th century. According to the author, “By locating official articulations of black and Indian within colonizers’ anxieties about labor, this chapter demonstrates how the discussions of casta categorization were rooted in shifting material realities and the contradictory discourses of a crown checked by colonizers’ labor demands” (20). The chapter endeavors to illustrate this material dimension of casta by pointing to the labor shortage caused by the temporary end of the official Spanish trans-Atlantic slave trade, an era when the demand for labor on the wheat, sugar and other haciendas in the northern coastal region required more labor. This is occurring just as the rights of Andeans to communal land and water resources were challenged or revoked by white landholder elites. This chapter persuasively shows that material, economic conditions requiring labor, as well as the dispossession of Andeans, led to a destabilizing definition of assigned casta categories for “Indians” who engaged in the private market, worked for wages on estates or cities, and left their assigned “reducciones” (30). The following chapter shifts the focus to slavery, attempting to show how slaves engaged in acts that made them into property in the courtroom or marketplace, or performed their commodification, to influence outcomes in their favor (36). O’Toole uses the example of kinship and its elasticity, too. The extended period of time it took for Africans to reach the Pacific coasts of Peru created multiple opportunities for them to learn market conditions, laws, and form bonds among themselves (44). For instance, she cites the example of a slave named Maria, who, knowing her market value, threatened and attempted suicide and self-mutilitation to affect it and change masters (54). Examples of extended or new forms of kinships among Africans could be found in their marriages and baptisms, as Africans married criollas and people of other categories or included Andeans as godparents of their children (56). For O’Toole, “kinships were not merely familial or strategic, but articulations of identities and collectivities only superficially detected in civil and criminal cases, property sales, and personal wills" (62). 

The third chapter uses judicial records to show how Andeans assumed the role of “Indian” as performative acts in their own interests. Appeals against their dispossession, for instance, employ the rhetoric of Indians as vassals in need of the protection of the Spanish crown (86). The fourth chapter continues the focus on Andeans, looking at market exchanges and indigenous engagement with labor and urban spaces. In short, indigenous peoples engaged in regional marketeering, land markets, and the purchase of colonial goods. The example of Pedro Esteban Penaran, who participated in land markets and purchased colonial goods also serves to exemplify an “Indian” who continued to hold communal land but acted in ways unexpected for the “Indian” caste (107). In urban spaces like Trujillo and rural markets, blacks and Indians also interacted, selling each other goods. While her evidence does not prove it conclusively, O’Toole suggests that lower-status people may have ignored casta when it was not useful or profitable (119). Thus, blacks and Andeans may have interacted in ways that did not reinforce the social hierarchy when it was not in their interest. Undoubtedly, evidence of the two groups working together to subvert casta or promote their own interests is the sale by blacks of stolen goods to Andean middlemen (112). In addition, the chapter explores legal consciousness among slaves who attempted to use the Catholic Church and their ecclesiastical rights against demands of owners who made them work on Sundays or holidays (124). Attempts by slaves to regulate their labor or work schedule also contributed to black subjectivity. They exploited their relatively free mobility in northern Peru to search for new owners, or at least that was their excuse to engage in itinerant labor (135). The work culture among the enslaved suggest they were asserting their right to control their labor and time, an assertion of their agency on the plantation. One example cited by the author is of a conflict between an enslaved foreman, Sebastian, and a white overseer who criticized his management. The altercation ended with Sebastian fleeing the plantation, suggesting the importance African slaves attached to controlling their work schedules (128). 

The remainder of O’Toole’s text summarizes her aforementioned arguments. According to O’Toole, casta and its hierarchies were powerful because lower-status people employed them (161). There was also a connection between the racialization of Andeans and Africans, which illustrates how Africans played a significant role in the history of Andean South America. Moreover, “Casta articulated a colonial construction of difference and differential power relations” (164). However, scholars cannot assume casta accurately described different types of people who were intended to inhabit the same social plane. Casta categories were not fixed racial categories, despite some common features with the latter.

O’Toole’s study of the northern Peruvian coastal region enriches our understanding of black subjectivity in a number of ways. Moving beyond agency and structural constraints to the humanity and subjectivity of Africans and their descendants, O’Toole attempts to show the reader Africans within their own narratives in a number of ways, from kinship and market forces to commodification and work culture. Particularly evident in chapter two, O’Toole’s central argument asserts slaves acted in ways that made them into property, or performed their commodification, when it was in their own interests. This, of course, is related to the monograph’s larger argument about the power of casta deriving from lower-status people employing it. 

However, here she focuses on enslaved people to show how experiences of markets and kinship created the other. Kinship is not a static category, but forged in the diasporic setting in which Africans were commodified (37). Shipmate bonds among Africans who experienced the harrowing, extended voyages to colonial Peru could exert a significant influence, leading to new affinities beyond the assigned “national” origins to slaves. For example, an Arara or a Mina could forge new relationships to each other that thwarted attempts by slaveholders to use the diversity of the slave population against them. An example of kinship bonds among people of similar African “ethnic” extraction can be found in the criminal case of Juan Negro, among Mina slaves articulating hints of a junior age-set speaking to a senior kinsman  (59). The marriage and godparent choices of Africans also point to the complexity of kinship as articulations of identity beyond or against the expectations of slavery and casta. Take the case of urban Africans in the region, who were more likely to marry. The choice of godparents made by enslaved parents on the Facala and Ascope estates also show examples of expanding kinship networks beyond the “ethnic” labels attached to Africans. Maria Josefa, an Arara, and her Chala husband, chose an indigenous highlander migrant for the godfather of their child (56). Disconnected Andean migrants working on estates or in towns like Trujillo may have been just as interested in expanding their kinship networks as African slaves, who were likewise uprooted and forced to adapt or adopt new kinship practices. 

Besides adapting and adopting new kinship networks and practices, the use of the logic of the market and commodification by enslaved Africans  to subvert their bondage brings us closer to understanding the interior subjectivity of Africans. Not just as an example of agency, but as an attempt to highlight their lives, preoccupations, challenges and goals, O’Toole highlights the use of their commodification by slaves. The example of Maria, who attempted suicide to frighten owners, demonstrates an effort on her part to disrupt her market value (51). Enslaved people knew the costs of their purchase were higher by the time they reached the Pacific, and explicitly capitalized on their value to resist owners and abuse. While still enslaved, some of their goals and preoccupations can be seen historically. In so doing, enslaved people also participated in some of the same behavior as “Indians,” who also employed the rhetoric of their vassalage when convenient to do so.

Black subjectivity can also be gleaned from the participation of blacks in market activity, mobility and their work cultures. For instance, Africans often had to rely on trade with Andeans to supplement their food or clothing (112). In their interactions, Africans had to serve their own interests to clothe themselves and sometimes engaged in the sale or exchange of stolen goods. The 1697 example of Antonio Mina (112) selling wheat to Andeans to have it ground and resold stands out, showing how Africans engaged in the market across racial lines to pursue their own interests, perhaps especially aided by urban markets, networks, access to valuable goods, and the mobility enslaved people claimed for themselves. In other words, “They transformed their enslaved position into profit by strategically tapping into the networks of their free, Andean acquaintances” (113). The general mobility of enslaved people, often on the pretense of working for their masters or searching for new masters, also enabled them to engage in itinerant labor and control their time. This constituted an assertion of their rights to their own time (135-136), helping to reconstruct their preoccupations and subjectivity. Indeed, a simple gathering of enslaved people to drink and exchange news on holidays or Sundays elucidates the values and preoccupations of blacks, in spite of the alleged threat to public order their gatherings posed (129). 

In summation, O’Toole’s study of the northern coast of Peru uncovers new models for understanding Afro-Peruvians and casta. While it also destabilizes assumptions of casta as a fixed category, it demonstrates the ways enslaved people used both caste and their legal enslavement to, when possible, serve their own interests. By setting their own work schedules, displaying mobility, engaging in markets and trade with Andeans, and expanding or adapting kinship networks in ways that contradicted casta designations and chattel slavery, one can see how enslaved people not only exhibited agency, but asserted a subjectivity. Instead of viewing Africans and their descendants solely through the lens of agency or structural confines, a historical analysis of subjectivity demonstrates the nuanced nature of hierarchical relations in colonial Peru. Africans were “voices aware of their vocality” with regards to an interior understanding of their actions.