1000 Years of Economic Growth and Regression on the Middle Niger

Le développement et la régression chez les peuples de la boucle du Niger à l'époque précolonial by Michael Tymowski is an ambitious work. An attempt to make sense of around 1000 years of economic progress and regression along a key part of the Western Sudan (centered on the Middle Niger), Tymowski relies heavily on the Timbuktu chronicles, external Arabic sources, and oral traditions. He persuasively makes the case for economic development with the growth of urban centers, limited private land tenure, and accelerated long-distance trade, which later declined in the 1600s and 1700s. This shows that the history of "development" in sub-Saharan African areas has always been dynamic, and not simply one of timeless "backwardness" or irrelevance. 

However, Tymowski's study is quite outdated and relies on French translations of sources in Arabic. It also relies heavily on Jean Rouch and other somewhat outdated scholarship on Songhay ethnography and oral traditions, even repeating the unproven claim that the Dia/Za dynasty of early Songhay rulers were actually Lemta Berbers. In addition, he heavily relied on the problematic Tarikh al-Fattash chronicle for assertions about servile/caste populations. This dependence on French translations of Arabic sources and outmoded scholarship on Songhay ethnography and oral traditions suggest possible limitations of Tymowski's study. While one must acknowledge that the aforementioned Timbuktu chronicles are probably reliable for the 1400s and 1500s (at least more so than for earlier centuries), Tymowski's attempt to derive meaningful conclusions or theories about the economic development of the Mali Empire and Songhay Empire may be misleading or problematic. Nonetheless, there are a number of intriguing ideas about the relationship between the towns (Gao, Djenne, Timbuktu) and the countryside, as well as the role of the state in promoting land tenure arrangements along the lines of property property or through state domains (those of the askias) that controlled and promoted the redistribution of goods.

Careybana

Although this is purely speculative, one wonders if the place name, Careybana, may have simply meant a flooded or wet plain. Identified in the Spanish chronicles as an area situated on a plain with a large concentration of people in the cacicazgo of Xaragua, the first part of the name, Carey, bears a slight resemblance to a Palikur word for a flooded plain. According to Launey's book on the Palikur tongue, kariy means flooded plain. While Palikur is an Arawakan language distantly related to Taino, we suspect carey and kariy might be related terms. Sadly, we could not find any similar words in Island Carib, Garifuna, or other Arawakan languages. In the Arawak of Suriname, however, Goeje did record kalhao or kalho as words for grass. Perhaps it is far more likely that Careybana simply meant a wet plain where seaturtles could be easily caught near the coast, assuming carey is really the Taino word for sea turtles.

Christianity in the Sudan

Giovanni Vantini's Christianity in the Sudan is a dated work which, by and large, is mainly about Christian Nubia. Heavily based on the corpus of "Oriental" sources (plus some European ones) Vantini published, much of the text is like reading that compilation with some narrative commentary. It was a refresher for certain points in the history of medieval Nubia that we have forgotten about, but without any deeper investigation of the source materials, rather limited. Fortunately, advances by archaeologists and studies of Old Nubian and other textual sources has shed more light on the nature of the Nubian political system, economic structure, and religion. For instance, Dotawo is now more widely accepted as being the same state as Makuria. Sadly, Alwa, in Upper Nubia, remains a mystery in Vantini's text, but that is no surprise given the year this work was published (1980). More intriguingly for those interested in the later centuries of medieval Nubia, one can find here useful Western sources on Nubia and some important references to the Vatican's attempts to replant the Christian seed in Nubia. Some of this correspondence even touches upon the Kwararafa south of Borno, confusingly believed by some Europeans in Tripoli to have been Christians. Last, but certainly not least, some European sources also alluding to the survival of Christianity in pockets of Nubia as late as the 1740s suggest fruitful areas of research for scholars interested in Christian traces in Nubian culture. Some observations noted here on possible areas of Christian Nubian influence in Kordofan and Darfur also suggest medieval Nubian kingdoms really did exert some degree of influence to the west of the Nile...Indeed, the place name in the Dilling area mentioned in the famous Tabaqat may be further evidence of this.

Jimmy...

Classic from Disco Dancer.

The Northern Factor in Ashanti History

Ivor Wilks wrote an intriguing monograph several decades ago, The Northern Factor in Ashanti History. Due to our similar interest in the "northern factor" in Yoruba history (and, to a lesser extent, Dahomey and Borgu history), we found it imperative to actually read it. Wilks presents what may be a sometimes exaggerated role of Islam in 18th century and early 19th century Asante, but it does seem quite likely that trade routes to the North through Begho and later centers was of paramount importance. Like the Oyo Yoruba state, the Asante state appears to have tapped into both Atlantic and broader Sudanic/trans-Saharan trade routes. 

Unlike Oyo, the Ashanti did not require large amounts of imported horses for cavalry units. Nonetheless, the gold and kola nuts of Ghana were highly valuable commodities that brought traders from both the Western and Central Sudan into the region. Through control of or taxation of trade routes used by these northern traders, the Asante state could derive great revenues as well as import cloth and other goods not available from the trade with Europeans on the coast. Aspects of this history is revealed by written sources from Gonja and the north. European accounts plus other sources similarly shed light on the importance of these northern ties that linked this part of Ghana with the Middle Niger, the Sahara, and Hausaland. 

West African Muslims from far afield, in addition to Muslims from areas to the north conquered by Asante, were also a valued community for their literacy, the esteem in which their religion was held, and their economic importance. Whether or not Dupuis's "sketch" of Asante history as revealed to him by manuscripts and conversations with notable Muslims in Kumasi is very reliable for how the Asante themselves saw their history, it is nonetheless important to recall that the Asante rulers sponsored a history, or chronicle,  written by Muslims. The attempt by Wilks to reproduce the accounts given to Dupuis reveals just how problematic this source material can be, though it does reveal how one could and should endeavor to utilize Arabic and European sources (plus oral traditions) to make sense of the history of the Asante. 

23andme African Matches

Our Haitian relative's African matches are quite similar to their results on Ancestry DNA. One conspicuous difference is that she now has fewer (obvious) Yoruba matches. She also had fewer Upper Guinean matches, the only example here being someone with a Fulani surname (common in Guinea, Sierra Leone, and Gambia) who she shares 0.17% of her DNA. That person's results were 53.6% Senegambian & Guinean, 29.6% Ghana, Liberia and Sierra Leone and 7.6% Nigeria, so we cannot say with greater certainty where exactly in West Africa they hail from. The few matches from Central Africa (Congo) were also consistent with her matching patterns on the other site, too. Intriguingly, there were a few "exotic" matches, including one with a North African or Egyptian who harbored significant sub-Saharan African ancestry (including 12.5% Nigerian). The other match was with a half-white Kenyan Kikuyu, but we did not include them in the results since the match could be due to shared European ancestry. For similar reasons, a half-Yoruba British person was excluded, since the shared DNA could also be partly due to European ancestry.

What was a surprise to see here was matches with people from Calabar and other parts of southern Nigeria outside majority Igbo areas. Nonetheless, they were mainly clustered in southeastern Nigeria, which seems to match the Ancestry Composition report identifying Igbo as a "Very Close" genetic group (including various Nigerian ethnic groups, however).  As for the one obvious Yoruba match, it was with someone bearing a Muslim name. We suspect one of the unspecified Nigerian matches was also Yoruba. As for her Ghanaian match, it was with someone likely hailing from the Ga-Adangme group. The Congolese matches were with people whose exact ethnic background we could not determine based on surnames alone. 

As one might expect for a Haitian looking at distant genetic matches with modern African individuals, the amount of shared DNA is usually low. Surprisingly, the closest match was with someone at 0.54% shared DNA, with roots in Akwa Ibom, Nigeria. It does seem rather likely that captives imported into Saint Domingue's southern coast (many likely smuggled by the British) included a large number from the Bight of Biafra and today's southeastern Nigeria.

Basil II's Empire

Basil II and the Governance of Empire (976-1025) by Catherine Holmes is an interesting but difficult study on the Byzantine Empire of one of the greatest emperors of Roman/Byzantine history. To really understand it, one would have to have read all or most of the chronicle of John Skylitzes (plus that of other Byzantine chroniclers and historians of the period from the late 900s into the 1200s). Holmes has a number of interesting ideas about the writing of Skylitzes's chronicle and the political/social conditions of late 11th century Byzantium that shaped his work. Supposedly, part of the reason he overstated the importance of Bardas Skleros is because one of his sources was a pro-Skleros source. He also overestimates the importance of various ancestors of prominent/aristocratic families who were not important until the reign of Alexios Komnenos or John Komnenos. 

Holmes tries to use non-Byzantine sources that do cover Basil II's reign (Yahya Ibn Said, Stephen of Taron, some others) but it is rather remarkable how little has survived that covers, in detail, the reign of Basil II. The guy who completed the conquest of Bulgaria and extended the Empire the furthest east/northeast it had been in centuries...and we have so few detailed, internal sources on him. Skylitzes is partly unreliable as a source due to his reliance on pro-Skleros materials, his telescoped passages which often lack dates, and his willingness to modify some details to further the political agenda of his own time in the court of Alexios Komnenos.

Ultimately, a lot of what Holmes is saying seems very conjectural, but she wisely limits her analysis to what can be corroborated by narrative sources, sigillographical evidence, and non-Byzantine sources. It does seem quite likely that Skylitzes highlighted and exaggerated the role of ancestors of contemporary elites (late 11th century) of Byzantium's political system in the wars in the Balkans just to highlight the role of aristocratic cooperation with the imperial court for the success of Byzantium. Similarly, Skylitzes's method for composing his chronicle does suggest one must use it extremely carefully to truly make sense of what transpired in the Balkans or anywhere else during the reign of Basil II. 

Holmes is also worth reading for her insightful commentary on Byzantine historiography and various themes in the study of medieval Byzantium. For example, questing one's facile agreement with past scholarship on a strict genre separation of chronicles and histories. Not all Byzantine chroniclers were monks who emphasized divine providence and avoided classicizing rhetoric or style. Just as not all Byzantine "historians" wrote in fine Attic Greek and modeled themselves on Thucydides or ancient historians. Furthermore, Holmes presents a mostly persuasive case for understanding imperial administration on the eastern and western frontiers as one in which Constantinople relied more on tributary relations (in the east for sure) while devolving local matters on indigenous notables or political actors, only later in Basil's reign sending more officials from Constantinople. Likewise, one finds her reading of the legislation against the Powerful and Basil's interests in presenting the image of omnipotence while allowing much local autonomy a convincing analysis of his administration. For the conditions of Byzantium and its neighbors in the 10th and early 11th centuries, Basil II represented the apogee of that system of imperial rhetoric, control of the army and institutions, and acceptance of the reality of distant frontier governance that was sadly almost destroyed in less than a century after his reign.

Non-African Ancestry in Bainet

In terms of non-African ancestry, 23andme results were mostly consistent with the other major company's estimates. Instead of 11% European, our close relative is now closer to 10%. The distribution of ancestry between Northwestern Europe and Southern Europe is split, which is probably due to the problems of capturing French ancestry through genetic analysis. So, 23andme only assigned this relative 3.4% French & German and 3% Spanish & Portuguese. One suspects that this is a sign that the mostly France-derived European ancestry came from both northern and southern France. Although it is possible this person does have distant ancestry from Spain as well, we could not prove it yet. What was more surprising for us was to see trace ancestry derived from Askenazi Jews (0.2%). However, this is not too shocking when one recalls that Jews or people of Jewish origin were in Saint-Domingue and 19th century Haiti.

For Indigenous Americas ancestry, 23andme estimated a higher trace amount than Ancestry. Ancestry DNA assigned her a trace ancestry at 0.26% Indigenous Bolivia & Peru. 23andme, however, assigned her 0.5% (which appears at all confidence levels) without any specific region or area of Indigenous Americas. We suspect that our Haitian side does harbor trace "Amerindian" ancestry that may be a mix of South American-derived groups and/or others. While some would love to see this as proof of partial "Taino" heritage in Haitians, it is difficult to say given that our relative did not receive any score like Indigenous Dominican or any significant overlap with Dominicans or other Caribbean populations with indigenous Caribbean Ancestry.

The most surprising find of our relative's trace ancestry as a 0.1% Malayali Subgroup estimate. This also appeared in every confidence level, although we are not sure how reliable such a low estimate can be. While there were small numbers of Asian Indians trafficked to Saint Domingue by the French (something that can occasionally still be seen in Dominicans from the Southwest and Haitians in the South on some consumer DNA tests, see here), the amount is so small and difficult to find. Furthermore, South Asian DNA estimates do not appear at all in this relative's estimates from Ancestry DNA. We suspect it is one of the following scenarios: statistical noise, possible ancestry from an Asian Indian brought to Saint Domingue in the 1700s, or perhaps something inherited through a European ancestor that did harbor small amounts of South Asian ancestry. 

African Ancestry in Bainet and 23andme

A very close Haitian relative born in Bainet recently received their 23andme DNA results. In some ways, it's a confirmation of our likely Igbo ancestry. Indeed, the Igbo people were the only specific African ethnic group detected as a very close match in our relative's results. This was not a surprise since our closest African DNA match on Ancestry DNA was with an Igbo Nigerian. Furthermore, the "Ibo" were a consistent and major part of the enslaved African population in Bainet and other areas of Haiti during the colonial period. 

An attempt to show how our relative's African ancestry is broken down in Ancestry's 2024 Update.

Thus, the genetic evidence as well as the historical records (notarial records mentioning slaves by nation, the patterns of the French slave trade, and the smuggling of captives from Jamaica to Haiti's southern coast) point to ancestry among Igbo and/or closely related peoples in southeastern Nigeria. However, just as on Ancestry DNA, our relative also had Yoruba Nigerian DNA matches with various customers. We likely descend from a plethora of individuals from various ethnolinguistic backgrounds across what is Benin, Togo, and Nigeria.

Sadly, the lack of a Benin/Togo category on 23andme leads to a more inflated Ghanaian score for our close relative. The 2024 Update for Ancestry DNA pointed to very strong "Benin & Togo" as well as "Nigeria" scores. Indeed, Ancestry DNA's problematic update even suggested or pointed to ancestry in the East-Central and northern Nigeria for our relative. But 23andme, however, only detected a close match with the Igbo. 23andme's algorithm also gave our relative a higher Senegambian/Upper Guinea score, which we suspect may be due to possible "Bambara" or "Mandingue" ancestry that may be registering as Sierra Leone and Liberia. Lastly, the overall 23andme scores suggest ancestry in West Central Africa is a rather small part of our African origins. And this is in spite of the ubiquitous presence of captives from West Central Africa in Saint Domingue. I guess people with roots in the South really do, on average, harbor less Central African ancestry.

An attempt at showing the regional breakdown of sub-Saharan African ancestry. The general patterns are similar to those observed via Ancestry's results.

One of the benefits of 23andme for understanding African ancestry is seeing assigned mtDNA haplogroups. Our relative's haplogroup, L1b1a, is common in sub-Saharan Africa. This is no surprise and seems consistent with the African ancestry of Haitians. The maternal ancestry of our people, after all, is undoubtedly an African affair. One only wishes 23andme could have indicated some possible distant matches for West and Central Africa to shed more light on our African ancestry. Perhaps a better idea of the distribution of L1b1a would have also helped here. Ultimately, we find some broad commonalities between Ancestry DNA and 23andme here, and both companies estimated our close relative at about 89-90% sub-Saharan African ancestry, overwhelmingly West African. 

Arabic Medieval Inscriptions and Songhay History

Arabic Medieval Inscriptions from the Republic of Mali: Epigraphy, Chronicles and Songhay-Tuareg History by P.F. de Moraes Farias has long been on our reading list. One of the essential studies that endeavors to incorporate medieval epigraphic sources into our understanding of the history of the Songhay and the eastern arc of the Niger, this important work, despite its (necessarily) occasional speculative nature, raises a number of questions about the received wisdom on the history of Mali. First, by exploring the problematic way in which Heinrich Barth, Delafosse, and others have problematically assumed the 17th century Timbuktu chronicles can be treated as a reservoir of basic facts and data without any deeper ideological or textual analysis, this study illustrates how and why the funerary and non-funerary epigraphic evidence has been ignored, sidelined, or treated as peripheral. 

However, the funerary sources, as early sources covering dates from the early 11th century until the end of the 15th, are actual textual sources from the period before the rise of Sonni Ali and Askia Muhammad I. They shed (some) light on earlier rulers at Gao and Saney with more than just the kingslists that appear in the 17th century chronicles. Moreover, by ignoring the innovative nature of the tarikh genre in the 17th century Western Sudan, and the specific political and socioeconomic conditions which shaped its development after the fall of the Songhay imperial state and the establishment of the Arma, modern scholars have underappreciated the creativity of the chroniclers and their own motives. Furthermore, the chroniclers themselves lamented the lack of sufficient or detailed records from the early history of the Western Sudan, so epitaphs and other inscriptions from the 11th-15th century become exceptionally important sources to supplement our meager knowledge of that era.

That said, the inscriptions obviously cannot tell us everything. They do, however, provide a vista onto how the deceased and those who erected stelae or inscribed tombstones for the dead conceived of time, the calendar, their connection to the larger world of Islam, and hints of kingship, ethnicity, language, or cultural change. Part of this can be seen in Bentyia, where inscriptions record Songhay, Berber, and what appear to be Mande names. The intense interplay between Songhay and Tuareg cultures also challenges us to rethink casual or simplistic assumptions about "race" and culture, too. For instance, the askia title, which appeared in inscriptions centuries before the rise of Askia Muhammad at the end of the 15th century, may have a connection to a word of Berber derivation referring to a male slave (though this is a complex question that requires deeper familiarity with Songhay linguistics and oral tradition). It's quite clear, too, from reading de Moraes Farias, that the Ali Kulun character of Tuareg oral literature was likely the source for how the Timbuktu chroniclers sought to make sense of the period of Mali imperial domination of Gao and the eastern Niger. This suggests that some of the narratives about that period reported in the chronicles are unhistorical and the chronology of Malian rule and the different dynasties that ruled Gao will remain up for debate. 

Whether or not the epigraphic evidence can be used to postulate how kingship might have operated at Gao before the period of Mali's domination is uncertain, but de Moraes Farias's theory of rotating succession in the 11th-13th centuries is an intriguing one., After all, based on the funerary inscriptions from the early 1100s and 1200s at Gao and Saney (another site near Gao), he speculates that there may have been two lines or royal clans who alternated kingship. The first one was definitely Muslim by the second half of the 1000s, and the second one, the so-called Zuwa 'dynasty' may have either been officeholders who shared power with the earlier 'dynasty'. 

Besides raising questions about the Timbuktu chronicles and how medieval inscriptions in Arabic force us to rethink or reconceptualize space, belief, and culture in the medieval Sahel, one is also left with tantalizing references to what may have been early Sufist influence in the Sahel at Junhan. One is also left wondering why it funerary inscriptions were in vogue at Gao, Saney, Bentyia, and Essuk (Tadmakka) but no evidence for the practice has been found yet in Kanem. One would expect that similar connections with Tripoli, Qayrawan and other parts of the Maghrib (as well as similar Saharan and Sahelian Berber populations) did not lead to the development of funerary inscriptions at sites like Njimi (or perhaps at Manan, the earlier capital of Kanem which remains unknown). If the early prominence of Ibadis in Kanem's trans-Saharan trade is a factor, something similar was also an inhibiting factor at Gao.

The Condition of Workers in Saint Domingue

La condition des travailleurs à Saint-Domingue by Hénock Trouillot is yet another study of Haitian history exploring a specific topic or theme, that of labor and workers. While brief and often relying on the works of Debien as well as the usual primary source materials from the 18th century (Labat, d'Auberteuil, Moreau de Saint-Mery, etc.), Trouillot actually raised a few interesting questions about the future leadership of Haiti and its origins among the artisans and skilled workers of the affranchis and black slave populations of Saint Domingue. It is a topic Trouillot also explored in another work we have not yet found, but is raised occasionally in La condition des travailleurs à Saint-Domingue. Most of the text is really an overview of white, free people of color, and enslaved workers of various types, including the white petit blancs, free people of color who worked in a variety of trades and occupations, and enslaved people who were "skilled" or domestics who were often able to flout the colonial/slave system. In some ways, it was rather paradoxical since rich free people of color and some "privileged" slaves sought to emulate whites. However, their very position and the contempt of the petit blancs for such people (particularly as blacks were favored for labor, even in skilled positions, while free people of color who became wealthy could become objects of scorn for less successful whites) display how unstable the system was. The degree to which a nègre à talent and other enslaved people working as domestics of various sorts or in all the trades could similarly live as "free" people in towns and cities through a number of means represented another blow to the colonial system's strict racial hierarchy. 

The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru

Pablo Joseph de Arriaga's The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru is a fascinating report on the widespread maintenance of precolonial religious traditions and spirituality among indigenous peoples in colonial Peru. A Jesuit priest who promoted "visits" by priests to identify huacas, "sorcerers" and practitioners or observers of the pre-Christian faith, in order to destroy relics, mummies, huacas, and force "sorcerers" and those who still consulted them to cease, Arriaga is an important source on the nature of Andean indigenous religion and spirituality. For instance, one chapter provides a wealth of detail about the sorcerers or witches who plagued a coastal community, gathering at night to kill their victims through supernatural means. Supposedly, this league of witches honored a "lion" deity. 

Much of the text also describes other aspects of Andean religion, particularly the veneration accorded to huacas, mummified ancestors, and household gods or clan-affiliated gods and myths of origin. This information was considered very important for the clergy operating in these areas so they could better refute the "errors" of the Indians in the communities they served. Of course, Arriaga also reserved criticism for the Spaniards and Church, which often failed to actually educate the Indians about the fundamentals of the Catholic faith and failing to provide a good example to inculcate proper Christian values and practice. Furthermore, far too few priests actually mastered indigenous languages like Quechua or Aymara to give effective sermons or provide a fuller education to Indians about the "true" religion that they had been exposed to since the Spanish Conquest. 

While modern readers today might find much to lament or be disgusted by in Arriaga's account, it nonetheless helps us identify some of the religious practices and traditions of precolonial Peru. Unfortunately, we do not have more texts like the Huarochiri Manuscript to shed fuller light on what must have been the very detailed and regionally specific traditions, legends, fables, and huacas of more areas in colonial Peru. Arriaga's account on how the visits should work and the state of Christianity among Indians in the early 1600s helps fill in the gaps. 

L’État haïtien et ses intellectuels: socio-histoire d’un engagement politique (1801-1860)

L’État haïtien et ses intellectuels: socio-histoire d’un engagement politique (1801-1860) by Délide Joseph is an intriguing and difficult historical study. A detailed analysis of the first two generations of Haiti's intellectuals, Joseph contextualizes their development, social position and their imbrication in the highly unequal socio-political structure of postcolonial Haiti. Focused on the period from 1801 to 1860 because of 1801 marking Toussaint Louverture's autonomist constitution and support for early education initiatives and 1860 establishing the role of the Catholic Church in Haiti's education, Joseph's study raises a number of provocative questions about class, color, education, and liberalism in 19th century Haiti. The especially disturbing episode of Darfour's execution in 1822 serves as an especially illustrative demonstration of how the type of Haitian state and its intellectuals sought to consolidate an exclusionary republic which maintained some of the socioracial aspects of Saint-Domingue.

Where we found a possible weakness in Joseph's study is the treatment of Haiti's Romantic men (and almost all were males) of letters, particularly the second generation which included prominent writers, historians, and poets like the Naus, Thomas Madiou, and others. While the 19th century Haitian intellectual undoubtedly viewed French and Occidental civilization as superior and most saw themselves as representing a more advantageous image of Haiti that would regenerate and rehabilitate the black race, there was undoubtedly more nuance in how the second generation of intellectuals perceived themselves in relation to the unlettered masses. By nuance, we mean the greater inclusion of themes, terminology, and folklore reflecting the Creole and African origins of Haitian culture, particularly as seen in the contes of writers like Ignace Nau. Emile Nau who wrote more extensively about Haiti's Amerindian or indigenous past, was also part of this current in Haitian Romanticism. Nonetheless, the appearance of short stories, histories, and traditions which reflected Haiti's African heritage do suggest that, perhaps, some rapprochement between Haiti's rural masses and the world of its intellectuals was not entirely inconceivable.

Cieza de Leon and the Incas

Completing The Incas, Harriet de Onis's translation of Pedro de Cieza de Leon was a time-consuming endeavor. Translating parts of different books of Cieza de Leon's history of Peru, the text is somewhat disjointed and a jarring. Nonetheless, it is a major source as one of the early chronicles on the Incas written by someone who traveled widely across South America. Moreover, he also had access to some of the early conquistadors and Spaniards who came to Peru with Pizarro or during the 1540s. This means that Cieza de Leon had access to some reliable informants, as well as indigenous informants or ruins he saw throughout his travels. Even more intriguing is the degree to which the author admired the achievements of Inca civilization in terms of its roads, architecture, administrative efficiency and economic organization. The Spaniards, particularly during the course of the civil wars after the conquest, were seen as the major ruin of the Indians, particularly in many coastal areas and valleys where the indigenous population was decimated by the Spaniards. 

As a major source on the Inca Empire, much of the text is spent describing the various provinces and regions under the control of Tawantinsuyu. The northernmost area of conquest, Pasto, was seen by the Incas sent there as a way of time. But Ecuador and much of the modern-day areas of Peru and Bolivia are described in great detail. Of course, some of Cieza de Leon's sources were muddled or confused, but he alluded to various provinces and under which Inca they were added to the empire. Some areas were remembered for the defeat of the Incas, such as Huayna Capac's failure to conquer the natives fo Bracamoros. According to Cieza de Leon, one Inca ruler, Yahuar Huacac Inca, was killed or assassinated by Cuntisuyu captains to prevent him from making further conquests. Inca Urco, the son of Viracocha Inca and thus a brother of Pachacuti, is described as a corrupt, ineffective ruler who was later replaced by Pachacuti. Strangely, however, the story of Pachacuti's victory against the Chancas did not feature stones turning into soldiers. Intriguingly, our chronicler also alluded to moments of revolts and coups by Cuzco elites, such as one crushed by Huayna Capac and another. One also finds a few more references to unrest in the provinces, such as a revolt by the Colla Indians against Pachacuti while the latter was in the East. 

Surprisingly, despite his detailed account of the regions of Ecuador under Inca rule, one does not find any reference to the Pacific Islands visited by Topa Inca. Instead, islanders bringing gold were said to have visited the southern coast of Peru at Acari. The Puna Islanders, however, were described as traders and pirate. As for the eastern lands, or Amazonian regions, Cieza de Leon makes an interesting reference to Orejones disguised as traders to the East. Paititi, the mysterious land somewhere in the East is also mentioned. One cannot escape reading this chronicle without noting Cieza de Leon's admiration for the Incas and even his respect for indigenous peoples (despite his constant lamentation of their demons and superstitions). His ability to note the deeper antiquity of the pre-Inca civilizations is also noteworthy. 

Hold Me Now

Although we have never been fans of Thompson Twins, their classic hit has always been close to our heart. "Hold Me Now" almost sounds like a New Wave Marvin Gaye song, and that works in every possible way. Obviously, Marvin Gaye sings better, but the funky beat here has always reminded us of "Got To Give It Up" or another one of Gaye's hits we cannot recall the title of. 

El Arriero

Yet another classic from Gato Barbieri's early 1970s output. "El Arriero" is by Atahualpa Yupaniqui, but Gato added his own utterly unique sound and style to it. It works quite well with the jazz musicians he recorded Fenix with in 1971.

Claude Moise on Firmin

Claude Moise's essay in the 117th issue of Conjonction is a fine overview on the life and works of Anténor Firmin, one of Haiti's greatest intellectuals. For Moise, Firmin was an honest and sincere patriot who believed Haiti needed non-despotic, regular administration under civil authorities that promoted the economy and the education of the masses. Otherwise, Haiti would never become truly democratic or fully civilized, in the sense of uplifting the masses, reforming administration, and providing the required rational governance that would lead to Haitian economic growth. While surprisingly brief on the details of Firmin's famous essay arguing in favor of racial equality, Moise does contextualize Firmin's background and intellectual and political writings with the events and features of Haitian society and politics in the decades leading to the US Occupation of 1915. By the end of his life, Firmin had even moved beyond the Liberal program of his heroes, Edmond Paul and Boyer Bazelais, favoring more state intervention whilst lamenting the lingering impact of colorism and inequality. Sadly, the Haiti of today would probably horrify Firmin even more than the despotic regimes of incompetent leaders and the parasitic elites of the pre-1915 years... 

The Sokoto Caliphate

Murray Last's The Sokoto Caliphate is perhaps outdated, but still highly useful for an overview on the history of Sokoto. Beginning with the regional background and the origins of Uthman Dan Fodio early Community of followers, Last covers the jihad, the early expansion and consolidation of the Caliphate, its administration, and the vizierate. Basing his work mainly on local Arabic sources penned in the 19th and 20th centuries, Last's work is supplemented by the journals, letters, and colonial-era documentation when available. Thus, the portrait of the Caliphate is undoubtedly one of its elite. Those eager to find a deeper social history or economic history of the Sokoto Caliphate will be disappointed. Indeed, the study itself is mainly focused on Sokoto and its hinterland, meaning those eager for a complete history of Sokoto that includes the developments in all its emirates during the period from, say, 1804-1903, will not find it here. Nonetheless, Last's history is still significant in its rich use of the aforementioned sources to demonstrate how Uthman Dan Fodio's successors created an Islamic state which managed to survive for a century, transforming the larger Central Sudanic region in the process. 

In fact, through its early days battling with Gobir and establishing a new state after their hijra, to the establishment of a more established administrative structure during the reign of Muhammad Bello as caliph, one must note the accomplishments of the jihad. First, the Hausa kingdoms were transformed in a process that drew from Fulani, Hausa, Tuareg and other ethnic groups supporting it (or, indifferently allowing it). Second, the Shaikh and his successors were able to transcend a strictly Fulani base for power by moving beyond a solely Fulani/Fulani clan alliances and marriages. Third, Bello was able to promote the settlement of "cattle Fulani" in the sparsely settled area of Sokoto's hinterland, thereby encouraging them to become sedentary, more productive and more amenable to thorough Islamization. Fourth, the jihad established a state system in which the moral authority of the caliph was strong enough to never be successfully rebelled against by the major emirates. Fifth, the Sokoto rulers cultivated a unity through their adherence to Islam and the guidance of Islamic Law and religion as recommended in the writings of Uthman dan Fodio and his brother and son. Unlike their "pagan" and other enemies, the forces of the Sokoto caliphate were usually more unified, even when the major emirates to the east only sent "presents" as tribute or did not fully participate in the annual campaigns.

Of course, Sokoto's growth and economic importance also transformed the Central Sudan. Borno, which lost some of its territory to the forces of the jihad, mainly coexisted peacefully with Sokoto after al-Kanemi's heroic saving of the kingdom. Relations with Baghirmi were to be peaceful in order to secure an eastern route to the Nile, when the Mahdi was supposedly to appear (Islamic millennialism in the Sokoto Caliphate is a topic worthy of additional study). The Tuareg and Agades were of course already linked to Hausaland via the salt trade and other forms of commerce, but the Sokoto Caliphate's expansion likely helped to secure it as the economic center of the vast region. Studying its economic history and the role of slavery, textile production, the salt and kola nut trades, and trans-Saharan commerce will be our next areas of research. 

Tabaqat and Sudanic Africa

MacMichael's abridged translation of the Tabaqat in A History of the Arabs in the Sudan and Some Account of the People who Preceded Them and of the Tribes Inhabiting Dárfūr, Volume 2 is outdated and probably riddled with errors. That said, it is, to our knowledge, the most complete English translation of a major source on the history of the Islamic holymen of the Funj Sultanate. Written in the early 1800s by Muhammad wad Dayf Allah, it contains rich biographies loaded with anecdotes, stories, miracles, and portraits of the lives of major figures in Sudanese Islam since the 16th century. Moreover, some of the biographies illustrate the Islamic ties to Kordofan, Darfur, Borno, Wadai, Hausaland, the Maghreb, Egypt, the Arabian Peninsula, and more. Let us take a closer look at some of these ties to Sudanic Africa

First of all, it is interesting to note that one of the major founding figures associated with Sufism in Sudan was Tag El Din Bahari, a native of Baghdad (in the translation of MacMichael, his full name is given as Muhammad El Bahari Tag El Din El Baghdadi). He arrived in the Sudan after completing the pilgrimage and is frequently mentioned in the text for his students and acolytes. There is no evidence of contacts for this Sufi teacher and al-Baghdadi of Air, yet one cannot help but notice the presence of two Iraqi Sufis of major import in both the Air region and in the Funj Sultanate in the 16th century. Given the evidence of later contacts by the 1600s between the Eastern Sudan and Central Sudan, one should delve deeper into the history of Sufism and Eastern influences on its practices in Air, Hausaland, and Borno, possibly tracing signs of influence or exchange with the domain of the Funj rulers. 

Additional signs of contact with the Central Sudan can be seen in the case of Muhammad ibn Adlan el Shaf'ai El Hoshabi, said to have done missionary work in Borno and Hausaland (256). Alas, there is no precise date given to make sense of the chronology of his time in the Central Sudan. Yet we know from Krump's account of his travels in the Sudan, that caravans including Borno and Fezzan Sufis and travelers were going to the Funj Sultanate. Thus, by the early 18th century, it was at least not unheard of for Sufis to travel between the Fezzan and Borno and the Sinnar Sultanate in caravans. Indeed, one of the holymen included in the Tabaqat was allegedly from the Fezzan, Abdulla el Sherif (227). In fact, some of the holymen of Funj kingdom even studied under West Africans in eastern lands. For instance, Khogali ibn Abd el Rahman ibn Ibrahim studied in Medina under Sheikh Ahmad el Tabankatawi el Fellati (250). The latter, whose precise origins are unclear in MacMichael's translation, was probably from the Western or Central Sudan but established in Medina, where he was an influential scholar of Islamic studies. Amusingly, MacMichael translates the anecdote of Khogali ibn Abd el Rahman ibn Ibrahim stopping Bukr of Darfur from attacking Sennar by striking him with his rod (251).

Additional holymen from the Funj sultanate who traveled to western lands included Abu Surur El Fadli, who taught in Darfur and was murdered in Wadai by his concubines (229). Likewise, Abu Zayd ibn el Sheikh Abd el Kadir traveled to Darfur and Borku during the reign of Sultan Ya'akub, said to have ruled in Wadai from 1681-1701 and to have lost a war with Ahmad Bukr of Darfur (281). Last, but certainly not least, Hasan ibn Hasuna ibn El Haj Musa, who died in 1664, was a wealthy holyman who owned many slaves and livestock. He was said to have traded many horses to Tekali, Borku and Darfur (244). This last individual's trading ventures establishes the tie between commerce and religion as well as the significance of the horse trade with areas far to the west of the Nile. Undoubtedly, the expansion of Muslim-ruled states in Darfur and Wadai favored this economic, cultural, and religious exchange with both the Funj Sultanate and Borno. Alas, the absence of a Tabaqat for Borno, Kanem, Wadai and Darfur makes it harder to explore these connections and movements that entailed commerce, Sufism, and Islamic scholarship. 

Anacaona, Poème Dramatique

Anacaona, poème dramatique by Burr-Reynaud, Frédéric Burr-Reynaud and Dominique Hippolyte is yet another play inspired by Haiti's indigenous past and the Spanish conquest. First staged in 1927, the play continues the Haitian tradition of connecting the struggles of the "Taino" with the descendants of African slaves who avenge them by defeating the French in 1804. Since it was also staged during the US Occupation, one can easily imagine the play appealing to nationalist sentiments in favor of Haitian independence and anti-imperialism, too. 

However, this short play fictionalizes aspects of the Xaragua Massacre orchestrated by Ovando. Although Ovando is portrayed as already plotting to destroy Xaragua and even convinces his officers that the Indians are plotting against them, the authors also add romance. Ovando actually falls in love with Anacaona, so completely seduced and beguiled by her charm, beauty and etiquette. Anacaona, however, cannot forget the fate of Caonabo, and only hopes to win over the Spanish with her charms to avert greater disaster. Sadly, Ovando nonetheless orders the massacres and becomes irate when rejected by Anacaona, who is later killed. 

Throughout the play, an old woman, Mataba, repeatedly warns of the Spanish plot to destroy Xaragua and enslave and oppress the Indian population. Alas, the other Indian leaders do not heed her warnings, so Mataba predicts the eventual vengeance of the indigenous population by blacks (today's Haitians). Thus, through a fraternal bond based on their exploitation and subjugation by Europeans, Haitians and "Tainos" are connected. Again, this is neither surprising, nor deviating from typical Haitian literary portrayals of the island's indigenous peoples. One can also see the authors continuing to use words derived from sources on the Kalinago, too. Thus, moutoutou, ouicou, Nonun, Savacou, Kouroumon, and other Kalinago words make an appearance. One scene even has Anacaona and her court praying to the cemis, including among them names from Kalinago (Island Carib) religion and spirituality. 

La fille du Kacik

In spite of its flaws, Henri Chauvet's La fille du Kacik is an interesting work of drama for the context in which it was produced. Published in 1894, ten years before the Centennial of Haitian independence, the play was undoubtedly connecting Caonabo's resistance to Spanish oppression and invasion with the origins of Haiti as an independent state. Needless to say, Chauvet took many liberties with history to portray Caonabo as a proto-nationalist leader eager to build an alliance with caciques across the island to defeat the Spaniards. The play, as one might expect, also focuses on his defeat of the whites left at Navidad by Columbus and the routing of a group led by Arana sent to avenge the men killed by Caonabo. Anacaona, who is mentioned once in a line by Mamona, the daughter of Caonabo, appears to either not be married yet to Caonabo or is marginal to the story. Xaragua, however, is mentioned briefly, and Bohechio as in agreement with Caonabo's plan to drive out the whites left in Marien. 

Much of the plot is centered on the tragic romance of Rodrigo, a "good" white who is opposed to the avarice and abuses of his fellow Spaniards eager to find gold and take advantage of indigenous women. Mamona, the beloved daughter of Caonabo, is rescued by Rodrigo from a caiman one day whilst resting near the Artibonite River. Because Rodrigo saved Mamona's life (who also happens to be named after Atabey, the mother of Yucahu), he is spared by Caonabo when Macao, a guide, leads the reconnaissance mission of the Spaniards straight into the domains of Caonabo. The powerful cacique, driven by a hatred for the Spaniards after their numerous depredations across the island for gold and women, has the Spaniards on the reconnaissance mission executed while Rodrigo, spared because of Mamona's love, is torn by his sense of honor and his feelings for Mamona. In a twist that is promising and liberatory, Caonabo later goes on to defeat the forces led by Arana to avenge the death of the Spaniards executed by the powerful cacique. In one moving scene, Caonabo similarly alludes to the barbarism of the Spaniards, despite the latter referring to the Indians as barbarians instead of civilized. Anyway, as one might expect, the romance of Mamona and Rodrigo is a tragic one, ending in the former's death and the suicide of the former. Nonetheless, Caonabo's pledge to liberate and defend Haiti, frequently alluding to the Aya aya bombe chant (which is actually of African origin) and even the Tree of Liberty, expresses Chauvet's desire to insert Caonabo into the pantheon of national heroes and founders. Guacanagaric, on the other hand, is more akin to a traitor and perhaps comparable to Rigaud?

Despite its anti-colonial themes, however, Chauvet's play surprisingly refuses to pass judgment on Columbus. Instead of the Admiral bearing any blame, it is really the rapacious appetite of the Spaniards in his service who are responsible for the abuses and exploitation of the island's indigenous people. Chauvet, through Rodrigo, prefers to portray Columbus as a heroic figure whose accomplishments represented an advance in science and human knowledge. Obviously, this version of events is not matched by the historical record, but it falls into line with the depiction of Columbus in Nau's history of Haiti's indigenous past. Another intriguing feature in the play is Chauvet's heavy reliance on Kalinago language and culture for what is ostensibly "Taino" Haiti. Instead of referring to clubs by their Taino name, macana, Chauvet uses boutou. He also uses Kalinago names for a variety of things, like karbet, Nonum, Louquo, Kouroumon, and Mabouya. Although the Taino and Kalinago cultures were definitely in contact in the precolonial Caribbean, the ubiquity of references and names derived from cultures non-indigenous to Hispaniola is a bit jarring. However, it does reflect 19th century Haitian knowledge of the island's indigenous peoples, which sometimes carelessly applied data from the Lesser Antilles to Hispaniola. Likewise, one wonders if, like Nau, Chauvet also believed the false idea that the sambas of 19th century Haiti were somehow derived from or influenced by the Taino singer-poets and their areytos, even though the word points more to Africa. 

The Serpent and the Rainbow

Although we have known of the "problematic" horror film, The Serpent and the Rainbow, for several years, it was only this year that we sat down and watched it. It's actually a bit more sophisticated and intriguing than we initially thought. Indeed, director Wes Craven actually shot some scenes in Haiti, too. Judging from the architecture of the houses in what is supposed to be Port-au-Prince, we suspect shooting was done in Cap-Haitien. In fact, one scene even takes place at Sans Souci, the palace of Henri Christophe! So, this mediocre horror flick actually shows viewers some of Haiti's rich patrimony. Strangely, the story is set in Port-au-Prince despite the use of Cap-Haitien and Haiti's distinctive Nord. Nonetheless, the writer and director clearly went at least somewhat beyond the eponymous study which inspired this film for sources. This surprising mix of evidence of depth with the typical horror shlock is what makes this movie distinct.

Let's briefly discuss the bad things about this film so we can better appreciate its strengths. First, the Haitian characters. Most, if not all, are played by African American and other non-Haitian actors. You know what that means...horrible, inconsistent Haitian accents! One actor, who plays Mozart in the film, sometimes drops his ersatz "Haitian" accent in the middle of his lines. The film likewise exploits the usual stereotypes of Haiti and the "Other" as barbarian and violent, although this is mainly associated with the Macoutes and/or forces of Duvalierism rather than Haitian Vodou. To its credit, Craven's movie tries to highlight that dichotomy, so that beautiful, pious, celebratory and devout rites, rituals and practices drawn from Haiti's syncretic mix of Catholicism and African traditions can be seen in all its beauty. One is also a little confused by the Amazonian shaman and the experience of Alan in South America, although we suppose it helps establish for the audience that our protagonist is no ordinary US anthropologist. Indeed, he's willing to "go native" and try unknown concoctions and experience alternate states of consciousness. To the film's credit, this Amazonian adventure, in which the protagonist manages to make it back to "civilization" on his own (well, with the aid of a jaguar-spirit guide) is only a small part of the film's overall narrative. But this leads to the film's other inconsistencies. 

Part of our protagonist's reasons for traveling to the Amazon and Haiti was on behalf of pharmaceutical interests in the US hoping to develop drugs and medical treatments from unknown plants and healing practices of indigenous peoples. Thus, Alan is actually acting on behalf of the extractive forces which seek to exploit the knowledge and resources of indigenous and Global South populations. Perhaps this was written intentionally to highlight the similarly colonialist position of the academic anthropologist in non-Western societies. Yet this also contradicts the film's subtle anti-colonial critique of US imperialism and its morally inconsistent desire to portray the protagonist as a hero for defeating the Tonton Macoute chief, Peytraud. The white American protagonist is more loyal to Haiti than to the profits of the medical industry, represented in part by his boredom and discomfort after returning from Haiti, but it is hard to see him as exactly heroic when it is the Haitian people themselves who are responsible for bringing to an end the Duvalier regime and storming the structure in which the Macoute captain uses for macabre rituals, torture, and, most importantly, the film's final part. Last, but certainly not least, the first torture scene, in which Alan is suffering at the hands of Peytraud, the latter rejects the idea of disfiguring the "pretty white face" of the former, highlighting a racialized dimension of power and status that does not seem to match Peytraud's defiant attitude against the US, inferred from his reference to Grenada and the haste with which the US rushes to assert its control of the Caribbean in the name of "stability." 

Despite our misgivings about the aforementioned features, we found it actually thrilling to see the film match the fall of the Duvalier regimes with the likewise defeat of Captain Peytraud and the Macoutes (associated with zombification and sorcery). The shadow of Duvalier lingers everywhere in the film's Haitian scenes, with posters of Papa Doc and Baby Doc frequently appearing. The Tonton Macoutes are likewise omnipresent, spying on Alan's movements and participating in the disappearance of others or the torture and killings against dissidents and free thinkers. Indeed, the zombie whose story instigates Alan's travels to Haiti, Christophe (almost certainly a name inspired by Henri Christophe), was formerly a schoolteacher who spoke his minds and paid the consequences via zombification by Peytraud (whose name evokes Petro, perhaps matching his violent and aggressive tendencies). The Serpent and the Rainbow actually does a decent job capturing this element of repression, fear, and exploitation of Duvalierist Haiti, even when the plot makes no sense and the Vodou ceremony scenes are illogical. 

Similarly great, it would seem that Craven and his team actually did some research about Haiti. For example, one scene in which revelers and penitents travel to a site and pray to the Virgin Mary/Erzulie was probably inspired by Saut d'Eau. Another area in which the writers seemed to do some homework was the character of Marielle Duchamp, a Haitian doctor whose father was a houngan. Duchamp is a devotee of Erzulie, and based on her sensual, loving, and romantic interest for Alan, she lives up to that lwa. She's also one of the few "mulatto" Haitian characters, perhaps another sign that the film's writers were aware of one of the popular forms in which she can be depicted. In fact, one almost wonders if Rachel Beauvoir-Dominique was the inspiration for Duchamp's character, particularly since the book which inspired the film featured Max Beauvoir and his daughter. Finally, the character of Lucien Celine, a houngan and ally to Alan and Marielle, seems to run a hotel based on the famous Oloffson. These nice touches and little things make the film somewhat more respectful of Haiti than the typical US horror movie.

The Incas

The Incas by Franklin Pease García Yrigoyen is a short overview on the civilization of the Incas worth perusal. Though meant as an introduction, we are trying to read more studies of the Incas written by Peruvian and South American historians and scholars. Pease's study is also worth reading for representing the state of historiography of the era on the Incas, drawing on both Latin American and European/North American historical and anthropological studies. In that regard, it is interesting to note that some of the themes Pease focused on were similar to those of Maria Rostworowski's study of the Inca Empire (Tawantinsuyu). Like her, he focuses on idea of reciprocity as the basis of Inca power, a feature which allowed the rulers of Cusco to receive tribute in labor services in exchange for the distribution of products and goods like cloth. While we personally disagree with some of the ideas here (such as a dualism in the Inca position) and are probably still more biased in terms of the "historic" rather than "mytho" elements of Inca History as recorded in the Spanish chronicles, The Incas is a useful reminder of the ongoing debate on so many elements of the Incas and pre-Hispanic Andean Civilization. For instance, the position of the Inca itself sometimes being assumed to be comparable to a European monarch or certain assumptions about, say, yanacona that hastily compare their position to servitude or bondage, are all subjects for debate and further inquiry. The notion of the term Inca being derived from the Aymara enqa is an intriguing one, too. This would connect with the idea of the Inca and "generative principles" that highlight the connection of the Incas to religion and ritual in Andean cosmovisions. The author has also inspired us to look more closely at Andean resistance to the Spanish from c.1535-1571 to make sense of what extent the Vilcabamba Inca rump state actually was linked to wider subversive events and revolts in the early colonial period. 

Modern Analogies and Medieval Nubia

Ali Osman's Economy and trade of medieval Nubia is premised on the notion of continuity across Nubian history. With this probably fair assumption, his thesis proceeds to explore possible mechanisms and systems of economics and exchange in Nubia based on analogous practices in modern Nubia. This can be justified by the, again, probably fair, conclusion that relations with their environment, technology, and rural/village systems of land proprietorship and lineages have not changed drastically until the 20th century. While Osman is undoubtedly correct to point to the necessity of using contemporary Nubian ethnographic and linguistic evidence to make sense of Christian Nubia, his analogous model does veer a little too far by attempting to compare Nubia's river trade of the early 20th century to the organization of trade 1000 years ago. Again, the environment hasn't changed that much and there undoubtedly was much continuity at the village level (at least) from the Christian period through post-Christian kingdoms. But, one suspects that the impact of religion and the gradual shift to Islam may have introduced more changes in social, economic, spiritual, and political features than we think. Despite some similarities between the state of Kokka, for instance, and medieval Nubia, the practice of Islam and changes in the "superstructure" of society may have introduced or led to other changes on the micro-level. Despite our own hesitations about some of the study's conclusions, it was fascinating to read Osman's personal, autobiographic details. Indeed, oral traditions of his own lineage identify a Christian ancestor who lived several centuries ago! And the author's comments about official versus popular trade seem reasonable. 

Fra Mauro, Kanem, Organa

Source

Fra Mauro's depiction of the Lake Chad region correctly named some of the peoples and features of the area, like Bagirmi, Bulala (after they were the dominant power in Kanem), and the Mandara Mountains. He must've had 'native' informants from Kanem or Borno or access to decent Arabic sources by geographers.

Source

But why continue to use the name "Organa" instead of Kanem? Fra Mauro knew of the Marghi, Mandara, Bagirmi, Bolala (Bulala in Kanem and Lake Fitri), and perhaps he thought Lake Chad was a giant marsh due to its seasonal fluctuations. But why continue to use the name Organa when his Arabic and/or Africans sources have specified Kanem and Borno as place names by the mid-15th century. Was it due to the fact that the Bulana rulers had already seized power in Kanem by this time? It could have been due to the already established pattern in medieval European Cartography to refer to Kanem as Organa, something which was already apparent in the 14th century map of Angelino Dulcert.

Source

The Angelino Dulcert map also mentions the king of Organa fighting naked "blacks" by the sea, which I interpret to mean Lake Chad. There's a French translation and commentary of his map here that makes it even more likely to be Kanem. 

Incas of the Caribbean

Manco Capac, First of the Incas in a Cusco School painting part of a series at the Brooklyn Museum.

One of the most peculiar developments near the end of the Haitian Revolution was the adoption of the name Inca and children of the Sun by Jean-Jacques Dessalines. According to historian Thomas Madiou, Dessalines began using the name by the autumn of 1802, referring to those who submitted to him in opposition to the forces of Leclerc (Madiou 451). However, Dessalines dropped the Inca name after July 1803, when he began to refer to his forces as Armée Indigène, asserting indigeneity in opposition to the French (Geggus 52). Although a number of observers and historians have commented on this “Inca Episode” in the history of the Indigenous Army, contextualizing it within the broader context of nationalist struggles in the Americas demonstrates the power of Inca symbolism across much of the Americas, extending even into the Caribbean. Rebecca Earle’s The Return of the Native: Indians and Myth-Making in Spanish America, 1810–1930 provides a context for understanding the appeal of the Inca to the Haitian independence movement. Thus, this brief post will endeavor to elucidate the origins of Inca symbolism and its appeal to the people of Saint Domingue in the 18th century, and connect it to the independence movement that led to independence in 1804. By the conclusion, hopefully Antillean “Incas” will seem less aberrant or surprising.

First, one must determine to what extent people in Saint Domingue were aware of the history of the Incas. Residents of the colony likely encountered the Inca through encyclopedias, histories, and theater. The colonial newspaper, Affiches américaines, actually listed a history of the Incas for sale in the colony on the 31st of October 1780.^[1] On the 17th of May 1783, the same newspaper also listed a book entitled Les Incas as available at the Imprimerie Royale. While it is uncertain if this is a reference to Marmontel’s Les Incas or another work, these references in the colonial press establish the availability of books on the Inca.^[2] Those able to read French texts, undoubtedly mostly whites, but a small number of the population of African descent, too, could have accessed these books through purchase, borrowing texts, or through conversation with those who had read such works.^[3] Those interested in the island of Hispaniola’s indigenous past may have also been familiar with the Incas and Peru through encyclopedias, plays, and histories, which could have reached free people of color and slaves through a variety of avenues. For example, Charles Arthaud, a doctor and member of the Cercle des Philadelphes at Le Cap, authored a study of the island’s indigenous people, Recherches sur la constitution des naturels du pays, sur leurs arts, leur industrie, et les moyens de leur subsistance.^[4] Arthaud and similar philosophes were likely familiar with the Incas through their research. In addition, copies of Voltaire’s Alzire were also listed in the press as available for consumers in a notice on April 15, 1775 at Le Cap. This latter work, we shall see, was a popular choice for stage adaptation in the colony and likely a significant contributor to the appeal of the Incas to the Haitian revolutionaries.

The colonial press also covered the Tupac Amaru Rebellion in Peru during the 1780s. A major revolt led by a descendant of the Incas, Tupac Amaru was mentioned in Affiches américaines 5 times from 1781 to 1784 (Thomson 426). While the brief articles did not invariably provide the most detail, the reference to Tupac Amaru’s presentation of himself as an Inca and the references to his followers as children of the Sun likely stood out to readers. Those familiar with the Incas through encyclopedias, Voltaire’s Alzire, Marmontel’s Les Incas or other texts would have undoubtedly been at least somewhat aware of this historical background. The rebels may have even aroused sympathy from those in the colony who saw the Inca through the lens of the Black Legend of Spanish cruelty and tyranny. Nonetheless, coverage of the rebels in the 1 May 1782 article referred to the actions of Tupac Amaru’s band as “brigandages” whilst also referring to the event as “too interesting” to not cover. One can imagine that enslaved people and free people of color who heard the news may have been interested, too. After all, a subjugated, oppressed people had risen in revolt, perhaps recalling to some their own racialized subordination in the French colony. Those familiar with the Incas through books or Alzire may have even conceptualized the Incas as captives or slaves rising against their oppressors in a way similar to slave revolts and marronage in the colony.

Louis Rigaud's portraits of various heads of state in 19th century Haiti, currently at the Yale Peabody Museum. Composite by Dionne-Smith. Read "Decolonizing Time: Nineteenth-Century Haitian Portraiture

and the Critique of Anachronism in Caribbean Art" by Erica Moiah James for more context on portraiture.

The next area in which familiarity with the Incas developed was theater. Theater could reach more people than written texts in a colonial society with low literacy rates, and audiences likely discussed what they saw with friends, families and neighbors.^[5] Enslaved people were probably exposed to this, directly or indirectly, while free people of color were sometimes prominent actors themselves or audience members of stage productions. Indeed, according to Fischer, “Theater appears to have been one arena where blacks, whites, and mulattoes mixed with relative ease and where the laws governing theatrical performances in France were relaxed long before the “liberation of theaters” in the metropolis” (Fischer 208). Theater, therefore, was a sure way in which certain themes, messages, and ideas were bound to circulate among all of the 3 racial groups in the colony. This is precisely why Voltaire’s Peruvian-inspired play, Alzire, likely contributed to the appeal of the Inca to the Haitian revolutionaries in 1802. Between 1765 and 1783, the play was staged at least 7 times in the colony, including performances in Port-au-Prince, Le Cap and Saint-Marc. This suggests that the play’s plot was probably familiar to audiences, and certainly those familiar with the text of the work or Voltaire’s other likely  books knew of it by reputation. Since free people of color and perhaps some of the slave population would have seen the play or at least heard about its plot, setting, and characters, Alzire was possibly the most important source of information on the Inca Empire and Peru. Moreover, one staging of the play included an actor, Dainville, who allegedly wore authentic costumes for the role, suggesting audiences had a glimpse of what was believed to be Inca dress.^[6] As a result of the frequency of performances of Alzire plus the availability of the play in book form to consumers, Voltaire’s story was familiar and accessible..

The play itself, a story set in colonial Peru that pits a tyrannical governor, Guzman, against Zamor, a cacique of Potosi and lover of Alzire, critiques the Spanish conquest and, intriguingly, reverses the charge of barbarism against the Europeans. Zamor, believed to be dead, returns to see Alzire and later slays Guzman, described in the text as “Zamor, our country’s great avenger” (Voltaire 13). Despite Voltaire’s admiration for the Incas, however, the play ends with a message of the moral redemption of Guzman. This, in turn, demonstrates to Zamor that Christianity and the Europeans were not entirely iniquitous. In other words, Zamor, the Avenger of the Americas, is ready to enjoy the benefits of Spanish or European civilization through the benevolent, paternal figure of Alvarez, the father of Guzman. One can envision free people of color in a colony like Saint Domingue imagining themselves as Zamor, ready to lead the masses into a truly novel New World with the benefits of European civilization. The message is thus ambiguously critical of colonialism since the new generation of indigenous elites, represented by Alzire and Zamor, the latter presumed to convert to Christianity later, will likely seek the counsel of Alvarez (the positive side of European civilization). If one wishes to trace the origin of this ambiguity deeper in time, El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, whose Royal Commentaries was well-known to French intellectuals, was the mestizo product of the Spanish conquest whose work served as one of the foundational sources for French historical and literary production related to Peru.^[7] El Inca Garcilaso, torn between the idealized version of his mother’s people and his Spanish background and experience, indirectly influenced Alzire and how audiences in Saint Domingue viewed the Incas.

Efigies de los incas o reyes del Perú, a Cusco School painting of the 18th century depicting the Incas and Spanish viceroys currently in Lima. Image credit: PI Prefix 1294B. Ojeda 2005-2025.

Besides theater, news and books, familiarity with the Inca may have reached Saint Domingue through contact with pro-independence Creoles from Spanish America in France. For example, Franciso de Miranda, who interacted with Brissot, was already interested in the Incas before the Haitian Revolution.^[8] Although Miranda did not go so far as to desire an actual Inca ruler at the head of government, his interest in reviving the name for an independent South American state was mirrored by other movements in South America. For instance, the Inca Plan of 1816, in which Rio de la Plata leaders at the Congress of Tucumán actively discussed the idea of reviving an Inca empire led by an Indian, reveals how some pro-independence leaders seriously considered a revival of the Inca state (Earle 44). Other pro-independence writers across South America drew on the Incas, Inca symbolism, or the idea of a hereditary monarchy led by a titular Inca. Undoubtedly, Haiti’s use of this symbolism predated much of the South American nationalist movements, though Francisco de Miranda may have been one of the early influences since 1790. Of course, as Earle’s work suggests, romanticized notions of the Incas or the pre-conquest societies as idealized groups wronged by Spanish colonialism became part of an invented past for a creole nationalism. However, Earle tracks how this changed over time as liberals and conservatives appropriated the past of pre-colonial societies while maintaining their own elite positions and access to power. Regardless of their lofty praise indigenous civilizations or the metaphorical use of the Indian as a foundational figure for the nation, the direct descendants of the indigenous peoples were usually marginalized. In Haiti, on the other hand, where there were no natives, Creoles of varying degrees of African descent participated in a similar discourse that privileged the elites and marginalized the bossales (or their descendants).^[9] 

In order to better understand how this process worked in the Haitian context, a closer examination of how free people of color and black Creoles related to indigeneity is necessary. According to Haitian historian Beauvais Lespinasse, free people of color sometimes sought patents to be recognized as having Indian rather than African origins. However, the French government in 1771 urged officials to not recognize these claims by free people of color (Lespinasse 237). Nonetheless, this demonstrates how some free people of color sought to identify with (fictitious?) indigenous ancestry rather than African to gain the same privileges of whites.^[10] Intriguingly, Hilliard d’Auberteuil in the 18th century also noted the pattern of rich free people of color claiming Amerindian origin through the Indians of Saint-Christophe in order to gain the rights of whites (d’Auberteuil 82). While it is certainly possible that some of these families did indeed have partial Amerindian ancestry, it is clear that the main reason these families suddenly discovered or proclaimed it had more to do with increasing discrimination in colonial society.^[11] But it may also explain why claiming indigeneity and the label of indigenous appealed to them in the later stages of the Haitian Revolution. Free people of color, and Creoles of African descent could easily envision themselves as the rightful heirs to the vanquished indigenous population devastated by the Spanish conquest. After all, some of them were already claiming Indian ancestry. It also provided an avenue to choose a common identity that united mixed-race and black Creoles while eventually including the African-born brought to the island against their will. For the latter, the use of indigeneity as the result of a forced relocation via the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade could serve the palingenesis of a new Haitian people.

Gérin in Histoire d'Haïti: 1807-1811 by Thomas Madiou.

Perhaps a clear example from the life of General Etienne Elie Gérin will establish this with greater clarity. According to the third volume of historian Joseph Saint-Rémy’s history Pétion, it was actually Gérin, the antiquaire, who first called the army in the Sud and Ouest the “Inca Army” (Saint-Rémy 75). This testimony is contradicted by the chronology of Thomas Madiou, who attributed the name to Dessalines and his circle. Nonetheless, descriptions of Gérin by Ardouin and Guy-Joseph Bonnet suggest he was quite interested in the island’s past. For instance, in the 6th volume of Beaubrun Ardouin’s monumental history, Ardouin repeats an anecdote he heard from Bonnet. Apparently, some time after the assassination of Dessalines, Gérin actually proposed remodeling Haiti as a caciquat, or cacicazgo, like the indigenous polities of the island in precolonial times (Ardouin 447). This political system would have established a supreme cacique with lesser caciques serving in the departments or provinces. Of course, the nobility would be created by the children of the signers of the Haitian Act of Independence. A similar story is likely recounted in Guy-Joseph Bonnet’s memoirs, in a critical discussion of Gérin. Again, he allegedly wanted to create a “superior cacique” in the constitution as the head of government (Bonnet 154). Saint-Rémy likewise reported a few more details on Gérin in the 5th tome of Pétion et Haïti: étude monographique et historique. While contrasting him and Pétion, he described the former as someone with a deep education and interest in the “Taino” indigenous population of the island. He was also said to have been inspired by Marmontel’s Les Incas when, in 1802, he began calling his army in the Sud and part of the Ouest the “Inca Army.” Last, but certainly not least, Gérin was interested in composing a Haitian Creole grammaire for use in education (Saint-Rémy 2).^[12] Though the idea of establishing a new state as a caciquat was rather different from the title of Incas Gérin also used during the Revolution, it illustrates how even after the assassination of Dessalines, some still looked to indigenous, precolonial societies as a model for a free state.^[13] Indeed, Gérin and some of the affranchis who had been to France may have even heard of Jean-Baptiste Picquenard’s novel that proposed a Peruvian origin of the “Taino” (Geggus 52). It is difficult to determine to what extent Picquenard’s novel would have influenced this discourse of indigeneity and the Incas in the last few years of the Haitian Revolution.^[14] But one can easily imagine someone like Gérin, seeing a link between Haiti’s indigenous population and Peru, championing the use of the name Inca for the Indigenous Army.

Furthermore, allusions to the Inca abound in subsequent literature of Haiti. Voyage dans le nord d'Hayti by Hérard Dumesle even compared Vincent Ogé to Manco-Capack, who brought light to the ancient peoples of the Americas (Dumesle 75). This comparison to the founder of the Inca dynasty is no coincidence. Though published in 1824, Dumesle’s work clearly demonstrated an ongoing appeal of the Incas to Haitian readers well into the 19th century. Privileging Ogé rather than, say, an enslaved person, was also significant. Centering affranchis who were initially only fighting for their rights rather than slaves, Dumesle nonetheless reveals an affiliation with the Incas as an elite group who brought civilization or enlightenment to the Andes. Dumesle wanted to depict Ogé and his class as the ones who paved the road for a great, future society in which, to no surprise, their own privileges and power were not to be questioned.^[15] In addition to Dumesle, other works by Haitian authors of the 19th century allude to the Incas. For example, a hymne haytienne entitled “Quoi? Tu te tais Peuple Indigène!” translated in Poetry of Haitian Independence, alludes to Haitians as children of the Sun while praising Dessalines (2).^[16] Undoubtedly, Dessalines continued to welcome comparisons to the Incas despite renaming his army in 1803. Another tract, Baron de Vastey’s Le système colonial dévoilé, cites El Inca Garcilaso on its first page as a reference for the Spanish conquest of Peru, followed by a brief overview of the indigenous cacicazgos of Haiti (de Vastey 1).^[17] Undeniably, Haitians aware of the history of the Americas were familiar with the Incas as a great civilization destroyed by Spanish avarice and cruelty, which they compared to French rapacity and inhumane exploitation of enslaved people and free people of color in Haiti.

Consequently, the salience of the Incas to the Haitian revolutionaries was an established and meaningful symbol of independence. Indeed, even outsiders were struck by its use in Haiti. A clear example can be seen in the work of Jean Abeille, the author of Essai sur nos colonies, et sur le rétablissement de Saint Domingue, ou considérations sur leur législation, administration, commerce et agriculture, published in 1805. Abeille, writing in favor of the French reconquest, actually referred to Haitians as “prétendus incas” (Abeille 17). In Abeille’s view, the leaders of independent Haiti were tyrants and a moral outrage, yet one notes how the Inca appellation of the Haitian leaders was still used. Another source, a report from 1804, even alluded to Dessalines as “jefe de la casa de los Incas” (AGI ESTADO, leg 68, exp 3).^[18] Haitian assertions of indigeneity and the Inca title were clearly understood by French and European observers, who would have shared this broader Atlantic World conceptualization of the Incas. For Abeille, a former planter in Saint Domingue, the idea of Dessalines as an Inca ruling an “empire of liberty” was anathema, hence his description of it as embodying the opposite of the virtues attributed to the Incas in the idealized French historical and literary production on Peru.

The continued reference to Dessalines and early Haiti as Incas, plus ongoing Haitian interest in the same affiliation, express a Haitian pattern in a general trend of Creole nationalism in the 19th century. While in the case of Haiti, there were few or no “Taino” left, the powerful and widespread appeal of the Inca Empire and its symbolism in the Atlantic World resonated in the Antilles.^[19] Thus, even in a land without a recognized, surviving indigenous people, the image of the “Indian” and its romanticized Inca incarnation, appealed to those desirous of independence. Unsurprisingly, free people of color may have been more influenced by the Inca trope, but the use of the Inca title by Dessalines even after 1803 attests to its broad appeal. Like their creole patriot counterparts in the South American republics, the future Haitian elite borrowed from a shared corpus of tropes, symbols and meaning to “avenge the Americas.”

Bibliography

Abeille, Jean. Essai sur nos colonies et sur le rétablissement de Saint Domingue, ou considérations sur leur législation, administration, commerce et agriculture. Chomel, imprimeur-libraire, 1805.

Affiches américaines. Port-au-Prince and Cap-Français, 1766-1790. https://dloc.com/AA00000449/00002/

Archivo General de Indias, Sevilla (AGI). Estado leg 68, no. 3. https://pares.mcu.es/ParesBusquedas20/catalogo/description/66193

Ardouin, Beaubrun. Études sur l'histoire d'Haïti: Suivies de la vie du Général J.-M. Borgella, Tome 6. Dezobry et E. Magdeleine, (Typographie de Prévôt et Drouard), 1856.

Bonnet, Guy-Joseph. Souvenirs historiques de Guy-Joseph Bonnet, général de division des armées de la République d'Haïti, ancien aide de camp de Rigaud. Documents relatifs à toutes les phases de la révolution de Saint-Domingue, recueillis et mis en ordre par Edmond Bonnet. Auguste Durand, 1864.

Daut, Marlene, and Kaiama L. Glover, editors. A History of Haitian Literature. Cambridge University Press, 2024.

Dumesle, Hérard. Voyage dans le nord d'Hayti, ou, Révélation des lieux et des monuments historiques. De l'Imprimerie du Gouvernement, 1824.

Earle, Rebecca. The Return of the Native: Indians and Myth-making in Spanish America, 1810-1930. Duke University Press, 2007.

Garrigus, John D. Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue. Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.

Geggus, David. "The Naming Of Haiti." NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 71, no. 1/2 (1997): 43-68. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41849817

Hilliard d'Auberteuil, Michel-René. Considérations sur l'état présent de la colonie française de Saint-Domingue: Ouvrage politique et législatif, présenté au Ministre De La Marine. Grangé, 1776.

Jenson, Deborah. Beyond the Slave Narrative: Politics, Sex, and Manuscripts in the Haitian Revolution. Liverpool University Press, 2011.

Kadish, Doris Y and Deborah Jenson. Poetry of Haitian Independence. Yale University Press, 2015.

Lespinasse, Beauvais. Histoire des affranchis de Saint-Domingue. Imprimerie Joseph Kugelmann, 1882.

Madiou, Thomas. Histoire d'Haïti, Tome II, 1799-1803. Editions Henri Deschamps, 1989.

McClellan, James E.. Colonialism and Science: Saint Domingue in the Old Regime. Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992.

Ojeda, Almerindo. 2005-2025. Project for the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art (PESSCA). Website located at colonialart.org. Date Accessed: 01/01/2025.

Saint-Rémy, Joseph. Pétion et Haïti: étude monographique et historique. Auguste Durand, 1853-1857.

Thomson, Sinclair. “Sovereignty Disavowed: The Tupac Amaru Revolution in the Atlantic World.” Atlantic Studies, 13 no. 3 (2016), 407–431. https://doi.org/10.1080/14788810.2016.1181537

Vastey, Baron de. Le système colonial dévoilé. P. Roux, Imprimeur du Roi, 1814.

Voltaire. Seven Plays by Voltaire; Translated by William F. Fleming, Howard Fertig, 1988.

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[1] An additional possible source of information on the Incas and the Spanish Conquest may have been Abbé Raynal's Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes.

[2] Jean-François Marmontel, a friend of Voltaire, wrote a historical romance on the conquest of Peru. His work was, as one might expect, similar to Voltaire’s on the subject of Peru, and known to some in Saint Domingue, including one of the generous of the Indigenous Army.

[3] On literacy in Saint Domingue’s people of color, see Jean Fouchard, Les marrons du syllabaire: quelques aspects du problème de l'instruction et de l'éducation des esclaves et affranchis de Saint-Domingue.

[4] An interest in the island of Hispaniola’s indigenous past was quite strong with the Cercle des Philadelphes. See Colonialism and Science: Saint Domingue and the Old Regime by James E. McClellan III.

[5] On theatre in Saint Domingue, see Jean Fouchard, Le théâtre à Saint-Domingue.

[6] “Authentic” Inca regal garb likely left quite an impression on viewers. Even if rather deviant from historically accurate clothing, special costumes probably fueled more discussion about the play.

[7] The child of a conquistador and a woman from the Inca nobility, El Inca Garcilaso wrote his history of the Incas as an elderly man in Spain, with the help of other written sources and the manuscript of a text by Blas Valera, a Jesuit mestizo from Peru. See The Jesuit and the Incas: The Extraordinary Life of Padre Blas Valera, S.J. by Sabine Hyland.

[8] See Hacía una historia de lo imposible by Juan Antonio Fernandez for intriguing details about Miranda’s time in Europe and the possible flow of ideas that reached free people of color from Saint Domingue.

[9] Possibly fruitful comparisons could be made with the Spanish Caribbean, too. A large corpus of poems, novels, histories and legends were connected to independence movements in Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. For an introduction to the theme of the Indian in the Spanish Caribbean, consult Jalil Sued Badillo’s "The Theme of the Indigenous in the National Projects of the Hispanic Caribbean"in Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings.

[10] Note historian Thomas Madiou’s claim to have Amerindian ancestry through his mother’s family; see Madiou, Autobiographie. Some affranchis were probably accurately reporting their ancestry.

[11] The scholarship of John Garrigus is particularly strong on the contours of race and increasing hostility directed against free people of color after the Seven Years War. See Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue.

[12] Sadly, for posterity’s sake, Gérin’s interests in promoting Haitian Creole in education were not taken seriously by his contemporaries. Such a move, and so early in Haitian independence, could have led to higher literacy rates, assuming schools were actually established and funded.

[13] Early 19th century Haitian understandings of “Taino” chiefdoms of the precolonial era likely drew from references to it by Charlevoix, Moreau de Saint–Méry and encyclopedias. One wonders if Gérin’s plan for the nobility created from the families of the signers of the Act of Independence was designed to recreate the so-called nitaino status.

[14] Picquenard’s novel, Zoflora ou la bonne négresse, anecdote coloniale, may have had only a very limited circulation in Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, though a novel, the author posited a Peruvian origin of the “Taino” while noting similarities in color, moeurs, and religions.

[15] David Nicholls has aroused much debate about the so-called “mulatto legend” of Haitian history he attributed to Beaubrun Ardouin and other historians of 19th century Haiti. But this discourse of the Haitian people as not “ready” for republican governance or “civilization” and requiring elite tutelage has deeper roots in the Haitian Revolution. For views of 19th century Haitians about Africa and the “Guinean” customs seen as retrograde, Thomas Madiou’s Histoire d'Haiti is illustrative.

[16] Additional poems are worthy of mention here, but the symbolic references to the Sun in early Haitian poetry were not always drawing on Inca symbolism.

[17] More could be said about the problematic ways in which Baron de Vastey wrote about indigenous peoples of the Americas. Despite his familiarity with El Inca Garcilaso, in another work, Réflexions sur une lettre de Mazères, he incorrectly associated khipu with Mexico. In his desire to defend Africa and the black race as not entirely uncivilized, he boldly ranked Africans as more civilized than the Indians of the Americas.

[18] The same source also described Dessalines as “General of Mexico.” If so, then the hemispheric dimensions of Dessalines’ claim to be the Avenger of the Americas was rhetorically promoted by this.

[19] Although we respect Taino revivalist movements, the evidence for Saint Domingue indicates a very small presence of “Amerindian” peoples in the French colony. The percentage of that group that may have, to some degree, been descendants of the indigenous population of the island, was likely an even smaller number. Those looking for more evidence of Hispaniola’s indigenous people in this period (18th century) are more likely to find traces of it in the Spanish colony.