Chalirati

 

Whilst randomly searching through the Drake Manuscript online for another topic, we came across a familiar animal. Called chalirati here, we suspect it to be a deformation of a Kalinago word for the ray, Chibáli. According to Breton's dictionary, the word was also used to describe the arrows made using the tail of this animal. By the 1600s, the word for the arrow made from the tail of this ray was also used to describe mixed-race people born to Indian men and black women among the Caribs, chibárali. Yet for blacks without any Amerindian admixture, the word used for them was the Kalinago term for the black triggerfish, chiboulli. Why the term for a mixed Black/Indian person was the same as that used for an arrow tipped with the tail of a venomous ray is not clear, but could have been connected to the skin color of such individuals and the ray in question? Based on the Drake Manuscript, it seems to have been brownish in color? 

We are still curious about the other terms used by the Kalinago for mixed-race blacks. One term, cachionna, which may be linked etymologically to the Arawakan-derived term for the Sun among the "Island Caribs." This word was used for children born to white men and black women, as well as Indian men and black women. 

Banning Enslavement of Caribs (1739)

 

Whilst randomly perusing Gallica and other sites, we came across Copie d'un ordre du roi interdisant de réduire en esclavage les Indiens Caraïbes, a royal declaration banning the enslavement of Caribs or Kalinago peoples in the French Caribbean. Dated 1739, it obviously did not completely ban or outlaw the enslavement of Kalinago and other indigenous peoples. After all, "Caribs" even appear in some of the runaway slave notices in Saint Domingue from later decades. 

Anacaona's Gift

Anacaona's Gift: Cotton and the woven arts of the 11th to 17th century Caribbean by Joanna Ostapkowicz is a must-read for anyone interested in the material culture and history of the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean. Despite the paucity of extant materials made of cotton, the archival sources, Spanish chronicles, ethnographic analogies with South American peoples, and close analysis of ceramics and indigenous sculpture reveal often neglected aspects of Taino textile production and weaving traditions. Ostapkowicz presents compelling evidence for cotton production and weaving as one of great importance for the indigenous peoples economically, socially and politically and religiously. Cotton, as a source of material for wrapping cemis or for making hats, caps, naguas, masks, crowns, belts, capes, arm and leg bands, hammocks, burial shrouds, was undoubtedly a specialist activity for the most elaborate and best products. This made it an extension of cacical power or authority, particularly if the caciques controlled the storehouses where cotton was stored before redistributing it through their families, communities or other caciques. It is possible that elite women may have been the ones responsible for producing the best quality cotton goods, such as those using gold, shell, stone, feathers, and other products to produce refined cemis, belts, or elite regalia. Indeed, their elite status likely freed them from some of the other daily domestic duties of women who likely wove most of the cloth used by the indigenous societies of the island.

Much of the book analyzes closely each example or type of item made with or using cloth in so-called Taino and Kalinago cultures. This close analysis includes basketry, too, for additional examples of weaving use fiber materials. But the bulk of the analysis focuses on types of clothing and the application of cotton materials for wrapping or constructing materials like belts or cemi materials. The artistic and labor skills required to have produced some of the best examples must have been astonishing, which suggests there were specialized textile workers. Similarly, the production of the most elaborate stools (duhos) and platters or wooden objects similarly required experienced workers. Their close association with caciques, especially in the production of items and goods that, at their most refined level, were for elites, attests to a degree of power and hierarchy in the indigenous Caribbean chiefdoms more complex than many realize. Perhaps interpreting too literally Columbus and other chroniclers who often emphasized the nudity of the Taino, scholars have truly missed another dimension of the complex material culture. Indeed, some of these elaborate works featured thousands of beads, different weaving patterns, complex geometric patterns, and skillful use of gold or feathers. The arm bands, caps, skirts, and hammocks, sadly, have not survived, but the level of skill required to produce them (and in quantity) are a testament to the relatively high level of production. 

An area not fully explored however, and this is due to our limited sources in terms of surviving artifacts, is the extent to which the entire population of the cacicazgo had access to certain goods, like hammocks. Moscoso, for example, seemed to think hammocks were not universally used by all Taino. Similarly, the shortages of hammocks and the importation of cloth from Europe (not enough in the early colonial period, but a source for hammocks for settlers who took to the hammock) deserves further inquiry. To what extent were indigenous weavers in Jamaica learning to make European-styled clothes? Was there an increase in the scale of production for the "market" during European colonial rule, despite the lack of interest by Spaniards for cotton plantations in places like Hispaniola? What about Xaragua, when its tribute to Columbus was in cotton and included extra cotton treasures give by Anacaona? In other words, what were the mechanisms for the increase in textile production before colonialism? Was Xaragua, already noted for its cotton, producing a surplus for trade with other parts of Hispaniola, Cuba, and Jamaica? And to what extent were Taino products possibly exported south to the Lesser Antilles or the South American mainland for items like guanin? 

Island Caribs and the Europeans

Agostino Brunias's painting of Caribs (Wikipedia)

Philip Boucher's Cannibal encounters: Europeans and Island Caribs, 1492-1763 was something of a disappointment. Like Whitehead's Lords of the Tiger Spirit, the indigenous group in question is usually peripheral and often silenced in a book that is purportedly about their relations with, for the most part, the English and French in the Lesser Antilles. Boucher, of course, knew this would be a problem due to the nature of the sources, which do not give much of a voice to the "Island Carib" peoples. However, careful reading and intuitive analysis of the English and French sources indicate that the indigenes of the Lesser Antilles were rational political actors who sought to maximize their autonomy whilst playing a delicate balancing act with English and French interests in acquiring more of their lands for their burgeoning Caribbean colonies. 

Boucher also endeavors to understand the reasons for warmer relations between the Kalinago and the French than relations between the former and the English. The policy of douceur and the existence of French traders and missionaries among the Kalinago appear to have been major factors that often led to a stronger French-Carib alliance. Of course, both the French and the English were threats to the indigenous people of the region, but the French had deeper ties with them and pursued a policy of alliance that, according to Boucher, became less relevant after 1690 due to the demographic decline of the Kalinago. 

Sadly, after reading this rather detailed and occasionally fascinating short history, which includes some intriguing questions and comments on the European intellectual, literary, and anthropological view of the Island Carib, I do not feel like I have learned much about the Kalinago in terms of their own worldview, perspective, or actions. Unlike, say, the "Taino" of the Greater Antilles, we have some rather rich resources on their culture and perspective based on Breton's dictionary, various missionary relations, and ethnographies on their descendants in places like Dominica. Perhaps, if Boucher had been able to integrate sources drawing on language and ethnography/oral traditions more completely into the work, the Island Caribs would not feel so marginal or peripheral here. Obviously, the historian was arguing in favor of their agency as historical actors and provides examples of their consistent raids, negotiations, or political and economic behavior that show they were not passive victims. Nonetheless, the reader is left with a sense that they were marginal in major events that shaped their history. With the exception of the mixed-race Indian Warner, for example, no other Indian leader is clearly analyzed or very perceptible. Perhaps a study that includes both the "Black Caribs" and the "Yellow Caribs" would also be helpful for understanding the demographic decline of the Amerindian Caribs and the growth of the culturally related but seemingly distinct "Black Caribs" in St. Vincent. 

"Island Carib" Words for Black People?

Whilst perusing Breton's dictionary, yet again, we saw that the Kalinago had words for the mixed-race children of Indian men and black women. The language also used Iábouloupou for the children of white men and black women. For black people in general, they seem to have used the word tibouloue. The Galibi on the South American mainland used the word tibourou for blacks. Thus, it seems like tibouloue is of Cariban rather than Arawakan origin. However, in Garifuna, the word wuriti is used for black. In Palikur, black is pohe or puhiye. In Wayuu, it can be rendered as mütsiiya or yuulii. The distant Ashaninka language has cheenkari for black. In Lokono, khareme seems to be the word for black, while in Suriname black people are called Dolhi. 

However, one must determine if the same word for the black color was applied to people of African descent in the 1500s and 1600s for other Arawakan languages, like Taino. Since "Taino" people were the first to see and engage with Africans and mixed-race people of African descent, it is tempting to wonder if terms like Chibárali and cachionna could be of Taino origin. According to Breton, Chibárali was also used for a type of dangerous arrow. This is no surprise, since the word sounds somewhat close to simara, which was probably the Taino word for arrow (or something rather close to it) which, later on, became incorporated into the word for maroon in Spanish (and subsequently, other European languages). However, the term actually seems to be connected to the ray, an animal whose tail was used for a very deadly type of arrow. The mainland Caribs have a similar word for ray, although the Kalinago term for the arrow made using the ray sounds like a fusion of chimara and chibali. Was the use of this term for black-Indian people to express disdain or fear of the deadly nature of the mix?

It is fascinating how the Kalinago of the 17th century were using a word etymologically linked to arrows and rays to describe mixed-race Indian-black people. By the time Breton met and recorded their language, the Kalinago had already been interacting with Europeans and Africans for several decades. In addition, fleeing Taino speakers from Puerto Rico and likely other parts of the Greater Antilles were said to have sought refuge in the Lesser Antilles. Could these Taino speakers have introduced the meaning of Chimara as connotating half-black heritage? It's certainly possible given the earlier exposure of Taino speakers with Europeans and Africans and their own experiences or knowledge of marronage from Spanish colonial authorities in the 1500s. Intriguingly, the 17th century Kalinago, who were known for taking African slaves as captives and reselling some to Europeans, used another word for maroons or fugitive slaves, Anourouti or toüalicha. These terms seem to be of Cariban or non-Arawakan origin. One suspects the Kalinago also would have quickly gained familiarity with maroon in the sense it was used by Europeans. 

The other term for half-black people, cachionna, could also be used for half-white, half-black peoples. It contains the Kalinago word for Sun but could also be related to a number of other words. It could also be related to a number of words in the Island Carib language referring to fruits, wood, young geese, or a type of manioc flour. Interestingly, cachi is similar to the word for Moon in a number of Arawakan languages, although Breton gives Moon as cati in his dictionary. Is it feasible for the Kalinago language to have used a word for Sun that sounds so similar to the word for Moon in other Arawakan languages? For example, Arawak in Suriname uses kathi for the Moon and adali for the Sun. Garifuna uses hati for Moon. In the language of the Wayuu, Kashi also meant Moon. Why was the Kalinago term for Sun so similar to the word for Moon? Did Breton make a mistake? 

Although far more work remains to be done, we wonder if the general word for black people in Taino and the Arawakan-rooted words in Kalinago were similar, perhaps something like the Garifuna wuritti. Or perhaps something close to the Lokono khareme or Wayuu yuulii was used as a general term for dark-skinned black Africans. But was cachionna perhaps similar to a Taino term for mixed-race black-Indian peoples.

Eracra as Bed?

Bed (Wikipedia)

Another word we find interesting in the language of the island of Haiti, given by Oviedo as a synonym for bohio, or house, is eracra. To some scholars, this sounds like a word derived from a non-Taino language spoken on the island of Hispaniola in pre-Columbian times. While this is possible, we found a potentially similar word that provides clues to its meaning. In this case, Kalinago, according to Breton's dictionary, contains the word écra, denoting bed. The resemblance to eracra could be a coincidence, but it is certainly plausible for the word for bed in Kalinago and Taino to have been similar. Interestingly, this word has not survived in Garifuna, which uses the word gabana. We couldn't find any similar word for house or bed in other languages like Palikur or Wayuu. While some scholars argue that the word eracra may come from the Ciguayo tongue, the existence of a similar word in Kalinago could point to a deeper antiquity or wider spread of it across the Antilles. Alternatively, checking Pelleprat's Galibi dictionary revealed the word acado for bed (and bati as another word for bed). We suspect eracra in Taino signified bed.

Guatiao, mi hermano

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

Early Censuses of Saint-Domingue and "Indiens" or "Sauvages"

While consulting ANOM for the first time in a while, we realized they have digitized several censuses from the colonial period in Saint Domingue. While they are not particularly relevant or useful for the topic of the indigenous population, some of them do include "Indiens" or "sauvages" as population categories (usually the late 17th century or early 18th century ones). Unfortunately, they are most often lumped into the same overall category as mixed-race, mulatto, or free people of color, so it is not always easy to trace their numbers. Moreover, since the French in the 17th century and early 18th century brought Amerindian people from the Lesser Antilles and the mainland areas like the Yucatan, as slaves, one cannot assume these numbers reflect any remnant of the "Taino" population indigenous to Hispaniola. 

Nonetheless, the 1681 census, obviously conducted before the official recognition of western Hispaniola as a French territory by Spain, reflects some of the older demographic patterns that characterized the pre-plantation phase. Or, perhaps, the period before complete transformation of the island into a slave society based on plantation agriculture. The transition is taking place at this time, but not yet complete. One can see this in the high numbers of white indentured workers, 1565, not significantly lower than the total population of adult slaves. Of course, the colony's demographics would soon become overwhelmingly African or of African-descended peoples soon.

But let's look at the total for mixed-race, mulatto and Indiens, only 210. The only way to properly arrive at possible estimates for the Indian and mestizo proportion would be to consult parish registers and other documents that mention Indiens and their progeny in the various provinces covered in the 1681 census. We have partially done that for some of the above areas, and did not find a significant number of people of Amerindian descent, so it is probably safe to assume that "Indiens" and mestizos were a small proportion of the total category's numbers. Nonetheless, there were undoubtedly Indian people in the colony, both enslaved and free. Some were even taken or kidnapped from what is now Mexico, the Lesser Antilles or South America.

In the 1703 Census for the colony administered by the Royal Company, only 6 Indians were counted. Granted that area did not include the entirety of French Saint Domingue, but it does suggest that the "Indien" presence was small, even as it undoubtedly omitted some while perhaps mestizos passed into the "white" category like some "mulatto" families. Indeed, the inclusion of "sauvages" among the mulatto free people of color and enslaved groups in 1710 and 1713 census rolls attests to the ongoing presence of Amerindian people in the colony, albeit in small numbers. From what we can tell, the last census to include "sauvage" among the people of color population enumerated was done in 1717, although we know "Indiens" were imported as slaves, or worked in the colony as free people throughout the 18th century. Some were from Aruba, while others appear to have come from the Lesser Antilles, and North America. Interestingly, it does not seem like the remnant of the indigenous population from Spanish Santo Domingo had much of a presence in the French colony. But careful investigation is required, plus cross-referencing the parish registers to see if it is possible to separate the "sauvages" and "Indien"from the people of color populations enumerated in the various censuses. Undoubtedly, one should expect that some families, descending from Indian women seized in other territories, probably became "white" when possible.

Boutou of the Kalinago

The above is a beautiful example of a Kalinago club, or boutou, from Sieur de la Borde's well-known Relation. Like the Taino macana, these weapons were considered by Europeans to be very dangerous. They also had ritual and political connotations. The intricate and elaborate pattern on the above boutou shows the degree to which the Kalinago imbued different aesthetic and possibly political considerations into this powerful weapon. It is of interest that Breton's dictionary of the Kalinago language indicated the use of the word boutou to signify captain or leader, clearly reflected in European sources describing captains with the finest, largest, or most beautiful clubs as markers of their status. As proof of how dangerous these weapons could be, one of our distant European ancestors was nearly killed by "Caribs" who attacked the southern coast of Puerto Rico in the 1560s. According to Burset Flores, Delgado was left for dead by the "Caribs" and received a wound that was likely from their clubs. 

Naboría and Related Words in other Languages

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dita and Kalinago?

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

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

Kanari and Canari

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

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

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

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

The Caribs of Dominica

Since we have read a few of his essays on the Dominica Caribs elsewhere, we thought Douglas Taylor's The Caribs of Dominica. Though very short, it seems to be based on fieldwork in the Carib Reserve in the 1930s. It certainly reflects that older era in which Western scholars openly expressed racist and condescending views of their ethnographic subjects. Nonetheless, the material focus of this brief study highlighted how the Caribs of Dominica, even after generations of Christianization and intermarriage with the black population, retained some distinct practices of canoe-making, fishing, basketry, and traditions that give some insights into the nature of precolonial indigenous social practices. For our purposes, however, it would likely be more fruitful to revisit and read Rochefort, Labat, and Breton, especially the bilingual dictionary from the 17th century that would shed even more light on the nature of an indigenous Caribbean people. 

Dugu Song

Although we remain quite ignorant of the history and culture of the Garifuna peoples, it is astonishing and intriguing how this "Canto Dugu" resembles our Haitian ritual music and chanting. Rhythmically less complex, one can see, perhaps, the "Carib" or Indian influences in Garifuna music and tradition. That said, Garifuna Dugu undoubtedly has African features that unite it, at least somewhat, with the better-known Vodou, Santeria and other Afro-Caribbean traditions.

A Jesuit and the Caribs

De la Borde’s Relation on the Caribs of the Caribbean, or Kalinago, is a fascinating document. Despite his view of the need to humanize and civilize the Carib before successfully converting them to Christianity, the Jesuit’s account of 17th century Caribs of St. Vincent is filled with interesting details about the lives, customs, religion and healing practices of this indigenous group. While denigrating the Caribs and their “barbarous” practices and religions, one can still detect some degree of respect for the success of the Caribs in their lifestyle. Moreover, for those of us interested in ethnographic and historical sources on an indigenous Caribbean population related to our Tainos, it is interesting to compare our Jesuit with the earlier 16th century sources on the Taino of the Greater Antilles. Indeed, by the time French Jesuits were proselytizing in the Lesser Antilles, the local population of the region had already been interacting with Europeans and Africans for over a century. Moreover, indigenous people from the Greater Antilles had already, at least in the case of Puerto Rico, fled to the Lesser Antilles. That Taino exodus from areas like Puerto Rico plus the already shared culture, to some extent, between the Kalinago and the Taino, makes for interesting readings. For instance, the Carib lunar calendar and important symbolism attached to stars, the sun, and the moon may have been shared elements with the Taino. Some of the similar religious and healing customs of the boye or piaye with the Taino behique, including even the act of sucking on parts of a patient’s body, suggest another commonality. The similar veneration of cemis or zemis points to another deeply rooted aspect of indigenous Caribbean spirituality. Clearly, despite the Kalinago claiming a relationship with the continental Galibias, their culture and language was also immersed in Caribbean island customs and civilizations. What we would like to know is to what extent Louquo of Carib myth, the first man, may have some correspondence with Yucahu and the characters in the corpus of Taino myths collected by Pane. The Caribs, at least as understood by the French, lacked the type of higher ceremonialism attached to political leadership or caciques so one might be justified in concluding that their religious and spiritual practices were less elaborate than those of the Taino. 

Irving Rouse

Although we cannot locate the full documentary this clip is taken from, we thought it still worthwhile to share a clip of Irving Rouse discussing Caribbean archaeology.