Bornoans in Saint Domingue

A map of colonial Haiti (Wikipedia)

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

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

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

Blacks, Indians and Casta in Colonial Peru

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the Behique

Illustration of Carib methods of healing from Whiteheads Lords of the Tiger Spirit.

One word that was central to the culture and society of the "Taino" Peoples of the Caribbean was behique. Referring to the priests and healers, or shamans, the word appears to be etymologically linked to medicine and healing. This is not a great surprise, and based on what the Spanish accounts indicate, the behique was probably quite similar, at least in some ways, to South American mainland shamans and healers. Indeed, some of the methods of healing practiced by the "Taino" behique have similarities with Tukano healing practices or even Andean healers. For instance, Guaman Poma's vast letter includes a picture of a healer sucking on the wounds of a patient. Similar practices were described for other parts of South America, too. Even the use of the maraca and terms like piaje or piaye across vast areas of South America might indicate some deep, shared roots of South American healing and shamanism. While piaje or piaye appears to be of Tupi origin, the usage of the word by speakers of Cariban languages or other language families in South America is quite astonishing.

Let's take a brief look at words for heal, healing, shamans, and priests in different South American languages. In Ashaninka, an Arawak language not closely related to Taino, one sees the word sheripiari for shaman. Well, sheri in their language means tobacco, which implies shamans used tobacco in their rituals. This matches what we know of Taino and other South American cultures. One also wonders if piari may be linked to piaje. The Muisca language, in one reconstructed dictionary, gives chyky for shaman. This is clearly distinct, and we should probably consult bilingual dictionaries for various Chibchan languages to explore this. As for Quechua, an Andean language that one should expect to be quite distinct, a shaman is paqu. A curandero might also be called yachaq. For the Warao, however, one sees ibiji arotu as one word for doctor, and eributatu for shaman. Warao, also not an Arawakan language, appears to use a word for healers that is similar to the Arawak ibihi. This is not too surprising, since speakers of Warao and Arawakan languages have likely been interacting for several centuries. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see how the duho, derived from the Warao tongue, became a core part of "Taino" culture while the Warao borrowed words from Arawakan languages for core concepts like healers. 

Additional South American languages are worth exploring. In Palikur, for example, a shaman is called ihamwi. But to heal is rendered as piyih, which sounds close to ibihi. Faire soigner is translated as piyikhis in Palikur, which sort of resembles behique. In Garifuna, however, to heal is areidagua and a shaman is called a buyei. In Wayuu, another Arawakan languages, medicine is epi and to cure is eiyajaa. A curandero is called outshi. In Wayuu, at least, the word for medicine, epi, sounds somewhat close to ibihi. For Desano, a non-Arawakan Amazonian tongue, one sees oco for medicine and for shaman, cũmu.  In Guarani, pohanoha is used for medicine. A priest is a pa'i or avare. Magic is paje. One can see how Guarani has incorporated, at least in part, a word probably of deep Tupi origins for magic. 

In Kalinago, or the language of the "Island Carib" peoples of the Lesser Antilles, Breton is particularly useful. According to him, a priest was a bóye (boyáicou) or niboyeiri. Undoubtedly, Garifuna has retained this in their word for shaman. The word may be of Carib or Tupi origin, too, if similar enough to the Tupi paye with a b replacing the p. The word for medicine among the Kalinago was ibien, quite close to the Wayuu epi and Arawak ibihi. In the Arawak language of Guiana, according to Goeje at least, ibbihi signifies remedy or charm. Ibbihiki means to heal, which shows quite clearly the probable etymology of the Taino behique. But one wonders where Bohiti in Taino as a synonym came from? 

The fascinating thing about Arawak and Lokono in this case, however, is the use of a word for shaman that is quite distinct. According to John Peter Bennett's dictionary, a medicine man is called a semechichi, presumably related to the word for sweet, seme. One can even go back to the 16th century for a fascinating description of Aruaca shamanism in the writings of Rodrigo de Navarrete. According to this author, the Aruacas called old, wise men cemetu. This is an early attestation of the word for shaman, semeti, who, according to Navarrette, trained their students through a special process in which their myths of origin and beliefs were passed down. Navarrete also mentions the belief in gaguche (souls) and the Hubuiri, or Great Lord of the Sky. What Navarrete's account  tells us is that the use of the word semeti or similar words for shamans is probably at least 500 years old among the Arawak. What is most fascinating about this is that despite the use of different titles among Arawaks, Kalinago and the Taino for shamans, all seemed to share at least some common practices. The use of tobacco, for instance, was important. But the rattle or maraca was also important. Indeed, a word for maraca (or a similar instrument?) appears in Breton's dictionary as tatállaraca. Similar instruments were used by the "Taino" in the Antilles, too. The use of the word chemíjn in Kalinago, cemi in Taino, and seme in Arawak point to some broadly shared religious terminology. If it is true that the word is related to the concept of sweetness or delicacy, things highly desired or valued, and also associated with God, gods, or spirits, it is interesting to note that the word was only applied to shamans in Arawak. And why was the word for sweet in Kalinago bímeti, which sounds quite distinct from the Arawak term? Indeed, in Palikur, kitere is sweet. In the Wayuu tongue, sweet is püsiaa.

To conclude, one can see that the Taino word for shaman was etymologically linked to the word for heal and medicine. This makes sense, as a major function of such people among "Taino" peoples was to heal others. Intriguingly, the Warao appear to have been influenced by Arawakan languages in this regard when it comes to healers. However, the Arawaks were using a distinct word for healers or shamans several centuries ago. Their word for shaman, nonetheless, shares with Kalinago and Taino the same connection with cemi. Whether or not it is related to the concept of sweetness or delicateness is still unclear, but the "Taino" shaman was still quite similar to their counterparts in the mainland. One suspects the maraca was of great importance, as was tobacco and other substances. Much of tropical lowland South America seems to have shared in this broad set of customs of shamanism and healing, as reflected in the widespread usage of a Tupi-derived word for shaman across much of the continent. Nevertheless, a few mysteries remain about the behique and the concept of cemi. 

Daily Life in the Inca Empire

Source

Michael Malpass's Daily Life in the Inca Empire is perhaps too short and addressed at a younger reading audience to be very useful. However, it functions quite nicely as a modern (1990s) update to Rowe's work on Inca culture at the time of Spanish contact. Malpass is able to draw from more recent archaeological excavations and research on important topics like gender, the ceques and Inca calendars to fill in some of the gaps in older scholarship. Interestingly, the tone of Malpass's work is also somewhat more critical of Inca imperialism against subjugated peoples. Rowe, on the other hand, saw Inca rule favorably in contrast to the tyranny of Spanish colonialism in Peru. But Malpass, quite justly, points to the likely negative perceptions of the Incas on the part of their subjects, whose lives could be entirely upended to benefit their rulers at Cuzco. Indeed, having one's daughter taken as a "Chosen Women" or being forced to labor on various projects or in military service, perhaps far from home, must have been disruptive and unpopular with some of the Inca subjects. Sadly, without more sources on rebellions against Inca rule it is difficult to go further. 

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.

Bambara in Haiti

Marriage in Jacmel of Louis Rene, of the Bambara country, to Sophie, also of the Bambara nation. When free people still use the "nation" Bambara to identify themselves, it may be a more meaningful claim of self-identity or self-expression tied to the Bamana or Bambara peoples.

Unlike, say, Louisiana, where the "Bambara" presence and legacy has been a subject of study or inquiry for some time, the "Bambara" legacy in Haiti is understudied. While scholars continue to debate the meaning of the term and to what degree its use in the Americas reflected a single or singular "people" in our modern sense, "Bambara" was a "nation" in Saint-Domingue with a consistent presence throughout the 18th century. The "Bambara" were always a sizable proportion of the Senegambian/Upper Guinea captives in the colony, and have likely shaped Haitian Creole, Vodou, and other aspects of Haitian culture in ways we do not always appreciate. For instance, is the Haitian Creole baka related to the Bamana baga or are veve also partly inspired by graphic signs of Bamana? Is the concept of nyama perhaps relevant here for understanding aspects of Haitian religion?

Arrival of a slave ship bringing "Bambara"captives to Saint-Domingue.

We suspect that "Bambara" did acquire some specificity in Saint-Domingue as an ethnolinguistic term, perhaps as a hodgepodge category combining non-Muslim Mandingues, Bamana, and others who spoke Mande languages. For instance, one runaway ad describing a Soso (Susu) as a type of "Bambara" suggests that the French recognized that some of the captives from areas of Upper Guinea spoke related languages or were conversant in other tongues. That "Bambara" was an ambiguous "nation and that its use within West Africa itself was also somewhat ambiguous is clear, however. The appellation of "Bambara" for pagans in Senegambia region and today's Mali is clear, and the Bamana states of the 17th and 18th century were also heterogeneous in that people of diverse origins could be incorporated into the state. 

More examples with 2 slave ships bringing "Bambara" captives to Haiti. One carried a mixed cargo with Wolof, Poulard and Bambara.

What is clear is that the "Bambara" were distinct from Wolof and Poulards. They also shared enough commonalities within their own group to be recognizable in the colony for factors besides language. Behavior, facial scarification, and, in some cases, self-assertions of a "Bambara" identity in the colonial era or post-independence era may point to an actual idea of a "Bambara" ethnicity or "nation" in some limited form. To what extent these were victims of the slave trade of Kaarta and Segu is unclear, although one would expect some Bamana to have fallen victims to the slave trade when their armies lost to others. 

Amazingly, assertions of a Bambara national identity persisted in 19th century Haiti. The above case, of Charles, born in c.1770 but registering in 1810, is declared to be of the Bambara nation. This is possibly meaningful, since it suggests that an identity linked to Bambara-ness lingered after Haitian independence.

Its interesting to see that even after Haitian independence, some were still identified as Bambara, as the case of Charles in 1810 indicates. "Bambara" did mean or connote something beyond a "nation" entirely fabricated or shaped by the slave trade and colonial society. Indeed, the retention of a "Bambara" nation in Haitian Vodou and aspects of Mandingue and Bamana culture surviving among Haitians in Morne Rouge may be telling. A deeper study of the Bamana language may also reveal more influence from Bamana and related Mande languages in Haitian Creole. 

Intriguingly, Bambara also survived as a surname in Haiti. Like other African "nations" taken as surnames, Bambara appeared as late as the end of the 19th century in places like Bainet. There, in Bainet, a Dessources Auguste, who died in 1905, was said to be the son of a Simone Bombara (Bambara). 

The "Bambara" legacy can also be seen in the Haitian Revolution itself with leaders like Gilles Bambara, who was sadly imprisoned by the orders of Dessalines for raising questions of caste (according to Ardouin and Madiou). One wonders if the martial prowess and development of Segu and Kaarta may have been an influence on the rebel slaves of "Bambara" origin in Saint-Domingue. Certainly "Bambara" and other West African beliefs influenced the use of charms and gris-gris or amulets during the Haitian Revolution. 

A "Bambara" captive listed in a notarized document from 1719, Jacmel.

We hope to revisit this topic with a deeper level of sources on the "Banbara" nation in Vodou and possible influences from the Bamana in Haitian Creole. Even if outnumbered by other groups, the "Bambara" were a consistent presence throughout the 18th century for African "nations" in Saint-Domingue. It is very likely that, like in Louisiana, they had a strong influence on the early slave culture in the colony and probably shaped other aspects of Haiti we do not know about. That some free people of color and even Haitians in the 19th century still used the "nation" of Bambara to mean something, we suspect that the self-identification may have actually corresponded more than we realize with the Bamana in Mali.