Haiti & Peru

Whilst perusing old issues of Haiti Sun via the Digital Library of the Caribbean, we came across some interesting articles mentioning Haiti-Peru relations. Although it is a topic we hope to revisit at at later date, we found it intriguing to see press coverage of Haiti's relations with this important Andean nation. In the first picture, Ade, Haiti's envoy, presents his credentials to the Peruvian president, Odria, in 1950. 

In the second picture, from a 1956 article in the same newspaper, Perez Saez, the Peruvian ambassador to Haiti, is featured. Peru was in the Haitian journal because of celebrations of Peruvian independence that took place in Petionville. We would like to explore relations between the two nations, extending back as far as possible. Haiti's historical relations with South American countries is often ignored except for the contributions of Haitians to Bolivar and independence movements. What happened after that?

Muslim Spain Reconsidered

Hitchcock's Muslim Spain Reconsidered is a short survey of the history of Al-Andalus from 711 to 1502. It would be difficult to do justice to several centuries of complex history, particularly in a region whose legacy has been used for various, occasionally contradictory purposes. For Hitchcock, Al-Andalus is not so much a paragon of interfaith harmony or unity, but rather part of a long history in which political concerns and interests (expediency) trumped religious or nationalist identities. For instance, the chapter in which El Cid is covered emphasizes the non-religious character of the historical El Cid. The cultural importance of Al-Andalus for scholarship, poetry, medicine, and translation of Classical knowledge is further emphasized for its long-term impact in Western Europe, too. Reasonable speculation about Al-Andalus's possible influence on Dante or the significance of Toledo as a center of translation of Islamic knowledge for the West serve to illustrate how Andalusian scholarship, book culture, and poetry made a huge impact on west. One of Hitchcock's particular strengths is his care to include aesthetic developments in poetry, architecture, and literature that illustrate distinctive Andalusian styles and identity, not just its emulation of the Islamic East. We certainly will be attempting to read Ibn Hazm, for example.

The Igbo in Haiti

 

The Igbo peoples have left a cultural legacy in Haiti that survives to this day. The Ibo nanchon in Haitian Vodou, for instance, attests to this Igbo legacy. Whilst perusing runaway advertisements, we focused on Ibo captives in Saint Domingue to look for anything distinctive. As we expected, since the French slave traders were usually not bringing many captives from the Bight of Biafra to Saint Domingue, many Igbo slaves in the colony appear to have been smuggled through other colonies. The above case of Marie, for example, illustrates the example of an English-speaking Igbo in Aquin. One wonders if she was brought to Saint Domingue from Jamaica or another British colony in the Antilles. The "Ibos" of Saint Domingue were also briefly described by Descourtilz and a few other writers on the colony's Africans, often noting their propensity for suicide. 

Another trend we noticed with Igbo captives is a certain degree of ambiguity about their precise "national" origin. Some were listed as Bibi, presumably for the Ibibio peoples of southern Nigeria. Francois, the man above, could have been either one or perhaps from another group in southeastern Nigeria. 

Yet again, another runaway slave was seen as either Bibi (Ibibio) or Ibo. 

Some runaway Igbos from other colonies were identified precisely. For example, Margueritte came to the colony from Mississippi. 

Something we have written about elsewhere is the consistent presence of Ibos in colonial Bainet, in the Sud-Est of Haiti. Three newly arrived Ibos absconded from the Chaumeil habitation in Bainet.

Another Ibo, Marie, was identified as an Anglophone person.

Once again, another Ibo, Etienne, spoke English. This one was "owned" by a free black woman.

As for Saint-Emilion, a runaway described above, he was either Ibo or Chauma. We could not identify Chauma at all, but it indicates once again how ambiguous and problematic the "national" labels assigned to Africans in Saint Domingue truly were.

Alexandre, another Ibo maroon, spoke English.

Jean, an Ibo runaway, similarly spoke English.

We found the above case interesting for its description of an Ibo runaway who spoke Nago (Yoruba). Assuming the Ibo identification is accurate, one wonders if he learned "Nago" in West Africa. 

The Incas

The 2nd edition of Terence D'Altroy's The Incas is a nice overview of scholarship on the Incas written ten years ago. Drawing on various disciplines and new (at the time) research by archaeologists, linguists, art historians, historians, and ethnographers, D'Altroy's study provides a nearly complete overview of this major Andean civilization. Indeed, the author even endeavored to include more Andean modes of thinking and perspectives in the work, too. For those of us who are still novices toiling in the beginning stages of Inca historical research, this is all fascinating and useful for the bibliographical references. It is also interesting to compare it with overviews of the Inca from past scholars. For instance, Malpass's far shorter introduction from the 1990s, emphasizes more of the negative impact of Inca labor tribute obligations imposed on subject peoples than D'Altroy. Intriguingly, the linguistic evidence used by the author recalls Peace Garcia's theory of an Aymara origin of the title, Inca. Moreover, drawing on Bauer's excavations and research in the Cuzco heartland does suggest an earlier period of Inca political expansion that is not reliably elucidated in the Spanish chronicles drawing on late, imperial Inca History. Indeed, even the standard story of Pachacuti's defeat of the Chankas does not appear justified based on archaeological evidence on this people. 

The Republic in ca. 1818

Whilst perusing references on 19th century Haiti, we recently encountered De la République d'Haïti: île de Saint-Domingue, considérée sous ses différents rapports, ses forces, ses moyens physiques et moraux, et le caractère national de ses habitants by A. Rouzeau. Published in 1818, the author, Rouzeau, wrote a brief work on economic, political and social conditions in Haiti at the time. According to Rouzeau, it would have been impractical, expensive and unsuccessful for France to try to reconquer Haiti militarily. Instead, he focused on an alternative that would foment France's economic advantages in Haiti. 

Part of this included a rather grandiose idea of France freeing its colonies in the Americas and promoting a federation arrangement that would encourage trade with the metropole. Obviously, things did not quite work out according to Rouzeau's proposition to the French king, but it is important for recognizing how unfeasible a French military conquest of the island would be. Even with a lengthy blockade, France might still lose the conflict if other European powers drew their attention to other affairs. Moreover, the mountainous terrain and climate would make things difficult for French troops. Even against barefoot Haitian soldiers, which would have included over 30,000 in Petion's state (and about 30,000 in Christophe's kingdom), the French would have struggled to hold the island. Once the conflict ended, all that would be left is ruins, and France would have had few means of rebuilding the colony's agriculture. 

Besides his ideas about France's future in the Americas and how to increase their economic advantages in Haiti, there are a number of details here on Port-au-Prince, Les Cayes, Jacmel, Leogane, and the exports of each area. Throughout, one finds allusions to the conflict with Christophe in the Nord. Although Rouzeau was not able to visit Christophe's kingdom, which he dismissed as a barbaric despotism, he did note that people fleeing the Nord for the republic was a constant factor. Indeed, some of the officers in Petion's guard were said to have been individuals who fled Christophe's kingdom. While the Republic lacked proper regulations and laws to encourage agriculture and worker-proprietor relations, and sucreries (about 70 in the Cul-de-Sac plain) were not as productive as they could be, Christophe's kingdom did not pay ouvriers on the estates enough. In fact, Rouzier hypocritically referred to Christophe's treatment of the masses as a horror unequaled in the annals of Saint Domingue. This is rich, since the history of slavery was so recent. 

A History of the Khipu

Galen Brokaw's A History of the Khipu endeavors to outline the known history of the khipu through an interdisciplinary approach. Such an approach is necessary given the fact that there is so much to the khipu that is unknown or poorly understood. By drawing from various disciplines like anthropology, history, literacy studies, media studies, theories of Quechua ontology of numbers, and archaeology, one can surmise certain features of the khipu. Indeed, by viewing khipu as a medium with different genre conventions across time and place, Brokaw's review of the history of this particular non-alphabetic medium can emphasize its semiotic heterogeneity over the longue durée. This encompasses all that is known of pre-Hispanic Andean khipu as well as the survival and transformation of khipu in the colonial and independence eras. 

Perhaps most important for our interests is the emphasis on growing sophistication of khipu for recording different types of information in the Wari and Inca empires. Earlier forms of Andean semiosis through Wari architectural, Moche inscribed beans, yupana counting boards and textile patterns of the Wari civilization are all significant, but with the rise of larger, imperial political systems in the Andean region, the need for different types of khipu to record information necessary for the bureaucracy became paramount. While the Wari khipu are not the same as that of the Inca, who may have developed even more genre conventions such as imperial khipu historiographical "texts" and more refined census, tribute, and calendrical khipu, there does appear to be a correlation between more developed khipu literacies and state formation and administrative needs. This is not to deny the earlier forms of semiosis through features like inscribed beans analyzed by Brokaw in the early chapter on the Moche.

After the Spanish conquest, khipu use persisted. However, with the demise of the Inca political system, certain genres, like historiographical khipu used for recounting the past of the Inca rulers, gradually disappeared. Khipu genres used for census purposes or recording tribute, however, were used by the Spanish colonial system. These genres provided necessary information for the system of encomiendas and the visitas across various regions of the Andes. Of course, the khipu had to be adapted since the Spanish tribute system was not the same as that of the Inca one. Moreover, despite past scholarship's emphasis on the Third Lima Council's alleged "ban" on khipu, Brokaw cites numerous sources (Jesuit and other) on the use of confessional khipu or khipu use promoted by the Church to further evangelize the Indians. This suggests that khipu was never banned outright, despite some discomfort or hesitation about "idolatrous khipu" used for the worship of huacas or unease about the prominence of indigenous community leaders in carrying out Church functions. Nonetheless, it becomes quite clear that khipu use continued throughout the colonial period. 

After 1650, clear references to the khipu in the colonial archive become rare. Brokaw elucidates this pattern quite well, demonstrating that it was due to the colonial state relying less on the types of information supplied by the khipu, the growth of alphabetic literacy among indigenous communities, and the dissolution of indigenous community organizations based on indigenous principles. Brokaw additionally explains why the way pastoral khipu are used today in parts of the Andes may differ from the khipu of the Inca era. In short, many scholars ignore the diversity in genre of khipu, and the role of a large state system in codifying certain types of khipu genres for its purposes. Once the Inca state disappeared, these types of khipu records gradually dissolved with it, leaving behind local khipu records of the genre used by indigenous communities for keeping track of camelid herds or recording tribute obligations.

Finally, Brokaw seems less confident about the possibility of fully cracking the "code" of khipu. Given the diversity of genres and how perhaps the most complex narrative khipu seem to have disappeared by the 1600s, the "code" for cracking one genre of khipu may not be useful for "reading" other genres. Each genre followed its own conventions, and historians and archaeologists will have to uncover more khipu artifacts, colonial-era transcriptions, or other types of evidence to fully understand this highly complex medium. 

Indian Division

One thing that requires further study is the indigenous division in the Dominican form of Vodou. Apparently absent in Haiti, the existence of an entire division of spirits associated with the indigenous past of Hispaniola (and water) is interesting for what it may suggest about indigenous Taino spirituality surviving today. The few writings we have found on it are the work of Carlos Esteban Deive on Dominican Vodou, Martha Ellen Davis's work, and an article by Geo. Ripley. Additional mentions of indigenous features in Dominican spirituality and religious practice can be found in Lundius and Lundahl's study of the Palma Sola movement as well as Jana Pesoutova's Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. Undoubtedly, additional works exist, but of varying quality and often difficult to locate. As for the appearance of Indian spirits in Haitian Vodou, the only account we know of is a short article by Odette Roy Fombrun of questionable reliability. 

From Deive's account, the Indian Division included spirits or luases like Agalla Dulce, India de Agua Azul, Caonabo, Cayacoa, Enriquillo, Guaroa, Hatuey, Mencia, Hacuai Danto, Guarionex, Carmela, Carmelina Dansoleil, Guacanagarix, Tamayo and a chief of the division, Gamao. Obviously, several of these were caciques of Hispaniola at the time of Spanish arrival or early resisters to the encomienda system and colonial oppression (Enriquillo, Tamayo). Intriguingly, at least one has a name of Haitian Creole origin and a few appear to be linked to water (Agua Azul) or perhaps places or springs. Agalla Dulce, intriguingly, brings to mind a possible etymology of the word cemi, linking it to the concept of sweetness. However, the vast majority of the spirits listed here are "deified" historical persons. A similar concept can be found in Haitian Vodou, which includes Dessalines as a lwa (not to mention the West African origins of some spirits, which can be traced to figures who were deified in the past (Chango, or Shango, anyone?). 

What about Davis, the author of La Otra ciencia? According to Davis, the Indian Division emphasizes water and has an ecological aspect that may reflect animistic influences. She further specified that in the capital, Santo Domingo, historic caciques were worshipped, like Anacaona. In this case, the service to cacique/lwa was akin to the appearance of Indians in Espiritismo. In the Southwest of the Dominican, in areas like San Juan de la Maguana, more Indian spirits can be found, yet they are not, from what we can tell, caciques. Davis's view here finds further support from Pesoutova's work, which emphasizes traditions of Indian spirits in locales like Banica or in the San Juan de la Maguana region. It would seem that two distinct traditions of Indian spirits exist here, if Davis is correct. 

What about the Indian Division according to Lundahl and Lundius? They mentioned the leader of the Indian Division in Dominican Vodou as a spirit called Tinyó, or Gamao. Interestingly, he also has a name of Creole origin, Le Gran Solei, and a chromolithograph of St. Nicolas of Bari is used for him. They additionally specify the importance of Indian spirits in the Dominican Southwest, particularly in the valley of San Juan de la Maguana. This includes practices associated with the large Corral de Los Indios as well as rites and rituals tied to the memory of Caonabo and Anacaona. One particular spot in this area of the country, La Agüita, was associated with St. John the Baptist and a number of Indian spirits. Again, there is an association with water (here believed to have healing properties) and Indian spirits, as well as syncretism with Catholic and African beliefs. 

Although much more research remains to be done on the Indian Division, it does seem to reflect a mix of old, animistic properties and belief in spirits tied to Dominican folk belief (and pre-Columbian religion). The appearance of lwa named after historic caciques might be the result of a mixture of Vodou, Espiritismo, and Dominican folk belief, perhaps explaining why it was more evident in the area of the capital, according to Davis. Either way, if Ripley, who included a ceremonial song for the Indian Division in a short essay, is believed, "Indio soy, vivo en el monte huyendo porque los españoles me van siguiendo." The Indian as ancestor, symbol, and spirit is clearly relevant today in the Dominican Republic.