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.

Voltaire's Alzire

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

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

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

Inka History in Knots

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

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

History of the Inca Realm

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

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

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

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

The Word for Farm Is Forest

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

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

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

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

The Last of the Haitians

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

Exploring the Amazon

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

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

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

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