Indigenous Passages to Cuba

Jason Yaremko's Indigenous Passages to Cuba, 1515-1900 is a fascinating study of Amerindian migration to colonial Cuba. Focusing on indigenous peoples from Florida, northern New Spain, and the Yucatan, Yaremko highlights the multinational character of Cuba's indigenous past. Besides the local Taino legacy, indigenous peoples from the mainland also contributed to the making of Cuba. Yaremko's study is an early step in this process of uncovering how Cuba, and the Caribbean, have been intimately connected to indigenous peoples from the mainland in ways that shaped Cuban creolization and economic development. 

Calusa, Creek, and others in Spanish Florida frequently traveled to Havana and, in some cases, relocated permanently to the island. Close collaboration and even intermarriage between Cuban fishermen and local Indians along Florida's coast, led to long-lasting ties between indigenes of Florida and largest island in the Antilles. After Florida changed hands to the British, Florida's indigenes who had close ties to Cuba persisted in traveling to the island on their own vessels or the ships of Cuban fishermen. According to Yaremko, these Creek and other Indians came to Cuba in order to trade, pursue diplomatic interests, play the Spanish against the British, and, eventually, relocate to the island. Indeed, some of these populations ended up in Guanabacoa, one of the older, originally Taino towns. 

Besides indigenous peoples from Florida, so-called Apaches and "wild Indians" from the north of New Spain also came to Cuba. Unlike those of Florida, these Apaches or Chichimecos were involuntary migrants. Deported by the Spanish colonial government in the 18th century to pacify the region, their labor was sought in Cuba. Cuba, an increasingly important Spanish colony for its location, defensive fortifications, and growing economy, absorbed these Indians. Their manual and domestic labor was defined differently than the chattel slavery system used for those of African descent. However, the Apaches were brought to Cuba against their will.

The remainder of the book focuses on Yucatecan Maya migration to Cuba. Beginning with 16th century enslavement and the role of the Maya in early Havana's Campeche ward, the Maya have contributed to the multicultural, multinational nature of indigenous Cuba for 500 years. Archaeological and archival sources indicate a Maya presence in post-contact Taino communities, too. However, the Yucatecan Maya migration was not always one of outright slavery. The large-scale importation of Yucatec laborers after the beginning of the Caste War in Mexico was a form of indentured labor. Exploiting the women for domestic labor and the men in a variety of capacities, mainly in westenr Cuba, the indentured Maya migration was subject to various abuses and corruption from officials and private actors in Cuba and Mexico. Nonetheless, the Maya drew on their own ancient traditions and patterns of resistance to challenge their exploitation. Some of their descendants can still be found at Madruga, and we know some Yucatec Maya participated in palenque settlements, petitions, and flight to assert their rights and to honor contracts with employers in Cuba. 

Although one may wonder at times about the utility of the James Scott-inspired desire to find resistance in every aspect of the three aforementioned indigenous experiences in colonial Cuba, the history of non-Taino indigenous peoples in Cuba is an under-appreciated aspect of Cuban history. Moreover, the Cuban case may be illustrative of similar patterns for the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. While Cuba may have received more indigenous slaves and voluntary migrants overall than the rest of the Spanish Caribbean, there may be a similar history of Amerindian migration through slavery, convict labor, or voluntary migration. Certainly the case of French Saint Domingue indicates another tale of indigenous passages to the Antilles, albeit mostly as slaves. Despite its obvious differences with Spanish Cuba, clearly there is a larger story of indigenous movement to the Caribbean that is often left out of the picture. Now, if only we had more sources to assist with understanding the complex processes in which the Taino and Indians from other parts of the Americas interacted in the colonial era in Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, we might learn something new about the multifaceted indigenous legacy. 

"Indiens" in Early Saint Domingue

Although our attention at the blog has shifted to other topics of concern, we could not resist sharing some brief sources on "Indiens" in colonial Saint-Domingue. In this case, all appear in the late 1690s or early 1700s in Leogane, in baptism and marriage registries. ANOM has digitized registries from various parishes, but these stood out to us in our past "research" on the topic of "Amerindians" in Saint-Domingue. We hope these brief entries contribute to our previous longer article on the subject.

We shall begin with Grégoire Louis, an "Indien" who married a widow, Marie Antoine, in 1696. Both spouses were "Indien" but the origin was only specified for Grégoire Louis. St. Marthe could be a reference to Santa Marta on the Colombian coast in South America. If so, Grégoire Louis may have been an enslaved captive taken during French raids on the Spanish mainland colonies. Unfortunately, this short marriage record does not include information on Grégoire Louis's occupation or possible connections in Leogane parish. One can speculate that he somehow acquired his freedom, and that some "Indien" people sought marriage partners in the same colonial ascriptive racial category.

Our next case, Louis Charles, baptized in 1705, is worth considering. Unfortunately, we are given no record of his origin or background. Despite the small chance he came from India, we shall include Louis Charles as an example of an "Amerindian" in Saint-Domingue. That he was baptized as an adult and specified as "free" tells us that Louis Charles may have been formerly enslaved beginning in his adulthood. Alternatively, he could have never been a slave. Moreover, his godparents included connected people, such as the wife of the governor, Charles Auger. His godfather's occupation as a ship captain might indicate that Louis Charles was a sailor or perhaps some other occupation that brought him into contact with connected individuals. Perhaps he was a free laborer on French ships?

Another Grégoire, but this time a mestif. Baptized in 1701, Grégoire was the child of a "white" and a "free Indian" named Michelle. Identified as a "fils naturel" in this document, we know that his parents were not married. However, his father recognized him as his child, named him after himself, and the race of his godparents was not included. Jeanne Loppez, however, might have been a native of Veracruz, Cartagena, or another Spanish colonial city in the Caribbean region. Perhaps Grégoire's mother also came to the colony from a Spanish possession. While one might think some stigma was attached to mixed-race persons of "Indian" and white origin, perhaps in Saint-Domingue during the early 1700s, "mestizos" escaped much of the discrimination associated with "mulattoes" (the indelible stain of African ancestry). Of course, the reality on the ground is always quite different from what is written on papers, legal codes, and constitutions...

Our last case will be that of another mestive of partial "Indian" origin. Like Grégoire, her father was white, but her mother, Léonarde, was a free Indian. She was their "natural" child, presumably born around 1692 or so. One wonders if her "Indian" mother may have been one of the women taken from French raids on the Yucatan or perhaps what is now Colombia? Or, perhaps, a woman from the Lesser Antilles or North American mainland brought to the island? 

Sadly, most of the sources we have attempted to use to trace "Indiens" in Saint-Domingue were not specific with their origins. Unless specifying Carib or, in the case of Asian Indians, a part of the subcontinent, one must find other ways for trying to trace the birthplace of "Amerindians" in the colony. Clearly, they were present. And the vast majority were from other parts of the Americas, ruling out any continuity from the indigenous peoples of Hispaniola (except for the Spanish part of the island). We here are wondering exactly how many Natchez, Fox, Pawnee, Caribs, and other "Indians" reached Saint Domingue?

Amazonian Routes

Heather Roller’s Amazonian Routes analyzes indigenous mobility and resilience during the second half of the 18th century in northern Brazil. Focusing her study on the period of the Directorate, when mission settlements transitioned to the control of secular authorities, Roller explores the nuances of resistance, resilience, and ethnogenesis. The impact of the transition to secular rule, the importance of expeditions as opportunities for mobility and agency among Indians, the role of Indians in the founding of descimentos, absentees as part of the pattern of mobility, and struggles for autonomy in the aftermath of the Directorate’s abolition are the examples of Roller’s argument of an interplay between mobility and community as part and parcel of Indian resilience and adaptation to colonialism.

The impact of the transition to the Directorate, in addition to the role of expeditions on behalf of the colonial state, marked a shift in which attempts were made to impose Portuguese, establish forms of labor tribute through state-sponsored collecting expeditions around the region for cacao and other profitable material while attempting to control the movement of the population in the various settlements. Instead of seeing the labor requirements on lengthy expeditions as part of a process of colonial domination, Roller presents evidence of Indian agency through expeditions as a means of traveling to other communities, as opportunities to avoid other settlement obligations. In a similar fashion, Indios aldeados, often with the connivance of local administrators, took advantage of absenteeism to avoid obligations in one community by moving to others. New settlements, or descimentos, also became important for communities as gente nova were incorporated into communities. Furthermore, mixed-race people and non-natives joined these flexible settlements, complicating the question of service obligations and vagrancy.

Concluding with the impact of privatization of land and enterprises previously managed by povoações after the Directorate is terminated, Roller alludes to the problem of seeing Amazonian indigenous communities as only victims rather than resilient peoples whose mobility complemented community formation. Indigenous communities took advantage of their environment, as well as the colonial state itself, to retain or form new relationships. Viewing the history of the region solely through the lens of Indian flight from colonial incursions omits the plethora of strategies indigenous communities exploited in their colonial sphere.

Roller’s use of textual sources, perhaps the most intriguing aspect of her monograph, exemplifies how one can write the history of peoples who did not leave written records. Reading between the lines of the testimonies of native crewmen in forest collecting expeditions, for example, the author can give voice, albeit mediated, to Indian men. Although not an unbiased source, these testimonies provide some insight into the ways indigenous men voluntarily joined forays that meant several months away from their families. Moreover, they voice the concerns of native men against cabos (or their complicity with them) directly, buttressing her larger argument of indigenous resilience and mobility as complementary factors.

Equally important to Roller’s argument, the role of environment in unique ecosystem in which mobility is required due to the soil and one in which commercial agriculture is limited in the 18th century, also raises important questions on the nature of colonialism in northern Brazil and social formation among the myriad indigenous communities. Like Spalding in the Andes, who saw the Andean geography as one necessitating reciprocal relations, the riverine geography is indispensable to northern Brazil. Mobility, aided by rivers and streams, facilitated social connections across a large region, creating links across a vast waterway system the Portuguese could not completely control. Though not positing an environmentally determinist explanation, Roller achieves a fine balance between environment shaping social formation as a factor in indigenous resilience. 

La Charca

Although the translation of La Charca has its problems, it's a wonderful way to learn about rural Puerto Rico in the 19th century through literature. The peasantry depicted in this highland barrio are depicted as sick beings under colonial society. However, author Manuel Zeno Gandia included the landowner elites as part of the problem of this stunted, ailing society. Blackness is largely omitted here, although the racially mixed campesinos, presented as descendants of the indigenous population and European conquerors, are the racialized others who are compared to black slaves.  In many respects, this novel brings to mind Salvador Brau's writings about the mixed-race peasantry of Puerto Rico and their indolence inherited through indigenous forebears. And though the novel's critical of the Spanish colonial period, it's also critical of greed and unbridled capitalism, represented by Andujar and Galante. 

However, for this blogger, this tragic novel, in which Silvina appears to be an allegory for the island of Puerto Rico, beaten, abused, violated and manipulated by others, brought to mind Zoune in Justin Lhérisson's novel. Like Silvina, her peasant upbringing was one of abuse, illness, and ignorance, but Haitian writers, for the most part, were less likely to invest themselves in racial theories of degeneration to explain the appalling conditions in which post-emancipation Caribbean peasants often faced. But the narrator of Lhérisson's novel, when commenting on the improvements in the physical, mental, and social development of Zoune after living in a proper home, suggests optimism. In the case of La Charca, Juan, Padre Esteban, and the town doctor debate different solutions for the Puerto Rican peasant "problem," never coming to an agreement on if the solution will be found in "public" wealth, religion, or physical health and nourishment. Needless to say, hacendados like Juan are part of the problem, despite their self-proclaimed liberalism. 

Yet, despite the pessimism and theories of racial miscegenation operating in the novel, one cannot help but feel that there is some hope of change for Puerto Rico, even as the rising world of business and profit did proceed to further immiserate the Puerto Rican countryside. Moreover, as part of realist and naturalist literature, the novel is a priceless document of the daily lives, customs, entertainment, and conflicts of the campesinos in Puerto Rico's highlands. This author couldn't help but think of Bonó's El montero, which is set in a rural Dominican peasant setting, although the influence of Romanticism is stronger. The florid prose vividly brings to life Puerto Rico's beauty in the midst of its anemic, diseased coffee world. 

Making of Dominican Culture

Dominican Cultures: The Making of a Caribbean Society is an English translation of a collection of lectures and essays from leading Dominican scholars, edited by Bernardo Vega. I found it to be very useful as an introductory text, particularly regarding the rise of 'Creole' culture in the colonial period and its ties to the colonial system of agriculture and labor in the hatos. Vega's essay on indigenous contributions to Dominican culture were particularly enlightening, although limited to agriculture (the conuco system), certain crops, names of places or geographic features, the siting of towns, the bohio, and possibly the Dominican variant of Vodou (Taino allegedly appear as lwa (luas).

The subsequent essays discuss the Spanish contribution, African contributions, cultural creolization, the impact of various immigrant groups (Haitians, cocolos, Arabs, Germans, Italians, Dutch, Spanish, Puerto Ricans, etc.), and finally, change and modernization in the 20th century. Most essays offered a relatively balanced overview of these cultural changes over time, but Deive's essay on African cultural contributions to music, dance, religion, cuisine, language, and social life described blacks in outdated, stereotypical ways.

Overall, this serves as an exceedingly accessible source for anyone in need of an introduction to Dominican studies. Indigenous, African, Spanish, and immigrant groups helped shape the contours of dominicanidad in such a manner that reveals surprising facts, while also serving as an example of the complex dynamics that created our modern world.

Palace of the Peacock

"I had felt the wind rocking me with the oldest uncertainty and desire in the world, the desire to govern or be governed, rule or be ruled for ever."

Guyanese author Wilson Harris's Palace of the Peacock is extraordinarily complex, multi-layered, and perfectly responds to Conrad's Heart of Darkness.  Instead of the Congo, Harris takes us to the jungles of Guyana where Donne and his mixed-race crew pursue Mariella, his woman who left him to stay at the Mission. I had read elsewhere Harris's Hegelian dualism permeates the novel, but as it appears in Harris's prose, its relevance to the impact of colonialism on Guyana becomes ever clearer. Harris intelligently uses the indigenous population and their worldview with respect, too, forming an excellent rebuttal to Conrad. 

Donne and his crew are already dead, existing between life and death on the river (also identified as a river of life, stream of death), a significant theme for the novel's dualism. Alive and dead, heaven and hell, native and non-native, Harris uses dualism to argue for a synthesis of states of binary oppositions, an apt metaphor for colonial society. The 'palace of the peacock' is an astounding symbol for the novel's powerful conclusion, which ends with a seven day search for the indigenous population of Mariella Mission, the laborers Donne exploits and treats cruelly, in spite of his own dark skin. The novel's somewhat ambiguous ending of revelations for the deceased crew are highly suggestive of the colonial society in which Guyana exists. Will they share the land, for example? The ambiguous fate of the Guyanese society is left open to the reader's interpretation, but an optimistic future seems to be the overall message.  

Along the way the world of polar opposites, life and death, peace and conquest lead to trouble among the crew of the vessel. The unstable narration (the unnamed narrator, the Dreamer) mirrors the liminal space occupied by the characters, already dead, as they endeavor to catch up with the Arawaks who flee while dying again in pursuit (and pursued) of their various dreams. Love, race, incest, the search for fortune are some other themes important to the crew. Despite their mixed racial origins, they too perpetuate discriminatory views of the indigenous population, yet rely on an old Arawak woman as their guide along the river. 

Eschewing conventions of the novel form, Harris's first novel can be quite difficult to follow, but it's beautifully written, possesses all of the complex symbolism of Conrad's novel, and avoids any dehumanizing language. As a Caribbean writer of African descent who foregrounds the indigenous population of the region, Harris's novel is also conspicuous as one of the few from the Anglophone Caribbean for including Arawak characters and mythology, an untapped reservoir for Caribbean literature. 

Mitología y religion de los taínos

Mitología y religion de los taínos by Sebastian Robiou Lamarche is yet another study of Taino mythology and religion that analyzes Ramón Pané. Building off the pioneering scholarship of Arrom and Robiou Lamarche's past research, the author divides Taino mythology into 4 cycles while offering plausible interpretations of various episodes. The usual themes of the gemelos divinos, the origin of women, Guahayona as a cultural hero, and perhaps astronomical significance of Taino myths are expounded with South American parallels. Unfortunately, we found this essay to be a too similar to other studies of Ramón Pané and Taino mythology to be distinctive. The useful glossary and the distinct visuals and pictures designed by the author's daughter were certainly interesting, however. In short, Taino myth and religion, at least the fragments of it recorded by Ramón Pané and revealed by ethnohistoric and archaeological analysis, demonstrate that Taino religion and cosmovision was central to the established of a hierarchical cacicazgo that developed to its greatest degree in Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. The triad of cohoba, cacique, and cemi were the lynchpins of Taino religion and myth, and all can be said to justify a political order in which the "solarized" cacique emerged supreme. Perhaps one day new sources or studies of Taino material culture and iconography can tell us more about this cosmovision.

Youthful Thoughts on Taino DNA and Indigeneity

While perusing old papers and documents in various Google Drive accounts, I came across an old essay on Taino revivalism in Puerto Rico. This has inspired me to revisit some of my past interests in the precolonial Caribbean, as well as the legacy of the indigenous inhabitants. Needless to say, I find a continued interest in the alleged "Taino" DNA in contemporary Puerto Ricans, which the above video contributes to. None of this is new at all. A quick perusal of travel accounts, traditions, and histories of Puerto Rico often allude to the "Indian" inheritance among the Puerto Rican population. Whether or not it was really traceable to the Taino was unknown, since Europeans imported "Amerindian" captives from other parts of the Americas to their Caribbean colonies. But, it was often alleged that the Puerto Rican jibaro possessed Indian blood, by everyone from Schoelcher to Salvador Brau. 

Of course, given the demographics of the early colonial Spanish Caribbean, it is no surprise that many of the current populations in Puerto Rico are descendants of European males, Indian women, and Africans who formed the nucleus of the colonial populations in the 16th century. Indeed, I suspect my Hispanic Caribbean roots to consist of a mixture of African, European and probable Indian ancestry through a family lineage that has been in the Caribbean for several centuries (I must confess, I lost interest in the 1700s, but they were likely established in Puerto Rico since the 1600s or 1500s). However, recent advances in analysis of pre-Columbian Puerto Rican remains do suggest there is some continuity between the earlier indigenes of Puerto Rico and populations living there today. Moreover, one should suspect many aspects of rural life in the Caribbean today resemble or inherited aspects of indigenous agricultural practices, particularly since they were the ones who likely showed Europeans and Africans the ropes in adapting to Caribbean environments. Who knows, it is even possible that some of the folklore of the region has inherited bits and pieces of our Amerindian past, although I am unsure how one could ever prove it.

So, why do groups like neo-Taino organizations endeavor to revive the indigenous past or legacy when it was so quickly incorporated into new colonial identities forged by European colonialism and enslavement of Africans? In my past ramblings on this subject, I linked it to a theory of indigeneity as performance, indigeneity and sovereignty, and re-racialization of genetic science on the part of gene fetishists. An example of the first is a National Indigenous Festival of Jayuya, in which a beauty pageant consists of contestants dressing themselves up in ways that allegedly resemble those of the indigenous population. Needless to say, contestants believed to look like the Tainos were favored, and the whole charade links Taino-ness to the performance of stereotyped traits. Neo-Taino groups have also attempted to perform indigeneity through the reinvention of rituals, clothing styles, and language to counter narratives of Taino extinction. The performance of a "Taino" identity is, through the aforementioned practices and rituals, legitimated as an expression of group identity, even if they lack any degree of historical veracity. However, if identity truly is just performance, then one can understand and even recognize indigenous performativity on the part of some Puerto Ricans as being as legitimate as the official, tri-racial discourse of Puerto Rican national identity (which, needless to say, is also problematic and creates it own demons of racial inequality).

It also comes into play as an expression of sovereignty. Indeed, since the 19th century, writers of the Spanish Caribbean have utilized the indigenous past for expressions of their own nationalism. Invoking the caciques of the past, or the brutality of the Spanish conquest, could serve the greater cause of independence and nation-making for the diverse, subjugated colonial populations of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. Attempts in the 20th and 21st century to revive outright Taino identities can also serve this purpose of sovereignty and self-rule for Puerto Ricans living under US rule on the island or in economically and racially marginalized spaces in the US mainland. Indeed, assertions of indigeneity lend weight to Puerto Rican demands for reparations, independence, and alternatives to the official historical narrative. Unsurprisingly, the historical record will always contain its errors or blank spaces, but indigenous revivalism forces society to remember the silencing of indigenous lives after European conquest, reasserting the rights of subaltern voices and their descendants. Even if some of the proponents of indigenous revivalism commit themselves to gene fetishism and reinscribing "race" to understanding DNA, they are hardly alone for using genes or "race" to determine membership or status of indigenous communities. 

To conclude the aforementioned thoughts, the question of indigenous identity and, increasingly, the use of science and DNA to justify said claims, are more interesting for the motivations rather than outright rejection or refusal. Although some of the attempted revivals and historical scholarship are inherently problematic and, in some cases, questionable or false, indigeneity remains a dynamic concept. It cannot be simply stuck in the past with the expectation of "racial" homogeneity over time and a specific place or land attached to it. Identities are too flexible and permeable to allow for such an understanding, past or present. In truth, the pre-colonial peoples of the Caribbean were too diverse and mobile to allow for such a simplistic view. Further, it clearly resonates with groups living in colonial conditions today, just as it did for 19th century independence movements. Perhaps the idea of indigeneity in Haiti is of applicable interest here. In the Haitian case, the leaders of the revolutionary army invoked indigeneity, too, calling their army an indigenous one. Later Haitian writers picked up the theme again, invoking Haitianness as "indigenous." For Dessalines and subsequent Haitians, Haiti avenged the "Amerindian" inhabitants of the island and claimed the space for themselves as a sovereign state, directly linking indigeneity with sovereignty. For the most part, Haitians do not claim direct ancestry from the Taino, but we too have a complex relationship of our own with the idea of indigeneity and anti-colonialism. Perhaps that's the best definition of indigeneity we can arrive at for the Caribbean, one that is mobile, diverse, and opposed to colonialism. 

Olga and the Vortex Family

Desiring to read some Haitian fiction before plunging into science fiction and other topics, I came across the English translation of Jean Metellus's The Vortex Family. Translated by Michael Richardson, the text comes off as very poetic and oblique, with the occasional UK slang or expressions. The text's lack of exposition and shifting, poetic nature in its several short chapters or snippets can be occasionally beautiful and lyrical, despite its depressing themes of exile and political corruption in Haiti. Loosely based on the tumultuous falls of Estime, Magloire and Fignole, the novel focuses on the various descendants of Solon Vortex who, due to their response or involvement with politics, are forced into exile. The Vortex, descendants of Africans and Indians, are of the 'middling' sector in Haitian society that came to power in the post-1946 years, encompassing doctors, military professionals, university lecturers, teachers, chemists, and Catholic clergy.

The novel felt particularly strong when covering the fall of Estime (and Edgard Vortex), detailing the various social classes in conflict that made it seem almost inevitable that a coup would occur. The same process recurs with the fictionalized versions of Magloire and Fignole, demonstrating how Haiti's political chaos of the immediate pre-Duvalier years paved the way for the full terrors of Duvalierism. Some of the literary symbolism of the novel is also quite convincing, particularly the cockfight in Saltrou between a Dominican and a Haitian with a conclusion showing just how powerless the victor becomes. Olga, the matriarch of the Vortex family, is also worth mention. As the last descendant of an "Indian" family tracing its origins back to the Arawaks, Olga is the only character in modern Haitian fiction that I can think of who is "Amerindian." Whether or not the author actually believed there were Haitian descendants of the indigenous population who also inherited aspects of their culture is beyond my knowledge, but it is an interesting example of the Native heritage of Haiti as a living tradition, albeit still en route to extinction despite Olga's seven children. The indigenous past of the island seems to be invoked to tie together the African antecedence of Solon and the Arawak heritage of his wife to proffer the Vortex clan as the rightful heirs of Haitian autonomy. 

Despite its interesting, fictionalized interpretation of Haiti before the even more horrendous days of Duvalier, the novel's lack of exposition can, at times, make for a thinly-plotted novel. Out of nowhere, characters are suddenly targeted by the military as dissidents without any real explanation or plot development. Some passages are actually a little confusing when this occurs. But the novel makes up for its thinness with passages of rare beauty and longing for a better Haiti. Despite its shortcomings, it helps us understand the social and economic conditions that led to the Duvalier dictatorship through the lives of people who, willingly or unwillingly, found themselves engulfed in the political conflicts, coups, and civil unrest of an era of great promise.

Pardos and the "Amerindian" Origins of Puerto Ricans?

While researching Taino revivalism and read various sources on "Indian" survival and cultural legacies in the Caribbean after the conquest and demographic collapse, we came across a distant forebear who may have "indio" ancestry. It's impossible to say without confirmation from parochial books of San German and Añasco to recover his lineage, but other data suggest he was, in part, of "Indian" origin (as well as possibly African and/or European ancestry). Born ca. 1750 in Añasco to Martin Galarza and Ana Rivera, Antonio Galarza-Rivera ended up moving around to Toa Alta and, later on, San Lorenzo. According to historian and genealogist Luis Burset-Flores, he appeared in the list of soldiers in the militia list of San Lorenzo in 1811, a few times in the 1820s and possibly died in ca. 1840. Galarza-Rivera was indicated as "pardo" in the documents cited by Burset-Flores, and while residing in Toa Alta, served as a godfather to 2 pardos. 

Family Search is your best friend for genealogical and historical research.

Antonio Galarza-Rivera married twice. We are descendants of children of Galarza and his first wife, Lucia Alvarez. In fact, due to consanguinity and cousin marriages, we are descendants of Antonio Galarza-Rivera through two of our great-great-grandparents. One of them, had grandparents who were both descendants of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. Consanguinity was real, and connected us to Antonio Galarza Rivera through multiple lines. Our great-great-grandmother's grandfather and grandmother were grandchildren of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. Our great-great-grandfather's father was also, it seems, a grandchild of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. 

Antonio Galarza appears in this militia list for San Lorenzo uploaded to FamilySearch.

Where circumstantial evidence starts to suggest possible "Indian" ancestry through Antonio Galarza-Rivera is the racial classification of some of his descendants. For instance, a brother of our great-great-grandfather was listed as "mestizo" on his death certificate. Another grandchild of Galarza-Rivera was classified as "mestiza" on her death certificate. While racial labels for the thoroughly mixed-race Puerto Rican population are ambiguous, fluctuating, and often vary for people in the same family (people from the same family can be white, pardo, mulato, mestizo, raza de color), it is interesting to think of the possible "Indian" (and African) ancestry that all these people could have inherited through Antonio Galarza-Rivera (not to mention the various other "pardo" forebears these people have, going back to 17th century San Juan and its environs). 

A grandchild of Antonio Galarza-Rivera through his second wife, but her parents are listed as raza mestiza.

So, upon considering the "pardo" classification for Antonio Galarza-Rivera, as well as the "mestizo" categorization lumped upon some of his descendants, one begins to think Abbad y Lasierra was not off the mark when suggesting the high concentration of indigenous ancestry in the hills of Añasco and San German. Indeed, according to Abbad y Lasierra, the region was the last refuge for the indigenous population of the island. As he tells it, indigenous populations who fled to nearby islands in the 1500s to escape the repressive rule of Spain, later petitioned to return and were resettled in the areas of San German (especially today's Indiera) and Añasco. Brau, on the other hand, seems to think these "indios" were descendants of the "Indians" emancipated by Charles V, then settled in Cibuco. Somehow, the settlement or pueblo of Cibuco was abandoned and the "Indians" presumably moved into the hills of San German, establishing the nucleus of the future Indiera. There is some confusion about Cibuco and the origin of its "Indians." Juan Lopez de Velasco seems to think Cibuco was a pueblo founded for formerly enslaved "Indians" from other lands and not the indigenes of Puerto Rico. Despite this ambiguity, according to Abbad, it was not until much later these people (whether they were solely descendants of Tainos or descendants of Caribs and other Native peoples of the Americas brought to toil as slaves in the colony is not entirely clear) began to intermarry with people of African and European descent, in the 18th century.

Abbad on the origins of Añasco's "indios"

So, while is it hard to imagine the "indios" in the hills never intermarried with people of African and European origin before the 1700s, Abbad y Lasierra had the luxury of consulting the Church records and seeing for himself how so many of the "zambos" and "mulatos" and "mestizos" and even "whites" in Añasco by the late 18th century had "indio" ancestry. Clearly, there were "blancos de la tierra" in Puerto Rico, those who were socially accepted as "white" but who had "indio" and African ancestry. Furthermore, if Abbad y Lasierra is accurate, what happened in Añasco occurred throughout the island as whites married 'indios" and then blacks, mulatos, etc. This process must have begun early in the 16th century, when Europeans and Africans on the island experienced severe gender ratio imbalances and must have reproduced with indigenous and "Indian" women. 

Abbad y Lasierra in his Viaje a la América, describing the once high 'indio' population in the mountains of Añasco that has intermarried with blacks and whites.

Thus, when one takes into consideration the descriptions of Añasco by Abbad y Lasierra, and the continued existence of "indios" around San German in the late 1700s, one can surmise Antonio Galarza Rivera likely had "indio" forebears who were intermarrying with blacks and/or whites by the time Añasco was founded in 1700s. Perhaps Galarza Rivera was a "zambo" of some sort, and Abbad y Lasierra would have not counted him as "indio" due to racial mixture with other castas. Of course, without access to parish records of Añasco and San German, one cannot confirm this theory. But it seems probable given the other evidence and the testimony of Abbad y Lasierra. And if true, it does point to more recent "Indian" ancestry among contemporary Puerto Ricans and the process in which "indios" became pardos through interracial marriage and outmigration.

Return of the Native and Latin America National Identity

Beginning with the independence struggles, Earle’s text examines the use of the feather-crowned Indian princess, Inca sun symbols across South America, narratives of Spanish conquest and colonialism as three centuries of tyranny, and the preconquest era as a past of freedom for revolutionaries. Hence, romanticized notions of the Incas or the preconquest societies as idealized groups wronged by Spanish colonialism became part of the invented past for a creole nationalism. However, Earle is careful to note how this changed over time as liberals and conservatives in various moments and locations appropriated the pre-colonial societies while maintaining their own elite positions and access to power, regardless of the lofty rhetoric used in praise of the preconquest civilizations or the metaphorical use of the Indian as a step-father in the patria. This pattern of continuing to privilege Iberian cultural practices in Spanish America while simultaneously appropriating the Indian as national symbol remains a constant throughout the period, even if masked in the language of cosmic race or mestizaje as in the case of Vasconcelos or attempts to “Mexicanize” the Indian under the presidency of Lázaro Cárdenas.

      Two possible shortcomings of Earle’s book consist in the inconsistent and weak inclusion of the Spanish Caribbean and the negligence of Afro-descendants in the nations she examines. Surely, part of this reflects the different conditions in the Caribbean such as later dates of independence, but certain parallels continue in those regions where the indigenous population was no longer a factor. For instance, the appeal of the Taino in the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico has been part of national myths, not to mention the Museo del Hombre in Santo Domingo’s extensive collection of pre-conquest Hispaniolan artifacts. Although Earle briefly mentions the use of the Indian in pro-independence Cuban sentiments in the middle of the 19^th century, a fuller inclusion of Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic would have added some nuance to her narrative as well as the role of race in regions with large populations of African descent like the Caribbean.

Agueybana Musical Tribute

This blog's ongoing obsession with the Taino continues. This time, it's a catchy song in honor of Agüeybaná.

Commemorating Anacaona

Surprisingly beautiful tribute to Anacaona from the Lecuona Cuban Boys. We will have to find out if there are more songs commemorating caciques from the 1930s. 

Indigenous Themes and the Hispanic Caribbean

Jalil Sued Badillo's essay, "The Theme of the Indigenous in the National Projects of the Hispanic Caribbean", published in Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings should be required reading for anyone and everyone interested in Taino revivalism, Puerto Rican cultural identity, the rise of the mixed-race Creole culture of the peasantry by the 17th century, and nationalism in the Spanish Caribbean setting. Sued Badillo makes a convincing case for the survival, persistence and cultural reproduction of indigenous Puerto Rican and Caribbean peoples well after the mid-1500s. But, over time, this social and cultural reproduction became something new that people of European and African origin also participated in, leading to the distinct Creole identities of Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic. This, in turn, became a central theme for the construction of national identities, as the peasantry best represented the continuity with the indigenous past and the ""national" character. As illustrated in Sued Badillo's article, 19th century Puerto Rican nationalists called the jibaros of Borinquen the children of Agueybana.

For our interests, Sued Badillo's documentation of "Indian" communities after the middle of the 16th century was most important. It was not solely in Cuba, where "Indian" pueblos and barrios existed long after 1600. For instance, on Hispaniola, he mentions the "Indian" pueblo of Boya, an attempt by Hispaniola encomienda "Indians" to form another town, and the prominence of "Indians" and "mestizos" in western Hispaniola, where smuggling and contraband with other Europeans was common, leading to some mestizos and "mulatos" becoming wealthy. Indeed, this probably explains why Samuel de Champlain, writing in 1599, mentions "Indians" in Hispaniola who trade with the French. These "Indians" and mestizos who continued to trade with Europeans and develop their own contraband economy were also part of the creation of a new creole identity on Hispaniola as "Indians" and mestizos were joined by people of African descent that resisted the colonial government in Santo Domingo. One can see the rustic "monteros" of the 19th and 20th century Dominican Republic emerging from these forebears.

Moreover, something similar occurred in colonial Puerto Rico just as colonial officials were proclaiming the disappearance of "Indians" and mestizos. Some did so, as pointed out by Sued Badillo, to mask the fact that they continued to purchase and exploit enslaved "Indians" from other lands long after the New Laws of 1542. Such an honor appears to apply to the governor of Puerto Rico in the 1560s. Sued Badillo points out the persistence of "Indian" and mestizo communities such as the Quebrada de Dona Catalina, near San Juan. Other "Indians" and mestizos were scattered and pushed onto marginal lands and shifted into the piedmont overlooking the coastal area. These communities, joined by people of European and African origin, gradually increased in population, engaged in subsistence agriculture and commercial exchange for local and foreign markets, and continued to influence colonial society. 

Sued Badillo's analysis of the "Indians" of Mona is likewise enlightening, for it points to indigenous survival on an island which engaged in smuggling, food production (cassava) for other Spanish colonies, and their eventual relocation to the hills of San German and nearby regions sometime before 1685. Unfortunately, Sued Badillo does not explain or speculate on what happened to the "Indian" pueblo of Cibuco, but we are of the opinion that Mona "Indians" and the former residents of the 16th century Cibuco settlement must have both ended up in the region that would eventually be named La Indiera. Perhaps the reappearance of "Indians" on censuses in the late 18th century in the San German area is related to descendants of Cibuco, Mona, and "Indian" or mestizo laborers and convicts transported to Puerto Rico from Venezuela and Mexico in the late 1600s and 1700s, but the censuses do not provide adequate information to ascertain this. An alternative and equally speculative theory could be related to land control and access, as mestizos" and people who may have had distant "Indian" ancestry in western Puerto Rico tried to defend their property or local autonomy in the late 18th century and early 19th century. 

Overall, Sued Badillo's persuasive article demonstrates not only "Indian" survival" in the Spanish Caribbean, but significant "Indian" contributions to the rise of the "mestizo" creole culture. He does not seek to romanticize it, as it was not egalitarian and suffered from some of the same racial hierarchies and problems inherent to its colonial setting. Nor does Sued Badillo seek to exaggerate the population of "Indians" or mistakenly equate jibaros with "Indians" as some Taino revivalists argue. But the indigenous population and its racially mixed-progeny provided much of the basic structure of the nascent creole identity, even as officials denied the existence of "Indians" and even "mestizos" disappear. This perspective was adopted by historians who failed to see how the social and economic conditions of the Spanish Caribbean in the late 1500s and early 1600s favored "Indians" and mestizos through contraband trade, migration away from colonial towns, and a degree of autonomy that allowed for population growth. As for the fate of "mestizos" in the region, Schwartz's article suggests it is very likely that many mestizos became whites (or perhaps even "blancos de la tierra), while others were lumped into the "pardo" category in a process seen for much of Puerto Rico by Abbad y Lasierra in the 18th century. More works remains to be done on this process, as well as the experiences of "Indians" in La Indiera during the late 18th century. 

Works Cited

Castanha, Tony. The Myth of Indigenous Caribbean Extinction: Continuity and Reclamation in Borikén (Puerto Rico). New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Schmidt, Peter R., and Thomas C. Patterson, eds. Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-western Settings. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press, 2003.

Schwartz, Stuart B. “Spaniards, ‘Pardos’, and the Missing Mestizos: Identities and Racial Categories in the Early Hispanic Caribbean.” NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 71, no. 1/2 (1997): 5–19.

Devastation of the Indies

Due to our ongoing interest in the history of the indigenous population of the Spanish Caribbean, and their legacy today, we have been endeavoring to read more of the 16th century Spanish source material. While de las Casas may have been poorly translated by Briffault in this text, we think the "gist" of de las Casas can still be useful here for understanding how the Spanish conquest of the mainland fed captives into Hispaniola, Cuba, and Puerto Rico for decades. Sure, de las Casas is unreliable on numbers and the often confusing translation misrepresents or complicates some of his accounts, but there are numerous references to the slave trade of indigenous populations across the region. Indeed, according to our author, several Indian slaves could be traded for a horse, pigs, or other items and then be used as laborers for gold mines, agriculture, or domestics in Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. 

Due to the text's emphasis on Spanish cruelty and the depopulation of the regions conquered by them, de las Casas refers to only 200 "Indian" survivors in Puerto Rico and Jamaica. Since his numbers are often imprecise or unreliable (claiming, for instance, that millions of Indians were sold in the slave trade by the time he was writing in the 1540s), and he repeats some of the same figures, we believe that it is likely that the "surviving" indigenous populations of Hispaniola and Cuba may have been much higher than 200. Particularly when one considers the large numbers of "Indians" brought to Hispaniola and Puerto Rico from the coast of Venezuela, Yucatan, Bahamas, and Florida, there must have been a large number of "Indians" who, at least for some time, maintained and "Indian" population in the Greater Antilles. Since genetic data suggests Puerto Ricans descend, in part, from pre-colonial Caribbean populations, and circum-Caribbean "Indian" populations were brought to the islands as captives, we think the genetic diversity of the Hispanic Caribbean's "Amerindian" component probably also reflects populations from northern South America, the Yucatan, Florida, and the Gulf of Paria. 

In short, de las Casas remains a powerful source on the demographic collapse of "Indies" caused by Spanish expansion and conquest. As for "Indian" survival in the Caribbean, he is weak on details, but testifies to the large-scale slave trade of indigenous populations across the hemisphere. While he turns "Indians" into reasonable beings with few flaws, constant victims of Spanish avariciousness and violence, he also describes how the separation of families, forced relocations, arduous labor regimes, and negative impact on food production must have contributed to the demographic collapse of the hemispheres. While those interested in indigenous survival in the Spanish Caribbean must take this into account, clearly not all "Indians" disappeared by the second half of the 16th century.

Ball Courts and Ceremonial Plazas in the West Indies

Although Ricardo Alegría's Ball Courts and Ceremonial Plazas in the West Indies can be rather tedious and is probably somewhat outdated by 2023, it contains a useful breakdown of the known courts and plazas in the Caribbean. Based on his earlier research, Alegría outlines the various types of plazas, their known measurements and features, and some of the distinguishing features and chronologies of their construction in the Greater Antilles. The Bahamas, Virgin Islands, and Lesser Antilles are also included, but the author did not find any convincing evidence of elaborate plazas or ball courts in the Lesser Antilles. Saint Croix's bateyes, perhaps unsurprisingly, indicate Puerto Rican influences. Cuba, on the other hand, only had evidence of ball courts in the eastern portion of the island, while Jamaica had none. Undoubtedly, Puerto Rico and Hispaniola (mainly today's Dominican Republic) loom large in the analysis. Puerto Rico contains a plethora of plazas and ball courts. The Dominican Republic likewise featured a number of well-known corrales de indios, such as that of San Juan de la Maguana or Chacuey. But much of the book's cataloging of Caribbean bateyes focuses on Puerto Rico. Due to the famous site of Caguana and the possible earliest appearance of Antillean courts in Puerto Rico sometime in the 7th century or so, this island is the key to understanding the development and spread of stone and earthwork plazas and courtyards in the Antilles.

After the catalog of known sites in the West Indies, Alegría proceeds to systematically synthesize the knowledge of ballgames using rubber balls in South America, Mesoamerica, and in Arizona, among the Hohokam. The antiquity of ballgames in South America appears rather clear, particularly in light of how widespread the game (or variants of it) is on the continent. However, the absence of archaeological evidence for ball courts or plazas of the type seen in the Antilles or Mesoamerica suggests that the Taino enclosures may have received influences from Mesoamerica. Unfortunately, the absence of evidence for Mesoamerican influences in western Cuba and Jamaica challenge this theory, but Alegría does not discount the possibility of indigenous peoples in Puerto Rico traveling to Mesoamerica. After all, the ballgame in that region appears to be oldest, with artifacts and courts themselves predating the earliest known examples in Great Antilles by several centuries. Indeed, the ceremonial and religious symbolism of the ballgame, with its lunar and solar focus, may have a parallel in the astronomical alignments of Taino ball courts and plazas. And if the Mesoamerican ballgame had already spread to Arizona by the 8th century, it is possible that it had also influenced the ballgame of Puerto Rico and Hispaniola.

Nevertheless, the question of Mesoamerican influences on Taino plazas and ball courts remains unanswered. It would perhaps be pertinent for archaeological excavations in Panama, Colombia and Venezuela to be undertaken to see if the Mesoamerican influences reached Puerto Rico indirectly via northern South America. Even if the Otomac did not construct elaborate plazas or mastered the stone carving skills of the Taino, perhaps a clue to the origins of the Antillean court can be seen via influences from Panama or Colombia. If guanin, for instance, was traded to the Greater Antilles from the region of what is now Colombia, and it is possible that some trade routes bypassed the Lesser Antilles, it is possible that the Taino "juegos de bola" may only resemble Mesoamerican courts due to South American trade partners. Furthermore, it still needs to be established that astronomical alignments of courts and plazas among the Taino possessed the same meaning as that of Mesoamerican beliefs about the sun, moon and celestial bodies. 

Haitian Allusions to Indigenous Ancestry of Dominicans

Although genetics is now confirming that most people in the Spanish Caribbean do indeed have indigenous ancestry from the native populations of the Caribbean and its surroundings, it is worthwhile to consider the various Haitian sources which have been saying the same thing about the Dominican people (and their ancestors) for over 200 years. While hardly new, it does shed light on some of the ethnic and racial dynamics that shaped Haitian perceptions of Dominicans, and the question of political union of Haiti and Spanish Santo Domingo under president Boyer. It may also serve as an additional "local" Caribbean source on the legacy of the indigenous Caribbean population in the Hispanic Caribbean. The following quotations are mostly drawn from Thomas Madiou, with a few from Beaubrun Ardouin, Emile Nau, and one from the Haitian government publication, Le Moniteur. Google Books and Gallica contain numerous works by the aforementioned 19th century Haitian historians, which should be consulted for additional information.

Here, Thomas Madiou references a local military commandant addressing the local population of San Juan de la Maguana, affirming indigenous ancestry among the contemporary population of the eastern half of the island. Not only did commandant Herrera draw on on the legacy of the cacique Henri, he claimed the indigenous population as ancestors. Such a speech indicates how "Dominicans" themselves were claiming aboriginal ancestry in the 19th century.

Here Beaubrun Ardouin references an address of Dessalines which explicitly refers to the population of the east as descendants of the Indian population of Hispaniola. Clearly, over 200 years ago, Haitians were already recognizing indigenous ancestry among Dominicans. In this case, it could be rhetorical in the sense of Dessalines and the indigenous army, unifying it politically under his rule to complete the avenging of the Americas. 

Emile Nau, a 19th century Haitian historian of the indigenous population of the island, mentions "Indian" traits among the people of the island. He specifies that it is used to describe women of mixed-blood in the east, and "ignes" in the west, who have features associated with "Amerindian" people. He admits that none of these people are "pure," but it shows how certain phenotypes were associated with "Indios" in the DR (and, to a lesser extent, Haiti). 

Here, in Le Moniteur, a Haitian refutes the claims of an American observer in the 1850s that the Dominican people are whites. Instead, the author argues that most of the population are "mulattoes" and blacks, and the "mulattoes" have indigenous ancestry. The Indians, according to this Haitian, have mixed principally with Africans. 

Thomas Madiou on the "Indian" village of Boya, where descendants of the indigenous population of the island were recognized as an Indian town by the Spanish for centuries. Madiou claims there were still "pure" Indiens there in the 1700s, but different sources suggest otherwise. Intriguingly, for the 19th century, Madiou clearly states that there are no more "pure" Indians in Boya or any other part of the island.

Here, Madiou interestingly states that the Dominicans always affirmed an indigenous origin. This, according to him, played a role in the eventual 1844 separation of the Dominican side of the island from Haitian unification. If true, this suggests that one of the reasons Dominicans may have resented Haitian rule was due to their indigenous heritage, which would have, perhaps, made them feel more legitimate in asserting their right to independence and autonomy. 

Here, while referencing Haitians traveling to Santiago and the valley of Vega Real. There, the inhabitants are more of a "mestizo" type and a "mulato" type, but a footnote on the same page references a higher proportion of "mestizos" in Seybe and Higuey, in the east of the island. 

Here, alluding to the 1844 separation, Madiou references an "Indian" sergeant named Jose del Carmen. This could be an allusion to Jose del Carmen Garcia, an uncle of Dominican historian Jose Gabriel Garcia.

In the first volume of Madiou's history of Haiti, he also mentions a fusion of Indian and Spanish "blood" among the population of the Spanish colony. This process occurred over time under the poor governance of the Spanish, but resulted in a population with "Indian" blood.

Mythology and Prehispanic Antillean Art

Arrom's Mitología y artes prehispánicas de las Antillas was less useful than we initially thought. Perhaps because we read it after absorbing Stevens-Arroyo (who, like Arrom, saw Deminan as our Taino Prometheus), Lopez-Baralt, Robiou-Lamarche and others, who were all clearly influenced by Arrom's important work, much of his seminal study is familiar territory. Nonetheless, Arrom was unquestionably important for expanding our knowledge of "Taino" culture and religion on the eve of Spanish conquest. His analysis of surviving art, together with linguistic data and the chronicles, helps us make sense of the larger Taino cosmovision and social structure. Unlike more recent scholars, Arrom did not benefit from newer anthropological theories on South American indigenous religions and worldviews. However, his detailed breakdown of Pané convincingly identifies some cemis in Taino art and the aesthetic accomplishments of precolonial Caribbean civilization. This clearly establishes the impressiveness of Taino cultures in the Greater Antilles as one of the worthy areas of pre-Columbian civilizations and part of our legacy in the region. Their skills in working with conch, stone, bone and wood reveal expert artisanry and the development of an elaborate society and worldview. Even after the disastrous encounter with Europe, several aspects of their accomplishments survive in modern Caribbean toponyms, spirituality, mythology, agriculture, and material culture.