Cemí and Religion

It looks like Jose Oliver was probably correct about the etymology of the word cemí. Rendered as chemíjn, chemijn in Breton's dictionary as the equivalent of God, the Kalinago word is undoubtedly related to the Taino cemí. Intriguingly, the word for sweet in Arawak is seme. Sweetness is translated as semehi while to cure is semechihi. A shaman is called semeti, a name whose use has been attested since the mid-16th century in Rodrigo de Navarrete's account of the Aruacas. As noted by scholars like Oliver and Goeje, a possible link to the word for sweet is very plausible in this case. 

However, we had not found a similar word for "sweet" in Kalinago or Taino to match the seme of Arawak or Lokono. Looking to Garifuna provided a possible clue. In that language, the word for tasty or delicious is semeti. Sweet is actually bimeti, which can be found in Breton's 17th century dictionary. However, the concept of sweetness definitely overlaps with that of tasty or delicious. Thus, it is possible that the word for "God" or spirits associated with positive attributes may derive from a word linked to tasty or delicious. We cannot say for sure what the Taino word for sweet or tasty was, but it was likely similar.

Looking to Taino words or concepts related to spirits and gods in the context of other South American languages is also worthwhile. For instance, goeiz as the equivalent of soul of a living person, does not have a close cognate in the other Arawakan languages or neighboring languages we consulted dictionaries for. However, Rodrido de Navarrete's account uses the word Gaguche, for souls. Ga may have signified great, and guche, soul. Perhaps a sense of this can be seen in yawahu, an Arawak word for Spirit in Bennett's dictionary? Intriguingly, Taino's word for the spirits of the dead, or hupia, has a close match in Kalinago or Island Carib's oupoyem or opoyem. In Wayuu, Spirit is aa'in while a phantom of spirit could also be called ayolojo or ayaluju. A demon or devil is yolujaa, which might be related to hupia. Garifuna uses afurugu for Spirit and mafia for devil, or fiend. Soul is uwani and ghost is ufioun. 

Palikur, on the other hand, uses uhokri and giwohkiga for God. A demon is wavitye which isn't particularly close to hupia. Surprisingly, one of the Palikur terms for God may be etymologically related to one of the Taino terms for God, Guamiquina (Great Lord, or God). This is quite different from the Hubuiri for the Great Lord in the Sky recorded by Navarrete in the 1500s for the Arawak. Indeed, we also wonder if the Palikur uhokri is also related to a part in Yucahu's full name, Yúcahu Bagua Maórocoti. Is the Maórocoti perhaps similar to uhokri, with the ma negating the rest? In Arawak, one term for God is wa-malhita-koanathi. This refers to God in the sense of our collective Father or begetter, while in Palikur, nahawkrivwi, refers to our grandparents. Perhaps the last part of Yucahu's full name really does refer to him as lacking a creator, since Yocahu was the first principle or Creator.

Cannibal encounters: Europeans and Island Caribs, 1492-1763

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

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

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

Naboria and Nabouyou

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dita in Puerto Rico

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

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

Languages of the Pre-Columbian Antilles

The collaboration of Julian Granberry and Gary Vescelius produced a short but very readable analysis of the languages of the precolonial Caribbean. Determined to see how linguistic evidence can be of assistance with tracking external and internal migration in the archipelago based on archaeological and ethnohistoric evidence, Languages of the Pre-Columbian Antilles proposes a few general theories. First, that the earliest Archaic population in the Antilles came from Central America, possibly speaking a Tolan language. A possible remnant of this ancient language presence might be attested in Hispaniola among the Ciguayo, whose word for gold, tuob, indicates a possible connection with that language family. Quisqueya, one of the indigenous names of the island of Haiti may also shouw a connection to Eastern Tol languages of Honduras. Of course, we lack enough words from the language spoken by the Ciguayo of Hispaniola to actually know for sure. But it's an interesting idea, considering the archaeological evidence of a movement of Central Americans from the area of Belize/Honduras into the West Indies in prehistoric times. Granberry and Vescelius also propose a movement of a population speaking a language related to Warao, a language isolate of Venezuela. This movement happened after the movement of Central Americas into the Antilles, and may have survived in the Macorix language, still spoken in parts of Hispaniola when the Spanish arrived (although not restricted to only Hispaniola). 

The authors then propose the movement of Arawakan speakers after this period, who spoke a language from the Northwest branch of Maipuran languages, closer to Goajiro than, say, Lokono and the Northeast branch. Over time, the expansion of Arawakan speakers into the Greater Antilles and Lesser Antilles led to the replacement of the Warao-like language or a new, creolized form of the Arawakan tongue, which became the Taino language. Evidence for a pre-Taino Warao-related language is also lacking enough evidence to support, but words like duho or duhu in Taino appear to be derived from the Warao word for stools or sitting. Similarly, the word for gold, nozay, in the Lucayan Islands may be related to the Modern Warao term for gold. According to Granberry, this Warao-influenced Arawakan language was the "Ciboney" tongue used in Cuba, western Hispaniola, probably Jamaica and the Lucayan islands. The language we call Classic Taino, however, was the universal tongue and appears to have been in a process of expansion into Cuba right before the Spanish conquest. As for the Guanahatabey of Cuba, Granberry and Vescelius accept the theory of their Archaic origins, which implies they may have spoken one of the pre-Arawak languages of the Antilles.

Trying to connect language shifts with ceramic styles and lithics can be fraught with danger. Sometimes languages spread or change without necessarily correlating with ceramic styles or other aspects of material culture. In that regard, we are unsure how to interpret the theory of a Meillacoid ceramics style and Chican being signs of distinct languages. In addition, we wonder about the power of Xaragua in western Hispaniola, which was considered by Las Casas to have spoken the most refined form of the universal language of the island. If that language was Taino, and they spoke the most refined form of it while also being considered the most powerful cacicazgo of the island, does that not imply a strong or influential Classic Taino influence in the western parts of Hispaniola? Nevertheless, Granberry and Vescelius's study, despite its very limited data to support their ideas of Tolan and Warao-like languages in the ancient Great Antilles, raise a number of interesting insights. For instance, using toponyms to postulate where the first inhabitants of the Lucayans came from (Cuba and Hispaniola) is an interesting idea that can be supported with archaeological evidence. Furthermore, the adoption of the Warao duhu for what is one of the most important signs of chiefly power and ceremonial uses in Taino civilization is certainly interesting, even if no other Taino words related to chiefly power or spirituality have a link to Warao.

Likewise, the fact that Eyeri or Lesser Antilles Arawakan language was closer to Northeast Arawakan languages on the South American mainland, a pattern still evident in the Garifuna language which descends from, illustrates the huge linguistic diversity in the precolonial period. A few other instances of specific words that do not demonstrate clear Arawak affinities or archival sources might have further strengthened some of the ideas proposed by the authors. For example, Oviedo's reference to the use of the word "eracra" for bohio or house by the Indians of the island of Haiti should have been examined to see if it shows any similarities with Warao or Central American tongues. And the explanation of the prefix maku and the definition of Macorix or Macorix could have been expanded upon for understanding references to "Macurijes" in other parts of the Great Antilles, such as Cuba. If Macurijes in Cuba during the second half of the 16th century did not speak Taino, was it a Warao language? Or were they speaking what the authorss considered "Ciboney" instead? It is difficult to know, although the idea of Macorix implying a non-Arawakan language is an interesting one. It might be worthwhile to also look into languages in Florida the coast of Panama and Colombia for possible connections with other cultures the Greater Antilles peoples were in contact with.

Dugu Song

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