La fille du Kacik

In spite of its flaws, Henri Chauvet's La fille du Kacik is an interesting work of drama for the context in which it was produced. Published in 1894, ten years before the Centennial of Haitian independence, the play was undoubtedly connecting Caonabo's resistance to Spanish oppression and invasion with the origins of Haiti as an independent state. Needless to say, Chauvet took many liberties with history to portray Caonabo as a proto-nationalist leader eager to build an alliance with caciques across the island to defeat the Spaniards. The play, as one might expect, also focuses on his defeat of the whites left at Navidad by Columbus and the routing of a group led by Arana sent to avenge the men killed by Caonabo. Anacaona, who is mentioned once in a line by Mamona, the daughter of Caonabo, appears to either not be married yet to Caonabo or is marginal to the story. Xaragua, however, is mentioned briefly, and Bohechio as in agreement with Caonabo's plan to drive out the whites left in Marien. 

Much of the plot is centered on the tragic romance of Rodrigo, a "good" white who is opposed to the avarice and abuses of his fellow Spaniards eager to find gold and take advantage of indigenous women. Mamona, the beloved daughter of Caonabo, is rescued by Rodrigo from a caiman one day whilst resting near the Artibonite River. Because Rodrigo saved Mamona's life (who also happens to be named after Atabey, the mother of Yucahu), he is spared by Caonabo when Macao, a guide, leads the reconnaissance mission of the Spaniards straight into the domains of Caonabo. The powerful cacique, driven by a hatred for the Spaniards after their numerous depredations across the island for gold and women, has the Spaniards on the reconnaissance mission executed while Rodrigo, spared because of Mamona's love, is torn by his sense of honor and his feelings for Mamona. In a twist that is promising and liberatory, Caonabo later goes on to defeat the forces led by Arana to avenge the death of the Spaniards executed by the powerful cacique. In one moving scene, Caonabo similarly alludes to the barbarism of the Spaniards, despite the latter referring to the Indians as barbarians instead of civilized. Anyway, as one might expect, the romance of Mamona and Rodrigo is a tragic one, ending in the former's death and the suicide of the former. Nonetheless, Caonabo's pledge to liberate and defend Haiti, frequently alluding to the Aya aya bombe chant (which is actually of African origin) and even the Tree of Liberty, expresses Chauvet's desire to insert Caonabo into the pantheon of national heroes and founders. Guacanagaric, on the other hand, is more akin to a traitor and perhaps comparable to Rigaud?

Despite its anti-colonial themes, however, Chauvet's play surprisingly refuses to pass judgment on Columbus. Instead of the Admiral bearing any blame, it is really the rapacious appetite of the Spaniards in his service who are responsible for the abuses and exploitation of the island's indigenous people. Chauvet, through Rodrigo, prefers to portray Columbus as a heroic figure whose accomplishments represented an advance in science and human knowledge. Obviously, this version of events is not matched by the historical record, but it falls into line with the depiction of Columbus in Nau's history of Haiti's indigenous past. Another intriguing feature in the play is Chauvet's heavy reliance on Kalinago language and culture for what is ostensibly "Taino" Haiti. Instead of referring to clubs by their Taino name, macana, Chauvet uses boutou. He also uses Kalinago names for a variety of things, like karbet, Nonum, Louquo, Kouroumon, and Mabouya. Although the Taino and Kalinago cultures were definitely in contact in the precolonial Caribbean, the ubiquity of references and names derived from cultures non-indigenous to Hispaniola is a bit jarring. However, it does reflect 19th century Haitian knowledge of the island's indigenous peoples, which sometimes carelessly applied data from the Lesser Antilles to Hispaniola. Likewise, one wonders if, like Nau, Chauvet also believed the false idea that the sambas of 19th century Haiti were somehow derived from or influenced by the Taino singer-poets and their areytos, even though the word points more to Africa. 

Ollanta: An Ancient Ynca Drama

Markham's undoubtedly dated translation of Ollanta: An Ancient Ynca Drama from 1871 is an interesting read. Firmly believing that the play was preserved orally from precolonial times, probably during the reign of Topa Inca Yupanqui or Huayna Capac, Markham sees the play as one of the few or only surviving theatrical works from the time of the Incas. Indeed, we know from sources such as Garcilaso de la Vega and the eventual colonial suppression of it after Tupac Amaru's rebellion that theatrical works from and about the Inca past were preserved. Sadly, the version of Ollanta, here based on the surviving manuscripts written down in the 1700s and 1800s, appear to be a condensed or incomplete version. Inexplicably, ten years pass before the eventual reunion of the lovers Ollanta and Cusi Coyllur. The battles between the general sent by the Inca to defeat Ollanta after his revolt are quickly glossed over. One would think that the original narrative included more scenes or episodes for a fully fleshed story. The play also seems to contain an implicit critique of Pachacuti for his excessive punishment of his daughter yet the Inca is presented as the source of all moral authority and order. Why is it that his son, the Topa Inca Yupanqui, who eventually pardons Ollanta for his revolt in Antisuyu and promotes him to the highest rank, is presented as the complete opposite? Is the message here that the Incas were not infallible, and access to the higher ranks could be opened, rarely, to those without aristocratic backgrounds if they proved their merit?

Eccentric Neighborhoods

Eccentric Neighborhoods is quite similar to The House on the Lagoon,, but even more autobiographical and featuring some characters of Taino descent. Elvira, the central character, is like the author in that both are from Ponce and have fathers who became governor of Puerto Rico. Of course, for this novel, Ferre changes the name of Ponce to La Concordia and surely fictionalizes several aspects of her own family's origins for a series of stories within a story about the Vernets and Riva de Santillana families. Since it lacks the narrative conceit of the more illustrious Lagoon, and Elvira is a less compelling character than Isabel, Eccentric Neighborhoods was less magical and a more arduous read. One finds the plethora of characters to be less engaging in Eccentric Neighborhoods, although both novels retain a strong focus on women, inter-generational gender dynamics, and the search for independence and autonomy. Needless to say, these concerns for the strong women in Ferre's novels mirror the condition of Puerto Rico in the 20th century. But perhaps due to the novel's greater autobiographical influences and its greater focus on Ponce and Puerto Rico's transformation from sugar to industrialization and the commonwealth (under a ficitonalized Marín), the novel provides a fascinating literary reconstruction of the lives of the criollo hacendado class and the rise of families like the Vernets, who wisely catch on to the New Deal and the future of industrialization. There is neither praise nor blame attached to the process, although the slums and destruction of the environment continue as Puerto Rico is thrust along into the 20th century (and Americanization). Eccentric Neighborhoods is truly a fascinating novel from a historical perspective, immersing the reader in the various neighborhoods, architectural delights, and transformations of Ponce and the rest of the island. 

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. 

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. 

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.

La palma del cacique

Alejandro Tapia y Rivera is one of the most important figures in 19th century Puerto Rican literature. An ardent, forward-looking believer in Puerto Rican independence and abolitionism, he also wrote a short novella fusing fact, fiction and legend on the Spanish conquest of the island. Indeed, his Taino-inspired leyenda was what Betances responded to with Les deux indiens. Using the form of a legend and somewhat adhering to the historical rebellion of Agueybana and allied caciques against the Spanish in 1511, Tapia uses a frustrated love triangle of Guarionex, Loarina and Cristobal de Sotomayor to narrate colonial conquest and indigenous revolt.

Although the characterization is limited and the novella ends with the death of Sotomayor and suicide of Guarionex (and Loarina, who chooses to die with him), writing a story like this in the 1850s must have incurred the wrath of Spanish censors. After all, reclaiming the indigenous past was partly an assertion of local autonomy and identity for criollo elites of Tapia's background. Even if the narrator of the tale identifies with the Spanish race, there is no doubt that the legend extolls the landscape and indigenous culture of the island. Guarionex is a hero, in this legend. One short chapter on his role in resisting a Carib attack and liberating his sister establishes his bravery and martial ability. Indeed, had he been European, he would have been a nobleman, like his rival for Loarina's heart.

Betances, on the other hand, seems to have seen the legend of his peer as insufficient, perhaps, for asserting Puerto Rican independence. He seems to have taken more liberty with history to create a tragic romance between an Indian man and a white woman. Instead of Tapia's tale involving Loarina traitorously warning the Spanish of the impending indigenous revolt (due to her love for Sotomayor), there is more Indian unity and purpose in Betances's fictionalized vision of the past. Betances also uses a strong pairing of brothers resisting the Spanish, but only as minor characters with one sibling avenging the death of another. 

Tapia, however, appears to have followed the chroniclers more closely by bringing to life a number of customs and beliefs of the Taino, particularly cemism and the burial of wives with a deceased cacique. Although Tapia's depiction of a cemi ritual does not seem historically accurate, as it involved more than caciques and behiques (or buhitis), he clearly endeavored to portray some of their worldview and belief in fate and divine intervention to justify war and inspire confidence against the Spanish. Thus, despite being outnumbered in some battles and wielding bows and arrows or macanas against Spanish swords and firearms, they could still occasionally resist. The assembly of principal caciques, presided by Agueybana, symbolizes the power of Puerto Rican unity against greater foes. Tapia, Betances, and other supporters of independence must have believed in this essential unity to resist the greater power of Spain.