A Voyage Long and Strange

by Tony Horwitz

  Estimates of Hispaniola’s population in 1492 range as high as several million, though most scholars put the figure closer to 500,000. A third perished within a decade of Spanish settlement, from war, disease, overwork, and the devastation of native agriculture, due in part to the arrival of European livestock. “People continue to die daily as do cattle in time of pest,” a Spanish chronicler wrote of a famine in the 1490s. Some Taino committed mass suicide, poisoning themselves rather than submit to Spanish rule.

  In Santo Domingo’s curiously named “Museum of Dominican Man,” I gazed at dioramas of the Taino lying in hammocks, and exhibits displaying zemis, small wood or stone idols representing deities and ancestral spirits. Carved with huge eye sockets, gaping mouths, and enormous genitals, the zemis had platters perched atop their heads. These were designed to hold cohoba, a hallucinogenic powder made from crushed seeds. Taino communicated with zemis by sticking wooden spatulas down their own throats, to induce vomiting, and then snorting cohoba through forked canes.

  Most of what’s known about Taino culture comes from the writings of their Spanish subjugators. A cleric on Columbus’s second voyage, Father Ramón Pane, lived among the Taino for several years and learned some of their language. His brief account represents the first attempt in the New World at what would now be called anthropology.

  Indians mining gold from a stream, from a Spanish history of the Indies, 1535

  According to Pane, Taino believed the dead came out at night and could be distinguished from the living by their lack of navels. He also told of a prophecy communicated by a zemi to a leading cacique. Whoever succeeded the chief, Pane wrote, would rule for only a short time “because there would come to his country a people wearing clothes who would conquer and kill the Indians.” At first, Pane added, the Taino thought this prophecy referred to the dreaded Caribs. “They now believe that the idol prophesied the coming of the Admiral and the people who came with him.”

  While Pane is forgotten, another Spanish friar in Hispaniola is renowned to this day as “Defender of the Indians.” Bartolomé de Las Casas arrived in Santo Domingo in 1502, at the age of eighteen, and prospered from the sweat of Taino awarded him through the encomienda system, which made settlers the overseers of natives living on grants of Crown land. In theory, this feudal institution meant that natives became vassals, working in exchange for the protection and Christian instruction of their masters. In practice, the system led to enslavement.

  In 1511, a priest shocked his audience at a Santo Domingo church by condemning “such cruel and horrible” servitude. “Are they not men?” he asked of Indians. “Are you not obliged to love them as you love yourselves?” The sermon stuck with Las Casas, who later renounced his encomienda and became a Dominican friar. He spent the rest of his long life writing about Indians, petitioning the monarchy to treat them humanely, and attempting to found peaceful colonies in America that accorded with Christian belief.

  In a stinging work titled A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies, Las Casas sought to break what he called the “conspiracy of silence” surrounding the brutality of Spanish conquest. The Account is a country-by-country survey of torture and genocide; it reads like an Amnesty International report on Spain’s first decades in the New World. In Hispaniola, Las Casas described the Spanish slow-cooking Taino on grills, or laying wagers on “whether they could manage to slice a man in two at a stroke.” Those Taino who weren’t slaughtered outright were starved and worked to death: digging for gold, cutting sugarcane, carrying loads for hundreds of miles.

  Las Casas also edited Columbus’s journal. He tended to absolve the Admiral, instead blaming the “cruel, grasping and wicked” settlers he believed had betrayed the navigator’s evangelizing mission. Las Casas, even more than Columbus, also idealized and infantilized natives, describing them as “innocent and pure in mind,” “like gentle lambs,” “without malice or guile”—in short, Man in a blessed state of nature, before the Fall. This prelapsarian image helped give rise to the myth of the Noble Savage, which would endure in the Western imagination for centuries.

  Las Casas’s adoration of Indians contributed to another, harsher legacy. One way to protect natives, he believed, was to replace their labor with that of African slaves. By the second decade of the sixteenth century, large numbers of Africans were being shipped to Hispaniola, to replace the dwindling Taino and islanders imported from elsewhere in the Caribbean.

  This set a pattern that would repeat itself across the Americas. As Indian laborers died off, or escaped to areas outside colonial control, African slaves filled the breach. In the three centuries after the first direct shipment of slaves to Hispaniola, in 1518, some twelve million Africans would be taken by force across the Atlantic—five times the number of white Europeans who migrated to America during the same period.

  Contrary to Las Casas’s hopes, the importation of Africans did nothing to save the Taino. In 1514, when the Crown ordered a careful census of Hispaniola natives, to determine the surviving labor force, it found only 22,726 islanders of working age. In many villages, “there were found no children among the people.” Within a few decades, the Taino of Hispaniola had ceased to exist as a distinct people. Natives of neighboring islands suffered a similar fate.

  THOUGH THE TAINO were the first natives of America driven into extinction by Europeans, they were also the first to have sustained contact with the West. As such, they left a lasting imprint on European thought, language, and lifestyle. The long list of Taino words adopted and adapted by Europeans includes not only hamaca and canoa, but also huracán (hurricane), barbacoa (barbecue), and savanna. Along with tobacco, a host of Taino crops became European and African staples: maize (Indian corn), casabe (cassava), batata (sweet potato), peppers, peanuts, and pineapples. As explorers fanned out across America, they often saw natives through the prism of Columbus’s early encounters with los Indios.

  The Taino also exacted an enduring, if unintended, revenge on their conquerors. It is generally believed that sailors returning from Hispaniola after Columbus’s second voyage, or Indian captives on board their ships, carried with them an awful disease. The affliction first appeared in epidemic form in Europe following a French army’s march to Naples in 1495. It caused high fever, a skin pox, and often death. Italians termed the unfamiliar ailment “the French disease,” while the French called it “the Neapolitan disease.” There were also reports of cases in Spain, including some among men who had been to Hispaniola. A Spanish historian said the illness should therefore be called “the disease of the Indies.”

  Still another name was coined by an Italian physician, Girolamo Fracastoro. He wrote a poem in 1530 about an unnamed “hero” who sailed west from Spain and discovered a land of scabby natives. They said their affliction was given to them by the Sun God, as punishment for blasphemy by a shepherd named Syphilus. And so the disease has been known ever since.

  OCTOBER 12 DAWNED hot and insufferable, worse than any day since my arrival in Santo Domingo. I’d revisited the Columbus Lighthouse twice to confirm that the ceremony would begin at eleven A.M., and also to make a modest contribution to the Faro’s upkeep. Each time, the administrator, Teódulo, had reiterated his promise of “a great surprise” to be revealed that Sunday. I’d arranged for both Carlos and Leopoldo to meet me at the Faro to translate, in case one didn’t show, and bought a tape recorder in case neither did. I also had my camera and a wallet stuffed with pesos, should a last-minute “tip” be required. Only heatstroke could prevent me from carefully documenting the surprise, whatever it was.

  Clad in a coat and tie, I arrived at the Faro already drenched in sweat to find the normally silent monument abuzz. Women in white dresses set out crystal glasses for the reception to follow the ceremony. Naval cadets drilled in pressed white uniforms. Girls in brightly colored costumes paraded around the monument. “Today you will see all,” Teódulo exclaimed, clapping me on the back.

  An hour passed with no sign of Carlos or Leopold
o, or of the ceremony’s start. But a small crowd formed, mostly elegant women dressed in white, and distinguished-looking men in dark suits and military uniforms. I made several trips to one of the Faro’s 125 baños to splash water on my face and pat my torso with paper towels. To conceal my sodden shirt, I buttoned my jacket, which only made me hotter. The ceremony hadn’t yet begun and I was starting to feel faint.

  Trolling the crowd, I met a ribbon-bedecked man, César Lavandier, who was president of a group called the Naval League and a veteran of several sea battles in World War II. “What Columbus did, without any modern instruments, it is unimaginable today, an inspiration,” he said. “Of course, many people hate him now. They need someone to blame their problems on, and we have many problems.” He glanced at his watch. It was almost two hours past the ceremony’s scheduled start of eleven A.M. César smiled and said, “Maybe they meant Greenwich Mean Time.”

  I went to the baño again but hurried out at the sound of a drum-roll. An honor guard circled the mausoleum, rifles shouldered, and stood at attention. I finally spotted both Carlos and Leopoldo, who had turned up two hours after we’d arranged: right on time. They took turns translating as an emcee introduced generals, government ministers, Spain’s ambassador, and other notables. Then an assistant to the cardinal of the Dominican Republic mounted the mausoleum steps and stuck an enormous key into the lid of the crypt.

  The lock wouldn’t open. The priest fiddled and twisted and banged the lock with his palm. “Columbus, don’t do this to me,” he muttered, to chuckles from the crowd. El fucu de Colón had struck again.

  After five more minutes of struggle, the priest was joined by another man, who twisted the key hard and yanked. Finally the latch sprang and the crowd broke into relieved applause. Then the band struck up, and the assembled dignitaries approached the mausoleum with bouquets. I edged behind them to try and get a glimpse inside the tomb. All I could see was a glass plate laid over the lead coffer containing the remains. I raised my camera from behind the wreath-layers and clicked. Nothing happened. The camera had jammed, or the battery had died, probably from the heat and humidity.

  “You will see the bones with your own eyes,” Leopoldo assured me, “as soon as the speeches are over.” At which point, the national cultural heritage minister began a florid oration. “What we celebrate today, ladies and gentlemen, is a journey as unpredictable as the sea in front of the New World’s unknown lands . . . an endless journey that the Admiral began and that still goes on . . . a journey of discovery . . .”

  I was barely listening by the time he concluded to weary applause. Girls in costumes representing America’s many nations promenaded around the mausoleum, and then the dignitaries lined up to view the Admiral’s remains. I positioned myself as close to the front of the queue as seemed decent. We edged forward to the base of the mausoleum steps.

  “Mr. Tony!” exclaimed the Faro’s director, Teódulo, grasping my sleeve. “The minister of cultural heritage would like to speak to you.”

  “I’d like to speak to him, too. After the reception?”

  “No, now. He must leave. Please, in my office. It is air-conditioned.”

  Talking to the minister seemed the polite thing to do, and I might never get another chance to interview a senior Dominican official. Besides, Teódulo had told me the previous day that the crypt would remain open all afternoon. So I let him tug me gently from the line.

  The minister was very obliging. I asked him a single question, about the significance of Columbus, and he launched into an answer as prolix as the speech he’d just delivered. “Columbus is the adventure, the journey of our national and cultural voyage . . .”

  When he finally finished, I thanked him for his time and stood up. I was anxious to glimpse the remains—and to get at the pitchers of lemonade I’d seen laid out for the reception. But the door was blocked by Teódulo and a gray-suited man, trailed by a camera crew. “May I present the governor of the city and owner of the television station here today,” Teódulo said.

  He motioned us back into his office. I struggled for a fresh question. What did Columbus mean to modern Santo Domingo?

  “Because of him, the whole world appreciates the importance of this city,” the governor began, before talking for twenty minutes about tourism’s contribution to the economy. Again, I resisted a follow-up question. As soon as the governor departed, I tried to do the same.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Teódulo insisted. “It is time to reveal the surprise.”

  Teódulo melodramatically searched in his desk drawer, leaving me to guess at its contents. DNA evidence proving that Columbus’s bones resided in the Faro? A long-lost document?

  Finally, he produced a piece of paper and summarized its contents. The monument was inaugurated in 1992. Since then, Spain’s ambassador had only appeared once on October 12, a decade ago. He looked up at me triumphantly.

  “So what’s the surprise?” I asked.

  “That the Spanish ambassador came this year! She would not do this without the approval of her superiors. The Spanish are saying, ‘We see the truth.’ It is a diplomatic way to recognize that Columbus’s remains are here.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That is it.”

  I checked my watch. It was almost an hour since the ceremony had ended. Perhaps there was still a drop of lemonade left. I hurried into the corridor. A few men were folding up tables. All the dignitaries and girls in bright costumes and soldiers in uniform had fled the stifling Faro. The canyons were empty again. I rushed over to the mausoleum and skipped up the steps. The crypt was closed.

  I sprinted back to Teódulo’s office and cried, “You said it would be open all day!”

  “There must be some mistake,” he replied. We went in search of the Faro’s caretaker, touring a dozen deserted offices before finding him. The caretaker looked at Teódulo and shrugged. The crypt was locked. The cardinal’s office kept the only key. There was nothing to be done.

  “That’s impossible!” I shouted, unable to contain myself any longer. “I came all the way from Virginia to see those bones!”

  My face was on fire and I felt my depleted sweat glands empty the last of their contents into my sopping shirt. The Dominicans couldn’t contain themselves either. They convulsed with laughter. El americano patético has lost it!

  “I am so sorry,” Teódulo said. “Can you come again next year?”

  I turned and walked out of the Faro, with as much dignity as I could muster in a full-body wetsuit. I felt like Columbus, led on by islanders in his deranged search for gold. If there was any to be found here, one small nugget of hard information about Columbus, the natives weren’t sharing it. The D.R.’s comedy of incompetence had turned into a joke on me, the bullying, buck-waving Yankee.

  That night, rehydrating with Presidente beer at El Conde café, I told the story of my day to a disconsolate Dutchman who had lived in the D.R. for decades. He was sympathetic but unsurprised. “It is the way of Dominicans,” he said. “We foreigners kicked their asses around for centuries. So if they can kick our asses, they never miss a chance.”

  THE NEXT DAY, I rose early to watch the seven A.M. TV news, which I’d been told would show the ceremony at the Faro. Perhaps, for my toils, I could still catch a glimpse of the bones. But a few minutes before seven, the hotel’s power died. Still unwilling to capitulate, I caught a cab to the TV station. Flashing the business card given me by the station’s owner, the governor of Santo Domingo, whom I’d interviewed at the Faro, I was shown in to see a producer. He said the station hadn’t broadcast the ceremony, but he offered to show me the raw footage his camera crew had taken.

  So I sat in a studio and watched an hour of tape, replaying the struggle to open the tomb, the long speech by the minister, the officials lining up to pay their respects to the Admiral. I waited expectantly for the money shot: a nice clear image of Colón’s exposed bones. Instead, the picture abruptly switched to the familiar gloom of Teódulo’s office, where t
he governor sat talking to a sweaty, distraught figure I recognized as myself. The camera stayed with us for twenty excruciating minutes before the tape ended.

  As dismaying as this was, one moment in the tape offered a faint lead. It showed the Spanish ambassador saying something to the camera about Columbus, what exactly I couldn’t make out. Was it possible Teódulo had told me the truth? Did the ambassador’s presence mean that Spain acknowledged the Dominican claim? Did I have anything else to do with the long day ahead?

  Catching a cab to the Spanish embassy, I pleaded with a secretary, and after a long wait was granted an audience with the ambassador, María Jesús Figa López-Palop, an elegant brown-eyed woman with streaked blond hair. Not wanting to waste her time, I dived right in, asking what she’d said to the TV crew the day before.

  “They wanted to know, of course, if my being there meant Spain admits that these are Columbus’s remains,” she said. “I told them the truth. Normally we celebrate the Spanish National Day on October twelfth and host a large party, so I cannot go to the Faro. But the twelfth fell on a Sunday this year, not a good day for a party. So we had our party on Saturday. I was free on Sunday, it is a courtesy, so I go. That is all.”

  She laughed. “Who cares about these bones? Some things are best left as myths or curiosities. My God, if we started opening tombs of all those kings and queens in Spain, who knows what we would find.”

  I told her some Dominicans feared that tests on the bones would hurt tourism. This made her laugh again. “How many tourists go to the Faro? It has no architectural interest at all, no real history. I suppose the numbers are ridiculous. No one who has visited me has ever asked to go to the Faro. No one goes to Seville to see Colón’s remains there, either.”