The Good People

Chapter 1

“Ocama, Yuiza, ocama…” Inamoca presses me to listen. I hear the sounds of the rainforest all around me, but we are listening for the noise of the Yu’ Guami’ke’na, the white devils, the ari.’ They are invaders on our island. I am Yuiza, Warrior Princess. I once greeted them with a warm, hospitable Taíno welcome, yet they only brought death and destruction to my people.

“Princess, we must plan an attack!” whispers Inamoca. “They have destroyed us, our yucayekes. Our people have no homes, no villages anymore. They’ve taken our women and children and enslaved them. They are killing our men.”

I consider his words carefully and respond with a sigh, rubbing my forehead as I do. As the sun rose on the horizon that morning, I stirred in my hamaca, weary from another restless night. Since the arrival of the ari’, many moons before, the sounds of the jungle no longer lull me to slumber. Instead, I lie awake most nights listening for the clanging sounds of the shiny, weighted macanas carried by our enemy. They are arijua, foreign to our land, foreign to our customs. I, and my brother Guarionex, Cacique of their people, when the ari’ arrived, welcomed and feted them with gifts of guanín, food, and cassava drink. In return, my brother was slaughtered, and our people were decimated. Those who survived have fled to the bosque of Ja’tibonicu, the great high place of sacred waters. Jaymanio was our yucayeke in the land of Ja’tibonicu, and now it is gone, and we are forced to hide in jungle caves. The fate of my people now weighs heavily on my heart.

Inamoca is right. He is a great big man, a mighty warrior in our tribe. Muscular and strong with the darkened skin of a people who live in the land of the Guey, he is wise and fearless. Inamoca is ni-taíno, sub-chief of our people, but I, Yuiza, am Cacica, chieftain of our people. We are Taínos, natives of this land. We will not give up without a fight. “Come,” I call to Inamoca, “we must gather our warriors. Tell them to meet me at the mouth of the Hura cave. Tell them to hurry!”

“Naboria daca,” replies Inamoca as he bows, placing his hand over his heart. “I am your servant.”

I gather my baira, the small bow I always carry, and hurry through the jungle towards the cave.

Chapter 2

“We live in the full splendor of our Taíno identity.

It’s time to reclaim our history.

It’s time to reclaim our identity.”

Bobby Gonzalez – The Last Puerto Rican Indian

Orocovis, Borikén 2020

“Abuela, un momento, por favor," I placed my hand on my 90-year-old grandmother’s and asked her to pause the story. She’s such a tiny thing, and as she sat in her favorite chair, it looked like it would swallow her whole. I knew she was tired. I could see the weariness in her lined and sun-kissed face, weather-worn from 70 years of working in the hot Borinquen sun. I wanted her to take a moment to rest before she continued her story, and I smiled as she placed her small, wrinkled hands on mine. She looked at me with such affection that it swelled my heart with love in return. “Gracias Abuelita,” I said. She nodded in return.

Abuela is our family storyteller and the oldest living Taíno elder in our community of Orocovis. She considers it her solemn duty to share their stories, so I’ve spent as much time as possible with her. She is grooming me to carry on our tribe’s oral storytelling tradition, but I want to write them down so they last for generations to come. The moments I spend with her are precious because I don’t know how much longer she’ll be around to share these stories. My Abuelita always says, “Mija, the most important thing is that we never forget who we are and whose blood runs through our veins.” I know she’s right because we are and will always be the Good People despite centuries of colonization and all the struggle, suffering, and miscegenation, which made us into a new breed of Borinqueño. We will always be Taíno.

Chapter 3

The night was so warm and humid that I left my family’s bohío in the middle of the night to go and sleep in a hamaca down by the beach. It had been for naught because the tropical breezes were still, offering me no relief from the airless heat. I’d lain awake for hours listening for the sounds of the coki’ and counting the cucubanos that lit the night sky as they flitted by. As the great yellow guey rose over the horizon, I felt the weariness that accompanied my lack of slumber and thought of the long day ahead. There was much to do to prepare for this evening. There was to be a ceremony, an areito to celebrate my brother Guarionex’s union with Ine’es, daughter of the Cacique Agüeybana, the great Chief of the Village of Guaynia. Their union would strengthen the ties of our people and ensure that Guarionex would have allies as he assumed leadership of Jaymanio. With our father’s passing into the land of the Coaybay just three moons before, our mother Higuamota had urged my brother to take a wife. Agüeybana had honored Jaymanio’s strong ties with theirs by offering his eldest daughter to be my brother’s liani.

As I entered the village, I saw a group of naboria men preparing the barbacoa for the meat they would roast that night. I was reminded that it was my turn to check the conu’cos for the cassava, batata, and other root vegetables we would need for the feast. Approaching my bohío, I saw my friend, Anani, and greeted her.

“Tau, Anani.” I said, “Come and help me with my task.”

Anani was the daughter of ni-taíno, Caiçiju, our village sub-chief. I knew she was sad of heart over the ceremony. For many years, my brother had been her nanichi, her greatest love, but he never returned her affection. As Cacique, Guarionex had to put the well-being of our people first. For him, love offered little to his role as Chief in Taíno tribal life.

“Taiguey, Yuiza. Yes, I will come with you.”

We walked together silently towards the mound where the vegetables were planted and began to pick the ones we would cook for the feast.

I could see Anani was troubled, so I asked her why.

“Yuiza,” she said, “my heart is very heavy this day, but it is not about tonight. I have other news, and it frightens me.”

“What is it, Anani? Tell me, what terrifies you so?” I asked, “Is it the Kwaib? Are you afraid of those mean-spirited heart-eaters? They do not scare me.”

Anani sighed. “No, Yuiza. It’s not Caniba, I fear. We know them. Our eieri, such brave warriors that they are, can defeat them. No, it is arijua. There is news of strange men walking among our people, foreigners, my father says. He says they are ari’, invaders to our land. He says they have sailed here from a strange land inside giant gulls. He does not trust them because he says other yucayekes have welcomed them and have been maltreated in return.”

“What Anani? What do you mean? What has happened to them?” I asked.

“I do not know Yuiza,” she replied, “I do not know. Father would not tell me, but I fear they are jeiticacu’, men of black hearts. What if they come here, Yuiza? What if they are bad arijua? What will we do then?”

“Do not fear, Anani. I will speak to my brother,” I told her, “and we will prepare to welcome these arijua and show them who we are. We will show them that we are Taíno, peaceful, good people. We must trust that they will treat us as we treat them. Do not fear, my sister, do not fear.”

Chapter 4

Anani's words vexed me even as I tried to calm her fear. I wondered if Caiçiju had already spoken to my brother about this unusual circumstance. As the sister of the village chieftain, I was allowed to speak with my brother about such affairs. I decided to bid Anani farewell to go and speak with Guarionex. I knew I should not disturb him as he prepared for his ceremony, but this matter was important. I hurried toward his caney, where he had gathered his men.

As I entered his roundhouse, I saw my brother. Like most Taíno men, he was short and muscular with dark brown eyes and an olive-brown complexion. His jet-black hair was freshly cut, long in the back, with a short bang in the front, as was our custom. His body was covered in traditional Taíno markings, and he wore no clothing as was common among our men. He looked every bit the chieftain as I watched him sitting atop his dujo, smoking a cojiba and examining the offerings the men had brought for the night’s ceremony.

My face could not mask my concern, and he saw it when I entered to greet him.

“Tai Guami’ Guarionex,” I called to him as I bowed to him in greeting.

“Guarico,” he responded, “Come here, my sister, and tell me what troubles you.”

“Natiao, my brother, I have heard the disturbing news that there are strangers among us. They say that some villages have already encountered these arijua with troubling results. My brother, what do you know about these things?”

“I, too, have heard this news, my sister. It troubles me as well, but we cannot burden ourselves with what we do not know. We will hope that they are guani’, men of noble breeding. At the new sun’s rise, I will send out scouts, and Caiçiju Tamayo and I will meet then to speak on these matters. Together, we will pray and seek the guidance of Yúcahu and decide how to proceed. But sister, for now, there is still much to do for tonight’s ceremony. I must ready myself, and you should go too.”

My brother was right. It is time to address these concerns. The night’s activities awaited us, and there was much to do.

“Semign Cacona guari, my brother, naboria daca,” I said in farewell with my hand over my heart.

Chapter 5

The areito for Guarionex and Ine’es was performed under the light of the Karaye, the giant bright orb that appeared in the sky upon the setting of the Guey. Our marriage ceremonies were always grand affairs, which brought great joy to all who attended. This one was sorely needed to ease the sadness from our Cacique father’s untimely passing. As Tamayo, a naboria who had become my brother’s closest friend and confidante, took charge of the drummers, their drumbeats, slow at first, led us into the bailar candanto or sung dance that honored and thanked our noble ancestors for this happy occasion. Through our movements and our offerings of food and drink, our bohiques and priests of our villages beseeched our cemi, Atabey, to bless this sacred union. That night, our two villages came together and rejoiced in the union of two great souls destined to lead our people. We danced, and we sang, and we celebrated until the breaking of the guey. The day had begun with troubling news, but it ended with a heart filled with hope. Our future as the people of Borikén lay on my brother. He was a trustworthy and mighty leader, beloved by our people. He would know what to do about the arijua. Little did we know what lay ahead.

Chapter 6

It has been eight new moons since the areito for Guarionex and Ine’es and two new moons since our first encounter with the arijua. Our scout, Bayamo, saw them first as they approached the beach in their giant gulls, which were large canoas capable of holding many men. Guarionex called out the entire yucayeke to gather baskets with food, drink, and gifts, as is our custom to bring to these travelers.

I was curious to see these men who I heard traveled a great distance. Their skin was pale and colorless, and hair grew long from their faces. They wore many pieces of cloth covering their entire bodies and carried heavy macanas of shiny metal with them. A Taíno they called “Diego” accompanied them. Diego was guaxeri, a countryman from Guanahani. He spoke our tongue but also the strange tongue of the arijua. Diego told Guarionex that the arijua came in peace, so Guarionex invited them to eat with us.

That evening the entire yucayeke gathered in the batéy, our ceremonial field, where we feasted on arepas, batatas, and barbicu’. We shared our drink of anaiboa and danced an ara’guaca to Atabey, our Mother Earth, in thanks for our peaceful encounter with the arijua.

But now we know that the arijua are indeed ari’. They made impossible demands of Guarionex and threatened our people. They wanted our caonas. They wanted the shiny metal we used to make the cuey, our totems to Yúcahu. Guarionex was to gather with his ni-taíno warriors and try again to reason with the arijua. He had to make them see that we could not surrender our sacred objects or the place they came from.

They were to meet at the rise of the new guey, but I feared that it was too late. I feared that the ari’ were men without reason. I feared they were Yu’ Guami’ke’na. Most of all, I feared for my brother, Guarionex, and our people of Jaymanio, but soon we would know, and it was this that I deeply feared.

Chapter 7

I squeezed Abuela’s hands so she could end her story here. Even if I had never heard this tale before, I knew its conclusion, and it fills me with great sadness each time I hear this story told. I look at my grandmother. Her eyes are hopeful and remind me of what our ancestors must have felt in those fateful moments. Yet, we are still here. We were not destroyed. My grandmother and our village of Orocovis are proof of that.

“Abuela, te prometo, that I will never stop telling this story because it is your story, it is my story, and it is our Taíno story. It is the story of the Good People, and it should never be forgotten.”

Abuela smiled at me. I saw her gratitude as she responded, “Jajom, M’ija, thank you.”