University of Florida Thesis Or Dissertation Formatting

ADAPTIVE ARBOREAL PRACTICES: HAITIAN FARMER RESPONSES TO ON-GOING DEFORESTATION

ANDREW TARTER

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2015

To Asha

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to open by acknowledging the inhabitants of the area examined in this dissertation, for their enduring kindness and friendship over the last six years; they have been generous with their time, their patience, and with sharing their knowledge and insights. I could not begin to name them all, but I would like to acknowledge Loubert, Joel, Kilin, Merlin, Ti

Lilin, and Jid.

I would also like to thank three anthropology and sociology student research collaborators from the Faculté d'Ethnologie (Department of Ethnology; FE) at the L'Université d'État d'Haïti (State University of Haiti; UEH): (1) Jean-Robert; (2) Lamard; and (3) Reginald.

Not only did these accommodating gentlemen move to the research area for nine months. They were also indispensable collaborators in the creation of the survey, its testing and refinement, and eventual widespread execution. Prior to the survey, these student research collaborators contributed to the vetting of theoretical constructs related to the research. They endured many hours walking in sun, wind, and sometimes rain to conduct many of the interviews. I am forever grateful for their assistance and friendship.

None of this research would have been possible if it were not for the continued financial support of several public and private institutes. My master’s research was fully funded by two different Foreign Language and Area Studies (FLAS) Fellowships from the United States

Department of Education. The National Science Foundation (NSF) graciously funded the preparatory years of my doctoral coursework through their Graduate Research Fellow Program

(GRFP). The blueprint of the dissertation research design was formulated during the NSF- sponsored Summer Institute for Research Design (SIRD), at Duke University; I am grateful to

Drs. Susan Weller, Jeff Johnson, Russ Bernard, Tracy VanHolt, and Amber Wutich for their valuable feedback on different drafts of the research design. The Wenner Gren Foundation for

Anthropological Research (WGF) collaborated with the National Science Foundation (NSF) to jointly fund1 the research presented in this dissertation. Finally, I wish to acknowledge the

Fulbright Program for support during the year prior to this dissertation research. As an inaugural

Fulbright Public Policy Fellow placed in the cabinet of Haiti’s Prime Minister, I was a first-hand witness to the discrepancies between the Haitian nation and the state, the rural and the urban lifeways, pèp la (the proletariat; Haiti’s majority) and the boujwa (bourgeois; socioeconomic elite). My year spent in Haiti’s capital also allowed me to lay the necessary groundwork needed to launch into a year of fieldwork andeyò (the rural countryside).

I wish to thank anthropologist Mark Schuller. Mark facilitated my initial introduction to members of the Faculté d'Ethnologie at the State University of Haiti. This initial introduction started the ball rolling on the process of recruiting, interviewing, selecting, and hiring the three anthropology and sociology student research collaborators.

I am indebted to Drs. Jhon Picard Byron (Chef Département Anthropologie-Sociologie),

Ilionor Louis, (Chef Département des Sciences de Développement), and Jean-Yves Blot (Vice-

Recteur à la Recherche) from the Faculté d'Ethnologie. Without the help of these wonderful faculty members, I would never have been able to complete the research. I look forward to co- presenting at the Faculté d'Ethnologie, with the student collaborators, the research presented herein. I also look forward to continued, long-term collaboration with members of the Faculté d'Ethnologie, and other Haitian scholars.

I am eternally grateful to Hannah, Kenson, and Baby Cat, who graciously opened their home in Port-au-Prince to me, often at short notice, whenever I needed, and without question.

1 National Science Foundation Doctoral Dissertation Improvement Grant (DDIG) No. 1222456; and The Wenner Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research Dissertation Grant No. 8505.

Occasional refuge from my field site was a necessary condition of maintaining equanimity during this period.

I am very grateful and indebted to Karen Jones, Pamela Freeman, and Juanita Bagnall, from the office of the Department of Anthropology, at University of Florida—they have all been very patient with multiple steps related to my pursuit of the PhD.

I wish to acknowledge my entire family, biological and inherited, for their continued loving support during this time. I am particular grateful to Mike, Kami, and Asha, who endured my odd schedule and antisocial manner during the writing of this dissertation.

I have the utmost respect and gratitude for the anthropologists involved in studying plants, trees, economic markets, and a myriad of other subjects in Haiti (Jacques Roumain,

Sidney Mintz, Wade Davis, Gerald Murray, Karen Kramer, Ira Lowenthal, Fredrick Conway,

Anthony Balzano, and Glenn Smucker. I am sure there are others I have missed). I have had helpful and meaningful exchanges with all of you, for which I am fortunate and indebted.

I also wish to thanks to anthropologist Timothy Schwartz2, whose humorous anecdotes about his dissertation fieldwork in rural Haiti added levity to a challenging situation. Although

Tim did not assist with my dissertation, he showed an uncommon level of kindness to me and provided valuable advice. Particularly memorable was Tim’s late night introduction to anthropologist and long-time Haiti resident, Ira Lowenthal. Equally memorable was a terrifying ride on the back of Tim’s motorcycle, at break-neck speed, through Port-au-Prince at night.

I must express immense gratitude to the individual members of my dissertation committee. Dr. Christopher McCarty has been incredibly generous with his time. I have profited immensely from his course on Social Network Analysis, as well as his general outlook on the

2 Tim and I share some academic lineage; we both profited immensely from committees that included Gerald F. Murray and H. Russ Bernard. Tim was luckier than I; Marvin Harris also sat on his committee.

role and value of social science. Chris also helped with early drafts of my dissertation funding proposals. Later he supported my academic employment search by contributing nearly 100 letters of recommendation. I have always found Chris to be a clear, pragmatic thinker, and a supplier of excellent advice, from which I have benefited greatly.

Dr. Michael Bannister has contributed an essential role on the dissertation committee. As only non-anthropologist (Mike is an agroforester), his storehouse of knowledge about Haiti, farmers, and trees made him an indispensable asset to me. Mike too, has contributed many letters of support on my behalf. To top it off, Mike introduced me to the broader area where the fieldwork for both my master’s and doctoral research was conducted. Despite his reserved and polite manner, Mike has never shied away from directly challenging unsubstantiated or insufficiently supported claims in my writing, and for that I am especially grateful.

I am grateful for Dr. H. Russell Bernard. Despite being retired, Russ graciously agreed to sit on my dissertation committee after our meeting and conversations at the Summer Institute of

Research Design (SIRD). Russ is a storehouse of knowledge about anthropology, science, research design, and methods. When I discussed with Russ the idea of organizing a GIS workshop at the annual American Anthropological Association meetings, he not only encouraged me, he also provided excellent advice on structuring a successful workshop. Russ saw me through the end of the dissertation, despite the fact that he was retired when I first met him, and recently took on a new job Arizona State University as the director of the Institute for Social

Science Research. I consider myself lucky to have learned from him and from his many helpful books and articles.

Haitian Creole linguist, Vodou researcher, and religious scholar Dr. Benjamin

Hebblethwaite has continued to support my academic pursuits, in numerous ways, since our first

meeting in 2007. Ben also tirelessly wrote hundreds of letters of recommendation on my behalf.

He encouraged me to teach Kreyòl (Haitian Creole) at UF, to publish, to pursue funding, and to apply to jobs. But more meaningful than his academic support has been Ben’s friendship; he befriended a new graduate student and insisted that we share drinks and conversation about Haiti and other topics, nearly every Friday night, for the lion’s share of my time in Gainesville. Ben has been a constant source of encouragement and a true friend.

Finally, I’d like to end with a few words about Dr. Gerald (Jerry) F. Murray, my dissertation chair since my inception into the Department of Anthropology at the University of

Florida, in 2008. The chair-student dynamic is an unusual human relationship, often lengthy, and most-frequently professional in nature. When I first wrote Jerry from India in 2007, he responded to my protracted email with, “I am not taking on new students but would possibly reconsider for somebody seriously interested in Haiti, including fluency in Creole. You seem to fit that profile.”

Those words were all I needed to hear—Jerry’s writing had otherwise convinced me that I wanted to work with him. I will never forget Jerry’s candid honesty when we met briefly during my first visit to the UF campus, during autumn 2007. Jerry played devil’s advocate, challenging me to really consider whether I wanted to give 7-10 years of my life to the pursuit of a PhD. But my mind was made up: University of Florida was the only school I considered; anthropology was the only department I applied to; and the fellowship to study Kreyòl was the only funding source I pursued. Since my decision seven years ago, Jerry has been a tireless advocate on my behalf. His departmental and institutional maneuvers permitted me to teach Haitian Creole during my second semester at UF. After the earthquake, when all UF research in Haiti was restricted, Jerry lobbied the Dean and the Provost to make an unusual exception on my behalf, allowing my in-country research in Haiti to continue while restrictions remained for other

students and faculty. Every single time I have inquired about a letter of recommendation—a major source of trepidation for graduate students, and a major effort for professors—Jerry has responded within 24 hours with a glowing referral. He has, on numerous occasions, politely corrected various misassumptions or misguided approaches on my part. Jerry has never hesitated to tell me how he really feels about a given topic, idea, or theory. I have come to view his pragmatic and direct approach as a refreshing method of communication. If Jerry felt that my 1- year hiatus from the dissertation to complete a Fulbright Public Policy Fellowship placement within the government of Haiti was a bad idea, he never expressed this sentiment. Instead, he patiently waited for the fellowship to conclude, and subsequently saw me through the completion of the PhD. Most graciously, Jerry has continued all of this support for five years after his retirement from the University of Florida in 2010. I still wonder what he got out of it. M pa gen mo pou m di w mesi, Jeri. Men, kanmemn, mesi anpil, anpil. M p ap janm bliye tout sa w gen tan fè pou mwen.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... 4

LIST OF TABLES ...... 14

LIST OF FIGURES ...... 15

ABSTRACT ...... 16

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION ...... 18

2 THE HISTORICAL ECOLOGY OF HAITI’S EMERGENT ARBOREAL DOMESTICATION ...... 22

Anthropological Theories of Domestication ...... 22 Rakbwa ...... 27 From the Holocene to the Anthropocene: An Historical Reconstruction of the Emergence of Rabkwa...... 29 A Guiding Temporal Framework ...... 29 Lak Miragwàn: A Drying Precedent and Spread of Dry Forests During the Holocene ...... 31 Early Accounts from the Colony ...... 34 Accounts from Post-Independence ...... 36 A Series of Changes ...... 38 The Decline of Gayak and the Rise of Bayawonn ...... 42 Variants of the First Rakbwa Systems ...... 43 From Public Exploitation to Private Cultivation of Wood ...... 45 Early Rakbwa Cultivation Techniques ...... 48 From Cultivation for Wood to Cultivation for Charcoal ...... 50 Single Rotation Rakbwa ...... 51 From Single Rotation Rakbwa to Open Rakbwa ...... 56 From Open Rakbwa to Short Rotation Rakbwa ...... 57 The Destruction of Early Rakbwa Systems ...... 57 The Current Extent and Apparent Expansion of Rakbwa ...... 61 Summary of the Historical Analysis ...... 65 Causal Analyses ...... 66 Roads: The Survival of Rakbwa ...... 66 Current Forest Coverage of Haiti ...... 76 Scenario 1 ...... 76 Scenario 2 ...... 78 Scenario 3 ...... 80 Summary of Causal Analyses ...... 83 Rakbwa as Emergent Domestication ...... 84

Haitian Concepts Related to Domestication ...... 84 The Traditional Western Conception of Domestication ...... 86 Domestication as a Product and a Process ...... 86 Selection and Intention ...... 87 Propagation and Cultivation ...... 89 Cultivation as a Selective Process of Domestication ...... 90 Private Versus Public Land ...... 90 Rakbwa as an Emergent Domestication of Energy ...... 91 Discussion ...... 95

3 RAKBWA: THE MANAGED WOODLOTS OF SOUTHERN HAITI ...... 99

Rakbwa ...... 99 Research Questions ...... 100 Methods ...... 101 Involvement of University of Haiti Student Research Assistants ...... 101 Research Location ...... 101 Survey Design ...... 102 Sampling ...... 104 Data Collection ...... 106 Challenges and Difficulties ...... 108 A Conceptual Definition of a Rakbwa ...... 109 Conflicting Definitions of Rakbwa ...... 109 Bwa Raje ...... 110 An Operational Definition of Rakbwa ...... 111 Results...... 112 Landscape Dynamics at the Research Site ...... 112 A Profile of Rural Residents and Their Livelihood Activities ...... 117 Demographics ...... 120 Societal structure and associated livelihood activities ...... 120 The diaspora ...... 124 Religion ...... 126 The Ecology of Rakbwa ...... 128 Rakbwa tree density, age, and vegetation ...... 128 Rakbwa plant and tree species ...... 131 Bayawonn ...... 132 Kanpèch ...... 134 A bayawonn-kanpèch association ...... 135 The Human Dimensions of Charcoal Production and Distribution in Rakbwa ...... 136 Labor in charcoal production ...... 136 Temporal charcoal production cycles ...... 137 Rural charcoal intermediaries ...... 138 Truck drivers and the delivery of charcoal to Pòtoprens ...... 139 The chain of economic beneficiaries, from tree to urban stove ...... 140 Risk, profit, and vulnerability in the charcoal production and delivery system .....141 The Cultivation of Wood in Rakbwa ...... 142 Active cultivation techniques ...... 142

Passive cultivation techniques ...... 144 Rakbwa Productivity and Improvement of Cultivation Techniques ...... 145 Rakbwa Sustainability ...... 146 Rakbwa Tree Species Improvements ...... 148 Discussion ...... 150

4 TREES IN VODOU: AN ARBORI-CULTURAL EXPLORATION ...... 154

Trees and Haitians ...... 154 Previous Research ...... 155 Human-Tree Theories ...... 156 Religion and Trees in the Haitian Context ...... 158 Vodou ...... 158 Christianity ...... 158 The Persecution of Vodou and Felling of Sacred Trees ...... 160 Methods ...... 161 Results and Discussion ...... 162 Repozwa ...... 163 Cutting a Repozwa ...... 165 Taboos Against Tree-planting ...... 166 Five Tree Taxonomies ...... 167 The mapou tree ...... 167 The figye tree ...... 171 The sèd tree ...... 172 The flanbwayan tree ...... 173 The kalbas tree ...... 174 Specific Lwa in Specific Trees? ...... 175 Discussion ...... 177

5 THE SPATIAL, ECOLOGICAL, AND ECONOMIC DETERMINANTS OF TREE COVER IN SOUTHERN HAITI ...... 180

Background ...... 180 Hardships and Economic Expenditures ...... 180 Modeling The Determinants of Land-use in Haiti ...... 181 Ecological Characteristics of the Research Site ...... 181 Hypotheses ...... 184 Selection of Variables ...... 184 Sampling ...... 186 A Brief Summary of the Data Analysis Methods ...... 186 Socioeconomic Predictor Variables Included in the Initial Model ...... 186 Ecological and Spatial Predictor Variables Included in the Model ...... 188 Meeting the Assumptions of the Logistic Regression Model ...... 189 Initial Analysis and Screening of Individual Predictor Variables ...... 189 Results...... 190 The Null Model ...... 190 The fitted model ...... 191

The omnibus tests of the fitted model ...... 191 Goodness-of-fit tests ...... 191 Classification table of the fitted model...... 192 Variables in the fitted model ...... 193 Examination of Predicted Probabilities ...... 194 Potential Outliers or Influential Cases ...... 195 Overview of Logistic Model ...... 195 Interpreting the Results of the Model ...... 197

6 CONCLUSION...... 201

LIST OF REFERENCES ...... 204

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 223

LIST OF TABLES

Table page

5-1 Null model classification table ...... 190

5-2 Variables in the equation...... 191

5-3 Omnibus tests of model coefficients...... 191

5-4 Hosmer and Lemeshow test...... 191

5-5 Model summary...... 192

5-6 Classification table ...... 193

5-7 Variables in the equation...... 193

5-8 Casewise list...... 195

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure page

1-1 The earliest known image of bayawonn in Haiti ...... 35

3-1 The research location ...... 102

3-2 The geospatial sampling frame ...... 105

3-3 One of hundreds of screenshots of satellite images used for locating plots of land ...... 107

3-4 Two plots, one rakbwa ...... 112

3-5 An aerial photograph of the area ...... 113

3-6 Historically similar land uses in 1930 and 2014 ...... 114

3-7 Differences in rakbwa densities ...... 129

3-8 Larger rakbwa ...... 130

3-9 Rakbwa from a distance...... 130

5-1 Observed groups and predicted probabilities ...... 196

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

ADAPTIVE ARBOREAL PRACTICES: HAITIAN FARMER RESPONSES TO ON-GOING DEFORESTATION

By Andrew Tarter

August 2015

Chair: Gerald F. Murray Major: Anthropology

In this dissertation I examine varied adaptations initiated by some Haitian farmers to meet increasing demands for wood against the backdrop of generationally shrinking land plot sizes, environmental degradation, declining agricultural yields, and on-going deforestation. The dissertation is based on the increasingly common format of several publishable papers, which have been aggregated here to conform to the standards of the University of Florida’s Graduate

School Editorial Office; four papers have been restructured and integrated as individual chapters, preceded by introductory and concluding chapters. In the first study (Chapter 2), I construct an ecological history that explains the emergence of rakbwa (Haitian farmer managed woodlands and woodlots), from the exploitation of naturalized stands of exotic trees on public land, toward the systematic management of these tree species on privately-owned land. The next study

(Chapter 3) provides an in-depth profile of contemporary rakbwa management practices utilized by Haitian farmers, in an area of the country estimated to produce 1/3rd of the charcoal consumed in the capital city of Pòtoprens (Port-au-Prince). The subsequent study (Chapter 4) examines the historical and contemporary role of trees in the context of Vodou (voodoo), and outlines farmers’ creative maneuvers to circumvent religious taboos regarding the cutting of venerated trees. The final study (Chapter 5) undertakes statistical analysis in the form of a logistic regression that

examines correlations between ecological, spatial, and socioeconomic variables related to the presence or absence of contemporary rakbwa systems. Chapter 6 concludes by placing the findings from the preceding chapters in context as the adaptive responses of Haitian farmers to the combined forces of history, new ecological realities, shifting social influences and subsequent changes in economic markets, and unexpected economic hardships or necessities.

Theoretically, these studies support anthropologist Marvin Harris’ ideas on cultural materialism, as well as anthropological theories of plant domestication as an on-going process—emergent domestication. Taken as a comprehensive whole, the dissertation attempts to provide a window into the ingenuity of Haitian farmers that struggle to retain their dignity, their religious practices, and their livelihoods in the context of one of the worlds’ most challenging instances of on-going environmental degradation.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION

Deforestation in Haiti is a complex process began that during the colonial period and continues today. Popular accounts that place the onus of forest loss squarely on the shoulders of

Haitian charcoal-makers not only misidentify the primary cause of tree removal (agricultural clearing); such accounts also overlook a long history of external interventions and internal policies that fostered a resource-extraction-based economy in Haiti (Pierre-Louis 1989; Lindskog

1998; Trouillot 1990; Dubois 2012).

While most of the primordial forests are gone, large areas of the Haitian countryside suffer no pervasive absence of trees. Recent estimates grounded in high-resolution satellite imagery challenge the prevailing narrative of near-to-total arboreal denudation, suggesting that at this time in history treed areas cover approximately one-third of the republic, and trees, shrubs and dense vegetation combined may cover up to three-fourths of the land area (Churches et al.

2014; White et al. 2013).

Two-thirds of Haiti’s inhabitants occupy the rural countryside and many Haitians engage in complex, nuanced relationships with trees. While Haiti’s rural majority is embedded in an agrarian lifeway that has certainly contributed to deforestation processes, Haitians have also initiated adaptive practices to meet the on-going demand for wood and the need for new agricultural land,1 despite major declines in forest-cover.

In this dissertation I present two adaptations to traditional arboreal practices: (1) the emergence of rakbwa (woodlands or woodlots) cultivated by Haitian farmers on privately-owned

1 See Murray 1977 for a treatment of creative adaptations to the decreasing size of agriculturally productive land plots.

land; and (2) the advent of religious ceremonies for the removal of arboreal-dwelling spirits, bypassing traditional taboos to permit the felling of formerly venerated trees.

Chapter 2 of the dissertation begins with the construction of an ecological history stretching from the Holocene to the Anthropocene, which places in chronological context the disappearance of original forests and the gradual emergence of contemporary rakbwa. Haitians call the two trees that dominate many contemporary rakbwa ‘bayawonn’ (Prosopis juliflora) and

‘kanpèch’ (Haematoxylum spp.). These two exotic tree species first established on public land and were initially exploited for domestic wood consumption. I suggest that these trees have been modified through naturalization processes over time, and are now specifically adapted to the ecological and climatic conditions of Haiti. Both trees can thrive in conditions of poor soil, low moisture, and prolonged drought; they repel animals from destructive foraging with thorny trunks and branches; they propagate and spread prolifically through root suckers and a variety of seed dispersal strategies; and they generate harvestable wood biomass through rapidly coppicing stumps.

As naturalized stands of these exotic tree species became overexploited on public land, remaining trees survived and thrived on private land, establishing over time as contemporary rakbwa. The first farmers to manage rakbwa rapidly cycled through different stages of cultivation in response to broader social changes and subsequent shifts in economic markets that demanded different wood products and thus different woodlot management systems.

After presenting these historical processes, Chapter 2 then shifts into causal analysis to explain two phenomena suggested by recent remote-sensing analyses of high-resolution satellite imagery: the tree species that compose the rakbwa described in this dissertation are not only widespread, but appear to be expanding throughout Haiti. My causal analysis reaches at least one

paradoxical conclusion: an expansion of roads—which initially contributed to the rapid, differential deforestation of Haiti—protected emergent rakbwa and contributed to their subsequent spread. The apparent spread of rakbwa systems presents an opportunity for agroforesters to learn from and perhaps assist rural farmers in improving and accelerating this emergent arboreal domestication process.

Chapter 2 concludes by engaging anthropological theories of natural resource domestication. Drawing on the analogous naturalization of rakbwa tree species to centuries of climatic and environmental changes in Haiti, I suggest a parallel and on-going process of tree domestication based on ‘selection-through-cultivation’ practices, carried out by farmers managing rakbwa throughout Haiti. That Haitian farmers have the capacity to improve these tree species suggests that the early stages of a ‘domestication of energy’ (Murray 1984; 1986; 1987;

1991b; 1997) process may be underway in Haiti.

Chapter 3 picks up at the conclusion of the ecological history and the theoretical framing of Chapter 2, and turns to provide a descriptive ethnography of contemporary Haitian farmers and their rakbwa management techniques in a location of Haiti’s southern Tiburon peninsula.

This chapter also draws on existing research of other scholars to detail the features of the two common tree species that dominate the rakbwa of the research area. Theoretically, the chapter provides a descriptive analysis of Harris’s ‘infrastructural’ level of society (Harris 2001a,

2001b), with particular attention to modes of (charcoal) production.

Chapter 4 focuses on one component of the ‘superstructure’ in Harris’ tripartite model of cultural materialism—the common belief that some trees are the dwelling place for certain spirits of the Vodou pantheon. Situating contemporary ethnographic description within historical context, I investigate why symbolism, imbued meaning, and religious significance failed to play

a mitigating role in the process of widespread arboreal denudation in Haiti. In the process, I describe arboreal rituals dedicated to the veneration of tree-residing spirits, religious taboos against cutting sacred trees, conflicting taboos against planting certain trees, and a ceremony developed by religious practitioners for removing a spirit from one tree and placing it in another, effectively permitting the felling of the first tree.

Chapter 5 of the dissertation presents a statistical analysis of spatial and ecological land- plot profiles that are linked to their individual owners’ socioeconomic profiles. The purpose of the logistic regression presented in this chapter is to ascertain whether the presence or absence of a rakbwa can be predicted based on these data. Such information is valuable not only to understanding the determinants or drivers of the particular land use; this information also has programming implications for State, NGO, and civil society attempts at promoting the planting or retention of trees in Haiti.

Chapter 6 draws together the pertinent findings from Chapters 2-5, providing a profile of how citizens of one of the most-deforested countries in the world have creatively adapted both their ideational and material realms to the reality—often the necessity—of decreasing forests.

Deforestation in Haiti is thus reframed: rather than a unidirectional force that only negatively affects Haitians, deforestation is seen as a force that has engendered creative, adaptive, and iterative exchanges between humans, society, and the surrounding ecology.

CHAPTER 2 THE HISTORICAL ECOLOGY OF HAITI’S EMERGENT ARBOREAL DOMESTICATION

Anthropological Theories of Domestication

The history of anthropological engagement with theories of plant domestication can be traced to archeologist V. Gordon Childe’s popularization of the process in his foundational work on the Neolithic revolution, Man Makes Himself (1936). Childe’s Oasis Theory of domestication suggested that environmental changes, particularly climatic drying, forced humans into closer proximity to plants and animals, eventually initiating the domestication process (1936). Childe considered the shift a revolution because the domestication of plants demanded sedentary human populations, which in turn permitted the rise of cities and states.

Since Childe’s seminal publication, anthropologists have theorized domestication in a variety of novel ways. The Nuclear Zone/Hilly Flanks theory, first articulated by anthropologist

Robert Braidwood in 1948, shifted the focus away from climate as the principle causative variable, suggesting that significant contributions from human societies over time contributed to the domestication process (Braidwood 1960; Braidwood et al. 1983). Braidwood showed that during the drying period noted by Childe, there were wetter areas that contained more plants, which attracted game animals. These areas enticed humans into a more sedentary stage.

Braidwood offered support of his thesis by presenting the presence of human tools and living structures at these sites, suggesting a sedentary lifestyle led to domestication.

Cultural geographer Carl Sauer agreed with Braidwood that sedentary humans, likely fishing groups, initiated domestication (1952). Sauer believed that in domestication, the first human plant selections were made through the mechanism of vegetative reproduction, and only later by seed selection.

Archeologists Flannery and Binford, like Childe, noted the influence of climatic changes, and like Braidwood and Sauer they recognized sedentary humans as part of the domestication equation (Flannery 1969; Binford 1968). Binford’s Edge-Zone thesis suggested that population increases forced people into nearby marginal areas after more abundant resources were depleted, and it was in these marginal areas that domestication occurred by necessity (1968). Flannery supported much of Binford’s theory because early archeological evidence showed the presence of domesticated plants in areas of low fertility, which challenged Braidwood’s theory. Flannery differed from Binford by proposing a Broad Spectrum thesis (1969), which postulated that during the last of the Pleistocene, population dynamics and food scarcity required people to eat wider varieties of plant and animal species to survive. The exposure to a spectrum of species allowed humans to discover those species more amendable to domestication.

In contrast, archaeologist David Rindos proposed a co-evolutionary domestication process between humans and animals, which did not rely on population pressure, resource depletion, or climatic changes as primary causative factors in the domestication process (1984).

Instead, Rindos suggested a process of human-driven ‘cultural selectionism’ acted as the principal mechanism driving domestication (1984). Rindos also believed that once a plant becomes domesticated, humans no longer directly affect the processes, but that domestication continues to occur indirectly through agro-ecological processes (1984).

Archeologists Bruce Smith (2007) and Nerissa Russell (2007) both provide summative accounts of trends in the long history of domestication studies. Smith noted that theories of domestication frequently adhere to either regional- or species-specific scales of analysis (2007).

Regional analyses tend to focus on macro-evolutionary variables such as climate change, shifts in population dynamics, and landscape changes as causal variables of domestication (Smith

2007: 188). In contrast, species-specific analyses tend to focus on the location, time, and genetic and physical changes to an organism that might constitute a new species (Smith 2007: 188-189).

Species analyses examine archeological and ecological records for clues to where and when the domestication of species occurred, while regional analyses tend to examine these same records to understand why such shifts developed in the first place (Smith 2007: 189). Russell noted that domestication studies tend to focus on either social or biological dimensions (2007). Social approaches have focused on psychology (control or domination) or structural influences

(property rights). Biological approaches are frequently separated into research on the domestication of plants or of animals. Animal studies may be distinguished by those studies that take humans as their focus, and those that examine nonhumans. In most biological studies, the weight of the emphasis may be less, more, or equally placed on the role of humans in the domestication process (Russell 2007). The insights provided by Russell and Smith summarize well the diversity of approaches toward the study of the domestication of plants and animals.

The domestication of energy. Based on a decade of prior anthropological research and applied work in Haiti, anthropologist Gerald F. Murray proposed a theoretical paradigm he called ‘the domestication of energy’ (Murray 1984; 1986; 1987; 1989; 1991b; 1994). Drawing on a historical parallel with the Neolithic shift, Murray suggested that when societies’ energy stores or access to energy sources become overexploited and exhausted, the society will gradually shift toward the cultivation of energy sources—the domestication of energy (ibid.).

Haiti suffers from a well-known and extreme case of deforestation. Rural and urban

Haitians’ principle energy source was, and continues to be, met through wood and charcoal, respectively. Colonial-era extractions of the original forests, agricultural clearing, and subsequent overharvesting of traditional woodlots prevented the natural regeneration that had

previously met Haitian’s energy demands. Murray theorized that a domestication of energy process in Haiti would express as an arboreal domestication, involving the direct planting and harvesting of fast-growing trees capable of producing both wood and charcoal (Murray 1984;

1986; 1987; 1989; 1991b; 1994).

Murray’s theorizing on energy domestication can be viewed as the wedding of anthropological concepts with insights from the Boserup thesis (1965). This bridging of theory is first demonstrated in Murray’s dissertation on land tenure in rural Haiti (1977). Murray noted that, contrary to one of the Boserup hypotheses, the Haitian response to increasing rural population concentrations had not been agricultural intensification (the application of fertilizers, manure, or use of other technologies). The other common adaptive strategy noted by Boserup— decreasing the agricultural fallow period—had already occurred in much of Haiti. But the fallow period had failed to constitute a permanent solution in Haiti. Fertile lowlands had been overworked in colonial periods, and the mountains that make up much of the rest of the landmass of Haiti are less conducive to sustained agricultural production. Compounding this problem, the land tenure system in Haiti, derived from the French colonial period, equally apportions inherited land between all siblings, resulting over time in increasingly smaller plots each generation

(Murray 1977).

The solution proposed by Murray built on the first pillar of the Boserup thesis: agricultural intensification. The fast-growing wood tree, capable of multiple harvests due to the coppicing nature of many such trees, would serve as an improved technological replacement to slower-growing hardwood trees that failed to regenerate when cut. To meet the challenge of generationally decreasing agricultural plot sizes, trees would be promoted in agroforestry systems rather than arboreal mono-cropping. Trees would also help amend soil in a manner

analogous to other strategies of agricultural intensification. But the benefits of providing fuelwood, charcoal, and amending soil were all tertiary to the primary economic benefits of the project. Haitians had been selling agricultural produce in cash-based market economies since the colonial period. The wedding of the fast-growing wood tree to the market-based, cash-cropping economy would be the incentive to facilitate a shift from arboreal extraction to arboreal domestication (Murray 1984, 1986, 1987, 1989, 1991b, 1994).

Murray’s theoretical propositions on the domestication of energy were put to the test in

Haiti during a nationwide agroforestry project. As early as 1976, deforestation—long considered an issue of major concern in Haiti—was identified as a priority area (Earl 1976; Ewel 1977) of the United States Agency for International Development’s regional office (USAID/Haiti) upon returning to Haiti after nearly a decade of absence.

Starting in 1978, a Haitian engineer (Voltaire 1979), two foresters (Benge 1978; Smith

1980), an economist (Zuvekas 1978), and three anthropologists (Murray 1978a, 1978b, 1979,

1981; Conway 1979, Smucker 1981) investigated the feasibility of a large-scale tree-planting project in Haiti. Ultimately an agroforestry project was approved based largely on recommendations that stem from one of Murray’s early reports (1979). The three anthropologists and several foresters remained involved with the project, in various capacities, for the duration of program activities. Through project evaluations, and policy and funding modifications, project- informed tree-planting, agroforestry, and soil conservation efforts in Haiti continued for two decades, and involved approximately one-third of the entire rural Haitian population (Murray and Bannister 2004). In sheer numbers, an estimated 65 million trees were distributed (ibid.).

Most farmers ended up planting trees in courtyards, undivided family land and on the borders of agricultural lands, with the intention to let them mature for higher-yielding lumber harvests. Out

of economic necessity, many trees were cut prior to achieving lumber-appropriate size, but trees from the project can still be found in many locations throughout Haiti.

Murray’s hypothesis on the domestication of energy was strengthened by Haitian farmers’ receptivity to tree-planting, the geographical extend of the project, and the continued, voluntary planting of trees over a twenty year period (Murray and Bannister 2004). While many

Haitian farmers were receptive to a paradigmatic swing from the extraction of natural resources to the domestication of natural resources, participation in the project did not facilitate a shift to autonomous tree-planting. The end of the project marked the end of a two-decade, nationwide tree-planting effort.

Rakbwa

Haitian farmers that cultivate wood in rakbwa (managed woodlands or woodlots) on private land in short-cycle coppice rotations present a creative and adaptive response to increasing energy demands in the face of on-going deforestation (Tarter forthcoming-2). The two predominant trees in rakbwa systems are called bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora) and kanpèch

(Haematoxylum campechianum; Haematoxylum brasiletto) in Kreyòl1 (Haitian Creole).

Bayawonn and kanpèch grew in increasing association throughout Haiti over time and space, and are highly adapted to Haiti’s harsh climate and poor soils, resistant to droughts, propagate rapidly through prolific and diverse strategies, and regenerate quickly through coppice when properly harvested. But this autochthonous system of resource management by Haitian farmers raises several important questions related to anthropological theories of domestication in Haiti:

1. Can rakbwa be considered as a form of energy domestication? 2. Are rakbwa a localized phenomenon, or are they found elsewhere in Haiti?

1 Some researchers using Kreyòl (Haitian Creole) words in English will add ‘s’ or ‘-s’ to the end of the noun, conforming the word to English language standards. I maintain Creole’s general lack of morphology, which requires the reader to consider context if sentences appear grammatically incorrect.

3. If found elsewhere, what factors have permitted the emergence of rakbwa? To address these questions, I assembled a variety of archival sources, from colonial records to early accounts from geographers and explorers in Haiti. I draw on reports and publications from economists, anthropologists, and foresters, produced in conjunction with the anthropology-agroforestry project, to establish a record of early rakbwa in the 20th century. I also draw on published analyses of lake sediment cores from Haiti, and published remote sensing analyses of recent high-resolution satellite imagery. All of these sources were consulted to construct an arboreal history for Haiti, stretching from the Holocene to the Anthropocene.

I begin with the ecological history, noting key environmental and societal shifts that permitted the emergence of rakbwa, before moving on to a causal analysis of how these events contributed to an emergent domestication of energy process currently underway in Haiti. This ecological history privileges bayawonn at the expense of kanpèch, for several reasons: bayawonn is believed to have entered Haiti earlier than kanpèch; bayawonn is by far the more dominant and widespread rakbwa tree species; and bayawonn has been referenced, researched, and reported on much more frequently than kanpèch.

The historical analysis also includes on-going references to the island of Lagonav, in part because reports of the island appear in many accounts. But Lagonav also serves as a more isolated case that can be compared to the Haitian mainland on several dimensions. First, the island has always supported much smaller populations than the mainland. Second, the island is geographically isolated, which bears on issues of resource access examined in the causal analysis. Finally, the vast majority of the island is said to be State land, in contrast to mainland

Haiti, which is characterized by both large tracts of State land, and many small, private land holdings.

The following account provides the necessary historical context for postulations I make in subsequent chapters. The account is also pre-historical; it represents the only known explanation that examines environmental change in Haiti in a geological timeframe, considering non-anthropogenic as well as anthropogenic influences on the present-day state of the ecology of

Haiti.

From the Holocene2 to the Anthropocene:3 An Historical Reconstruction of the Emergence of Rabkwa

A Guiding Temporal Framework

Before turning to present an account of the historical emergence or rakbwa systems, I offer a guiding temporal framework. Authors of the summative Prosopis Monograph noted that bayawonn is typically established in four ways throughout the world (Pasiecznik et al. 2001:

116-121):

1. native woodland - occurring only from Peru to Mexico;

2. native or naturalized stands – species that have been introduced and have escaped into the wild; used primarily for firewood and animal fodder; harvested by coppice, branch lopping, or cutting mature of trees at ~2 meters above ground; used for fence-posts and small construction timber; extensively grazed by livestock; and home to game and other resources;

3. agroforestry systems – trees cultivated in common with crops and/or animals, usually in:

(a) rarer agrosilvicultural systems (excluding livestock) –wood products, agricultural crops, and honey;

(b) more-common silvopastoral systems (excluding crops) – used for seedpod and understory production for animal consumption; some wood harvesting; honey production; and

2 The Holocene is a geologic epoch of the Quanternary period, and was preceded by the Pleistocene epoch. Dating from approximately 11, 500 years ago, the Holocene is noted for variable global climatic fluctuations and widespread shifts in plant and animal distributions.

3 The Anthropocene is a proposed geologic epoch marking the influence of humans on the biosphere. The start date for the Anthropocene is currently being debated, and proposed dates range from the 1600s to the 1960s

4. firewood plantations – used for firewood or charcoal in domestic settings; fuel-wood in industrial or urban uses; or biomass for electricity or power production; established in pure blocks; more intensely managed; and containing species of the same age (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 116-121).

I have arranged these four land uses to reflect how they have typically proceeded in temporal and sequential stages in Haiti.

Bayawonn was introduced to Haiti from ‘native woodland’ in Mexico; and kanpèch was introduced to Haiti from Mexico or Honduras (McJunkin 1991; Hatzenberger 2000). Both species spread rapidly throughout Haiti on State land, unproductive land, and abandoned plantation land. The ‘adaptability of these foreigners’ was so strong that they established in

‘almost pure stands’ (Hatzenberger 2000: 68, 75). While most naturalized tree stands on public- access land became overexploited and often destroyed, bayawonn and kanpèch simultaneously established on private land, where they were sometimes managed as ‘agroforestry systems,’ but usually transitioned into ‘firewood plantations’. The three most-common types of Prosopis firewood plantations are (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 119-120):

1. ‘single rotation stands,’ harvested every 10-20 years for wood; can be converted to coppice stands by retaining stumps, or to open stands after thinning; 2. ‘open stands,’ harvested every 5-10 year harvests, primarily for wood production, with livestock production a secondary output; harvested by coppice or by pruning trees to a few stems; and 3. ‘short rotation coppice stands,’ harvested every 1-5 years; common for firewood and charcoal production; too dense for livestock grazing (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 119-120).

These types of firewood plantations have also unfolded as stages of a temporal sequence in Haiti. In some locations in Haiti, ‘single rotation stands’ transitioned to ‘open stands,’ which were managed first for domestic fuel wood, construction wood, fodder for animals, honey, and later for charcoal. Over time, open stands transitioned into ‘short rotation coppice’ stands, cultivated almost exclusively for charcoal. ‘Open stands’ have certain similarities to the

‘silvopastoral’ agroforestry system described by Pasiecznik et al. (2001). The main difference is

that the former arrangement privileges wood production, while the latter system privileges animals. Nevertheless, some single or open rotation stands very likely transitioned into silvopastoral systems—but usually only for an interim period. More likely, silvopastoral stands transitioned into firewood plantations, or agroforestry systems were skipped over entirely when naturalized stands transitioned directly to single rotation stands.

While different rakbwa emerged in different sequences and manifestations, the overarching diachronic trend in Haiti has been directional: naturalized stands exploited for firewood on public land gave way to rakbwa cultivated for charcoal on private land. Under other circumstances, these four stages would be arranged differently. Their order reflects social processes that uniquely unfolded in Haiti. The verity of these sequential stages will become clear through evidence presented in the subsequent historical reconstruction. These stages are mentioned here to provide a guiding framework for the reader, and will be referenced again in later explanations of how their chronology has been part-and-parcel of a process of resource domestication in Haiti.

Lak Miragwàn: A Drying Precedent and Spread of Dry Forests During the Holocene

We now know the likelihood of the rapid spread of bayawonn and kanpèch from earlier historical periods in Haiti that experienced analogous spreads of dry forest tree species. A series of analyses were conducted on a sediment core collected from Lak Miragwàn, possibly the

Caribbean’s largest body of fresh water (Higuera-Gundy et al. 1999: 161), located in an area of high charcoal production. Two studies of the core helped establish a record of paleoclimatic changes from ~10,300 14C4 yr B.P.,5 based on stable isotope analysis and the presence or absence of trace metals in ostracod shells (Hodell et al. 1991; Curtis and Hodell 1993).

4 ‘14C’ refers to radiocarbon dating.

Another study of the sediment core analyzed arboreal and non-arboreal pollen and geochemical changes to sediment against the backdrop of the paleoclimatic record, and noted major historical fluctuations between moist forests and dry forests, spurred by climatic changes during the Holocene (Higuera-Gundy et al. 1999). This study demonstrated a drying trend in

Hispaniola until ~8,600 14C yr. B.P., followed by increased moisture and moist forest expansion

(1999: 168). Around 3,200 14C yr. B.P. there was a return to drying on Hispaniola, when moist forests declined and shrub communities expanded (1999: 165). The record indicates there was a brief return to higher moisture levels, but by ~1000 14C yr. B.P. dry conditions returned and continued until the first humans arrived on the island (Higuera-Gundy et al. 1999: 166). These records show that fluctuations in moisture caused shifts in the presence and range of moist and dry forest species.

Traces of these historical climatic fluctuations, when ‘hardwood forests descended to low elevations under cooler conditions’ (Higuera-Gundy et al. 1999: 164), may have been observed by a geography team leading a nationwide survey of Haiti during the 1920s, when they noted that on ‘the northeastern slope of the Massif du Nord and in the northwestern part of the

Southern Peninsula trees and shrubs that are elsewhere found at high altitudes extend down to unusually low altitudes’ (Woodring et al.: 1924: 59). The team may also have been noting the influence of the precipitation brought by the north-eastern trade winds.

The progressive climatic drying trend of the Holocene since ~3,200 14C yr. B.P. continued during well-documented processes that took place during the colonial period

(Lindskog 1998; Moya Pons 2007; Diamond 2005; Dubois 2012). A resource extraction period began in the early 1700s and continued through the Haitian revolution at the turn of the 19th

5 ‘BP’ refers to the ‘before present’ convention of dating, starting on 1 January 1950.

Century. Large colonial plantations were cultivated and irrigated on plains, degrading, exhausting, or salinating much of the fertile lowlands. Timber was extracted from original hardwood stands in mountainous regions after lowland trees were felled. This loss of protective vegetative cover and the degradation of tropical soils exacerbated the climatic drying that began in the Holocene.

Many of the resource extractions associated with the colonial period temporarily declined directly after the Haitian revolution. In another study of the lake Miragwàn sediment, Brenner and Binford (1988) examined fluctuations in arboreal pollen, weed types, and erosion, providing evidence of a ‘temporary reestablishment of local forests and reduction of soil loss’ (1988: 94) that correlates with land-use changes at the beginning of the 19th Century. After Haitian independence in 1804, large colonial plantations were destroyed and abandoned and Haitians fanned out and established smaller agricultural settlements, frequently at higher elevations

(ibid.). The authors suggest the correlated changes in sediment and pollen levels reflect this period history (ibid.).

Lake sediment analyses are reliable. Tinner et al. (1998) tested carbon and pollen from frozen lake sediment in Switzerland, and triangulated their findings with a database containing dates and locations of anthropogenic fires, faithfully recorded since 1920. The database and their pollen-charcoal analysis correlated well—evidence of the effectiveness of lake sediment analyses

(Tinner et al. 1998). The sum of these analyses provides compelling evidence that climatic changes brought about sufficient drying for the spread of dry tree species similar to those found in rakbwa. This historical precedent supports important subsequent hypotheses that are posed to answer research questions one and two.

Early Accounts from the Colony

It is interesting to note that Moreau de Saint-Mery, a colonist from Martinique, chose to define the word rak (‘raque’) in the scant list of terms that precedes his 1797 monograph on

Saint Domingue (de Saint 1797: xix). De Saint-Mery defined ‘raque’ as small, stunted trees in low, sometimes flooded areas (de Saint-Mery 1797: xix). Later, in describing a savanna east of

Kapayisyen (Okap; Cap-Haïtien [Fr.]), de Saint-Mery provided more detail:

This extensive savannah, overflows in many locations in fredoches or raques (aggregations of stunted woods)—which extend in different directions and render useless large areas where one does not even go to collect wood—with an incorruptibility that should be prized despite the smallness of their dimensions6 (de Saint-Mery 1797: 158).

De Saint-Mery defined ‘fredoches’ as a term used in the colony for unproductive soil that gives life to brambles and bois blanc,7 the proportions of which point to the sterility of the soil8 (de

Saint-Mery 1797: 128-129).

Beyond providing the earliest known reference to ‘raques,’ which became the sites of the early rakbwa, de Saint-Mary also provided the earliest found reference to kanpèch, reported to have arrived in the north of Haiti in 1730 (de Saint-Mery 1797: 632). Throughout the 18th century, kanpèch was heavily exploited on Haiti’s southern Tiburon peninsula, in Aken, Sen

Lwi, Leyogàn, Miragwàn, Gran Rivyè de Nip, and near the Piti Twou de Nip parish

(Hatzenberger 2000: 71-72; Woodring 1924: 58-59, 62).

6 Translation mine: ‘Cette savane très étendue, est chargée dans plusieurs endroits de fredoches ou de raques (assemblage de bois rabougris), qui s'étendent dans divers sens, et qui rendent inutiles de grands espaces où l'on ne va pas même chercher quelques bois, que leur incorruptibilité devrait faire priser, malgré la petitesse de leurs dimensions’ (de Saint-Mery 1797: 158).

7 Possibly Simarouba glauca DC. var. latifolia Cronq. (Timyan 1996: 39).

8 Paraphrase mine: ‘J'ai dit que les grandes savanes étaient contigues aux Fredoches; c'est le nom qu'on donne, dans la Colonie, à des terrains dont le fond est une espèce de tuf blancheâtre et argileux, qui ne donne la vie qu'à des ronces et à quelques bois blancs, dont les proportions accusent le sol de stérilité’ (de Saint-Mery 1797: 128-129).

Figure 1-1. The earliest known image of bayawonn in Haiti (Descourtilz 1809: 43).

Historic droughts in the 1700s aided the early spread of kanpèch and other introduced species such as bayawonn (Hatzenberger 2002). The rapid arboreal encroachment of these drought- resistant species added to large increases of biomass that helped fueled major fires between 1754 and 1786, many of which lasted multiple months (ibid.). These fires cleared native vegetation, expanding the potential range of rakbwa tree species.

A decade after Moreau de Saint-Mery’s observations, a naturalist noted the presence of both bayawonn and kanpèch in multiple locations throughout Haiti, and provided the first taxonomic image of bayawonn in Haiti (Figure 1-1) (Descourtilz 1809: 43). The image subtitle

noted that bayawonn was a harmful tree in the Hattes (desert lowland cattle pens9), suggesting these areas were the initial home of naturalized stands. Curiously, the image of bayawonn clearly shows coppice emerging from a cut tree stump, rather than an isolated branch (Figure 1). While we cannot presume to know if bayawonn was under management as early as the end of the 18th century, it is peculiar that a naturalist would choose to depict the species in this manner. At the very least, naturalists noted the coppicing potential of bayawonn early in the history of the

Haitian Republic.

Accounts from Post-Independence

Post-independence accounts support the Brenner and Binford (1988) hypothesis of a sudden increase in forest cover after the Haitian revolution. Two decades after the close of the

Haitian revolution a consultant to the new Republic lamented, ‘[E]verything is destroyed. The plains, gardens so fertile, are mostly covered with forest, like the day of conquest’10 (Wallez

1826: 72). An English merchant reported that ‘the highly productive and very extensive

[colonial] estates…are now neglected wastes, with little to be seen but the spreading guava, the wild indigo, and a thousand other weeds and shrubs, raising themselves unmolested on the very spots which once displayed all the luxuriance of vegetation’ (Frankline 1828: 286).

Yet the historic return of tree-cover was not the reestablishment of original hardwood forests; it was largely the rapid encroachment of bayawonn and kanpèch trees. As an English magistrate noted, ‘the beautiful plain of Cul-de-sac…would seem to be an old forest of logwood

(hæmotoxylum Campechianum) [kanpèch] and of bayahond (acacia) [bayawonn]; although, within the last thirty years it was covered with sugar establishments’ (Mackenzie 1830: 39-40).

9 Moreau de Saint-Mery defined Hatte in his brief dictionary: ‘Mot tiré de l'Espagnol & qui signifie Haras , lieu où on élève des beftiaux’ (de Saint-Mery 1797: xvviij).

10 Translation mine: “Tout est détruit. Les plaines, jardins si fertiles, sont pour la plupart couverts de forêt, comme au jour de la conquête” (Wallez 1826: 72)

In plains Southwest of the capital, the same author remarked that he was again ‘surrounded by logwood [kanpèch] and bayahond’ (1830: 62). In the North of Haiti, the plantations and fertile land of Wanamèt (Ouanaminthe) were also ‘covered with bayahond’ (Mackenzie 1830: 199).

The widespread nature of this arboreal encroachment is evident in Mackenzie’s commentary, while traveling east from Kapayisyen to Fòlibète (Fort-Liberté): ‘[T]he country, as usual, [is] covered with bayahond, logwood [kanpèch], and wild guava trees’ (Mackenzie 1830: 195).

As lowland areas of mainland Haiti were transitioning to naturalized stands of exotic species, Lagonav remained less affected. The island had few permanent inhabitants, though this was changing as fishermen ‘ventured to cut down mahogany’ to establish themselves as property owners (Mackenzie’s 1830: 46-47). As a result, there had been little agriculture and less deforestation on Lagonav. On the mainland, bayawonn and kanpèch were prominent in the plains, but higher-elevation areas still contained multitudes of hardwood stands. Chandler reported that Haiti ‘abounds in forests of mahogany wood11 and other fine timber,’ including

‘large forests of oak and bayone [bayawonn?], del maria, and cancagou woods’ (Chandler 1842:

2, 63).

In 1838, the Haitian state renegotiated a lower post-revolution indemnity with France— with the caveat that the entirety of the sum be paid in full in 30 years (Moya Pons 2007: 182;

Bulmer-Thomas 2012: 551). A few years later, legal mahogany exports doubled, and by 1842 exceeded 4.0 million cubic feet; ‘Exports of logwood [kanpèch] and dyewood followed the same trend’ (Moya Pons 2007:183). As Chandler noted, ‘the trade in mahogany and dye-woods has been of late years a vastly improving one’ (1842: 106). This trend would continue at least through the middle of the 1800s (ibid.). Despite this surge in exportation, hardwood trees were

11 Chandler reported entire mature mahogany forests were purchased for one dollar a tree (Chandler 1842: 63).

still abundant in Haiti, late into the 19th Century. Stuart noted ‘the variety of production seems to be almost infinite, and the supply inexhaustible’ (Stuart 1878: 267).

In 1878, the island of Lagonav remained ‘covered with forests of mahogany and other valuable woods,’ excellent soil, and few inhabitants (Stuart 1878: 257). Kanpèch, which was widely naturalized by this time (Stuart 1878: 268), spread quickly into dry areas throughout Haiti

(Woodring 1924: 58-59, 62; Hatzenberger 2000: 71-72), including Lagonav. One observer noted the ‘natural wood [of Lagonav] is, as everywhere, the campêch; the top of the island is covered in mahogany forests of the largest and most beautiful species: large quantities of guaiac, [and] ebony’12 (Unknown2 1862: 6). Another reported the island was ‘covered with mahogany, guaiac, campêch, chên and with incorruptible13 wood. The trees extend to the coast on all sides. They could be exploited for thirty years14. (Unknown2 1862: 2).

A Series of Changes

The early decades of the 20th century mark a series of important turning points in regard to the forests of Haiti and the spread of rakbwa tree species. The decline of export tree species becomes increasingly apparent. One article in the National Geographic Magazine reported that

Haiti’s mountains ‘flourish extensive timber forests’ (Unknown1 1920: 497), but another article in the same issue noted that while mountains above 3,000 feet in the southeast of Haiti were

‘clothed with superb forests of Georgian pines…the British concessionaires and the Haitian peasantry are rapidly and too recklessly felling these magnificent trees’ (Johnston 1920: 483). In

12 Translation mine: “Le bois naturel est, comme partout, le campêch; la partie supérieure de l'île est couverte de forêts d'acajou de la plus grosse et de la plus belle espèce: du gayac en quantité, de l'ébène” (Unknown2 1862: 6)

13 Incorruptible as an adjective used to describe certain trees is found in several archives, and likely refers to hardwoods not known to easily deteriorate.

14 Translation mine: “La Gonave est couverte d'acajou, de gayac, de campêch, de chên et de bois incorruptible. Les bois touchent la mer de-tous côtés. Leur exploitation pourrait durer trente ans” (Unknown2 1862: 2).

most other reports, mentions of vast stores of mahogany and other export trees cease, while mentions of the spread of bayawonn and kanpèch continue.

Botanist John Harshberger observed that ‘in the cultivated valleys, great changes have been worked in the flora. The indigenous plants have been slowly replaced by introductions from tropical and temperate climes’ (Harshberger 1901: 559-560). Uncultivated lands of the plains of

Haiti were overgrown with ‘a low scrub of very thorny mimosas [bayawonn] and logwood

[kanpèch]’ (Johnson 1909: 648). According to Woodring et al. (1924), ‘logwood [kanpèch]…has spread rapidly over the Republic, where it grows best in dry, calcareous soils,’ and ‘large areas of the plain are forested with a thick tangle of bayahonde’ (Woodring et al. 1924: 58-59, 63).

During the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, bayawonn and kanpèch are both listed as export woods, and both won grand prizes (Unknown3 1904: 11, 21-22). By this time, bayawonn joins kanpèch in records for Lagonav, while mentions of other hardwoods are conspicuously absent

(Leonard 1920: 74; Hall 1929: 686). While some large mahogany trees remained isolated in the interior of the island, there were no longer any extensive forests on the island, and many upland areas were covered with thick shrubbery (Woodring et al. 1924: 61).

The 1920s mark the first found reference to ‘the burning of charcoal’15 (Woodring et al.

1924: 57). We are told that ‘bayahonde is used a great deal for fuel, some of it as charcoal,’ and that ‘most of the wood used in Port-au-Prince is that of the leguminous tree called bayahonde, which grows in the Cul-de-Sac Plain’ (Woodring et al. 1924: 63, 485). The 1920s are also distinguished by the first mention of the management of the natural regeneration of trees: ‘The

Bombardopolis Plateau contains large areas of very dense forest, apparently new growth, and a

15 While the earliest found use of ‘charcoal’ in Haiti was toward the end of the 19th century (Stuart 1878: 270), it was mentioned in a passing reference to tobacco drying techniques. Furthermore, it is not clear if this was charcoal produced from wood, or from naturally occurring lignite (coal).

great deal of lignum vitae (gayac), which, however, is kept down by constant cutting, for it is the chief article of export at Môle St.-Nicholas’ (Woodring et al. 1924: 60). In these references it is clear that most trees were cut for fuel or export, but the mention of charcoal foreshadows a major shift.

In 1931, forester Tom Gill remarked, ‘Three hundred years of forest denudation have completely altered the vegetation in all the accessible areas,’ and bayawonn, the predominant dry forest species, was ‘found on the semi-arid plains and much of it occupies agricultural land formerly under irrigation and cultivated during colonial times’ (Gill 1931: 138-140). Bayawonn was commonly used wood for ‘fenceposts, firewood, charcoal, and some railroad ties’ (1931:

140). In musing about the natural regenerative properties of Haiti’s forests, Gill concluded:

This [regeneration] is largely because bayahonde occupies the greater portion of the stands, and when cut is a vigorous sprouter. The forest products of Haiti are only of importance from the standpoint of local use, and this reduces itself to fuel and charcoal, both of which come largely from bayahonde. As much bayahonde is used for charcoal as all other species combined.

Practically all of the charcoal comes from two sources—the mangrove swamps and the dry forests (Gill 1931: 141).

Along the Haiti-D.R. border in the 1930s, bayawonn was the most common shrub in at least one ecological zone, and present in several others (Palmer 1976: 29). Gill confirmed the ongoing presence of kanpèch in ‘natural selective stands’ throughout Haiti (1931: 144), and new reports confirmed accounts from the prior decade: Lagonav had dense growths of bayawonn, but no stands of mahogany are mentioned (Wetmore and Swales 1931: 28).

In research that commenced in the early 1940s near the coastal city of Gonayiv

(Gonaïve), a forester performed eighty different 100-sq-ft transects of thorn woodland forest

(Curtis 1947). In ‘frequency,’16 bayawonn dominated stands at 76% of trees in the 1-3-inch

D.B.H.17 category, but was nominal-to-absent in categories over 3-inches at D.B.H. (Curtis 1947:

4). In ‘density,’18 bayawonn dominated the smaller categories of trees, and had the highest total density across all categories19 (Curtis 1947: 4). In other words, the bayawonn trees that Curtis

(1947) documented were the most widespread and numerous species, and expressed mostly as small (1-3-inches) trees—characteristics of rakbwa. Curtis not only noted that bayawonn had the greatest potential for reproduction; he also reported that local charcoal-makers utilized the species heavily, which accounted for the high densities, high frequencies, the predominant expression in the 1-3-inch size, and that fact that 53.9% of the bayawonn trees he measured were

‘of stump sprout origin’ (Curtis 1947: 3). The summary of Curtis’ (1947) research suggests bayawonn may have been managed in natural stands in the early 1940s.

In the mid-1940s, forester Morton Klein opened his nationwide forestry survey with,

‘Forests in Haiti of commercial importance are practically non-existent’ (Klein 1945: 5). Klein noted that mahogany was down to a dozen trees on the island of Lagonav, and that virtually all land on the island was under cultivation or abandoned due to erosion or sterility (Klein: 1945: 6,

17). Of a total estimated area of 2,770,000 hectares in Haiti, Klein suggested that roughly 1/4th

(670,000 ha.) were former agricultural lands now abandoned because of aridity, erosion, or sterility (Klein 1945: 10). Klein noted that the xerophytic land that supports bayawonn ‘appears

16 Frequency: ‘percentage of the total number of quadrats in which a given species is found’ (Curtis 1947:2)

17 Diameter at Breast Height.

18 Density: ‘average number of individuals per unit area’ (Curtis 1947: 3)

19 In the ‘density’19 measure, bayawonn was three times as dense as the next tree species under one foot high and less 1-inch at D.B.H. (Curtis 1947: 4). Bayawonn was two times as dense as the next tree species over a foot and less 1-inch at D.B.H. (1947: 4). Bayawonn was approximately twice the density of the next tree species in the 1-3- inch range of trees over a foot high and over 1-inch D.B.H. (4). Bayawonn expressed the highest total density across all categories, at nearly twice the number of the next species total (Curtis 1947: 4).

to be advancing into other areas abandoned by agriculture in the plains and creeping up the mountainsides’ (Klein 1945: 8). Most tellingly of the rakbwa systems that were soon to emerge,

Klein noted that large private companies are planning projects for ‘improving the natural reproduction of mesquite (bayahonde)’ (1945: 23).

There is a curious decline in the historical record from the 1950s until the late 1970s, perhaps correlated with the reign of president-for-life, François (Papa Dòk) Duvalier. This is regrettable; it was during this period that naturalized bayawonn and kanpèch stands on public land likely shifted into rakbwa systems on private land. The thin record that does exist referenced land that was ‘in scrub growth from which “sleepers” and charcoal were obtained’ (de

Young 1958: 42). Gill (1931), Roig (1985), and McGowan (1986) all report that ‘sleepers’

(railroad ties) were made from bayawonn. In the north of Haiti, Wood noted a ‘fairly dense cover of shrubs and small trees’ that developed on fallowed land, and ‘semi-deciduous scrub’ on land removed from cultivation (Wood 1963: 14, 113). The record picks up in force in the late 1970s, at the apparent decline of many early rakbwa systems.

The Decline of Gayak and the Rise of Bayawonn

Gayak (Guaiacum spp.) was historically the preferred species for charcoal production

(Voltaire 1979; Smucker 1981; Murray 1981a; Conway 1979). The mention of ‘large areas of very dense forest, apparently new growth, and a great deal of lignum vitae (gayac), which…is kept down by constant cutting,’ suggests that natural stands of gayak may have been managed in

Haiti at some point20 (Woodring et al. 1924: 60). The gayak tree grows very slowly (Francis

1993), which is likely the reason it did not persist to eventually become managed in rakbwa systems. Nevertheless, gayak trees will coppice if cut as seedlings, saplings or young trees

20 Woodring is clear that this forest was managed for wood export, not charcoal (Woodring et al. 1924: 60).

(Francis 1993). Voltaire’s (1979) claim that gayak disappeared due to the 50-year period required for complete regeneration of the tree in Haiti (1979: 9), suggests gayak was frequently cut well past the age for producing coppice. Conway (1979) noted Haitians making charcoal by pulling up long-dead gayak tree trunks (3.23), which would have been a labor prohibitive undertaking for smaller stumps of gayak, capable of producing coppice. It appears that gayak disappeared because of slow growth, but perhaps also because trees were cut after the age that would allow voluminous coppice yields.

The shift from using gayak to using bayawonn for charcoal did not happen immediately.

Murray and Alvarez reported that east of Pòtoprens, ‘the favorite trees for making charcoal locally are the gayak and the bayaonn trees’ (Alvarez and Murray 1981). An early World Bank forestry project proposal noted both species, mentioning they are ‘subject to overcutting and are in regression,’ and later noting that bayawonn was the major source of wood for charcoal because gayak had largely disappeared due to overexploitation (World Bank 1982: 5, 9). East of

Pòtoprens in Fonds Parisien, gayak was ‘something of the legendary past,’ replaced there and elsewhere with bayawonn (Conway 1979: 3.25-3.26).

Variants of the First Rakbwa Systems

As gayak declined, bayawonn came to take its place as the favored charcoal tree (Voltaire

1979; Smucker 1981; Murray 1981a; Conway 1979). A precursor to managed bayawonn may have existed in the 1930s, also in naturalized stands on public land: Gill noted bayawonn is a

‘vigorous sprouter,’ was used more for charcoal than all other woods combined, and occupied the largest number of tree stands (Gill 1931: 141). In Gonaïve bayawonn was present in high frequencies and densities, usually 1-3-inches in diameter, originating frequent from stumps as coppice, which was heavily exploited for charcoal production (Curtis 1947: 2-4).

Clear descriptions of rakbwa on private lands emerged in the late 1970s. Three anthropologists who had just completed long periods of dissertation fieldwork (Murray 1977;

Conway 1978; Smucker 1983) later conducted research suggesting a transition from the exploitation of wood in naturalized stands on public land, to the cultivation of wood in rakbwa on private land. Conway was contracted to write about firewood collection in Haiti, but also included details about charcoal production when he noted the two subjects could not be treated independently (1979); Smucker was hired to document trees and charcoal in the Haitian peasant economy (1981); and Murray was commissioned to write several reports, including assessments of erosion control (1978, 1979) and a social soundness analysis of tree-planting by rural Haitians

(1981).

These and several subsequent reports from anthropologists suggest much in common, derived from visible nationwide trends, observed through visits to many of the same accessible locations throughout Haiti. But the reports also vary in some of the locations visited and some of the observations noted. Across the reported variation in rakbwa systems of the late 1970s, several common themes emerged: the exploitation and disappearance of naturalized stands on public land; new proprietary attitudes and restrictions of access to private rakbwa; the application of varied rakbwa cultivation techniques; cultivation for both wood products and charcoal; cultivation for both domestic consumption and market orientations; and the overexploitation and destruction of both naturalized stands and many rakbwa.

Haitians within and between different locations applied varied cultivation techniques for varied end-uses of wood derived from rakbwa, including domestic fuel wood, and market- oriented charcoal, railroad ties, construction posts, and lumber (Conway 1979; Murray 1981;

Smucker 1981). None of these variations are shocking; change does not always occur in an

instantaneous or uniform way, particularly in a country with a well-documented history of geographical, ecological, social, linguistic, and religious heterogeneity. Nevertheless, as the subsequent historical reconstruction will show, most Haitians transitioned toward managing their rakbwa in short rotations for coppice used in charcoal production.

From Public Exploitation to Private Cultivation of Wood

Stevenson suggested that fuel wood in Haiti was collected in three different locations: (1) government land; (2) private, open access land; and (3) private, restricted access land (1989: 60).

Building on the sequential framework I proposed at the opening of the historical analysis, I suggest that wood procurement in Haiti has progressed through these three land types, usually ending as ‘firewood plantations’ (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 119) on private, restricted access land.

Naturalized stands of bayawonn and kanpèch were visibly overharvested and becoming eliminated from public lands during the late 1970s (Conway 1979; Smucker 1981; Voltaire

1979; Alvarez and Murray 1981). As public lands became depleted, firewood procurement shifted to private, open access lands. Many rural Haitians had open access to more-valuable tree species through eritaj21—undivided ancestral lands that are understood as a dual material and spiritual inheritance (eritaj), where familial spirits may inhabit large trees (Lowenthal 1987;

Alvarez and Murray 1981) or the land itself (Murray 1980).

The ceremony for removing a spirit from one tree and placing it in another (Lowenthal

1987; Tarter 2015), may have arisen as an early adaptive response to some Haitian farmers’ need to procure wood from historically sacred eritaj (Tarter 2015). Over time, slow-growing hardwood species disappeared from eritaj and other private lands, and bayawonn and kanpèch quickly replaced them. In some cases hardwood cultivation continued; a photo and caption from

21 Other common names for eritaj include (a)bitasyon, demanbwe, tè minè, and mazi (Herskovits 2007 [1937]: 133- 134, Bastien 1961: 486, Alvarez and Murray 1981: 88, Lowenthal 1987: 195, 275-283).

Conway’s report noted a woodlot manager from Fonds Parisien who had bayawonn and acacia trees cleared from his rakbwa, ‘to permit oak and mahogany trees to mature’ (Conway 1979: photo 6a). In two locations in the southwest, between 35% and 57% of tree-planting sites of the anthropology-agroforestry project were on un-separated inherited land (tè minè), or sharecropped land (Balzano 1986: 36). But more-frequently, because older hardwoods are less likely to coppice, and the aggressive new tree species were more resistant to drought and degraded soils, many hardwoods in eritaj were rapidly replaced and eventually dominated by bayawonn, and often kanpèch.

In L’Arbe and Grande Savanne, large family eritaj lands—including the privately owned

‘savanna’ of Grande Savanne and land along the coastal areas—were used collectively for grazing and some cultivation (Smucker 1981: 11, 45). Traditionally, those with no kin ties could still gather wood in eritaj (Alvarez and Murray 1981: 88). In Fonds Parisien, wood from eritaj land was open to all members of the village, and much of the firewood collected in both Fonds

Parisien and Thomazeau was on eritaj land (Conway 1979: 3.5-3.6). Access to trees from eritaj mitigated the decline of available wood from overexploited public lands.

Slowly, access to wood became more restricted on eritaj lands. Even though these restrictions did not apply to family members, they correlated with an increasing number of people relying on eritaj resources, inevitably creating some intra-kin conflict. Smucker observed that in the northwest of Haiti ‘the matter of woodlots on undivided family land is an issue with traditional modes of resolution’ (1981: 73). The existence of traditional modes of resolution suggests there were conflicts over remaining eritaj wood stores. Traditional modes of resolution did not always result in the conservation of resources, either; wood rapidly disappeared from

some eritaj in the northwest, preplaced by procurement on individually owned private land

(Conway 1979: 3.20).

The tradition of open access, non-eritaj private land was also declining, marked by the advent of new private land-use restrictions. Conway suggested the first restrictions to private woodlots in Fonds Parisien began after the HASCO sugar company started purchasing trees in

1937 (1979: 3.26). This trend continued into the 1970s in Thomazeau:

In the view of the growing scarcity of wood and its increasing value at least some farmers have begun taking a more jealous proprietary interest in the bayaonn trees remaining on their land. Neighbors still have rights to dead wood without asking the owners’ permission. But a stranger slashing a living branch may now be challenged (Alvarez and Murray 1981: 90).

Conway noted similar attitudes in Fonds Parisien, where there were restrictions on ‘green wood’ harvesting, but a reluctant, suspicious acceptance of ‘dry wood’ (firewood) collection

(Conway 1979: 3.6). Conway concluded that, in general, ‘owners of wooded lands tend to restrict access to the fuel wood (especially green wood resources that they own)’ (Conway 1979:

6.5-6.6).

Captions and photos placed at the end of Conway’s report show a rakbwa in Thomazeau, where ‘mesquite [bayawonn] is regenerating on privately held land’ in the foreground, while public land in the background was denuded; and, ‘a residential area [in Fonds Parisien] where there is relatively restricted access to fuel wood procurement and mesquite is allowed to grow to maturity’ (Conway 1979: photos 6c, 3b, italics mine). On Lagonav, Smucker observed that

‘privately owned land may be protected from further cutting,’ and that ‘privately owned stands of bayahonde [on Lagonav] are protected by the restriction of access to the woodlot’ (Smucker

1981: 19, 47). The initial shift to wood procurement on eritaj lands and other open, private lands

overlapped declining wood on public land, but developed largely in response to the latter.

Restrictions subsequently increased for eritaj and other private lands in direct response to diminishing public wood supplies.

New restrictions accelerated the disappearance of the few remaining tree stands from public land. Another phenomenon quickly dispersed itinerant charcoal producers to other areas of Haiti. When trees were cut on public land, the lion’s share of profit went to the producer; trees now cut on private lands were subject to the rules of sharecropping (World Bank 1982: 24-25).

The historical and contemporaneous sharecropping system in Haiti, which divides profit equally between the producer and the landowner, were extended to charcoal production. But Conway noted that some owners of large, unmanaged, private forest stands in the northwest ‘ceased to let out contracts for cutting wood on their land,’ after they noted that sharecroppers had clear-cut and destroyed other private forest stands (Conway 1986b: 10). A fifty percent decline in profit for charcoal produced on private land, and some farmers’ complete withdrawal from sharecropping, incentivized many itinerant charcoal producers to migrate to new public lands in

Haiti.

Early Rakbwa Cultivation Techniques

Elsewhere I described a series of contemporary wood cultivation techniques, used in short rotation coppice rakbwa, making a distinction between active and passive techniques: the former require directed actions, while the latter require restraint from an otherwise established and commonly employed land management practice (Tarter forthcoming-2). The active rakbwa cultivation techniques recognized by farmers included: cutting trees before they grow too old to coppice; cutting trees high, to avoid foraging animals; weeding understory vegetation between tree stumps, to encourage overall coppice growth; and thinning coppice stems, to increase the growth of other stems. The passive rakbwa cultivation techniques noted by farmers included: not

burning recently harvested rakbwa to clear underbrush or weeds, which destroys stumps; not cutting stumps too low, which can kill them or restrict coppice; and prohibiting the entry of animals that browse coppice and new saplings (ibid.).

It is worth noting that some of these rakbwa management techniques were reported nearly 35 years ago. Smucker noted that in some locations in Haiti, private land is restricted ‘to allow re-growth to occur, especially in stands of the naturally coppicing bayahonde’ (Smucker

1981: 19). Smucker noted that ‘peasant farmers have a distinct preference for self-regenerating and self-reproducing trees…[and that]…bayahonde is notable for its characteristic of coppicing whereby a new trunk grows from the stump of the old one’ (Smucker 1981: 47). Elsewhere

Smucker observed private woodlots that were restricted to permit ‘stumps to coppice and new saplings to grow’ (Smucker 1981: 47). Conway mentioned private woodlot owners ‘prefer techniques which allow stumps and branches to coppice (boujoune); [and that] fuel wood harvesters also avoid very young saplings’ (Conway 1979: 1.5, 6.5-6.6). Two anthropologists reported that ‘in arid zones, there is a traditional practice of managing woodlots of Prosopis

(bayahonde or mesquite), a coppicing, drought-resistant wood species highly valued by peasants as construction timber and for charcoal production’ (Lowenthal and Smucker 1985: 94). Ehrlich noted that ‘few prosopis trees in Haiti have never been cut before. In fact, relative large stands of prosopis can be found that are intensively, yet rationally managed as coppice stands’ (Ehrlich

1985: 45).

Voltaire noted ‘the first step [of charcoal making] involves the cutting of fresh wood

[coppice] with the roots generally left so that regeneration can occur’ (Voltaire: 1979: 9).

Voltaire also mentioned that when bayawonn trees are not burned out, they regenerate every three years (Voltaire: 1979: 9). Roig noted trees high enough above ground to allow coppicing

(Roig 1985: 5). In Fonds Parisien, private woodlots were occasionally ‘“cleaned out” of underbrush’ (Conway 1979: 3.19). Some farmers restrained from the traditional application of fire to clear fields, while still combining crop rotations between wood harvests in bayawonn agrosilvicultural agroforestry systems (Conway 1986: 18-19). Conway also observed one informant who cleared half of his land of this agrosilvicultural system, which required him to

‘make a fire on top of each stump to prevent it from coppicing’ (1986: 19). Smucker later noted that participants in the anthropology-agroforestry project where ‘continuing the practice of not burning’ their land to protect project trees (Gaddis and Smucker 1988: 72, emphasis mine).

These reports provide compelling evidence that rakbwa had been cultivated in some locations in

Haiti at least as early as 1979.

But an interesting phenomenon surfaced during my recent fieldwork: research participants frequently mentioned or acknowledged rakbwa cultivation techniques that they did not use, such as cutting tree trunks high to avoid goats, removing some coppice stems to allow other stems to grow faster, weeding underbrush between coppicing stumps, and permitting trees to grow to an older age before harvests. My informants also acknowledged previous uses for rakbwa, including open grazing for animals, and as a site for honey production. Informants indicated that these widely known cultivation techniques and prior uses had been commonplace.

But a shift in the cultivation of rakbwa occurred within living memory: a shift from the cultivation of trees for wood products to cultivation exclusively for charcoal production.

From Cultivation for Wood to Cultivation for Charcoal

The shift to tree cultivation on private land was a major step in the process of domesticating certain trees—a topic I will return to in the subsequent causal analysis. But the shift was also a threat to some emergent rakbwa systems. In many locations there had been little-

to-no incentive to develop wood cultivation techniques, since wood was simply extracted from land public land that could be exploited by other people or browsed by foraging animals.

Previously, firewood had been gathered from the ground or procured by lopping branches from mature trees on open, private land (Alvarez and Murray 1981). On later were mature trees felled. Since mature bayawonn is unlikely to coppice, some Haitians would have been less familiar with cultivation techniques for ensuring continued coppicing. Even when Haitians cut trees at the age necessary for producing coppice, they would be unlikely to return to these same exact areas, which had already been exploited for firewood to the point where trees were being cut down entirely. The increasing practice of digging up bayawonn stumps and the presence of roaming animals on public lands also prevented the development of coppice, and by extension limited both exposure to, and knowledge of, varied management techniques. Many rural

Haitians were nevertheless aware of the possibility of cultivating bayawonn for wood through exposure to other coppicing trees and landowners that began managing their private woodlots earlier, in lieu of walking increasingly further distances for firewood. These early rakbwa owners likely cultivated wood over charcoal, in single rotation rakbwa.

Single Rotation Rakbwa

On private land, early rakbwa were initially cultivated for ‘single rotation’ harvests (10-

20 years), reflecting the primary use of wood for domestic fuel and construction materials, and for market-oriented wood products. Frequently only branches were cut for firewood, and trees were left standing (Alvarez and Murray 1981). Conway noted one such tree in the Northwest, which had many of its branches removed (Conway 1979: photo 8b).

Roig noted an area in Thomazeau where bayawonn trees were cultivated for wood by clear-cutting, and through coppice-thinning and harvests from the stumps of previously cut trees.

Stumps were cut at 50-cm above ground to allow coppice, but Roig noted that ‘only the more

vigorous ones are left to grow, normally no more than 4 or 6, typically 2’ (ibid.). In bayawonn trials associated with the anthropology-agroforestry project, coppice stems were thinned to two or three stems per stump because this ‘system of pruning most resembles how rural Haitians manage Prosopis in dry areas’ (Ashley 1985: 14-15). When harvesting coppice, only shoots larger than 20-cm in diameter were cut (Roig 1985: 5).

According to Roig (1985), clear-cutting of larger bayawonn trees in Thomazeau occurred on plots not larger than five hectares (5), suggesting these processes may have been carried out on eritaj land.22 Large trees were felled for ‘planks for construction and carpentry, and poles and beams used as railway sleepers and in housing construction’ (ibid.). Waste wood from this system was used for local firewood and also for charcoal production (ibid.), a pattern that marked the beginning of charcoal production in different areas throughout Haiti (Conway 1979).

Roig estimated that this system could only be sustained through natural regeneration for approximately 10 years (Roig 1985: 5). The management techniques being utilized were unlikely to sustain production for over 10 years because they were being cut after the appropriate age for voluminous coppice production. This suggests that these early rakbwa owners were new to wood cultivation—otherwise they would have developed more effective techniques or these woodlots would have ceased to exist. Thus, one of the main reasons new rakbwa on private land may have been destroyed was because people had previously only managed them for firewood. The turn to tree management for market-oriented products such as timber, construction posts, and railroad beams was a new venture away from the traditional management for domestic wood uses23.

22 The average private land holding in Haiti at that time was approximately 1.5 hectares (Murray and Bannister 2004).

23 I am not suggesting that entry into markets was new. I am suggesting that managing rakbwa for markets was new, because previously wood was extracted, not managed.

We do not know if these particular farmers developed new cultivation techniques for their wood-managed rakbwa, which may have allowed the system to survive past 10 years.

Conway suggested that in the traditional rakbwa system, cultivators cut bayawonn after 6-8 years

(Conway 1986: 19), which allows continued coppicing. While Conway’s description qualifies as the ‘open rotation’ rakbwa—the next stage in the tripartite sequence—the farmers described by

Roig were managing older trees, which produced little coppice before stumps ceased coppicing

(1985).

Anthropologist Anthony Balzano noted that trees in Fondeblan24 were established in four different arrangements: (1) mango and coffee groves; (2) gardens and communal courtyards; (3) woodlands; and (4) woodlots.25 Purer mango groves were used primarily for fruit and for tethering pigs. Mango also represented 35.4% of 291 different tree species found in five different coffee groves (Balzano 1986: 19-20). Coffee groves had multiple uses, including a place to tether animals, and a source of coffee, fruit, and wood for construction and charcoal. Balzano’s observation that coffee groves were the preferred location for ‘depo lwa’ (arboreal spirit repositories) (1986: 20) suggests these groves were established on eritaj lands.

Balzano made an illuminating distinction between woodlands and woodlots:

[H]ardwood woodlots appear to be vestiges of natural forests (i.e., they were not deliberately planted but are actively managed). This is evident in the vegetative structure of the woodlot. Trees of varying maturity and size form a canopy for a shrubby and herbaceous undergrowth. These woodlots have not supported agricultural activity in living memory. . . . No one species appears to be dominant in these woodlots. . . . Nearly every species present is considered to be a source of

24 Fondeblan was the site of the first nursery in the south, in the anthropology-agroforestry project (Tarter 2010a).

25 Balzano’s distinction between woodlands and woodlots is based on the nature of the species compositions. Elsewhere I made a different distinction between these two terms, defining a spectrum where woodlands are less managed and woodlots are more managed. That distinction is not employed in this article.

good hardwood sawtimber. They also provide a variety of wood products (e.g., wood for charcoal, wood for agricultural tools) and shade for tethered livestock (Balzano 1986:17).

These varied uses suggest that like coffee groves, woodlots were ‘single rotation’ rakbwa.

Balzano also described the woodlands of Fondeblan in detail:

In contrast to the hardwood woodlots, the woodlands are dominated by one of three species: either mesquite [bayawonn] or logwood (Haematoxylum campechianum) [kanpèch] or delen (Leucaena glauca). Delen is usually the first species to colonize a garden after harvest. Its seedlings are considered a garden weed (move zèb). . . . Thus, delen woodlands indicated agricultural activity in the recent past. . . . Stands of logwood and mesquite, with a canopy that effectively shades a variable herbaceous undergrowth, forms an ideal area for tethering livestock. The undergrowth is usually low and consists almost wholly of grasses, but sometimes forms a thicket with a variety of weeds and vines. Wild honey is said to be best sought in the latter setting. Logwood and mesquite are the most highly prized timbers, the former for home construction and the latter for charcoal-making. Mesquite is coppiced at three to five year intervals for charcoal production. A large mesquite stump on its first coppicing cycle, informants say, will grow three feet in the first year. However, they add that mesquite sometimes fails to regenerate after the second or third cycle. (Balzano 1986: 17-18).

Woodlots and woodlands together covered approximately two-thirds of the hills of Fondeblan, at

15% and 85% respectively (Balzano 1986: 16-17).

As Balzano noted, delen (Leucaena glauca) is an indication of recent agricultural activity, which suggests that these so-called delen woodlands were either agricultural fields in fallow, or infertile agricultural land abandoned to eventually transition into bayawonn and kanpèch woodlands26. Because farmers consider delen to be an undesirable weed, it is hard to imagine these trees developing into managed rakbwa. The rakbwa of a nearby village only rarely contained delen in 2013, but were dominated by kanpèch and bayawonn.

26 Balzano further described delen dominated areas: ‘Dilen woodlands usually form an impenetrable thicket, or they take the form of scrubland or raje [vegetation] where it grows in association with bwa kabrit (Cassia emarginata), grasses, weeds and shrubs. In either case, they provide grazing and browsing sites and sources of ti bwa (small wood) for charcoal production (Balzano 1986: 17-18).

There is evidence to suggest that the single rotation woodlots described by Balzano as

‘vestiges of natural forests,’ were transitioning to kanpèch and bayawonn woodlands. The notably different uses between woodlots and woodlands match the categories from the Prosopis

Monograph for ‘single rotation’ and ‘open rotation’/‘short rotation’ formations, respectively

(Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 119-120). The highly skewed 15:85 ratio of woodlots to woodlands suggests a transition between these stages. During fieldwork in Fondeblan, I observed coffee and mango groves, and bayawonn/kanpèch woodlands, but not the woodlots described by Balzano

(Tarter 2010a).

The Balzano case (1986) offers an interesting comparison to the Roig case (1985): the latter describes a ‘single rotation’ rakbwa composed of bayawonn and kanpèch, while the former describes a ‘single rotation’ rakbwa composed of multiple hardwood trees. It appears likely that both systems eventually transitioned to ‘open’ or ‘short rotation’ rakbwa containing bayawonn

(and kanpèch in Balzano’s case). Balzano’s rakbwa, located far from Pòtoprens, present a living example of early ‘single rotation’ systems, while Roig’s rakbwa just east of the capital is an example of ‘single rotation’ systems that emerged after hardwoods failed to regenerate.

The shift from ‘single rotation’ rakbwa to ‘open-’ or ‘short rotation’ rakbwa was likely the most-difficult shift in the entire sequence leading eventually to ‘short rotation’ rakbwa. The most important cultivation technique for sustained harvests is the necessary cutting of trees before they reached a certain age (usually before 10 years). In rakbwa containing younger trees, this shift could easily occur; but for rakbwa that contained mostly mature trees the transition was more tenuous. In some instances transitions may have been initiated slowly, as older and larger stumps failed to continue coppicing, and new trees emerged in empty spaces. In other cases, rakbwa owners may have taken steps to eliminate larger stumps immediately, to encourage the

growth of younger trees. It was likely a combination of these trends that allowed ‘single rotation’ rakbwa, largely managed for wood, to transition to ‘open’ rakbwa, managed for a variety of different purposes. Yet in some areas such transitions were unsuccessful, and ‘single rotation’ rakbwa disappeared entirely.

From Single Rotation Rakbwa to Open Rakbwa

Some Haitians transformed their ‘single rotation’ rakbwa to ‘open’ rakbwa (5-10 year harvests) by thinning mature bayawonn trees and eliminating dense undergrowth, which allowed further entry for grazing animals27. Animals browsed coppicing regrowth, root suckers, and tree seedlings, keeping rakbwa open by restricting natural regeneration. Some farmers cut trees high enough to prevent animals from destroying coppice (Tarter forthcoming-2). In one area, Haitians

‘spoke almost reverently’ of bayawonn, which provided forage and shade for cattle (Conway

1986: 19). In this traditional rakbwa system, bayawonn was cut after 6-8 years, ‘converted into poles (especially in the first rotation) and charcoal and left to coppice’ (Conway 1986: 19). These farmers didn’t burn out tree stumps after cutting them, but grew crops between stumps, allowing them to ‘maintain continuous production’ if their rakbwa were large enough (Conway 1986: 18-

19). Conway called this open rakbwa an ‘agrosilvopastoral system’ (1986: 19). Conway was correct, with the caveat he offered: if the system were large enough. A smaller rakbwa might require the removal of either the crop or the animal component, which would make it a silvopastoral system or an open rakbwa, respectively. These passages suggest that some farmers were moving from naturalized stands directly to agroforestry systems, while others were moving

27 The presence of grazing animals and more rapid harvests (5-10 years) are two of the main differences that distinguish ‘open stand’ rakbwa from their preceding arrangement as ‘single rotation’ rakbwa (harvested every 10- 20 years).

from naturalized stands to open rakbwa. Meanwhile, other farmers were transitioning from

‘open’ rakbwa to ‘short rotation’ rakbwa for rapid coppice production.

From Open Rakbwa to Short Rotation Rakbwa

The shift to cultivate trees for frequent, high volume yields of coppice did not happen immediately. Several reports from the late 1970s onward detail rakbwa that were managed for both timber and charcoal (Conway 1979: 1.6-1.7, 8.10; Lowenthal and Smucker 1985: 94). In such cases, some ambiguity surrounds whether charcoal was made from waste materials, or produced separately from timber. One possibility is that such rakbwa were in transition from open- to short- rotation schedules.

Other reports indicate short rotation rakbwa in full swing. Ehrlich observed rakbwa that were ‘intensively, yet rationally managed as coppice stands’ (Ehrlich 1985: 45, emphasis mine).

Voltaire noted that charcoal making involves ‘cutting of fresh wood [coppice] with the roots generally left so that regeneration can occur’ (Voltaire: 1979: 9, emphasis mine). Voltaire also noted that when bayawonn trees are not burned out, they regenerate every three years (Voltaire:

1979: 9, emphasis mine). While these cases suggest that some rakbwa were being cultivated in short rotations, other cases indicate rakbwa destruction, and a failure to reach this stage.

The Destruction of Early Rakbwa Systems

Reliance on domesticated animals initially increased throughout Haiti as agricultural possibilities declined. Livestock are variably reported to have either initiated the establishment of bayawonn stands, or to have been responsible for their elimination. Murray noted that ‘the brush and tree species that would otherwise emerge are destroyed by the livestock. The land is rapidly taken over by grass, the regenerative cycle is broken, and the landscape changes to a barren savanna’ (Murray 1984: 146). Palmer suggested an iterative process—livestock were responsible

for the initial introduction of bayawonn at the expense of the savanna, but charcoal production destroyed bayawonn and returned the land to savanna:

In the early 1900s, there was very little scrub [bayawonn]28 on either side of the border. However, with continual grazing followed by repeated cultivation, the grasslands evolved into scrub growth. By the 1920s, mesquite [bayawonn], brought west by cattle drives early in the century, had become the dominant thorn scrub in these cut-over areas along both sides of the border. Mesquite has remained the most common scrub in Elias Pina, but on the Haitian side it has been almost eliminated as a result of charcoal making. In this process, mesquite is continually cut back allowing the grasses to dominate (Palmer 1976: 114-115).

Animals are both contributors to, and destroyers of, bayawonn. Cattle, which are the best animal propagators of bayawonn (Shiferaw et al. 2004), helped the initial spread of the tree species.

Prosopis seedlings establish particularly well after the reduction of vegetative cover from overgrazing, which lowers soil fertility and allows bayawonn to succeed and surpass other vegetation which does not fix nitrogen (Burns et al. 1998: 89). While goats were far more common in the 1970s than cattle, goats propagate bayawonn to a lesser extent (Shiferaw et al.

2004) and aggressively browse coppice. Cattle helped spread bayawonn trees, and goats and cattle contributed to their decline.

In 1962, Duvalier restricted the grazing of livestock on public land (Murray 1981: 15;

Smucker 1981: 10), after which cattle numbers declined significantly (Smucker 1982: 120). With a similar shift to restrict access to wood resources in eritaj and on private land, many Haitians were unable to maintain the same volume of livestock; ‘Among the land poor, the production of charcoal tended to supplant the grazing of livestock’ (Smucker 1981: 10). Reliance on livestock

28 ‘Scrub refers to lands whose main vegetation is low scrub growth, much of it thorny, rarely exceeding fifteen feet in height. This is principally mesquite [bayawonn] and several types of cactus. Many areas of present-day scrub were used in the past for cattle grazing and slash-and-burn agriculture, but poor management practices have reduced their fertility and usefullness. Nevertheless, scrub land may contain a few goats and donkeys and an occasional slash-and-burn plot’ (Palmer 1976: 206).

was further reduced when hardy Haitian Creole pigs were slaughtered throughout the country in the early 1980s, ostensibly as a precautionary measure against African swine flu (Alvarez and

Murray 1981).

For the vast majority of rural Haitian farmers, Creole pigs, goats, and trees constituted the traditional insurance plan—a financial reserve that multiplied or grew every year, less affected than crops by increased drying and declining soil fertility. The Creole pig slaughter resulted in increased felling of large mango trees, both to cover immediate financial losses through wood and charcoal, and to clear additional land for future agriculture, in order to make up for long- term losses (Conway 1986: 17). Nationwide interviews in 1985 indicated that 54% of charcoal producers started production after the 1981 to 1983 Creole pig slaughter (McGowan 1986: 36).

Collectively, ‘overcutting, over-cropping and overgrazing’ led to a situation where previously wooded areas were ‘beyond recuperation through natural vegetative regeneration’

(Murray 1981: 13). The remaining naturalized tree stands and emergent rakbwa of the Cul-de- sac plain just East of Pòtoprens were destroyed first. Murray noted that ‘old timers talk about the

“brush” which used to cover this part of the Plain before it was all cleared for gardens.

Unfortunately the brush never comes back’ (Murray 1977: 202). Around Pòtoprens, Pillot noted the differential disappearance of rakbwa, stating that at Changieux rakbwa were disappearing, at

Dabon and Bouzy rakbwa were almost gone, but at Moneyron they remained (Pillot 1980: 213).

In captions to photos from his report, Conway instructed readers to compare larger cuts of kanpèch firewood being sold in one area, with the dug-up tree roots being sold in more- deforested Thomazeau (Conway 1979: 8.18). By the 1970s, much of the Cul-de-sac plain East of

Pòtoprens was no longer the primary source of charcoal—large-scale production had shifted to the Northwest of the country (Alvarez and Murray 1981: 90).

Even in the north of Haiti, wood reserves eventually became exhausted. Women and children would walk ‘several kilometers into the rajé [weeds] to pick up bits of wood among thorny bushes.’ (Conway 1979: 3.8). In the more-remote southwest, Balzano observed ‘mesquite woodlands are rapidly disappearing because they are not managed for sustained use’ (Balzano

1989: 203). After all other accessible sources of charcoal became exhausted some Haitians dug up remaining bayawonn stumps and fired them into charcoal, effectively eliminating rakbwa in those areas (Smucker 1981: 11, 13; Conway 1979: 7.3). After the mid-1980s expulsion of

Duvalier’s son, Haitians who lost access to grazing locations on open, private land, turned to graze their reduced livestock on public land that was no longer restricted, but was now undergoing collective competition for the scant remaining forage. Bayawonn stands on public land, and in many rakbwa, were on the fast track to suffer the same fate as gayak—the favored arboreal predecessor for charcoal production.

While many rakbwa systems in Haiti were under serious distress from over-harvesting, the responses of other farmers during this period indicates their rakbwa were not under the same duress. In the Northwest of Haiti, Smucker observed farmers that ‘may not wish to plant trees because they already have land in trees’ (Smucker 1982: 13). Anthropologist Anthony Balzano reported an informant in the Southwest who turned down free tree seedlings, responding ‘“M gen anpil rak bwa monchè, m pa bezwen tibwa-yo” (I have a great deal woodland my friend, I don't need these tree seedlings)’ (Balzano 1989: 83). Smucker marveled at a bayawonn forest that had

‘not been cut down and uprooted despite a 25-year history of charcoal,’ noting it was

‘remarkable, given the history of charcoal in the L’Arbre Plain…that the bayahonde forest of

Grande Savanne still remains in any form whatsoever’ (Smucker 1981: 13). Why some rakbwa survived and others did not will be explained in the coming causal analysis. I turn now to wrap

up the evidence presented in this historical account by treating several recent remote sensing analyses of high-resolution satellite imagery for Haiti, which suggest that rakbwa are widespread, and may be increasing.

The Current Extent and Apparent Expansion of Rakbwa

In 2012, geographers from Virginia Tech conducted a land-use/land-change analysis of the island of Lagonav, using two high-resolution Landsat satellite images twenty years apart, from 1990 and 2010 (White et al. 2013). Both photos were selected from late January—the middle of Haiti’s dry season—to control for seasonal variability in vegetation and cloud cover.

For their classification, researchers considered five different land-cover types that were mutually exclusive and exhaustive of all land types in the area. Several complementary and higher- resolution (30 cm/pixel) satellite photographs were consulted for the accuracy assessment of the image classification, in combination of the analysts’ knowledge of the area, and a two-month field excursion to visit a stratified29 random sample of validation points to ground-truth their classifications. The team averaged 61 verification points for each of the five land-use categories

(n=301 total), locating random geospatial coordinates with GPS units. The overall accuracy of their 2010 classification was 87%, with a with a Kappa coefficient of 0.84 (White et al. 2013:

498). The results show that the percent land area change on Lagonav from 1990 to 2010 for

Agricultural land, Forest/DV30, Shrub, and Barren/Eroded land classes, were −39.73%, −22.69%,

+87.37%, and −7.04%, respectively (White et al. 2013: 499).

While the overall percentage of the ‘Forest/DV’ land-cover decreased over 20 years by

22.7%, the ‘majority of 1990 agricultural lands were converted to shrub (45.01%) and forest

29 The random sample strata were fifteen, 52-meter elevation increments, to look for elevation-based influences (White et al. 2014: 498).

30 According to their classification, the latter category (Forest/DV) ‘is composed of all vegetation growth levels beyond the shrub stage’ (White et al. 2013: 496).

lands (34.23%),’ and ‘56.2% of the barren/eroded land area in 1990 has been revegetated’

(White et al. 2013: 499-500). The entire land surface of Lagonav in 2010 (excluding water and masking the < 2% cloud cover) was 40.4% covered with woody shrubs and 46% covered with

Forest/DV (White et al. 2013: 499). The researchers note:

There is strong evidence on La Gonave indicating that previously cleared areas in the lowlands (regions of poor soil nutrients derived from limestone regolith and limited soil horizons) are beginning to revegetate initially with xerophytic species as agricultural land is abandoned after soil exhaustion. This process was discussed as a common experience in informal interviews with farmers on La Gonave….Revegetation on La Gonave is primarily illustrated by the increase in Shrub cover. Though shrub was the second largest land cover type in 2010, field observations indicate that the majority of the Shrub class cover varied along the scrub-dense vegetation gradient. Revegetated areas are composed of secondary succession forest, predominantly Acacia species [bayawonn] maturing from shrub to grove. Woody shrubs are regularly harvested for charcoal production and for export roughly at the pole stage…A large portion of the residents’ financial income on La Gonave is supported by the charcoal export to the mainland. The shrub cover may be caught in a perpetual cycle of harvest and revegetation rarely reaching early succession or the pole stage in growth (White et al. 2013: 503).

Overall, the ‘shrub’ coverage on Lagonav increased by 87.4% from 1990 to 2010 (White et al.

2013: 503).

White et al. (2013) now believe that the acacia species listed in the preceding passage is in fact bayawonn, and have made this correction in a subsequent manuscript they are preparing from the same data (White et al., email communication, 3/23/2015). The authors indicate that bayawonn on Lagonav is cut at the ground level, with some coppice limited to a few stems rather than multiple stems (ibid.). In other words, as in the colonial era, barren and abandoned agricultural lands were encroached by bayawonn from lowland areas, and these trees are now

‘harvested on a regular basis for charcoal production’ (White et al. 2013: 503).

In a similar study, a geographer, geologist, and a natural resource management specialist determined forest cover for the entire country of Haiti (Churches et al. 2014). The authors used five Landsat satellite images (2010-2011) from Haiti’s dry season, which provided coverage of

the entire country. After a series of standard renderings and corrections, the authors reclassified their satellite images using FAO’s forest class definition, thereby creating a low (FAO) to high

(authors’) range of percent-tree-cover. These image classifications were verified through the application of a stratified31 sample of 1,525 random reference points to higher resolution satellite imagery. Their ‘tree cover’ class had a users’ accuracy of 86% and a .81 Kappa statistic, and the overall classification accuracy ranged from 78% (reference point counts) to 83% (class proportions) (Churches et al. 2014: 211). The results of the nationwide analyses showed that in

2010-2011, trees covered between 29.4% to 32.3% of Haiti’s land surface,32 and that

‘shrub/herbaceous’ areas covered between 45.7 to 48.6 % of the land surface. Rather than a thinly dispersed arboreal covering, trees are aggregated in fragments and patches (Churches et al.

2014).

It should be noted that both studies used slightly different land-use classifications: with the island of Lagonav study, researchers combined ‘forest’ and ‘dense vegetation’ into one category,33 and classified woody ‘shrub cover’34 as separate category (White et al. 2013); in contrast, the nation-wide study aggregated ‘shrub,’ ‘herbaceous,’ and ‘agricultural’ land-uses into one category,35 and used a single category for ‘tree cover’36 (Churches et al. 2014). This aggregation is a setback for establishing nationwide percentages of rakbwa, which would be best

31 Strata were based on the land use distributions from their initial classification (Churches et al. 2014: 209).

32 Includes ‘water’, ‘wetlands’, ‘bare/non-vegetated’ and ‘cloud’ categories

33 ‘Forest/Dense Vegetation class is composed of all vegetation growth levels beyond the shrub stage. Forest lands were considered to have a tree-crown areal density of ~10% or more’ (White et al. 2013: 498).

34 Based on the definition for Forest/Dense Vegetation (see footnote 31), we can assume that

35 ‘Vegetation less than 5 m in height or lacking definite structure such as stems or shoots. Woody vegetation included if crown cover is <10% and height <5 m. Includes all agriculture’ (Churches et al. 2014: 207).

36 ‘Vegetation greater than 5 m in height with a canopy cover of ≥10%. Includes mangroves. Does not include fruit- tree plantations’ (Churches et al 2014: 207).

inferred through the woody vegetation that may have been split in both studies between tree and non-tree categories. Nevertheless, both the Lagonav and the nationwide study use a single category that operationalizes trees in the same way, and similarly restricts smaller shrubs, and all other land uses. In the Lagonav study, approximately 46% of the island’s land surface is covered with forest and dense vegetation beyond shrubs (White et al. 2013: 499), while the nation-wide study found approximately a third of Haiti’s land surface is tree-covered (Churches et al. 2014).

In a broader study of land changes within the Greater Antilles between 2001 and 2010, 26 different Haitian municipalities (sections communales) underwent significant changes to woody vegetation37 (8 decreased and 18 increased); 36 municipalities underwent significant changes in agriculture/herbaceous38 (25 decreased and 11 increased); and 48 municipalities experiences significant changes in mixed-woody/plantations39 (9 decreased and 39 increased) (Álvarez-

Berríos et al. 2013: 88-91). Across municipalities of significant change, there was an 8% loss of woody vegetation, a 114% loss of agriculture/herbaceous, and a 133% increase in mixed- woody/plantation (Álvarez-Berríos et al. 2013: 88). Conversely, in overall land percentages for the entire country, woody vegetation increased from 1%, agriculture decreased from 4%, and mixed-woody/plantations increased from 4% (Álvarez-Berríos et al. 2013: 89). Municipalities that experienced losses or gains were widely geographically distributed.

37 “Woody vegetation was trees and shrubs with >80% cover” (Álvarez-Berríos et al. 2013: 86).

38 ‘Agriculture/herbaceous vegetation was annual crops, grasslands, and pastures with >80% cover’ (Álvarez- Berríos et al. 2013: 86).

39 “Mixed-woody/plantations was woody vegetation with a 20 to 80% cover, including agriculture/herbaceous vegetation or bare soil as background, as well as all forms of plantations and perennial agriculture” Álvarez-Berríos et al. 2013: (86).

The sum of these studies suggests that rakbwa, or trees similar to those found in rakbwa, exist in large percentages throughout Haiti. If earlier reports on the extent of deforestation in

Haiti were true, these trees appear to be spreading. The evidence for this scenario is the strongest for the island of Lagonav, where bayawonn is being intensively managed for coppice to support charcoal production. These analyses suggest that the arboreal expansions that occurred in both the Holocene era and the post-independence period may be in full swing again.

Summary of the Historical Analysis

The climate of Hispaniola started drying as early as the last 1,000 years of the Holocene.

Drying increased with the removal of forests and vegetation, from the colonial period onward.

The consequences of arboreal and vegetative removal have been dire. Heat that rose from denuded, parched lands drove away clouds and created hot, drying winds. With fewer trees to block the elements and fewer roots to allow decreasing rains to percolate into the soil, wind wicked away much of the surface moisture. The transition from the denudation of original forests to stands of naturalized exotic trees was based largely on moisture, which is conditioned by soil texture and topography (Curtis 1947: 10). The soils became increasingly unproductive and prevented regeneration of native vegetation. Stands of bayawonn and kanpèch initially naturalized on xerotic state land, but spread quickly to privately owned lands that began to closely resemble xerotic conditions through ongoing soil degradation (Hatzenberger 2000: 75).

Yet the emergence of rakbwa throughout Haiti was not only due to ecological changes— related social changes played a formative role. The existence of public and private lands permitted the establishment of naturalized tree stands on the former, while the latter provided protection for trees overexploited on public lands. Government strictures to open range grazing limited the number of animals many Haitians could keep, and in many cases increased pressure on eritaj—undivided family lands. Restrictions to private lands emerged, and increased the

protection of rakbwa. Yet for many Haitians, new land access restrictions limited caring for animals as a method of mitigating declining crop yields. Urban-bound migration trends linked to declining agricultural possibilities increased urban demands for rurally-produced charcoal. The increasing demand for charcoal required new cultivation techniques from woodlot owners, and rakbwa passed through several different stages of management: from single rotation to open rakbwa; and from open rotation to short rotation rakbwa. The general trend has been from cultivation for wood products to cultivation for charcoal. These shifts in cultivation destroyed many rakbwa, but others survived. Recent remote-sensing analyses of high-resolution satellite imagery suggest rakbwa not only survived, but may also be increasing throughout Haiti. The following section provides causal analyses of several correlated social phenomena that allowed rakbwa to survive, and may also explain the current tree and shrub cover from the remote- sensing analyses.

Causal Analyses

Roads: The Survival of Rakbwa

The building of new roads and the improvement of existing roads increased deforestation in Haiti by opening up previously remote, inaccessible areas to charcoal production and distribution (Voltaire 1979; Smucker et al. 1979, 1981; Cohen 1984; Stevenson 1989). Good evidence for this trend comes from the opening of a new road in the northwest of Haiti in 1975, which resulted in a return to charcoal making despite a recent shift of production away from the area toward southern coastal regions (Smucker 1981: 9). This pendulum-swing of charcoal production, away from and back to the northwest, foreshadows a related development that eventually transpired on a national level: In a paradoxical manner, roads that initially contributed to deforestation were improved and expanded on, which ultimately contributed to the survival of rakbwa systems throughout Haiti.

Roads improved many aspects of rural Haitian life. Increased access to remote rural areas was necessary for important programs and projects to reach rural Haitians (Cohen 1984: iv)— including visits by medical teams, and the establishment of rural clinics and hospitals. Roads also allowed rural Haitians to quickly arrive at better-equipped hospitals during emergencies, and made it easier to receive remittances sent from the diaspora abroad (Smucker et al. 1979: 23).

Increased access increased opportunities for rural Haitians that market agricultural products, such as fruit (Smucker et al. 1979: 24). Fruit is less prone to the processes affecting agricultural decline, but because many fruit trees in a given rural area all ripen within the same season, local markets flood, prices drop, and much fruit is lost to spoilage. Roads allowed farmers to sell more fruit and other types of produce than they could locally, and often for a better price. New roads correlated with a nationwide increase in coffee cultivation, and may have triggered tree planting or reduced tree cutting to support coffee production (Smucker et al. 1979: 22, 35). Transporting charcoal great distances to roads or coasts cost time and money; roads kept more capital in the hands of remote rural producers. The return migration to rural areas after new roads developed also increased urban decentralization (Smucker et al. 1979), slightly relieving urban charcoal demands. Later, roads would permit the establishment of multiple branches of the rural Haitian peasant bank, Fonkoze.

Conway felt that deforestation in Haiti was ultimately a problem of supply. Firewood was traditionally harvested from fallen wood or by cutting dead branches without killing the tree, but charcoal was aggressively produced from ‘green’ wood, using processes that often destroyed trees (Conway 1979: 7.1-7.4). Alvarez and Murray seem to agree when they noted that ‘the disappearance of original wood stands, and the competitive, premature cutting of secondary stands before full maturity, has resulted in the virtual disappearance of large stands of trees,’

concluding ‘the very charcoal economy itself undermines the local firewood base in regions of intensive charcoal exploitation’ (Alvarez and Murray 1981: 87). History demonstrated a clear geographical trend of charcoal production in Haiti: As public wood resources disappeared, most migrant charcoal-makers headed to the next tree-covered area that was proximate to Pòtoprens and readily accessible by boat or truck. When new public land became overexploited, the cycle repeated itself.

Charcoal destined for Pòtoprens was first produced from the nearby dry forests around

Delmas (Smucker 1981: 7). After the areas near the city were overexploited, production branched out to the Cul-de-Sac plain east of Pòtoprens (Smucker 1981: 7-8). We know from

Woodring et al. (1924) that by the early 1920s, ‘most of the wood used in Port-au-Prince is that of the leguminous tree called bayahonde, which grows in the Cul-de-Sac Plain’ (Woodring et al.

1924: 485). In 1944, all of Lagonav was declared state land (Robart 1987: 106), perhaps precipitating the shift to charcoal production on the island, which occurred after public wood reserves around Pòtoprens were exhausted (Smucker 1981: 15). Largely ineffective government restrictions to tree cutting on the mainland of Haiti were even less enforced on Lagonav (Voltaire

1979: 18-19). Boat transportation between Lagonav and Pòtoprens was half the cost of boat transportation between the capital and the northwest peninsula (Smucker 1981: 30). Public land, lax enforcement of government laws, and differential transportation costs incentivized the exhaustion of public wood resources on Lagonav.

Most of Lagonav’s estimated 65,000 residents came to the island a generation or two before, but by 1979 nearly all the land on the island had been leased by residents through concessions from the Haitian state.40 (Smucker et al. 1979: 50-51). Concessions could be bought

40 Concessions in 1979 were about 12 gourdes a year, or at that time, approximately $2.50 US (Smucker et al 1979.; Robart 1987).

or sold by concessionaries themselves, effectively exerting control and restricting access to remaining wood resources in an analogous way to the process that unfolded east of Pòtoprens

(Smucker 1981: 42). And like the Cul-de-sac plain, when wood resources became restricted from public-land-rendered-private by local concessionaries, charcoal production shifted to the northwest—an area traditionally isolated through the absence of roads (Smucker 1981).

The first charcoal production in the northwest started after Hurricane Hazel in 1954

(Smucker 1981: 12). More production shifted from Lagonav to the northwest during the early

1960s, and surged throughout the area after droughts from the mid-1960s to the late-1960s

(Conway 1986: 10). Residents of the northwest recalled a swell of itinerant charcoal producers who arrived from as far away as Lagonav, Gonayiv, and Pòtoprens (Smucker 1981: 12). Toward the end of the 1970s charcoal production was declining in the northwest (Smucker 1981: 11). By the early 1980s, wood merchants in Pòtoprens reported increased supplies coming from the south (Smucker 1981: 8).

The producer price for charcoal from the northwest increased 400% from 1976 to 1979

(McGowan 1986: 14). McGowan, citing a table in Voltaire (1979: 30), suggested this large increase in prices could be explained by a 72% increase in charcoal consumption in Pòtoprens, from 1974 to 1978 (McGowan 1986: 14). Examining Voltaire’s table, the percentage increases of charcoal consumption in Pòtoprens for this period were: 44.8% from 1974-75; 4.5% from

1975-76; 9.3% from 1976-77; and 4.2% from 1977-1978 (Voltaire. 1979: 30). The 1974-75 figure stands out at 44.8%. Not only does this 1-year outlier wildly skew the otherwise steady charcoal consumption percent increases for Pòtoprens, it also falls outside of the 1976-1979 range McGowan was trying to explain. Furthermore, Voltaire himself doubted the Haitian

government figure, suggesting it was either a statistical discrepancy or a reflection of increases of urban in assembly-line factory workers (1979: 19-20).

Examining McGowan’s sources, it is apparent that the 400% increase in prices between

1976 and 1979 is based on a difference of figures between Earl’s report from 197641 and

Voltaire’s 1979 report. If there had been a 44.8% increase in charcoal consumed between 1974 and 1975, we should expect to see this increased consumption register in prices from the northwest from Earl’s report (1976). Yet it is after Earl’s report and before Voltaire’s report that producer prices from the northwest jumped 400%. Eliminating the outlier year, there was only a

19% percent increase of charcoal consumption in Pòtoprens from 1975-1978.

Referencing figures from Earl’s report (1976), Voltaire noted the cost of living in Haiti from 1970-1971 increased 10%, charcoal consumption increased 21%, but the price of charcoal only rose 4% (Voltaire: 1979: 16-17). That is, charcoal prices did not rise sufficiently to reflect the increased cost of living or the increased Pòtoprens charcoal consumption. Voltaire also noted that while the price of charcoal in Pòtoprens increased by 43% from 1974-1978, the GDP deflator also rose by 50% during this period, leading him to conclude that charcoal prices did not adjust to inflation (Voltaire 1979: 16-17). But if we include the figure from last year in Voltaire’s table, we find that the price of charcoal from 1974-1979 rose by 76.6%, suggesting that charcoal prices did in fact adjust to inflation, and perhaps increases in the cost of living.

What remains to be explained is the 400% increase in charcoal producer prices from the northwest of Haiti from 1976-1979. We know there was a ~19.8%42 increase of charcoal

41 Earl (1976). I was unable to locate this document, despite numerous attempts. The citations from many other researchers indicate Earl suggested bayawonn plantations could meet Haiti’s energy needs.

42 To arrive at 19.8%, I took the real increase from 1976 to 1978, and added 6% (the average annual increase from 1975-1978) (Voltaire 1979: 30).

consumed in Pòtoprens from 1976-1979, and a 64.2% increase of charcoal prices in Pòtoprens during this same period. We also know, according to Voltaire, that the northwest produced approximately 50% of charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens during this period. But these figures do not parse out. Voltaire had noted the historically consistent price of charcoal throughout Haiti, despite the widely observed decline of tree resources—a trend at odds with supply-and-demand price fluctuations that are common to other crops in Haiti (Voltaire 1979). According to Voltaire, this value stagnancy stemmed from the fact that trees were widely considered ‘free goods,’ readily available to any charcoal producer; the lack of governing property rights over public land where wood was procured prevented the development of a regulatory system that otherwise would have raised prices as trees became more scarce (Voltaire 1979).

Voltaire was correct about the failure of charcoal prices to rise with increasing wood scarcity. Charcoal producers contributed to this price stability by continually shifting charcoal production to new areas of Haiti with abundant tree-covered public land. And the incentive to shift was not so much the complete exhaustion of wood, which could still be found in some private rakbwa. The incentive to shift production was the 50% reduction in profit to the producer when charcoal was restricted to private lands—a mandate of the traditional Haitian sharecropping system that divides profit equally between the landowner and the producer. In new areas of public land, charcoal production still conferred the lion’s share of profit to the producer.

Conway observed that the relationship between landowners and itinerant producers in the northwest was more exploitive than in other regions of Haiti (1979: 3.20). Furthermore, unlike other regions where charcoal production was seasonal, the large number of itinerant producers in the northwest produced charcoal year-round (Conway: 1979: 3.23). In contrast to other charcoal hubs, deforestation in the northwest was ‘swifter and more complete’ (Conway 1979: 3.27). As

we have seen in the historical analysis, state lands became depleted first, but the advent of new roads opened access to new treed areas—many of which were privately owned land. That earlier roads provided higher levels of access to State lands was likely the result of the historical concessions that the fledgling Haitian government made to timber export corporations, in an effort to pay off the hefty war indemnity to France. According to Voltaire’s theory, the shift to charcoal production on private land after the elimination of all accessible public wood stores should raise prices; it did. Charcoal producer prices skyrocketed by 400% from 1976-1979.

McGowan explained the leveling out of producer prices in the northwest from 1979 to

1985 by suggesting ‘production had more or less caught up to demand’ (McGowan 1986: 14).

Production prices never dropped back to their earlier levels despite the increase in production, because the era of exploiting naturalized tree stands from public land was over. The era of managed rakbwa on private land, initiated earlier in many locations, quickly became the predominant charcoal production system in Haiti. This shift would have been possible if new roads had not opened up new areas to meet a consistent, but also steadily rising, charcoal demand from Pòtoprens. The advent of more roads helped save emergent rakbwa by allowing the decentralization of charcoal production throughout Haiti—supply was no longer an issue.

Charcoal production in rakbwa increasingly became a sideline activity of private landowners, also creating a decentralizing effect.

By 1985, charcoal production was less concentrated (McGowan 1986: 14). When 148 charcoal producers from six different locations in Haiti were surveyed, 56% responded they been making charcoal since 1980 or onward, providing more evidence that charcoal truck drivers were going farther distances to collect charcoal (McGowan 1986: 14). From 1979 to 1985, real prices of transport from the northwest to the capital doubled, the intermediary real price had more than

tripled, and the wholesale real price increased 77%, all against the backdrop of steady producer prices (McGowan 1986: 14). This was possible because a major increase in roads had taken place.

Many of the main arterial roads in Haiti were constructed by the French during the colonial period, and improved and expanded on during the US Marine occupation from 1915-

1934 (Leyburn 1941). The community-based organization Harmonisation de l’Action des

Communautes Haitiennes Organisees43 (HACHO), which operated in the northwest of Haiti from 1966 to 1982, increased focus on road construction starting in 1968 (Brinkerhoff et al.

1983: 4-5). By 1982, HACHO had built a network of 600 kilometers of unpaved roads in the northwest (Brinkerhoff et al. 1983: 17). In other locations throughout rural Haiti, road projects were initiated by local community councils or by missionary groups around the 1970s, and were financed by ‘food for work’ programs (Smucker et al. 1979). Three hundred kilometers of ‘jeep roads’ were added to Lagonav starting in the late 1960s thought there was no vehicular traffic on the island by the late 1970s; these roads were used primarily by beasts of burden (Smucker et al.

1979: 55). However, the price of charcoal transport from the island to the capital was half the price of the distance from the northwest to the capital (Smucker 1981: 30), and by 1986 it was comparable to transport costs from Ganthier and Thomazeau in the Cul-de-sac plain east of the capital (McGowan 1986: 5). The USAID Agricultural Feeder Roads Project started in April

1976, and constructed 317 kilometers of new roads in Haiti by December 1982 (USAID 1983:

2).

Taking only the HACHO and USAID cases, at least 900 kilometers of new roads were established in Haiti from approximately 1970 to 1982. Considering that the coastal distance from

43 Originally called The Haitian-American Community Help Organization, the name was changed to ‘Harmonisation de l’Action des Communautes Haitiennes Organisees’ in 1979 (Brinkerhoff et al. 1983: vii)

the tip of Haiti’s northern peninsula to the tip of the southern peninsula is no more than 450 kilometers, the addition of 900 kilometers of new roads, built off of existing arterial highways, opened up many of the more-remote locations in Haiti. The increases in roads meant that not just a few accessible areas were targeted for intensive charcoal production. Original charcoal- producing zones and newly opened areas were both under less pressure than the former had previously been.

According to Voltaire’s report, by 1979 only 5% of charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens came from east of the capital, where large-scale production had originally occurred (Voltaire

1979). Likewise, only 5% of charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens came from central Haiti; 10% from Lagonav; 50% from the northwest; and 30% from the southern peninsula (Voltaire 1979).

Voltaire predicted charcoal production would shift from the rapidly depleting areas of Lagonav and the northwest, to the more wooded areas of the central plateau and the Grandans

(Grand’Anse) area of the southern peninsula (Voltaire 1979: 21). Voltaire felt that existing wood supplies in the central plateau and the south were enough to meet increasing charcoal demand in

Haiti until around the year 2000, though this would result in an environmental ‘apocalypse’

(Voltaire 1979: 21, 23). The prediction that wood supplies would be exhausted by 2000 was supported by later remote sensing analyses of aerial photographs spanning 1956 to 1978, for three different locations in Haiti (Cohen 1984). According to Voltaire, the main obstacle for reaching the remaining wood stores, in order to meet demand until the millennium, was transportation—though he expressed doubt, suggesting the idea may be a ‘purely academic view’

(Voltaire 1979: 21).

After over 900 kilometers of new roads had opened up charcoal production on a national level, the most comprehensive survey on the geography of charcoal production was administered

in Pòtoprens, over three, 1-week periods in July 1985, January 1986, and May 1986 (Grosenick and McGowan 1986). At police checkpoints on two major highways that control all traffic into the capital from the North, Southeast, and Southwest, surveys were administered for 24-hours a day, over each of the three different week-long periods. Police stopped charcoal and wood trucks, allowing surveys to be administered. Surveys were also conducted during high traffic periods on lesser roads and on important maritime wharfs.

By 1986, the Northwest was supplying 34.2% of charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens; the island of Lagonav supplied 7%; the central area supplied 12.7%; the Southeast supplied 10.3%; one southern area44 provided 28.1%; and the Grandans area supplied 7.7% (Grosenick and

McGowan 1986: 6). These results are a compelling testament to how the decentralization of charcoal production affected Haiti in a way no one had predicted.

Grosenick and McGowan (1986) make a pertinent point in relation to the findings of their research. While the supply from the northwest in 1986 had fallen from 50% to 34.2% of all charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens, the amount of charcoal consumed in Pòtoprens had more than doubled. Thus, between 1979 and 1986, charcoal production had increased in every existing charcoal zone: 45% in the northwest; 50% on Lagonav; 100% in the south; and 170% in the central plateau (Grosenick and McGowan 1986: 6). While Voltaire correctly predicted two of the areas where charcoal production would shift, he did not anticipate new areas that became charcoal hubs, and no one predicted that production would increase from between 45% to 170% in existing charcoal zones that had been widely reported as declining or exhausted (Voltaire

1979; Conway 1979; Smucker 1981).

44 The authors note that this is the area ‘around Fond-des-blancs [Fondeblan] and l’Azile (1986: 6). Fondeblan is approximately 10 miles from the ‘short rotation’ rakbwa I documented elsewhere

Current Forest Coverage of Haiti

The combined results from three remote sensing analyses suggest at least three different scenarios to explain the large deviation from the common perception that Haiti is only 2% forested.45 One scenario suggests that Haiti is not as deforested as we initially believed, and despite continued drying, loss of topsoil, and increasing charcoal demands, forests or patches of forests have been able to survive, undetected.

A second scenario suggests that bayawonn is encroaching on former agricultural and forestlands; and if mainland Haiti is following the pattern reported for the early part of the historical analysis and the recent trend on Lagonav, these trees are becoming or will become managed in rakbwa systems. A final scenario suggests that 65 million trees planted during the anthropology-agroforestry project contributed to the present tree cover, while also helping relieve pressure on natural stands and privately owned rakbwa, permitting natural regeneration to occur.

Scenario 1

A forester who evaluated remotely sensed data for Haiti noted that the absence of a comprehensive survey of forest resources renders statistics about deforestation in Haiti unreliable

(Cohen 1984: 1). Richard Pelleck, a forester with years of experience in Haiti,46 noted that deforestation ‘is seldom a straight-line continuously negative process. Rather, the trend of deforestation is asymptotic in most cases’ (Pelleck 1988: 245). Pelleck felt that ‘given the grave, and worsening situation [in Haiti], it behooves us to concentrate our energies on data collection and attention to methodology so that we may tell the story as accurately as possible’ (1988: 246).

45 I have searched in vain for an original, data-supported source of this figure.

46 Pelleck was the senior forester advisor to USAID while living in Haiti for four years (1985-1989). During this period, Pelleck was the chair of the Agroforestry Outreach Research Committee, and conducted over 100 field site visits and wrote several reports on trees, agroforestry, and development in Haiti.

Churches et al. (2014), noting their estimates were higher than earlier studies, concluded that discrepancies are related to the accuracy of data sources—the spatial resolution of imagery

(2014: 213). Haiti has highly fragmented and patchy forests, and ‘coarse resolution imagery will tend to under-estimate the amount of tree cover and potentially overestimate the amount of shrub cover/herbaceous cover’ (213). Selecting patches or fragments of different sizes, and comparing across three earlier studies, the authors conclude that with lower resolution imagery, the larger the patch, the lower the total tree-cover estimates (214). The highly fragmented nature of Haiti’s forests, combined with lower resolution analyses, has led to low tree-estimates (214).

Blemur et al. (1987) noted that ‘some areas [of Haiti] are covered by scrub—small multi- stemmed shrubs [rakbwa?] rather than trees as in the original "forest". Differences in estimates of forest cover may thus be due to different interpretations of what constitutes a "forest" as well as errors in sampling and evaluation’ (1987: 61). This observation has direct bearing on rakbwa as well as the satellite analyses—particularly the fragmented mosaic of Haiti’s forests (Churches et al. 2014: 213-214).

An ecologist hired by USAID to assess environmental restoration priorities, following the agency’s return to Haiti after a long period of absence, recognized the need for nationwide forestry data but concluded that any given development program’s constraints would make it

‘impossible to cover the whole country’ (Ewel 1977: 6). While Ewel was correct that it would be unlikely or impossible to implement a reforestation program in all areas of Haiti at that time, program restraints were not the ultimate limiting factor. Historically, the barrier to both nationwide forest estimates and nationwide program implementation has been Haiti’s topography. Ayiti (Haiti) is believed to be a Taíno word that means mountains. Like many

Haitian proverbs, ‘Dèyè mòn gen mòn’ (Behind mountains there are mountains) acknowledges

the challenges of rural Haitian life by referencing a well-known difficulty—the terrain. Difficult terrain resulted in a dearth of passable roads for accessing remote areas throughout rural Haiti, where the majority of the country’s population continues to reside.

Summarizing Scenario 1, Haiti was never as deforested as commonly believed; coarse resolution satellite imagery with limited coverage at the national level, the lack of passible roads, and varying definitions of what constitutes a forest may have limited true assessments of tree cover in Haiti.

Scenario 2

The second scenario suggests that Haiti was indeed heavily deforested, but that those rakbwa that survived are now extensive and spreading. With the lowered fertility of much agricultural land, urbanization, and increasing abandonment of agriculture, enough area became available for rakbwa systems to spread to one-third of Haiti. In 1945, forester Merton Klein estimated out of a total area of ~2,770,000 hectares in Haiti, roughly 670,000 hectares of land in the mountains were former agricultural land now abandoned because of aridity, erosion, or sterility (Klein 1945: 10). Klein estimated that another 100,000 hectares of cultivated mountain land were ‘semi-productive (dry),’ and another 100,000 hectares of cultivated mountain land were ‘sub-marginal (exhausted)’ (Klein 1945: 10). In the plains, Klein estimated that 250,000 hectares of semi-arid land were under cultivation (1945: 10). Assuming that the trends documented in the historical analysis continued, there is a high likelihood that these semi- productive and sub-marginal mountain agricultural lands were eventually rendered infertile. If so, a total of 1,120,000 hectares of agriculturally unproductive land would have emerged over time in Haiti. If we add Klein’s estimates of 100,000 hectares of ‘mangrove swamps47 & brush,’

47 As Gill (1931) reported, ‘Practically all of the charcoal comes from two sources—the mangrove swamps and the dry forests’ (Gill 1931: 141).

and 300,000 hectares of ‘mostly inaccessible and poor [mountain tree] species’ (1945: 10), we arrive at a total of 1,520,000 hectares, or 54.8% of Haiti’s land. And according to historical trends, these lands would have become open to encroachment by rakbwa trees.

The Haitian government’s Service of Soils Conservation, Forests and Wildlife

Conservation48 forestry plan of 1975 suggested that, when considering Haiti’s topography and climate, ‘forests should occupy 55% of the land’ (USAID 1979: 33). That my calculated percentage of potential bayawonn habitat (54.8%) matches the Haitian government’s calculation of maximum forest potential (55%) is purely coincidental. My calculation included infertile and declining agricultural lands, mangroves, brush, and land with inaccessible/poor tree species; it did not include Klein’s estimated 350,000 hectares (12%) of moist or irrigated land under cultivation; nor did it include Klein’s estimate of 200,000 hectares (7%) of pine and kanpèch forest stands (Klein 1945: 10). Furthermore, we do not know what percentage of agricultural land in Haiti was originally covered in forests. However, both statistics suggests at least 55% of

Haiti’s land is now open to encroachment by rakbwa trees. In contrast, a 1982 joint report from the United Nations and World Bank, citing a 1980 report by DARNDR49, which claimed 35% of

Haiti should be covered by forest (World Bank 1982: 17).

In 1991 the World Bank reported that natural bayawonn stands dominate ‘approximately

300,000 ha. of degraded, semi-arid, public and private forest land’ (World Bank 1991: 86-87).

Building on this figure for the sake of a crude estimate, and assuming no arboreal coverage at the height of deforestation in 1980, approximately 300,000 hectares of bayawonn spread in ten years. By extension, we would see 900,000 hectares of bayawonn by 2010, which is

48Service de Conservation du Sol, des Forets et de la Protection de la Fauna

49 Département de l'Agriculture des Ressources Naturelles et du Développement Rural (now ‘Ministère de l'Agriculture des Ressources Naturelles et du Développement Rural’)

approximately 1/3rd of Haiti’s landmass. This crude estimated rate of bayawonn spread is of course very limited, highly speculative, and requires holding all other factors constant. Yet it aligns well with estimates from both the 1980 DARNDR report cited by the UN and World Bank

(World Bank 1982: 17), and the recent nationwide estimate of approximately 1/3rd forest cover

(Churches et al. 2014).

While the original forest capacity of Haiti remains unknown, between 35-70%50 of land—more if you include land that was cultivated and forested in 1945 (19%)—would eventually open to potential encroachment by rakbwa tree species. This estimated range for rakbwa habitat (~55-70% of Haiti) far surpasses the percentage of tree-covered land from the nationwide estimate. And the crudely speculated spread of bayawonn was included to suggest that the encroachment of rakbwa could have occurred from 1980 to 2010. Ultimately, Scenario 2 assumes that much of the land that falls into the ‘forest’ category of the nationwide estimate is in fact larger, ‘single rotation’ or ‘open’ rakbwa, and that ‘short rotation’ rakbwa are subsumed in the larger ‘shrub/herbaceous’ land use (Churches et al. 2014). In short, this scenario suggests the arboreal expansion observed in Haiti is in fact a recent phenomenon—the expansion of variably cultivated rakbwa systems.

Scenario 3

The year 1982 marked the end to a decade of new road projects throughout Haiti. It also marked the beginning of the anthropology-agroforestry tree-planting project. The northwest became the largest charcoal production area in Haiti around the mid-1960s and retained that distinction at least 1986. Project tree planting began in the northwest during spring of 1982

(Smucker and Timyan 1995: 10). The number two location of charcoal production in 1986 was

50 Includes 55% from earlier estimate, and 19% of land that was cultivated and forested (Klein 1945: 10)

the segment of the southern peninsula stretching from the southern coast at Kòt Defè to the northern coast near the city of Miragwàn. In the middle of these two locations is Fondeblan— another site where tree planting through the anthropology-agroforestry project began in 1982.

From 1982 to 1985, 4,651,209 trees were planted in the northern half of Haiti and

15,332,000 in the rest of the country (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 38). During these years, the north averaged a 44% 12-month survival rate, and the rest of the country averaged a 36.5% 12- month survival rate (ibid.). This indicates approximately 7,750,000 project-planted trees successfully survived from 1982 to 1985. Project trees had the potential to meet 4% of nationwide charcoal demand by 1986; 9% by 1989; and 19% by 1995 (McGowan 1986: 26).

Project trees supplied twenty-seven percent of the nationwide pole51 market in Haiti by 1986, and estimates suggested they could supply 100% of the market by the end of 1990 (McGowen

1986: 40, 26). Planks produced from project trees had the potential to supply 52% of the nationwide market by 1990, and 100% after 1992 (McGowen 1986: 26).

In 1995, a forester and an anthropologist—both involved in the anthropology- agroforestry project—surveyed multiple participants throughout Haiti, providing a nationwide outcome evaluation, 12 years after the project started (Smucker and Timyan 1995). By that time, approximately 1/4th of the Haitian peasantry had participated in the project (Smucker and

Timyan 1995: vii). From 1982 to 1991, 14,874,000 trees were planted in north, and 19,896,000 trees were planted in south (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 1). Many farmers planted on sites with fallow periods of up to 10 years (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 35). Most trees were harvested

51 Prosopis juliflora (bayawonn), Haematoxylum campechianum (kanpèch), and Sideroxylon foetidissimum (koma) are listed as ‘among the most preferred species for the posts;’ and ‘Prosopis juliflora is a species used often in house construction, but is rarely reflected in the surveys, as the surveys were not conducted in many Prosopjs juliflora producing areas’ (McGowan 1986: 17-18)

between 8-11 years52 after planting (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 63). By 1995, one third of project trees were still standing (Smucker and Timyan 1995: vi). Charcoal production represented 83% of wood harvested by volume, and 96% of all charcoal was sold, providing over

1/3rd of all income derived from project trees (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 49-50). Over 1/3rd of sites surveyed had switched to planting densely spaced53 woodlots (Smucker and Timyan 1995:

34).

Approximately the same number of trees was planted in the second decade of the project, for a grand total of 65,000,000 trees during the entire project (Murray and Bannister 2004).

Murray and Bannister acknowledge the earlier 30% survival rate, but suggest that toward the end of the first decade, the 12-month survival rate approached 50% (2004: 390). Considering

350,000 participating households for the entire two decades, with a 1.5 hectares average per household (Murray and Bannister 2004), approximately 525,000 hectares, or 5% of Haiti’s total land, would have been planted with trees. A major, unexpected result of the project was that many of the woodlots established through project-planted trees created sufficient conditions for the natural regeneration of native tree species (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 35). Thus, additional trees not accounted for by project estimates may have also contributed to increased tree cover.

Timyan and Smucker concluded ‘project trees lessened pressure on forest resources, but haven’t supplanted the harvesting of native species,’ but that ‘green cover has been restored on thousands of widely dispersed microsites’ (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 71). These microsites may reflect some of the fragmented, patchy forests noted by Churches et al. (2014). While true

52 Note that this harvest time aligns with the age a bayawonn or kanpèch tree must be cut by, if it is to produce coppice.

53 By densely spacing woodlots, these farmers were demonstrating knowledge of strategies based on rakbwa managed in short rotations.

percentages of remaining project trees and their overall contribution to current tree-cover in Haiti may never be known, the anthropology-agroforestry project undoubtedly contributed to the overall current coverage estimates, both through project woodlots and the native species regenerated by woodlots.

Summary of Causal Analyses

The tree scenarios provided to explain the large percentages of tree and shrub cover in

Haiti are not competing or mutually exclusive causal models—each have some explanatory value. The overexploitation of wood on public land required a shift to production on private land, which raised charcoal prices. The addition of 900 kilometers of new roads and improvement of existing roads open access to private land, and simultaneously decentralized charcoal production in Haiti. The anthropology-agroforestry project provided 65 million free, fast-growing trees during this a crucial transition period. Other factors beyond the scope of this paper also contributed to increased tree-cover: more and more Haitians began to migrate to other locations outside of Haiti, ostensibly relieving pressure on the land; the diaspora sent back increasing remittances to Haitians that did not migrate; a large and increasing number of NGOs began to work in the country, pumping money into urban and rural economies; and missionary groups continued to visit rural Haiti, injecting income or goods that were utilized or sold upon the groups’ departure. All of these factors and many others worked together to lower pressure on existing trees, permit natural regeneration of native trees, and permit the continued expansion of rakbwa tree species. The expansion of forests and woody shrub species throughout Haiti suggested by the satellite analyses may very well be a function of the trends just described. What remains to be discovered is whether this arboreal expansion is being managed in rakbwa, as appears to be the case on the island of Lagonav, or if these shrubs and trees are en route to succeed to original forest, as Haiti makes a slow transition out of agricultural production.

Rakbwa as Emergent Domestication

The on-going process of arboreal naturalization to rapid climatic and ecological changes in Haiti presents a framework for examining a parallel force of domestication, initiated by societal shifts and mediated through farmer management decisions. Haitian farmers exert

‘selection through cultivation’ pressures, which continue to drive the domestication of trees managed in rakbwa. I first define and refine several concepts related to domestication before making my case.

Haitian Concepts Related to Domestication

Rural Haitians use folk taxonomies to distinguish plant lakay (plants of the house) from plant mawon54 (wild plants). The mawon-lakay taxonomy is also employed by Haitians to differentiate variants of the same species, distinguish species that display similar features or have similar attributes, or classify variants as useful or useless. There are several lesser-used taxa that are analogs of the mawon-lakay distinction. Sovaj and bosol55 (both mean wild), batard

(bastard), jaden (garden), fran (real), and kiltive (cultivated) are all occasionally employed as wild-domestic nomenclature. For example, kaymit fran and kaymit jaden both refer to

Chrysophyllum cainito L., while kaymit mawon and kaymit sovaj both refer to Crysophyllum oliviforme L. (Timyan 1996: 319). Haitians also make a distinction between invasive or exotic plants and trees by application of etranje (stranger) and peyi (country), as with kajou peyi

(Swietenia mahagoni (L.) Jacq.) and kayou etranje (Swientenia macrophylla G. King) (Timyan

1996: 317).

54 Mawon historically referred to escaped slaves that lived in remote areas far from the colonial world, but in contemporary Haitian plant taxonomy it means ‘false’.

55 In colonial Haiti, bosal was the word for slaves born in Africa.

Paradoxically, kalbas mawon and kalbas zonbi56 both refer to Dendrosicus latifolius

(Timyan 1996: 317), kafe mawon refers to five different species from five different families

(317), kachiman mawon refers to two species from different families, kachiman zonbi and kachiman sovaj refer to different species from different families (317), and grenad mawon may refer to two different species from different families (315). These differences in nomenclature likely reflect regional variations in language or in plant communities, as they were collected through travel and reports that span Haiti geographically (Timyan 1996).

It is clear that Kreyòl plant taxonomy references the human utility of certain plant species and the insignificance of others, but ultimately this utility is a manifestation of the creative power of Bondye (God or the Supreme Being in Haitian Vodou, Catholicism, and Protestantism).

Haitian plant taxonomy is not a reflection of ideas related to plant domestication—human selection processes taking place over hundreds or thousands of years. The Haitian words domestik (servant) and domestike (to treat someone like a servant) (Valdman 2007: 185) are ostensibly carryovers from the colonial period. The concept of domestication framed as an evolutionary process is unlikely to receive much traction from many rural Haitian Protestants;

Bondye created all plants and everything that exists. Even evolution framed as a mechanism of

Bondye stands in stark contradiction to widespread literal interpretations of the Bible—imposed largely by fundamentalist Protestant missionaries from the U.S. South—which clearly state the world was created in seven days. Let me be clear: Haitians understand and exercise principles of selection; a seed for a tree planted in a courtyard will be selected from a tree that bears good fruit. While these concepts relate to domestication, their linkage within evolutionary theory is not a widely entertained idea in rural Haiti.

56 The word zonbi is also used to modify some plant and tree types, but it is not clear if it distinguishes between cultivated and non-cultivated, native-indigenous, or represents some other distinction.

The Traditional Western Conception of Domestication

The popular theory of domestication is commonly understood as an already-completed historical process, played out in the Neolithic, which involved a distinct shift from the extraction of plants from wild communities, to their intentional cultivation by humans. As a product, a plant is considered fully domesticated when it displays morphological, phenological, chemical, or genetic properties that differ substantially57 from wild counterparts, and when these properties are capable of being passed on to the next generation of that species. In this traditional understanding, human preferential selection based on natural variations is understood as the principle mechanism that facilitated plant domestication in the Neolithic: notable features distinguished particular plants from others of their same species, and these plants were selected and altered by humans over time, eventually leading to their cultivation as domesticated products. The conventional view of domestication is based on a completed process resulting in a measurable product.

Domestication as a Product and a Process

Identifying domestication through reference to an already domesticated plant may point to reasons for the domestication. Studies may describe the context in which the product is currently cultivated. The presence of a domesticated species may also provide important data and yield theories about the transmission or transfusion of certain species—even human migratory routes. But these insights leave us to speculate about the processes that led to the domestication in the first place, as well as the phases and the mechanisms through which domestication occurred.

57 I emphasize substantially, because there are high levels of intra- and inter-species variation in some wild plants, such as bayawonn.

An emergent domestication approach calls for the examination of conditions favorable to a domestication process, not the actual product (a domesticate). Domestication processes are influenced by environmental and social conditions or shifts, as well as intentional acts of human selection, which work together to give rise to a domesticated plant or animal. Domestication hinges on intentional selection—a willful human acting. In fact, the only requisite for emergent domestication is the presence of intentional human selection on a wild population over time.

Selection and Intention

Sauer’s (1952) macro-regional analysis of domestication provides evidence that humans began to cultivate plants through the intentional use of fire in an effort to ‘change the character of the vegetation deliberately’ (1952: 11-12). Humans set fires to kill off certain types of vegetation while increasing the range of other vegetation, the latter being more preferential to game animals or human uses (11-12). Sauer considered this an ‘instrument of land management

[cultivation] by deliberate [intentional] deformation of the plant association [selection]’ (11-12).

The use of fire as a cultivation technique created an expanded range for the more desired plant, and in some cases may have initiated the germination of more desired plants [propagation].

Building on Sauer’s scenario, it is entirely possible that fire destroyed some of the plants being cultivated, while others survived and thrived, creating fire-resistant variants. The use of fire may have also created some other environmental advantages or disadvantages to the plants being cultivated, resulting in other variants. These hypothetical variants would be considered domesticated products—plants exhibiting inheritable differences from wild counterparts due to human selection. Whether the intention of the humans using fire was to domesticate the species is of no concern. The key variables are the actual behaviors and their observable impacts: the directed use of fire as a cultivation technique and its secondary and potentially unintended consequences as a mechanism leading to altered species.

The domesticated variant may not always express the preferred plant trait. If all the largest and sweetest berries are intentionally selected by humans, consumed, and their seeds are eliminated in the human digestive tract, the result might be a variant of the berry bush that produces only small, sour berries, at the elimination of the plants with sweeter berries. At some point, humans might notice this decline in sweet berry bushes, and decide to cultivate the remaining plants. This is an extreme case, as most domestication is envisioned as a process of enhancing desired qualities. But there is no doubt that intentional selection by humans in this hypothetical scenario created a new variant of berry bush. In fact, when domestication is the result of a declining resource, we should expect that the menu of remaining plant selections would have already been modified by human selection, and cultivation would thus often commence with a less advantageous domesticate.

Selection, carried out with intention, is still the primary mechanism for inducing physical or genetic changes in a plant or animal. Intention refers to willful acting on a population or populations over time, but it does not require the selectors’ intention of changing those populations. Most importantly, intention does not require an understanding of the domestication process, with an end goal of creating a domesticated product. If the domestication of some plants has taken hundreds or thousands of years, it is hard to imagine that the first several generations of humans were aware that they were changing plants. An individual may be aware they are intentionally selecting a particular plant because of a particular feature, but unaware that they are part of a long-term process of creating a genetically divergent variant of the plant.

Russell noted that recent research considers adaptations to cultivation or to herding as driving forces in domestication, while other scholarship removes intentionality entirely, concluding, ‘we can best bring together the varied work on domestication in anthropology and

other disciplines by focusing on domesticatory practices. Rather than worrying whether a particular case “counts” as domestication, we can examine the specific practices used to create domestication…” (2007: 40).

Propagation and Cultivation

Seeing rakbwa as a form of emergent domestication requires the disaggregation of two concepts that may sometimes be mistakenly considered as requisite parts of the process: propagation and cultivation. Propagation is the mechanism by which plants reproduce, either by human or nonhuman means. Human means of propagation are achieved by sowing or seeding, transplanting already germinated seedlings, vegetative reproduction techniques like stem or branch planting, artificial pollination, and others. Nonhuman propagation involves the spread of plants and trees by root suckers, tillering, lateral rooting by rhizomes, aerial rooting, asexual plant reproduction, and seed or pollen dispersal by the elements or by animals. The line between domestication as a process and product break down when we consider different propagation techniques. In stem propagation, a clone retains the same genetic base as the parent plant, but automatically retains the selected desirable trait. Stem propagation may lower the overall genetic diversity of a plant, but the clone represents an instantaneous, quantum leap in domestication, carried out in one fell swoop. Grafting is a related phenomenon. If I produce mangoes in Haiti from wild trees that have all been grafted with higher-producing branches from more- marketable, domesticated mango trees, I am still producing domesticated fruit, even though I have never planted a single tree, and even though the physical majority of the tree is an undomesticated variant.

Cultivation is the intentional human care for or management of plants, but cultivation does not require propagation. Cultivation may take any form of care or management. Fire has been used historically and contemporaneously as a cultivation technique, to encourage the

growth of certain types of vegetation, and discourage the growth of others (Sauer 1952). In Haiti, banann (plantains) are cultivated, but they propagate on their own. A farmer may decide to replant a new shoot, or, if the old plant is drying out or dying, the farmer will often let the new shoot grow in the same location. In this case, taking care not to destroy the new shoot is a form of cultivation.

Cultivation as a Selective Process of Domestication

Propagation and cultivation in domestication processes do not necessarily follow a fixed order. Frequently cultivation takes place after domestication. Selection from wild populations eventually leads to cultivation of preferential varieties; or, in the case of a declining resource, whatever variety is left. But cultivation may also be the process that creates a domesticated product. In the act of cultivating wild plants, certain decisions on behalf of the cultivator to encourage or repress certain characteristics of the cultivar initiate a selection process that may result in a domesticate.

Private Versus Public Land

Emergent domestication may occur on private or public land. Notions of private and public are human constructs, but if these constructs are shared, they exert a tangible effect on domestication. Intention may be magnified on private land, because of the concept of ownership.

A human has an increased, vested interest in managing land they own; otherwise, there would be few claims to ownership. When concepts of ownership are applied, they usually reflect a uniqueness or scarcity of something. Few people will exert claims or feud over something that is common and abundant, unless there is a sudden and lucrative incentive. A scarcity or limit of land, or the restriction to access of land, suggests an associated scarcity or limit to what grows, lives on, or is contained within land. By extension there is an increased incentive to control or manage or cultivate privately owned land.

Rakbwa as an Emergent Domestication of Energy

In establishing the case for rakbwa as a form of emergent domestication, I have focused on both regional- and species-specific scales of analysis, rather than strictly adhering to one or the other (Smith 2007). The regional focus considered climate changes, landscape changes, and social changes as processes of emergent domestication. The focus on species was limited to two trees that exhibit many similar features, and which are found in many rakbwa throughout Haiti. I did not attempt to establish if these tree species have become domesticates. Instead, I followed

Russell’s call to consider ‘domesticatory processes’ rather than focusing on a whether a specific species ‘counts’ as a domesticate (Russell 2007). My approach has been biological, drawing on the specific features of rakbwa tree species; but also social, by examining shifts in society that led progressively to conditions favorable for domestication (Russell 2007). Focusing on a domestication process in Haiti that was driven by energy needs builds on Murray’s theory of the

‘domestication of energy’ (Murray 1984; 1986; 1987; 1989; 1991b; 1994).

Like Childe (1936), I considered climatic drying as one of the first forces that set the trajectory toward the domestication of trees in rakbwa. Climatic drying began in Haiti long before humans arrived, and continues to affect changes in Haiti’s ecology. These forces helped naturalize kanpèch and bayawonn trees, and permitted an increase in the range of both trees.

Sauer believed that domestication likely initiated with groups of humans that were involved in fishing activities (1952). These groups had diversified livelihood strategies and were sedentary, and these factors allowed them to come into sustained contact with plants without the need to exploit them to the point where they were eliminated. Smucker explained the on-going presence of a bayawonn forest that had persisted for over 25 years despite a nearby charcoal demand as the result of the ‘fishing-cum-grazing’ nature of the village, making charcoal production only a sideline venture (Smucker 1981: 13-14). In contrast, it appears that Haitians that had no other

livelihood strategies and were forced to make charcoal on public land initiated conditions that led to the cultivation of rakbwa by other Haitians. The lack of livelihood strategies resulted from declining agricultural yields, initiated by climatic drying and an environment ill-suited to sustained agricultural production.

Flannery suggested that population dynamics and food scarcity required people to eat a wider spectrum of species to survive, which led eventually to domestication (1969). An extension of this principle can be made in the case of Haiti, for the 18th to the 20th century.

Overpopulation is supplanted by over-demand for precious hardwoods, leading to overexploitation of preferred trees (kajou (Swietenia mahagoni (L.) Jacq.), bwa kapab

(Colubrina arborescens (Mill.) Sarg.), sèd (Cedrela odorata L.), bwa chandèl (Amyris spp.), gayak (Guaiacum spp.), koma (Mastichodendron foetidissimum), kanpèch58 (Haematoxylon campechianum; Haematoxylon brasiletto), and other incorruptible trees). When preferred trees were no longer available, Haitians exploited a wider arboreal spectrum of less-desired varieties

(bwatchenn (Catalpa longissima (Jacq.) Dum. Cours.), pich pen (Casuarina spp.; Pinus spp.), tamarenn (Tamarindus indica L.), and many others, depending on the particular region). Many of these trees began to domesticate around courtyards, in eritaj, and on private land, becoming the new favored trees.

Building on Binford (1968), I suggest that the disappearance of more-favorable natural resources (the remaining trees) led to an exploitation of less favorable natural resources

(bayawonn, kanpèch, acacias, mangroves, and guava) on marginal areas (land abandoned due to agricultural unproductivity; and public land). The repeated cutting and over grazing of animals on public land undoubtedly played a role in eliminating certain tree varieties while preserving

58 Some trees, like kanpèch and gayak, span multiple time periods. Larger versions of these trees were exported, smaller versions were used subsequently, and kanpèch eventually became a rakbwa tree.

more resistant trees. These processes might be considered ‘social selectionism’—a modification of Rindos’ ‘cultural selectionism’ concept (Rindos 1984). A collective response to the drying climate and changing ecology created broader social trends that indirectly affected the evolution of trees on public land. These forces were strong and transpired quickly, and many trees were eliminated.

After marginal resources were overexploited from native stands on public or abandoned land, public extraction shifted to cultivation on private lands. This shift increased and directed intention to the domestication process. Previous forces of selection had been applied through exploitation that was indirect, uneven, haphazard, random, shortsighted, and intensive. The shift to cultivation allowed an on-going relationship between trees and humans that had not occurred when exploitation on public lands occurred at the hand of itinerant charcoal-makers or firewood gatherers. Cultivation of trees in rakbwa, marked by directed and more-intentional human pressures, continued the domestication process.

Rindos suggested that domestication happened prior to cultivation, after which point humans no longer directly affected plant domestication, though domestication could continue to occur through agro-ecological processes (1984). The domestication of trees in Haiti has largely been a reversal of this process: trees naturalized first through ecological interactions, Haitian farmers began the arboreal domestication process on public land, and trees continue to undergo domestication through the cultivation process. This was also true of trees used in the anthropology-agroforestry project:

Coppice production is a natural mode of regeneration of tree species that have evolved under stressed environments, particularly prone to drought and fire. This trait allows farmers to manage wood production over lengthy periods of time . . . [T]he coppice vigor of several exotic species [planted during the project] has been selected over centuries of domesticated use…(Smucker and Timyan 1995: 40).

In total, nine of the anthropology-agroforestry project exotic trees were able to successfully coppice (Smucker and Timyan 1995: 40). While at least one project tree was capable of producing more biomass than bayawonn, few trees could compete with the unique adaptation to site-specific climatic and ecological conditions of Haiti59 exhibited by bayawonn.

Sauer felt that vegetative reproduction was the first method of cultivation leading to domestication (Sauer 1952). With rakbwa, regeneration supplants reproduction. Reproduction is not necessary because the trees’ root systems remain intact, indefinitely providing coppice.

Protecting and encouraging regeneration from tree stumps mark the primary cultivation techniques leading to domestication. As the historical analysis demonstrated, rakbwa cultivation techniques include: utilizing drought-resistant tree species that also coppice and self-regenerate

(Smucker 1981: 47, 64; Lowenthal and Smucker 1985: 94); cutting trees high enough above ground to allow coppicing (Roig 1985: 5); the retention of trunk and root systems (Voltaire:

1979: 9); managing stumps and branches for coppice (Conway 1979: 1.5, 6.5-6.6; Ehrlich 1985:

45); applying or restricting the use of fire (Voltaire: 1979: 9; Conway 1986: 19; Gaddis and

Smucker 1988: 72); clearing vegetation from around stumps (Conway 1979: 3.19); avoiding young saplings (Conway 1979: 1.5, 6.5-6.6); and permitting or restricting the grazing of animals

(Conway 1986: 19).

The historical management of rakbwa through different stages, for different ends, and through different means required the intentional application or restriction of varied cultivation techniques. Through the process of applying or restraining the use of these techniques, farmers

59 Like the trees of the anthropology-agroforestry project, much of bayawonn’s adaptability occurred prior to the tree arriving in Haiti. However, Haitian bayawonn trees have a demonstrated higher-adaptability to other bayawonn trees and other Prosopis species from different locations in the Western Hemisphere. This leg up on other Prosopis species, other bayawonn trees, and many of the exotic trees from the anthropology-agroforestry project, comes from centuries of additional adaptation to Haiti-specific conditions.

exert stresses on trees that are analogous to the selective stresses of climatic or ecological pressures. Trees that cannot survive these pressures exerted through cultivation are eliminated, along with their genetic material. Remaining trees are better suited to the contemporary needs of

Haitian society, administered through cultivation choices of farmers. The sustained contact between farmers and trees presents on-going opportunities for domestication. The widely genetic diversity and range of morphological expression of bayawonn provides enough variation for rapid domestication. The nationwide prevalence of managed rakbwa suggests millions of variations of selection-through-cultivation are occurring, under varied ecological conditions and social pressures. In short, a process of emergent domestication of energy is clearly in play in the rakbwa of Haiti.

Discussion

Processes of climatic and ecological naturalization have been acting on tree species in

Haiti over millennia. Shifts in climate that began during the Holocene increased the range of conditions favorable to the spread of dry forest tree species. Climatic drying was likely exacerbated and accelerated in the Anthropocene, beginning in the colonial period with the extraction of moisture-retaining tree and vegetative cover and the exhaustion of fragile tropical topsoil from plantation agricultural methods. The drying climate and degradations of varied ecological microclimates continued through concession-based resource extractions and two hundred years of agricultural production on small farms. These on-going changes in climate and ecology have permitted the establishment, spread, and adaptation of certain tree species that make up contemporary rakbwa. The two predominant trees in rakbwa, bayawonn and kanpèch, grew in increasing association throughout Haiti over time and space, and are now highly adapted to Haiti’s harsh climate and poor soils, resistant to droughts, and propagate rapidly through

prolific and diverse strategies. Ecological and climatic changes likely continue to act as selective forces on the evolution of these tree species.

Humans in the western hemisphere have exploited Prosopis tree species since 6,500 years ago, through a variety of means for a variety of different ends (Pasiecznik et al. 2001). The depth of genetic diversity and the breadth of morphological expression of bayawonn—the dominant and far more common of the two rakbwa tree species—offer a large menu for human selective choices leading to domestication. The numerous locations throughout Haiti where bayawonn has been managed for well over half a century suggest ample opportunities for the continued human domestication of the species through the application of varied cultivation techniques. For example, farmers’ cutting or overcutting of trees may slowly be eliminating varieties that cannot sustain such harvests in favor of hardier variants that are capable of frequent harvests. When farmers destroy rakbwa with fire due to any number of circumstances related to unfavorable production, they reduce or eliminate the spread of such varieties. Tree species retained within rakbwa for any features of higher value continue to propagate and proliferate other valuable varieties. I framed these examples and others as a resource domestication process, operating through the mechanism of selection-through-cultivation in rakbwa.

Taken synchronically, Haitian farmers’ cultivation of wood in rakbwa is seen as a series of efficient and pragmatic choices, based on current ecological realities and the needs of society, exercised through market demands. As anthropologist Glenn Smucker once noted:

Overall there is immense ecological diversity in Haiti, which results from the peculiarities of a landscape where most of the land area is in mountain. Agriculture is affected by the extreme variations in rainfall, variable soil types, differences in temperature according to altitude, and a mix of rugged highlands, fertile river bottom lands and coastal pains. When the effects of these ecological variations are mediated through the prevailing social structure, they have a bearing on development potential and an understanding of production relations in Haitian economy (Smucker 1982: 51).

Rapid changes to ecological variation in Haiti have been mediated through the prevailing social structure. But in a truly iterative fashion, changes in the social structure have also mediated, and often accelerated, ecological changes in Haiti. Viewing this entire process diachronically as an integrated whole, the emergence of rakbwa represents an ongoing, iterative, and adaptive relationship between climate, ecology, society, and individual farmers—an emergent domestication of natural resources.

The apparent spread of shrubs and trees to collectively cover approximately 3/4ths of

Haiti’s land surface (Churches et al. 2014) points not only to agricultural decline and increasing urban-migration, but also to possibilities of improving or accelerating the domestication of energy in the form of charcoal. Rural Haitians’ receptivity to and widespread participation in the anthropology-agroforestry project over a 20 year period suggests that rakbwa managed only for charcoal have a high potential of transitioning into agroforestry systems like those documented in Haiti (Ashley 1985), and similar to the many Prosopis agroforestry systems found throughout

Africa, India, and Central and South America (Fagg and Stewart 1994; Pasiecznik et al. 2001).

Bayawonn and other trees capable of rapid domestication also harbor possibilities of improving soil and mitigating, possibly reversing, the climatic drying that has been exacerbated since humans started cutting trees in Haiti.

The process of active and intentional arboreal domestication is currently being promoted as a development priority by agroforesters (Leakey and Newton 1994, Leakey and Simmons

1998; Leakey et al. 1996; Simons and Leakey 2004; Leakey et al. 2005; Dawson et al. 2012).

Connecting interested Haitian farmers with agroforesters would be a step in the right direction, if the immense ecological diversity mentioned by Smucker is considered, and those specific tree species that continue to domesticate to Haiti-specific ecological and social pressures are targeted.

This suggested course of action builds on the theory and praxis of anthropologist Gerald Murray

(Murray 1984, 1986, 1987, 1989, 1991b, 1994), with a slight modification. While Murray suggested and helped initiate the planting of fast-growing tree species as a method of facilitating the shift to a domestication of energy paradigm, the ideas presented in this chapter suggest that bayawonn, kanpèch—and those species planted by the anthropology-agroforestry project that have survived and proved adaptable to Haiti’s environmental and social pressures—present a point of entry for Haitian farmer-driven improvement and acceleration of this emergent, arboreal domestication of energy.

CHAPTER 3 RAKBWA: THE MANAGED WOODLOTS OF SOUTHERN HAITI

Rakbwa

Rakbwa1 (woodlands or woodlots2) are not original forests, nor the result of secondary or tertiary regrowth of original forests. Original forest stands are increasingly rare in Haiti.

The trees in rakbwa3 are not planted by Haitians, nor are they the remnants of previous reforestation projects. Rakbwa are composed primarily of naturalized, exotic species called

‘bayawonn’ (Prosopis juliflora) and ‘kanpèch’ (Haematoxylum spp.) in Kreyòl (Haitian

Creole). These tree species are highly adapted to poor soils, low moisture and prolonged drought. Their thorns repel animals from destructive foraging, while their protein rich pods attract animal seed dispersers. These trees propagate prolifically through root suckers and diverse seeding strategies.

The rakbwa management techniques employed by Haitian farmers require minimal cultivation. I use the word cultivate in the sense of taking care of or managing plants, and distinguish it from propagation, and planting: all crops propagate (on their own or through the elements, insects, animals, or human means); only some crops require planting or replanting; and most crops require some sort of cultivation (care or management).

Haitian farmers’ cultivation of trees in rakbwa involves active management techniques, or passive techniques that require restraint from an otherwise common land management practice. According to farmers, when properly managed, new coppice emerges indefinitely from the rakbwa tree stumps, providing wood harvests every three to seven

1 Rak bwa is bifurcated into two words when referring to all of Haiti, and aggregated as rakbwa when referring to the practice at the specific location described in this article.

2 Woodlands are less managed and woodlots are more managed tree-covered land.

3 Some researchers using Kreyòl (Haitian Creole) words in English will add ‘s’ or ‘-s’ to the end of the noun, conforming the word to English language standards. I maintain Creole’s general lack of morphology, which requires the reader to consider context if sentences appear grammatically incorrect.

years. Haitian farmer rakbwa management techniques are thus necessary steps for the continued growth of coppice for rapid charcoal production cycles.

Research Questions

The questions that guide this research originated during an outcome-evaluation

(Tarter 2010a) of an anthropology-agroforestry project designed first-and-foremost to improve rural livelihoods, and to mitigate ecological deterioration as a secondary concern

(Murray and Bannister 2004). During fieldwork for this evaluation, I noted the presence of rakbwa that cover foothills extending in every direction. I initially assumed the treed foothills were the result of the project I had come to evaluate, but Haitians were quick to point out these project trees, which they had planted in their yards, or in agricultural fields closer to their homes. My time in the area was committed to the evaluation, but I augmented my survey instrument with exploratory questions about rak bwa.

In 2013 I undertook a year of fieldwork in rural Haiti to describe, explain, and predict the presence of this rakbwa system. The present article provides a detailed description of the rakbwa phenomenon in a single location, guided by the following questions:

1. What tree species are commonly found in rakbwa, and what are their features? 2. What cultivation techniques are used by farmers to manage rakbwa; and why? 3. How do Haitians from this area participate and benefit from the management of rakbwa and the subsequent distribution of charcoal?

I address these questions by detailing rakbwa tree compositions, the biological features of the predominant tree species, Haitian farmers’ rakbwa management techniques, and the rural-to-urban charcoal redistribution structure and system. I conclude by providing a prospective analysis of the long-term continuity of the rakbwa system. I contextualize these descriptions and my analysis through an ethnographic account of farm families in the area, and their beliefs and ideas about rakbwa and rakbwa management.

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Methods

Involvement of University of Haiti Student Research Assistants

Three Haitian anthropology and sociology students from L’Université d’État d’Haïti

(The State University of Haiti) collaborated with me during fieldwork, residing at the research location over a nine-month period.4 All three students were finisan (finished with their coursework) and memoran (students who have had their thesis proposal approved). Each student was provided room-and-board at the field site, a daily stipend, and a personal notebook computer5, which they used in the evenings to work on their memoir

(undergraduate thesis). The notebooks were gifted to students upon completion of the research period. The student research assistants were involved in the creation of the survey instrument and were invaluable to the administering the survey over a large geographical extent.

Research Location

The site of research is located in the center of Haiti’s southern Tiburon peninsula

(Figure 1) in an area previously estimated to supply 1/3rd of urban-consumed charcoal

(Stevenson 1989; Smucker et al. 2007). The width of the peninsula seldom spans more than

30 kilometers, for approximately 40 kilometers east and 40 kilometers west of the location.

The area is reached from the capital on Wout Nasyonal Nimewo De (National

Highway Number Two), which winds along the northern coast of Haiti’s southern peninsula, until reaching the city of Miragwàn (Miragoâne), approximately seven kilometers before the

4 Several committee members cautioned against working with educated urbanites, suggesting I should hire assistants from the rural research site, as they are locally integrated and know the land better. I wrestled with these two options, but ultimately chose to recruit and collaborate with students from UEH for three primary reasons: (1) students have training in social theory and methods absent in members of the village; (2) villagers have long-standing histories and occasionally conflicts with other villagers, and Haitians from outside the village could present themselves as uninvolved, uninterested, and more objective researchers; and (3) the entire experience, while a temporary job to villagers, could be a springboard to future academic opportunities for students.

5 Computers were selected on a series of functions, including their purported 12-hour battery capacity, which addressed the lack of electricity in the rural countryside. Computers were charged daily with a generator or at the community center.

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turnoff point toward the site. The specific location is not accessible by any major roads due east. Due west the nearest paved road is between 10 to 20 kilometers. The primary method of entry and exit to the area is to turn south off the national highway onto a rough, unpaved road that eventually leads to the southern coast of the Tiburon peninsula. This turnoff road is navigated for approximately 10 kilometers, before turning again onto a smaller road in worse condition. If rains have not fallen recently, the distance between Wout Nasyonal Nimewo De and the research site can be traversed in approximately 30 minutes in a well-equipped four- wheel drive vehicle. Variable traffic and road conditions place the entire trip from Pòtoprens to the research site between two to four hours.

Figure 3-1. The research location. (Map produced by author)

Survey Design

The survey for the plot-based research design started prior to fieldwork, was finalized in the field with the help of the research assistants, and consisted of three sequential components: (1) an unstructured interview; (2) a structured interview; followed by (3) the collection of ecological and spatial land-plot characteristics.

After weeks of exploring rak bwa and posing preliminary questions during informal interviews with residents, the author and research assistants worked together to create additional questions for the unstructured and structured interviews. Members of the team tested earlier renditions of the interviews with individual respondents prior to the onset of

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data collection, which allowed us to vet, refine, and fine-tune the instrument. All attempts were made to conduct the survey with single landowners. In the case of absentee landowners, the property guardian was interviewed; and in cases of undivided familial land, the senior inheritor, or one of the senior inheritors, was interviewed.

The survey started with the unstructured interview, which consisted of open-ended, non-directed questions related to general changes in the area, the environment, the local economy, and their combined interface in the management of rakbwa. Unstructured interviews helped participants become comfortable with the interviewers by first discussing local issues. Unstructured interviews were recorded on a hand-held audio device and stored as MP3 files. These data have been used to provide a profile of ideas about rakbwa and rakbwa management.

Interviewers subsequently transitioned into the structured interview, which consisted of closed questions directed to individual participants. The structured interview started with questions about a specific plot of land owned or overseen by the individual, and worked up to sociocultural and economic questions about their lives. One team member would pose questions, and another would record responses on pre-printed data collection sheets.

Data on plot characteristics were collected to crosscheck the answers given by interviewees. For example, if a participant said the soil on her land was tè wouj (red, clay- based soil), this statement could be fact-checked through the interviewers’ noted observations6. The hand-held GPS units measured the plot altitude, and team members used a clinometer to estimate the plot slope. Aspect was determined later through a function provided in GIS software. The research team would then determine if the plot was a rak bwa or not7, based on our operational definition—described below.

6 Farmers sometimes report the original soil classification even if the topsoil has subsequently washed away leaving tif (limestone) or tè wòch (rocky soil).

7 This dependent variable is used in regression analysis.

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Thus, the survey proceeded from: (1) unstructured, open-ended, non-directed questions about ecology, economy and rakbwa in the area; toward (2) structured, directed, and closed questions about the particular plot of land owned by the participant; followed by

(3) structured, directed, and closed questions about the participants’ life; and ended with (4) the collection of spatial and ecological data for a particular plot of land.

Sampling

Random sampling households in rural Haiti is challenging because of the lack of comprehensive and reliable records that might be used as sampling frames. Establishing an accurate census over a large geographical area is time and resource consuming. Unreliable and limited roads, and Haitian residences that are inaccessible or invisible from passable roads, compound the problem.

Recent advances in geospatial technologies offer at least two methods of bypassing these difficulties in rural Haiti. Wampler et al. (2013) used remotely-sensed satellite imagery to identify homes within a 9-km, circular buffer zone that extended from their research residence. This buffer area was stratified into nine 1-km concentric zones, and clusters of homes were located within each of the nine zones. Each home within a cluster was assigned a number and randomly selected homes within each cluster were visited8.

My sampling strategy employed the same basic technologies, but used plots of land as the unit of analysis, not individual households. Land was located first, and then the research team tracked down landowners. This approach was based on the common occurrence of undivided familial land, farmers’ ownership of multiple plots of land, a desire to directly observe, record, and verify the ecological and spatial features of a plot.

8 This sampling design eliminated people that do not live in spatially clustered arrangements. Because this clustering pattern likely represents the traditional kin-based Haitian lakou (communal courtyard) system, this method of sampling may constrain the results of certain types of research.

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The logic behind the random sampling strategy was to capture heterogeneity in the spatial and environmental landscape9. The sampling frame was created with ArcGIS v.10 software. A circular buffer with a diameter of 6-kilometers delineated the frame, which was centered at the kafou (crossroads) of the small community where the research team resided.

The total area of land that fell within the buffer was approximately 30 square kilometers10.

Geographic coordinate points (n=300) were spatially randomized and distributed over the geographic sampling frame, with a constraint that each point fall a minimum of 125 meters from any other point (Figure 3-2).

Figure 3-2. The geospatial sampling frame11. (Map produced by author)

9 The spatial variations considered were plot altitude, aspect, slope, size, and distance from the home and road; ecological variations include soil type, predominant tree species, current land use, and the land-use history. Spatial and ecological variations frequently correlate. For example, flat land in the plains tends to have higher quality soil, while highly sloped land and higher altitude land tends to have much more degraded soil.

10 28.2743 square-km.

11 To protect informants, the points and images in Figure 3-2 are different than the actual research area and actual points visited.

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During data collection, the overall sample size was reduced (n=271) due to several factors. Some points fell in residential courtyards, in the middle of roads or paths, and in rivers or riverbeds. A few owners could not be located despite multiple visits and inquiries with neighbors. With some very large pieces of land, more than one random point would occasionally fall within the same piece of property, accounting for the majority of lost points.

Conversely, some points fell on separate plots that were owned in common by one farmer; in these instances, most farmers were reluctant to give a second interview about the second piece of land12.

Data Collection

Prior to starting the survey, the research team made an appointment with the kazèk

(the local government magistrate) to explain the goals and purpose of the research. Members of the research team also engaged residents in conversation at the village markets13, at soccer games, at the local community center, and in the road or crossroads.

With few exceptions, the interviews went smoothly. Most participants were openly willing to engage in interviews, once the research had been explained during the delivery of the IRB ethics protocol14. Many villagers retain links with family in Pòtoprens, and were familiar with the university the students attended. Many residents knew me from on-going visits to the community since 2009.

12 During structured interviews most informants openly discussed details related their lives, to the specific piece of land selected by the random point, and to other plots of land—including questions about the number of other plots, plot uses, the general plot location, and whether the informant worked the land themselves. A different story ensured when a random point fell on a plot of land owned by an informant who had already been interviewed earlier. While it was moot to recollect the same socioeconomic data, the team still tracked down the original interviewee to ask questions about the second piece of land. In these cases, many participants refused to answer any further questions. Questions about one specific piece of land and other, less identifiable, pieces of land were fine; but a second interview with questions about a second distinct piece of land was suspect.

13 Three weekly markets were in walking distance from the research team residence.

14 UF IRB No. U-616-2012 (renewed twice; expires 5/2015)

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The spatially randomized points were located by the research team through the use of hand-held GPS units15, preprogramed with geographic coordinates (latitude and longitude, in decimal degrees). The units offered the team several tools for locating a given point, including directed travel paths, and audio proximity alarms that could be set to increasing levels of precision as the team neared a particular coordinate set.

The entire team would consult captured screenshots of satellite imagery for each point prior to debarking in the morning. Consulting satellite imagery allowed the team to plan routes that led as close as possible to a point by utilizing a major road or path, before leaving the path and relying entirely on the GPS units to arrive at the exact point location (Figure 3).

This method was highly effective in some cases, particularly when consulting recent satellite imagery. Issues of cloud cover (Figure 3) or low visibility occasionally required the team to reference older satellite imagery, which sometimes displayed now-abandoned footpaths, or failed to display newer paths.

Figure 3-3. One of hundreds of screenshots of satellite images used for locating plots of land16. (Map courtesy of Google Earth)

15 Garmin eTrex 20 Worldwide Handheld GPS Navigator (model No.: 010-00970-10)

16 Images and points in Figure 3-3 are not true; they have been changed to protect informants.

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Each sampling point was visited at least once, with the exception of a few points that clearly fell in the road or the river. In cases where rakbwa were inaccessible, the team approached the point as closely as possible, and then pointed, threw rocks, or described landmarks to identify plot ownership with nearby residents. Upon arriving at a point, the team created a new GPS point on hand-held units, to establish a confirmation of arrival. We then set upon the task of locating the property owner or property caretaker17. In more remote areas we often had to backtrack to the nearest house, or call out in an effort to locate someone who could identify the property owner. If no one could be located, the plot was visited again at a later date. All told, 271 plot owners or property caretakers were located.

Challenges and Difficulties

The 6-km perimeter of the sampling frame was based on the feasibility of reaching between 3-5 plots of land a day. In theory, no one leaving the research residence would need to walk more than three kilometers to reach any of the farthest points located on the periphery of the buffer. With a 3-km return, a crude maximum walking distance for one point was estimated at six kilometers.

In practice, additional walking distance was added due to limited roads and footpaths, occasionally impenetrable areas of rakbwa, attempts to reach additional points, and occasional false GPS readings caused by delayed or limited satellite signals. The number of plots visited each day also depended on factors such as rain, the distance walked the day before, and whether the targeted plots for a given day were at the core or the periphery of the buffer zone.

The research team used motorcycle taxis to shorten the distances required to reach the periphery of the buffer. Early on in fieldwork, points were visited near the buffer core, but as

17 Caretakers were usually immediate family, looking after land for individuals that were in the capital or abroad in the diaspora.

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temperatures climbed with the passing days a strategic decision was made to visit periphery points first, so that only nearby points remained during the coming hot season. Our daily and weekly schedules were adjusted several times over nine months to make up for these challenges.

A Conceptual Definition of a Rakbwa

The Kreyòl term ‘rak’ means ‘brush’, ‘scrub’, ‘thicket’, or ‘woods’ (Valdman 2007:

608). ‘Bwa’ can mean ‘tree’, ‘wood’, ‘trunk’, ‘log’, ‘stick’, ‘piece’, ‘woods’, ‘forest’, or

‘backwoods’ (2007: 105-106). In aggregated form, a ‘rakbwa’ is commonly defined as

‘woods’, or a ‘thicket’ (Valdman: 2007: 608).

Etymologically, ‘rak’ may have originated from the name for the cacti genus

Opuntias (Woodring et al. 1924: 62), called ‘rakèt’, presumably for their shape like a racket

(paddle). In Kreyòl ‘rakèt’ means both a tennis racket and a large “prickly pear” cactus

(Valdman 2007: 608). Such cacti are found in the xerophytic vegetative regions that mark the first home to the bayawonn tree (Prosopis juliflora), the most common and prolific tree species found in rakbwa (Woodring et al. 1924). Thus, ‘rakèt an bwa’ may have meant

‘wooded (or treed) cactus area’, and over time was compounded to rak bwa.

Rakbwa refers to both woodlands and woodlots. Woodlands and woodlots can be conceptualized as occupying opposite ends of a spectrum that ranges from less-managed systems (woodlands) to more managed systems (woodlots). The rakbwa system described in this chapter is explicably further along the continuum toward woodlots.

Conflicting Definitions of Rakbwa

Skean and Judd (1986) described rakbwa as ‘moist hardwood forests on karst domes, slopes, or in ravines in areas of dog-toothed limestone’ (233). Judd (1987) later described rakbwa as ‘hardwood areas’ composed of two categories: ‘pine forest and cloud forest on

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limestone’ (17). Woods (1986) called ‘Rak Bwas’ ‘hardwood stands’ that have been ‘reduced to small remnant of ruinate habitat (Bwa Rajes)’ (46).

Woods and Ottenwalder (1992) expanded Wood’s earlier distinction, describing ‘Bwa

Raje’ as portions of mesic habitat: (1) where ‘broad-leaved trees and shrubs’ can ‘sprout back from their trunks after they are cut or burned’; (2) where the ‘forest can regenerate quickly in selected pockets’; (3) where ‘patches of broad-leaved forest’ are ‘too small to retain the plant species diversity of a true Rak Bwa’; (4) that are ‘severely altered by clearing, and the composition skewed to colonizing species’; or (5) that ‘regenerate easily and are of a more even age’ (Woods and Ottenwalder 1992: 12-13).

Sergile et al. noted that ‘rak bwa lands are highly variable’ (1992: 7), but suggested the term is widely used in Haiti, and ‘universally recognized’ as a ‘forest’ that is ‘usually in a semi-natural state, but sometimes quite fragmented’ (92). Timyan (1996), describing the pruning of the fwenn tree (Simarouba glauca DC. var. latifolia Cronq.), called ‘pure, dense stands’ of the species a ‘rak bwa (woodlot)’ (40). Timyan (1999) later defined a rakbwa as

‘secondary forest growth’ (1999: 3), a ‘woodlot’ (1999: 3), and ‘land designated for wood lot management’ (1999: 34).

With the exception of Timyan (1996, 1999) most of these definitions come primarily from Pak Lavizit and Pak Makaya—Haiti’s two national parks, which are geographically and biologically distinct from much of the rest of the country. The parks are also remote, less accessible; and therefore more protected, and contain more intra-heterogeneous diversity than many other locations in Haiti. Ultimately, varied terminological distinctions demonstrate regional variation in how the term is applied, and what constitutes a rakbwa.

Bwa Raje

Wood’s (1986) distinction between rak bwa and bwa raje, expanded on by Woods and Ottenwalder (1992), aligns with Palmer’s (1976) observations, based on work near

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Haiti’s border with the Dominican Republic. Palmer distinguished between ‘forest fallow’ as land that reverts to forest when not cropped, and ‘scrub fallow’ as land that reverts to scrub when not cropped (1976: 205). While we heard one Haitian make this same distinction, other participants referred to the managed woodlands in the area as rak bwa, while raje simply referred to weeds.

An Operational Definition of Rakbwa

There was wide agreement between farmers in the area that they would not call a piece of land a rakbwa directly after it had been cut, even if they intended to let trees or coppice return. Until stumps or seedlings ‘koumanse pouse/boujonnen anko’ (began to sprout/bud again), the land was not referred to as rak bwa. It was variably referred to as bwa nèf (newly cut forest or trees) or simply yon moso tè (a piece of land).

We differed from our informants by taking a diachronic view that considered the predominant on-going land-use, and operationalized rakbwa as any plot of land that was covered with trees or coppicing stumps, or was recently harvested of trees or coppicing stumps, with no steps taken to eliminate the otherwise expected return of trees or coppice.

Thus, a recently harvested rakbwa was still considered a rakbwa unless tree stumps had been dug up or burnt out—demonstrating that steps had been taken to permanently change the land use.

In Figure 3-4, the plot of land on the left is no longer a rakbwa by our operational definition; tree trunks have been burnt out, indicating an intended permanent agricultural plot. By contrast, we considered the plot to the right as a rakbwa; the tree trunks have not been burnt, and coppice is visibly re-sprouting from them.

Even a recently cut plot with crops interspersed between tree stumps was considered a rakbwa, because the owner knows that the land will revert back to a rakbwa after the seasonal harvest, or when the canopy closes and prevents further cropping by blocking

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sunlight. Occasionally points fell in a fragment of rakbwa within land that was otherwise not rakbwa, or in a garden cleared within a larger rakbwa. In these instances, the majority land use for the entire plot was considered. Thus, while a rakbwa will fluctuate in tree-cover, and may occasionally be interspersed with temporary crops, if the long-term, primary use of the entire plot remains the same, we considered it a rakbwa. All other land-uses where random points fell (garden, field, savannah, river, road, residential, or building) were recorded as ‘not rakbwa’.18

Figure 3-4. Two plots, one rakbwa. (Photo courtesy of author)

Results

Landscape Dynamics at the Research Site

Rakbwa are the dominant land-use in this era, representing 62.4% of all plots visited by the research team. A series of square, trapezoid, pentagon, and other oddly shaped areas of cleared land occasionally punctuate this arboreal landscape. These odd shapes are not an unusual sight in rural Haiti. They reflect a land division process between kin members, usually siblings, who recognize preferential differences in slope, aspect, and elevation, on inherited land. Great negotiations take place during land separation events, and can result in

18 The initial research design called for a tripartite explanatory variable, based on previous studies in a nearby area where the tree-project was executed. In that area, there are rakbwa that contain older, indigenous and tree- project hardwood trees. It was estimated that such woodlots represent 15% of rakbwa, while 85% contained the same or similar species compositions found in Bèl Zòn (Balzano 1986; 1989). Interviewees indicated that such hardwood trees existed in the area at one point, but have been overharvested and are harder to find.

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oddly shaped parcels. Less defined clearings are often on family land that has not yet been separated or where arrangements between siblings are less formal. By contrast, parallel borders frequently delineate plots in the agriculturally more productive and flat plains.

Figure 3-5. An aerial photograph of the area. (Photo courtesy of Joy Thomas).

The research site is characterized by low rainfall, a dry climate, and rolling tree- covered foothills (Figure 5) that fluctuate in elevations that range from 188 to 477 meters above sea level. This landscape is the direct result of a long history of colonial resource extraction, hundreds of years of residence by farmers, climatic drying, on-going loss of topsoil, decreasing fertility, and the outside and often indirect influences of the Haitian state,

NGOs, and internal and external market fluctuations in supply and demand of sold and purchased products.

The arboreal predominance of this area is not the result of a fallow period applied to agricultural land, common in many agrarian societies. The fallow system in much of Haiti has been dramatically shortened or removed, due to a shift in population dynamics and an inherited land tenure system that renders plots smaller with each new generation (Murray

1977).

While rakbwa are occasionally cleared and planted with food crops, their predominant land use over time is for wood production. A rakbwa provides multiple wood

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harvests and occasional agricultural crop harvests. Labeling rakbwa as agricultural land on long-fallow rotations would be analogous to labeling a short-fallow agricultural plot a managed woodlot.

A fallow system on permanent agricultural plots may have been in place historically, after the clearing of original hardwood trees and before the advent of rakbwa. The ecological history of the area was difficult to establish. Some residents stated the area used to be a forest; others indicated that there have always been rakbwa of kanpèch and bayawonn, but that trees were previously allowed to grow to a larger stature. According to anthropologist

Anthony Balzano, roads opened the area in the early 1920s, and there have been sustainable charcoal harvests since at least the 1930s19. Figure 3-6 contrasts an historical photo from a nearby location with a photo taken during fieldwork.

Figure 3-6. Historically similar land uses in 1930 and 2014 (Top photo courtesy of 10722 1930; bottom photo courtesy of author).

19 Balzano, personal email communication, 4/19/2010.

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The photos in Figure 3-6 display strikingly similar land uses, nearly 85 years apart, suggesting tree-cover of this nature has existed in the area since at least 1930. The top photo

(1930) was taken off of Highway 2, between Miragwàn and Sen Michel, approximately 7-km from research site. The bottom photo (2014) is from the research site.

Bèl Zòn

Bèl Zòn (Beautiful Area) is a pseudonym for the immediate research site, which represents approximately 25 zones composed of clusters of houses and single house that support multigenerational families and neighbors, usually built along dirt roads and footpaths.

Clusters of houses and single houses are also found several kilometers from major roads. The area is marked by a dry climate, but has two rainy seasons each year, in May and

October. Rain may variably fall in any month, especially before and after these months.

Attempts to find reliable rainfall data for the area were conducted in vain. There are two year- round streams that swell torrentially with rains but otherwise meander through extremely narrow plains, occasionally flanked by thin savannah areas. The rivers vary in depth along their trajectories, from several inches, up to three meters in some locations, creating several different basen (water basins).

There are no state-owned lands in Bèl Zòn. There is no public land either, with two exceptions. The teren (field) where soccer matches are played was gifted to the community by the local Catholic Church, and is considered communal property. Anyone is free to collect fruit from the mango or coconut trees that line the periphery of the property, or graze their animals in the field during the day. The second exception is the two rivers and their immediate riverbanks, which meander through the research area, and eventually join to form a single river that runs all the way to the south coast where it meets the ocean. Anyone can fish in, swim in, or occupy any part of the river or the immediate riverbanks.

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Crops in Bèl Zòn are cultivated on privately owned land. Food production occurs continually on permanent agricultural fields, usually located in lower elevations, on flat or slightly sloped lands, which correlate with better soil and higher soil moisture. However, if soil quality is sufficient and rain is consistent, any area may become an agricultural plot.

Agricultural fields are frequently near the house, but some farmers own agricultural land several kilometers from their homes, or in other, farther localities. While rakbwa are occasionally cleared for crop planting, these crops frequently experience high failure rates because rakbwa are typically in areas of higher elevation, are more exposed to wind and sun, and have extremely dry and poor quality soils.

Ravines between foothills are often dry, steep, and rock filled, and become like rivers when torrential rains fall. As ravines reach lower elevations near the rivers, they become shallower, and contain richer quality soils and higher levels of moisture. Farmers utilize such ravines to plant certain crops, such as plantains and sometimes pumpkins.

Along the banks of the two rivers, and in some ravines, are remnants of fruit and coffee groves that resemble those described in nearby Fondeblan (Fond-des-Blancs, Fr.) by anthropologist Anthony Balzano (1986; 1989). Balzano described diverse holdings of fruit trees, with a majority of mango trees, interspersed with coffee plants that thrive in the moist shaded areas. Such groves are rapidly disappearing in Bèl Zòn. Unkempt coffee trees are still occasionally found, but mango trees are increasingly felled due to unproductivity, and converted into charcoal. The nearest such grove to our residence lost four very large mango trees during the research period. The loss of these trees resulted in an immediately detectable increase in temperature and decrease in moisture. The mango trees and coffee are being replaced with plantains, avocado, and breadfruit trees.

A few savannah areas are occasionally found on higher ground along riverbanks. Here farmers occasionally tether goats or cows to graze, but the land is not suitable for agriculture,

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and retains a yellow cover of grass for most of the year. This land is occasionally interspersed with small stands of thorny shrubs.

A Profile of Rural Residents and Their Livelihood Activities

Catholic Church records of Bèl Zòn were purported to exist, but I was unable to access them, despite multiple attempts to track them down; they apparently reside in

Pòtoprens. Senior residents gave anecdotal and qualitative accounts of changes to the area, primarily descriptions of changes to the environment interspersed with accounts of the difficulties associated with life in rural Haiti.

According to most residents, the rivers flow lower than they did historically. The area used to have more large, hardwood trees, and was commonly described as a paradi

(paradise). Other residents insisted that the area is more or less as it has always been. Many people noted there used to be more cattle, primarily cows, but also horses and mules. I observed few horses and cows, only one mule, many donkeys, but many goats20. Residents also noted that the roads are in better condition than in past eras, and noted the increased presence of motorcycles and trucks in the area, making travel and commerce easier.

There are some specialized, seasonal, part-time, or intermittent sources of income for carpenters, cement masons, and motorcycle-taxi drivers. There are also several more consistent sources of income or jobs, generally held by schoolteachers, depot owners, the

Catholic priest21, and the few residents that have jobs in, or conduct small commerce in, the towns of Fondeblan and Miragwàn.

Virtually all households rely on planted crops and domesticated animals for sources of food and income. This may also true of absentee landowners, who may pay a resident,

20 Interviewees distinguished between zannimo (beasts of burden) and bèt (animals for consumption).

21 Several pastè (pastors) and gangan (ritual experts that serve the spirits) are also present in the broader research area, and derive some income through their specialized roles. However, such benefits are periodic or sporadic, and their roles do not constitute a substantial or reliable enough source of income to be rightly considered a profession by the other residents.

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usually a relative, to grow crops for them, or raise an animal on their behalf. One farmer was cultivating a field for a family member that lives in a neighboring village, and another farmer cultivated a field for an aunt who lives in the city of Miragwàn.

In common, villagers cultivate a very small range of crops—primarily mayi (maize), several varieties of pwa (beans), pitimi (sorghum), joumou (squash), several varieties of banann (plantains), and fruit and wood trees. Most crops are both consumed and sold in the local markets. An exception is charcoal, which is sold almost exclusively to truck drivers from Pòtoprens. An exception is when charcoal is sold to visiting members of the Haitian diaspora, but this is infrequent and unsubstantial. Fruit trees are found around the house, are sometimes found in gardens, and are rarely present in rakbwa. Haitians plant fruit trees, or tree seeds germinate when discarded at the periphery of the lakou (courtyard).

Wood trees may also be found in lakou, in ravines, lining the banks of the rivers, and along the sides of roads, but are primarily cultivated in rakbwa. Charcoal is produced year round, but production swells considerably during September at the beginning of the school year, and again in December, between school sessions. Trees are also harvested for charcoal during increasing periods of drought, when crop failure is widespread. Rakbwa are owned outright by individuals or owned collectively by multiple family members. Single owners are usually local villagers, but may be absentee landowners in Pòtoprens, or in the diaspora abroad.

The situation of multiple owners of a single rakbwa results when inherited familial land that has not been divided. These lands, called eritaj (heritage/inheritance), may remain undivided for a number of different reasons. Frequently they are not suited for food crop cultivation, giving less incentive to separate them. Familial rakbwa may also remain aggregated because of the long-term absence of a sibling whose physical presence is required

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for separation. Anthropologist Ira Lowenthal conducted research in nearby Fondenèg22

(Fond-des-Nègres) and provided evidence that eritaj represent a dual material and spiritual inheritance—familial land is both property and an abode of ancestral spirits (Lowenthal

1987). While Lowenthal concludes that such lands are occasionally separated, in Bèl Zòn they are frequently kept together.

The rivers provide some sources of wild protein in the form of fish, fresh-water crabs, and crawdads, and serve as a location for cultivated crops. Kreson (watercress) is grown directly in slow-moving parts of the river, in circular gardens delineated by rocks. Fruit trees growing directly on the banks of the rivers fall on public land, and are open to consumption by anyone. Gardens are occasionally made on the banks of the rivers, and other residents respect such gardens despite their cultivation on public land. Children catch fish in the rivers by hurling large rocks or beating the water with their hands, scaring fish toward purchased mesh nets. Adults and children frequently flip over rocks in search of kribich (crawdads), and adults plunge woven bamboo traps into basen (water holes), retrieving them periodically for fish, kribich and crabs. With the seasonal occurrence of a phenomenon called dlo desann (a rain-induced swelling of the river), many villagers descend to the river with other woven baskets shaped like cornucopia or harvest cones, positioning them between rocks to catch fish swept downstream in fast-moving currents. During dlo desann there is an abundance of fish, which are directly consumed. When the river is low these animals from the river can be found for sale in the markets.

Rakbwa also provide some indirect and direct sources of protein. Goats and to a much lesser extent, cattle, are sometimes tethered in less-dense rakbwa, and eat understory vegetation. Several informants indicated that you could produce honey in rakbwa, but that

22 Highway Number Two runs through Fondenèg, which is in the plain, has higher moisture, more fertile soil, and still produces coffee.

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siklòn (hurricanes) had destroyed the practice over time23. Small children often place ground- set bird traps in rakbwa, throw stones to bring down birds, or occasionally climb trees to access baby birds and eggs in nests. Some peyizan set traps for mongoose and feral cats, which are also consumed. No birds, cats, mongoose, or honey were ever observed for sale in any of the regional markets.

Demographics

Demographically Bèl Zòn is skewed in favor of ti moun (children), jenn moun, and granmoun (the elderly). Villagers age ~20-40 are conspicuously underrepresented, reflecting the lack of opportunity, employment, and upward economic mobility prospects outside of farming. This absent demographic typically resides in Pòtoprens. During certain holidays, annual celebrations, and school breaks, the village population swells considerably, and unfamiliar faces are encountered at every turn. During these moments, village demographics appear more balanced. Some middle-aged and young people chose to stay in Bèl Zòn but are an exception to the demographic norm.

Societal structure and associated livelihood activities

Residents tend to adhere to one of three different livelihood strategies, which are crosscut by gender and class. Less-wealthy residents who are involved exclusively in agrarian-related work are called peyizan (peasants) in Kreyòl. Women in this category either tend to affairs at home, or travel considerable distances to regional markets to engage in small commerce. Women that stay at home may care for young children, tend domestic animals located near the house, cook, send children to collect drinking water24, wash clothes in the river, and perform other tasks. Women who travel to regional markets rise early in the

23 In a nearby village, an NGO has recently initiated a small local honey project.

24 Previously water was collected in a series of sous (natural springs) that feed the two rivers in the area. An NGO installed six manual water pumps in the village in the early 2000s, and most water is now collected by pump. Villagers agree that water from the sous is pi dous (sweeter), but are reluctant to travel the distance, or risk the chance of kolera (cholera), which seemed to increase after the outbreaks in Pòtoprens.

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morning, often before sunrise, and leave on foot with baskets on their heads, or with a bourik

(donkey) saddled with agricultural or nonagricultural commodities (bread, candles, matches, notebooks, soap, and other provisions). There are a sufficient number of regional markets within walking distance to make this a daily occupation for these women.

Men in the peyizan category carry the traditional makout (woven sack), machèt

(machete), and tattered work clothes, rise with the sun, and leave their houses early each day to chanje bèt (relocate animals to new forage), mennen bèt nan dlo (water animals at the river), work in gardens, make charcoal, or engage in other tasks. When working, peyizan walk fast and rarely stop to talk beyond a salutatory greeting, unless to mention “m ap fè yon bagay” (I’m doing something); “m pral fè yon travay” (I’m going to go do some work); or

“m ap ranje yon bagay” (I’m arranging or working on something).

Work usually ends for peyizan around four or five in the evening, and in their free time they become much more engaging and conversational. Many people stand in front of their houses at dusk, or stroll short distances in the road, discussing the activities and news of the day, and talk about plans for the next day. By dark most of the women and children, and some of the men, retire to their lakou (courtyards), while other men gather in the street to drink gwòg (grog; alcoholic beverages), tell jokes and stories, play dominoes, and engage in heated debates on any number of topics. By eight or nine in the evening they retire, and the village is entirely quite except for the crickets and the rain-induced croaking of frogs.

Most children of eligible age are enrolled in school. After school there are daily chores associated with keeping the household running. Many children are responsible for leading animals to water, or re-tethering animals in areas of new forage. All children serve as messengers and couriers for parents and kin members. Despite an ostensibly busy schedule, children in Bèl Zòn enjoy an unusual amount of playtime between chores and school-related

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work. Children’s tasks are not completed with a sense of urgency, and play and work are often interspersed.

In the morning, peyizan rise and repeat the cycle. Their weekly routines may be punctuated by church on Sunday morning, attended by many of the women but only some the men; or a much-anticipated seasonal cockfight on Sunday afternoons, attended almost exclusively by men.25 The schedules of peyizan are seasonally punctuated at the beginning of school semesters, which frequently demands charcoal production to pay for associated school costs. Seasonal rains bring land preparation schedules, planting schedules, and later harvesting schedules. Many of these events demand major but temporary alterations of the daily schedule. During these periods, some of the normal, gendered division of labor is suspended to meet the need for increased labor. Usually this means that women participate in work usually relegated to men. During some parts of the year, children may miss school to help out in production activities. Sometimes the widespread absence of children results in school closing for a few days.

The men that occupy most other positions of employment (carpenters, cement masons, schoolteachers, the Catholic priest, depot owners, motorcycle taxi drivers) represent a class of residents with a slight economic advantage. Women in this class may run depots, or sell small commodities or food in the kafou (crossroads). Other women in this class work for the priest, one of the three schools, or produce handicrafts or clothing in the community center. Some women are madanm sara—traveling to larger towns or cities to purchase commodities that they return to sell at a markup to peyizan. But members of this segment of society all engage in planting and tending animals much like peyizan. They may, however, outsource some of this work through share-cropping or gadinaj—where peyizan complete all tasks related to animal rearing, and in return receive half of the animal offspring as payment.

25 A few women may sit on the periphery of the gagè, selling food, drinks, or loose cigarettes.

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Other Haitians in Bèl Zòn are employed running errands for gran don—wealthier rural Haitians. Gran don have inherited property, wealth, or business opportunities—or amassed them during their lifetime—through hard work, saving, careful planning, utilizing their moun pa system (non-kin, preferential reciprocity networks), or by gras a Dye (the grace of God). The men that work for gran don fulfill a variety of small tasks, serving as motorcycle taxis that shuttle residents in and out of the area, selling lottery tickets, running dump trucks, working in small commerce depots, buying and selling charcoal, and running errands and small business deals in nearby villages, or in the city of Miragwàn.

The gran don in Bèl Zòn are different than the bonafide middle class described by anthropologist Balzano in nearby Fondeblan (1986; 1989). There are only nine gran don families in Bèl Zòn, while in Fondeblan there is an entire stratum of wealthier families. The two wealthiest gran don in Bèl Zòn are brothers, who not only employ several villagers, but also work to make other responsible and hard-working villagers achieve a higher standard of living. These gran don are well respected for their long history of helping villagers in times of extreme need, and other efforts to improve the overall functioning of the community.

Family members from eight of the nine gran don have incorporated an asosyasyon

(association) that has built a large community center with funding from a foreign NGO.

Unlike the grand fanmi of Fondeblan, the gran don of Bèl Rivyè make few conspicuous displays of wealth26, dressing modestly and rarely spending money in an outwardly lavish manner.

Residents of Bèl Zòn described Fondeblan as a vil boujwa (rich, elite village)—a description rooted in historical settlement patterns. Fondeblan has a substantial population of

26 Cement houses, vehicles, motorcycles, and large land-holdings are an exception—they cannot be concealed.

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gran fanmi27 (large families) that claim Polish lineage from defected indentured soldiers from who purportedly settled in the area during the revolutionary war period, and fought alongside

Haitians for their independence28. There is also a long history of French colonial inhabitants in Fondeblan. Geographically, Fondeblan has more plains29, better soil conditions, and receives more seasonal rain, according to informants. Fondeblan is also home to at least three long-term NGOs, one of which runs a large hospital that attracts patients from as far away as

Pòtoprens. Residents of Fondeblan have participated in several development projects from the 1980s onward, and host the largest market in the area, complete with a diaspora- and government-supported colossal cement market structure (Tarter 2010a). Fondeblan is also the location of one of the first nurseries to distribute free tree seedlings during the anthropology-agroforestry project30 (Balzano 1986; 1989, Tarter 2010). All of these factors together contribute to the widespread impression of the Fondeblan as an elite town.

The diaspora

Some residents of Bèl Zòn rely heavily on financial support from family members in the diaspora, who reside primarily in Miami or New York. I received visits from two members of the diaspora while residing in the village: a Miami tattoo shop owner and a businessman from New York. They both made a point of tracking me down immediately upon arrival in the village, curious as to how I had found my way out to their small village in remote, rural Haiti.

27 While Gran Fanmi can refer to Vodou (voodoo) practitioner communities or communities of lwa (spirits), in this context it refers exclusively to a wealthier rural middle class (see Férauld Maignan’s (2007) “Fond-des- Blancs et ses grandes familles traditionnelles” Coconut Creek: Educa Vision Inc.).

28 Anthropologist Anthony Balzano indicates that no such references to Polish ancestry surfaced until after the visit of the Polish-born Pope John Paul II, in 1983 (Balzano, personal communication).

29 Fon means deep, indicative of low elevation valley settlements; and blan means foreigner, potentially indicating residents of Polish or French descent.

30 Tree seedlings from this project were distributed in Bèl Zòn, and original trees remain in some locations.

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In the 1970s and 1980s, many people in the area relocated to Giyàn (French Guiana), but that trend is on the decline. An increasing trend in the area is to seek employment in the emerging Haitian diaspora in Brazil31. However, neither the declining nor increasing trends rival the primary and preferred destination—the United States.

Support from the diaspora is used to pay for school supplies, for post-secondary education costs, or to allow some women to enter into ti konmès (small business). The families that other villagers suggested receive substantial financial support disagreed, indicating they receive yon ti kontribisyon, pafwa (a little support, from time to time).

Paradoxically, the diaspora also receives some financial support from Haitians in Bèl

Zòn. One of my neighbors was growing piman (peppers) for a dyaspora (a member of the diaspora) who lives in Miami. With the exception of a brief visit every summer, and an occasional visit in the month of December, this absentee landowner spends most of her year in Miami. When I asked my neighbor why she never cooked with the peppers, I was surprised when she answered that she would not even consider using a single one. “Prensip!”

(On principle!), she exclaimed. Instead, the piman were sold in Miragwàn and the proceeds went to the Miami dyaspora32. This reversal of remittances, encountered two different times, challenges the notion of one-way diasporic resource flows. Comparatively, flows of this size are more accurately described as trickles.

There are five diaspora houses in Bèl Zòn, in addition to a handful of smaller cement houses that belong to gran don, or residents supported by family in the diaspora. Traditional houses in Haiti are constructed with walls of woven wood, which are coated with white

31 Getting to Brazil is expensive and dangerous. A good friend who made it described the journey, which involves covertly crossing into the Dominican Republic, taking a plane to Venezuela, taking a long bus ride to near the border, and covertly crossing into Brazil.

32 More frequently, members of the diaspora use these profits to pay people for upkeep related to their houses. Profits from the peppers sold in Miragwàn were used to pay for a new fence—a combination of barbed-wired and living fence material first described by Sidney Mintz (1962). Thus, the money never directly touched the hand of the plot owner, but was managed on her behalf from afar.

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limestone paste, and covered with thatched roofs. Wealthier Haitians have similar houses with tin shingles replacing thatch, and occasionally wood or stone in place of limestone walls.

Diaspora houses are much larger than traditional houses and frequently represent a hybrid of Haitian and North American architectural inclinations. Like most cement houses in

Haiti, diaspora houses are built in stages, and most homebuilders save painting as a final stage. Most diaspora houses remain unoccupied, except during visits from the owner. When owners return, the entire family occupies them, doting on them, cooking for them, showing them off on walks around the village, and even sleeping in the house with them. Once the owner leaves, the gates are closed and the house and yard return to dormancy.

Many dyaspora consider their houses an investment and speak romantically about when they’ll fè bak (retire) in rural Haiti. Some villagers wondered out loud whether dyaspora actually would ever permanently return. One member of the diaspora from New

York did return, about halfway through the research period. Someone joked about the similarities between the large cement tombs that are common sites in courtyards33, and the diaspora houses: They both require an incredible amount of cement, and they’ll both be occupied one day, we just don’t know when.

Religion

Traditionally religious affiliation in Bèl Zòn was predominantly Catholic, but the last thirty years have seen a rise in smaller Protestant congregations. The Catholic Church is the largest building in the village, and sits on a hill overlooking the kafou below. The Church

33 Bèl Zòn has an old and crumbling cemetery, which was once associated with the Catholic Church, but no one has been buried there for approximately 50 years. Deceased are now buried in large cement tombs that frequently surpass the value of residents’ houses. A road now passes through the remains of the cemetery, and is frequented by charcoal trucks. For the first time in history, someone started growing corn between the tombstones during my stay. No one objected or seemed concerned, with the exception of one of the three research assistants.

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supports several activities such as the annual village celebration and soccer matches, and subsidizes education fees associated with the Church-run school.

Protestant churches are more numerous and invariably found in much smaller, unfinished buildings. Protestant congregations frequently receive visiting musical groups who travel the countryside, holding concerts amplified through the use of generators, electric organs, electric guitars, drum sets, horns, and megaphones. These groups frequently hold concerts late into the evenings, denouncing Satan and evil spirits, and singing out a chorus of an ever-loudening Alelouya! Alelouya! Alelouya! (Hallelujah).

Most villagers denied serving the spirits (Vodou), though there are several Vodou priests in the area. One priest was reported to pèdi pouvwa l (lose his power), and was sometimes called a chalatan (charlatan; imposter). The only widely reported Vodou ceremony takes place in December of each year, but did not occur the year of field research.

While participation in Vodou was widely denied, during Fèt Gede (the Day of the Dead) at the beginning of November, many families were observed weeding graves in the cemetery or around tombs in their yards, and leaving food and alcohol or coffee on or around ancestral graves.

The research team observed a Gede ceremony near Miragwàn, accompanied by three motorcycle taxi chauffeurs in their early twenties. These men stood silently watching the ceremony, but did not partake in any way. Later they confided they had never seen anything like it. Almost all villagers insisted that there were chanpwèl (secret societies that patrol the night) in the area, but the research team never observed nor heard them.

Distant drumbeats, ostensibly associated with Vodou ceremonies, were occasionally heard on Saturday evenings. While no one admitted to participation or involvement in

Vodou, many villagers identified other villagers that sèvi lwa (serve the spirits). In prior research, most villagers were able to provide vivid accounts of Vodou ceremonies, and noted

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details about relationships between lwa (spirits) and trees, irrespective of their religious orientation (Tarter 2015).

This brief account of life in Bèl Zòn shares many characteristics of broader social and cultural traditions described for much of rural Haiti, over time and space (Herskovits 1937;

Murray 1977; Conway 1978; Smucker 1983; Lowenthal 1987). The account is notably distinguished by the description of an additional phenomenon—the cultivation of rak bwa by

Haitian farmers for sustained charcoal production.

The Ecology of Rakbwa

Rakbwa tree density, age, and vegetation

Rakbwa are not much to look at. They contain small, young trees, or coppice from larger tree stumps. In height they range from a meter to approximately seven meters tall, and in tree densities they range from impenetrable thickets to easily traversable open woodlots

(Figure 7). Most of the more-managed plots are fairly dense. Some plots contain trees that grow together so tightly that it is virtually impossible to pass through them. Even if one were to find a route of passage, the large thorns that cover these trees make their traversal convincingly prohibitive. Such plots stand like green thorny walls, one plot occasionally adjoining another, to create vast areas that are penetrable only by a series of preexisting, machete-hacked footpaths.

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Figure 3-7. Differences in rakbwa densities. (Photos courtesy of author)

The diameters of rakbwa trees vary from the size of a common broomstick to a wooden fence post, but rarely reach larger sizes in Bèl Zòn (Figures 3-7 and 3-8).

While there is some variation in tree sizes between different rakbwa, there are far more rakbwa that contain smaller trees (Figure 3-7) than rakbwa with larger species (Figure 3-8).

There is usually little intra-rakbwa variation in age and size; inter-rakbwa variation of tree age and size is more common.

Though trees are the predominant species, there are some rakbwa that contain varying compositions of vegetation, and some plots that contain only vegetation and no tree species.

These latter plots are rightly called raje (weeds). The absence or presence of other vegetation is due to a combination of multiple spatial and ecological factors, the land-use history, and farmer management practices. From a distance, differences in density, size, and species composition are less apparent, and in satellite imagery rakbwa could easily be mistaken as simply vegetative cover (Figure 3-9).

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Figure 3-8. Larger rakbwa. (Photos courtesy of author)

Figure 3-9. Rakbwa from a distance. (A) Recently harvested rakbwa, (B) regenerating rakbwa or scrub, (C) rakbwa, (D) cleared agricultural land, (E) (F) rakbwa and (G)-(H) recently harvested areas or temporary agricultural plots within a larger rakbwa. (Photos courtesy of author)

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Rakbwa also serve as habitat for a few wild and domesticated animals. Farmers tether goats and sometimes cows in rakbwa to forage, but rarely leave them there overnight.

Villagers noted that if you leave a goat overnight in a rakbwa, there is a high probability that a feral dog will kill the animal. These dogs bite the throat of the goat, eat the innards, and leave the rest of the meat to spoil. Consequently, villagers have a policy of killing any dog that is not recognized.

A few wealthier villagers keep goats in rakbwa overnight, setting poison traps to kill dogs. In addition to feral dogs, rakbwa may contain snakes, species of small birds, feral cats, and mongoose. Woods (1986) correlated the presence of the dogs, cats, and mongoose with human disturbed forest areas (1986: 52).

Rakbwa plant and tree species

The diversity of plant species in rakbwa is generally low. Rakbwa are predominantly populated by two tree types, representing three species: bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora (Sw.)

DC.) and kanpèch (Haematoxylon campechianum and Haematoxylum brasiletto Karst.).

The Haitians in Bèl Zòn did not distinguish between these two species of kanpèch. By far the most common of all species and usually the first named by informants was bayawonn.

Bayawonn and kanpèch are sometimes found in combination with other trees, such as koma (Mastichodendron foetidissimum (Jacq.) H.J.Lam), kayimit (Chrysophyllum spp.), delen (Leucaena leucocephala (Lam.)), janjil (unknown species), and bwa kabrit (Senna atomaria). Together, these species constitute the majority of the other trees occasionally observed in rakbwa.

Other trees infrequently noted include twonpèt (Cecropia peltata), kenèp (Melicoccus bijugatus), gonmye (Bursera simaruba), nim (Azadirachta indica Adr. Juss.), lila (Melia azedarach L.), lanm (Artocarpus spp.), zaboka (Persea americana L.), tamarenn

(Tamarindus indica L.), sèd (Cedrela odorata), mapou (Ceiba pentandra (L.) Gaertn.),

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mango (Mangifera indica), momben bata (Trichilia hirta), chenn (Catalpa longissima (Jacq.)

Dum. Cours.), kachiman (Annona spp.), romarin jènn34 (unknown species), and maksmiye

(Metopium toxiferum (L.) Krug & Urb.).

Plants commonly found in rakbwa include varieties of a palm tree called latanye

(Arecaceae family), kandelab (Euphorbia spp.), and pit (Agave americana). Leaves from latanye are used for roofing thatch, and these trees are rarely cut when a rakbwa is harvested.

Pit first was noted in Haiti in 1493 (Trelease 1913: 7), likely became widespread when it was produced as an export crop during World War I (Wood and Roberts 2005: 300), and remained in cultivation at least until 1945 (Klein 1945: 11). Residents of nearby Fondeblan produced sisal at least until the early 1980s. Some villagers claimed that prior to the advent of charcoal production, pit occupied the land where rakbwa now sit; other informants contradicted this, reporting that rakbwa have always populated the area, but that pit was formerly cultivated in agricultural plots.

Bayawonn

Bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora; and possibly other Prosopis species) is perhaps etymologically derived from the Spanish phrase vaya hondo (going deep), in reference to the trees’ long tap-root (Timyan 1996: 4), believed to be one of the main features that allow the tree to survive extremely dry conditions and droughts. In Spanish, the tree is called bayahonda, but the ‘v’ and the ‘b’ are pronounced the same in these two cases (Murray, personal communication). Some species of the tree also have extensive lateral roots

(Pasiecznik et al. 2001).

Bayawonn is an invasive species (Timyan 1996: ix) that naturalized to different microclimates throughout the country. According Hatzenberger (2000), bayawonn dates from

34 Romarin Jènn could be a variant of Krist Marinn (Strumpfia maritima L.) (see Timyan 1996).

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the 18th century, but quickly spread in Haiti (Hatzenberger 2000: 72), while Burns et al.

(1998) notes that the size of some species in Haiti indicate they predate the presence of

Europeans in the new world (1998: 86). Bayawonn is now the most common dry area tree in all of Haiti (Ehrlich 1986).

Bayawonn has a series of biological characteristics that make it incredibly adaptive to diverse environments. Bayawonn seedpods are rich in protein and attractive forage to many animals. Residents expressed knowledge that humans can eat rakbwa seedpods, but this practice was never observed. Pods vary substantially in sweetness between and within the species (Pasiecznik et al. 2001), and the variety in Haiti are bitter (Felker, personal communication). A study from Ethiopia showed that cows and goats are major dispersers of bayawonn seeds (Shiferaw et al. 2004: 143). Collected manure showed a mean germination of 37% for goats, 4% for cattle, and 21% for the control of cast seeds (Shiferaw et al. 2004:

144-147). In other words, goats are both major distributers of seeds, and effective germinators. Furthermore, animal castings fall variable distances from the tree of origin and place seeds within a fertile context amendable to increased survival rates after germination

(Shiferaw et al. 2004: 149).

The impermeability of bayawonn seeds indicates they can survive a larger range of ecological and climatic conditions. Some seeds are amendable to immediate germination, while others are likely to germinate later (Shiferaw et al. 2004: 150-151), explaining the presence of Prosopis seeds in multiple and deep soil layers (Shiferaw et al. 2004). Even in the absence of goats, bayawonn would still propagate in Bèl Zòn, as seed exposed to dry heat of 195 degrees Fahrenheit for 30 or 45 minutes germinated at 59% and 58%, respectively

(Shiferaw et al. 2004: 144).

In addition to seed propagation, bayawonn regenerates repeated through coppice

(Fagg and Stewart 1994: 16) and through root suckers (Timyan 1996). The tree can also

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undertake interspecific hybridization with species of the same genus (Fagg and Stewart 1994:

19).

Researchers have noted that trees cut at less than 10-cm below ground level failed to coppice, while trees cut 50-cm35 above ground level coppiced the most and had the highest mean number of coppices and coppice heights (Shiferaw et al. 2004: 147-148). Trees stumps with diameters of 10-15cm showed the highest mean number of coppices and mean height of coppice, while over 15cm showed a decline in number of coppice (2004: 147-148).

Kanpèch

As early as 1494, Columbus noted large stands of kanpèch (Haematoxylum brasiletto

Karst.) in Aken (Aquin), located in the southwest of Haiti near the research site, and surrounding the coastal city of Jakmèl in the Southeast of Haiti (McJunkin 1991: 54-55).

Exploitation of the southwestern stands started just five years after their discovery

(Hatzenberger 2000: 67). The brasiletto species is reported to be similar to Haematoxylum campechianum (Timyan 1996: 194) and is called kanpèch in some parts of Haiti (1996: 259).

The two trees are frequently confused, and from an export standpoint, they were not distinguished (Standley 1920: 419).

When McJunkin (1991) reviewed the varied historical names and misclassifications of Haematoxylum brasiletto Karst., he noted the presence of a species in Haiti called “C. barahonensis”, from the genus Caesalpinia, which is closely related and in the same family as kanpèch (1991: 44). The species name for this tree, “barahonensis”, has interesting similarities to the Spanish and French spelling of bayawonn as ‘bayahonda’ and

‘bayahonde’, respectively, and to the varied Kreyòl spellings and pronunciations as

‘bayarone’, ‘bayahon’, and ‘baron’ (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 25). An investigation into these similar names would be interesting, but cannot be undertaken here.

35 Roig (1985) noted 50-cm as the common height of coppicing bayawonn in Thomazeau, Haiti.

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Kanpèch (Haematoxylum campechianum) was reportedly brought to the north of Haiti in 1730 (Hatzenberger 2000: 71; Stuart 1878: 268), was exploited in coastal areas of the

Southern peninsula in the 18th century (Hatzenberger 2000: 71) through the middle of the

1800s (Chandler 1842), and was considered widely naturalized by the end of the 19th century

(Stuart 1878: 268), when it spread quickly into dry areas (Woodring 1924: 58-59;

Hatzenberger 2000: 71-71). Vast quantities of the tree were exported from the coastal town of

Miragoâne (Woodring et al. 1924: 62). By as early as 1931 kanpèch was reported as the most prevalent tree in Haiti (Gill 1931: 139-140).

Kanpèch shares many features common to bayawonn: it is also a nitrogen-fixing legume, it spreads rapidly, has aggressive root systems, is extremely drought resistant, is protected from browsing animals by a thorny trunk and branches, is cut to produce charcoal, and regenerates vigorously through coppice (McJunkin 1991, Francis 1998). However, neither species of kanpèch is known to demonstrate wide morphological variation across their range of habitats, though McJunkin expressed his impression that more variation occurs in their export range than in the endemic habitat (McJunkin 1991: 204).

A bayawonn-kanpèch association

Bayawonn and kanpèch are frequently noted together. Kanpèch was found in association with bayawonn in native range in Guatemala (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 64), and in the 1930s kanpèch was noted in ‘mesquite36 grasslands’ and ‘mesquite mesa’, in three different municipalities in Mexico (McJunkin 1991: 551, 565, 586).

Mackenzie recorded the predomination of kanpèch and bayawonn in the Cul-de-sac plain east of Port-au-Prince, in Petit Goave in the south of Haiti, and throughout the countryside, at the beginning of the 19th century (Mackenzie 1830: 40, 62). A report from

National Geographic reported that uncultivated lands of the plains of Haiti were overgrown

36 Mesquite is a common name for Prosopis.

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with ‘a low scrub of very thorny mimosas [bayawonn] and logwood [kanpèch]’ (Johnson

1909: 648). Anthropologist Anthony Balzano noticed the predominance of these species in rakbwa, some 2-3 miles from my field site (Balzano 1989: 182-183).

Curtis, who conducted dry forest transects in the Haitian city of Gonaïve (1947), noted the common presence of bayawonn in combination with different species, in three different types of thorny forest, and concluded:

The association [of bayawonn with other species] is the concrete expression of the truism that while no two species have exactly similar environmental requirements nor the same amplitude of tolerance, nevertheless there are groups of species in the flora of a given region which are so similar in their general needs as to become sorted out onto those topographical areas which present a uniform environment most nearly approaching the average demanded by that group. The differences in amplitude account for the presence of some species in more than one association and the restriction of others to a single community (Curtis 1947: 11, brackets mine).

On the islands of Antigua, Barbuda, and Anguilla, kanpèch and bayawonn were noted as two of the four dominant alien species in the ‘thorn thicket’ vegetation formations where charcoal production occurs (Harris 1962: 69). Bayawonn and kanpèch were listed as the two most desirable of 20 trees commonly used to make charcoal in the Caribbean nation of

Montserrat (Wartluft and White 1984: 11, 26). Regrettably, while there is little research into plant associations with bayawonn (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 65), and even less for kanpèch

(McJunkin 1991), it is clear from the archival sources presented in Chapter two and recent satellite analyses that they are commonly found together in Haiti, over space and time.

The Human Dimensions of Charcoal Production and Distribution in Rakbwa

Labor in charcoal production

“Nou gen moun ki fè l; nou konn fè l tou” (We have people who do it; we do it too).

This response, provided by a middle-aged charcoal intermediary, describes the decentralization of charcoal production—not only geographically but also within the society of Bèl Zòn. Most residents have access to rakbwa, where they make charcoal themselves or

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occasionally permit other residents to make charcoal in association with them. When entering into a system of demwatye (share-cropping), Haitians agree to differential sharing arrangements. Some informants divided a portion of the charcoal produced, while others divided the proceeds from the sale of the charcoal. Typically the arrangement is fiftififti (fifty- fifty), but other divisions are made, depending on the size and quality of trees, the location of the property, the relationship between the charcoal-maker and the landowner, and other considerations.

Charcoal production in the area is often a solo enterprise, but it is not uncommon to see up to four people working together in the initial stages of charcoal production—namely the cutting of trees. The production of charcoal in Bèl Zòn does not differ in essence from the ample descriptions in the literature (Voltaire 1979: 9-10, Conway 1979: 3.24-3.25, Smith

1980: 17, Alvarez and Murray 1981: 89), though each chabonyè (charcoal-maker) builds kilns that reflect their preferences and the volume of wood they are producing37.

Temporal charcoal production cycles

As a general rule, there are five times when charcoal is produced: (1) around the beginning of school semesters; (2) during drought (3) when crops fail; (4) in the agricultural off-season; and (5) lè nou bezwen38 (when there is a need/hardship). Some events are more predictable than others; school usually starts around the same time, rains may come earlier or later than expected, and the arrival of a hardship can be unexpected.

In Bèl Zòn there is a government school, a private school, and a school financed by the Catholic Church. In general, school opens in September and requires a student inscription payment. There are various arrangements, with some parents paying throughout the semester, while most prefer to make an initial payment in September and a final payment in December.

37 I observed round, square, and rectangular charcoal kilns.

38 See the final chapter for an analysis of multiple socioeconomic variables, used to create an index to measure the situation described by “lè nou gen yon bezwen” (when we have a need).

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Drought occurs when the expected rains around May and October fail to arrive. Crops may fail in association with poor soil, delayed or early rains, inundations from torrential downpours, tropical storms, or hurricanes, and agricultural pests, but generally fail in association with drought. The agricultural off-season in Bèl Zòn is from January to the end of

February. And economic hardship can fall during any time of the year. As a result, charcoal production is conducted throughout the year in Bèl Zòn, though it was historically more prevalent in September and December.

Rural charcoal intermediaries

A few residents fè konmès chabon39 (engage in charcoal commerce), often because their property abuts the end of a truck-accessible road. These charcoal intermediaries profit from their location as the first stop for local charcoal leaving rakbwa, and one of many last truck stops on thousands of tributaries of the rural-to-urban charcoal supply stream. Charcoal intermediaries may build a depot, or simply store purchased charcoal sacks in their yard.

They often purchase charcoal from peyizan that carry large sacks out of rakbwa on donkeys.

A large sack of delivered charcoal is purchased for ~60 dola (60 Haitian dollars; ~7 USD40).

Charcoal intermediaries may also enter into agreements to retrieve the charcoal sacks themselves, charging between ~5-10 dola for each sack; a large sack of charcoal that requires transport from a rakbwa costs ~50 dola.

Some residents have residential property—or family or friends with property—along a main road. Although they do not engage in charcoal commerce as intermediaries, they are still able to increase their own overall profit by temporarily storing their charcoal sacks in such locations, instead of selling them to an intermediary. Both systems are used in Bèl Zòn, but the want of immediate cash frequently compels residents sell their charcoal to a depot or

39 Balzano called this occupation spekilatè (Balzano 1989).

40 At the time of the research, 1 USD = ~43 Haitian Gourdes = ~8 dola Ayisyen.

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charcoal intermediary instead of waiting an indeterminate amount of time for a chofè chabon to pass, stop, and purchase.

Truck drivers and the delivery of charcoal to Pòtoprens

Approximately five charcoal trucks enter Bèl Zòn regularly, each truck returning approximately every two weeks, depending on charcoal availability, demand, season, and fluctuating prices. Sometimes a driver who is uninvolved in the charcoal trade, but who visits the area for another reason, will return to Pòtoprens carrying charcoal to supplement his income. For example, a truck delivering cement sacks will likely return with a hull stacked with charcoal sacks.

Usually a chofè chabon (charcoal truck driver) is called by a kliyan chabon (urban charcoal wholesaler) and directed to the area only after the kliyan chabon receives enough calls from rural charcoal intermediaries41. Under this arrangement, the chofè chabon is responsible for all costs incurred during the transport of charcoal, and is not paid until his successful delivery in Pòtoprens. Chofè chabon usually make ~10-12 dola for each sack of charcoal they transport to Pòtoprens, and truck delivery capacities typically range from ~200-

400 sacks of charcoal. Chofè chabon are not involved in any aspects of the sale; they simply retrieve and transport the product to the kliyan chabon. Chofè chabon do not ask, nor check the quality of the charcoal, nor do they pay the intermediary. When trust is established between a chofè chabon and a kliyan chabon, the kliyan chabon may choose to pay the rural intermediary through the driver, but this payment is always for the last load retrieved, not for the current load en route. In such situations all involved individuals understand that the chofè chabon is not paying anyone—they are simply transferring a payment for an earlier transaction between a kliyan and an intermediary.

41 A few drivers operate independently, purchasing charcoal sacks placed by the side of more-traveled roads.

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The chain of economic beneficiaries, from tree to urban stove

In a maximum beneficiary scenario, eight people profit from the entire chain of a single tributary in the charcoal delivery stream. A charcoal intermediary may choose to purchase all the standing trees in entire rakbwa from a landowner (1st beneficiary). In such cases, the intermediary will pay between ~2,000-3,000 dola for one kawo (1.29 hectares) of small trees, and between ~5,000-7,000 dola for 1 kawo of large trees. The intermediary may now employ a chabonye (charcoal maker) to cut the trees42 and produce the charcoal (2nd beneficiary). The intermediary will often employ a different person to retrieve the charcoal sacks from the rakbwa with a donkey (3rd beneficiary).

The intermediary then calls a kliyan chabon, who enters into an arrangement to purchase the charcoal. When enough arrangements with intermediaries are made to fill a truck, the kliyan chabon sends a chofè chabon from Pòtoprens to retrieve the charcoal from

Bèl Zòn. Upon delivery to Pòtoprens, the kliyan pays the chofè (~10-12 dola per sack) (4th beneficiary). The kliyan chabon will later send money back to the original intermediary in the countryside (5th beneficiary).

The kliyan chabon then sells individual charcoal sacks to machann chabon (charcoal redistributors) in Pòtoprens (6th beneficiary), who walk the streets with bourèt (wheel barrels), selling charcoal by the gwo mamit43 (a large coffee can; see Mintz 1961) to small food vendors or families (7th beneficiary). Another beneficiary is added in this scenario because the chofè chabon does not usually own his truck, but is employed by the truck owner

(8 beneficiaries; maximum). The system described here closely resembles the one described

42 The chabonyè may cut any tree in the rakbwa, except in the rare presence of mango trees, which cannot be cut.

43 Mintz describes a gwo mamit from nearby Fond-des-Nègres as the “…most important of all solids measures. It is the standard No. I0 can used to pack American foods such as catsup, apple-sauce and lard for restaurant and institutional use. It holds five pounds of lard, and has a liquid volume capacity of 110.7 ounces”, rightly noting it as “probably the most important measure in Haitian trade (Mintz 1961: 28).

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by Stevenson (1989), though he aggregates three potential beneficiaries together as the rural

‘producer’ (1989: 63)

In the contrasting minimum beneficiary scenario, the landowner, tree cutter, charcoal producer, and transporter of charcoal sacks from the rakbwa to the road, are all one and the same individual. A chofè chabon who owns his truck purchases the sacks from the landowner/cutter/producer/transporter (1st beneficiary) and then sells sacks to a kliyan chabon

(2nd beneficiary). The kliyan chabon sells charcoal sacks to machann chabon (3rd beneficiary), who sells charcoal by the mamit in market places (4th beneficiary; minimum).

Across all potential arrangements of both scenarios, the number of total beneficiaries ultimately depends on highly idiosyncratic factors. Despite variance in the number of beneficiaries, the most common charcoal delivery scenario involves pre-established agreements between kliyan chabon on the urban side, and charcoal intermediaries on the rural side.

Risk, profit, and vulnerability in the charcoal production and delivery system

When working through a charcoal-purchasing rural intermediary, participants on both ends of this link in the commodity chain receive immediate financial returns for their respective roles. All chofè chabon take on the small risk of their truck breaking down, yet in such an unlikely scenario they shoulder no other financial risk because they have not purchased—but are only transporting—the charcoal they now cannot deliver. If charcoal fails arrive, kliyan chabon do not lose any money because they only purchase successfully delivered charcoal. If a dispute arises and a kliyan chabon loses rapport with either a rural intermediary or a truck driver, both can easily be replaced.

Ultimately, the largest risk in the charcoal trade falls on the rural intermediaries, who must purchase charcoal upfront and send it to Pòtoprens without any immediate compensation or assurance against a failure in transport, delivery, or payment. The

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intermediaries’ risks are compounded should they attempt to increase profit margins by purchasing entire rakbwa. The system thus functions in the best interest of the kliyan chabon, who exerts no physical labor in the production process, shoulders no risk in the delivery system, receives a steady flow of charcoal from multiple and replaceable production and delivery sources, and receives higher gross profits more frequently through a steady and accessible network of urban purchasers.

The Cultivation of Wood in Rakbwa

Minimal cultivation is required for rakbwa, but several steps are absolutely necessary for the continued, rapid production of wood in short-rotations for coppice. These steps can be conceptualized as active or passive cultivation techniques. Active techniques require an action, while passive techniques require restraint from an otherwise common land management practice. Informants commonly named or recognized four active and three passive rakbwa cultivation techniques, but only applied one active method and three passive methods in a widespread manner.

Active cultivation techniques

The primary active method of rakbwa cultivation involves cutting trees or coppice before they tounen rèk (become ripe; old in age). This cultivation technique involves harvesting trees and coppice before 7-10 years since the last harvest. Failure to cut trees before this timeframe will ensure that the chouk (trunk) does not coppice: boujonnen (bud); pouse tij (push up stems); or bay yon touf (give a tuft). Roig noted that in Thomazeau, Haiti, when large bayawonn trees are cut and left to coppice again, they produce only a few new shoots44 and the trunk system dies after 10 years (Roig 1985). Felker and Patch (1996) noted that cutting stumps of bayawonn in can Haiti produce dozens of shoots, but that it depends on

44 Roig also notes that of the shoots produced, Haitians only cut those that reached over 20-cm. This is most interesting because of Haitian law (Haitian Rural Code of 1962, Article 205) prohibiting the cutting of trees less than 20-cm. The same article of Haitian law outlaws using fire to destory trees or stumps if they are capable of regenerating, unless the land is being reclaimed for agriculture (see Bloch et al. 1988: 45).

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the diameter of the tree (1996: 4.39). When large kanpèch trees are cut, they do not return coppice from the “dry” stump (McJunkin 1991: 418). The same cultivation technique is required for coppice in many woody species from temperate regions (Dickmanm 2006: 701).

Another method of active cultivation is to sekle (weed) a rakbwa, which involves clearing out vegetation between stumps. Studies on short rotation of woody crops in temperate zones have shown that suppressing weeds in densely coppicing stands is usually necessary only during the first year or two, because the canopy will later suppress the growth of new weeds (Dickman 2006: 701). Most residents of Bèl Zòn did not weed their rakbwa.

Most informants were aware of another active method of cultivation they called netwaye chouk (thinning coppice from trunks). Several older informants responded “ou gen dwa fè sa” (you could do that), and agreed that it could make remaining coppice grow faster, but ultimately concluded it was not necessary unless you are making poto (posts) for house construction. In several instances, thinning of trees or coppice from trunks has been observed in Haiti, though often in association with non-charcoal oriented wood production for posts or timber (Roig 1985, Smucker and Timyan 1995: 35-36, Timyan 1996: 40; Felker and Patch

1996). Other researchers have noted an absence or reluctance to pruning or thinning trees or coppice in Haiti (de Young 1958: 54, Simpson 1940: 518-519; Conway 1986: 17). While our team occasionally noted a few stems missing from stumps, we rarely observed the practice as a systematic rakbwa cultivation technique. There are no internal or external markets for posts or wood in Bèl Zòn. The research team came across a nim (Azadirachta indica Adr. Juss.) rakbwa near the city of Miragwàn, with coppice clearly thinned from stumps, which was being cultivated for posts. Perhaps the closer location to a major port city allowed cultivation of posts in this rakbwa. There are no trucks entering Bèl Zòn explicitly to purchase wood, and no other trucks that leave or pass through were observed transporting wood out of the area.

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A final commonly mentioned method of active of rakbwa cultivation is to cut tree trunks high. Cutting trunks high prevents goats from eating new coppice. A farmer who intends to cultivate a temporary garden may also cut trunks higher as a labor saving device that permits him to clear undergrowth by fire instead of by hand, while lowering the chance of charring the tops of coppicing trunks. Trunks cut high were not commonly observed. The standard is to cut trunks low.

Passive cultivation techniques

A related passive cultivation technique involves not cutting trunks too low, which results in the death of the stump and root system. Most rakbwa contain low coppicing stumps, usually cut less than a foot above the ground. Roig reported that bayawonn trees in

Thomazeau are commonly cut at 50-cm (1985). By refraining from cutting trunks too low, a farmer demonstrates he is cultivating for continued coppice.

Since most trunks are cut low enough to survive, but not to survive a fire, rakbwa are also passively cultivated by not using fire to clear the field. This passive cultivation technique is noteworthy because burning a cleared field rapidly returns nutrients to the soil and also saves the farmer considerable work. By not burning the stumps, farmers demonstrate they intend to let the rakbwa grow back. This does not prohibit several rotations of crops in the spaces between stumps, before the closing canopy restricts sunlight. But if a farmer intends to eliminate a rakbwa permanently, usually to establish a permanent agricultural field, he sets the field on fire. If stumps are a little higher, he may set extra kindling around individual stumps to ensure they burn out completely.

Many informants described a second form of passive cultivation, to allow continued production of coppice and new trees in the presence of lower stumps: “pa lage bèt anndan”

(don’t let animals forage inside). This rule applies only to a recently cut rakbwa, up until the point where the coppice is high enough to remain protected (between 1-2 years). Some

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farmers reported cutting raje or manje kabrit (weeds) from their rakbwa during regeneration periods, which they carried and delivered as forage to their goats. This was acknowledged as a viable option only in cases where a rakbwa adjoins or is very close to the home.

Rakbwa Productivity and Improvement of Cultivation Techniques

Commonly suggested techniques for cultivating wood coppice include thinning of trees and removal of excess coppice, clearing of understory, and cutting trees high enough to protect new coppice from animals (Pasiecznik et al. 2001). Haitians in Bèl Zòn were aware of these cultivation techniques, but rarely perform any of them for very calculated reasons.

Farmers in Bèl Zòn rarely thin trees or coppice, nor remove understory, because doing so provides little improvement to the system and requires an unjustifiable exertion of time and energy. Patch and Felker (1997) experimented with the value of removing understory and thinning Prosopis trees in Texas over a nine-year period, with an aim to achieve faster growth and higher biomass. They established a control group and several treatment groups, but of interest to the case at hand are: (a) a treatment to remove understory, and (b) a treatment to thin density and remove understory. The authors’ ANOVA between the treatments and the control showed “there was no significant effect for the total growth in estimated fresh weight…or volume after nine years of growth” (Patch and Felker 1997: 42) and “no significant treatment differences were detected for the absolute values of the biomass growth and yield growth” (Patch and Felker 1997: 44). Dickman (2006) suggested that in tree stands with short coppice rotations of less than five years, where “maximum conversion of solar energy is essential and raw material flexibility unimportant”, high density of trees is recommended (2006: 701).

There may be few high-cut stumps in Bèl Zòn simply because there are very few large trees left to cut; coppice is growing from larger tree stumps cut long ago. Haitians in Bèl Zòn may cut trees at ground level because when bayawonn in Haiti is harvested in such a manner,

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dozens of shoots will subsequently sprout, growing faster and straighter than seedlings of the same species because of the already established taproot of the stump (Patch and Felker 1996:

4.39). In plantations that produce short rotation biomass from bayawonn, the standard is to cut close to the ground (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 123), suggesting the low-cut tree stumps in

Bèl Zòn are a pragmatic choice that privileges production over the manageable problem of animal browsing risks.

Rakbwa Sustainability

How sustainable is the rakbwa system in Bèl Zòn? All informants indicated that rakbwa coppice returns indefinitely. Pasiecznik et al. (2001) noted Prosopis trees “coppice very well, resprouting rapidly following hard and repeated cutting without showing any detrimental effects on plant health” (Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 4).

Informant responses on how frequently you could cut rakbwa and still have it continue to regenerate varied between 1-3 years. Pasiecznik et al. (2001) noted that on good sites Prosopis harvesting can take place less than every 12 months, but that 2-5 years is more common for charcoal production (2001 et al.: 123).

The need for new germplasm in this system may possibly be met entirely through the vast genetic variation of Prosopis genus, with at least 44 different species (Felker 1984: 66), and bayawonn’s ability to introduce more genetic material thorough hybridization with other

Prosopis species (Felker 1984, Pasiecznik et al. 2001). This wide genetic variation has led to many species misclassifications, confusion, debate about whether bayawonn should be classified as one or multiple species (Harris et al. 2003), and has led some to consider at least two Prosopis species together as a “Prosopis juliflora - Prosopis pallida complex”

(Pasiecznik et al. 2001).

In cases where Haitians harvest coppice too frequently and destroy the trunk system, trees are still able to regenerate because bayawonn flowers more than half the year in Haiti

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(Timyan 1996), the tree is an incredibly prolific seeder (Ehrlich 1986: 18, Pasiecznik et al.

2001), and trees reproduce by sending up root-suckers (Timyan 1996: 4). Kanpèch is also known for propagating and spreading aggressively (Hatzenberger 2000: 67, 71-73).

Regeneration of rakbwa is a nonissue in Bèl Zòn, though containing the spread of rakbwa trees may one day become a major issue, as it is in Africa and Asia (Pasiecznik et al. 2001), should the incentive to continually harvest the trees diminish

Bayawonn coppice grows straighter and faster than seedlings of the same species due to the pre-established taproot. This faster growth of coppice increases survival, whereas seedlings might be stepped on or foraged by animals (Felker and Patch 1996: 4.39). Kanpèch coppice grows rapidly as well, and the seeds are known for allelopathy—killing surrounding vegetation to permit the swift expansion of the tree (Hatzenberger 2000: 71-72). It is hard to imagine why bayawonn or kanpèch would ever need to be planted45, or why planting would be preferential to the system currently in place.

In fact, bayawonn out-performed several exotic species that were planted in the anthropology-agroforestry project. Leucaena leucocephala, used since year one in the anthropology-agroforestry project, was generally the top producer of fuel wood (in the early stages of fuel production) in a base line comparison study (Ehrlich 1986: 2-5). However, these tree comparisons were based on trials in different locations in Haiti, compelling the author of the report to mention that the Leucaena leucocephala data came from an area “very favorable for tree growth” (Ehrlich 1986: 2).

Leucaena leucocephala was reported to appear well adapted to various ecological conditions in Haiti, second only to bayawonn, which was the best-adapted (Ehrlich 1986: 5).

Leucaena leucocephala also displayed substantial within-site and between-site variation in fuel wood weight and it the volume, height, stem and form of polewood (Ehrlich 1986: 3).

45 One exception would be the one-time planting of preferential varieties—a topic treated in the next section.

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Cassia siamea, also used extensively by the anthropology-agroforestry project, produced about one third less weight in fuel wood than Leucaena leucocephala (9). Nim (Azadirachta indica) produced between 40-50% less fuel wood than Leucaena leucocephala. Eucalyptus camaldulensis produced much less fuel wood than Leucaena leucocephala in similar conditions and is considered to have limited fuel wood potential in the degraded soils of Haiti

(1986: 17). More studies comparing the productivity of bayawonn and kanpèch to the above species, on multiple parameters, would be helpful. Yet the high adaptability of the bayawonn and kanpèch species to Haiti’s drying and variable environment may be of equal or greater concern to overall wood production parameters. Suffice to say that the tree species found in rakbwa are perhaps the best-suited species for the demands of the systems.

Rakbwa Tree Species Improvements

A common programming response in light of bayawonn and kanpèch adaptability might be to try to improve the species in Haiti by the introduction of better characteristics from different accessions46. Such an experiment was carried out with 26 accessions of

Prosopis from other locations in the western hemisphere, and 44 Haitian Prosopis accessions

(Lee et al. 1992). The Leucaena genus was also included. Because Leucaena leucocephala was now known to be poorly adapted to low rainfall, a better-adapted variety (L. pulverulenta

999) of species from the same family was planted (Lee et al. 1992: 2). The Haitian accessions in this experiment were collected in the Cul-de-sac plain off the road that leads to the border with the Dominican Republic, in several locations between the capital and the northern city of Gonaives, and in several different locations in Northwestern Haiti (Lee et al. 1992).

In the trial, the seeds from Haiti were selected from trees of superior form, seed pod characteristics, and height; the non-Haitian seeds were selected from varieties of known superior biomass or pods (Lee et al. 1992). Seeds were planted in an ecologically harsh area

46 An accession number identifies the order in which samples of a species are collected. Here it is synonymous with ‘individual’.

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4km from Thomazeau, and received no watering or rain for three weeks after planting.

During the trial, the Leucaena species suffered low survival due to foraging from goats.

Some tree varieties achieved a 100% survival rate: 1 from Texas; 4 from Peru; and 15 from

Haiti (Lee et al. 1992: 6). Eighty-two percent of all bayawonn collections from Haiti achieved at least a 90% survival rate.

Most Haitian varieties in the trial were multi-stemmed and prostrate (Lee et al. 1992:

6). Some species of Prosopis are prostrate in early stages, becoming more upright as they age

(Pasiecznik et al. 2001: 30). Prostrate species are also more susceptible to be browsed by animals, which may initially destroy an individual tree while increasing the species overall range through animal seed propagation. The Haitian varieties may be better-suited to rapid charcoal cultivation due to their physical expression as multi-stemmed trees, which may offer more coppice-producing trunks if the tree is cut at appropriate levels.

Some of tallest Haitian progeny came from trees less than 4m tall, and seeds collected from the tallest Haitian trees did not result in tall progeny (Lee et al. 1992: 7). The authors contribute this phenomenon to the genetic variability and environmental adaptability of

Prosopis species (Lee et al. 1992: 7).

In the first several years after bayawonn planting, the tree dedicates much of its energy to developing the long taproot (Timyan 1996) essential for continued survival in dry climates. The Haitian varieties may have experienced higher survival rates by developing other strategies of accessing moisture, such as increased lateral rooting. This conjecture could explain the common prostrate form in the Haitian varieties as a reflection of the trees dedication to survival over initial growth. When the taproot was eventually established,

Haitian varieties may have increased production on other parameters (Pasiecznik et al. 2001:

83), perhaps even surpassing other accessions. It is clear that the Haitian varieties are well adapted to surviving variable Haitian ecological and climatic conditions.

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Discussion

In Haitian-farmer cultivated rakbwa, bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora) is the predominant tree in the system, and has the capacity is to produce similar volumes of fuel wood as a few commonly planted exotic species, and notably more fuel wood than other common exotics. The second most common species in rakbwa is kanpèch (Haematoxylum campechianum; and Haematoxylum brasiletto Karst), which appears to owe much of its success to similar physical characteristics, and similar human utility, as bayawonn. Both trees are highly adapted to harsh environments, poor soils, and both are drought resistant, regenerate quickly if properly coppiced, and propagate rapidly through root-suckers and prolific and diverse seeding strategies.

Haitian rakbwa cultivation techniques are supported by other research that suggests they are the most labor efficient, highest yielding and animal resistant methods47 of wood cultivation for charcoal production, given the ecological and social realities of that country.

Haitian approaches to rakbwa cultivation are thus seen not as techniques that need improvement, but as an efficient and pragmatic approach, based on experience, the demands of the market, the nature of the tree species, and the current ecology and climate of the rural countryside

Rather than focusing on the introduction of new cultivation techniques, the easiest way to promote an increase production of rakbwa tree species would be to graft different accessions onto trunks or stumps. The choice of accession would depend on the social needs and the environmental circumstances of different areas in Haiti. As an illustrative example, both bayawonn and kanpèch use thorns to protect against browsing animals. Haitians also frequently mentioned the thorns on bayawonn and kanpèch as negative, dangerous aspects of

47 Here I am referring to the fact that rakbwa coppice from tree trunks grows faster than new seedlings, because of pre-established root systems; I am not referring to the choice to cut trees low. That choice represents a cultivation technique to increase the volume of coppice from a stump.

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harvesting wood and producing charcoal. The grafting of a thornless, non-browsed accession could be a vast improvement to the labor component of the rakbwa system, but may also increase animal browse. In tests conducted in Haiti, the thornless varieties of bayawonn from

Peru contained some accessions that were not browsed by goats48 (Lee et al. 1992).

Ultimately this thornless variety of Peruvian Prosopis ought to be compared with a thornless bayawonn species mentioned in Bèl Zòn, which is called bayawonn blan (foreign bayawonn).

Even if neither thornless species is truly resistant to forage, there may be some locations in

Haiti where foraging animals are not of concern, and grafting may present a large improvement to such rakbwa systems.

There are also Prosopis species known for their ability to thrive in highly alkaline and saline soils (Pasiecznik et al. 2001). Such species may be helpful for certain highly degraded locations in Haiti, but would likely require planting, as grafting would not replace the existing root system. The vast inter-species diversity, and diversity of intra-species genetic and morphological expressions, point to an equally vast menu for cultivating ecologically, climatically, and socially appropriate bayawonn trees in Haiti. These options for improvement may also be possible with kanpèch, though the species has received less research and attention in the literature.

Some Prosopis species and varieties are highly valued for their seedpods, which represent important sources of protein and sugars for animals (Pasiecznik et al. 2001).

Humans have chewed or eaten Prosopis as early as 6,500 BC, and in times of severe need

(Fagg and Stewart 1994: 949). Prosopis was traditionally made into flour and bread in parts of

South America, and in parts of India the pods are eaten as vegetables and bark is mixed with

48 This may have been an anomaly, as it represented the first time that thornless varieties of erect, rapid growing Prosopis had ever been observed as non-browsed (Lee 1992: 9).

49 Citing Smith 1967 and Felger 1977.

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flour in times of famine (Fagg and Stewart 1994: 950). The pods of most bayawonn in Haiti are unpalatable (Felker, personal communication). This suggests another way in which tree improvement through grafting could lead to the possible cultivation of bayawonn for animal and human food.

Yet processes of tree species improvement may already be underway in Haiti. Harsh environmental and climatic conditions have been eliminating weaker species in favor of more adaptable species in Haiti, since the beginning of the Holocene. These selective forces of naturalization are evident in the study (Lee et al. 1992) that demonstrated 15 accessions of bayawonn from Haiti had a 100% survival rate, while such survival success was only the case in four accessions from Peru—a speculated origin of the entire genus (Pasiecznik et al. 2001).

Furthermore, 82% of all Haitian accessions in the trial location had a 90% or more survival rate, despite their collection from a diversity of locations throughout Haiti (Lee et al. 1992).

While the Haitian accessions exhibited a high variability on a number of morphological features, the vast majority of Haitian accessions developed, over time, a stronger resistance to

Haiti-specific survival challenges than other accessions from three different locations in

Argentina, two in Chile, seven in Peru, four in California, and two in Texas.

Selection may also be working on rakbwa tree species through farmer cultivation techniques. Prosopis has been exploited since 6,500 years ago, in a variety of means, for a variety of different ends, and may have mark the beginning of an on-going selectionary process (Pasiecznik et al. 2001). In the age of the Anthropocene, Haitian farmers' cutting— even over-cutting—may slowly be eliminating species that cannot sustain such harvests, in favor of hardier species capable of surviving. If Haitian farmers decide to burn a rakbwa because of less- or unproductive trees, they eliminate the spread of such unproductive varieties. Stumps that are not eliminated by farmers because of their high productivity of

50 Citing Solbrig 1977, Purohit and Khan 1980, and Bhandari 1978.

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wood will continue to propagate and proliferate other high wood-producing trees. In such a manner, the conscious decisions of a single farmer, exercised through rakbwa cultivation techniques, may spread more valuable species over an area that far exceeds the size of the individual farmer’s plot.

The breadth of genetic diversity and the variety of morphological expression of bayawonn trees, coupled with the large number of locations throughout Haiti where the species is managed, suggests sufficient conditions for farmers’ conscious or unconscious selection and modification of tree species through the application of varied rakbwa cultivation techniques. Haitian farmers’ knowledge and frequent mention of other rakbwa management practices—yet the low observance of these techniques by the research team— reflects a recent shift in the nature of rakbwa cultivation that demonstrates the adaptability of the system to differential societal demands.

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CHAPTER 4 TREES IN VODOU: AN ARBORI-CULTURAL EXPLORATION1

Trees and Haitians

Popular accounts that place the onus of deforestation squarely on the shoulders of

Haitian charcoal-makers overlook a long history of external interventions and internal policies that fostered a resource-extraction-based economy (Pierre-Louis 1989; Lindskog

1998; Trouillot 1990; Dubois 2012). While most of the primordial forests are gone, large areas of the Haitian countryside suffer no pervasive absence of trees. Recent estimates grounded in high-resolution satellite imagery challenge the prevailing narrative of near-to- total denudation, demonstrating that heavily treed areas cover approximately one-third of the republic (Churches et al. 2014). Fully two-thirds of Haiti’s population inhabits the rural countryside and many Haitians engage in complex, nuanced relationships with trees.

My research into the various factors that affect farmers’2 decision-making processes regarding the planting, retention, and cutting of trees (Tarter 2010a) led me to consider how symbolism, imbued meaning, and religious significance might play a role in such processes.

Consider the well-known case of the mapou3 tree in Haiti, with strong religious strictures against cutting. Are there other tree species in Haiti that are never cut? If so, which ones, and why? This contribution examines Haitian arboreal beliefs rooted in Vodou (Haitian voodoo) and the resulting corporeal consequences for such trees.

This entire chapter is reprinted from the editors of the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture. Tarter, Andrew. 2015. Trees in Vodou: An Arbori-cultural Exploration. Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture. Vol. 9 (1), 87-112.

1 The author requests that citations of this article reference the journal article listed above.

2 I use the term ‘farmer’ synonymously with the anthropological term ‘peasant’, because the word ‘peasant’ may evoke pejorative connotations in some circles, despite the fact that many rural Haitians refer to themselves as peyizan (peasant or peasants). The term ‘farmer’ is also misleading; many rural Haitians engage in multiple livelihood strategies beyond farming. They are involved in internal and external market-based economies, and to a diminishing degree in exchange-based economies.

3 All Kreyòl (Haitian Creole) and French words are italicized throughout.

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Previous Research

Anthropological research on trees and Haitian farmers stands in a long tradition of materialist-oriented scholarship, contributing important literature on trees as living fences

(Mintz 1962), adaptive Haitian strategies of erosion control (Murray 1979, 1980), the necessary social and organizational conditions for tree-planting (Smucker 1982), the role of trees in the Haitian peasant economy (Smucker 1981; Murray 1984; Conway 1986), the gendered aspects of the charcoal economy (Smucker, J. 1981), and common motivations for tree planting (Murray 1981; Balzano 1986, 1989; Smucker 1988).

Building on this earlier anthropological scholarship, a major tree-planting project was designed, vetted, and implemented by cultural anthropologists (Conway 1979; Murray 1979,

1981; Smucker 1981).4 This tree-planting project stressed the economic benefits of the fast- growing ‘wood’ tree5 as an income-generating cash crop for rural farmers. Recent understandings of Haitian land tenure (Murray 1977) were an important anthropological contribution to the project design. The project, voluntarily implemented by Haitians throughout the country, enjoyed notable success, winning the prestigious Praxis prize in applied anthropology (Conway 1986; Smucker 1986; Murray 1987). Tree planting and other agroforestry and soil conservation efforts continued for two decades, involving an estimated one-third of the entire rural Haitian population, and resulted in the planting of approximately

65 million trees (Murray and Bannister 2004). The unique contribution of this project to improving rural Haitian livelihoods and the related ecological benefits to the land cannot be overstated.

4 Anthropologist Ira Lowenthal was also involved in the project, though he did not write extensively about it.

5 The use of ‘wood’ here refers to the Haitian emic category; Haitians distinguish between pye bwa (‘wood trees’—trees that do not bear edible fruit) and pye fwi (‘fruit trees’—trees that have edible fruit). While both categories are collectively referred to as pyebwa (‘tree’), the dichotomous distinction is employed to specify these differences.

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Recognizing that the vast corpus of social science research on trees and Haitians has largely stressed the material and economic aspects of human-tree relationships, my goal in the current contribution is to expand that corpus through the direct analysis of Haitian Vodou and trees—an approach initiated by Haitian sociologist Laënnec Hurbon (2002 [1987]) and continued by professor of religion Terry Rey (2005).

Human-Tree Theories

Two prominent theoretical platforms that aid in the examination of relationships between humans and trees have emerged from the social sciences.6 The first theoretical orientation, which has been termed ‘Arbori-culture’,7 is rooted in the school of cultural geography and pays attention to the symbolism and meaning imbued in trees (Jones and

Cloke 2002). These authors note that much traditional research about trees tends to be framed by conceptual categories such as ‘forests’, ‘woodlands’, and ‘individual trees’. These categories propagate conceptual sub-categories, such as ‘forests as paradisal landscapes’,

‘forests as spiritual landscapes’, ‘forests as mythological landscapes’, ‘forests as gendered landscapes’, and so on (Jones and Cloke 2002: 23-24). While the category ‘forests’ often evokes visions of ‘large spaces, wilderness, wildness, habitat, nature and landscapes other to civilization and modernity’, the category of ‘woodlands’, on the other hand, represents ‘a more intimate, culturalized space’ (Jones and Cloke 2002: 26). Finally, ideas about individual trees are based on social constructions, such as small vs. large, native vs. invasive/alien, deciduous vs. evergreen, and young vs. old (Jones and Cloke 2002: 31-33)—

6 The earliest anthropological analysis of the relationship between religion and trees was made at the turn of the 20th century, when anthropologist Sir James George Frazer published a series of 12 volumes on mythology and religion as The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (Frazer 1963 [1922]). While a valuable source of initial inquiry, this ethnology relied on second hand accounts and therefore lacks important sociocultural and historical contextualization.

7 Jones and Cloke (2002) first bifurcated the term ‘arboriculture’ as ‘Arbori-Culture’, to distinguish an equal emphasis on culture in the examination of trees.

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and, in the case of the research presented here, sacred vs. ordinary. The categories we choose ultimately affect how we see, understand, and participate in ideas and behaviors toward trees

(Jones and Cloke 2002).

While acknowledging that ‘talk of trees having agency is to invite skepticism’, Jones and Clarke (2002) suggest ‘trees can, and should, be understood as non-human agents, with a potential to act, to bend space around themselves, to facilitate dependence and even to translate the will of others into their own articulations’ (7-8). However appropriate for other situations, this notion is less useful for the case of Haitian Vodou, where tree-residing spirits are venerated—not trees themselves.

A second theoretical platform for examining trees is rooted in the anthropological tradition of symbolic studies (Rival 2001). Laura Rival diverges from Jones and Cloke’s approach, suggesting that ‘intentionality’ is not necessary in understanding tree symbolism:

What seems to drive tree symbolism is not so much the transfer of intentionality on to non-human living organisms, but, rather, the need to find within the natural environment the material manifestation of organic processes that can be recognized as similar to those characterizing the human life cycle, or the continued existence of social groups (Rival 2001: 7).

While acknowledging the faux pas of conducting ethnology in an anthropology climate then- dominated by post-modern notions, Rival nevertheless advocates for broad cross-cultural comparisons that are useful in symbolic studies of trees.

The disappearance of most of Haiti’s primordial forests precludes a study of the first category elucidated by Jones and Cloke. While woodlands remain in Haiti, this article focuses on the category of individual trees. Individual comprises both individual species like the mapou tree and single specimens of such species, such as the particular mapou tree of a certain village treated below. I also draw on Jones and Cloke’s conception of time as a crucial consideration when examining the relationships between people and trees. Although I do not

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here engage in ethnology, I do take seriously Rival’s perception that ‘trees provide some of the most visible and potent symbols of social process and collective identity’ (Rival 2001: 1).

Religion and Trees in the Haitian Context

Vodou

What Haitians call sèvi lwa (serving the spirits)—but what western academics often call Vodou—is a unique syncretic religion that developed in Haiti. Vodou is composed of elements of West and Central African religions and Catholicism (Herskovits 2007 [1937];

Métraux 1972 [1959]; Murray 1985). Prominent in the religion is the pantheon of lwa

(spirits); their manifestations in various forms such as rocks, trees, and other inanimate objects; and their possession of human servitors. The lwa are also known for their varying personalities and preferences and their personal attributes in the realm of fortune and healing.

In other words, lwa are idiosyncratic entities associated with specific materials, functions, and symbolic meanings. Bondye (God or the Supreme Ruler of the Universe) oversees the pantheon of lwa (Murray 1985).

Christianity

Two distinct branches of Christianity—Catholicism8 and Protestantism—represent the other major religious contenders in Haiti.9 While representations of trees may factor significantly in both Catholic and Protestant religious symbolism, they tend to be rooted in

Biblical references rather than unique contributions stemming from Vodou or Haitian peasant folk life. Anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston illustrated this tendency in her account of a

8 Here and throughout I am referring exclusively to the emic Haitian category Katolik Fran (literally ‘sincere Catholic’). Katolik fran do not practice Vodou. As Murray notes, ‘there is a substantial number of Catholics who publicly eschew the lwa and their services. These individuals refer to themselves as ‘“pure Catholics” (katolik frâ)’ (Murray 1985: 193, underlining original). Richman concurs, noting that ‘any given Catholic actor in Haiti falls within a continuum, some self-described as “straight” Catholics (Katolik fran), who may know little or nothing of serving the spirits, and some as “lwa fanatics”’ (Richman 2012: 154).

9 Protestantism, Catholicism, and Vodou are the three state-recognized religions of Haiti.

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Catholic priest’s efforts to destroy the palm tree where an apparition of the Virgin Mary materialized at a popular waterfall in Haiti in 1849:

The [Catholic] priest became so incensed at the adoration of the people for the tree that he seized a machete and ran to the tree to cut it down himself… Later on the tree was destroyed by the Church and a church was built on the spot to take the place of the palm tree (Hurston 1990 [1938]: 230-31).

Sodo (Saut-d’eau [Fr.];x ‘waterfall’)—the location of the apparition’s sighting—remains an important contemporary Vodou and Catholic pilgrimage site (McAlister: 1998).

In reading of the event relayed by Hurston, Stein suggested that ‘the battle between church and tree is clearly a power struggle between African heritage and Western religious domination; the tree represents the resurgence of the sacralization of nature and also indicates the powers of Voodoo [sic] spirituality to unsettle Western dominance’ (Stein 2013: 36). At the very least, the example demonstrates servitors’ willingness to assimilate aspects of

Catholicism within Vodou symbolism, while the Church remained unwilling to accept the veneration of the tree by Vodouyizan (Vodou practitioners). The targeted destruction of the tree—first by an individual Catholic priest and later by the Catholic Church—supports

Rival’s claim that trees symbolize social processes and identities (Rival 2001).

Haitian Catholics and Protestants may share some of the same beliefs about trees as

Vodouyizan, such as the idea that certain trees harbor or attract djab10 (devils or evil spirits), or that coffins made from cedar trees protect the body against spiritual intruders. Richman noted ‘even the assertive, separatist stance of the Protestants cannot disguise how firmly their congregants remain within a fundamentally integrated spectrum of mystical techniques and

10 Djab, while a legitimate classification for Vodouyizan, is also sometimes used by Haitian Christians to pejoratively and collectively refer to the lwa. Richman notes, ‘What does he [a Protestant informant] mean by “devil” (dyab)? The devil is the “other” in this righteous discourse, a diffuse, catch-all term for anything connoting the old religion. It confounds categories that people who serve the lwa carefully distinguish’ (Richman 2008: 32).

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strategies to hold illness and misfortune11 at bay’ (2008: 2). Despite this acknowledgement of the complexity of lived and localized religion, neither Protestants nor Catholics in Haiti engage in spiritual rituals with sacred trees. Vodouyizan clearly place an elevated spiritual significance on trees, evidenced by their frequent participation in arboreal rituals. This distinction is the first reason I focus on Vodou in this analysis.

The Persecution of Vodou and Felling of Sacred Trees

Initiated in the early 19th century, anti-Vodou activities continued through the US

Marine occupation of the early 20th century and were variably supported through the late

1980s by the successive dictatorships of the Duvalier dynasty12 (Ramsey 2011). The continued waning of Vodou adherents can be attributed in part to these campaigns, followed by a rapid expansion of Protestantism in Haiti (Romain 1986; Hurbon 2001; Richman 2008;

Louis 2011). The persecution of Vodou has continued, most-recently through incendiary comments widely broadcast through the New York Times and by popular evangelist and media tycoon Pat Robertson (Hebblethwaite 2014).

The detectability of sacred Vodou trees—identified by their particular species or by the adornment of individual tree trunks and branches with offerings and magical objects— made them an easy target of historical religious oppression that resulted in their widespread felling.13 This arboricide was wrought at the hands of the Catholic and Protestant Churches in

Haiti, which were both complicit and frequent instigators in a series of pervasive anti-Vodou campaigns (Métraux 1958; Hurbon 2008; Trouillot 1990). The kanpay rejete (rejection campaigns) encouraged extensive cutting of sacred trees (Hurbon 2008; Ramsey 2011).

11 Murray (1976, 1977b) and Murray and Alvarez (1973) have noted healing and avoiding misfortune as two primary functions of Vodou.

12 While it is true that Duvalier coercively capitalized on Vodou by coopting the religion in the service of his power, Ramsey (2011) provided evidence that Duvalier and his son’s activities were repressive to the religion.

13 Trees were not the only items destroyed; anti-Vodou campaigns targeted also Vodou altars, sacred objects, and pilgrimage sites (see Hurbon 2001, 2002 and Ramsey 2011).

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However, these anti-Vodou campaigns did not result in the total eradication of entire species sacred to Vodou, nor in the elimination of all distinct individual sacred trees,14 both of which can still be found throughout Haiti.

The historical oppression of Vodou provides another argument for its treatment as the primary religious orientation of relevance here. On the one hand, the churches’ acts of targeting sacred trees implicitly affirm their potency as symbols, material resting-places of the lwa, important ritual locations, and recognizable markers of Vodou temples and pilgrimage sites. On the other hand, the attempt to eliminate sacred trees has already been sufficiently documented by social scientists (Métraux 1958; Hurbon 2008; Ramsey 2011).

Beyond the historical culling of sacred trees, no other collective actions stemming from either of the Christian orientations have resulted in notable corporal consequences for trees in

Haiti.15

Methods

Prior to commencing research, an ethics protocol was established and approved by the

Institutional Review Board (IRB) of the University of Florida and included detailed oral informed-consent procedures that addressed the potential for illiteracy in rural informants.

The university-approved IRB protocol was strictly followed during all steps of the research.

Initial interviews were conducted in three locations: a small village (Bèl Zòn16) and neighboring small town (Vil Vèt) in rural southern Haiti, and in several neighborhoods of the

14 The mapou and tamaren trees in at Souvenans (arguably one of the most important Vodou sites) clearly predate the kanpay rejete. I have observed sacred trees of significant stature—aged well beyond the 80 years since the most intensive cutting that started in the 1940s—in several locations throughout Haiti.

15 It should be noted that the aforementioned agroforestry tree-planting project distributed free tree seedlings to private volunteer organizations (PVOs) (see Murray and Bannister 2004). Many of these PVOs were Catholic or Protestant in affiliation. However, these religiously affiliated PVOs were not the instigators of the tree project, nor were they chosen for religious affiliations; they were simply pre-established groups who participated as intermediaries that distributed trees.

16 Pseudonyms are used for locations (Bèl Zòn and Vil Vèt). Jakmèl retains its Kreyòl name because it is a major city, not a small village or town.

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seaside city of Jakmèl.17 A small purposive sample (n=18) of interviews was conducted with

Vodou priests and practitioners, farmers with access to rakbwa (woodlands), coffin and furniture-makers, and artisan woodworkers. This approach follows Herskovits’ insight that

‘layman and priest have understandably different concepts of the functions of [Vodou] deities based on unequal degrees of expert knowledge’ (Herskovits 1937: 142). Accordingly, priests were interviewed for their supposed ‘expert’ knowledge, while farmers were interviewed for presumed ‘layman’ knowledge on trees in Vodou.

In all cases, informed and consenting interlocutors participated in semi-structured interviews. Questions were based on clues from the anthropological, economic, and ecological literatures and were at times revised in an iterative process of inquiry. For strategic reasons, specific tree species and not specific Vodou lwa guided questions. For instance, it has been reported that the spirits with the closest associations to trees in Haiti are Legba,

Gede, Gran Bwa, and Loko (Rey 2005: 1659). However, my questions were largely formulated about specific tree species that the literature suggested harbored lwa and were also found in abundance at the research locations. This approach increased the likelihood that informant responses revealed grounded human-nature interactions at the research sites and were not simply repetitions or reiterations of popular accounts. I present my findings in the form of qualitative description, contextualized and contrasted with existing literature.

Results and Discussion

My interest in how tree beliefs might affect tree planting, retention, and cutting led me to inquire about beliefs that apply to all sacred trees and about beliefs pertaining to particular species. I begin my discussion with three sections dedicated to generalized principles, and then I detail specific tree species.

17 Jakmèl is a major source of Vodou-inspired art, generating strong demand for mature hardwood trees to produce large statues and masks.

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The five tree taxonomies I shall provide are not exhaustive but rather provide an overview of the folk ideas, religious beliefs, and associated lwa for particular trees. I treat the mapou tree at considerable length compared to the other species because of its elevated importance as the most venerated tree in all of Haiti. Kreyòl names and emic concepts are incorporated to capture the Haitian perspective on trees. I integrate a complementary etic perspective from data gleaned by referencing the binomial nomenclature of the Linnaean taxonomic tradition, which transcends some aspects of geography, language, and culture.

Repozwa18

Vodou practitioners do not worship trees; they worship the lwa (spirit or spirits) that may reside in a given tree. ‘Ti Jan’19, a Vodou priest from the village of Vil Vèt, reiterated this distinction early in my investigation, noting ‘Lè w di moun nan sèvi pyebwa, se pa pyebwa l sèvi, se anj ki ladan an’ (When you say the person is serving trees, it’s not the tree they are serving, it’s the spirit20 that’s inside). 21 Ultimately, such trees serve as a resting place for lwa and could equally be a rock, a cave, or a person’s head (Brown 1991). One informant differentiated between lwa that select and descend upon a tree and lwa that are placed in a tree by individuals. As ‘Franswa’, a Vodou priest from the nearby village of Bèl

Zòn, described it, such material objects function to resevwa yon twoup (receive a troupe [of spirits]). Trees that serve this function are called pye repozwa (tree repositories), or simply repozwa.

Sacred trees in rural Haiti are traditionally found in agricultural fields, in the courtyard of the ounfò (Vodou temple compound), at kafou (crossroads), in sacred groves, in

18 Bwa sèvi (served trees; trees of service) and depo (depot) are synonyms for repozwa.

19 Pseudonyms are used for the two Vodou priests/shamans referenced throughout (‘Ti Jan’ and ‘Franswa’).

20 [Z]anj (angel) and lwa (spirit) are used both interchangeably and specifically in Kreyòl (Valdman 2007: 773).

21 All respondent translations are mine.

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demanbwe22 (sacred ancestral lands), and at places of pilgrimage (Herskovits 2007 [1937];

Métraux 1972 [1959]; Hurbon 2002 [1987]). Hurbon suggests that such trees are recognizable by the following features:

Ils sont entourés de ronds en maçonnerie, habillés de draperies. A leurs pieds sont déposées des offrandes alimentaires, de la vaisselle brisée, des bougies allumées. A leurs branches, pendent de cordelettes, des mouchoirs, des sacoches.

(They are surrounded by rounds of masonry, dressed in draperies. At their feet are placed offerings of food, broken dishes, lit candles. In their branches, hanging from ropes, are handkerchiefs and bags23) (Hurbon 2002 [1987]: 132).

Repozwa are frequently large in size and old in age (Lowenthal 1987: 278). The repozwa at Lakou Souvenans, a well-known Vodou site in northern Haiti, are the largest trees

I have observed in the country. The stature of many repozwa invites a chicken-or-the-egg question: Do Haitians make repozwa of large trees, or are certain trees allowed to become large because they are repozwa?

Yet even these frequently shared features of repozwa—extraordinary size and age— appear flexible. Consider anthropologist Karen McCarthy Brown’s (1991) description of a

Vodou ceremony in rural Haiti: ‘At the foot of a small sitwon (a type of citrus tree), we left offerings for Sen Jan Batist, a spirit associated with Simbi’ (Brown 1991: 192, italics added).

In Jakmèl I witnessed a food-laden makout (woven bag) hanging from the branches of a bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora) tree of no more than 15 years. While these examples demonstrate flexibility in the age and size of a repozwa, most repozwa are nevertheless large in size and correlating age.

22 Lowenthal dedicates considerable treatment to mazi (literally ‘ruins’) (Lowenthal 1987: 277-78), which he acknowledges as a synonym for demanbwe and (a)bitasyon (Lowenthal, personal communication, 10/7/2014).

23 All subsequent Hurbon quotes are in English, and are my translations from the original French.

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Preparing food and drink and leaving them at the trunk or in branches is one of the primary methods of service and devotion to tree-residing lwa. Anthropologist Ira Lowenthal suggested that other services beyond feeding are important:

While the lwa’s dissatisfaction with the family is often phrased in terms of the fact that ‘the lwa are hungry and have not been fed for a long time’, their expectations of service are actually seen as including more than just the provision of food. In addition to food and drink, the lwa are said to love song and dance. To serve the lwa well and completely, then, is to offer them not only the culinary but the musical delights which people are capable of providing (Lowenthal 1989: 399).

While music, song, and dance are important, according to anthropologist Karen Richman,

‘feeding [the lwa] is the encompassing symbol of ritual discourse and action’ (Richman 2008:

17). During this research, I twice passed trees that were hanging with bags or gourdes containing the remnants of food.

I asked Ti Jan about humans eating fruit or nuts from a repozwa tree, and what happens to such a person? ‘P ap gen anyen’ (Nothing will happen), he responded. Here is a potential case of the material overpowering the religious or symbolic; while the tree is viewed as sacred, its value as a food source appears to negate any attributes that might potentially harm or benefit the consumer or otherwise limit the consumption of its fruit.

Cutting a Repozwa

Anthropologist Gerald Murray acknowledged culturally imposed tree-cutting taboos that left ‘a substantial number of trees still standing, which in other regions would have long ago fallen to the axes of the charcoal makers’ (Murray 1979: 210-211). Murray suggested that such taboos, by economic necessity, have weakened in other areas of Haiti (210-211).

Presumably such taboos would have weakened further during the anti-Vodou campaigns, when ‘sacred trees…were exorcized and cut down amid hymn-singing and prayer’ (Métraux

1972 [1937]: 346).

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I found taboos against cutting an individual repozwa to be commonplace. When I asked Franswa what happens if a repozwa is cut, he responded, ‘if someone cuts it maliciously, it can kill the person’. I received a similar answer from Ti Jan in the neighboring town. Inquiries about the cutting of a repozwa yielded a unanimous response: likely death for the perpetrator. To circumvent this dilemma, Haitians have developed ceremonies for removing a tree-residing lwa and placing it in another tree. Ti Jan explained such a ceremony in shrouded detail:

If the person cuts it, [s/he] can die. The spirit can kill them. But if he knows, he can cut it, he can raise it and put it in another tree. If this tree, which is a mahogany, if it had a spirit inside, I want to cut it, now I perform a secret,24 I am calling the spirit, I am going to put it in that pitch pine before I cut it, and nothing will happen to me.

In a group interview with farmers clearing agricultural land, one man explained a similar ceremony necessary prior to cutting a repozwa: ‘Before you cut it, you talk with the tree, you address the spirit, you put the spirit in a place you built, a house’.25 Another farmer in the group elaborated, pointing to a nearby tree: ‘That is an bwatchenn (Catalpa longissima) tree, you need the tree. You are raising the spirit by the condition you know, you are going to put it in that avocado’.

Taboos Against Tree-planting

The literature suggests there are strictures against planting certain trees in Haiti:

Anpil moun panse, lò yo plante yon pye sapoti, y ap mouri imedyatman apre yo fin plante li oubyen lò pye sapoti a kòmanse donnen… Poutèt tradisyon sa a pèsiste, gen anpil kote nan peyi a, moun pa plante sapoti.

(Many people think that when they plant a sapoti tree, they will die immediately after planting it or when the sapoti tree starts to bear fruit... Because the tradition persists, there are many places in the country where people don’t plant sapoti)26 (Séverin 2002: 113).

24 The Vodou priests I interviewed were reluctant to provide specific details about ceremonies.

25 ‘House’ in the Vodou context refers to a repozwa.

26 All subsequent Séverin citations are in English and are my translations from the original Kreyòl.

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The villages I visited were not among these places. No one had heard of this feature related to sapoti (Achras sapota), but two people, upon hearing my inquiry, offered that this was true of

(z)abriko (Mammea americana). Ti Jan did not share this notion of the sapoti or abriko, but mentioned that his parents told him never to plant a ponm (Anacardium occidentale) tree for the same reason. Franswa suggested that the origin of this belief is rooted in how long it takes for the abriko tree to grow and bear fruit. ‘You’ll have already lived before it bears fruit’.

Abriko is connected to a history of religious connotations that predates the arrival of enslaved peoples from Africa in the new hemisphere. Séverin tells us, ‘Indians believed that the land of paradise was in the Grandans area. They believed that when they died, they would go to this area, and eat zabriko for eternity’ (2002: 131). Future research might explore the connection between the Taíno belief that the afterlife consists of zabriko-feasting, and the fear—in some parts of Haiti—that the one who plants the tree will die when it commences fruiting.

Five Tree Taxonomies

The mapou tree

Pye mapou27 (Ceiba pentandra L.) is the most venerated tree in all of Haiti (Hurbon

2002 [1987]). These trees are exceptionally tall, reaching heights of 200 feet (Séverin 2002:

90). The trees are both feared and revered by the Haitians who spoke with me about them.

Métraux noted that the ‘souls of the big mapous…wander along roads at night, and their monstrous forms strike terror into the hearts of travellers’ (Métraux 1972 [1959]: 154).

Simpson reported similar attributes in a folk story collected in northern Haiti: ‘a great mapou tree with lights on every branch came walking down the road’ (Simpson 1942: 221). The attribution of anthropomorphic mobility to mapou trees is suggestive of Jones and Cloke’s

27 The mapou tree is also known in Kreyòl as the kapok tree.

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(2002) notion of ‘tree agency’ and points to Lowenthal’s insight that ‘Haitians view their deities as highly personalized and anthropomorphic in character’ (Lowenthal 1989: 394).

Unlike other trees frequently associated with Vodou and sometimes inhabited by lwa, no species of mapou is ever cut. When queried why, most Haitians gave a pragmatic response, noting that the tree is not useful for charcoal. This common response may reflect a general reluctance to talk about the most-revered of sacred trees, or it could reflect a decreasing emphasis on tree sacredness. I responded by mentioning that there are plenty of otherwise useless trees that farmers cut when clearing land and that the enormous shade cast by the mapou tree is prohibitive for growing crops; are there any other considerations that would discourage people from cutting the tree? People frequently responded to this further inquiry by suggesting that people do not cut the mapou, because they are afraid of repercussions from the djab (‘devils’; mischievous spirits) inside.

The mapou tree permeates the culture and religion of the Haitian proletariat: ‘Many people believe the mapou is a house for many spirits that possess Haitian people’ (Séverin

2002: 90). The reference to a house was reflected in Franswa’s words of introduction when we visited the mapou in the cemetery: ‘Men kay la’ (Here’s the house). According to

Franswa, an individual lwa, Dan, lives within the structure of the mapou tree in Bèl Zòn.

According to Hebblethwaite (2012), Dan Petwo ‘is the name of a lwa [and] a Vodou priest...

The following proverb is known by most Haitians: “The mapou tree falls, goats eat its leaves,

Dan Petwo”’ (Hebblethwaite 2012: 227). The mapou is also frequently the abode of the

Gede, a family of lwa (Hurbon 2002 [1987]).

The mapou is not only a repozwa for lwa; it also possesses mistik28 (supernatural) qualities. Ti Jan explained, the mapou ‘is a mystical tree—like they would talk about the

Indians’. Small and Small note that ‘both Ancient Amerindians and West Africans worshiped

28 Mistik can be synonym for Vodou, but through interviews it became apparent that people were using it as an adjective. When used as an adjective, mistik means magical or supernatural (Valdman 2007: 487).

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the tree as an antenna to the Supreme Being in pre-historic times, long before the transatlantic middle passage’ (2003: 23). It is not clear if the importance of the mapou tree in Haiti is that it contributes to the retention of West African belief systems. It is true that the tree is historically and contemporaneously sacred in many cultures of West Africa (Azeez et al.

2010; Mafimisebi and Oguntade 2010; Awuah-Nyamekye 2012; Campbell 2005). Haiti scholar LeGrace Benson29 speculated that in Haitian history, ‘the various styles of African sensibilities would have been resonant with Taíno belief and practice. Maroons [people who had escaped slavery] fleeing into forests would have found a new but compatible mode of attending to, understanding, and coexisiting with the an deyò (back-country) environment’

(Benson 2006: 162, italics mine). Haitian sociologist Hurbon acknowledged ‘the permanence and recurrence of the symbolic theme of the [mapou] tree in both African and Haitian tales’, but ultimately concluded that the tree is ‘neither pure survival nor mere repetition of what had once been lived in Africa’ (2002: 136).

The religious ideas related to the mapou tree extend beyond the Haitian context and into the French-lexified Creole speaking countries of Guadeloupe, French Guyana, and

Martinique. Jack Corzani reported the presence of an entity called the ‘zombie’30 in these countries, which possesses a ‘special affection for the kapok [mapou] tree, a kind of witch tree’ (1994: 135). Moreover, the notion of the mapou tree as an abode to spirits is found well beyond both sides of the transatlantic middle passage, including throughout India (Jain et al.

2009), in Bolivia (Bourdy et al. 2000), and in pre-Columbian Central America (Zidar and

Elisens 2009), to name just a few locations. The religious qualities that many Haitians find in the mapou tree thus transcends Haiti in both space and time.

29 LeGrace Benson is an independent scholar, director of the Arts of Haiti Research Project, Associate Editor of the Journal of Haitian Studies, board member of the Haitian Studies Association, and board member of KOSANBA—the Scholarly Association for the Study of Haitian Vodou in the Center for Black Studies Research, UC Santa Barbara.

30 Corzani notes that this ‘zombie’ is qualitatively different than the Haitian zonbi (1994).

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The mapou tree emanates an essence of immutability in Vodou. When Franswa and I stood underneath the mapou located in the cemetery of Bèl Zòn, I asked him how old he thought it was. He responded emphatically, ‘O, Mwen menm m leve m jwenn li la, wi!’ (Oh, me, I’ve found it here since I was raised!). This aspect of arboreal timelessness is a theme that surfaced again and again in my investigations of the literature and in my conversations with Haitians. Jones and Cloke touch on this aspect of temporality in trees:

Trees are the fulcrum [of] all kinds of time-based constructions of social formations, and are bound up in the processes of place, production and consumption. The ecological timescales of tree growth and lifespan interact with the social to form a number of social/cultural/economic hybrid timescapes (Jones and Cloke: 2002: 223).

The ‘hybridized timescape’ (Jones and Clark 2002) of the mapou tree is reflected in the following lyrics to a song I collected in Bèl Zòn:

Rasin Mapou, ki lè li ye? Roots of the Mapou tree, what time is it? Rasin Mapou, ki lè li ye? Roots of the Mapou tree, what time is it? Solèy leve nan Ginen. The sun rises in Ginen.31

This mention of time in association with the mapou may be a reference to the belief that noon and midnight are intervals of increased power for the Gede family of lwa—who inhabit the tree—and the corresponding tendency of Vodou practitioners to avoid the mapou during these periods (Rey 2005: 1659). Corzani noted the belief in other parts of the Caribbean that the tree ‘must be avoided, notably during nocturnal wanderings’ (Corzani: 135, italics added).

The immutability associated with the mapou and its enormous size is also evident in popular Haitian proverbs:

Ti Mapou pa grandi anba gwo mapou. (A little mapou doesn’t grow under a big mapou tree.)

31 Ginen may refer to the ancestral homeland of Africa, the watery underworld of the Vodou spirits, or the Rada spirits of Vodou.

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Meaning: One can’t develop under another person’s shadow (Turnbull 2005: 94). ... Fèy mapou sanble ak fèy manyòk. (Mapou tree leaves look like manioc leaves.) Meaning: The powerful and the weak have many things in common (Turnbull 2005: 240). ... Mapou tonbe, kabrit maje fèy li. (The mapou tree falls; goats eat its leaves.) Meaning: The mighty fall and others benefit (Turnbull 2005: 245).

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of similar songs and proverbs testify to the physical enormity of the tree and its symbolism for temporal continuity.32

My informants agreed that the mapou tree protects natural springs (Séverin 2002: 90).

Here perhaps is another case of culture-influenced-by-nature; the mapou tree is often found growing alongside streams and is reported to ‘prefer alluvial soils’ (Small and Small 2003:

24). As one woman explained during a group interview, ‘Tou pre pye mapou toujou genyen dlo, tou pre, wi’ (Very near the mapou you always have water, very near). The elemental aspect of water near the mapou tree is reflected in the repetitive lyrics of a song I collected in

Bèl Zòn:

Anba mapou a plen dlo, Underneath the mapou tree is full of water, m a rele. I will call. Anba mapou a plen dlo, Underneath the mapou tree is full of water, w a rele. you will call.

The figye tree

Only one other tree beside the mapou is never cut:33 pye figye (Ficus spp.). Ti Jan of

Vil Vèt explained, ‘There is a tree called figye…a large tree that holds almost the same significance as the mapou’. Most of the figye trees I have observed in Haiti were in

32 The timelessness associated with the mapou tree extends beyond the arboreal realm. Older rural Haitians are frequently unable to quantify their age, giving instead the year they were born, or calling out to their children to ask how old they are. Instead, time in rural Haiti is frequently punctuated in relation to major historical events. Some Haitians are beginning to say ‘avan douz Janvye’ (literally ‘before the 12th of January’; before the earthquake) or ‘apre douz Janvye’ (after the earthquake) as a temporal indicator.

33 One informant suggested that the grigri tree is never cut. Valdman (2007) notes that the grigri is either a ‘fiddlewood tree’ or a ‘fetish, magical object’ (283).

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cemeteries. Pointing at the figye tree in the Bèl Zòn cemetery, Franswa explained, ‘this is the descending place of Bawon Samdi, Master of the Cemetery’. He clarified that this is the first tree one must ‘address’ when entering the cemetery. According to Franswa, if a djab enters the cemetery without addressing him, Bawon won’t give him anything.

Ti Jan, from neighboring Vil Vèt, said that the figye tree always contains the lwa

Gran Bwa (literally ‘big tree’ or ‘big wood’). During the group interview of farmers clearing a field, they responded that Gran Bwa lives in the tamaren (Tamarindus indica) tree or in the figye tree. This latter claim is reflected in the following song from Hebblethwaite (2012):

M sot nan Gran Bwa, I came from Gran Bwa. m plante figye nan lakou a. I planted a fig tree in the yard. Mwen vle figye grandi; I want the fig tree to grow; figye di, mwen pa mèt li. The fig tree says, I’m not his master. Ane sila, figye tèlman gen fanmi, This year the fig tree has such a big family lè figye mouri, that when the fig tree dies, m pa kwè l ap gen antèman. I don’t believe it’ll have a burial (Hebblethwaite 2012: 155).

When I asked Ti Jan which lwa is most associated with trees in general, he responded, ‘Gran

Bwa. He’s always in the large trees in ancestral lands’. The members of the group interview agreed, saying Gran Bwa usually ‘rete rakbwa’ (stays in wooded areas).

The sèd tree

Pye Sèd (Cedrela odorata) is commonly found at the entrances of many lakou

(communal courtyards) in rural Haiti, and is considered a supernatural tree that repels evil spirits (Séverin 2002: 114). Noticing that sèd was planted on either side of the lakou entrances in both Bèl Zòn and Vil Vèt, I enquired about the practice. Ti Jan responded ‘paske yo di, lè w gen bwa sa a, movèzespri pa antre an lakou fasil’ (because they say, when you have this tree, evil spirits cannot easily enter the courtyard). Timyan noted that sèd is ‘reputed to protect against theft of zombi (dead souls)’ and that ‘protection against witches is provided by planting the tree at the entrance of house-and-yard compound [lakou]’ (Timyan 1996: 64-

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65). I asked Ti Jan to explain the Haitian preference for a coffin made of wood from the sèd tree:

You know also, for us in Haiti, I’m telling you it’s a mystical country, there are people who are already dead, they entomb them, and they go raise them. They go raise the person again, but when you entomb them in a coffin made from cedar planks, they can’t raise them.

When I asked another man who would raise people from the dead, he responded chanpwèl

(secret societies that walk the streets at night). In a group interview with women in Bèl Zòn, several reported that sèd coffins protect against djab, while another woman in a separate interview said they protect against zonbi (zombies). In the sèd tree we are presented with perhaps another example of culture-affected-by-nature: wood known to be resistant to termites, moths, and the effects of weather (Timyan 1996: 64) presumably protects one buried in a sèd coffin from other forces as well.

The sèd tree has many medicinal properties: it is used to treat digestive ailments, malarial fever, epilepsy, ciguatera, coughs, and bronchitis, and a decoction from the bark is purported to trigger abortions or help with tooth pain if gargled (Timyan 1996). The healing aspect of Vodou is considered one of its central functions (Murray 1976, 1985, 1991a;

Murray and Alvarez 1973), and as such, the medicinal properties of the tree alone ensure it is an important tree in Vodou. Despite its reputation as a supernatural tree that protects against zonbifye (zombification) and prevents evil spirits from entering the yard, nobody identified sèd as a repozwa. Perhaps the utility and wide-spread use of sèd as a construction material and source of medicine preclude it as an appropriate repozwa—what Jones and Clark (2002) intend by their notion of the ‘agency’ of a tree.

The flanbwayan tree

Séverin (2002) suggests that many people think pye flanbwayan (Delonix regia) attracts evil spirits that rest on it during the night, and therefore they do not permit it to grow in their courtyards. He noted that some individuals and institutions in Haiti recommend

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uprooting the tree, concluding that the belief is ‘an important cultural problem that demands much reflection’ (Séverin 2002: 44).

I seldom observed the flanbwayan tree in Haitians’ courtyards; the most frequent place I saw the tree was by the side of the road. When asked about the tree, Franswa gave his answer twice:34 ‘Flanbwayan, there is a devil that’s inside of it! Flanbwayan, there is a devil that’s inside of it! It attracts devils’!

In neighboring Vil Vèt, Ti Jan explained that Haitians’ resistance to the flanbwayan tree was based on the fact that ‘pandan lanwi, depi l fleri la tire lougawou; lougawou ka poze sou li nan lakou a’ (During the night, if it flowers there it draws the lougawou35 (a shape shifting entity); lougawou can rest on it in the yard). Farmers in Bèl Zòn echoed these statements, bringing consensus to the claim that ‘flanbwayan rale djab’ (the flamboyant attracts devils). Another villager described the flanbwayan as possessing movè nanm (an evil essence).

The kalbas tree

Pye kalbas (Crescentia cujete L.) is an important tree in Vodou. According to Ti Jan, the kalbas tree is the repozwa of the lwa Legba, Mèt Kafou a (master of the crossroads).

Kalbas is also the name of an important Vodou dance (Herskovits 2007 [1937]) and the gourd from the tree forms the ason (ritual rattle of Vodou priests).

Séverin mentioned that the kalbas is a supernatural plant in Haiti and that children are known to see hummingbirds on kalbas flowers (2002: 64). ‘Wanga nègès’ (hummingbirds) are frequently described as a movè bèt (evil animal). The word ‘wanga’ is ‘a term which is applied to any object or combination of objects which has received, as a result of magic procedure, a property that is harmful to one or more people’ (Métraux 1972 [1959]: 285).

34 In Kreyòl, repetition denotes emphasis.

35 Although ‘lougawou’ is lexically derived from the French word for ‘werewolf’, it is a qualitatively different creature.

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That an evil animal with a name that denotes evil is commonly associated with the tree suggests the kalbas is a supernatural tree. Outside the city of Jakmèl, I witnessed a series of goat skulls hanging by rope from a branch of a kalbas tree located in the middle of a field sown with corn, papaya, and other crops.

Specific Lwa in Specific Trees?

Because lwa are idiosyncratic entities with varied temperaments and clear preferences for color, food, music, and day and hour for service (Lowenthal 1989), a question arises: do such preferences extend to trees? For instance, does the lwa Legba only inhabit the kalbas tree? If so, are all or only some individual kalbas trees inhabited by Legba? If only some individual kalbas trees are inhabited, may uninhabited kalbas trees be cut? Marcelin tells us,

‘Each lwa has his altar, that is to say, a plant of choice, where it is supposed to remain’

(Marcelin 1950: 18). Hurbon (2002 [1987]) tells us ‘there are ultimately not any lwa who don’t have their repozwa tree’ (131).

When villagers of Vil Vèt and Bèl Zòn were asked about specific lwa associated with specific tree species, no clear consensus emerged. One farmer said that each lwa is associated with a particular tree, but that he did not know which ones. He nevertheless assured me that there are people who do know. There do appear to be lwa-tree associations that are more common. For example, people in the villages commonly associated the lwa Legba with kalbas and the lwa Ayizan with palmis (Roystonea borinquena O.F.Cook).

Franswa indicated that each tree could have seven different spirits. When asked which spirits these were, he indicated seven different expressions of an individual spirit. When

Hebblethwaite interviewed Franswa in 2009 and was given a similar response, he concluded that ‘for him [Franswa], each lwa belongs to a familial group of seven, and they form a twoupo (flock)’ (Hebblethwaite 2012: 16, italics original). Hebblethwaite provided evidence from Vodou songs that the ‘division of lwa into flocks of seven draws from a broad tradition’

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(Hebblethwaite 2012: 16). Ti Jan seemed to confirm that multiple manifestations of the same flock or lwa may inhabit the same tree, explaining ‘there’s Ezili, and there’s Ezili Nwa...you can find both these lwa in a single place’.

Anthropologists have faithfully recorded lwa-tree relationships, sometimes in agreement, but frequently with considerable variation. For instance, Herskovits (2007 [1937]:

319) suggested that the plum tree (Prunus spp.) is the domain of Legba. Meanwhile, Marcelin

(1950: 19) reported that Legba’s tree of choice is jatropha36 (Jatropha curcas L.). Métraux

(1972 [1959]: 92) agreed with Marcelin about the association between Legba and jatropha, but Marcelin (1950: 29) suggested the lwa Ayizan also inhabited jatropha. Sociologist

Hurbon (1987: 131) concurred with Marcelin and Métraux that jatropha is for Legba, but also reports that Legba inhabits the siwèl (Spondias purpurea). Yet, according to Marcelin

(1950: 77), the siwèl tree is inhabited by the lwa Ezili. According to Herskovits (2007 [1937]:

320), Ezili inhabits the white fig tree (Ficus spp.), along with the lwa Danbala. Métraux agreed with Herskovits that Danbala occupies the fig tree (1972 [1959]: 330) in addition to the bougainvillea (1972 [1959]: 92) (Bougainvillea spp.). But Danbala prefers the mapou

(Ceiba pentandra) according to Marcelin (1950: 58) and Hurbon (1987: 131). Such discrepancies about lwa and tree associations are peppered throughout the Vodou literature.

While earlier anthropologists often simply listed lwa-tree associations, Brown’s in- depth account of a Vodou ceremony in rural Haiti provided the clearest evidence that lwa- tree preferences are flexible:

Then the plate was carried out to a calabash tree by the front gate. This was Legba’s repozwa, the tree within which the Vodou guardian of doorways and entrances lodged (191, italics original). …. Eventually, we turned from Legba’s calabash tree and, laden with offerings, made our way to the lakou behind the house, passing just inside the cactus fence

36 Synonyms in Kreyòl include ‘fèy medsen’, ‘gran medsinye’, ‘medsinye beni’, and ‘medsinye gran fèy’.

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at a small bwadòm [Guazuma ulmifolia Lam.], a tree that was also a Legba repozwa (191, italics original). …. [B]rief rites were also performed at a mango gwo po (a thick-skinned mango), the repozwa for both Sen Jak Majè and the Marasa (sacred twins) (192, italics original).

These select passages describing a single ceremony illustrate that the kalbas tree and the bwadòm tree are both the repozwa of Legba, demonstrating that lwa can and do occupy more than one specific species of tree. Furthermore, the mango gwo po is reported to be a repozwa for two different lwa, indicating that more than one type—not only the seven manifestations of the same lwa as Franswa had indicated—may inhabit the same individual respozwa.

Hurbon reached a similar conclusion, noting that while lwa have their predispositions to individual trees, the specific species is not important (Hurbon 2002 [1987]).

Discussion

The lack of consensus regarding which lwa inhabit which trees is illustrative of the idiosyncratic and highly personalized nature of Vodou. Herskovits concluded that attempts to elucidate such relationships is a fruitless activity:

A fundamental fallacy results from the fact that except where there is an officially sanctioned theology—which makes for dogma, and often for perfunctory worship, in contrast with the living dynamic nature of Haitian peasant belief and ritual—there are no ‘real’ answers to questions in the field of religion. The student pursing the ‘correct’ statement will find that no matter how painstaking his method and how extensive his precautions, the versions of different persons can never be entirely reconciled, unless a false appearance of truth is given to his findings (Herskovits 1937: 142).

Brown suggested that such paradoxes should be ‘cherished rather than resolved, for it is invariably such paradoxical statements that provide the greatest insight into the religious system we call Vodou’ (Brown 2006: 11).

In spite of such paradoxes, my fieldwork observations led me to suggest the following conclusions on contemporary beliefs about trees in Vodou:

 Not all trees are inhabited by lwa;

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 Any lwa can live in any tree;

 Certain species of trees are commonly repozwa, but individual trees of these species do not necessarily contain lwa;

 Specific lwa are believed to have their preferences for particular species, but these vary either regionally, by practitioner, or both;

 Cutting a repozwa risks death for the perpetrator but not for the lwa residing within;

 Ceremonies for removing a lwa permit the safe cutting of a tree; however

 Some species of trees—such as the mapou and figye, perhaps others—must never be cut.37

In consideration of these tentative conclusions, I suggest that contemporaneous arboreal beliefs in Haitian Vodou are unlikely to prevent the continued felling of most tree species. Although tree-cutting taboos continue to be effective for at least two species and for individual repozwa of any species, individual repozwa and the two species with protective taboos are not common enough to slow deforestation in Haiti.

I conclude with a speculative hypothesis about arbori-cultural relationships in Haiti, which may provide a framework for understanding the historical and contemporary inconsistencies and occasional regularities encountered in terms of lwa-tree associations: a rapid, livelihood-induced decrease in forests mandated a system for removing a lwa from a tree and placing it somewhere else. As tree diversity dwindled into the handful of primary species utilized in rural Haiti today, a large pantheon of lwa had to be funneled into an increasingly limited number of species. Established lwa and tree associations transitioned into lwa preferences for particular trees; tree preferences transitioned into a necessary flexibility regarding the species of tree lwa are willing and able to inhabit. Continued tree- cutting resulted in a decline in overall quantity of the remaining species, requiring some lwa to co-inhabit single trees. The preferences to which scholars and individuals referred are

37 I suspect that historically, more species fell into this category.

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perhaps the remnants of earlier associations to which lwa were at one time bound. This proposition supports the view that cultural and societal beliefs and behaviours are responsive and adaptive mechanisms to an always-changing world (Harris 2001a, 2001b).

Future research on tree beliefs in Haiti could further explore tree symbolism. I briefly touched on the mapou tree as a symbol of timelessness and immutability, and the palmis tree at Sodo as a symbol that the Catholic Church felt compelled to destroy. The poto mitan

(center post) of Vodou temples, the palmis tree on the Haitian flag and currency, the historical Bwa Kayiman ceremony that sparked the beginning of the Haitian revolution and was performed under a sacred tree, and recurring tree depictions in Haitian art (Benson 1992) represent other important arboreal symbols worthy of scholarship. My adherence to examining individual trees and tree species precluded investigation into pluralistic tree categories that anthropologists have tangentially explored, including sacred groves (Beckett

2001) and revered ancestral lands with multiple sacred trees (Lowenthal 1987). Haitians also named numerous other tree species as common repozwa, including mango (Mangifera spp.), monben (Spondias mombin), palmis (Roystonea borinquena), gonmye (Bursera simaruba), twonpèt (Cecropia peltata), grigri (genus unknown), tamaren (Tamarindus indica), gayak

(Guaiacum spp.), kenèp (Melicoccus bijugatus), kashiman (Annona spp.), and chenn

(Catalpa longissima). These tree symbols, categories, and individual species warrant further exploration in the context of Vodou.

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CHAPTER 5 THE SPATIAL, ECOLOGICAL, AND ECONOMIC DETERMINANTS OF TREE COVER IN SOUTHERN HAITI

Background

An earlier chapter described how farmers near the center of Haiti’s southern Tiburon peninsula cultivate trees in their rakbwa for rapid wood harvests geared toward the production of charcoal. Yet not all land in this area of rural Haiti is used as rakbwa and not all rakbwa are harvested rapidly. Charcoal production is the least favored, lowest paying, and one of the most labor-intensive livelihood options available to Haitian farmers. The harvest of wood from rakbwa is almost always undertaken as a last resort, frequently initiated by the occurrence of an acute or chronic bezwen or nesesite lajan (economic hardship or necessity).

Hardships and Economic Expenditures

Less-costly but more frequently experienced hardships borne by rural Haitians include illness, crop failure, and school enrollment fees. Some of the largest economic expenditures that punctuate rural Haitian lifespans are costs associated with the necessary rites and ceremonies related to major life cycle events: births, baptisms, marriages, deaths, and post-death rituals (Herskovits 1937; Murray 1977; Smucker 1983).

While some hardships may be anticipated, predicted, and possibly mitigated, rural

Haitian families face variable levels of uncertainty concerning their occurrence and the frequency, which may be chronic or acute: a pregnancy may be unexpected, but also permits some advanced preparation for the birth and later baptism; marriage engagements may be spontaneous but marriage ceremonies may be delayed; death may be impending or sudden; and illness and crop failure may be unexpected and disastrous, or anticipated and mitigated but nevertheless a gradual and persistent drain on household resources. That charcoal is often produced to meet these economic needs suggests that the absence or presence of rakbwa

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might be predicted by examining variables that point to farm family wealth and the history of recent hardships.

Modeling The Determinants of Land-use in Haiti

Researchers of land-use in Haiti have examined the adoption or non-adoption of agroforestry practices and found that household characteristics, social structures, and/or biophysical features of land plots were significant indicators of whether, and where, farmers engaged particular agroforestry practices (Bannister and Nair 2003; Bayard et al. 2007).

Social and economic factors were also reported to affect farmers’ decisions regarding the adoption of rock wall terracing in one location of Haiti (Bayard et al. 2006). A research team examining forest clearing in the Forêt des Pins reserve of Haiti found that demographic and farm characteristics, along with participation in or support from social institutions, factored significantly in decisions to clear or retain forested areas of the reserve (Dolisca et al. 2007).

The research presented here proceeds in a similar vein, using a binomial, multiple logistic regression analysis to examine whether the time and frequency of hardships, the relative wealth of farm families, and the differential characteristics of land-plots might be combined to predict the absence or presence of rakbwa systems.

Ecological Characteristics of the Research Site

One of the most-commonly employed systems for the classification of ecological zones in tropical and subtropical areas was developed in Haiti, for Haiti, by forester L.R.

Holdridge (Holdridge 1947, 1967). The system has since been adapted and applied on a global scale, and continues to be the primary classificatory scheme used in much of the ecological literature on Haiti. The system delineates nine different life zones based principally on the metrics of annual precipitation, mean annual temperature, and the potential evapotranspiration ratio (PET), in combination with considerations of land elevation

(Holdridge 1947, 1967).

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An application of Holdridge’s ecological life zones would classify the research area as Subtropical Dry Forest, reported as Haiti’s second largest zone, covering 19% percent of the land surface (Delatour et al. 1984; Ehrlich et al.1985). The Subtropical Dry Forest is characterized by land under 400 meters of elevation, an annual mean rainfall between 800-

1,000 mm, seasonal droughts, deep, irrigable soils, and highly agriculturally productive land

(ibid.). Common trees in the Subtropical Dry Forest zone included Phyllostylon brasiliensis,

Prosopis juliflora and Guaiacum officinalis (ibid.). Viable crops include mangoes, limes, tobacco, cotton, plantains, sugar cane, and sisal (ibid.).

In contrast, another forester conducting research in the 1940s in an area of Haiti with an even distribution of rainfall noted that the plant communities that demarcated varied ecological zones were determined principally by soil texture and topography (Curtis 1947).

Yet the landscape of rural Haiti has been so drastically altered since the 1940s that few areas still resemble the original features outlined by Holdridge (Ehrlich et al. 1985). The migration of topsoil from higher to lower elevations, the subsequent exposure of underlying and more uniform soil parent-material, and on-going climatic drying, more-frequent droughts, and less predictable seasonal rains suggest that the ecological classification schemes suggested by both Holdridge and Curtis are increasingly less applicable to many areas of Haiti.

Recognition of this potential of an ecological leveling between previously distinct life zones, and an increased variability in precipitation, available moisture, and soil types, presents difficulties in clearly defining ecological zones in Haiti.

In its current state, the research area is best described by reference to the rolling tree- and shrub-covered foothills that fluctuate in elevation, ranging from 188 to 477 meters above sea level. The area has a dry climate and receives low and differential levels of rainfall. There are two main rainy seasons each year, in May and October, though rain may fall variably in preceding or subsequent months.

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The species composition of the area is not uniform; species compositions are heavily influenced by the land-use history of thousands of contiguous plots of privately owned1 rakbwa and other types of land-use2.

Rakbwa in the area are predominantly populated by two tree types that represent three species: bayawonn (Prosopis juliflora (Sw.) DC.) and kanpèch3 (Haematoxylon campechianum and Haematoxylum brasiletto Karst.). Both of these common rakbwa tree species are occasionally found in combination with lesser numbers of other tree species, such as koma (Mastichodendron foetidissimum (Jacq.) H.J.Lam), kayimit (Chrysophyllum spp.), delen (Leucaena leucocephala (Lam.)), janjil (unknown species), bwa kabrit (Senna atomaria), twonpèt (Cecropia peltata), kenèp (Melicoccus bijugatus), gonmye (Bursera simaruba), nim (Azadirachta indica Adr. Juss.), lila (Melia azedarach L.), lanm (Artocarpus spp.), zaboka (Persea americana L.), tamarenn (Tamarindus indica L.), sèd (Cedrela odorata), mapou (Ceiba pentandra (L.) Gaertn.), mango (Mangifera indica), momben bata

(Trichilia hirta), chenn (Catalpa longissima (Jacq.) Dum. Cours.), kachiman (Annona spp.), romarin jènn4 (unknown species), and maksmiye (Metopium toxiferum (L.) Krug & Urb.).

Plants commonly found in rakbwa include varieties of a palm tree called latanye (Arecaceae family), kandelab (Euphorbia spp.), and pit (Agave spp.). These plants and trees constitute the majority of other species our research team occasionally observed in rakbwa.

1 There are no state-owned lands in Bèl Zòn.

2 Some land is designated as permanent agricultural plots. A few savannah areas are occasionally found on higher ground along the banks of seasonal and permanent streams. The vast majority of the rest of the land is characterized by rakbwa.

3 The Haitians I spoke with did not distinguish between these two species of kanpèch.

4 Romarin Jènn could be a variant of Krist Marinn (Strumpfia maritima L.) (see Timyan 1996).

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Hypotheses

The subsequent analysis rests on data collected through the survey outlined in Chapter

4. Beyond the null hypothesis of the binomial multiple logistic regression (that there is equal variability in the categories of the outcome variable in the null model) and the implicit hypotheses for each independent variable (that no given independent variable influences predicted probabilities of the null model), two additional hypotheses are examined here:

 H1: Plots of land owned by wealthier households are more likely to be rakbwa than plots of land owned by less-wealthy households.

 H2: Plots of land with south- and west-facing aspects are more likely to be rakbwa.

These two hypotheses are posed again in subsequent sections, in order to present them within a detailed contextual background that justifies their logic. There are listed here as a point-of- reference.

Selection of Variables

Data were collected for a wide array of variables constructed to measure factors that might influence the absence or presence of rakbwa. Some variables were designed to measure events outlined in the introduction, which represent an economic hardship or necessity that would lead to the cutting of a rakbwa.

Other variables were designed to measure wealth. For example, varying levels of household wealth may influence whether or not charcoal production—the least favored and last chosen livelihood pursuit—is undertaken. A wealthier household might first attempt to meet an economic hardship by selling animals, selling land, drawing from cash reserves, or soliciting financial support from family members in the diaspora, before turning to charcoal production as a last resort. These trends lead to the first hypothesis: Plots of land owned by wealthier households are more likely to be rakbwa than plots owned by less-wealthy households (Hypothesis 1). In short, many wealthier families have less incentive to work their land, and less-frequently worked land plots typically become rakbwa.

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Support of this first hypothesis comes from a sample (n=59) of rural households in a neighboring town, where household composition swelled by 72% from a temporary influx of internally displaced people during the first 2-3 months after the Haiti earthquake of 2010

(Tarter 2010b). These households fed their temporary guests by killing or selling animal(s)

(48.5%), degaje / pataje (making due / sharing)5 (25.4%), selling food reserves or undertaking additional agricultural endeavors (10.2%), or taking out a loan (5.1%), while only 23.7% of households cut trees to provide for their increased numbers (ibid.). While these coping strategies are not necessarily mutually exclusive, they reflect both the suite of livelihood options available to rural Haitian households, and the lower tier that charcoal production occupies as a mitigation strategy for hardships demanding economic expenditures.

An attempt to capture this heterogeneity of options for mitigating financial hardship or economic necessity resulted in the collection of data on a wide swath of variables related to livelihoods and household wealth in rural Haiti. Such data included measurements on the physical composition of houses, the years of education of a head-of-household, the number of children in a household, whether children were in school, and other indicators appropriate for measuring wealth in rural Haiti.

A similar wide-strategy approach was undertaken with spatial and ecological variables, with data collected on: land-use histories; the best types of plants a plot of land could produce; Haitian soil classifications; the species of trees and plants growing on a plot; the elevation; slope; the aspect of a plot; whether a plot was or was not a rakbwa; the number of years a nearby road was present; and the size of the plot.

5 This category represents multiple strategies, including relying on financial reserves, relying on food reserves, relying on financial support from the diaspora, relying on support from local churches or NGOs, and in many cases simply reducing the daily number of meals consumed by household members.

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Sampling

Chapter 4 outlines the sampling strategy. Of the 288 plots of land located, 176 were rakbwa, while 112 represented some other type of land-use. Some of the farmers from the

288 cases declined to participate in the research, further reducing the sample to 271 cases.

A Brief Summary of the Data Analysis Methods

I began with an examination of the dataset to ensure it met the implicit and explicit assumptions required for running a logistic regression model. A preliminary exploration of the dataset identified the largest annual economic expenditure across the sample, which guided the initial selection of socioeconomic variables for inclusion in the logistic regression.

The preliminary exploration continued with univariate analyses of selected individual predictors to look for outliers and influential cases that might affect subsequent analyses, followed by bivariate analyses between individual predictors, and between individual predictors and the outcome variable, to look for statistical significance and colinearity between variables. Data reduction was undertaken on some interval variables of wide dispersion, creating nominal or ordinal variables to ensure an equal distribution of data

(Hosmer and Lemeshow 1980). An initial model was fit and run with all variables, to see if and how individual predictors added or detracted from the predicted probabilities of the null model. The final fitted model was then examined based on: (1) goodness-of-fit tests; (2) the contribution of individual predictors; and (3) the validation of predicted probabilities.

Socioeconomic Predictor Variables Included in the Initial Model

Informants across the sample indicated the reason for cutting their rakbwa was a nesesite lajan / bezwen (economic hardship or financial necessity), supporting the initial premise that rakbwa are cut when acute or chronic hardships are encountered. Informants were asked to name the source of their single, largest economic expenditure in the past year,

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resulting in the following percentages across the sample: food purchases (32%); school costs

(24%); costs associated with a death or funeral (16%); and illness (15%).

Food costs were not anticipated as a source of large annual expenditures, let alone the number one expenditure, at nearly 1/3rd of the sample. The high percentage of informants in the sample listing food purchases as their primary expenditure is suggestive of several factors at work, including: rising food prices; declining agricultural yields; the passage of Hurricane

Sandy in late October 2012, which destroyed crops widely throughout the Tiburon peninsula; and severe national and localized drought periods from 2013-2014.6 All of these factors together can be collectively considered as issues of food security. The data also refute the common misconception that Haitians are subsistence farmers; the top economic expenditure of these families supports the case that Haitians are intimately involved in a cash-based market economy.

Ever since the desire for schooling has approached a universal phenomenon in rural

Haiti, school costs have become one of the most frequently reported expenditures for which peyizan (the Haitian peasantry) must make provisions. While education is costly, school payment periods may be anticipated and are frequently mitigated in Bèl Zòn by support from the local Catholic Church, an affiliated NGO that subsidizes education, aid from the diaspora, and more-recently by a national governmental program that purported to make education free throughout Haiti.

Both death and funeral costs and illness factored lower in the sample, reflecting an overall lesser frequency of these events during the course of a year. If less frequent, death is nevertheless more expensive, and illness costs depend largely on the gravity of the affliction.

6 Exact precipitation figures were not readily available for the decade preceding fieldwork. The number of on- going weather stations in Haiti has been variably reported as 2 (WMO 2010) and 4 (Mason et al. 2015). According the World Meteorological Organization, prior to the earthquake Haiti had a pluviometric network of some 130 rainfall gauges and over 200 volunteer observers; it is now estimated that approximately 60 percent of that network is dysfunctional (WMO 2010).

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Illness is rural Haiti is mediated by the perception of the type of illness—illness sent or caused by failure to properly serve or placate the lwa (ancestors or spirits of the Vodou pantheon), or illness sent by Bondye (God), considered as a natural illness (Murray 1976,

1977, 1980). Ritual folk specialists often mediate the former, while the latter is increasingly mediated through western medicine (clinics or hospitals) (ibid.). In common, all of the major hardships noted in the sample, and many lesser hardships, require cash expenditures. The majority of rural Haitians access capital through: (1) agricultural production; (2) animal caretaking; (3) land sales; (4) the production of charcoal; (5) loans; and increasingly through

(6) remittances sent from family members in the diaspora abroad. Data were collected on a range of variables related to these methods of accessing capital.

Ecological and Spatial Predictor Variables Included in the Model

The first four methods of accessing capital outlined earlier depend in part on the spatial and ecological features of land-holdings. Consider that the aspect of a plot of land has a bearing on precipitation, which is distributed in Haiti by the northeast trade winds and, and to a lesser extent by eastern winds (Murray 1977: 180; Haiti Environmental Profile 1985: 17).

Spatial influences on land may in some cases correlate with ecological conditions.

While plots with an easterly aspect may be advantageous to a farmer considering soil moisture, the exposure to wind and rain over time may also increase soil erosion. In contrast, south and west facing land plots may be in a rain-shadow, or receive less precipitation if rain falls at a noted angle. The direct exposure to sun on south-facing plots suggests a longer history of cropping associated with earlier periods of more frequent and reliable rainfall.

Southern exposure may also decrease a plot of land’s overall soil moisture content. Given the possibility of less-frequent precipitation deposited on south- and west-facing plots, and the tendency to produce charcoal when agricultural crops fail, we should expect plots with such aspects to be more likely locations of rakbwa (Hypothesis 2).

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The land aspect-precipitation phenomenon may have traditionally affected plant associations, which in turn may have a bearing on the soil profiles that developed over time.

The leveling of ecological heterogeneity in rural Haiti discussed in the introduction of the article may have minimized or stressed traditional delineations between spatial and ecological influences. For the purposes of the subsequent logistic regression, ecological and spatial variables were conceptually considered separately, but still examined for colinearity.

Meeting the Assumptions of the Logistic Regression Model

While the logistic regression does not require a normal distribution of values across predictor variables, the model assumes a binomial distribution of the conditional mean of the outcome variable, which implies the same probability across the range of predictor variable values (Peng et al. 2002: 9-10). This binomial assumption is met if the sample is random and observations are independent (ibid.). In reviewing the data, it became apparent that on multiple occasions several sampling points fell within eritaj (literally ‘heritage’): large, collectively held parcels of land utilized by multiple generations of kin. Furthermore, some points fell on separate plots owned by the same farmer. If all cases were included then some of the observations would not meet the condition of being independent. Therefore, in instance where points fell within an eritaj or on multiple different plots owned by one farmer, a single case was randomly selected. The sample was thus reduced from 271 to 128 cases, where 72 were cases were rakbwa and 56 were not. To ensure an independence of observations was met, a test was run in SPSS to confirm the final data set contained no duplicate cases.

Initial Analysis and Screening of Individual Predictor Variables

A preliminary data screening procedure was undertaken. A univariate analysis was conducted on all predictor variables to look for outliers and examine data distributions.

Bivariate analysis was similarly undertaken to examine potential co-linearity and statistical

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significance between predictors and the outcome variable, and also between all pairs of predictor variables.

These analyses failed to reveal issues of multicollinearity, though several interval variables expressed wide distribution (ex. plot elevation). Following Hosmer and Lemeshow

(1980), these variables were grouped together to ensure a proper distribution of data and to limit the propensity for cases with cell values less than five. Distribution of data was also notably low for several categories within nominal variables, and where possible some categories were regrouped.

Results

The Null Model

To begin, a simultaneous model was run, which included all the predictor variables identified for significance or interest in the preliminary data-screening step. Insignificant predictors were removed and occasionally added, in an iterative process of model fitting.

While this method is often described as a stepwise approach, model fitting was undertaken by the author; no preformatted stepwise algorithm of the statistical software package was applied. A final model was fitted with six predictor variables. The null model of the final fitted model had a prediction accuracy rate of 56.3% (Table 5-1).

Table 5-1. Null model classification table.a,b Observed Predicted RAKBWA Percentage Correct Not Rakbwa Rakbwa Not Rakbwa 0 56 .0 RAKBWA Step 0 Rakbwa 0 72 100.0 Overall Percentage 56.3 a. Constant is included in the model. b. The cut value is .500

Variables in the null equation. The lack of significance in the Wald statistic for the null model (Table 5-2) fails to reject the null hypothesis that there is equal variability in the

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categories of the outcome variable; there appears to be an equal probability of a case being a rakbwa versus not a rakbwa.

Table 5-2. Variables in the equation. B S.E. Wald df Sig. Exp(B) Step 0 Constant .251 .178 1.990 1 .158 1.286

The fitted model

The final fitted model included 100% of the 128 cases in the sample. The ratio of valid cases to independent variables was 21-to-1, which is two times the minimum 10-to-1 ratio for logistic regression suggested by Hosmer and Lemeshow (1980).

The omnibus tests of the fitted model

The significance of the Chi-square values of the Omnibus Tests (Table 5-3) reject the null hypothesis that there is no difference between the model with only the constant (null) versus the model fitted with independent variables; there was strong support of a relationship between the outcome and predictor variables.

Table 5-3. Omnibus tests of model coefficients. Chi-square Degrees of freedom Sig. Step 64.897 6 .000 Step 1 Block 64.897 6 .000 Model 64.897 6 .000

Goodness-of-fit tests

Goodness-of-fit tests ultimately ask if the values predicted by the model accurately represent the values observed (Hosmer et al. 2013). There are two common goodness-of-fit tests, one inferential and two descriptive (Peng et al. 2002). The inferential test (Hosmer-

Lemeshow) produces a Pearsons Chi-square statistic called the H-L statistic. The H-L statistic was not significant (Table 5-4), which suggests no evidence of a bad fit between the model and the data.

Table 5-4. Hosmer and Lemeshow test. Step Chi-square Degrees of freedom Sig. 1 6.198 8 .625

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According to Hosmer et al. (1997), while one advantage of the H-L test is that it is based on easily comprehensible groupings of estimated probabilities, the drawback of the H-

L statistic is that it depends on the cut-point choices that delineate groups. (Hosmer et al.

1997). Since one of the ordinal predictor variables (years road present) was created by cut- points from an interval variable, I turn now to examine the two descriptive goodness-of-fit measures for the fitted model.

Table 5-5 presents the Cox & Snell R-Square and the Nagelkerke R-Square values— two pseudo-R-squared values based on Maximum Likelihood Estimation of logistic regression rather the Ordinary Least Squares estimation of linear regression (Peng et al.

2002).

Table 5-5. Model summary. Step -2 Log likelihood Cox & Snell R Square Nagelkerke R Square 1 110.543a .398 .533 a. Estimation terminated at iteration number 5 because parameter estimates changed by less than .001.

The Cox & Snell R-square value suggests that approximately 40% of the variability of the outcome variable may be explained by the predictor variables in the fitted model. The

Nagelkerke R Square, considered more robust that Cox & Snell in the case of logistic regression, suggests that approximately 53% of the variability in the outcome variable is explained by the predictor variables. Taken together, these statistics suggests other factors not captured in the survey may be influencing the absence or presence of rakbwa.

Classification table of the fitted model

The classification accuracy rate for the fitted model is 82% (Table 5-6), a substantial improvement (25.7%) from the classification accuracy of the null model (56.3%), and further affirmation of the predictive capacity of the variables fitted to the model.

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Table 5-6. Classification tablea Observed Predicted RAKBWA Percentage Correct Not Rakbwa Rakbwa Not Rakbwa 42 14 75.0 RAKBWA Step 1 Rakbwa 9 63 87.5 Overall Percentage 82.0 a. The cut value is .500

Variables in the fitted model

The final fitted model contained six predictor variables with acceptable levels of significance (Table 5-7). There are no standard errors above 2 for the B coefficients, suggesting there is little multicollinearity between predictor variables.

Table 5-7. Variables in the equation. B S.E. Wald Degrees of Sig. Exp(B) freedom SLOPE 1.503 .290 26.843 1 4.495 .000 SCHOOL_AID (1) 2.005 .910 4.861 1 7.428 .027 YRS_ROAD_PRESENT -.491 .232 4.490 1 .612 .034 Step 1a CHILD_IN_SCHOOL (1) -1.012 .490 4.262 1 .363 .039 NUM_OTHER_RAKBWA -.576 .202 8.131 1 .562 .004 YEARS_EDUCATION .236 .071 10.961 1 1.266 .001 Constant -3.854 1.210 10.145 1 .021 .001 a. Variable(s) entered on step 1: SLOPE, SCHOOL_AID, YRS_ROAD_PRESENT, CHILD_IN_SCHOOL, NUM_OTHER_RAKBWA, YEARS_EDUCATION.

Holding all other predictors constant, the probability of the Wald statistic for the variable slope was .000, which was less than the level of significance (.05). The null hypothesis that the B coefficient for slope was equal to 0 was rejected. This suggests that for a 1 unit increase in slope, there is a 4.5 times increased probability that the plot of land will be a rakbwa.

Likewise, holding all other predictors constant, the value of the odds-ratio for school aid is 7.428, with a significance level of .027, and a B coefficient of 2.005, which suggests that increases in school aid results in a higher probability of a plot being a rakbwa. A similar pattern follows for education: increases in the years of education of a plot owner increase the

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probability that a plot will be a rakbwa. For these predictor variables the null hypotheses that they do not affect the presence of a rakbwa is rejected.

The pattern works in the other direction concerning: (1) the number of years a nearby road is present; (2) the number of other rakbwa a farmer owns; and (3) whether a plot owner has a child in school. In these three cases, the B coefficient is negative, suggesting that, holding all other predictors constant, an increase in these events correlates with a decrease in the probability that the plot of land will be a rakbwa. For these latter predictor variables, although their presence decreases the probability that a plot of land will be a rakbwa, their null hypotheses are also rejected because their relationships are still significant.

Since the odds-ratio is a measure of the effect size of a predictor, slope, school support, and the number of years of plot owner education are the independent variables expressing the most influence on the probability that a plot will be a rakbwa, with slope by far the most influential.

Examination of Predicted Probabilities

Observed and predicted probabilities. A normal distribution in the classification plot (Table 5-8) would indicate a failure in the classificatory ability of the model. The rough

U-shaped curve indicates that observed and predicted probabilities were fairly accurate.

While a series of false negatives (R’s on the left; N’s on the right) are apparent, the general trend is toward an accurate classification, also evident in the 82% accuracy rate reported in

Table 5-6. It appears that a number of cases approaching the predicted probability mid-point

(0.5) were close calls—these were difficult for the model to predict, evidenced by clustering near the cut-point. It is also evident that the model wrongly predicted non-rakbwa (75%) at a higher percent than rakbwa (87.5%), as reported in Table 5-6.

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Potential Outliers or Influential Cases

Casewise list. The casewise list displays three individual cases that conformed poorly to the model. The standardized residuals for these cases (ZReside) are incredibly high, so cases 65, 71, and 110 should be removed from the model.

Table 5-8. Casewise listb Case Selected Statusa Observed Predicted Predicted Group TemporaryVariable RAKBWA Resid ZResid 65 S N** .973 R -.973 -6.010 71 S N** .959 R -.959 -4.832 110 S N** .929 R -.929 -3.609 a. S = Selected, U = Unselected cases, and ** = Misclassified cases. b. Cases with studentized residuals greater than 2.000 are listed.

Overview of Logistic Model

A variety of predictor variables were examined in an initial model, and six variables that displayed statistical significance were fitted in a final model: (1) the slope of a given plot; (2) the number of years a nearby road existed; (3) the number of other rakbwa owned;

(4) the absence/presence of at least one child in school; (5) the absence/presence of financial support for school; and (6) the number of years of education of the plot owner. The test of the null model containing only the constant obtained a probability prediction accuracy of 56.3%.

The Omnibus chi-square test statistic and probability (64.897, p < .000, df=2) rejected the null hypothesis of no added predictive power of the independent variables. In contrast to the null model, the full model fitted with six different predictor variables increased the prediction accuracy of the model by 25.7% to 82%, with non-rakbwa accurately predicted 75% of the time, and rakbwa correctly predicted 87.5% of the time.

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Figure 5-1. Observed groups and predicted probabilities

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The inclusion of these variables in the fitted model yields the following logistic regression equation:

log(p/1-p) = -3.854 + 1.503*SLOPE + 2.005*SCHOOL_AID(1) + (-0.491)*YRS_RD_PRESENT + (-1.012)*CHILD_IN_SCHOOL(1) + (-0.576)*NUM_OTHER_RAKBWA + .236*YEARS_EDUCATION.

While the Wald statistics indicated that all six independent variables were significant contributors to the model, the odds-ratio (EXP(B)) values suggested that (1) slope, (2) school support, and (3) the number of years of plot-owner education are the most significant predictors in the model. The inferential Hosmer-Lemeshow goodness-of-fit test was not significant, which suggests no evidence of a poor fit between the model and the data. While the descriptive Cox & Snell and Nagelkerke goodness-of-fit tests produced (pseudo) R- square values of 40% and 53%, indicating between 40-50% of the chosen probabilities in the outcome variable are explained by the predictors in the full model, they also suggest there are other influences at work in predicting the absence or presence of a rakbwa land-use.

Interpreting the Results of the Model

In addition to the implicit hypotheses of the null model, two additional hypotheses were stated as follows:

 H1: Wealthier households are more likely to have rakbwa than less wealthy households.  H2: Plots of land with south- and west-facing aspects are more likely to be rakbwa.

The initial model run with all variables of interest included showed no significance for the plot aspect variable designed to test H2. Several attempts to reintroduce the variable in the iterative process of fitting of the model yielded no significance, and the predictor was abandoned. In other words, the analysis failed to reject the null hypothesis for H2—that plot aspect has no bearing on the absence or presence of rakbwa.

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None of the variables designed to measure different aspects of wealth (the type of house, ownership of animals, ownership of a motorcycle, size of land plot, receipt of aid from the diaspora, etc.) demonstrated any statistical significance in the model, or added to the model’s predictive capacity. The failure of these variables to accurately note differences in wealth may be reflective of the heterogeneity of varied livelihood strategies in rural Haiti, some level of error or bias in the construction of the variables, or respondents’ reluctance to give answers revealing personal wealth levels. Another possibility is that there are only slight between-household differences in wealth for the vast majority of residents in the research area. These slight differences in inter-household wealth may account for the unknown factors at work in predicting the probability of land-use, which were indicated by the Cox & Snell and Nagelkerke goodness- of-fit tests.

While large expenditures in the past year for deaths/funerals (16%) and illnesses (11%) were evident across the sample, none of the variables designed to measure these impacts were significant in the model. The number of years a nearby road was present contributed to the probability that a plot was not woodlot, reflecting issues of access as a major determinant of charcoal production. In particular, roads allow charcoal trucks to enter previously inaccessible areas, and may incentivize the production of charcoal. This result appears to go against the hypothesis posited earlier in this dissertation—that the advent of new roads permitted the arboreal regeneration of previously over-exploited areas of charcoal production in Haiti.

However, this particular area of Haiti is one of the last locations where charcoal production shifted historically, shortly before the advent of approximately 1,000 new kilometers of roads that opened up the country. As such, the older roads would have been historically overexploited, while land adjoining newer roads would naturally be under less pressure given the recent

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decentralization of charcoal production that occurred prior to their construction. In short, the hyper-local phenomenon of new roads in one area might not reflect the historical effect of hundreds of new roads added at a national level.

One of the most influential factors affecting the absence or presence of a rakbwa was the slope of a plot. While slope was originally recorded with a clinometer in addition to the qualitative assessments of the research term, inconsistencies with the use of the former forced the analysis to rest on the latter. The qualitative assessments were based on a 4-category ordinal variable, but were consistently applied across the researchers based on a cross-checking of rankings of land that the author knows well from over six years of visits to the area. The fact land slope is the most influential factor provides compelling evidence in support of anthropologist

Marvin Harris’ hypothesis that the modes of production of a society are directly determined, or limited, in relation to the infrastructure—in this case, the geospatial lay of the land.

Education costs, traditionally one of the most-expensive and frequent expenditures made by rural Haitians, often initiate the production of charcoal. The model suggested that plot owners with higher levels of education increase the probability that a plot will be a rakbwa, suggesting:

(1) such plot owners come from families of higher financial means; or (2) these plot owners’ families had access to multiple rakbwa. If plot owners came from wealthy families, inheritance tradition in rural Haiti would result in a portion of that wealth being transferred to the owner.

This suggests that higher education levels of owners might correlate to higher levels of extended family wealth. Thus, there is some support for Hypothesis 1, though not enough evidence to outright reject the null hypothesis. On the other hand, plot owners with high levels of education may simply have inherited multiple rakbwa, which paid for their own education in bygone years.

Having more rakbwa might result in less pressure to utilize them all. This possibility is supported

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by the significance of another predictor variable in the model that suggested increases in the ownership of other rakbwa plots results in a decreased probability that the selected plot is a rakbwa. This suggest a scenario of families with multiple rakbwa plots producing charcoal on a rotational basis, while families with fewer rakbwa reserve the woodlot to mitigate economic hardships or necessities, such as annual school costs.

Two other variables affecting the probability of a plot being a rakbwa are also related to school costs. The presence of a household’s child in school decreased the probability that a plot would be a rakbwa, and conversely, the receipt of school aid increased the probability that a plot will be a rakbwa. The latter was the most influential variable in the model. Both of these variables suggest that charcoal production is less-frequently initiated as educational expenses decrease. This insight supports the premise that mitigating education costs in rural Haiti could be a strategy for keeping trees on hillsides—a major objective of Haitian civil society, the Haitian state, NGOs, and international partners working in Haiti.

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CHAPTER 6 CONCLUSION

When it comes to theoretical engagement, the discipline of anthropology has a history of throwing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. Other knowledge disciplines frequently test their theories, support or reject faulty axioms, refine old constructs, create and link new constructs, and ultimately strengthen the power of models designed to understand and explain complexity. Models are understood as imperfect, but they represent a buoy against the tidal wave of postmodern relativity that swept through certain halls of academia. But where this intellectual water-treading receded in other disciplines it seems to have set anchor within certain schools of anthropology, where earlier theories are simultaneously dismissed in the same breath as they are presented in introductory courses taught to fledgling anthropology students.

Like the destructive and continually shifting deforestation processes described in

Chapter 2, some anthropologists search for the next theoretically unexploited area before eventually declaring it degraded and useless. Theoretical infidelity should be encouraged, but theoretical denouncement and exclusion are tragic losses that to go against at least two foundational pillars of anthropology: cultural relativism and holism.

I embrace the scientific principle of striving for parsimonious explanations of complexity.

I do not reject nuance—one of the greatest strengths and contributions of the anthropological perspective—but I firmly believe that sufficiently nuanced description should lead to attempts at parsimonious explanation, and that good theory is just that. Like the rakbwa that eventually reemerged in ecologically devastated locations of Haiti, so too can anthropologists reengage, test, and refine some of our discipline’s earlier ideas and theories. This dissertation attempted to do just that, most-notably by engaging constructs from the cultural materialism approach championed by anthropologist Marvin Harris (2001a, 2001b).

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The overarching conclusion to the data and analyses presented in these chapters is clear:

Haitian farmers, like humans anywhere and at any time in the history of the world, adapt to the reality of their surroundings and simultaneously adapt their surroundings to their immediate and long-term material and ideational demands. Chapters 2 and 3 provided examples of adaptations

(via shifts in modes of production) to what Harris’ conceptualized as the infrastructure, and resultant adaptations to the structure (via shifts in the political and domestic economies of wood production).

Chapter 4 provided an example of a necessary adaption of a component of the Haitian superstructure (Vodou), based on changes to the infrastructure, which were engendered by shifts in the structure: a rapid decrease of trees in Haiti mandated the ceremony for removing a spirit from a tree and placing it somewhere else, permitting the felling of formerly venerated trees, thereby allowing access to wood or additional land for agricultural production.

Chapter 5 went beyond the descriptions and explanations of the earlier chapters, and engaged in prediction. By demonstrating that educational costs and the slope of a given plot of land are major determiners of the absence or presence of a rakbwa, the model highlights the interplay between the three levels of Harris’ tripartite model of cultural materialism (Harris

2001a, 2001b). As only one example in a series of interplays between these three levels of society, the Haitian ideal1 to have one’s children attend school (superstructure) shapes the domestic economy of wood production (structure), which is constrained by the modes of charcoal production and by at least one geophysical feature of land (slope), which differentially affects all land in a mountainous environment (infrastructure).

1 While a cultural ideal, the emphasis on education is also a strategy. Many rural Haitians rely on their children as a retirement support network, and an education is considered a necessary step toward leaving Haiti for the broader Haitian diaspora, to eventually send remittances back home.

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Finally, the dissertation also engaged nontraditional ways of looking at resource domestication. I suggested that by examining domestication as a process instead of a product, anthropologists might glean new insights about specific mechanisms involved in domesticatory processes. I proposed a theoretical construct called selection-through-cultivation, whereby the conscious cultivation or management techniques of farmers might act as a selective force on the domestication of certain tree species found within rakbwa. These are the small contributions of this dissertation.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Andrew Tarter received his Bachelor of Arts degree in international and interdisciplinary environmental studies in 2004 from the University of Washington. Tarter received his Master of

Arts degree in interdisciplinary sociocultural anthropology from the University of Florida in

2010. In 2012, Tarter took a brief hiatus from his dissertation to complete a Fulbright placement in the cabinet of the prime minister, in the government of Haiti. After a year of fieldwork in rural

Haiti from 2013-2014, Tarter wrote and defended his dissertation in June 2015, and graduated in

August 2015.

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