Yanga

Once upon a time there was a man named Yanga. Some say he was an African Prince. Some say he was a slave trader. Some say he was a slave. Some say his name wasn’t even Yanga, that he was called N’Ganga which meant healer or holy man. There are many stories and some are historically inaccurate, incredible, and impossible, but the one thing that every story agrees on was that there was a man of African descent who led a rebellion in 1608 or 1609 that resulted in the founding of the first “free” town in the Americas. 

So with my Dad in tow (he arrived Wednesday), I caught a cab, a bus, and another cab to find out about the town behind the myth. Unlike Coyoliyo, Yanga felt less like a village of families and more like an actual town. Our taxi dropped us off in the central square, a lovely plaza dotted with trees and park benches. In its center workers on scaffolding refreshed the paint on the main gazebo in preparations for the 405^th anniversary of the founding of the Yanga.

Like all of my excursions here, I had goals, but not necessarily a specific process in mind. I knew for sure that I wanted to see the statue of Yanga and if possible meet some actual Afro-Mexicans, but knowing no one I decided to make friends with the local librarian, as librarians are often a font of useful information. I made some inquiries and was able to locate the library with ease. It was just across the square on the second floor of the yellow and white municipal building. Once again I felt the eyes following me. My dad being several shades lighter than me easily passes for Mexican, but even in Yanga I stood out.

I was greeted by a man name Lubin who welcomed me on behalf of the mayor’s office and introduced me to Andres, the town librarian. He showed me every book the library had on Yanga and on the subject of Afro-Caribbeans or really anyone in the vicinity with African roots. I bought the one book that was for sale, but lingered to flip through some of the books that are now out of print and unavailable anywhere. The first thing I noticed upon entering the library was that the walls were covered in black art. Though I had yet to see a single black person, the evidence of our history was undeniable.

Andres and Lubin somehow secured a van and offered to take us on a tour of the town. We were joined by two newspaper reporters from the nearby city of Cordoba, one from El Buen Tono and the other from El Mundo de Cordoba. They were both in town to cover the big anniversary party coming up on the 10^th, but seemed even more interested in hearing about me. Both took pictures and promised to send me links to any articles. The woman from El Mundo de Cordoba came accompanied us for the first two stops of our tour.

Our first stop was the statue of Yanga, set in a large plaza on a platform in front of a colorful mural depicting the rebellion.  There were groundskeepers tending to the grass and raking, but Lubin asked them to hold off while we were there. I didn’t really think about it at the time, but it was the first sign that this wasn’t exactly an ordinary tour.

From there we were taken to the Museum of La Palmillas which is not in Yanga proper, but is somehow still a part of the municipality. There we saw two more stunning murals and another huge painting depicting the rebellion and the founding of Yanga. The painting had arrived so recently that it hadn’t been hung yet and was covered with a blue tarp. Irma Becerru, an archeologist from the museum told us that the painting weighed over 300 kilgrams and was so heavy that it broke the wall they had planned to hang it on, so in the meantime the had set aside until they could come up with a plan to hang it properly. It was massive and filled most of the room.

The rest of the museum was filled with pre-hispanic artifacts. After Xalapa it seemed pretty rinky dink, but interesting none the less to see the mix of cultures. When we arrived at the part set aside for Afro Mexicans, it was pretty odd. There were no glass encased artifacts, just a poster of the anniversary of Gasper Yanga (the had a big party in 2009), a few newly constructed pieces of quazi African art, a reconstructed model of a sugar cane press and a big mortar and pestle used to grind coffee.

Irma implored us to wait for the Director of the Museum to arrive. She said had she known we were coming he would have been waiting for us and apologized multiple times for the inconvenience though I felt as if we should be apologizing because clearly they were pulling out all the stops to make sure we were properly welcomed and taken care of. Coffee was made, the director arrived and so did the camera crew for Channel 26 looking to interview the black woman visiting Yanga. So I gave my third interview of the day much to the amusement of my Dad, then sat down with Archaeologist Fernando Miranda Flores, the Director of the Museum and a researcher from the National Institute of Anthropology and History (aka Irma’s husband).

 

Irma and Fernando

The first thing he did was to apologize for the state of the museum and to explain that it was originally intended to showcase pre-Hispanic and pre-Colombian era artifacts found in La Palmillas and the surrounding areas, but that recently that given the Museum’s proximity to Yanga there has been a call for them to include more information about the history of the African diaspora in this region of Mexico. The only problem was that he was having a difficult time locating artifacts partly because much of the culture has been lost. Still he took the time to fill us in and what he had to say was fascinating.

There were two main ways that black people came to Mexico, 1) as slaves and 2) much later as railroad workers. The state of Veracruz with its port access was a key location to the slave trade during the 16 and 17^th century. As the Spanish had already arrived a subjugated the indigenous people and were using them as a source of free labor, the rationale behind importing Africans as slaves was that somehow they were stronger or more able to endure  hard labor. But given the difficult journey and the cost of the voyages (financial and in lives lost) by the 18^th century many had already decided it would be cheaper to go back to exploiting the natives.

According to museum director, Yanga arrived sometime in the late 1500s as a slave. But here is where the story gets interesting. As for whether or not he was a prince, there is no way to confirm, but he was referred to as a prince by his enemies, in particular in a letter written by a Spanish Jesuit priest by the name of Juan Laurenzio who traveled to the Americas with the very conquistadores who fought against Yanga during the rebellion. Why his enemies would choose to venerate him, no one knows.

Also, while all the statues of Yanga show a relatively young man charging into battle, the evidence shows that Yanga would have been around 55 years old during the time of the rebellion. During those times when the average age of death was around 40, Yanga would have been too old to fight. Evidence suggests that the battle was actually led by another slave, a warrior by the name of Francisco de la Matoza. Yanga was undoubtedly a leader, someone who was able to organize 400 slaves into a rebellion, but Matoza was his sword arm. Another mystery is that during the rebellion, Yanga’s troops captured a Spanish soldier and sent him back with a written list of demands. Where did a slave learn to write? Also though he is often referred to as Gaspar Yanga, Gaspar was actually the name of his son, who was named for his godfather, an extremely wealthy Spaniard. So Yanga of N’Ganga, might not even have been his name.

Eventually the Spanish agreed that Yanga and those 400 others could be free and thus the first “free” town in the Americas was established, less out of any ideological belief that these slaves should be free, but rather because the rebellions were causing too much interference to the sugar trade and it was cheaper to just let them be. But their freedom was still very restricted. The people of Yanga, which was originally named, not San Miguelitos, but San Lorenzo de los Negros (which kind of makes you wonder if that Jesuit priest had any other undocumented interactions with Yanga), were not allowed to interact with any of the other black people coming to Mexico as slaves. Freedom was a highly contagious ideal and the Spaniards didn’t want their slaves to become infected. This of course meant that the Africans, out of necessity intermarried with other races, particularly with the indigenous people and as they did, the population dwindled.

Another contributing factor to the dwindling black population was that after a while all the black women decided to leave. Whether they left purely to be able to work (most of them went to the port to clean houses or in some cases become prostitutes) or because they simply didn’t like Yanga is unclear. Around that time the Spaniards decided if Yanga was going to be free, then they were free to be taxed. The men protested saying that without the women it was a hardship to be there, but the women said they had no problem being taxed as long as they didn’t have to go back to Yanga. So after several generations, the mestizaje absorbed that population leaving behind only traces of culture…some dances and recipes and the occasional genetic throwback of curly hair and dark skin.

After the museum, we made our way to meet Florentino Virgen Castro at his home. Louie Armstrong played in the background as we entered a house like a sepia photo. On the walls were framed family photos that told the story of generations.  Florentino was my first official encounter with a self-identified Afro-Mexican. His grandfather hailed from Martinique and arrived in Mexico in 1913 to help build the railroad.

Florentino is an older gentleman, a natural story teller, a musician with a classic Cuban style of dress, and a distinctly Mexican sense of humor. He greeted Lubin and Andres like they were old friends and they went back and forth about the upcoming festival. Florentino used to organize musical performances, but said he wouldn’t be doing that anymore until he was both invited and paid for his services.  

 

Florentino

From there he turned his attention to me and my questions. Our conversation vacillated between the history of the area and the history of his family. He spoke first of Friar Bartolome de la Casa, a Franciscan who he credited with instigating the slave trade. Despite bearing the vestiges of Catholicism in his name Virgen Castro, he didn’t seem to be fan. “That’s what they did to the bad ones,” he explained. “They marked us with Christian names so they would know who the aggressive blacks were.”

He spoke of racism during the slave trade and how the Spanish fed the slaves leftovers and wondered at their strength and how they also made them into the taste testers of the new world making them try the foreign herbs, peppers, and spices to see if it was fit to eat. Then he transitioned into talking about the racism he experienced and how he dealt with it. Not knowing how to navigate the racial tensions he used music, dance, and singing to bridge the gap and blow off steam.

“Yes, there were some who tried to beat the black off of me, but for everyone I beat the white out of them until they were purple with bruises,” he said with a laugh.  “You have to defend yourself.” When asked about being an Afro-Mexican he said he was proud of his heritage and that he came from a line of people who fought to preserve their culture. He showed me information about Yemeya and the other Yoruba gods and goddesses and said that hear they still prayed to her though disguised as the Virgen of Guadalupe. He wrote a book that he couldn’t seem to remember the name of, a recap of stories passed down from his grandfather.

Florentine picked up his grandson and we loaded up the van and went to Mataclara a small town outside of Yanga in the municipality of Cuitlahuac. There he introduced us to his aunt and sister and her family. The two women wore their hair in short afros and the children while brown skin, looked more Mexican than black. The received us warmly and we sat briefly in white plastic chairs in their living room. I told them about what I wanted to do and they seemed mildly amused recounting stories about all the people from foreign countries who had come to see them, but how not one of them had ever returned with photos. The South Africans came. The Ghanaians came. I am not the only one to be drawn in by the story of Yanga, once again I felt as though I were chasing ghosts.

But since I was there I asked questions. What did they do? The men worked in the fields and the women took care of the home and children. What did it mean to them to be Afro-Mexican? This met with a long silence. Then one woman shrugged and said it was what it was. We didn’t stay much longer after that, but thanked them for their time and got back into the van.

Our final stop was a Hacienda, the ruins of plantation. We bought water and chips from a corner store then walked through the empty rooms with tree roots splitting the wall. Then it was back to the main plaza to catch a cab, but when we tried to leave they implored us to wait for “El Presidente”.  “The president,” I asked.  

“The mayor. He’s like Obama here,” Lubin joked. So we waited in the entryway of the Municipal Building watching a Zumba class from across the courtyard. Then just like that we were meeting the mayor. For a mayor he was pretty casually dressed. We chatted briefly then he invited us back for the Festival de Negritud as his special guests. I told him that was the date we had planned on leaving but that we would consider changing our tickets. As if to emphasize his invitation, he told Lubin and Andres to drive us back to Puerto. I protested. It was a two hour drive and they had already spent the day schlepping us around, but as Lubin explained in the van, what the mayor wants, the mayor gets. Dad is going to head home, but I changed my ticket to Thursday and booked a hotel in Cordoba. I’m going to find out what this Festival is all about.

In the meantime here is the link to a brief article published in el buen tono: http://www.elbuentono.com.mx/index.php/altas-montanas/50194-de-visita-en-yanga-periodista-de-eu