After several recent special issues, conceived and prepared successively by R. H. Robbins and E. M. Uhlenbeck (no. 153, ‘The Cultural Heritage: Languages in Peril”), Y. M. Coppens (no. 155, “From the Heavens to the Mind”), M. Matarasso (no. 158, “Shamans and Shamanism: On the Threshold of a New Millennium”), Diogenes turned to Julio Labastida, coordinator of the study of the social sciences at the National University of Mexico and contributing editor to Diogenes (he is in charge of the Spanish edition), and asked him to gather together for the current issue a certain number of articles devoted to themes related to the five-hundredth anniversary of America's “discovery” and its entry into a unified world.

Christopher Columbus did not know, on October 12, 1492, that he had reached a new world. Rather he believed, along with his crew, that he had crossed the ocean separating western Europe from east Asia; or, at the very least, that they were nearing the rich lands described by Marco Polo, which the Genoan had read about and his crew knew of, at least by reputation. In short, Columbus's ideas about the land he had just reached were considerably more inexact than those that Fernão d'Ulmo - that is to say, the Flemish explorer Ferdinand Van Olmen, Commander-Grantee in the service of João II, who presided at Terceira des Açores - had flaunted before the King. Indeed d'Ulmo was to play a more important role in the history of Portuguese discoveries than did Prince Henry the Navigator himself. In 1487, the year in which the great Portuguese sovereign was deciding between three possible routes to the Indies, d'Ulmo (as he is named in a royal diploma, dated July 24, 1486), or de Olmos as he is called in Las Casas's Historia de Indias, had proposed to the King that he “dar achada huûa grande ylha ou ylhas o terra firme per costa que se presume ser a ylha das Sete Cidades.” His proposal was thus to undertake a voyage to the Antilles, where the cartographers of that time placed the Isle of the Seven Cities, and where d'Ulmo conjectured that a neighboring continent (terra firme) might be located. Columbus himself returned from his voyage five years later. In the meantime, d'Ulmo had perished, perhaps having reached this continent whose existence he - but not Columbus - had foreseen. As to the history of the discovery of America: even if we don't know whether d'Ulmo reached it, we do know that Columbus was unaware that he himself had.

It was precisely when printing became popular in Europe - which, for the first time in history, permitted the conservation and mass diffusion of ancient Greek, Arab, and Latin writings, a fact that signalled the beginning of the Renaissance - that the Letters of Amerigo Vespucci first appeared. These letters, like a revelation, speak of a novus mundus, a new world of unknown flora, fauna, and men, that contradicts the findings of Ptolemy‘s eminent Cosmography (published in 1478, in Rome), Theophrastus's History of Plants (published in 1498, in Venice), and the hallowed treatises of Aristotle, which were then in fashion.

A great quantity of American plants traveled with the precious metals that arrived in Europe from New Spain after ‘1492. Some were brought over intentionally, perhaps in the hands of some Spanish Indian (Spaniards who had travelled to the New World to make their fortunes and had returned were called “Indians”) who had become accustomed to new tastes in America. Others arrived by neither will nor invitation, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the ships or mixed in with the ballast that the galleons carried on their return trip to the Old World.

The year 1992 is a year for reflection, because whether or not the quincentenary celebration of the arrival of the Europeans to this continent seems justified, one cannot escape thinking about the impact of this event on our land.

As archeology is my area of study, my reflections are directed toward the changes that came about in the relationship between man and animals after 1492, specifically toward what occurred in Mexico once the Spaniards established themselves in this territory.

When the Spaniards arrived in Mexico they were astonished and stupiti ed by the strangeness of this new world, in which beauty and horror merged. It was not by accident that Hernán Cortés spoke of “its grandeur, the strange and marvelous things of this land,” and resigned himself to the impossibility of adequately describing these things: “Even badly expressed, I know very well that they will be so amazing that they will not be believed, because even those of us who have seen these things with our own eyes are unable to comprehend them.” Travelling the land, Bernal Díaz del Castillo was overwhelmed as he beheld an “enchanted” land that reminded him of Amadis de Gaul. “Some of us asked ourselves whether what we were seeing was a dream.” Everything was strange and “never seen before.” Both men praised the great cities, such as Tlaxcala, “so grand and deserving of such admiration that even though much of what I could say about it must be left unsaid, what little I will say is almost incredible …”; or Tenochtitlán, “the most beautiful thing in the world,” with its structures and gardens “so marvelous, that it seemed to me almost impossible to describe their perfection and grandeur.” The native works of gold and silver, and of stone and feathers, seemed so extraordinary to the Spaniards “that it is simply impossible to understand how these objects, and with what instruments, were made so perfect.” Cortés as much as Bernal Díaz praised the capabilities of the Indians; their wisdom in peace, their courage in war. But most amazing of all was their religion. Its external aspects provoked horror and repugnance: the menacing ugliness of their “idols,” their bloody sacrifices, and the anthropophagy - according to the Spaniards, one could imagine nothing more “horrible and abominable.” Despite all this, the Spaniards could not help but marvel at their religious zeal, their devotion and diligence: “If they truly serve God with such faith, fervor, and diligence, they must be able to work many miracles.” Emerging from the ocean like a mirage or a dream, the new world was at once incomprehensible and fascinating, refined and abominable, beautiful and terrible. To the eyes of Western man, it was foreign, strangeness itself, the quintessential “other.”

“Adam was hurled into Hindustan. In this land there is a mountain called Serandib, and it is reported that there is no higher mountain in all the universe. Adam landed on this mountain.” The subject of Serendib plays an important role in both the geographical and travel literature of the Arabs. Serendib, or Sarandib, is the transcription of the Singhalese name Sinhaladîpa, which means “island of the descendants of lions” (singha, “lions,” in Singhaly). Already, in the Middle Ages, in the year 949, Arab merchants, who were well acquainted with the island of Ceylon, set up a branch in Colombo. The natural beauty and wealth of the island so touched the imagination of Arab voyagers that it appeared in the sixth voyage of Sinbad the Sailor, and it was also believed that Adam lived on the island after having been driven from Paradise: “The island of Serendib is located directly under the equinoctial line…. Men fish for pearls along its banks and at the mouths of its rivers, and some of its valleys are rich in diamonds. As an act of faith I myself took a trip to the mountain, to the very spot where Adam was banished after being exiled from Paradise. I even climbed to its summit.”

This excerpt, from The Thousand and One Nights, well summarizes the feelings of those Arab merchants whose accounts of their travels, in large measure, contributed to the spread of myths and legends about Ceylon.

All scientific disciplines go through periods of self-analysis. However, this analysis often takes place as if inside a closed arena, from which it is difficult to gain a long view. Instead, in hopes of identifying the properties that define it, each discipline examines its own features in a mirror that it holds up to itself.

Yet there are other times, perhaps less frequent, when these self-evaluations are accompanied by an inquiry into the extent to which the discipline's intellectual characteristics are shaped by its relationship to other disciplines.