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Front Cover 1
Front Cover 2
Table of Contents
Index to Volumes IX and X
Back Cover 1
Back Cover 2
Vol. XI, No. 4
L W'-e ..
The Jamaican Prime Minister's Electoral Problems; The Continuing Bankruptcy
of Guyana; Arts of the Suriname Rain Forest; Caribbean Gold; Focus on Caribbean
Textuality: Walcott, Lamming, Brathwaite, and Others.
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and Area Center.
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* Special seminar series offered by
distinguished visiting scholars in
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For further information contact:
Latin American-Caribbean Center
Florida International University
Miami, Florida 33199
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Manuel Carvajal, Economics
John Corbett, Public Administration
Grenville Draper, Physical Sciences
Luis Escovar, Psychology
Robert Farrell, Education
Gordon Finley, Psychology
John Jensen, Modern Languages
David Jeuda, Modem Languages
Charles Lacombe, Anthropology
Bany B. Levine, Sociology
Anthony P Maingot, Sociology
James A. Mau, Sociology
Floretin Maurrasse, Physical
Ramon Mendoza, Modem
Raul Moncarz, Economics
Marta Ortiz, Marketing
Mark B. Rosenberg, Political
Reinaldo Sanchez, Modern
Luis P Salas, Criminal Justice
Jorge Salazar, Economics
Alex Stepick, Anthropology
Mark D. Szuchman, History
William T. Vickers, Anthropology
Maida Watson Breslin, Modem
On Latin America
and the Caribbean
The Latin American and Caribbean
Center of Florida International
University hosts a Speaker's Bureau
for scholars traveling through
Miami. The Bureau serves as a
means for area specialists to share
their experiences and research
during colloquia. A modest
honorarium and per diem expenses
will be provided. Scholars
anticipating travel through Miami
and interested in participating in
the colloquia should contact
Mark B. Rosenberg, Director, Latin
American and Caribbean Center,
FIU, Miami, FL 33199 at least
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departure from their home cities.
The Center also publishes both an
Occasional Papers Series as well as
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speakers on the campus of FIU.
Please write for details.
In this issue....
An Editorial Design
By Barry B. Levine
Seaga Is In Trouble
Polling the Jamaican Polity in Mid-Term
By Carl Stone
Political, Economic, Moral Bankruptcy
By Thomas J. Spinner, Jr.
The Pleasures of West Indian Writing
An Introduction to the Literature
By Eugene V. Mohr
And He Would Be Master
By Richard Dwyer
The Existentialism of George Lamming
The Early Development of a Writer
By Janet Butler
The Fate of Writing in the West Indies
Reflections on Oral and Written Literature
By Kenneth Ramchand
Gods of the Middle Passage
By Edward Kamau Brathwaite
Risk Taking in the Stock Market
Gambling and Politics in Bermuda
By Frank E. Manning
Studying in the States
A Rap Session
By Augustus G. Small
Ethnoaesthetics in the Rain Forest
Understanding Arts in Their Social Context
Reviewed by Dorothea and Norman Whitten
Cannabis in the Caribbean
Reviewed by Aaron Segal
Index to Volumes IX and X
By James F Droste
An Informative Listing on the Caribbean,
Latin America and Their Emigrant Groups
By Marian Goslinga
"With people hungry, lo-
cal farming in disarray,
and no funds to import
food, domestic agricul-
ture must be revived if
the regime is to survive."
"The dichotomized view
of people, coupled with
fixed value judge-
ments-white is good,
black is beautiful-is
alien to the Caribbean."
"The Prices bring us
face to face with the real-
ity of a lifeway forged in
rebellious freedom and
maintained through cre-
On the cover
Paz by Venezuelan art-
ist, NicolAs Piquer (Oil
on canvas, 39 by 55
cm.). The painting is in
the collection of John De
Souza and Art Asso-
A Comparative Study
This monumental work is the first, full-scale compar-
ative study of the nature of slavery. Patterson draws
on sixty-six tribal, ancient, pre-modem, and modem
societies over time and shows that slavery is a parasitic
relationship involving the violent domination of an
alienated-- or socially dead- person.
Rejecting the legalistic Roman concept of slavery,
Patterson emphasizes the sociological, symbolic, and
ideological aspects of the institution and uncovers a
disquieting relationship between slavery and freedom.
"A major study of a formidable intellectual problem
.. An analysis at once imaginative and controlled; a
balanced command of theory and historical example."
$30.00 -Kirkus Reviews
Harvard University Press
79 Garden Street
Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138
TESTING THE CHAINS
Resistance to Slavery in the
British West Indies
By MICHAEL CRATON. "Resis-
tance not acquiescence is the
core of history." Herbert Aptheker's
revolutionary call for a history written
from the perspective of the oppressed
rather than the oppressors serves as the
starting point for this bold and far-reach-
ing study of slavery in the British West
Indies. Contesting the view that slave y
revolts were an outgrowth of the Euro-
pean Age of Revolution, this major
contribution to Caribbean history
concentrates on the dynamics of re-
sistance to oppression. 16 b&w photos.
BLACK CLUBS IN BERMUDA
Ethnography of a Play World
By FRANK E. MANNING. "Black Clubs in Bermuda has become
something of a classic among specialists in the Caribbean. Its
lively ethnographic account of the 'play world' of an island
society is deftly balanced by its shrewd use of a challenging
theoretical framework."--Reviews in Anthropology. 16 b&w
---- - -- - -- ---...
CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS
P.O. Box 250, Ithaca, New York 14850
Please send me, postpaid,_ copy(ies) of TESTING THE CHAINS @
$25.00 and/or copy(ies) of BLACK CLUBS IN BERMUDA @ $24.50.
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satisfied. I may return the books) within 10 days for a full refund I enclose
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Barry B. Levine shatters
the myth of the victimized
A Picaresque Tale
of Emigration and Return
Using the first-person technique pioneered by Oscar
Lewis, noted sociologist Barry B. Levine records and
analyzes the life story of a Puerto Rican emigrant, "one
of the most colorful characters to make an appearance in
sociological literature...Barry Levine has that increasingly
rare gift, the sociological ear. In this book, we have the
result of his listening."-Peter Berger.
"A labor of love for Puerto Rico and its plight, and a
fine piece of scholarship."-Ed Vega, Nuestro "Levine
has rescued Third World man from indignity...I believe
that few works will better demonstrate the circumstances
of the Puerto Rican in New York than this one."-Miguel
Barnet, Caribbean Review "Highly recommended"-
Joanna Walsh, Library Journal "Excellent..."-Frank
Fernandez, Revista Interamericana "Valuable research,
excellent writing"-Raymond E. Crist, Latin America in
Books "Estupendo..."-Carlos Alberto Montaner,
Spanish International Network "A rare work about the
Puerto Rican diaspora..."--Gerald Guinness, Americas
"Interesting and refreshing..."-Aaron Segal, Times of
"Opens the reader's eyes to the problems and
challenges, the pain and frustration of life as a Puerto
Rican in the big metropolis."-Joseph P. Fitzpatrick,
S.J., Contemporary Sociology "A good read...but above
and beyond its literary attributes, it stands on its own as a
well-conceived, thoroughly researched, and solid
study...A significant contribution to the scientific analysis
of the causes and consequences of Puerto Rican
emigration and return."-Angel Calderdn Cruz,
Caribbean Studies "A stupendous book that only a
sociologist/anthropologist willing and unafraid to let a
little humanism and common sense creep into his study
could write. A very human document about a very human
being."-Gary Brana-Shute, The New West Indies
$12.95 at bookstores, or direct from the publisher
(212) 593-7083 Visa and MasterCard Accepted
BASIC BOOKS, INC
10 East 53rd Street, New York 10022
Barry B. Levine
Anthony R Maingot
William T. Osborne
Mark B. Rosenberg
Aaron L. Segal
Olga J. Wagenheim
Judith C. Faerron
Linda M. Marston
Beatriz Parga Bay6n
Vol. XI, No. 4
Juan C. Urquiola
Natalia M. Chirino
James E Droste
Maria J. Gonzalez
Board of Editors
Ricardo Arias Calder6n
German Carrera Damas
Gordon K. Lewis
Vaughan A. Lewis
James A. Mau
Carmelo Mesa Lago
Carlos Alberto Montaner
Manuel Moreno Fraginals
Robert A. Pastor
Gregory B. Wolfe
Caribbean Review, a quarterly journal dedicated to the Caribbean, Latin America, and
their emigrant groups, is published by Caribbean Review, Inc., a corporation not for profit
organized under the laws of the State of Florida (Barry B. Levine, President; Andrew R.
Banks, Vice President; Kenneth M. Bloom, Secretary). Caribbean Review is published at
the Latin American and Caribbean Center of FIU (Mark B. Rosenberg, Director) and
receives supporting funds from the Office of Academic Affairs of Florida International
University (Steven Altman, Provost; Paul Gallagher, Associate Vice President for Aca-
demic Affairs) and the State of Florida. This public document was promulgated at a
quarterly cost of $6,659 or $1.21 per copy to promote international education with a
primary emphasis on creating greater mutual understanding among the Americas, by
articulating the culture and ideals of the Caribbean and Latin America, and emigrating
groups originating therefrom.
Editorial policy: Caribbean Review does not accept responsibility for any of the views
expressed in its pages. Rather, we accept responsibility for giving such views the oppor-
tunity to be expressed herein. Our articles do not represent a consensus of opinion-
some articles are in open disagreement with others and no reader should be able to agree
with all of them.
Mailing address: Caribbean Review, Florida International University, Tamiami Tiall. Miami,
Florida 33199. Telephone (305) 554-2246. Unsolicited manuscripts (articles, essays,
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Copyright: Contents Copyright 1982 by Caribbean Review, Inc. The reproduction of
any artwork, editorial or other material is expressly prohibited without written permission
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Index: Articles appearing in this journal are annotated and indexed in America: History
and Life; Development and Welfare Index; Hispanic American Periodicals Index; Histor-
ical Abstracts; International Bibliography of Book Reviews; International Bibliography of
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Service Bulletin (PAIS); United States Political Science Documents; and Universal Refer-
ence System. An index to the first six volumes appeared in Vol. VII, No. 2, an index to
volumes seven and eight, in Vol. IX, No. 2. An index to volumes nine and ten appears in
Subscription rates: See coupon in this issue for rates. Subscriptions to the Caribbean,
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An Editorial Design
By Barry B. Levine
The Caribbean today is under pressure. Criss-crossing its waters
are geo-politicians bent on forcing their vision of the world on the
many peoples of the region. The geo-politicians anchor their theo-
ries in promises of economic salvation for a region whose scar-
cities they celebrate.
Amidst these kinds of pressures it is wise to celebrate not the
scarcities of the region but its abundancies. For not only is the
Caribbean a land of geo-political competition it is an area of
cultural and artistic variety, language and ethnic plurality, racial
and emigrant diversity.
Over the years, since the shaky origins of Caribbean Review in
Puerto Rico, the Review has developed an editorial policy de-
signed to acknowledge, if not nourish, the richness of the Carib-
bean worlds. We have taken no stand to limit our scope: we
dedicate ourselves in the broadest sense to the Caribbean, Latin
America and their emigrant groups; we publish not just sociolo-
gists but poets as well, not just political scientists but politicians
too; we accept no restriction as to the methods for either obtaining
or presenting believed verities. In fact we encourage the articula-
tion of varied, different, indeed, antagonistic perspectives. In
short-hand form, we have captured our policy in the term "crossed
It is in part to establish the standards to which we must per-
petually aspire that we have appointed a board of editors, whose
names appear in the masthead alongside this editorial. These
scholars, thinkers, actors, have in their biographies maintained a
level of rigour concerning the contemplation about and intellectual
apprehension of things Caribbean that is truly wonderful.
Our judgements about what to emphasize, who to publish,
where to articulate a problem will be made considering both their
advice as well as considering the standards that they have readily
demonstrated in their very productive lives.
But the appointment of the Board of Editors serves yet another
function. Their joint presence, representing as they do the different
perspectives by, of, or for the Caribbean clearly symbolizes our
Publishing in CR is not done solely for intellectual reinforcement;
but also to encourage critique and debate. This will surely occur, if
not in the same issue, then certainly, in a subsequent one ... and
always by those readers whose ire has been aroused.
We have often instructed authors who have sought an audience
of like-minded souls that they should look elsewhere ... that those
who need self-congratulation from the already converted need not
solicit use of our pages but should look for more theologically
Surveys of our readers demonstrate that they are a widely
varied lot, people of a wide range of opinion and our authors have
been chosen to emulate that dispersion. We seek the combination
of authors who in debate cut the issue.
Now, with the appointment of the Board of Editors, Caribbean
Review announces in an even clearer way its commitment to
"crossed swords." We are committed to intellectual battle and
growth amidst media that too often promote ideological languish-
ing and lolling, replicating on their pages the intellectual equiv-
alents of the tourist fantasies that imagine an uncomplicated
unencumbered third world life of sun and fun on Caribbean sands.
To the end of further stimulating our readership, with this issue
we begin the regular inclusion of Crossing Swords, a signed
column of opinion. In each issue, a different editor (associate
editor, contributing editor, editorial board member, guest editor) will
use this space to make an editorial comment. The reader can rest
assured that the opinions expressed in this space will not be
consistent with each other. What we can guarantee, however, is
the rigour of their divergent analyses.
Crossing Swords is a regular feature of Caribbean Review. The
views expressed therein are the sole opinion of the authors. Barry
B. Levine is editor of CR.
Z1iInI1ILII- ITti-T i i 2LIL
< -i--- T--
^ ^_ i i i-, ^. ^ ^. _^- - ^ -
i i_ i_ __ i_ __ _ _ _ ___ L
-- - --4- ----- -V - -M- -- - -1-4-4-
Seaga Is In Trouble
Polling the Jamaican Polity in Mid-Term
By Carl Stone
After the dramatic 59% popular vote
victory by the pro-capitalist and pro-
Reagan Jamaica Labour Party
against the equally pro-socialist and pro-
Cuba Peoples National Party, in the October
1980 Jamaican Parliamentary elections,
the author's public opinion polls have re-
corded a rapid decline in the popularity of
the governing JLP party. The most recent
September-October poll confirms that two
years after its election to office, the JLP led
by Prime Minister Edward Seaga has been
overtaken by the Michael Manley led PNP in
popular support. The JLP will have to come
from behind if it hopes to win the next elec-
tions due in 1985.
In the Spring 1981 issue of Caribbean
Review, my article on the 1980 Jamaican
elections ("Jamaica's 1980 Elections; What
Manley Did Do; What Seaga Need Do")
cautioned against a misinterpretation of
these election results by pointing out the
"If the JLP fails to create substantially
more jobs than any other party in the past
has ever attempted, its political ascen-
dancy is going to be very short lived and
the ebb and flow of two party strength will
see a resurgence of PNP mass support
within five years."
"The JLP support base is very fragile
and contains many former PNP voters
who may switch back to the PNP on
"The level of party voting has dropped
considerably... The elections of the future
are going to be characterized by mas-
"The middle class and the business sec-
tor swung heavily to the JLP but their
ranks have been decimated by migration
and demoralized by constant class and
ideological harassment under the Manley
government. They have lost confidence in
their capacity to give national leadership,
Carl Stone is a reader in the department of
government at the University of the West In-
dies, Mona. Among his books are Democracy
and Clientelism in Jamaica and the forthcom-
ing Jamaica at the Polls (American Enterprise
Institute) and Profiles of Power in the Carib-
bean Basin (Institute for the Study of Human
and are not likely to provide the JLP with
the active creative and dynamic network
capable of restoring selfconfidence and
motivation to the productive classes. On
the contrary, these classes have retreated
into an isolationism that seeks to preserve
their declining but large share of national
wealth in the vain hope of recreating the
Jamaica of the 1960s. The JLP will there-
fore be caught in the precarious situation
of relying almost entirely on foreign capi-
tal from North America to restore life to
All of these prognostications are directly
related to the economic and political trends
which have pushed the JLP from a majority
party enjoying considerable public confi-
dence and credibility to a position where the
party's credibility now hangs in the balance.
A major factor contributing to the decline of
JLP political fortunes has been the pro-
longed recession in the US economy which
has adversely affected both foreign ex-
change earnings and the expected inflow of
foreign investment. The impact of that
gloomy economic reality has been inten-
sified by a number of political and policy
directions by the JLP government which
have helped to weaken its popularity
Trends in the Polls
The October 1980 to October 1982 trends
in the author's public opinion polls present
an interesting pattern as shown in Table
One. Between October 1980 and February
1981, JLP mass support stabilized while
PNP support declined dramatically. A mood
of optimism swept the country after the
elections. Businessmen expected a quick
return to economic bouyancy. Increased in-
flows of capital, credit, loans and imported
goods excited this optimism. The unem-
ployed waited for jobs to be created. The
working class eagerly looked forward to
greater purchasing power by demanding
more pay from employers and the business
sector (large, medium and small scale) and
geared itself for a return to boom times in
the Jamaican marketplace.
Early endorsement of the JLP regime
and Seaga's leadership by Reagan in-
creased the expectation that the necessary
external financial support would be forth-
coming to recharge the economy's bat-
teries towards recovery. In the short run, the
hysterical rhetoric, intense political con-
flicts, violence, confusion and national po-
larization that were endemic in the PNP's
1976 to 1980 second term gave way to
political stability, national consensus and
the "managerial" approach of the Seaga
leadership after the PNP's election defeat. A
flurry of activity began to take place in the
economy in construction, merchandise
trade, tourism and services and all sectors
were assured by the government that for-
eign exchange would be available to meet
the needs for economic recovery. A mas-
sive increase in imported food items (corn-
meal, flour, rice, etc.) removed the acute
shortages of the later Manley years. Rigid
foreign exchange controls gave way to an
opening up of a parallel market in US cur-
rency that was now legitimized. The os-
tracized private sector embraced the new
government and a major push was made to
attract US investment by high profile pro-
motional committees. US aid to Jamaica
climbed from slightly more than $20 mil-
lion in 1980 to over $200 million by the end
of 1981. The crime rate fell and some fami-
lies who had migrated in political panic un-
der Manley now began to return.
All of these trends sustained mass sup-
port for the JLP up to the middle of 1981. As
a consequence, the JLP swept the 1981
local government elections held in the first
quarter by winning majorities in all parishes
and earning an overall 63% of the two party
vote. By the end of 1981, however, JLP po-
litical fortunes had declined and by Novem-
ber 1981 the high point of a 63% popular
vote share in the local government elec-
tions dropped to a 54% share of the two
party balance of strength. This represented
a 5% net loss compared to the JLP's stand-
ing in October 1980.
Demand and Supply
In the latter six months of 1981 some nega-
tive economic and political trends had
begun to set in. The large inflow of con-
sumer imports and imported food created
conditions of oversupply as purchasing
power had increased only marginally. This
CA TBBEAN PEVIW1/5
meant a sluggish rate of sales for many
products. Producers whose markets had
thrived under the conditions of shortage in
the Manley years (where virtually everything
produced could be sold) now found that
sales fell as consumers tried to consume a
much larger basket of goods with the same
level of purchasing power. Sales of rum,
beer, cigarettes and newspapers fell as did
the sales of locally produced food items.
Urban consumers were grateful for in-
creased supplies of food and other con-
sumer goods. But frustrations developed as
earnings and income applied to the pur-
chase of a wide range of goods and the
satisfying of increased consumer expecta-
tions appeared to be diminishing. Farmers
and small businessmen complained bit-
terly about the decline of sales only months
after new small rural and urban shops had
re-opened to meet the expected increase in
consumer demand. The optimism of big
business dried up overnight. The dramatic
fall in the rate of increase in the cost living
from 19% in 1979 and 29% in 1980 to 5% in
1981 due to the overstocking of the local
market had no significant positive effect on
voters. It had been neutralized by percep-
tions of limited purchasing power, the in-
ability to buy many of the wide range of
consumer goods available, and the frustra-
tions of trying to raise living standards by
consuming a larger basket of goods with
substantially unchanged purchasing power.
The recession in the US reduced the in-
flow of investments to a trickle in spite of
aggressive promotional activity to attract in-
vestors. Some projects were started and
new areas of production were opened up by
foreign capital. However, only a few thou-
sand jobs were created and the impact was
neutralized by the fact that more persons
were losing jobs than new jobs were open-
ing up. The very high unemployment lev-
els-estimated by my polls as being in the
region of 30 to 35% in most areas-re-
mained unchanged. Attempts by the JLP
government to reduce the huge budget def-
icit led to increased taxation by improving
tax collection and tightly controlling public
spending. Public sector relief employment
opened up by the free spending democratic
socialist PNP government was pruned.
These problems were compounded by
the declining value of the British pound
which reduced earnings from traditional
agricultural exports. This caused cut-backs
in agricultural production, reducing em-
ployment in a sector already aggravated by
the adverse weather which had decimated
the banana industry in 1980. The declining
wage earning from export agriculture in
turn cut the demand for locally produced
food, increasing the sales problems of the
small farmers who had thrived under the
commodity-starved and high-priced food
market of the Manley years. The rural areas
were acutely short of cash and purchasing
power and the government's tight money
policies and restrictive spending pattern of-
fered no stimulus to fill the gap. The money
and spending policies were too tight and
fiscally too conservative. It allowed excess
productive capacity to build up in domestic
agriculture while rural consumers com-
plained of not being able to buy food items
because of a shortage of cash. The country
had gone from the extreme of massive bud-
get deficits and an expansionist monetary
policy under the PNP (which aggravated the
rate of inflation) to the other extreme of a
drastic fall in prices and a overly rigid com-
The JLP will have to come
from behind if it hopes to
win the 1985 elections.
bination of monetary and fiscal policies.
Supported fully by the World Bank and
the IMF, the JLP's strategy was to suppress
domestic demand and restrict domestic
consumption and to encourage national in-
come growth through expanded export
sales aided by stable domestic prices. Ex-
port orientation and structural adjustment
were seen as the solution to economic re-
covery. An "open economy" policy was ad-
vocated in place of the earlier import-
substitution emphasis of the 1960s and the
1970s. This was to be complemented by
commitments to provide export incentives,
liberalization of import restrictions, the scal-
ing down of bureaucratic regulation of the
private sector, divestment of government
owned enterprises, and encourage-
ment of a policy of competition within the
Manufacturers accustomed to a pro-
tected domestic market panicked in reac-
tion to the challenge of having to face
competition from imported goods. Implicit
in the JLP's position on the export empha-
sis was the idea that the economy needed to
specialize more in export production in
areas where Jamaica has some compara-
tive advantage and is able to secure external
markets while relying more on cheap im-
ports for a wide variety of products to re-
place domestic production for the local
market. In other words the government's
new economic thrust was seeking to shift
productive capacity from domestic produc-
tion to production for export markets. The
challenge was beyond the depth of most
private sector manufacturers and a build up
of opposition to the open economy policy
began the rapid decline in private sector
support for the government.
This situation was aggravated by the par-
allel market in US dollars. Middle and upper
income consumption grew massively over
the first year of the JLP's term of office.
Motor cars, video sets, color television and
myriad luxury items were imported into the
economy utilizing parallel market dollars.
Merchants outbid the manufacturers for the
scarce supply of US dollars. The imports
they financed added further to the manu-
facturers problems and pushed up the price
of the parallel market dollar. With falling
sales, expensive and inadequate foreign ex-
change and intense competition from im-
ports, the manufacturers felt that their very
survival was being threatened by JLP pol-
icies. They have consequently become
extremely critical of the JLP's eco-
Middle and upper income displays of lux-
ury cars and a new pattern of conspicuous
consumption taking place against the
background of lay-offs in manufacturing in-
dustries, inadequate employment creation
to meet the needs of school leavers, in-
creasing frustrations over unemployment,
lack of money among the majority classes
and the decline in sales and earnings by
higglers and small farmers damaged the
JLP's political image in the latter half of
1981. My polls showed the JLP as in-
creasingly perceived by voters as uncon-
cerned about the poor and as defen-
ding only the rich, the businessmen and the
Repressed inflation in the housing mar-
ket under the PNP developed under the JLP
into upwardly escalating middle and lower
middle class rentals that went up between
50 and 100% in many areas of the capital
city. Complaints about landlord exploitation
became widespread in the urban metro-
politan area of Kingston and St. Andrew. All
of these economic factors contri-
buted to the fall in JLP support in the sec-
ond half of 1981.
By early 1982 optimism about JLP suc-
cess in leading an economic recovery dissi-
pated and yielded to cautious hope that with
time things might get better under a gov-
ernment with credentials for managerial ef-
ficiency based mainly on the reputation and
image of the prime minister. A majority still
felt that the country was better off in early
1982 under the JLP than it was under the
earlier PNP regime.
As the impact of the recession in the US
increased through the extensive lay-offs of
bauxite workers and the cut-back in al-
umina production, the balance of payments
situation got worse and foreign exchange
supply declined to precarious levels in spite
of massive external borrowing. The le-
thargic private sector had not responded
positively to the challenge to shift the econ-
omy into greater export emphasis. The pro-
longed character of the recession in the US
removed any prospect of export led recov-
ery in Jamaica. Even if the local private
sector was more responsive, the regional
and world climate of demands for imported
goods hardly gave the policy much of a
chance of success. The much talked about
Caribbean Basin Initiative developed by US
President Reagan (due mainly to pressures
from Jamaica's prime minister lobbying for
regional aid, offered very little in the short
run. The important proposals for increas-
ing Caribbean trade access to the US
market were bitterly fought by US vested
interests in the Congress and this aspect of
the proposal has yet to get Congres-
Weakening Political Support
Although the Seaga regime appeared to be
performing creditably according to the cri-
teria used by the IMF the World Bank and
international creditors by its economic
achievements in the first year, its political
base of support had begun to weaken very
rapidly. Externally the Seaga government
was praised for its remarkable control of
prices and the impressive reduction in the
cost of living index, as well as for the reduc-
tion of the budget deficit ahead of schedule,
the conservative monetary policy, fiscal re-
straint and the opening up of the economy
to foreign investment Although there was
much grumbling locally by the end of 1981,
a majority of voters still believed in the JLP's
technocratic capability and in Seaga's bu-
reaucratic ingenuity and financial expertise.
This belief inspired cautious hopes that
things would get better. The government,
they insisted, needed more time. The mem-
ory of the economic disaster of the Manley
years was still strong.
Although by then the PNP was seen as
more concerned with the poor than the
governing JLP and the JLP under Seaga's
leadership had come to lose entirely the
populist image of the Bustamante period,
the JLP remained ahead in popularity at the
close of 1981 mainly due to the JLP's supe-
rior image as a party able to run things and
tackle problems. Two percent economic
growth in 1981 and the start up of promis-
ing expansion of activity in construction
and tourism added to the fact that some
foreign investment projects were coming
on stream by late 1981, all gave some sup-
port to this cautious optimism that the
economy might just be moving towards re-
covery as the government was insisting.
Developments in 1982 did nothing to
confirm those hopes. On the contrary, the
build-up of dissatisfactions and disillusion-
ment which started in 1981 accelerated in
1982. This accelerated trend of disaffection
spreading across the entire range of the
class structure in 1982 achieved the effect
by the end of 1982 of isolating the JLP
government and developing a wall of cred-
ibility gaps between both the electorate and
critical interest groups, and the Seaga
No progress was made in relieving the
very high level of unemployment. Manufac-
Policy Effects & Policies
Identified by Public
Reduction in crime
Skill training for youth
Policies favoring rich
low public spending
Goods not selling
% of National Sample Expressing
Like or Dislike for Policies
% Liking Policy
% Disliking Policy
Table Two: Polices of JLP Government that are liked or disliked by voters.
Source: Sept-Oct Stone Polls published in the Daily Gleaner.
No money to buy
High cost of living
Goods not selling
Table Three: Main Personal and Family Problems Identified by Voters %
Source: Stone Polls (Sept-Oct 1982) published in Daily Gleaner.
turers and their interest group, the Jamaica
Manufacturers Association, shifted from
doubts and misgivings about JLP policies
in 1981 to open criticism of the govern-
ment in 1982. Fears were being expressed
in some quarters that the government was
catering too much to foreign investors. Al-
though a number of policy committees rep-
resenting private sector interests were set
up to enable an active private sector role in
policy formulation, relations with the prime
minister deteriorated as some private sec-
tor members accused him of not listening
to their opinions nor having much regard
for their point of view. There was a constant
echo in private sector circles that the Seaga
government was not consulting them
enough and that they were constantly faced
by new policy announcements through the
mass media, which they had been given no
opportunity to respond to or comment on
in the policy formulation stage.
As the foreign exchange situation got
tighter in 1982 bottlenecks and corrupt
practices plagued the issuing of trade li-
censes. As a result the Industry and Com-
merce Ministry run by a JLP minister (who
is past president of the Jamaica Manufac-
turers Association) came under heavy pri-
vate sector criticism. As the balance of
payments problem forced the government
Continued on page 28
October 1980 41% 59%
February 1981 38% 62%
(1981 Local Elections 37% 63%)
July 1981 47% 53%
November 1981 46% 54%
May 1982 45% 55%
October 1982 53% 47%
Table One: Balance of Strength Between JLP and PNP Among Voters Express-
ing a Preference in Public Opinion Polls by Author.
Source: Stone Polls published in the Daily Gleaner and Star newspapers by Carl
I r I
Political, Economic, Moral Bankruptcy
By Thomas J. Spinner, Jr.
pon hearing that the government's
March budget called for no new per-
sonal assessments, one of the few
remaining wits in a battered Guyanese na-
tion wryly muttered that Forbes Burnham
finally realized there was nothing left to tax.
Guyana was bankrupt. The national debt
increased eight times in the previous ten
years, the balance of payments deficit was
the worst in history, and foreign reserves
disappeared. Bauxite, sugar, and rice pro-
duction-the foundation of Guyana's econ-
omy-were well below targeted goals.
Unemployment soared to over 30% of the
labor force with underemployment raising
the total to more than 50%. Talented pro-
fessionals and skilled workers have been
deserting to Britain, Canada, and the
The 1970s were years of economic ca-
lamity for the world's only Cooperative Re-
public. A program of nationalization
brought 80% of the economy into govern-
ment ownership but failed to stimulate
growth and productivity. Instead, the reverse
has occurred. Sugar production reached a
high of almost 370,000 tons in 1971; by
1980 it had collapsed to 270,000 tons, well
short of the government's goal of 335,000
tons. Statistics for the bauxite industry are
equally dreary. Dried bauxite production de-
clined from 2.3 million tons in 1970 to 1.6
million tons in 1980; calcined bauxite sag-
ged, in the same period, from 692,000 tons
to 602,000 tons; and alumina output tum-
bled from 312,000 to 211,000 tons. Rice
production has increased but the 1980 tar-
get of 200,000 tons was deficient by some
40,000 tons. While the rice industry is
based upon many small holdings the gov-
ernment controls the processing and mar-
keting of this basic food.
A coherent plan designed to achieve eco-
Thomas J. Spinner, Jr. teaches history at the
University of Vermont. He was a Visiting
Fulbright Lecturer at the University of Guyana
and is completing a book about the political
and social history of Guyana from World War II
until the present.
nomic growth and social development was
never formulated. Declining exports meant
an inability to pay for essential imports. In
order to cut expenditure, wages were frozen,
public employees discharged, and social
services reduced. Turning to the printing
press, the government doubled the money
supply between 1973 and 1975. When this
failed as a policy it went begging for foreign
loans and for assistance from the Intema-
tional Monetary Fund and the World Bank.
Real per capital income would appear to
have fallen by almost 50% since 1975.
While government leaders, higher civil
servants, and the bureaucrats of the ruling
People's National Congress (PNC) live quite
well, the vast majority of the population
finds itself engaged in a constant quest for
very limited supplies of essential food
items. The breakdown in the food distribu-
tion system is especially obvious in George-
town, Guyana's capital. As a consequence
of unemployment, inflation, and shortages,
violent crime has been on the increase.
Public services are in decay; electricity
shortages are commonplace and supplies
of pure water have become inadequate.
The mosquito control program for malaria
is at a standstill. Georgetown's sewer lines,
over fifty years old, have begun to burst
Fraud and Violence
Guyana's current crisis is deeply rooted in
the history of this culturally plural nation.
The descendants of East Indian (Hindus
and Moslems) indentured laborers, im-
ported to replace the freed Black African
slaves on the sugar plantations of British
Guiana, have become a majority of the pop-
ulation. East Indians and blacks make up
more than 90% of the population. Small
numbers of Amerindians, Portuguese, Chi-
nese, and English complete the ethnic mo-
saic. British Guiana could only move toward
independence if East Indians and blacks
were able to find enough in common so
that their cultural differences might become
a source of strength rather than division.
At first it appeared that unity might be
achieved through a multi-racial socialist
party which brought black and East Indian
together as an exploited class of workers
seeking independence and a better life.
Modern Guyanese history began with the
formation of the People's Progressive Party
(PPP) in 1950. Led by the charismatic East
Indian Cheddi Jagan, and the ambitious
black Forbes Burnham, the party swept to
victory in 1953. Within six months the Brit-
ish, arguing that the PPP was controlled
by communists, had ousted the Jagan-
Burnham government and suspended
The British commission which investi-
gated these events drew a distinction be-
tween the two leaders. Jagan was perceived
as a dedicated Marxist-Leninist deeply
committed to the Soviet Union while Burn-
ham was seen to be a more pragmatic
democratic socialist without tiesto the inter-
national communist movement. The trag-
edy of their split in 1955, with Jagan
retaining the PPP and Burnham organizing
the PNC, was that it fractured the fragile
racial unity which had been forged in 1950.
Both men continued to appeal to all
Guyanese butthe harsh realitywas that, with
a few exceptions, East Indians marched to
Jagan's tunes while blacks walked behind
Racial animosity replaced class interest at
the center of Guyana's political life as the
British prepared to depart. But ideology
could not be ignored for Jagan continued
to win elections; it appeared certain that he
would lead British Guiana to independence.
This was intolerable to President John E
Kennedy who feared the emergence of an-
other Fidel Castro. Between 1962 and 1964
the Central Intelligence Agency and a part
of the US labor movement subverted the
Jagan government. This led to racial war-
fare between East Indians and blacks. Re-
sponding to US pressure, the British
introduced proportional representation in
place of single-member constituencies.
Burnham joined with Peter d'Aguiar's
United Force (UF), a small middle class,
free enterprise party, to win a majority of the
total votes and form a government.
Forbes Burnham rode to power in 1964
on the shoulders of US intervention, a "fid-
dled" constitution, and violent conflict be-
tween blacks and East Indians. He led
Guyana to independence in 1966 and then
ousted d'Aguiar and seized the Elections
Commission. Rigged general elections in
1968 and 1973 (superbly documented by
Granada Television of Great Britain) gave
Burnham and the PNC complete control of
Guyana. The foundation of his power re-
mains the largely black capital city of
Georgetown, and the black-dominated
Guyana Defense Force (GDF), police, civil
service, and Trade Union Congress (TUC).
Burnham had pledged the construction
of a multi-racial society where all Guyanese
would be treated equally and where oppor-
tunity for betterment would be available to
every citizen. But this is precisely what he
has failed to do. The East Indians view him
as a black leader, responsive only to the
needs and demands of his black followers.
While a few prominent East Indians have
supported the PNC, the vast majority, so
dominant in the rice and sugar industries,
have felt completely alienated.
By 1969-70 Guyana's economy was in
the doldrums; foreign investment was inad-
equate for the grand designs being hatched
by Burnham. The moment for a shift had
arrived. In 1971 the large Canadian-owned
bauxite mines at Linden were nationalized
after an original demand for a controlling
share of the stock was rejected by manage-
ment. Burnham asserted that the national-
ization of foreign-owned industries would
be a key factor in achieving the goals of the
Cooperative Republic of Guyana which he
had established in 1970. While the Prime
Minister had been a vigorous advocate of
producer and consumer cooperatives at
the local level, he now established a state
corporation to run the bauxite industry
rather than introduce some form of worker
control or representation. Many black mine
workers saw no change; one boss had re-
placed another. Numerous management
posts went to incompetent PNC members
whose sole qualification was loyalty to For-
bes Burnham. Within a few years equip-
ment had deteriorated, income had been
siphoned off into other areas, productivity
fell, and capable managers fled the country.
Some militant miners, unhappy over low
wages and a union leadership too subser-
vient to the PNC, established the Organiza-
tion of Working People (OWP). Within a few
years, to Burnham's dismay, the police fired
tear gas at strikers in Linden, once a solid
stronghold of the PNC.
In 1975 the nationalization of the bauxite
industry was completed when the govern-
ment took over the Reynolds Aluminum
mines. Burnham then set his sights on the
largest capitalist enterprise in Guyana, the
Booker/McConnell Company. The sugar,
retail, and other related activities of this
massive company had led many people to
refer to Booker's Guiana rather than British
Guiana, Bookers was nationalized in the fol-
lowing year. Eighty percent of the economy
was now owned by the government but
economic growth and social development
failed to take place. Not only did the income
generated by Guyana's exports of sugar and
bauxite fall, but after 1974 the nation
Laughing at its opponents,
the PNC replied that
elections in Guyana had
always been honest.
was devastated by the huge increase in the -
cost of oil, the world-wide inflation, and the
soaring prices for imported manufac-
Cheddi Jagan was enraged by the fraud-
ulent elections, the victimization of his asso-
ciates, and by Bumham's appropriation of
key planks from the PPP program. Bum-
ham, formerly Castro's enemy, had recog-
nized Cuba along with the Soviet Union and
the People's Republic of China. US anxiety
over his policies failed to worry Burnham;
he was convinced that he would always be
preferred as the only alternative to Jagan.
Both men had, however, sound reasons for
reaching an accommodation. Burnham
knew that Guyana could never really func-
tion so long as the East Indian majority was
alienated from his government while Jagan
was aware that he was permanently ex-
cluded from power so long as the PNC con-
trolled the electoral machinery and the
guns. After complex negotiations Jagan
brought his followers back to the Legislative
Assembly in 1975 and offered Burnham
"critical support." The PNC then permitted
the sugar workers to elect a union leader-
ship loyal to the PPR
Matters became more ticklish in early
1977 as Jagan pushed for participation in
the government and free elections. After
considerable agonizing, Burnham, under
stiff pressure from the black racists and mil-
itant rowdies who have been his constant
bulwark, rejected Jagan's overtures. This
was probably the last chance for Bumham
and Jagan to evolve a peaceful, states-
manlike solution that could have led to na-
tional unity and economic renewal. Jagan
retaliated by calling out the sugar workers in
the summer of 1977. The government re-
fused to budge, brought in strike breakers,
and forced the union to surrender. Bitter-
ness swept the sugar belt and production
collapsed. Burnham raised the level of op-
pression by increasing the harassment of
his opponents. The police and most judges
were prepared to obey the "paramount"
party. Newsprint was periodically denied to
opposition papers; both radio stations were
in the hands of the government.
One element of grave concern for Bum-
ham was the attrition of his black working
class support. He had always taken it for
granted. The failure of the Guyanese econ-
omy led some of his previous supporters to
look elsewhere. Jagan's name had no
magic for them nor were they attracted to
the small middle class political groups. A
number of PPP enthusiasts had wearied of
Jagan's constant Marxist-Leninist chatter
which led nowhere. They, too, were looking
for something new which might promise
hope rather than despair. It was in this con-
text of growing disenchantment with the
two old political warriors that many
Guyanese began to look favorably upon the
Working People's Alliance (WPA) which had
been formed in 1974. It was an alliance of
groups led by Eusi Kwayana (formerly Syd-
ney King), Moses Bhagwan, Clive Thomas,
and Walter Rodney; black and East Indian
were coming together to deal with a na-
tional crisis on the platform of racial unity,
free elections, and democratic socialism,
the very alternative that had been denied the
Guyanese people since 1953.
Elections were constitutionally required
before the end of 1978; Burnham had al-
ready decided that the constitution required
several alterations to enlarge his authority
and place him above the law. A referendum
on the subject was set for July. To the as-
tonishment of the PNC, all opposition
groups and parties coalesced in a massive
boycott campaign. A large section of mid-
dle class opinion which had accepted Burn-
ham because it had feared Jagan was now
solidly against him. All of the important
church leaders, including Bishop Benedict
Singh of the Roman Catholic Church and
Bishop Randolph George of the Anglican
Church, had joined the opposition; Burn-
ham's retention of office through fraud and
violence had become intolerable.
But while Burnham was annoyed, he was
not intimidated. He brazenly announced a
massive victory for himself and set to work
on a new constitution. Not even the Jones-
town catastrophe of November 1978 could
alter the course of the PNC machine though
it was obvious that high officials had been
bribed into providing favors for the Rever-
end Jim Jones. No proper investigation of
the Jonestown disaster ever took place.
In the midst of opposition demonstra-
tions commemorating the first anniversary
of the fraudulent referendum two govern-
ment buildings were destroyed by fire. The
police promptly arrested three prominent
WPA leaders, including Walter Rodney, a
black historian who had been denied a
teaching post at the University of Guyana.
The arson trial was continually postponed
until Walter Rodney died in a mysterious
bomb blast in June 1980 which left evi-
dence of government involvement. Burn-
ham has refused to release key information
about Gregory Smith, a former member of
the GDF who prepared the bomb which
killed Rodney. Instead, the government ac-
cused Walter Rodney of being a terrorist
and charged his brother Donald with pos-
session of an explosive device. In early 1982
Donald Rodney was found guilty and sentto
prison for eighteen months. Some judges
do, however, remain independent; the two
other accused arsonists, Dr. Rupert Roop-
narain and Dr. Omowale, were eventually
released for lack of evidence against them.
The new constitution was completed in
1980 and Burnham became Guyana's first
executive president in October. The Em-
peror Burnham was now Head of State, Su-
preme Executive Authority, Commander in
Chief of the Armed Forces, and immune
from prosecution. Elections for the Legisla-
tive Assembly were set for December 15th.
The PPR WPA, and the Vanguard for Liberty
and Democracy (VLD, a coalition of three
small parties) promptly submitted pro-
posals to guarantee an honest election: a
new Elections Commission presided over
by a person of acknowledged integrity, not
normally a resident of Guyana, which would
be charged with the preparation of accurate
electoral registers. Laughing at its oppo-
nents, the PNC replied that elections in
Guyana had always been honest; no
changes were required.
The opposition needed a unified ap-
proach similar to the referendum boycott of
1978. Everything suggested another mas-
sive boycott effort linked to various forms of
civil disobedience. The WPA and VLD did
not hesitate; they would have nothing to do
with dishonest elections. But a boycott
could only succeed with the support of
Cheddi Jagan and the PPP To the disgust of
the opposition, the PPP decided to contest
the election. Cheddi Jagan, pale shell of
what he had once been, put himself and the
PPP before the nation. He resented the
growing popularity of the WPA. No one
thought any longer of a Jagan government
to replace Burnham. Most discussion cen-
tered on the WPA or the great courage dis-
played by middle class, professional, and
religious leaders in the struggle for human
rights in Guyana. Jagan concluded that the
one way to obtain a bone, even a rotten one,
was to contest the election. Burnham would
grant a few seats to the PPP and this would
leave Jagan with the hollow title of official
opposition chief in Parliament.
Rapidly oiled, the government propa-
ganda machine began a massive cam-
paign, mobilizing the state-controlled radio
and newspapers along with the party faith-
ful. The police, often wearing emblems of
the ruling party, did little to assist the op-
position in the exercise of its constitutional
rights. It looked like another reasonably
neat and tidy dishonest electoral victory for
the Comrade Leader. But suddenly there
was a complication. Not expecting much to
evolve from it, Bumham had agreed to per-
mit independent observers at the election.
All Guyanese were called
upon to unify against the
Before he realized the implications, an Inter-
national Team of Observers had been put
together under Lord Avebury, Secretary
of the British Parliamentary Human
The PNC infiltrated and intimidated op-
position meetings until polling day. Then,
because so many blacks stayed at home in
Georgetown and throughout the country,
the PNC transported its dedicated disciples
from polling place to polling place. Knowl-
edgeable observers concluded that the
basis of PNC support had been so eroded
that it would be fortunate to win 20% of the
vote in an honest election. Following Dr.
Jagan's advice to vote, the sugar workers in
the Corentyne coast found it even more
hopeless than in 1973. Some names had
been eradicated from the electoral lists,
others were informed that they had
But Lord Avebury and his observers had
been courageously touring the polling
places throughout the day even though
most were harassed and several were ar-
rested. They concluded that "the election
was rigged massively and flagrantly," Lord
Avebury denounced the Guyana Elections
Commission as a "toothless poodle of the
PNC." The election had not been "a free and
fair test of the opinion of the people" but
rather a "clumsily managed and blatant
fraud designed to perpetuate the rule of
President Forbes Burnham." Fifteen hours
after the polls had closed the PNC finally
completed its cooking of the results and
shamelessly announced that 82% of the
electorate had participated; it awarded itself
78% of the poll, and grabbed 41 of the 53
The opposition groups did obtain com-
fort from an unexpected source in February
1981. As required by US law the State De-
apartment delivered its annual report to Con-
gress on human rights practices through-
out the world. It contained some devastat-
ing comments in its eight pages on
Guyana. There was "a blurring of the dis-
tinction between the ruling party and the
government." It was difficult for the opposi-
tion parties to function, since the PNC had
"access to unaudited public funds" and
made "full use of the advantages of incum-
bency." The State Department concluded
that "available information indicates that
the government was implicated in the June
13 death of WPA activist Walter Rodney and
in the subsequent removal of key witnesses
from the country." It added: "The general
Guyanese human rights environment has
deteriorated in recent years. A worsening
economic situation has contributed to this
process, primarily by fostering discontent
to which the government has sometimes
responded with repressive measures. The
government also has reacted strongly at
times to perceived threats from an opposi-
tion which increasingly despairs of ever tak-
ing power legally."
Then, suddenly, there was a new crisis for
the government but one which, if skillfully
handled, might force a greater degree of
national cohesion. The one issue which
united all Guyanese was the rejection of
Venezuela's claim to the Essequibo region,
about one-half of Guyana's total area. The
twelve-year agreement to maintain the sta-
tus quo was due to expire in 1982. Venezu-
ela had become more belligerent during
the previous six months; maps were again
appearing which showed Essequibo as a
part of Venezuela. On 2 April 1982, Forbes
Burnham journeyed to Caracas for a one-
day visit with the Social Christian President,
Luis Herrera Campins.
The Venezuelans had indicated that an
"urgent" matter would be discussed. Burn-
ham was informed that the treaty would not
be renewed. Venezuela intended to resume
its claim to the entire Essequibo area and to
insist that Guyana not undertake its pro-
posed hydroelectric project on the Upper
Mazaruni River since it was in the disputed
zone. Burnham's greatest hope for
Guyana's economic recovery was focused
on this project since it would give the nation
sufficient energy to operate aluminum
smelters of its own. The executive president
was aghast at the Venezuelan decision but
he shrewdly set out to exploit the crisis for
his own purposes. All Guyanese were called
upon to unify against the wicked Venezue-
lans. The opposition retorted that Burnham
had been foolish to sign the Geneva Agree-
ment of 1966 which had been negotiated
by Great Britain and Venezuela just prior to
Continued on page 30
ne focus of this issue is on the plea-
sures of Caribbean texts- the de-
lights, that is, that arise from
written things. The five contributions de-
voted to this topic range in their own form
from a book review to an original medita-
tion by the Barbadian poet Edward Kamau
Brathwaite, but they all share an awareness
that committing human experience to writ-
ing changes it and invites from readers re-
sponses different from those they habitually
give to life. The opening overview by Eu-
gene Mohr surveys the subject matter of the
best in Caribbean literary achievement, call-
ing attention to its preoccupation with his-
tory, identity, regionalism versus insularism,
and its search for standards in Europe, Af-
rica, and indigenous nativism. But his essay
connects with the others here in its asser-
tion, for example, that the modified creole in
which Victor Reid narrates New Day is "a
valid answer to Naipaul's contention that
nothing was created" in the Caribbean.
That modified creole in the novel is exactly
a written construct that becomes art
through its departures from spoken dialect.
And it thus becomes a matter for the atten-
tion of the literate everywhere.
In discussing the current literary situation
in the region, the next three essays attempt
to raise the debate above political anxieties
about national, racial, and dialect loyalty.
The authors specifically attempt to place
the discussion of Caribbean writing in the
context of what writing is uniquely about.
My own offer is a mainstream North Ameri-
can assessment of Derek Walcott's prog-
ress toward high status in the literature of
the English-speaking world. While granting
the variety of voices with which Walcott
writes, I have insisted on the consistency
and singleness of Walcott's self-conception
as an artist. Walcott's primary commitment
is to a tradition of the writer's craft; a tradi-
tion that overrides ethnic and social
Janet Butler's essay on George Lam-
ming's development as a writer also moves
beyond his subject matter of colonialism
and race to engage the very aspect of his art
that, in V S. Naipaul's view, "creates difficul-
ties for the reader." As Butler strives to show,
these "difficulties" result from Lamming's
effort to express in his own fiction certain
aspects of the philosophy of Jean-Paul
Sartre and to enrich the texture of his writing
in lyrical directions. The crafted text of Lam-
ming's fiction thus fuses authentic Carib-
bean concerns with a linguistic dimension
of deeper appeal. Difficulty is the price of
admission to elite company.
Kenneth Ramchand's paper is con-
cerned with the fate of writing in the region
generally. He brings to the discussion the
insights of such continental savants as
Claude L6vi-Strauss and Roland Barthes
into the autonomy of the written medium.
As he shows in a close analysis of a passage
of Samuel Selvon's, the easy movement
from dialect to standard to poetic language
and back creates a text with its own plea-
sures. Like other rhetorical writing, it is ani-
mated by an inherent need to subvert the
familiarity of speech in order to force an
awareness in its readers of further esthetic
possibilities in language. Ramchand thus
goes some distance toward redirecting the
discussion away from "a quarrel between
content and form, speech and writing, folk
and humanist, Africa and Europe, or even
Brathwaite and Walcott."
But in his negative remarks on Brath-
waite's opinions about "English in the Car-
ibbean," Ramchand is partly wrong, mostly
because Brathwaite does not always prac-
tice what he preaches. In the final contribu-
tion presented here, excerpted from a work-
in-progress called "Gods of the Middle Pas-
sage," Edward Kamau Brathwaite makes
subtle use of what he has elsewhere con-
temptuously called the "paraphernalia of
books." In it he has woven out of his own
poetry, scholarly quotation, and some med-
itative wordplay-along with extensive foot-
notes and a discography that we have not
had room to print-a novel and highly "tex-
tual" artistic effort. Thus, even though he
has often vigorously disagreed with those
writers like Naipaul, Walcott, and Selvon-
whose reputations among the literate are
secure-he shows himself quite conscious
of the special opportunities in the written
text. His script here, devoted to exploring his
feeling for African origins and the sea
change suffered by ancestral divinities, is
precisely what Ramchand might call a writ-
erly text, with its own demanding but worth-
while pleasures. While writers like Walcott
and Lamming have gone abroad in quest of
a validating tradition of craftsmanship,
Brathwaite has sought to draw into a West
Indian setting some of the concerns of
Post-Modernism. But all of them know that
to want to write at all is to claim citizenship
in a world elsewhere.
Although it is in the spirit of a dying fall,
we must apologize here for the editorial ne-
cessity of printing the quoted poetry as
prose, thus violating an admittedly signifi-
cant element of its textuality.
The Pleasures of
West Indian Writing
An Introduction to the Literature
By Eugene V. Mohr
Is there no meaningful unity-historical,
cultural, socio-economic-that makes
the Caribbean more than a scattering of
islands or a collection of travel ads? This is
not a simple question posed by ignorance;
nor is it easy to answer. The checkered colo-
nial background of the region and the re-
sulting linguistic diversity-four official
languages and a kaleidoscope of creoles-
are serious challenges to the concept of
Caribbean unity. Political and economic di-
visions impose additional cleavages. More-
over, a vision of the Caribbean as an
integrated unit is very recent; still more re-
cent have been the insights of Caribbean
intellectuals themselves on the issues of
The West Indies, the English-speaking
countries of the Caribbean, are a good
place to begin examining this issue. West
Indians writing since World War II (a period
which promised the end of overt colonial-
ism) have been deeply concerned with the
questions suggested above. They have
been concerned with history; with socio-
economic, political, and cultural ties; and
with personal and communal identity.
History is first on the list because it is so
basic to the definition of a civilization, a
nation, even an individual. The problem
with most records of Caribbean history up
to now is that they tell us less about the
people and institutions of the Caribbean
than about the European powers whose for-
tunes derived for centuries from New World
gold and sugar. In a controversial para-
graph from his book The Middle Passage,
Trinidadian novelist V.S. Naipaul presses
this problem to almost intolerable limits.
"How can the history of this West Indian
futility be written? he asks: "What tone shall
the historian adopt? Shall he be as aca-
demic as Sir Alan Burns, protesting from
time to time at some brutality, and getting
West Indian brutality in the context of Euro-
pean brutality? Shall he, like Salvador de
Madariaga, weigh one set of brutalities
Eugene V Mohr teaches West Indian literature
at the University of Puerto Rico. His latest
study, The Nuyorican Experience: Literature of
the Puerto Rican Minority, will be published by
Greenwood Press in January 1983.
against another, and conclude that one has
not been described in all its foulness and
that this is unfair to Spain? Shall he, like the
West Indian historians, who can only now
begin to face their history, be icily detached
and tell the story of the slave trade as if it
were just another aspect of mercantilism?
The story of the islands can never be satis-
factorily told. Brutality is not the only diffi-
culty. History is built around achievement
and creation; and nothing was created in
the West Indies." This was a cruel challenge
for a region taking its first faltering steps
outside the foster home of colonialism, and
many people have never forgiven Naipaul
for it. But his challenge was one which had
to be made, because, spoken or unspoken,
it had to be answered. If West Indian history
was unknown, it would have to be dis-
covered; if it did not exist, it would have to
Naipaul's wasn't the only disquieting
voice. George Lamming is a man very
much committed to the Caribbean, yet in
his autobiographical novel In the Castle of
My Skin, he transfers to Barbados of the
1930s the same sinister loss of historical
awareness that we find in Orwell's 1984.
The day is May 24, Queen Victoria's birth-
day. A group of boys are sitting in the yard of
a village grammar school, waiting to be dis-
missed after the annual ceremonies honor-
ing the old queen. The youngsters, trying to
figure out what the ceremonies have to do
with them, speculate with scraps of grown-
up's conversation: "They had talked about
her as a good queen because she freed
them. That's what they said, a little boy was
repeating. They said she made us free, you
and me and him and you. I heard them say
that. How it was the queen that made them
free....They must have been locked up
once in a kind of gaol. That's what it was,
one boy said quietly.... The small boy was
puzzled. He understood the meaning of
gaol and prisoner. He had seen the pris-
oners several times. They passed in chain
gangs early in the morning on their way to
work. And he knew what that meant. They
were being punished. After they had served
sentence they would be free again. But the
old woman on the wall wasn't talking about
that. She was talking about something dif-
ferent. Something bigger. That's how it
seemed to him. He asked the teacher what
was the meaning of slave, and the teacher
explained. But it didn't make sense. He
didn't understand how anyone could be
bought by another. He knew horses and
dogs could be bought and worked. But he
couldn't understand how one man could
buy another man....Slave. The little boy had
heard the word for the first time and when
the teacher explained the meaning, he had
a strange feeling. The feeling you get when
someone relates a murder. Thank God, he
wasn't ever a slave. He or his father or his
father's father. Thank God nobody in Bar-
bados was ever a slave....They laughed
quietly. Imagine any man in any part of the
world owning a man or woman from Bar-
bados. They would forget all about it since it
happened too long ago. Moreover, they
weren't told anything about that.... It was too
far back for anyone to worry about teaching
it as history. That's really why it wasn't
taught. It was too far back. And nobody
knew where this slavery business took
place. The teacher had simply said, not
here, somewhere else. Probably it never
happened at all."
All the characters in Lamming's village
are like the boys in the schoolyard, living on
ignorance and myth until hidden historical
processes finally overtake and overwhelm
them. Only then, as the novel ends, do the
villagers approach a degree of historical
self-awareness which might make a mean-
ingful social and political life possible to
them in the future.
This preoccupation with Caribbean his-
tory is widespread among contemporary
West Indian writers. The writers do not com-
pete with professional historians; what they
are involved in is not historic data, but his-
toric meaning, the discovery of design in
the apparently random jumble of names,
dates, and battles that passes for history.
For the creative writers history is always
leading toward now; it is the path to self-
understanding and self-definition.
Lamming's Natives of My Person, the
narration of a seventeenth-century voyage
of colonization, is a beautifully conceived
allegory about the motivations-greed,
Continued on page 33
And He Would Be Master
By Richard Dwyer
he publication of Derek Walcott's
new book of verse, The Fortunate
Traveller, (Farrar, Straus & Giroux
Inc., 1982) has brought forth a number of
thoughtful retrospective reviews of his life-
work. Those by Helen Vendler in the New
York Review of Books, entitled "Poet of
Two Worlds," and by Denis Donoghue in
the New York Times Book Review, called
"The Two Sides of Derek Walcott," are
among the best, as well as being symp-
tomatic of how close commentary on Wal-
cott is to depositing a cliche. Their titles tell
most of the story. Walcott is seen as living a
kind of schizoid life, divided between the
allegiance of much of his verse to British
literature, the classics, and now, American
culture, while his plays cling to the accents
of Trinidad and aspire to give his region's
people the heroes that VS. Naipaul claims
they deny themselves. Variants on this as-
sessment, particularly among Caribbean
writers, see Walcott divided into the per-
sonae of Exile and Castaway, and express-
ing both essential rootlessness and
anguished racination, or they pit his squint-
ing celebration of the islands against Nai-
paul's transcendent cynicism. Real experts
at this game go on to attribute the contrast
to the relatively greater security of the de-
scendants of plantation slaves on the one
hand and anxiety of the more recent East
Indian economic immigrants on the other.
While all of this is true, it needs qualifica-
tion if Walcott's full stature, or at least the
one he hopes for, is to be appreciated, par-
ticularly in the Caribbean. One obstacle to a
larger assessment is Walcott himself, who
has endlessly abetted this split image from
the time of his very earliest poems. Witness
the well-known lines of A Far Cry from
Africa: How choose/Between this Africa
and the English/tongue I love?/Betray
them both, or give back/what they give?
In the language of the Norton Anthology
of English Literature, Walcott explores the
anxieties and opportunities of Third World
status, according to his critics. It is true that
Richard Dwyer teaches English literature at
Florida International University. He has pub-
lished three books on American studies and
hasjust completed Lying on the Eastern Slope.
he encourages this impression by com-
plaining of the pains and pleasures of ex-
ile-or at least sojourns abroad. And he
acknowledges the discontents of racina-
tion: I am growing hoarse/from repeating
the praise/of the ape and the ass,/the
enslaved, the indentured,/who are
nothing (At last).
The limitless Caribbean seascapes are as
beautiful as they are boring; "There is too
much nothing here." And he hates colonial
history-his own version of the nightmare
from which Joyce's Stephen Dedalus was
trying to escape. He hates the squalor of the
slums of empire, and, above all, he hates
the local "Mimic Men"-the vulgar imitators
of power politics, cheap exploiters of Third
World dreams, tawdry sellouts to coin of a
dozen overseas origins: that new race of
dung beetles, frock-coated,/iridescent/
crawling over people ("Hic Jacet"). His
other gestures toward the image of his own
bifurcation are manifold, ranging from the
titles of his early books, like The Castaway
(1965) and The Gulf (1969) to the organi-
zation of the latest volume into the sections
"North, South, North." Now, at least finan-
cially secure, he would make his own quali-
fication as to the meaning of his dual
nature, in an interview with the Trinidad Ex-
press (3/14/82), by saying that "I think I
have achieved a balance between being in
the United States and Trinidad."
But all of this is merely to make an arbi-
trary division of his subject matter, topics,
themes, and essential imagery into two
piles and to miss the fundamental distinc-
tion between all of that on the one hand, and
on the other, his self-conception as an artist.
This is the new distinction I would make as a
contribution toward placing him among the
company of his real peers and reinterpret-
ing the meaning of those "two worlds."
The evidence for a rereading is every-
where in his books, if we can get beyond the
idea that he is one more victim of empire,
another of Frantz Fanon's psychiatric casu-
alities, mooning like Caliban about his is-
land, pursued by patronizing cries of "O,
brave Third World!" Absolutely central to
the evidence is his book Another Life
(1973). This masterpiece is his equivalent
both of Wordsworth's Prelude and Joyce's
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. It
is a spiritual autobiography narrating the
growth of the poet's mind. From the epi-
graph to the first section, "The Divided
Child," commentators have drawn one of
the chief images of his situation. But a full
citation of the passage that he takes from
Andre Malraux's Psychology of Art will
show that it has been narrowly interpreted
to yield a colonial, rather than a human,
message: "An old story goes that Cimabue
was struck with admiration when he saw the
shepherd boy, Giotto, sketching sheep. But,
according to the true biographies, it is never
the sheep that inspire a Giotto with the love
of painting: but, rather, his first sight of the
paintings of such a man as Cimabue. What
makes the artist is the circumstance that in
his youth he was more deeply moved by the
sight of the works of art than by that of the
things which they portray."
There is the heart of the matter: works of
art versus the things of this world. This cru-
cial passage speaks of the division felt by
everyone, from the islands of the Aegean,
the North Sea, or the Caribbean, who strives
to add to the real world into which he was
fortuitously born another ideal world of art
and civilization, chosen by vocation. The
Continued on page 36
The Existentialism of
The Early Development of a Writer
By Janet Butler
George Lamming is commonly re-
garded as a political novelist, indeed,
as a theoretician of the Third World.
In a 1978 interview in Caribbean Contact,
he observed that he had really been writing
one book all his life, only in installments. He
has, in fact, taken for his subject-matter all
the concerns of the newly emergent coun-
tries: the growing restiveness of the colonial
Caribbean in the late 1930s, emigration to
the "mother country" in the late 1940s and
1950s, and subsequently national indepen-
dence, and post-colonialism.
But in his writing politics is more than
simple topicality, although it is this which
has received most critical attention. In only
one place outside the fiction has Lamming
ever indicated his primary concern as a
political novelist, and there the crucial re-
mark is almost an afterthought. In that
same 1978 interview he remarked: "The
theme going through all of my books is the
theme of change and the way in which time
dictates change, and the way in which peo-
ple are called upon to make new responses
to new situations, many of which they
"To make new responses" is the heart of
Lamming's writing. What he is talking
about is choices, the way in which man
does or does not respond to the possibilities
before him. The emphasis is the same one
he made at the 1956 Paris Conference of
Negro-African Writers and Artists, at which
James Baldwin noted Lamming's attention
to the kind of life Negroes would choose in
the distant future. Lamming is talking about
freedom, not as a political goal but as an
The reader curious enough to delve into
Lamming's very early writing-that done
before he left the Caribbean for England-
is invariably disconcerted by what he finds.
He may even feel that he is not reading
"Lamming," and, in a sense, he is not. The
writer we think of as George Lamming was
"born" in the white capital of the dissolving
British empire. The impetus which finally
tapped and released the imaginative energy
of the West Indian colonial and produced
Janet Butler teaches English literature at the
University of Puerto Rico, Rfo Piedras.
the complex, lyrical first novel, In the Cas-
tle of My Skin (1953), was the shock that
came from experiencing himself as the
member of a conspicuous minority. This
experience is not fully dealt with until The
Emigrants, published in 1954. But in ac-
"tual life, the London experience described
in The Emigrants triggered the writing of
Castle, and although Castle deals with
quite another topic-colonialism-the
novel does exhibit traces of its actual in-
spiration, the experience of racism.
But this experience alone could not have
produced Castle or any other of Lam-
ming's books. Two elements conjoined to
produce the political intent of his mature
fiction. Coupled with the experience of mi-
nority racism, informing and illuminating it,
was Lamming's familiarity with Sartrian ex-
istentialism, a knowledge which he brought
with him from Trinidad. The philosophy is
the least recognized element in his fiction,
all but ignored in the critics' rush to com-
ment on the novels' overtly political aspects.
Yet not to see the key role of the existential-
ism is to miss the single urgent ethic under-
lying his works. Not to see the existentialism
is not to be able to identify that element in
Lamming's writing which has most per-
plexed readers, leading otherwise-admiring
critics to complain of passages that are "un-
necessarily difficult to read," of symbolism
whose style "jarred and confused the
reader," or, to VS. Naipaul's criticism that
Lamming "creates difficulties for the
reader." These "difficulties" are very real but
not insoluble; they result from the author's
intense, absorbed working out of various
tenets of Sartre's philosophy, and the reader
who has not recently read Being and Noth-
ingness may indeed be mystified by cer-
tain passages in Lamming.
Except, however, for the crucial third
chapter, such criticisms of "difficulties"
have never been leveled against In the
Castle of My Skin. The narrative wealth of
remembered boyhood subdues the causa-
tive, existentialist philosophy which under-
girds this semi-autobiographical novel. But
once this lode of West Indies boyhood is
used up, written out, Lamming's subse-
quent novels have groped for sufficient ex-
perience with which to flesh out the still
exigent, even obsessive philosophy. Failing
to find this, they have turned increasingly to
The political intentions behind the
London novels are illuminated if we look at
what Lamming was writing before he trav-
eled to England at age 23. It is sometimes
said that the difference between the writing
he did in Trinidad and that done in England
is primarily one of genre-i.e., that he wrote
poetry in the Caribbean but produced fic-
tion only after he had settled in London.
Lamming himself made this distinction in a
1970 Kas-Kas interview, apparently forget-
ting two of his short stories written and pub-
lished while still in the Caribbean. Lamming
experimented with both poetry and short
fiction in Trinidad. While teaching at the
Colegio Venezuela in Port-of-Spain, two of
his stories were published in Frank Col-
lymore's Bim and another in Life and Let-
ters and the London Mercury. "Birds of a
Feather" is an indictment of social torpor in
Trinidad, a torpor born of colonialism and
finally interrupted by the American military
presence. Although "David's Walk" has
never been reprinted since its 1948 pub-
Continued on page 38
The Fate of Writing
in the West Indies
Reflections on Oral and Written Literature
By Kenneth Ramchand
he temptation to give over the whole
discussion of the fate of writing to an
analysis of the use of dialect in VS.
Naipaul's fiction has been resisted, but the
point of what might have been too perverse
an exercise must be salvaged: Naipaul is an
outstanding writer, and there is an impor-
tant difference between writing and speech.
Naipaul's use of dialect is precisely that-
the use of dialect. A writer does not use
writing as a container for dialect or oral
literature or the oral tradition or as a con-
tainer for anything. He feeds on the dialect
or the oral traditions available to him to
carry on the business of writing.
The writing system taught to the ex-slave
after Emancipation was laden with other
cultural experiences, and directives to the
colonized person, and did not intend to
make concessions to the creole speech
with its African base, African phonology and
the long period of morality in which it had
been simmering. So the transition from
speech to writing which in most countries is
regarded as an inevitable element in the
growth of a society has been accompanied
in the ex-imperial Caribbean by more than
the usual sense of nostalgia for what is
being lost with each passage. For Edouard
Glissant ("Free and Forced Poetics," Al-
cheringa, 1976) the transition will not be
made and the Creole will become more and
more the language of helplessness unless
there is profound social and political
change to free the Martiniquan community:
"The shouted language knots itself into a
contorted language, a language of frustra-
tion.... The choppiness, drumming, accel-
eration, lusty repetitions, slurring of
syllables, nonsense, allegories and hidden
meaning, all the aspects of this verbal delir-
ium condense phase by phase the history
of this dramatic language." For Edward
Brathwaite, less politically forthright and
logically less interested in writing, if we are
to judge from his "English in the Carib-
Kenneth Ramchand is reader in West Indian
literature at the University of the West Indies, St
Augustine. Among his works are: An Introduc-
tion to the Study of West Indian Literature; The
West Indian Novel and Its Background; West
Indian Narrative: An Introductory Anthology;
and West Indian Poetry: An Anthology.
bean" (in Fiedler and Baker, English Liter-
ature: Opening Up the Cannon, 1981), a
submerged entity called nation language
("the language that is influenced very
strongly by the African model, the African
aspect of our New World/Caribbean
heritage") is to be recognized, and encour-
agement should be given to the intran-
sigent sound-poets who are not concerned
with written script at all.
As it is not possible to discuss writing in
the West Indies without recognizing the en-
croachment of social, political and cultural
imperatives often concealed in the form of
aesthetic theory or theories of language, it is
perhaps a good thing to have one's say and
be done. When the "linguistic continuum
theory" was proposed in my West Indian
Novel and Its Background (1970), it was
suggested that although it might be difficult
for a linguist dealing with grammar, lexis,
and phonology to demonstrate continuity
across the dialects into West Indian Stan-
dard English, the existence of the West In-
dian-speaking person was living proof. The
educated West Indian with a poor back-
ground could unite all the elements of the
continuum inside himself where further
mixtures and mutations could be taking
place. "I speak, therefore the continuum
There are some West Indians who do not
hold that there are two, three or four lan-
guages in the island they know. This Trin-
idadian speaker recognizes one language
which he calls Trinidad Creole or Trinida-
dian English and which includes the whole
continuum from the Standard or educated
variety to the deepest level of dialect at his
command. The whole thing is a Creole, and
it is in a state of flux. But that it is a language,
as distinct as American English or Aus-
tralian English or British English in spite of
over-laps with other languages and in spite
of the resemblance of its formal variety to
the formal varieties of the languages already
mentioned, that it is an autonomous and
fully coordinated language becomes irre-
sistible once this language is articulated by
a native speaker.
That the essential difference should exist
at the phonological level should not be sur-
prising. In Comparative Afro-American
(1980), a study of the so-called English-
based Creoles in the New World, Mervyn
Alleyne argues that beginning with an
African base, the Creoles began to drop one
set of features and take on other features to
become what they are today: "Africans of
varying linguistic and geographical origins
(but confined to West Africa) underwent
language change arising primarily out of
new communicative needs within their own
number, and secondly out of communica-
tive needs with Europeans (in this case
Englishmen, themselves of varying dialec-
tical and geographical origins within the
United Kingdom). It is axiomatic of all such
changes arising out of language contact
that there will be transmissions or con-
tinuities from the native language of the
people undergoing linguistic change.... In
many instances these transmissions and
continuities are eventually discarded, and
the newly-adopted language may show ab-
solutely no trace of the former native lan-
guage. The order of total discarding of
former native language elements is as fol-
lows: (1) vocabulary; (2) morphology; (3)
syntax; and (4) phonology. And within pho-
nology it seems that the native input intona-
tion pattern continues for the longest time
in the newly-adopted language." It is in line
with the order of discarding, suggested by
Alleyne, that the difference between West
Indian Standards and other English-based
Standards should be most obvious at the
level of sound. And it is likely that it is at this
level that the influence of African languages
will continue to be felt in the West Indian
Creoles. In what follows one would like to
feel free to concentrate on writing, more
precisely, imaginative writing as it exists in
novels, plays and poems without having to
last resort to background or context and
without the need to attack or defend politi-
It is now proposed to examine a piece of
writing as something literary. But before
doing so it might be helpful to consider an
isolated sentence: "The old man standing
on the platform in the subway." A speaker of
Trinidadian English will instinctively read
that isolated sentence as follows: "De ole-
man standing on-de-platform in-de-sub-
way." Should he see a comma between
"man" and "standing," however, he would
feel in the absence of further clue or context
that he must respect the 'th' in the first word,
pronounce the 'd' in old and stop the run-
on, give value to the 'g' in 'standing' and in
general not speed up the sentence. The
point is not so much the difference between
dialect and standard as that the comma
awakes him, puts him on the alert about the
possibilities that are inherent in his writing
system. It would be confusing for the script
to attempt to do more than it does, and
there is no way in which the writing system
can contain all the clues for a foreigner to
articulate the sentence as appropriately as
the native speaker can. Writing is a script,
and the creation of the script automatically
invokes or presumes the existence of a
speaker who can decode it because he is
familiar with the language to which the
script refers. The act of writing can only be
completed by the act of reading.
The true climax of Samuel Selvon's The
Lonely Londoners is neither a celebration
of Moses's oneness with those sad men
who seem less and less to be "the boys,"
nor an acceptance of his burdensome role
as their priest and confessor: " The old
Moses, standing on the banks of the
Thames.  Sometimes he think he see
some sort of profound realisation in his
life, as if all that happen to him was experi-
ence that make him a better man, as if
now he could draw apart from any hus-
tling and just sit down and watch other
people fight to live  Under the kiffkiff
laughter, behind the ballad and the epi-
sode, the what-happening, the summer-is-
hearts, he could see a great aimlessness, a
great restless swaying movement that
leaving you standing in the same spot. 
As if a forlorn shadow of doom fall on all
the spades in the country.  As if he
could see the black faces bobbing up and
down in the millions of white strained
faces, everybody hustling along the
Strand, the spades jostling in the crowd,
bewildered, hopeless.  As if on the sur-
face things don't look so bad, but when
you go down a little, you bounce up a
kind of misery and pathos and a frighten-
ing-what?  He don't know the right
word but he have the right feeling in his
heart. [81As if the boys laughing but they
only laughing because they fraid to cry,
they only laughing because to think so
much about everything would be a big
calamity-like how he here now, the
thoughts so heavy like he unable to move
his body.  Still, it had a vastness and a
greatness in the way he was feeling
tonight, like it was something solid after
feeling everything else give way, and
though he ain't getting no happiness out
of the cogitations he still pondering, for is
the first time that he ever find himself
thinking like that.  Daniel was telling
him how over in France all kinds of fel-
lows writing books what turning out to be
best-sellers.  Taxi-driver porter, road-
sweeper-it didn't matter.  One day
you sweating in the factory and the next
day all the newspapers have your name
and photo, saying how you are a literary
giant.  He watch a tugboat on the
Thames, wondering if he could ever write
a book (like that) what everybody would
The passage impresses Moses's isola-
tion, the painful birth of consciousness, and
the inevitable pull once consciousness is
awakened, toward articulation, in this case,
and in our kind of civilization, writing. Di-
alect features to be noticed below operate
here, as in the novel as a whole, as part of an
account of the necessary transition from a
mode of existence we can call "orality" to a
mode which like writing wishes to take with
it what it can of "orality" into the next phase
where language can also exist as a concep-
tual tool. To use Glissant's formulation, it is
part of the movement "to transform the
shout we once uttered into a speech which
continues it, thus discovering, albeit intel-
lectually [my italics], the expression of a
finally liberated poetics."
It is immediately noticeable about the
passage quoted that the join between the
language of the narrator and the language
representing Moses's thoughts and feelings
is virtually invisible, see for instance, sen-
tence "7"; and one is struck at once too by
the easy absorption of non-didlect words
like "profound realisation", "cogitations",
"pondering" etc. without any sense of
mockery at something inappropriate or
grandiloquent Throughout too, there is the
unfailing dialect tone (as distinct from di-
alect words, dialect formulations or dialect
syntax) which allows Selvon to do what he
likes all along his Creole spectrum without
losing the illusion of dialect.
Clever analysis would highlight the string
of "as ifs" threading the passage, giving way
to forms involving "like" in sentence "8,"
and coming to emphatic and thematic cli-
max with "book like that" in sentence
"13"-an example of how writing can use
repetition and refrain to put sentences in
parallel pattern while working for cumula-
tive effect. And sentences "8" and "9" the
longest sentences in the passage coincide
with Moses's sense of birth, and enact that
swelling in the piling up of the phrases in
But there are also effects that we can
describe as effects of defamiliarization:
there is the animate being Moses fixed,
while the river flows, and the use of "stand-
ing" whose semantic value we ignore as it
participates in the phrase "standing on the
banks of the Thames" to suggest move-
ment, contrasting with the 'fixed' Moses.
There is the power which, in sentence "3,"
suggests somebody standing on a plat-
form, left by a train, as well as the sense of a
person hanging on to the strap in an under-
ground train, which is conveyed by the last
two phases "a great restless swaying mo-
tion that leaving you standing in the same
spot," in the same sentence; there is the way
in which, quite separate from semantics,
sentence "3" enacts the moving off of a
train; and there are the black faces "bob-
bing up and down" in the crowd like the bits
of flotsam bobbing about on the river
Moses is looking at.
This passage has been looked at in detail
partly to illustrate a fruitful conjunction of
elements associated with orality and the
phenomenon of writing, and partly be-
cause it was necessary to illustrate that once
something becomes writing (imaginative
writing), it becomes part of a system whose
function is, by having it all ways, to subvert
and defamiliarize. It does not matter
whether Samuel Selvon agrees with this
analysis or not, since it is part of the point
that when we read we are dealing with writ-
ing, not the writer. The pleasure of the text is
the pleasure of the reader's intercourse with
Continued on page 40
Gods of the Middle
By Edward Kamau Brathwaite
To understand-to really interstand-
how 'the gods come from Guinea,'
how they 'walk up out of the sea into
our houses,' how Legba has become a crip-
ple, Ogoun a carpenter, Shango the
thunder of the locomotive engine-we
have to begin at the beginning. And not
only with Africa, but with nam. Though the
two are woven into an intimate, inseparable
paradigm like Zaka's baskets.
Nam is the word we give to the indestruc-
tible and atomic core of man's culture. It is
the kernel of his name, his nature of
immanence, man in extremis, extrem-
est nativeness, disguised backward
(namrCanan). It is the essence of our culture
in the sense that culture is the essence
what man eat (nyam, yam); and the pow-
er and the glory out of that: nyame,
We are talking, in other words, of an in-
dwelling, man-inhabiting (not hibiting)
organic force (orisha, loa), capable ofcos-
mological extension (OgotemmEli) which
is or can be at the same time reductive like
unto the shards of Kalahari sand. We are
talking, to look a little further on, about how
we can meaningfully begin to think of Mid-
dle Passage, slavery, the drum and riddims
Edward Kamau Brathwaite, the prolific Barba-
dian writer, has authored works of poetry, criti-
cism, theater, short stories, and history. His
trilogy of poetry-Rights of Passage, Masks,
Islands-has been recorded on Argo Records.
A past editor of Savacou and BIM, he is pres-
ently doing research in the Library of
of survival: limbo, vodoun, the apparently
miraculous transformation of imprisoned
self ('something torn and new') in the
In this regard, America Africana is unique.
In other worlds (Allah, Shiva, Jesus
Christos) gods do not travel so humbly, so
utterly defaced, almost disgraced, in
shackled, crippled man. Nor do they-
could they?-move without their mosques
and hymnbooks, Bible, Qur'an, Vedas. And
even if nam didn't come from Africa
(Namibia, Tutankhamen; not to mention
the extensions into Surinam and Vietnam),
we would have had, as they say, to invent it.
Because it is here, in Africa, that we most
find it. Here where the whole principle and
process of what we call 'religion' is so differ-
ent from the dominant Euro-Asian ec-
umenic notion of that word.
Nam, of course, had them fox, had them
fool(ed). The disguise distracted them.
Meaning of the mask eludedthem. Coming
from civilizations of 'progress,' of victories
of wheel and metal, of time (the clock) that
ticked straight forward on from calendars of
dead to missile future (2001), they wor-
shipped god in a time/place destination:
heaven or the valley of Valhalla. A God so
just, so distant and so jealous (why?),
sometimes they could not even call his
name. They travelled upwards to salvation
like Jacob's Ladder, Pilgrim's Progress, the
hierarchies of the Holy Rood; sam-
sara/karma. God could hardly ever
come to you.
And so the post-renaissance cultures bi-
furcated: sacred and secular, Pope and Em-
peror, spirit and water, God and Mammon:
dissociation of the sensibility.
With nam it was (and is) the opposite.
The 'Church' is where man meet. There is a
theology of drums. Not kristos but ki-
nesis. Not Adoration but Possession: when
man 'becomes again a god and walks
among us; look, here are his rags, here is his
crutch and his satchel of dreams; here is his
hoe and his rude implements...'
So that Kromantin captured, stripped
and slavered, 'with nothing but his breath,'
the slave could wait. In having apparently
nothing, he had everything. The journey
over water: middle passage: time's river:
was a new initiation: lembe: limbo: legba:
god of the crossroads disguised as an old
man (Macoute, Makak, Papa Bois) crippled.
And yet that crutch he uses-look, look
closely-is Shango's double-headed axe of
thunderstone. Hence Legba = Toussaint
L'Ouverture, the crippled liberator.
Above all, on thatjourney, there had to be
the word, explanation of the spirit's work:
ancestor, history, anansesem: the god this
time as spy, as spider: origen:
Shen people first came into the
world, Dada Segbo had no wife
He called all the people together
He took out a cowrie. He told his people to
take that cowrie and find a wife for him.
The people said, "What does the king
mean? Can one get a wife with only one
cowrie?"Everybody said, "No, we cannot
do it." They said, "A man can never find a
wife for one cowrie."
Now Yo come, and he said he could get a
girl for one cowrie. Dada Segbo said, "All
right." He gave him the cowrie.
Yo sent to buy flint and bamboo tinder.
Then he went and found dry straw. With
these he set the straw on fire. The
grasshoppers began to jump. Yo had a
sack beside him, and he collected them
inside the sack.
So now he went on his way with his sack
of grasshoppers, until he came to the
house ofan old woman. Now, this woman
was drying beans in front of her house but
the chickens came and ate them.
Yo said, "Haven't you corn to give your
chickens?"Now, this was the time of fam-
ine. There was nothing to eat. Yo said, "All
right. I have grasshoppers here. If I throw
these to your chickens, they will let your
The woman said, "Yes." So he gave the
grasshoppers to the chickens, and when
the chickens finished eating them, he took
The old woman cried out, "But, Yo, why
are you taking away my beans?"
He said, "Didn't you tell me to throw my
grasshoppers to your chickens? I bought
them with a cowrie"
The grasshoppers came from the straw;
The money for the straw came from
So Yo went on. Now he came to a river
where fishermen were fishing. He saw that
the people from the village of Tofi were
trying to fish, but that the fish had nothing
to eat. So he said, "If you like, I will throw
my beans in the river The fish will come to
eat, and you will have a good catch."
The people said, "True, true...," and they
told him to throw in the beans. So the
fishermen caught many, many fish.
Yo picked out the largest fish for himself
The fishermen cried out after him, "Yo,
why are you taking away our fish?"
Yo said, "Did you forget that you took my
The beans came from the old woman,
The old woman took my grasshoppers;
The grasshoppers came from the straw;
The money for the straw came from
"I do nothing without getting my reward."
And Yo continued on his way...
(From M.J. and ES. Herskovits,
Dahomean Narrative, 1958.)
Once when Anancy was a little boy
he was going on an' him see
Ping-Wing bramble wida rat. Him
fight Ping-Wing take 'way the rat so carry
it hang it up in the kitchen. When him was
gawn Granny come een an' eat off the rat
When Anancy come back him cyan fine
the rat. Him say, 'Come, come Granny give
me me rat, me rat come from Ping-Wing,
Ping-Wing juk me han: me han' come
from God.' Granny say, Ah can't give you
back the rat because ah heat it offbut take
Anancy go awn until him see a man was
cutting cane without a knife. Him say,
'Man, how come you cutting' cane widout
a knife an' I have knife?' The man take
Anancy knife start cut the cane an' bruk
Anancy say, 'Come come man give me mi
knife mi knife come from Granny Granny
eat mi rat mi rat come from Ping-Wing
Ping-Wingjuk mi han'mi han' come from
The man say, Ah can't give you back yo'
knife for it break. But tek dis grass...
(From Neville Dawes, The
Last Enchantment, 1960.)
The god of Dahomey/Jamaica is in the
circle of Ananse, in the cycle of hisnommo,
in the capsule of his word. For it is the
capsule that made the journey of the culture
of the circle possible: the hold of the slave-
ship as creative space: all virtuis self-con-
tained: the wound as nam: ananse:
The Culture of the
A ll was now ready for departure ex-
cept that there was no fire in the
smithy. The ancestor slipped into
Continued on page 42
Risk Taking in the
Gambling and Politics in Bermuda
By Frank E. Manning
ambling is a popular and pervasive
pastime throughout the Caribbean.
British soccer pool agencies and off
track betting parlors wired to Europe and
North America are prominent fixtures on
urban landscapes, and often the most reli-
able communications link with the metrop-
olis. Race tracks are important centers of
social life in the Commonwealth countries,
as are cockfight arenas in areas shaped by
French or Spanish colonial influence. In Ja-
maica and elsewhere, street hustlers en-
gage passersby in games of three card
monte. In rum shops and backyards, male
peer groups spend countless hours at dom-
inoes, cards, craps, and wari. Raffles, lot-
teries, and pyramidal chain schemes are a
basis of extensive social networks. Bingo
and similar games are held regularly in rec-
reational clubs. Casino gambling, a major
attraction in a growing number of tourist
resorts, casts a long shadow over local soci-
ety, even in countries where residents are
formally prohibited from playing.
Is this massive expenditure of money,
time, and human energy an idle diversion
that social researchers can safely overlook?
Most have apparently thought so, for the
scholarly literature on the Caribbean con-
tains only scattered, typically off-hand refer-
ences to gambling.
Gambling is an essential expression of
the Caribbean acquisitive style. As my infor-
mants say, "You've got to speculate to accu-
mulate." Gambling also parallels many
other ways that Caribbean peoples relate to
experience, such as the widespread use of
divinatory and manipulative obeah. When it
is public and collective, the gambling sce-
nario reveals a great deal about the ordering
of Caribbean society, notably the distribu-
tion of wealth and power.
Crown and Anchor
The significance of gambling is well illus-
trated in the "stock market," a makeshift
casino found on the grounds of festival
Frank E. Manning teaches anthropology at the
University of Western Ontario. He is currently a
Chapman Fellow at the Institute of Common-
wealth Studies in London. Among his books is
Bermudian Politics in Transition.
cricket matches in Bermuda. In it are about
40 boards for Crown and Anchor, a simple,
fast-paced dice game that attracts a holiday
crowd ranging from onlookers and casual
bettors to high stakes gamblers. The game
involves betting on one or more of six
choices: the four suits of cards, a red crown,
and a black anchor. Three dice are rolled,
their sides corresponding to the choices on
the board. Winners are paid the amount of
their bet times the number of dice on which
it is shown, while losers have their money
taken by the board. If the croupier rolls an
anchor and two hearts, for example, he col-
lects the money on the four losing choices,
pays those who bet on the anchor, and pays
double those who bet on the heart.
Like much of the West Indies' repertory of
sports and games, Crown and Anchor origi-
nates from Britain, where it has long been a
popular pastime in pubs. In the Caribbean
impromptu and organized games of Crown
and Anchor are also found in drinking
spots, but the game is more common as a
sideline attraction at festivals. This is its pri-
mary role in Bermuda, and I have also
watched it played by Antiguans at Carnival
and by Jamaican Maroon's at the celebra-
tion of Captain Cudjoe's birthday in the re-
mote mountain village of Accompong.
The term "stock market" is appropriate,
as Bermuda's economic history has been
built on high risk but highly profitable capi-
tal investment. Anglo-whites have been the
major beneficiaries of this economy, but
adventurer capitalism and the values of op-
portunism, shrewdness, and daring have
had a broad appeal among blacks, whose
own sense of social style places heavy em-
phasis on the flamboyant acquisition, dis-
play, and disposal of money. The stock
market brings the races together, uneasily
but instructively. Blacks run most of the
boards and are an overwhelming majority
of the playing crowd, but whites finance and
effectively control the gambling operation.
Underlying the festivity and the fever of bet-
ting is a drama about Bermuda's poli-
Unlike commercial casinos where chips
or markers are used as currency, it is actual
cash that is bet in the stock market.
Croupiers hold thousands of dollars in their
hands, openly showing it to attract players,
who are likely to hold several hundred. The
minimum bet is one dollar, but it is only
novices and casual players, mostly women,
who bet that small. Regular players bet be-
tween $10 and $50 each time, although
larger bets are common. Some tables have
a ceiling on bets, but it is never lower than
$100. Tables with large cash floats generally
allow unlimited betting.
Regular players view stock market gam-
bling as an intense, personalized competi-
tion between themselves and the board
operators. The player's aim is not simply to
win bets, but to score a decisive victory by
"breaking the board." Operators share this
view, although their attention is diffused
among several opponents. As one operator
put it, "They [the players] see your money,
and they want to take it all. So you try to take
Occasionally, bettors realize their goal. I
am told that a high roller, known appropri-
ately as "Caesar," once broke three boards,
walking away with $44,000. More often, of
course, the odds favoring the operator pre-
vail. One bettor confessed to having
dropped $13,000 in a single aftemoon, an
episode that, like Caesar's big win, has been
immortalized in gambling lore. Heroic at-
tempts at breaking the board are common
when a player has lost substantially, bor-
rowed money to stay in the game, and then
started winning to go ahead. Rather than
quit, the player succumbs to "greed," with
generally predictable consequences. An
operator recalled an occasion when he took
all a player's money, and then lent him $5
for cabfare home. The player instead took
the $5 to another board, and had a winning
streak that brought him $1500. With his
appetite whetted, he increased his betting.
Eventually he lost both the $1500 and an-
other $800 that he borrowed from the
It is ironic that players go for broke in this
manner, as most know the arithmetic of
probability and typically advocate "percent-
age playing" when they discuss the game.
At the board, however, their betting tends to
be either highly erratic or stubbornly un-
varied, as it is dictated by hunches, favorites,
and bewildering permutations of seren-
dipitous factors. Operators encourage intu-
itive betting by decorating their boards with
the signs of the zodiac and similar designs.
Occasionally players stand several feet
away from a board, roll up a high de-
nomination bill, and simply throw it on the
board, letting chance decide the bet.
Operators also rely on notions of luck
and magical manipulation. They invariably
carry two sets of dice, and surreptitiously
substitute one for the other if they are sus-
taining heavy losses. Alternately, if an opera-
tor is losing repeatedly, he will pass the dice
cup to another croupier, offering the excuse
that he has to relieve himself-a break that
is seen as ending a bad streak. A few
croupiers claim that their powers of con-
centration are strong enough to control the
dice. Rather than shaking the dice and con-
cealing them under the cup while bets are
placed, they wait until the money is down,
and then, while shaking, exert the appropri-
ate mental influence.
The actual manner of betting also seems
influenced by the sheer exhilaration and
effervescence of the scene. Crown and An-
chor has a fast, rhythmic, repetitive pace
which, like a road march calypso played
over and over again at carnival or a hymn
verse sung repeatedly at revival meetings,
has an intoxicating effect that intensifies
one's involvement in the present surround-
ings and diminishes other realities. Com-
bined with the effects of liquor and ganja,
and contextualized within the heady am-
bience of the festival, this influence makes
the stock market a deceptively powerful se-
duction. It is said that players "lose their
head" in the game, abandoning rational
strategies, not knowing when to quit.
Nor are board operators immune from
the seduction of high stakes gambling, par-
ticularly when they have undergone the bet-
tor's roller coaster experience of winning
and losing. Beaten badly near the end of the
day, an operator was left with only $500 of
his original cash float. In "desperation," he
instructed one of his croupiers to bet the
entire amount at another board. The bet
won, as did a second bet of the same
amount, financing a drunken celebration
that night in a plush restaurant. But what is
of interest is that the croupier labelled
Crown and Anchor a "sucker's game,"
adding, "If I wasn't running a game, 1
wouldn't go near the stock market."
Get Some Money
For Your Honey
High stakes gambling, especially when
done with swagger, is an important aspect
of Caribbean machismo, a value system
whose symbols pervade the stock market.
Men dress informally in black American
and West Indian clothing styles, often high-
lighted by a half dozen gold necklaces and
by athletic or tee shirts bearing double en-
tendres for genitalia and copulation in con-
junction with comical inscriptions of
invitation, challenge, or braggadocio.
Croupiers have an advantage over players,
as they are better able to enhance clothing
fashions with other performative devices-
standing on platforms to increase their vis-
ibility, spreading their bills like a fan; throw-
ing their dice cups high in the air, and
comically barking stock invitations to bet:
"Get some money for your honey...Come in
here on a bike, go home in a Rolls
Continued on page 45
VT ^ tnn-'^ --
CAI?BBEAN L TIEW/21
Studying in the States
A Rap Session
By Augustus C. Small
( us, you must be crazy man, you
think that I'll leave this place to
go back home. Listen man, until
they build subways at home, I eh going
back. To do what? Drink! Make children! Get
old and wasted huh? You go me son, I stay-
ing right here. And fuck the British!" Edwin
"But what about going back to help the
people?" I asked.
"Help! Help who man? When last did you
go back home? Things are not getting bet-
ter anywhere in this world. If big America is
catching their arse now, do you think that
our little rock will have anything to offer?
Every week you see or hear of a few new St.
Lucians in the States," Janice replied.
These were some of the statements
which came out of the rap session from our
group gathering that Sunday afternoon. We
were all from the Caribbean islands. Some
of us had been in the States on government
scholarships; some of us had made it here
on our own, any way that we could. But for
those of us who had been 'island schools we
knew full well that the 'rock' had paid full
tuition, boarding, lodging, and tried to
make life as easy as possible for us. We all
knew full well that during this period, the US
dollar fluctuated anywhere between $3.60
and $2.90 ECC (Eastem Caribbean Cur-
rency). We all knew full well that those of us
who had received the scholarships were the
same ones whose families had been at the
top of that British class system, and could
have afforded to otherwise support or fi-
nance our education. They knew that they
had committed a mortal sin to have re-
mained here without even going back. The
rest of us were the victims of the system, in
which we were left to die. We have criticized
both the system and the individuals who
benefited from it to the point of utter hatred.
Yet we had made our separate ways into this
land of promise, hope, liberty, and where
money flowed in the streets like water from
the Mississippi. We were all able to come
together, no matter what class we came
from back home. America had equa-
lized us, and we had mistaken movement
Augustus C. Small studies International Rela-
tions in New York City.
As for the rest of us; we were in this coun-
try by any means necessary. Skillfully, some
had eluded immigration officers with fraud-
ulent passports, birth certificates, letters of
invitation, and make-believe bank state-
ments. Still others had come by way of Can-
ada, in the trunks of cars across the border.
And for those of us who had at least ob-
tained visas legally, had done so, knowing
full well that we would not return soon.
"I was very disappointed when I did not
find a swimming pool in my parents' back-
yard. Hell, I didn't even see a backyard,"
"You say you! If I had any idea that things
were so rough up here, I would never have
left my teaching job at home and come to
this place," Jim said half angrily.
One wonders how naive we must have
been to have formulated such misconcep-
tions. How, and who had built such embed-
ded mis-education? We as a people who
had done so much for so long with so little;
with knowledge of the much greener grass
of instant prosperity, could not dispense
these misconceptions. We always wanted to
hear of the great stories of America. Eng-
land, our mother country at this time, fell
way short of all expectations to the young
colonizer. Most of all, we had seen the tour-
ists as they flashed the yankee dollar in
every instance, even as tips. They walked
our towns and cities clothed in skimpy at-
tire-free, carelessly, flauntingly, irratically.
They seldom spoke, but we heard and un-
derstood. "A beautiful island you have here,
hot sun, polite people, magnificent beach-
es, such cheap liquor," they said. "Sure,"
we answered. But what we really wanted to
say is, "Hell, you stay here man, and let
me go to your America."
There were others who enforced that ster-
ile knowledge other than the regular tourist.
To me, they were the ones who really edu-
cated or mis-educated us. Each year when
that time came around, the fortunate St.
Lucians would return. And with them would
be the flashy garbs, American money,
yankee slangs and talk, perfected to the
finest degree, in some cases even with the
convincing element of a white wife or
girlfriend. They acted as the tourist had,
cameras in hand and straw hats on head.
Those who had not made it back with a
partner could select among our ladies, who
went willingly, for the period of time they
intended to stay. They, our own native born,
just by leaving home had acquired so much
in such a short time. Soon they would leave,
their lessons remained to pervade our every
surroundings, dreams, and nightmares.
Our passive government said nothing, did
nothing, as business continued or discon-
tinued as usual.
"You know Gus, the problem usually is
not with us man but the quality of govern-
ment personnel elected. I did not go back
personally, but you know what happened to
some of the guys who returned?" Des-
"But," added Janice, "they send for out-
siders to do the jobs we were sent out to
train for. Or they offer us next to nothing to
do the same job. The foreigners are given
homes, cars, everything. We get shit"
It is a serious problem, a zenophobic re-
action, that never really troubled the 'at
home' native. Our islands depended so
much on tourism to survive, for foreign ex-
change and interaction; we were taught to
be tourist-serving people. Most of us had
not come in contact with the racial preju-
dice of the North Americans. Why should
we? After all we had been told time and time
again, how different and better as a people
we were-hard working, cool and could
make it anywhere. We had all believed these
Once in the US or Canada, we who had
made it, found out that a whole new educa-
tion awaited us. We were no longer at home
and it was time for the naked truth of the
prejudice, endured by all black-skinned
people. The only problem is that we who
had not known this world, were not told of it,
either by the tourists (except in condescen-
sion) or by our expatriates. It troubles me
even now, that we were so afraid to tell of
these experiences to others or even to our-
selves. It was not supposed to happen to us.
We had been guaranteed and told that it
would not. To most of us, racial prejudice
did not impede our hunger to be successful
in the great land of opportunity. We were not
"raised on it." Class prejudice had sys-
temized us, since we were able to get away
from that, nothing could stop us. So it
seemed. Maybe it was a good thing not to
be told about the evils of a dream for fear of
"Where in the Islands can one get the
salary I'm making a year as a chemical en-
gineer? Tell me!" demanded Desmond.
Of course he was right. Money would
justify the time spent in school. And for him
there were no real job openings in St. Lucia.
Desmond was one of the fortunate who had
received a scholarship. Before he went to
study he was promised a job teaching at a
technical college on his return. The college
was built but his services were not immedi-
ately needed. He, like the rest of us, had
grown accustomed to the Yankee life and
could not return to poor conditions and
meager pay. But Desmond was troubled by
other factors of personal importance. He
was hurt and we understood it.
Deep inside, we all knew how spoiled the
Yankee capitalistic system had made us.
Not one of us wanted to return home with-
out sufficient money to build a home or
open a business sufficient to show for the
time spent away. We had to fulfill our peo-
ple's expectations and live up to the mis-
conception. This is how we knew that we
would be judged and accepted or even re-
spected back in the community. This single
factor overshadowed the very opportunities
which brought us to this country.
"I have been here for seven years now,
and it has not been very easy. Talk about
hard times, loneliness and don't mention
the cold," Edwin said.
"Yeah, I know," Jim said, "my father died a
few months after I came up here and I could
not even go back home."
How many of these stories do we know
and share. Once here, you stayed here, by
any means necessary. A few had come in
through the back door-"undocumented
aliens." There was one chance in life to this
country and whatever one went through to
secure one's stay here was worth it. You had
to wash the mud of island dirt from between
the toes. You would have to, on many occa-
sions, deny your country of birth. You had to
be a fugitive always on the run. But most of
all, you kept quiet. All this and more was the
price you paid-for your own Americaniza-
tion! America would help to develop our
potentials-it was not that way at home. You
learn to appreciate what was taken for
granted. Who cares about getting up every-
day to the sunshine or the beaches with
their crystal clear waters? Or the ever abun-
dance of fresh tropical foods and fruits? Or
the natural beauty of the surroundings? We
had been blessed and did not know it. We
were happy physically but troubled and
mixed-up mentally. There was more to life
other than the simple one for the islander,
so we ventured: Our personal development
and the underdevelopment of our islands.
"What 1 think we need is an awareness, a
political education for our people. We need
to tell them the truth," I said.
"Yeah Gus," stated Jim, "but how? Some
of these people don't care for that. You open
your mouth and they believe that because
you live in the States, all of a sudden, you
know everything and have all the answers."
How well do we know of the good times in
the Caribbean! It's no wonder that the tour-
ist bureau could use the good times to at-
Are we just "aliens," "foreigners," "para-
sites?" Can we who have had the oppor-
tunity to educate ourselves stop the brain
drain of the Caribbean?
One-quarter of the US investments over-
seas is in the developing countries. But the
benefits are not mutual. The recipient coun-
try is supposed to gain the technology, jobs,
and skill-training; instead they the devel-
oped country gain the profits and the
How much longer can this continue be-
fore the Third World countries drain them-
selves of all potential? The answers to this
and other questions will depend on many
variables. But there have been some
changes in the Caribbean during the last
four years. It is no longer a healthy thing to
return home flashing the American dollar or
showing off in any way 'un-native like' so as
to create an attitude of superiority. Many of
the new leaders are aware of the serious
problems involving the Caribbean brain
drain because they too have been educated
outside of the Caribbean. It is no longer an
easy 'getover' for the young and bright is-
lander to obtain a study scholarship with
unconditional, unenforceable terms. It is
now common to see Caribbean jobs being
advertised in both local and overseas news-
papers to attract former students, offering
good salaries and benefits. But most of us
know that their efforts will fall on deaf ears.
We have been away too long. For us the
islands are nice places to visit "but I
wouldn't like to live there, too slow, too little,
"You know guys, how come no one has
said how much we like it here?" I asked.
"Because we really don't. But the money
is here, our families are now here and we
just have to stay here. That's life," Des-
No! That's brain draining! That's under-
development! That's money, and above all,
technological inhumanity creating lifelong
CAl?BBCAN rEV IEW/23
Understanding Arts in Their Social Context
Reviewed by Dorothea and Norman Whitten
Afro-American Arts of the
Suriname Rain Forest,
Sally and Richard Price. 237 pp.
University of California Press,
Berkeley (in cooperation with the
Museum of Cultural History, UCLA)
1981. $42.00 cloth, $14.95 paper.
Throughout the lowlands of South
America, especially where refuge
from various types of enslavement
could be found, one encounters today an
enduring paradox: continuity in indigenous
and African aesthetic form is manifest by
peoples whose lifeways have been brutally
disrupted and whose specific artistic tradi-
tion is relatively recent. Debates that polar-
ize simplistically over whether an art form is
new or old, genuine or spurious, made for a
culture's "inner life" or for sale in a competi-
Dorothea S. Whitten is research associate at
the Center for Latin American Studies at the
University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. Nor-
man E. Whitten, professor of anthropology at
UI-Urbana, is editor of the American Ethnolo-
gist. His most recent book is the edited vol-
ume, Cultural Transformation and Ethnicity in
tive market, lead to a conceptual cul de sac
that warps productive communication
among ethnographers, historians, archae-
ologists, and art critics.
This excellent work cuts through such
discourse and provides us with a fresh be-
ginning. It combines meticulous scholar-
ship with a feast of visual presentation of the
creations of black Saramaka artists of Ma-
roon territory in the interior rainforest of
Suriname. The Saramaka people, like their
cultural congeners within this greater terri-
tory, produce Africa-like art, but in their own,
New World, style. Their chapter, "Continu-
ity-in-Change" attacks the paradox of pat-
tern consistency in discontinuous space
and time head on, and resolves it produc-
tively: "Out of these shared African aesthetic
orientations and common New World expe-
riences...emerged a new, uniquely Maroon
cultural synthesis... This complex of
[essential] features [of the emerging cul-
tural sythesis]... constitutes the central con-
tinuous force in subsequent Maroon art
history... The emergence of the visual arts
was not contemporaneous with the initial
synthesis of aesthetic ideas, but came con-
siderably later." This orientation can also be
used effectively to dissolve many spurious
debates that focus upon various types of
indigenous art. What is needed next is a
major, comparative study of Afro-American
and Native American art styles in compara-
ble New World environments, and the
Guianas would be an ideal setting for
such a study.
The book also represents the pinnacle of
scholarly productivity in the now fluores-
cing idiom of anthropological presentation
that combines museum or gallery exhibi-
tions with a tailored ethnographic presenta-
tion. The text with photographs and maps
(many in color) not only sets the art in its
proper context, but also sets scholarly argu-
ments in appropriate disciplinary perspec-
tives. The exhibition for which this bookwas
written appeared in Los Angeles, Dallas,
Baltimore, and New York. Preparation of the
exhibit and book were made possible by the
Prices's extensive ethnographic and his-
toric research with the Saramaka them-
selves, archival research in various mu-
seums, and by support of the National
Endowment for the Humanities. Ironically,
as the Prices set new horizons in the presen-
tation of ethnic art, based upon genuine
understanding of Saramakan viewpoints of
beauty and reality, similar programs are
Opposite page, from the left: Saramaka apinti 'talking'
drum; Saramaka carved wooden stool; Djuka winnowing
tray. Photos by Antonia Graeber (UCLA Museum of
This page, from top left: Man's shoulder cape. Photo by
Antonia Graeber. Saramaka woman's house. Saramaka
woman dancing. Photos by Richard Price.
being sharply curtailed by radically chang-
ing social, political, and aesthetic sen-
sitivities in the United States.
The Prices have performed a major ser-
vice for all of us-analysts, critics, artists-
by developing and documenting the per-
spective that they term ethnoaesthetics. Ba-
sically, ethnoaesthetics insists upon presen-
tation of art, and generalizations based
upon such presentations, from the stand-
point of the creators themselves. The
Prices's judicious combination of eth-
nographic sensitivity with social-historical
analysis continues throughout the book
and takes the reader deeply into the devel-
opment of a unique aesthetic tradition of a
New World people, which is also a tradition
stemming from African forms of expression
and values. They write, simply, "Our aim is
not to compile a dictionary of iconographic
motifs which force Maroon arts into our
own terms, but rather to build an under-
standing of these arts in their own social
and cultural contexts." This they do, and
one gains appreciation of the vibrancy of
Maroon life as well as a sense of the basic
process of culture change being ham-
mered out with reference to both tradition
and to expedience. As one becomes aware
of the pervasiveness of Maroon aesthetic
values throughout their lifeways, the realiza-
tion itself evokes a genuine respect for the
products of their creative, artistic activity. In
tum, this evocation transcends the particu-
lar cultural and social context of the Maroon
lifeways and allows us to expand the hori-
zons of art more generally.
To understand still further the value of this
book, we might contrast the ethnoaesthetic
perspective with that recently expressed by
Hilton Kramer (chief art critic for the New
York Times) in praise of design in modern
museology: "...in the tightly controlled de-
sign environment of the museum, where
stagecraft inevitably triumphs over ex-
pression, the savage gods of primitive art
are expelled, and in their places are offered
a succession of benign and wondrous
forms. Can we still then claim to have had
an experience of primitive art?...what the
museum brings us face to face with is a
mirror in which we see the magic of our own
technology and taste." What the Prices
"bring us face to face with" is the reality of a
lifeway forged in rebellious freedom and
maintained through creative adaptability.
It is one of many lifeways which have not
lost their aesthetic perspectives; it is one
that selects technology according to such
an enduring and creative perspective,
rather than becoming technology's
Working Men and Ganja, Melanie
Creagan Dreher. 216 pp. Institute for
the Study of Human Issues, Phila-
delphia. 1982. 518.50.
Cannabis in Costa Rica, William E.
Carter, ed. 331 pp. Institute for the
Study of Human Issues. Phila-
delphia, 1980. 517.50.
..E Ganja in Jamaica, Vera Rubin and
Lambros Comitas. 217 pp. Double-
day Anchor, Nev York, 1976. pb.
Sesearch-funding agencies love to
fund fads. It gives them a sense of
'being on the cutting edge" of re-
search of being in the midst of the action, of
pushing the limits of the discipline, and all
those other feelings of human warmth that
are evoked by the giving of money to what
are thought to be worthy causes.
The U(S National Institute on Drug Abuse
(NIDA) has had a love affair with manhuana
since first encounter during the early
1970s. As millions of Americans first tried
pot, lawmen. moralists. and politicians de-
manded information or misinformation to
authenticate their prejudices. What better
than being handed a 'policy-relevant" re-
search topic and millions of dollars with
which to pursue it 'Ten years later and many
millions more of research dollars the mari-
huana debate plods on, its first flowers hav-
ing long been left behind. Cocaine has
become chic and expensive hile plebian
marihuana has descended to junior high
schools. Fifty-five million Americans are
said to have tried marihuana, a figure that
must provide the beleaguered tobacco
companies with food for fantasy.
North American technology has fully em-
braced the lowly weed. During recent years
determined breeders in California have pro-
duced a hermaphrodite species of can-
nabis which is said to be self-germinating
and to be of higher quality. At last report
North America's finest is being exported,
the first threat to the lush fields of Colombia
and Jamaica still dependent on a low-yield-
Aaron Segal, a non-user, is professor of politi-
cal science at the University of Texas at
Cannabis in the Caribbean
Reviewed by Aaron Segal
ing seed that needs to be germinated.
Rest assured that NIDA grants have not
gone to improve cannabis breeding. In-
stead, like a proper member institute of the
National Institutes of Health, NIDA has
spent millions on computer print-out stud-
ies of the effects of marihuana. Primates,
rats, and several human colonies have been
the subject of these studies whose pages fill
the specialized journals. At NIDA's home in
Bethesda, Maryland, and elsewhere, squad-
rons of psychiatrists, pharmacologists, psy-
chologists, physiologists, and other "ists"
have turned their laboratory apparatus on
grass. Not surprisingly, to the present day
the results are inconclusive, some showing
harmful effects, others benign, and some
recommending marihuana or its active
chemical component in chemotherapy and
What is extraordinary about these three
fine books in review is that the anthropolo-
gists managed to get a piece of the NIDA
action. They came up with several clever
and telling arguments designed to titillate a
good research bureaucrat. The first was that
marihuana research needed to examine
chronic users, persons who had regularly
been smoking 10 cigarettes a day for 10 or
more years. Moreover these chronic users
should not at the same time be trying other
drugs. And for control purposes one
needed a similar sample of non-users
drawn from comparable backgrounds. The
telling argument was that chronic users
with no history of other drugs were unavail-
able in the US. Thus the case for going
cross-cultural and the selection of Greece,
Jamaica and Costa Rica for experi-
The methodology of the studies largely
dictated the choice of countries. Chronic
users were needed who were not part of an
export drug culture as in Colombia. Cul-
tures were needed that were sufficiently
"modern" and "westernized" to be com-
parable to the US (so much for marihuana
in Nepal). The need for paired samples of
chronic users and non-users restricted the
selection to adult males. Adolescent users
were not yet chronic and there were not
enough female users.
The clinching touch for NIDA was the
multidisciplinary nature of the studies.
Human subjects would be poked, prodded,
and examined, by a team of physicians,
biochemists, pharmacologists, physiolo-
gists, psychologists, and anthropologists
who would do the cross-cultural fieldwork.
This included making friends with young
working-class men in seedy neighbor-
hoods of San Jose and palling with cane-
cutters and small farmers in a quiet rural
area of Jamaica far from the zones of com-
mercial marihuana export. Cross-cultural
and multidisciplinary were the fortunate
vogue words that turned on the funding
taps. It's not known if the grant proposals
included an item for marihuana purchases
so that the anthropologists could
The biomedical findings were striking.
Using paired samples of 30 users and 30
non-users in Jamaica, and 41/41 in Costa
Rica the batteries of tests indicated no sta-
tistically significant physiological, psycho-
logical or psychiatric differences. The only
-significant differences turned up were due
to smokingperse, whether tobacco and/or
marihuana. The findings were categorical.
For instance in Jamaica, "the psychological
findings show no significant differences be-
tween long-term smokers and non-
smokers" (Comitas and Rubin). The Costa
Rica study reported that "level of marihuana
use has little influence on performance in
the neuropsychological, intelligence and
personality battery." These findings have
largely been ignored as North American re-
searchers continue with lab studies that
purport to show the detrimental effects of
marihuana instead of replicating work on
The cross-cultural studies did examine a
number of alleged effects of marihuana
widely believed to exist in North America.
They could find no evidence in Costa Rica
or Jamaica for correlations between use of
marihuana and escalation to other harder
drugs (cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, etc.
are scarcely known and prohibitively expen-
sive). Nor were there correlations between
chronic use and so-called motivationall
syndromes," (Costa Rican and Jamaican
users report they smoke to gain energy for
hard work, not to get "high"). The only cor-
relation found between crime and mari-
huana is its illegal nature in both countries;
otherwise users were as law-abiding
The single most important finding was
that marihuana use was strongly culturally
conditioned rather than reflecting indi-
vidual user experiences or a deviant subcul-
ture. Use is a social institution, not a
personal trip. Comitas and Rubin write that
"in Jamaica, ganja use is integrally linked to
all aspects of working-class social structure:
cultivation, cash crops, marketing, eco-
nomics; consumer-cultivator-dealer net-
works; intraclass relationships and pro-
cesses of avoidance or cooperation; parent-
child, peer and mate relationships; folk
medicine; folk religious doctrines; obeah
and gossip sanctions; personality and cul-
ture; interclass stereotypes; legal and
church sanctions; perceived requisites of
behavioral changes for social mobility; and
adaptive strategies." The importance of cul-
tural conditioning was so great in Costa
Rica that "the immediate effects of mar-
ihuana smoking would seem to depend as
much on user set and expectations as on
sheer physiological responses.
Policy Relevant Work
The researchers promised NIDA policy-rel-
evant work which they tried to but did not
always deliver. Comitas and Rubin provide
an excellent legal and social history of ganja
in Jamaica, introduced in the late 19th cen-
tury by laborers from India and therefore
retaining its common Indian name. Abhor-
red and feared by the upper classes, in part
in recent years because of its association
with the Rastafarian Back-to-Ethiopia re-
ligious sect, ganja possession, cultivation,
use and sale has been subject to harsh but
unevenly enforced laws. The NIDA study
was used in the 1974 debate which
changed the sentencing for possession
from mandatory to flexible.
However neither the study nor the Jamai-
can government were prepared to consider
the consequences of full or partial de-
criminalization. Comitas and Rubin im-
plicitly make the case in their conclusion
but do not argue it They state "there is no
Continued on page 48
Continued from page 7
to tighten up on consumer imports, sharp
conflicts developed between the ministry
and importers. Some interests used the
power of cash to bribe their way into import
licenses and this added further to the con-
troversies surrounding this ministry's ad-
ministration. This was unfortunate for the
JLP as the Industry and Commerce Ministry
was expected to be the center of close col-
laborative private sector public sector link-
ages. Instead it became a battlefield of
frustrations, accusations and counter-accu-
sations and frequent quarrels between the
government and the private sector. Al-
though the private sector continued to sup-
port the government's overall ideological
position and general policy goals, sharp
disagreements over issues of strategy, tac-
tics and power relations reduced private
sector enthusiasm for the JLP into luke-
warm support weakened by increasing dis-
trust of the government's intentions.
Drastic cut-backs in bauxite production
and the lay-off of workers due to the US
recession jolted the Jamaican economy in
1982 as bauxite is the main source of for-
eign exchange earnings and a major source
of government revenue. The impact of this
blow was cushioned by support for the
Seaga administration by the Reagan gov-
ernment in the US. The US has agreed to
purchase quantities of bauxite for stockpil-
ing purposes in order to minimize the in-
come loss to Jamaica.
Table Two sets out the reaction by the
Jamaican public to the policies of the JLP
Question: Have conditions gotten bet-
ter under the JLP for the majority of the
Yes, better .................... .34%
Nochange ................... .43%
No, gotten worse ...............23%
Question: Would conditions get better
for the majority of the poorer classes if
the PNP were in power?
Yes, better ..................... 31%
No, no change ................. 31%
No, would be worse .............38%
Table Four: Reactions to JLP Government & Prospects of a PNP government.
Source: Stone Polls.
government as recorded in the author's
September-October national public opin-
ion polls. The increased supply of food due
to the import policies, the reduction of
crime, improved financial management, a
youth job training program and com-
pulsory education represent the main areas
of progress the electorate perceived in JLP
policies to date. On the negative side, the
JLP government attracts most blame for
unemployment and lay-offs, policies that
are seen as favoring the rich rather than the
poor, its fiscal and monetary policies and
the perceived impact on declining sales
among the petty commodity sector (ar-
tisans, higglers, shopkeepers, small farm-
ers etc.) who make up some 42% of the
When asked specifically about the major
problems families and individuals were fac-
ing, the answers given by the electorate in
the September-October Stone Poll revealed
the great impact of high unemployment,
the tight monetary policies and gap be-
tween household income and the cost of
living. Respondents complained mainly
aboutjoblessness, shortage of cash and the
cost of living, housing problems in urban
areas and the problem of the low turn over
of sales of goods in the local market. These
responses are outlined in Table Three.
Whereas all earlier polls had shown the
Jamaican voters to be accepting the idea
that the situation in the country had gotten
better since the 1980 elections, this was
reversed in the September-October poll. In
all earlier polls at least 51% of the voters
interviewed agreed that conditions in the
country had gotten better since the change
in government. In this most recent poll only
34% agreed with that view. Clearly, the Ja-
maican people are beginning to become
impatient with the JLP government and are
beginning to lose hope that any real im-
provements in the quality of life will be
achieved under the JLP regime.
Although this most recent poll shows that
a majority of citizens interested in voting
would vote for the opposition PNP rather
than the governing JLP it is interesting that
Table Four shows the degree to which the
prospects of a PNP government do not ex-
cite beliefs that conditions in the country
would get any better. Indeed slightly more
voters believe things have gotten better un-
der the JLP than persons who believe
things would get better if the PNP were
voted back into power. Faith in the JLP de-
livering on its electoral promises is begin-
ning to falter and weaken but the PNP hardly
inspires much confidence as regards eco-
Given a choice between two parties that
are unlikely to solve the country's basic
problems, preference is beginning to favor
the party with the more populist leader and
populist ideology. Unless the economic sit-
uation improves considerably or the gov-
ernment is able to massively increase
public spending, the PNP is likely to consol-
idate and improve on its lead over the JLP in
the next two to three years.
The decline in JLP support has been in-
fluenced by more than the failure to solve
basic economic problems. The rate of con-
version of economic and social difficulties
into political disaffection is greatly influ-
enced by the political style of governing
parties in Jamaica and the image they pro-
ject to the electorate. The JLP has governed
in a manner that is in sharp contrast to the
PNP government led by Manley. The electo-
rate had become accustomed to a political
style under the PNP regime that was popul-
ist, mobilizational and involving extensive
political communication and leadership
contact with citizens atthe community level.
The JLP regime has maintained a low pro-
file, bureaucratic and non-mobilizational
style that has insulated the leadership from
grass roots contact. Government rather
than politics is being emphasized, while the
reverse was the case under the PNR Michael
Manley's flamboyant and charismatic
leadership enabled the PNP to retain major-
ity support for a considerable period after
polls indicated that the voters had become
convinced that conditions in the country
were getting worse and not better. Indeed,
immediately prior to the PNP's 57% popular
vote victory in December 1976, my polls
(which accurately predicted the exact mar-
gin of victory) showed that 62% of the voters
were convinced that conditions in Jamaica
were getting worse. With the JLP the politi-
cal disaffection has come much faster be-
cause of the absence of a populist political
style to keep hope for improvements and
faith in the party leadership alive. The PNP
had maintained a strong grass roots party
and a high profile party machine geared up
to do propaganda work throughout its term
of office. The JLP has virtually placed its
party machine in hibernation while ittackles
the complex problems of government. The
consequent narrowing or shrinking of the
vital channels of political communication
between government and grass roots sup-
port at the community level has accelerated
JLP loss of support since 1980.
An Image Problem
The JLP also has an image problem. Its
leader was favored in 1980 over Manley on
the basis that as a highly reputed financial
wizard he could straighten out and solve
many of the complex economic and finan-
cial problems which had confounded the
charismatic Manley. Seaga and the JLP
therefore have to show more tangible evi-
dence of a positive policy performance than
does the PNP The problems associated
with the US and world recession hardly al-
low much room to show a strong track rec-
ord of achievements. Most of the areas of
improved financial and economic admin-
istration are not visible to the average voter.
The JLP's biggest political asset is its su-
perior image as a party which can get things
done. The JLP therefore has to demon-
strate a track record of positive achieve-
ments evident to the voters if it is to be
returned to- power in the next elections. To
date, great efforts have been made to stimu-
late economic recovery but the efforts have
been stalled and slowed down as regards
effects and positive gains by the crippling
impact of the US recession.
The character of the Jamaican electorate
has undergone some basic changes over
the last ten years. These changes have in-
creased the volatility and instability of vote
patterns. As a result of these changes, the
comfortable traditional assumption that all
parties would get at least two terms in office
from a patient electorate stabilized by
strong party loyalties and a small proportion
of floating voters can no longer be taken
The politicization of the electorate in the
1970s, the development of an highly inte-
grated national system of mass communi-
cation and transportation and increasing
urbanization, have all broken down the tra-
ditional barriers protecting strong local
party allegiance. Agendas of national polit-
ical issues have superceded local issues
and local loyalties in voting patterns. The
country now behaves as if it were a single
constituency. The traditional safety net of an
appreciable number of safe seats that par-
ties could always count on winning has
The effect of a prolonged period of un-
employment levels of over 20%, steady de-
clines in living standards since the early
1970s and failure of the political directorate
to deal with basic economic and social
problems has been a gradual growth of
cynicism and lack of faith in the middle
class political leaders who run the PNP and
the JLP This drop in confidence and trust in
political parties and their leaders has re-
sulted in an increase in non-partisan or in-
dependent voters and in the tendency for
voters to abandon party loyalties and to vote
on issues. The JLP government is es-
pecially vulnerable to this increasingly un-
stable pattern of party loyalty and voting.
Many of the voters who made up the JLP
59% majority in the 1980 elections were
traditional PNP voters, of whom many have
now withdrawn support for the JLP
The PNP under Manley's leadership has
been trying to refurbish its political image.
My polls showed that over 70% of the electo-
rate in early 1981 was critical of the PNP's
links with local communists. The polls were
consistently showing that slightly more
than two-thirds of the electorate and a ma-
jority of PNP voters were hostile to commu-
nism. The PNP has therefore announced a
formal break with the local minor commu-
nist party, the Workers Party of Jamaica.
The September-October poll found that
71% of the electorate supported the PNP
move; 47% thought the PNP move was gen-
uine while 37% did not agree. As much as
63% expressed the view that communist
parties should be banned in Jamaica. The
PNP move to shift its political location from
left to center and attempts by the leadership
to return to the moderate image of the
pre-1970s PNP party is likely to aid the polit-
ical recovery of the PNR
The September-October poll points to a
trend favoring the opposition PNP in the
next Jamaican parliamentary elections. But
support for the PNP is still tentative. If the
JLP is fortunate in experiencing the effects
of a recovery of the US economy before the
end of 1984 and if that party is able to
increase public spending and visible social
programs, the JLP has a reasonable chance
of being returned to power with a smaller
majority. If, however, the economic slide
continues, the JLP will be the first party to
get only one term in office, the PNP is
likely to win by a landslide in those
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Cuban Studies/Estudios Cubanos is published twice a year by the University of
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Continued from page 11
independence. And why was Parliament not
in session more often to discuss these
The PNC knew, however, that it was un-
likely Venezuelan tanks would roar across
the border. Not only were there no roads but
Venezuela would hardly wish to destroy its
reputation as a Third World leader by invad-
ing a small neighbor. It was also possible
that the Venezuelans were trying to drive a
wedge between Guyana and Brazil. Rela-
tions had improved between the conserva-
tive generals in Brasilia and the Burnham
administration. Talks had taken place over
development of the Amazon basin and the
construction of roads through Guyana to
the Caribbean Sea. Venezuela has never
smiled upon Brazilian pretensions in the
northern part of South America.
Badgering of the opposition continued
throughout 1981. Homes were searched for
incriminating evidence, travel abroad was
made difficult, newsprint was denied, and
the holding of meetings impeded. Academ-
ics at the University of Guyana who chal-
lenged the government were warned about
job security. Independent unions such as
the Clerical and Commercial Workers
Union (CCWU) and the National Associa-
tion of Agricultural, Commercial, and In-
dustrial Employees (NAACIE) were abused
in the government press when they called
for better conditions for Guyana's workers.
The economy continued to deteriorate.
An emergency budget in June devalued the
Guyanese dollar by 18%, cut subsidies and
public expenditure, and increased taxes. It
was another blow to the Guyanese standard
of living. Most of the budget proposals were
aimed to please the International Monetary
Fund. Desperately in need of loans, Burn-
ham knew there would be no funds without
cuts in spending.
Continually denied permission by the po-
lice to demonstrate peacefully, the WPA or-
ganized a Georgetown march on 17
September 1981. A group of less than 100
raised banners which called for a living
wage, supported Guyana's territorial integ-
Venezuela has never smiled
upon Brazilian pretensions
in the northern part of
rity, and denounced the South African re-
gime. Police intervened, arrested the
leaders, and began to club those who would
not disperse. Moses Bhagwan and Eusi
Kwayana were arrested but never charged.
Kwayana's wife was badly mauled when she
came to the assistance of some youths
being manhandled by the police.
Once again, the government made clear
to the opposition that it had the guns and
that it would use them to retain power. Both
honest elections and peaceful demonstra-
tions were unacceptable to the PNC regime.
It still permitted some criticism in the press,
an occasional harsh word in the Legislative
Assembly, and a few independent judges.
But it would allow no organized opposition
that threatened its own existence. Was revo-
lutionary violence destined to be the only
available alternative? The WPA drew back
from this conclusion. More civil disobe-
dience was required. The Guyanese people
would never support "armed struggle" until
"all peaceful means have been used and
set aside." The Catholic Standard (edited
by the Jesuit, Father Andrew Morrison)
agreed and called for "the full exploration of
all non-violent means of resistance to in-
justice." The battle of September 17th had
not been without its glory: "For the first time
in a long time, Guyanese stood fearlessly
last Thursday and did not run from the
raised batons and pointed guns.
About 40 Guyanese opponents of the re-
gime continue to face a variety of charges
from treason to causing "public terror."
There is a growing concern over their safety
while in prison, due to charges of police
brutality and torture. The US State Depart-
ment reported in early 1982 that the
"Guyanese constitution prohibits torture,
but there have been credible reports that
30/CAIBBEAN r VIE
prisoners have been beaten with rubber
truncheons, kicked, and burned with ciga-
rettes during detention." A more detailed
indictment of the government had already
been prepared by the Guyana Human
Rights Association, presided over by Bishop
Randolph George, Dr. Harold Lutchman of
the University of Guyana, and Gordon Todd,
President of the CCWU. During the eigh-
teen-month period prior to June 1981 at
least 22 people had been killed by the police
without a proper inquest ever being held to
examine the police contention that the dead
men had either attacked the police or had
been trying to escape.
By March of 1982, as budget time ap-
proached, the economy had almost stag-
gered to a halt. With an annual per capital
gross national product of under US $600
Guyana ranked among the poorest nations
of Latin America and the Caribbean. A se-
cret memorandum, prepared for PNC activ-
ists, informed them that the nation was
bankrupt. They were ordered to blanket the
countryside, appeal to the patriotism of the
people, and assign all blame to the enemies
of Forbes Burnham. The budget called
upon the Guyanese to further tighten their
belts. Unable to meet its foreign exchange
obligations and to service the national debt,
the government knew it must discharge
more public sector employees and further
limit imports as it turned again for help to
the IMF and the World Bank. Seventy-five
percent of current revenue went just to ser-
vice the national debt. Even the docile TUC
complained when the government
announced plans to discharge 6,000
The Guyana Council of Churches (GCC)
seized the initiative and invited all political
parties, trade unions, religious bodies, busi-
ness groups, service clubs, and other na-
tional organizations to a meeting on 7 April
1982. Eighty percent of the nation re-
sponded, prepared to unite at a moment of
disaster. Only the PNC failed to attend and
deprecated the proposals and resolutions
that were approved. After considerable dis-
cussion it was agreed that the GCC should
obtain and distribute emergency supplies
of food from overseas agencies. An Unem-
ployment Council would be established to
assist those who lost their jobs. But-and
this was the heart of the matter-it was also
precisely stated that the economic crisis
was a consequence of the PNC's uncon-
stitutional and corrupt control of the
Guyanese people. "There is a need for a
broad-based democratic government; no
single party can effectively govern Guyana
at this stage."
The executive president buried specula-
tion that he might resign in a May Day
speech in which he also tried to conjure
away the food shortages. On the following
day Burnham reorganized his cabinet and
personally assumed the extra portfolios of
consumer protection and internal trade.
Vice President Hamilton Green, the most
popular and powerful figure in the PNC after
Burnham and likely to succeed if the execu-
tive president were hit by the proverbial
truck, was shifted from Labor and Public
Welfare to Agriculture. With people hungry,
local farming in disarray, and no funds to
import food, domestic agriculture must be
revived if the regime is to survive. Rumors
flooded a suspicious Georgetown in June
when Green's wife, Shirley Field-Ridley, died
suddenly and in suspicious circumstances.
While continuing to affirm its commit-
speculation that he might
ment to socialism the PNC prepared a se-
cret document for IMF and World Bank
officials in May which indicated that in re-
turn for the renegotiation of its foreign loans
so as to ease the immediate crisis, Guyana
would concede a larger role for foreign and
local private investment. Representatives
from the World Bank and the IMF were in
Guyana in July to investigate. There has
apparently also been a tentative agreement
about bringing in foreign managers for
some of the nationalized industries, es-
pecially bauxite. This would be a humiliat-
ing concession for Forbes Burnham. But
the exchange shortage is so bad that 25
Brazilian buses and 12,000 cartons of Ca-
nadian powdered milk remain at the docks
because there is no money to pay for them.
Four local insurance companies have been
coerced into depositing about US $1.5 mil-
lion of their overseas funds into the Bank
Local enthusiasts of Burnham's brand of
socialism have been surprised by the cap-
italist parade through Georgetown in 1982.
By October the government had retained
the British commercial banking firm of
Morgan Grenfellto prepare a "Debt Restruc-
turing and Resource Mobilization" scheme.
Assistance was also to be provided by the
United Nations Development Program and
the Overseas Development Administration
of the British government. Three other
commercial banking firms-Lehman
Brothers, Lazard Freres, and S. G. War-
burg-agreed to "examine the financial and
organizational structure of the Guyana State
Corporation and advise on alternative mod-
els to ensure greater effectiveness in its
Fearful that the Soviet Union might try
to advance the cause of its ally, Cheddi
Jagan, Burnham has been wary of embrac-
ing the Russians. Earlier in the year one
Soviet diplomat, George Kouzenetsov, la-
mented rejection of a proposal to provide
"unlimited credit to Guyana for Soviet
goods at reasonable interest rates with sub-
stantial grace periods." Attempts to negoti-
ate a bauxite treaty that would have
guaranteed sales to the Soviet Union were
also unsuccessful. An enthusiastic team of
Yugoslav economic experts arrived during
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the summer to apply their more pragmatic
version of communism to Guyana's
problems. They were, however, ushered
rather rudely from the country when they
recommended reducing the bureaucracy
and a more rational approach to
The education, health, and housing of
the Guyanese people continue to deterio-
rate. Schools are overcrowded, indepen-
dent teachers are fired, and the government
concentrates on indoctrination rather than
education. Test scores of Guyanese stu-
dents on Caribbean-wide examinations are
among the worst in the region. There are far
too few physicians and a desperate short-
age of hospital beds. Writing to the Minister
of Health about Georgetown's Public Hospi-
tal in October, a group of concerned doc-
tors concluded: "The shortage of basic
drugs, medical supplies, surgical dressings,
and antiseptics make meaningful health
care difficult, if not impossible." Dilapidated
buildings are home for most working class
Guyanese. Plans for the construction of
70,000 housing units in the 1970s went
unfulfilled; only 6,000 were completed.
Housing starts are now at a standstill.
Food shortages have intensified fears of
malnutrition and hunger. The collapse of
domestic production and the curtailment of
foreign imports have created a black mar-
ket of enormous proportions; government
officials appear to be implicated in smug-
gling and illegal currency operations. Many
items can only be found on the black mar-
ket where prices are double and triple the
officially regulated price. A chronic shortage
EW These are the times that try men's souls.
Clearly, Thomas Paine understood the nature of international affairs-
the ambivalence, ambiguity, confusion. And just as clearly, what was said
of 1776 can be said of 1982. Whether the revolution is in America or
Nicaragua, thinking men and women must strive to evaluate, to under-
stand, and, uirinrael-,, to decide.
But to decide intelligently they must first be informed. Paine had the
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of milk has been particularly troublesome,
especially when so much of the population
is composed of babies and children. Flour,
cheese, cooking oil, split peas, salt, garlic,
chicken, eggs, onions, and potatoes are
also difficult to find and when available, the
word spreads, and massive lines quickly
Divisions within the opposition to Burn-
ham were again highlighted at the meeting
of the Trade Union Council (TUC) in Sep-
tember. The sad state of the economy had
created a real chance that the Bumham-
dominated unions might finally lose the
presidency of the TUC. In previous years
Jagan's sugar worker's union had sup-
ported Gordon Todd of the CCWU. Todd, a
political moderate with friends in the US
trade union movement, dislikes unions
which are controlled by political parties.
This view strikes at both the PNC and the
PPP Jagan refused to endorse Todd; the
Burnhamites retained the presidency but
Todd was elected one of the vice presidents.
Rumors are again circulating in George-
town that Jagan and Burnham are engaged
in secret talks to resolve the crisis to their
Despite constant harassment opposition
newssheets have continued to appear. An-
gered by the criticism the government has
retaliated with a number of libel suits de-
signed to bankrupt the editors. Four suits
have been filed against Father Morrison of
the Catholic Standard, one cites Brian Rod-
way of Open Word, and another is directed
at Eusi Kwayana'sDayclean. The executive
president was outraged when the Catholic
Standard published a reader's letter which
stated that Burnham's signing of the 1966
Geneva Agreement with Venezuela was ei-
ther "a blunder" or "treason." Vice President
Desmond Hoyte has brought two actions
against Father Morrison whom he has re-
ferred to as a "congenital liar" and a "cas-
socked obscenity." The entire Caribbean
press has rushed to the defense of the
beleaguered journalists; a Committee in
Defense of the Catholic Standard has al-
ready been established with Bishops Bene-
dict Singh and Randolph George among
Even though the government is in disar-
ray, the opposition groups can count few
positive achievements. Burnham is still dug
in behind the loyal guns of the GDF and the
police. The civil servants and Georgetown
thugs remain in the trenches with the
bruised but unyielding executive president.
While his enemies agree that Burnham
must go and that free elections are impera-
tive, there is little agreement on the details of
what will ultimately replace his discredited
administration. For the opposition it is
"the best of times, and the worst of times."
One can visualize a "season of Light" in
the future but it still remains a "season
of Darkness." i
Continued from page 13
passion, occasional idealism-which
brought Europeans to the new world. Al-
though set mostly in the old world, it ar-
ranges a convincing stage for develop-
ments in the new. It is a difficult book. Like
the Guyanese writer Wilson Harris, Lam-
ming works through allegory and poetic
figures to give shape to his ideas; the com-
plexity of his vision is not adaptable to
A more conventional example of historic
fiction with a West Indian setting'is Edgar
Mittelholzer's popular Kaywana trilogy,
which traces the development of the Eng-
lish and Dutch planter class in the Guyanas
from the late seventeenth century right up
to the 1950s. The European powers hover
in the background of these novels, but the
main figures are the succeeding genera-
tions of the van Groenwegel family, mainly
Dutch and English, but with Indian and
Negro blood as well. Some members of the
family look back to Europe for their chil-
dren's schooling or for their own sense of
belonging, but those that Mittelholzer calls
"the strong ones" draw their strength from
the Guyanese earth itself and feel no need to
look across oceans for their origins. So the
novels are committed to a Caribbean histor-
ical reality holding firm through the shifting
patterns of wars, treaties, alliances, inva-
sions, and investments from abroad.
Another type of commitment is evi-
denced in Victor Reid's The Jamaicans,
which narrates the struggle between the
Spanish rulers in Jamaica and the British
expedition sent out by Cromwell to take
over the island. Again the European powers
play background roles. Front and center
stage are a community of free, Spanish-
speaking mountain blacks led by Juan
Lubolo, "the most famous of the mountain
fighters." Most of Lubolo's followers want to
help the Spaniards, with whom they identify
in language and religion, but Lubolo, when
he sees the Spanish forces weakening,
throws his support behind the British, be-
cause he knows that only by gaining an
agreement with them will he and his people
be able to survive, not as Englishmen or
Spaniards, but as free Jamaicans. But this is
a concept whose time has not yet come,
and Juan Lubolo is killed at the end of the
novel by a follower who remained
loyal to Spain.
Juan Lubolo, known to the English as
Juan de Bolas, is the well known Maroon
leader who was, in historic fact, made a
colonel in the British army and put in
charge of a black regiment. Information
about him is sketchy. It is difficult to believe
that any West Indian leader in the middle of
the seventeenth century could possibly
have been endowed with the far-sighted
statesmanship that Reid attributes to his
hero, but Reid never pretended he was writ-
ing an historic chronicle. The Jamaicans,
in the structure of a novel, is really a long
parable on Reid's favorite theme: that Ja-
maica was built not by Spain or England,
but by all those, black and white, slave and
free, who lived, worked, fought, and died
there. Another of Reid's novels with essen-
tially the same theme is New Day, in which
John Campbell, a very old man, describes
the events he witnessed and participated in
from the Morant Bay Rebellion of 1865 to
If West Indian history was
unknown, it would have to
be discovered; if it did not
exist, it would have to
the granting of the new Jamaican constitu-
tion of 1944. This is an extremely moving
book. It is narrated in a modified creole, the
popular language of Jamaica, and the po-
etry and obvious pride with which Reid uses
that peculiarly West Indian speech is a valid
answer to Naipaul's contention that nothing
was created there.
Interestingly enough, Naipaul silently re-
pudiated his own remark when he later
wrote The Loss of El Dorado, a fiction-
alized account of the first fifteen years of
British occupation in Trinidad beginning in
1797; in the foreword the author says, "this
is how a colony was created in the New
World." The book has a large cast of charac-
ters, from the famous to the infamous, to
some whom history has forgotten, like the
"nation of Indians called Chaguanes" who
left their name to the town of Chaguanas,
Orlando Patterson and Jean Rhys have also
written about the West Indian past as the
door to present identity, and Rhys, in Wide
Sargasso Sea pictured in nineteenth-cen-
tury Jamaica and Dominica the inter-island
suspicion and xenophobia which have be-
come serious barriers to socio-economic
and political change. Regional identity and
regional sharing are undermined by a
deep-rooted insularism, a solvent of per-
sistent local loyalties which exist even apart
from linguistic or cultural differences. The
English-speaking people classified as West
Indians prefer to think of themselves as Ja-
maicans, Bajuns, Antiguans, and so on.
Eric Williams, in his history of the Carib-
bean From Columbus to Castro, makes
this comment: "To the formidable contribu-
tions that sugar has made to contemporary
Caribbean psychology must be added this
one, not by any means the least important,
that it engendered and nurtured an inter-
colonial rivalry, an isolationist outlook, a
provincialism that is almost a disease,
which are the most striking characteris-
tics....of the twentieth-century West
By and large, the realistic fiction of the
West Indies supports Williams. It is a litera-
ture dealing with individual islands, each
entire unto itself, with few references to
other islands. When such references do oc-
cur in dialogue, they are often characterized
by vulgar mistrust or condescension. On
the other hand, West Indian intellectuals are
a highly cosmopolitan group, and the Uni-
versity of the West Indies, with branches
scattered throughout the region, has been
increasingly successful in establishing
awareness of a common cultural matrix.
Some writers have tried to lessen the divi-
sive effect of insularity by setting their sto-
ries on a typical Caribbean island rather
than an actual one. Lamming, Naipaul,
Paule Marshall, and John Heare have all
created "their" typical islands in this way,
islands which, because they incorporate
features common to the whole area, are
unmistakably West Indian. Perhaps the writ-
ers who have been most successful at re-
flecting a personal experience of the whole
region have been certain of the poets: Ed-
ward Brathwaite in his trilogy The Arrio-
ants and Derek Walcott in his wide-ranging
inquiries into the Caribbean experience.
Experience abroad has been extremely
important in promoting a feeling of regional
rather than insular identity. It is really when
the Jamaicans, the Bajuns, and the Anti-
guans leave their islands for London or
Toronto that they begin to relate themselves
to a larger context. This recognition is de-
scribed with great verve in Lamming's The
Emigrants, where passengers from differ-
ent islands and different classes, brought
together on a ship bound for England, dis-
cover that "Them is West Indians. Not
Jamaicans or Trinidadians. 'Cause the
bigger the better."
Localism, however divisive, is at least an
inner directed force. A far more divisive and
negative influence is what has been called
the centrifugal tendency in the Caribbean,
the tendency to look elsewhere for stan-
dards, for approval, for solutions to prob-
lems. There is no great metropolitan center
in the Caribbean to provide this leadership.
The French-speaking islands look to Paris,
the Spanish-speaking lands to Washington
or Moscow, and, perhaps most dramat-
ically, the English-speaking islands to
London. London is where West Indian writ-
ers go to be published, to be read, to have
their reputations established. And in their
books London is where people go to be-
come professionals, to enjoy art and cul-
ture, to learn the limits of possibility.
Naipaul's colonial politicians are mimic
men because their decisions are all pre-
determined in London. Mittelholzer's office
in Port-of-Spain is managed by the man
sent out from London. And so on and on.
By piecing together details from different
West Indian novelists one could easily con-
struct a picture of both pre-1950 colonial-
ism and the neo-colonialism which
followed. The neo-colonialism is more in-
sidious in that it works from within, through
native agencies. And it operates not simply
on visible economic and political struc-
tures, but on the mind and spirit. Brathwaite
refers to it as "philosophic colonialism," a
useful term for colonialism as a way of life.
Neo-colonialism, then, as might be ex-
pected, has been a major theme in recent
Caribbean writing. Lamming's Water With
Berries is a violent allegoric analysis of
England's relationship to her former colo-
nies. Paule Marshall's The Chosen Place,
the Timeless People deals with the prob-
lem of United States ideology wrapped up
in a package with United States foundation
money. The foci of neo-colonial pressures
shift easily and in mysterious ways.
Until recently the most concerted effort to
break away from the habits of European
colonialism was the Back-to-Africa move-
ment in its varied manifestations. These in-
cluded negritude on the cultural level,
increased diplomatic relations between Af-
rican and Caribbean states, and sporadic
plans for West Indian migration to Africa
and for commercial relations with that con-
tinent. This interest in Africa, particularly the
success of the negritude movement-
which was born in the Caribbean-had
many positive effects: it stimulated a reap-
praisal of African and American history,
loosened the psychological tensions in-
herited from slavery, awakened govern-
ments to the need for racial justice, and
released an immense amount of social and
personal creativity. In the West Indies it in-
spired some not-very-good novels with Af-
rican settings (by Victor Reid, Oscar
Dathorne, and Dennis Williams) and some
very interesting poetry by Brathwaite.
Despite its positive contributions, how-
ever, Back-to-Africanism never won any-
thing like universal support, for reasons that
are now fairly clear. First of all, although it
"History is built around
achievement and creation;
and nothing was created in
the West Indies."
was a reaction against colonialism, it was
modeled on colonialism: it still asked the
West Indian to look elsewhere for his stan-
dards, for solutions to his problems. This
time he was asked to look to Africa, on the
basis of cultural identifications which many
West Indians rejected. Second, the racist
overtones in negritude, no matter which
way they were directed, were unacceptable
to many who saw racism in any form as a
betrayal of the struggle for full membership
in an ideal family of man. Finally, except for
a few writers from the French-speaking
parts of the continent, Africans did not re-
spond warmly to negritude or to overtures
from black Americans; they had their own
problems. The image in West Indian writing
that best expresses the Back-to-Africa expe-
rience occurs at the end of Orlando Pater-
son's Children of Sisyphus, where a
group of Rastafarian brethren stand at night
on a dreary beach near Kingston, waiting
for the ships that they had been told would
come to take them to Ethiopia: "He stared at
their dark silhouettes, the peak of their
beards all pointing to the sea. Their little
bundles were by their sides. The olive oil
that they would balm themselves with so as
not to defile the holy land. The robes, the
long flowing white robes they would begin
to wear as soon as they landed."
The most persistent theme of Caribbean
writing in all language areas is that of per-
sonal identity and definition, which involves
present politics no less than history, na-
tionality no less than race. And the problem
is reflected even in the words used to dis-
cuss it. For example, a German, a French-
man, and a Spaniard are all Europeans, but
there is no comparable term to cover a
Puerto Rican, a Haitian, and a Trinidadian.
They cannot be called "Caribbeans." And,
as suggested above, the term West Indian,
even if taken to cover only English speak-
ers, is problematical. How is a West Indian
defined? By citizenship? If someone from
Wisconsin settles in Barbados and pays
taxes there, does that person become a
West Indian? If not, why not? These ques-
tions indicate some of the complexities tied
in with personal identity and belonging in
Wilson Harris of Guyana has, in poetry
and myth-inspired novels, matched these
complexities with a vision of Caribbean
man as an amalgam of races shaped into a
34/CAfBBEAN P viEW
new being by a new geography and history.
Harris seems to regard history as a quest for,
a development toward identity, and the pre-
colonial origins of that history are dis-
coverable-on a symbolic level at least-in
the Arawak migrations up through South
America to the Caribbean; the importance
of the Arawaks in the emergence of Carib-
bean man looms larger in Harris than in any
other major writer and is closely tied in with
his emphasis on the indigenous and with
his mystic feeling for the influence of land-
scape and geography on racial conscious-
ness. Wilson is much admired, especially in
Europe, but his vision is a lonely one. The
home he has made for himself in a world of
dark myth and his responsiveness to the
deep continental forests of Guyana set him
apart from people living on small bright
islands, and the significance he places on
continuity with the Arawak past seems un-
real. Nevertheless, his work is immersed in
regional feeling, and his insights are no less
provocative than his questions.
The most tangible identity factor in the
West Indies is race. Here it is important to
draw, at the very start, a line between race
and racism. Racism is an irrational gener-
alized response to people on the basis of
racial characteristics alone. In the main-
stream of West Indian writing racism, some-
times even race consciousness, is associ-
ated with emigration; it is learned outside
the Caribbean. Lamming is quite specific
about this in a scene from In the Castle of
My Skin in which Trumper, on his first re-
turn to Barbados after spending several
years in the States, confuses his boyhood
friend, the narrator of the novel, with refer-
ences to "my people."
"'Who are your people?' I asked him. It
seemed a kind of huge joke.
"'The Negro race,' said Trumper...'My
people,' he said again, 'or better, my race.
'Twus in the States I find it an' I'm gonna
keep it till thy kingdom come...You're one o'
my people...but you can't understand it
here. Not here. But the day you leave an'
perhaps if you go further than Trinidad
The development of this consciousness
is well described in Austin Clarke's novels
about a group of West Indians living in
Toronto. At the beginning of the series they
see themselves as highly individualized in
their multiple relationships with one an-
other and with other people: Bernice's Jew-
ish employers, the German maid from
across the street, a Bohemian sort of girl
from the university, a philandering lawyer,
and so on. Little by little, however, this multi-
plicity diminishes. The Jewish employers,
the German maid, the university girl come
to seem more and more alike and the West
Indians less and less individualized until,
finally, as with the slamming shut of a prison
door, their world is split into black and white.
This dichotomized view of people, cou-
pled with fixed value judgments-white is
good, black is beautiful-is alien to the Car-
ibbean. Sometimes it crops up, as it did in
the poetry written under the influence of the
Black Power movement some years ago.
But much of the rhetoric of this poetry was
imported from the United States, and a
great deal of the racism which characterized
that movement was also imported.
Not that there are no racial problems na-
tive to the West Indies. There are racial prob-
lems, and they are brought out in the
literature. But racial problems are not nec-
essarily caused by racism: they may be
Naipaul silently repudiated
his own remark when he
later wrote The Loss of
caused by real or imagined associations
between race and other things. For exam-
ple, in the period of slavery the owners were
all white and the slaves were all black; under
colonialism the whites were the exploiters
and the blacks the exploited. These rela-
tions could hardly fail to affect black atti-
tudes toward whites, but the determining
factors would be slave ownership and ex-
ploitation rather than race. This is sen-
sitively brought out in Jean Rhys's Wide
Sargasso Sea, a white Creole girl growing
up in Jamaica in the years just after Eman-
cipation, finds her natural affective relation-
ships with blacks thwarted by historical and
social forces over which she has no control.
Again, in lan McDonald's The Humming-
Bird Tree a white boy forms a close friend-
ship with the two children of an East Indian
laborer; as the children grow up the friend-
ship is quietly perverted by social expecta-
tions into a vague sense of guilt, bitterness,
and regret. In these books, typical of most
writing about race relations in a West Indian
setting, one of the qualities that most stand
out is the sympathy shown toward all in-
volved. Where we might expect anger or
recrimination, we more often find regret for
futility and waste, as in the poem "To an
Expatriate Friend," by Mervyn Morris, a Ja-
maican. "Color meant nothing. Anyone/
who wanted help, had humor or was
kind/was brother to you; categories of
skin/were foreign; you were color blind.
'And then the Revolution. Black/and
loud the horns of anger blew/against the
long oppression; sufferers/cast of the pre-
cious values of the few.
"New powers reenslaved us all:/each
person manacled in skin, in race./You
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could not wear your paid-up dues;/The
keen discriminators typed your face.
"The future darkening, you thought it
time/to say good-bye. It may be you were
right./It hurt to see you go; but more,/it
hurt to see you slowly going white."
Even more painful is the situation of peo-
ple who share two races and are at home in
neither, or are torn by divided loyalties. Mit-
telholzer in his autobiography The Swar-
thy Boy, tells how as a young child he
sensed a sort of resentment in his father, but
only gradually realized it was because his
skin was not so light and his hair was not so
"good" as his brothers' and sisters'. Mit-
telholzer's novel The Life and Death of
Sylvia, dealing with the social ambiguities
surrounding a person of mixed blood, un-
doubtedly reflects much of the author's
own experience, even anticipating his death
Derek Walcott's poems are filled with ref-
erences to the difficulties of uniting in
oneself the demands of two races repre-
senting two different and sometimes op-
posing traditions. Commenting on the Mau
Mau uprising, he asks: "I who am poisoned
with the blood ofboth/Where shall I turn,
divided to the vein?/I who have cursed/
The drunken officer of British rule, how
choose/Between this Africa and the Eng-
lish tongue I love?"
In Walcott, however, there is an equally
strong element of personal reconcilement,
of acceptance of both of the traditions he is
heir to. In this, in his regional commitment,
in his references to his "randy white grand-
sire," and in much else, he is reminiscent of
another poet, one who is widely regarded as
the ultimate spokesman for Caribbean as-
pirations, Nicolas Guillen. Writing about
revolutionary Cuba, Guillen describes a na-
tion taking its place among the family of
nations, a nation in which the ghost of colo-
nialism has finally been exorcised, racism
transcended, and the confusions of the past
transmuted into present confidence. In
awarding Guillen its Gold Musgrave Medal a
few years ago, the Institute of Jamaica
called him "autentico poeta del Caribe." It
is fitting to close with a quotation from his
acceptance speech on that occasion. "[In
the past] the people of the West Indies lived
in ignorance of each other, kept separate by
the evil imperialist faith that divided them...
Mr. Haiti, Mrs. Jamaica, the Misses
Guadeloupe and Martinique, Mr. Barbados,
Mrs. Cuba...What can they say to each
other in their English, in their patois, in their
French, in their Spanish, in their papia-
mento? They have said little (or nothing) to
each other up to now, but now they are
beginning to say more." A
Continued from page 14
contrast is not simply between one culture
and another, but between everyday life and
the life of the imagination as cultivated by
centuries of artistic tradition.
For us, the principal component of this
tradition is the place of excellence in its
ideology. The hierarchical structure of ear-
lier Europe permitted, as a consequence of
the concentration of surplus wealth in the
hands of a small class of aristocrats, the
elaboration of a self-justifying idea of excel-
lence through many aspects of that society.
From the notion of excellent people who
deserve their privileges, the concept is
easily broadened to include the works
made for them and eventually the makers
of those works; although it took a Petrarch
to assert the 'nobility' of the poet's calling
From its adherents, the tradition de-
mands extreme craftsmanship, in contrast
to the products of popular, mass, or provin-
cial culture, as well as allegiance to a stan-
dard language and its decorums, a vast
arcana of knowledge gleaned from Greco-
Roman and Judeo-Christian traditions, and
a deep anxiety about belonging to the
Happy, Fit, Chosen Few. I think it is clear that
Walcott has elected himself to this elite
and that his explicit statements constitute
as much of a claim to membership as
his poetry reflects that club's benefits
For one thing, in the Express interview
just cited, Walcott praises the colonial sys-
tem of education and its adherence to a
standard language, "Art is not democratic,
art is hierarchical, and all artists know that.
They know that it takes all your life to
achieve some level where you can be
among your peers. But if immediately your
peers are made to be the illiterate, or the
people who feel education is restricted en-
tirely to self-expression without craft, then
society is in danger. It is in more danger
than it is from terrorists and revolution-
aries...The whole process of civilization is
We have on our hands a
classic Poet, divided
between the world of
muddy hills and freckled
girls and those rarer
realms of literary
cyclical. The good civilization absorbs a cer-
tain amount, like the Greeks. Empires are
smart enough to steal from the people they
conquer. They steal the best things. And the
people who have been conquered should
have enough sense to steal back." Most
recently, in an excerpt from his forthcoming
autobiography, American Without Amer-
ica, printed in Antaeus (Spring/Summer,
1982), Walcott gives a glimpse of his fever-
ish search for the best things a St. Lucian
student could steal: "What names, what ob-
jects do I remember from that time? The
brown-coveredPenguin Series ofModern
Painters: Stanley Spencer, Frances
Hodgkins, Paul Nash, Ben Nicholson; the
pocket-sized Dent edition of Thomas's
Death and Entrances, the Eliot record-
ings of Four Quartets, dropped names
like Graham Sutherland, and Carola and
Ben Fleming's and Harry's reminiscences
of ICA student days, and Harry's self-belit-
tling anecdote of how he had once heard
that Augustus John was aboard a cruise
ship and he had rushed up to see him with a
pile of canvases and how John, agreeing to
look at them, had glared back and said, 'You
can't paint, but I admire your brass!,' BIM
magazine, Henry Swanzy's Caribbean
Voices programme, Caribbean Quarterly,
and the first West Indian novels, New Day
and A Morning at the Office. Once Mit-
telholzer had sat in our drawing room and
warned me to give up writing verse-
tragedies, because 'they' would never
What these passages indicate is both the
range and variety of the matter of his voca-
tion-not two worlds but many-and the
deep division between that artistic vocation
and the illiterate victims who neglect the
master's lesson in stealing. In addition to
these explicit statements, I would turn now
to the poetic fruits of his vocation, especially
as they reveal the self-concept of the jour-
neyman bard. Elsewhere in Another Life,
that pivotal book reveals the Wordsworthian
echos that lifted the young poet to a senti-
mental ecstasy: About the August of my
fourteenth year/I lost myself somewhere
above a valley.../and I dissolved into a
trance./l was seized by a pity more pro-
found/than my young body could bear, I
climbed/with the labouring smoke,/1
drowned in labouring breakers of bright
cloud,/then uncontrollably I began to
weep,/inwardly, without tears, with a se-
rene extinction of all sense.
That is the language of someone toiling
in what Harold Bloom would call an ex-
treme "anxiety of influence," Oedipally
wrestling Wordsworth to the ground in a rite
of poetic passage that will qualify him for
admission to the Visionary Company of
poets on Fortune's Hill. This child is divided
between real hills-whether cactus-strewn
in St. Lucia or gorse-covered in Westmore-
land, and the ideal peaks that poets have
ascended since Parnassus.
Later on, the youth tells of his First Love.
Here, the tale tastes more like Joyce than
Wordsworth, and ventures into that self-
conscious estheticization of the erotic expe-
rience, as he describes a walk with a girl
already passing into metaphor:And which
of them in time would be betrayed/was
never questioned by that poetry/which
breathed within the evening naturally,/
but by that noble treachery of art/that
looks for fear when it is least afraid,/that
coldly takes the pulse-beat of the heart/in
happiness; that praised its need to die/to
the bright candour of the evening sky,/
that preferred love to immortality;/so
every step increased that subtlety/which
hoped that their two bodies could be
made/one body of immortal metaphor/
The hand she held already had betrayed/
them by its longing for describing her.
Poor Anna in this passage was of course
not content with joining the poetic com-
pany of Beatrice, Laura, Stella, and Idea.
Complaining that she was, on the contrary,
as simple as salt," she left the poet to his
guilty fictionizing. But we can take both of
these episodes as clear testimony that we
have on our hands a classic Poet, divided
between the world of muddy hills and
freckled girls and those rarer realms of liter-
For such an artist, as it was for Joyce,
physical exile could only be a life sentence
to the imaginative re-creation of reality into
the meaningful categories of westem art.
That art has many voices and vocabularies.
It should not be surprising that a writer with
such rich and varied experience as Walcott
should use a great range of them in his
creation. The Fortunate Traveller shows
many of them at work, and it would be a
profound mistake to reduce them to two. In
addition to the elementary distinction be-
tween the voices of calypso and Jacobean
tragedy that the reviewers have detected
here, we can hear, for example, the precious
accents of Wallace Stevens: The sun dries
the avenue's pumice facade/delicately as
a girl tamps tissue on her cheek;/the as-
phalt shines like a silk hat,/the fountains
trot like percherons round the Met,/clip,
clop, clip, clop in Belle Epoque Manhat-
tan,/as gutters part their lips to the spring
rain. And we can thrill in the presence of
Robert Lowell's Yankee agonies: A white
church spire whistles into space/like a
swordfish, a rocket pierces heaven/as the
thawed springs in icy chevrons race/
down hillsides and Old Glories flail/the
crosses of green farm boys back from
'Nam. And we behold William Carlos
William's sturdy images: No billboard
model/but a woman, gaunt,/in a freckled
print,/some bony aunt/ whose man
broke down at the steel mill,/whose
daughter chews wild grain in some com-
mune in Arizona,/whose son is a wreath
of dried corn/nailed to the door While an
unsympathetic reviewer might lump all this
together as derivative, 1 think for Walcott
these echoes constitute the array of coin in
which the journeyman poet pays tribute to
Leaving behind this miscellaneous evi-
dence of Walcott's self-conception, I would
turn now to a single poem from The Fortu-
nate Traveller to make a more analytical
case. Reviewers have tended to focus on the
same poems, and none of us will attempt to
unravel the persona and telegraphic drama
of the book's title poem. For my special
...these echoes constitute
the array of coin in which
the journeyman poet pays
tribute to his peers.
purposes, "The Hotel Normandie Pool" will
To begin with, this eight-page poem is
about writing poetry, one sure and perhaps
telling theme of the greatest poets. Its occa-
sion is a visit to Port of Spain, Trinidad, and
some reveries during the composition of a
poem at poolside. In images that play with
fluidity, reflection, surface and shadow, the
poem is thematically autobiographical: "For
this my fiftieth year, I muttered to the rib-
bon-medalled water 'Change me, my
sign, to someone Ican bear"'Such narciss-
ism leads the poet to Aquarian reflections
on himself, his swimming daughters, the
career of Ovid, the problem of exile, the
springs and uses of poetry.
The four-page second section rehearses
an envisioned visit of the shade of Ovid to
the pool. That Master recalls his own exile
from Rome, daughter, language, and origin
to the Gothic frontier town of Tomis on the
Black Sea. The consolation offered by this
spirit is that exile made his verses better, "till,
on a tablet smooth as the pool's skin,/I
made reflections that, in many ways,/
were even stronger than their origin." In the
contrast between the Romans, mocking his
slavish rhyme, and the slaves, who scorned
his love of Roman structures, we can feel
the tension of Walcott's own two reader-
ships, north and south. But, as he insists in
self-defense, art obeys its own order. Finally,
in answer to the writer's question, Ovid's
echo ripples: "Why here, of all places/a
small, suburban tropical hotel,/its pool
pitched to a Mediterranean blue/its palms
rusting in their concrete oasis?/Because
to make my image flatters you."
The final section, one page long, recalls
us to the reality that poets share with the rest
of us: "no laurel, but the scant applause of
one dry, scraping palm tree." The poem
ends in an image repeated frequently in
Walcott's best work: Sunset, never sup-
posed to fall on the outposts of Empire, now
brings with it repose, closure, speechless-
ness, "Suspension of every image and its
voice,/The mangoespitch from theirgreen
dark like meteors./The fruit bat swings on
its branch, a tongueless bell." Self-con-
scious of self-flattery, Walcott nevertheless
associates himself on several levels with the
classic poet-exile, Ovid, the magister. Is
there any verity in this vanity? Some.
There is growing acceptance on the part
of the machinery of literary production that
Derek Walcott belongs with the best. When
Philip Larkin put together the Oxford Book
of Twentieth Century English Verse in
1965, he broke his own rules in order to
include Walcott, who at that time had pub-
lished a single volume. Although Larkin ex-
cluded poems by American and Common-
wealth writers, Walcott gets almost six
pages--one more than was allotted to his
contemporary Ted Hughes. Richard
Ellmann's Norton Anthology of Modem
Poetry also makes room for, to my think-
ing, an idiosyncratic little selection of five
poems. Now that Walcott has been admit-
ted to the company of Boston University
and has received the prestigious and lucra-
tive award of the MacArthur Foundation, he
is accumulating the trappings that should
qualify him for the company of his peers:
The next Oxford Book of Modem Verse-
the last was edited by W. B. Yeats in 1935-
and the next Oxford Book of English
Verse, which hasn't been redone since Sir
Arthur Quiller-Couch's edition of 1900. If
he continues to sharpen his aim at excel-
lence and eludes the snares of success and
notoriety, Derek Walcott, the journeyman,
may yet make Master.
An early morning fire, January
24, 1982, destroyed the main
building of the Tapia Centre in
Port-of-Spain, Trinidad. Among
other items, the fire destroyed
the extensive library and back
file on Caribbean life that Lloyd
Best and his colleagues had been
tirelessly collecting for many,
many years. Contributions of
books, journals, maps, manu-
scripts, etc., are now necessary
to bring the library back to a
functioning level. To forward
Lloyd Best, Trinidad and
22-24 Cipriani Boulevard,
Port-of-Spain, Trinidad and
Tobago, West Indies.
Continued from page 15
location, in many ways it is the most interest-
ing of the three stories. It is the kernel out of
which In the Castle of My Skin would one
day bloom; it focuses on one village in Bar-
bados and on a reflective old man who will
develop into the figure of Pa in the novel.
The single reference to racial color places it
within the matrix of colonialism: colonized
peasants in Barbados do not, in general,
have white skins. The blacks form a major-
ity of the island's population; they are the
norm on the landscape and hence un-
freighted with feelings of strangeness or
dislocation. The old man "felt that he was
born into his [peasant] position as a royal
personage is born into the abundant splen-
dour of royal things." In "David's Walk" we
see what will later be recognized as charac-
teristic features of Lamming's style: poet-
ically textured prose, an ear for natural
dialogue and folk epigram, and an authority
of tone. But in neither theme nor vocabu-
lary is there evidence of an acquaintance
with annihilating racism or existentialism.
The First Hint
For the first hint of existentialism, we have to
turn to "Of Thorns and Thistles," a short
story published in Bim in 1949. In this last
prose piece published before he left Trin-
idad, we see what appears to be his first
literary experiment with Sartre's philosophy.
The story is an almost allegorical working
out of Sartre's concepts of intention and act:
Lamming depicts the destructive influence
which any third person (here, Rosa) injects
into a love relation between one human
being, here Ma Barton, and its Other (al-
though the term is not used explicitly), An-
gela. But while the story reveals its author's
fascination with existentialism, it in no way
deals with either colonialism or race.
In short, it seems that George Lamming
became acquainted with Sartre's philoso-
The head teacher is a man
of bad faith...unwilling to
accept and assume an
existential aloneness, an
unwillingness to repudiate
the props of God, social
custom, and the security
phy shortly before leaving Trinidad, but that
its relevance to race was not then perceived,
for the simple reason that race did not be-
come a trenchant reality for Lamming until
his ship docked at Southampton in March
of 1950. Lamming's early fiction thus re-
veals either one of two things: a growing
political consciousness, but without an ex-
istentialist framework ("David's Walk,"
"Birds of a Feather"), or a new, somewhat
arid awareness of existentialism, but with-
out any linkage to racial or political experi-
ence ("Of Thorns and Thistles").
The crucial linkage of the experience with
existentialist philosophy came in London.
The West Indian intellectual now perceived
himself categorized by the stare (in Sartre's
terms, "le regard") of the startled white (the
Other), locked into existence as an object
who was "other than" the culturally com-
fortable white norm. Most important, Lam-
ming's familiarity with the writings of Jean-
Paul Sartre enabled him not only to under-
stand the psychology behind the "other-
ness" of racism but also to postulate its
antidotes: self-definition and action. The
Other cannot simply be ignored; philo-
sophically he is the ontological validation of
one's own existence. To deal with and un-
derstand the Other's withering power re-
quires that one act through the desperate
but necessary responses which Sartre
posited in Being and Nothingness: es-
cape from the Other ("flight" in Lamming's
lexicon), affection which assimilates the
Other and his power ("colonizing affection,"
in Lamming's phrase), or hatred which an-
nihilates the Other and turns him into an
object. Lamming was quick to see the ap-
plication of this philosophy to the psycho-
logically beleaguered colonial.
Far from being frivolous or fashionable,
Lamming's use of existentialism is experi-
ential and functional; he has used its in-
sights and mandates as many others have
used those of, say, Marxism or Christianity.
The single intention running through all six
Lamming novels is to depict man's rejec-
tion of freedom as he meekly accepts a
definition given him by the Other, or to show
him accepting that existential freedom and
creating his own actions.
In the Castle of My Skin is the ground
where existentialist philosophy was first ap-
plied to personal experience. Unlike subse-
quent novels, it is not expressly about the
experience of race. Lamming himself noted
to an interviewer in a 1955 issue of The
Negro History Bulletin that "the book is
not one of those 'about the race question.'"
But this does not mean that it is not both
precipitated and informed by it. The
London experience of racism infuses the
novel and is a major factor in its narrative
organization. Its presence, unwarranted by
the actual facts of Lamming's boyhood,
points incontrovertibly to the power of the
manhood experience in London.
At his typewriter in England, the young
novelist had a problem. His impulse was to
write about his boyhood, much as he re-
membered its having been; on the other
hand, in the light of his present knowledge,
We are pleased to accept nominations for the fourth annual Caribbean
Review Award, an annual presentation to honor an individual who has
contributed to the advancement of Caribbean intellectual life.
The award recognizes individual effort irrespective of field, ideology,
national origin, or place of residence.
The Award Committee consists of: Lambros Comitas (Chairman),
Columbia University, New York; Fuat Andic, Universidad de Puerto Rico,
San Juan, Puerto Rico; Wendell Bell, Yale University, New Haven, Con-
necticbt; Locksley Edmondson, University of the West Indies, Mona, Ja-
maica; Anthony P. Maingot, Florida International University, Miami, Florida.
Nominations are to be sent to the Editor, Caribbean Review, Florida
International University, Miami, Florida 33199. Nominations must be
received by March 11, 1983.
The Third Annual Award will be announced at the Eighth Annual Meeting
of the Caribbean Studies Association. In addition to a plaque the recipient
receives an honorarium of $250, donated by the International Affairs Cen-
ter of Florida International University.
he needed to write about the presently per-
ceived significance of that boyhood, that
island, that colonialism. How was he to ef-
fect this? He did so by creating two figures
who speak for the adult, London-based
Lamming and who provide the reader with
those insights to which young G. (from
whose viewpoint the story is chiefly told) is
not yet privy, the very insights which Lam-
ming did not acquire until he arrived in
England. One is middle-aged and perma-
nently rooted in the village; this shoemaker
reads, thinks, and makes shrewd observa-
tions about the political upheavals taking
place on his own island and others like it in
the Caribbean. The other figure is young
and emigrates for three years to America;
Trumper returns to Barbados, transformed
by the experience of racism in the United
States. As the adult Lamming is to the boy
he once was, so, in the novel, Trumper is to
young G. Trumper is brought into the
novel's final chapter to initiate the disbeliev-
ing boy-narrator into a vision of what his
own terrible-but-proud future will be when
one day he too goes "much further than
Trinidad" and learns about race, "My
The philosophical insights of Sartrian ex-
istentialism are first worked out on the nar-
rative level in chapter three of Castle-the
chapter which puzzles as often as it pleases
its readers. According to Sartre's formula-
tion in Being and Nothingness, the Other
is "on principle the one who looks at me." In
Lamming's third chapter, the dense repeti-
tion of such items as "the other," the other's
"glance" (which "undermines"), the other's
"knowledge," and the loneliness and "sick-
ness" consequent on acting independently,
in good faith-all of these alert us that the
young George Lamming was writing with
Sartre's 1938 novel, Nausea, very much in
mind. In Nausea, Sartre depicted his hero,
Roquentin, becoming aware of lonely, ter-
rifying freedom; in Lamming's 1953 novel
of the colonial Caribbean, we watch the
head teacher, a Negro upholder of the colo-
nial system, refuse the freedom which
Sartre's hero finally accepts. Chapter three
is far more than the sum of its incidents; not
simply a narrative portrayal of colonialism, it
is, far more seriously, an underlying com-
mentary on the quality of personal freedom
and responsibility. What the head teacher
cannot do in his personal life foretells what
he cannot do politically. By situating this
rejection of personal self-definition in the
colonial school yard, and by counterpoint-
ing it with the children's naive reflections on
freedom and slavery, Lamming succeeds
in establishing the tensions and im-
peratives which will control the bulk of this
The head teacher is the man of bad faith
who allows himself to be petrified into an
object of the other's categorizing percep-
tion of him. He has permitted this petrifica-
tion by accepting the image which his wife
and teaching subordinates have of him, by
accepting the role which society expects
him to play (reliable colonial servant), and
by sinking into comforting habits of behav-
ior which reinforce this objectification-
such as the elaborate system of whistle-
blowing that he uses in the classroom. At
issue is his unwillingness to accept and as-
sume an existential aloneness, an un-
willingness to repudiate the props of God,
social custom, and the security of empire.
To be on his own, without extemal directive,
The fusion of philosophy to
experience is the seedbed
for In the Castle of My
produces in him "a strange impotence of
action," and, like Sartre's Roquentin, he
passively waits "to see what would happen."
As in Nausea, this phrase is used again and
again in chapter three to demonstrate the
head teacher's desperate hope that extemal
circumstances will obviate the need for per-
Yet it is Lamming's departure from Nau-
sea-even while using its vocabulary and
images-that illuminates his political inten-
tions. It is no accident that both Nausea
and In the Castle ofMy Skin focus on one
psychological affect, variously presented as
"sickness," "nausea," or "giddiness." Nor is
it accident that both novels have as their
central image a pebble, nor that both works
conclude with a gramophone recording.
But the differences are instructive. In
Sartre's novel the pebble is a troubling, al-
most horrifying image associated with Ro-
quentin's nausea, the nausea which is the
symptom of his sickening realization that he
lives in a contingent universe. The nausea is
irremediable, but it may be mitigated in
some way by artistic creativity. As the novel
ends, Roquentin is preparing, as it were, "to
produce the sharp precise sound of a sax-
ophone note"-in his own art form, he will
try to achieve something of "this little dia-
mond pain" which he hears on his favorite
In Castle, these same elements point in
quite another direction. The pebble, which
had symbolized personal loss, is, in G.'s
vision at the end of the novel, returned to
him as symbol of fulfillment. It is returned to
him-his loss is redeemed-at the precise
moment when he recalls Trumper's prom-
ise that "A man who knew his people won't
feel alone," and the first awareness of "My
People" had come to G. as he listened to
Paul Robeson on Trumper's gramophone
recording. This political commitment to
"My People" will not merely mitigate but
dispel the "sickness" of loss, of "seeing
things for the last time." Personal loss is
redeemed by action.
The sickness, however, is not one sick-
ness but two, a fact the reader may not be
aware of when he first reads Lamming's
novel. The sickness of personal loss is not
to be confused with the "sickness" or "gid-
diness" of existential aloneness, which the
head teacher so feared. Both these sick-
nesses are brought together in the closing
pages of Castle: the restored pebble an-
swers the sickness of personal loss at the
moment that it conflates with Trumper's as-
surances about "My People." At the same
time, G. thinks back to a long ago day at the
beach and asks Trumper about that kind of
giddiness or sickness: "'You remember,' I
said, 'a long time ago we spent a day at the
beach? You and me and Bob and Boy
Blue....You remember you were saying
about a feeling,' I said, 'a big bad feeling in
the pit of the stomach. A feeling you were
alone in a world all by yourself, and al-
though there were hundreds of people
moving round you, it made no difference.
You got giddy. Boy Blue said it made him
giddy to think about it.' "'You ever feel like
that now?' he asked.... 'A man who know his
people won't ever feel like that,' said
In the Castle of My Skin is about boy-
hood in a colonial society. Yet it reveals the
two elements which, in London, fused to
form Lamming's political intent-and nei-
ther of these is the concern with colonial-
ism. The first element is a familiarity with
French existentialism, and in the "very cen-
tral" third chapter (to use Lamming's own
words for it) the head teacher enacts
Sartre's definition of the coward, the man
unable to act through self-definition in ei-
ther his personal or political life. He permits
others to define him and is therefore, in
every respect, colonial.
But colonialism and the head teacher do
not carry the affective weight of the novel;
that is largely borne by G. and Trumper in
the closing pages when G.'s sickness is ren-
dered ineffective by Trumper's promise of a
whole and meaningful life. Whether G.'s
sickness is that of loss or existential alone-
ness, it will be cured by G.'s decision for self-
definition, by his commitment to race, by his
decision to "walk in the sun or stand on the
highest hill and proclaim himself the black-
est evidence of the white man's denial of
conscience." This allegiance to a cause was
not the experience of young Lamming in
Barbados, but it was the experience of the
mature Lamming in London, and this fusion
of philosophy to experience became the
seedbed for In the Castle of My Skin. F
Fate of Writing...
Continued from page 17
it, and the writing is never complete be-
cause it is greedy for completion by reader
Contrasting modern societies with pre-
or non-industrial societies that do not have
a system of writing, Claude L6vi-Strauss
"We are no longer linked to our past by an
oral tradition which implies direct contact
with others (storytellers, priests, wise men
or elders), but by books amassed in librar-
ies, books from which we endeavor-with
extreme difficulty-to form a picture of their
authors. And we communicate with the im-
mense majority of our contemporaries by
all kinds of intermediaries-written docu-
ments or administrative machinery-
which undoubtedly vastly extend our con-
tacts but at the same time make these con-
tacts somewhat 'unauthentic.' This has
become typical of the relationship between
the citizen and the public authorities.
"We should like to avoid describing nega-
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tively the tremendous revolution brought
about by the invention of writing. But it is
essential to realize that writing, while it con-
ferred vast benefits on humanity, did in fact
deprive it of something fundamental
(Structural Anthropology, 1963)."
The "something fundamental" which is
lost, according to L6vi-Strauss, is the ca-
pacity for bricolagee," the means by which
the non-literate non-technical mind without
abstract logic or conceptual thinking nev-
ertheless "orders, classifies and arranges
into structures the minutiae of the physical
world." These made-up or improvised
Oral literature is just as
artificial, just as much an
artistic ordering as written
literature, but each has its
structures, to quote Terence Hawkes "serve
to establish homologies and analogies be-
tween the ordering of nature and that of
society," enabling the bricoleur to respond
to an environment without puzzlement or
hesitation, and on several levels atthe same
time (Structualism and Semiotic, 1977).
It is not simplifying too much to say that
Levi-Strauss is concerned with the loss of a
spontaneous capacity for metaphor and
myth-making, and with the decline of think-
ing in images or other types of figurative
language. Writing, so the charge goes, con-
tributes to this loss because it is abstract
and artificial, and interposes between man
and the concrete world.
Levi-Strauss's structuralist method, and
his investigations of the mind behind the
cultural arrangements in so-called primitive
societies have been influential in linguistics
and literary criticism. But it is too easy to slip
into accepting the notion of writing and the
contrasts between speech and writing that
are implicit in his remarks. We must remind
ourselves, therefore, that although speech
pre-dates writing, and writing may be
thought of as having come into being to
represent speech, what it was called up to
represent could only have been a selection
with respect both to content and usage.
Those who study Chaucer, for example,
really do not know how complete a record
they have of the English of Chaucer's pe-
riod, nor have they any way of knowing for
sure how either Chaucer himself or a per-
son living at that time would have pro-
nounced the words in The Canterbury
Tales. We know little about Chaucer's
speech because Chaucer's speech survives
only through writing which had already be-
gun to do what has turned out to be one of
the main virtues of writing, that is, to subject
the language to a certain degree of stan-
dardization and stabilization against the flux
of the living speech.
It was always implicit that a system that is
visual, linear and sequential and has a phys-
ical existence in space could never ade-
quately contain or represent another
system that is auditory and exists in time.
Nor, having discovered its own being would
it want to do so. Given these fundamental
differences and difficulties present from the
start, it is not surprising that writing should
have developed its own rules just as speech
has its own rules. "Written language is
prone to develop its peculiar structural
properties so thatthe history of the two chief
linguistic varieties, speech and letters, is
rich in dialectical tensions and alternations
of mutual repulsions and attractions" (Ro-
man Jakobson, Selected Writings, Vol. 11,
1971). Having cut out the middleman, as it
were, writing can be seen to be related to
language directly. Writing and speech exist
therefore as manifestations of language
and contribute to our greater knowledge of
It is worth putting up a few reminders at
this stage. Writing, as we have used the term
so far includes not only imaginative writing
with its high degree of connotations and its
many types of ambiguity, but also written
texts of a more denotating type such as
historical or scientific writings, where there
is an attempt to ensure that the signifier (the
word) is restricted to one of its possible
meanings, the meaning conforming more
or less to what a dictionary would supply.
Written literature is to writing what oral liter-
ature is to speech. To put it like this is to
insist that oral literature is just as artificial,
just as much an artistic ordering as written
literature, but each has its own conventions.
Each requires to be judged by its own crite-
ria, and the one (in our society, written litera-
ture) should not be valued only to the extent
that it resembles the other (the favored oral
literature). The assumption by advocates of
oral literature that it alone has access to
speech, to oral traditions or to the elements
of the culture referred to as folk elements is
a mistaken one; for written literature has just
as much direct access to these sources as
oral literature, and it can, in addition, draw
upon oral literature itself which may contain
some of them. It is one of the strengths of
West Indian literature that there exists a
whole set of fruitful possibilities of mutually
enhancing contact between oral literature
and written literature, all the things associ-
ated with orality and all of those associated
Two Kinds of Writing
Imaginative writing can and does exhibit the
40/CAI BBEAN IVI~e1
concrete logic attributed by Levi-Strauss to
the pre-literate mind. And it is not too diffi-
cult to urge now that the quarrel is not a
quarrel between content and form, speech
and writing, folk and humanist, Africa and
Europe or even Brathwaite and Walcott.
The debate is between two kinds of writing,
and two kinds of relationships between the
text and the reader.
The first kind of writing is clear and di-
rected. The reader who consumes it con-
sumes what the writer in a certain kind of
society has been conditioned to produce
either in conformity or in predictable re-
action. This type of writing in which there is
no ambiguity in the passage from signifier
to signified is called "readerly" by Roland
Barthes; the second type where the sig-
nifiers have free play, and where the words
are constantly running into ambiguity, and
where the reader is virtually invited to co-
operate in the authoring of the text, Barthes
calls writerlyy:" "Where readerly texts (usu-
ally classics) are static, virtually 'read them-
selves, and thus perpetuate an 'established'
view of reality and an 'establishment'
scheme of values frozen in time, yet serving
still as an out-of-date model for our world,
writerly texts require us to look at the nature
of language itself, not through it at a preor-
dained 'real world.' They thus involve us in
the dangerous, exhilarating activity of cre-
ating our world now, together with the au-
thor as we go along. Where readerly texts
presuppose and depend upon the pre-
sumptions of innocence outlined
above...saying that 'this is what the world is
like and always will be like,' writerly texts
presume nothing, admit no easy passage
from signifier to signified, are open to the
play of the codes that we use to determine
them. In readerly texts, the signifiers march:
in writerly texts they dance. And paradox-
ically, where readerly texts (which require no
real reading) are often what we call 'read-
able: writerly texts (which demand stren-
uous reading) are often called 'unreada-
ble'." To Hawkes's admirable explication of
Barthes one needs only to add that it is the
perverse duty of the reader to search con-
tinually for the crackswhere "readerly" texts
can be broken into and turned into some-
thing like writerlyy" texts.
But we are far, in the West Indies, from
searching for cracks in readerly texts. In-
deed the opposite seems to be happening.
In order to bring literature to non-reading
audiences, and to encourage such au-
diences to begin to read for themselves,
writers even before the time of Dickens have
resorted to more or less dramatized read-
ings of their work. There is no doubt that
readings of this sort can alert us to elements
in a text that might have remained inert had
the public reading not taken place. One
type of reading, like a reading by Derek
Walcott, tends to be low-keyed and unem-
phatic, trying to convey the inner music of
the text without impressing just one of its
possible meanings. The more dramatized
the reading, the more it approaches what is
a performance proper, which, like the per-
formance of a play, selects from the script's
possible meanings and tries to convey the
selected meaning with consistency; for this
reason, we are not averse to take in each
new production of the same script.
A performance or a dramatized reading,
however, reduces the audience to being
passive receivers of the version being pre-
sented, and token,attempts like letting ac-
tors enter from places in the audience or
pulling an embarrassed member or two of
the audience onto the stage or even inviting
the audience to sing along or chant at se-
lected moments only makes the audience's
passive role more obvious. It is better of
course to have a performance than nothing
at all, and there is no intention here to sug-
gest that there is anything wrong with per-
formances as performance.
But a theory of writing that makes per-
formability either a principle of composition
or a supreme criterion of the value of a text;
or which, even worse, seeks to attach per-
formance to a theory of cultural authenticity
is inimical to both writing and reading as
some of us know these mental operations:
"Reading is an isolated, individualistic ex-
pression. The oral tradition, on the other
hand, makes demands not only on the poet
but also on the audience to complete the
community: the noise and sounds that the
poet makes are responded to by the au-
dience and are returned to him. Hence we
have the creation of a continuum where the
meaning truly resides. And this total ex-
pression comes about because people live
in the open air, because people live in con-
ditions of poverty, because people come
from a historical experience where they had
to rely on their own breath pattems rather
than on paraphernalia like books and mu-
Introduction to a Political
by Antonio Jorge
FAIRLEIGH DICKINSON UNIVERSITY PRESS
P.O. Box 421, Cranbury, New Jersey 08512
seums." The above, from Brathwaite's
"English in the Caribbean," is not a recom-
mendation of either public readings or
performance. It is an invitation to
This discussion of the civil wars, whether
mistaken as in the opposition between writ-
ing and speech or essential as in the dif-
ference between "readerly" texts and
writerlyy" texts, has been conducted in the
shadow of an external threat which may be
of greater consequence in the long run.
The technological revolution of our time
which is changing the nature of our day-to-
day lives in almost every respect is the revo-
lution to do with the storage and retrieval of
information. It is not hard to imagine a time
not long from now when books and writing
containing information of any kind may be
replaced by micro-cassettes and comput-
ers, and when the reading of that kind of
material will be done in seconds, elec-
tronically. And there are already signs that
communications technology is creating the
kind of person who would hardly be aware
of the pleasure of the text and for whom
what one generation before him got out of
imaginative literature will appear to be satis-
factorily provided by video, refined sound
systems and the cinema.
For a time, and one had better frighten
oneself with it now, imaginative writing and
the reading of it will become more of a cult
activity than it already is. It is an argument
for the cultivation of literariness and reading
at the present time that these lonely skills
will permit the tolerable survival of those
who cannot change with the changing
world; and the possession of a real under-
standing of what reading and writing are
may equip those who face up to the new
technology to help ensure that there be as
rich a transference as the changing media
permit of the pleasures of the text into what-
ever takes the place of the text.
Professor Jorge's innovative study advo-
cates a new and different perspective on the
joined disciplines of history, economic
theory, and the social sciences, and calls for a
wider scope and a more flexible, if initially
more complex, approach in the perception of
The book deals with competition and
cooperation as antithetical approaches to
human interaction in the social field. Com-
petition and cooperation mix in an infinite
variety of combinations, giving rise to a wide
spectrum of different types of organizations.
They also reflect, particularly in the long run,
the nature of the motivational composite
The essence of Jorge's message is that
productivity and efficiency can be incorpo-
rated into a variety of social arrangements,
and that no particular model needs to be a
CArBBBAN FEVIM /41
Continued from page 19
the workshop of the great Nlommo...and
stole a piece of the sun in the form of live
embers and white-hot iron. He seized itby
means of a 'robber's stick' the crook of
which ended in a slit, open like a mouth...
Without losing a moment the smith flung
the truncated pyramid [the flat-roof gran-
ary] along a rainbow. The edifice stood
without turning on itself, and the thread
unwound in serpentine coils suggesting
the movement of water...
(From OgotemmUli, Dieu d' Eau, by
Marcel Griaule, translated as Con-
versations with Ogotemmeli, 1965.)
In this metaphor of the origin of the Dogon
people, Ogotemmili's space-capsule is his
native granary, taking with it all the symbols
and presence of the pantheon of gods:
Nommo (Ogoun) the word/smith, creator,
ancestor; Ananse, the locksman, stealer of
fire, live ember or limbo; Damballa, the rain-
bow, the movement of water (Oshun &
Yemaaja); the intervention of Shango ('to
the accompaniment of a clap of thunder').
'The granary thenpursued its course along
the rainbow... its speed increase [ing] owing
to the impetus given by the thunder'.
But the nam/nommo capsule is not merely
a machine (if that were so, our African New
World gods would have arrived awesome,
not crippled; cold and dead) but organon:
orisha: capable of re-foundation of the
broken limb: nam into man again.
The ground was rapidly approaching. The
ancestor was still standing, his arms in
front of him and the hammer and anvil
hanging across his limbs. The shock of
his final impact on the earth when he
came to the end of the rainbow, scattered
in a cloud of dust the animals, vegetables
and men disposed on the steps.
When calm was restored, the smith was
still on the roof standing erect facing the
north, his tools still in the same position.
But in the shock of landing the hammer
and the anvil had broken his arms and legs
at the level of elbows and knees, which he
did not have before. He thus acquired the
joints proper to the new human form,
which was to spread over the earth and to
devote itself to toil...
It is this broken human form of god,
Ogotemm6li's smith, transformed as
humble carpenter, that growing up so many
cemeteries west of the ancestors, I came to
know and love
My uncle made chairs, tables, balanced doors on, dug out
coffins, smoothing the white wood out
with plane and quick sandpaper until
it shone like his short-sighted glasses.
The knuckles of his hands were sil-
vered knobs of nails hit hurt and flat-
tened out with blast of heavy hammer He was knock-knee'dc flat-
footed and his clip clop sandals slapped across the concrete
flooring of his little shop where canefield mulemen and a fleet
of Bedford lorry drivers dropped in to scratch themselves and talk.
There was no shock of wood, no beam
of light mahogany his saw teeth couldn't handle
When shaping squares for locks, a key hole
care tapped rat tat tat upon the handle
of his humpbacked chisel. Cold
world of wood caught fire as he whittled: rectangle
window frames, the intersecting xof fold-
ing chairs, triangle
trellises, the donkey
box-cart in its squeaking square.
But he was poor and most days he was hungry.
Imported cabinets with mirrors, formica table
tops, spine-curving chairs made up of tubes, with hollow
steel-like bird bones that sat on rubber ploughs,
thin beds, stretched not on boards, but blue high-tensioned cables,
were what the world preferred.
And yet he had a block of wood that would have baffled them.
With knife and gimlet care he worked away at this on Sundays,
explored its knotted hurts, cutting his way
along its yellow whorls until his hands could feel
how it had swelled and shivered, breathing air
its weathered green burning to rings of time,
its contoured grain still tuned to roots and water
And as he cut, he heard the creak of forests:
green lizard faces gulped, grey memories with moth
eyes watched him from their shadows, soft
liquid tendrils leaked among the flowers
and a black rigid thunder he had never heard within his hammer
came stomping up the trunks. And as he worked within his shattered
Sunday shop, the wood took shape: dry shuttered
eyes, slack anciently everted lips, flat
ruined face eaten by pox, ravaged by rat
and woodworm, dry cistern mouth, cracked
gullet crying for the desert, the heavy black
enduringjaw: lost pain, lost iron:
emerging woodwork image of his anger
ur gods of the New World Carib-
bean, then, are as human, as vul-
nerable, as powerful, as natural,
and as familiar as their idren on the an-
cestral side of the Atlantic. Damballa Wedo
is 'one of the most venerable of Haitian loa.'
He is generally recognized as the husband
of Ayida Wedo (= Dahomey), though occa-
sionally-and this occasion is part of the
New World process of re/foundation
trans Iformation-the two-divine an-
drogyny-are merged into Damballa-
Ayida. In both Haiti and Wedo, Damballa
(Da/mballa) is 'identified with the rainbow
and is symbolized as a snake'. In Ogotem-
mili's way of seeing how the world began,
the smith flung the truncated pyramid
along a rainbow...and the thread un-
wound in serpentine coils suggesting
the movement of water. In the Caribbean
(it follows), Damballa is associated with
rainfall, earth-water and fertility. Negre aq-
uatique, negre-riviere, as Ren6 Depestre
puts it. 'I am the beating heart of water/the
taut sex of the river'. His sacred colour is
white, and his sacrifice a white chicken. In
my own uncle Ogoun's workplace I heard,
standing one night outside his hounfort, the
voice (that hiss within the song) of that
same rainbow vodoun snake amidst the
tambourines of a Bajan Wednesday Night
prayer meeting. And all the tales had told
that B'dos, 'Little England', subtle coral is-
land, nearest by breath of all the antilles to
Africa, knew nothing of that parent conti-
nent. Yet when I stepped into the circle of
that flambeau sound: the celebrant, caught
body seeking forward, following the cou-
leuvres' neck of light, her spirit fabulous
with movement, was already snake: a rain-
bow loa in the christian west.
In Cuba, Shango, god of thunder-light-
ning, is that too; his colours, as among
the Nago, red and white. And he is also
in disguise as Santa Barbara (androgyny of
power), the patron sainte of flash and guns:
artillery among the Roman Catholics.
Aretha Franklin is possessed by him: by her:
when she becomes a gospel train and all
trains know his clank and hiss and steel
track lightning. As do the trumpings cym-
bellings of the innumerable 'Protestant'
Zion and Revival congregations throughout
the New World/Caribbean with whom, for
reasons of space, we have not been able to
deal in this brief introduction to the subject
And of course there is Erzulie (Ezilie Freda,
Ezilie Wedo, Aisor), mistress of love, the
moon's silver, who sweeps the earth, per-
fumes the air: sometimes transposed-dis-
guise of transplantation-Giaconda Virgin
Mary. Though that is too long a way from
Whereas the xang6 sects equate the ori-
xas with the saints and spiritism submits
to the guidance ofJesus, in pantheism we
see the black becoming aware of his fun-
damental antipathy-in a country satu-
rated with Christianity-to the Catholic
religion and its dogmas of original sin,
grace, and redemption through suffering.
The religion of the South American black
is a religion ofjoy. Asceticism, if it exists,
does not take the form ofmonasticism but
of a magic ritual [if magic here means
magical] that will open one to the divine.
The link between nature and the super-
natural [Ogotemmnli] has not been de-
stroyed by man's misuse of liberty, which
only suffering can expiate; it is automati-
cally [?] realized in rapturous [?] ecstasy
[i.e. possession] when the music and
dancing call the gods down to earth. Suf
fering certainly exists, but it is an evil, not
an instrument ofgood. By suffering, Christ
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showed that He was not a god and lacked
[?] the essential attribute of godhead:
might, power mana [and below all: naml
Similarly, and for the same reason, Feli-
ciano, while making use of spiritism, re-
fused to accept its Christian tinge and
Christian dogmatism. Spiritists regard this
world as a vale of tears, a place ofsuffering
and expiation. The dual law of karma and
metempsychosis transforms living men
into imperfect spirits of light who must
suffer if they wish to regain the astral
plane after death. Nothing is more foreign
to theAfrican mentality. Feliciano's laugh-
ter is an echo of the Greek laughter that
greeted Saint Paul's sermon on the dying
(From RogerBastide, The African Re-
ligions of Brazil 1978.)
his isn't legba: adowa: enough. There
is too much balance here. Greek sym-
metry of white/black, right/wrong,
the Venus complex Sphinx. There is no
tapestry, no weave, no Cousin Zaka's basket
in which the loa carry water home. The
gods of Africa 'survive' in the New World/
Caribbean not because they were carried
('Carrybean') there by missionary/
theologian; no Augustine Mohammet
brought them here; but because it is possi-
ble for god to dwell in man and man to
become god ('the cosmic force within the
flesh') not as epiphany, unique phenom-
enon, but ordinary as water in the hounsi's
glass and all pervasive as its tides. That is
why the most apparently humble and
inferordinary slave-ship Akosua could, as
she danced, outline the movements of
the snake, the monumental majesty of
wave-life Yemaaja. Why it is not necessary
to read and writer to become a priest. In fact,
it is the dispossessed, les damnes de la
terre, who know orisha best. The knowl-
edge is withim. Dam dam damirifa. The
memory tra/verses centuries. The drum is
organoncomputer. There could be no 'for-
get' since there was 'nothing' to forget and
nam is immemorial. The gods, therefore,
do not 'survive', they wait they listen they
remain as ancient and as modern as the
In my own work have I been bitten bidden
ridden by these gods: John Henry, Coltrane,
Joe Feraille. The love of blue and green and
water is Yemaaja; the feeling for the word,
the song, the cadent vocable: Ananse and
his son. The sense of contradiction: 'frag-
ments/whole': is Zaka's heritage. The word
that is our threshold to the world: and world
that helps make words: this is the legacy of
Papa Legba, dressed in his crocus-bag and
rags, the quail leaves of the harmattan that
still connects our worlds. And tailor bent
and serious, wood carving chisel chip and
metal tip to make shape out of space:
Ogoun; the Shango rain and hoof and
thunder-lightning echoed in the Mississippi
blues guitar from Kansas City Joe to Bessie
Smith to Marley; the zion traine our people
always travelling; the sparks of horses riden
in i head
For man eats god eats life eats world eats
This we now know this we digest and
this gives us bone and sinew saliva grease
this we can shit...
And that no doubt will ever hit
us, the worm's mischance defeat us, dark
of time move in our way to trip us...
Look: we dance...
Florida International University now
offers a Master of Arts program in
Economics with an emphasis in
International economic develop-
ment. The program, consisting of 30
semester hours with the option of a
thesis or a research paper, is
designed to be completed in one
year. For information please contact:
Dr. Jorge Salazar
Department of Economics
Florida International University
Miami, Florida 33199
first there was this frost and it was light blue, almost white
like cloud, icing of Furushima
and then it was real cloud, like the blue
and then there were two loaves of land, brown, with straight
lines in them, running up out of the dark water
and these loaves were a distant island
like humps of a brontausaurus
without its head or tail, sailing in the water
and the water was serene like peace and made a straight
line like ink under that scaly island
and there was the faintest breath of wind upon those waters
so that it made no waves
only a gentle heave or heaven where there would be life
and then the fishjumped: silver: with red torchlight eyes
and fins shining like steel terraces
out of the palm trees' green
and then there were seven, brothers of the rainbow, also fish
that jumped straight up up up into the air that was not there
two from one tree, one from the exact other
and in the centre of purple
turning now softly to blue
dissolve of the darkness of milk
were the four: with leopard stops and scissor tails, almost
in air almost
flying from tree to tree....
Continued from page 21
Royce...Take your hands out of your pocket
and put your money on the table...Wall
Street slumps, but this stock market
At the larger boards, about 10 feet long,
there is a staff of five or six, typically the head
operator or "house man" who shakes the
dice and holds the $50 bills, two or three
assistants who collect and pay the bets, and
one or two others, often sporting and enter-
tainment figures, who serve as bartenders
and greeters. Beer and liquor are offered to
onlookers as well as players, and frequently
a person's half-empty drink will be wantonly
thrown to the ground and replaced with
a fresh refill.
Operators exploit the overall license of
cricket festivals by giving gambling money
to girlfriends, and occasionally imported
prostitutes, who in return agree to appear in
plunging necklines, loosely crocheted
blouses, diaphanous tee shirts, abbreviated
halter tops, tight shorts, and similar fash-
ions aimed at attracting-and distracting-
male gamblers. As a sequel, a few opera-
tors have begun hiring female croupiers
and forming gambling partnerships
There are also a growing number of
women who are regular players. Most bet in
the $1 to $5 category, making their wins
and losses less spectacular than those of
men, but allowing them to play for longer
periods. A few women, however, could be
classed as high rollers, notably a stylish,
middle-aged tavern owner who rarely puts
less than $50 on the board, typically divided
between two or three items. Colorful ex-
changes between operators and women
players are a source of much amusement.
One operator guarantees his female cus-
tomers that they will be paid-either by win-
ning money at the board, or winning his
sexual services later in the evening. "If you
don't win money, you'll win love," he barks.
"You'll be paid regardless. I promise satis-
faction." Predictably, he reports that many
women lose deliberately in order to sample
his sexual prowess. Women gamblers, how-
ever, are often as verbally skillful as men. At
one board a woman in her early 30s had
been breaking even on small bets and
drinking heavily. Towards the end of the day
she put a double entendre to the operator:
"All I want is a piece of you." He took up the
challenge and carried on a series of lewd
but playful exchanges that drew raucous
laughter from those at the board. But she
got the last word: "You wouldn't know what
to do if you tripped and fell on top of me."
Operators view their repartee both as a
form of entertainment that draws players
and as a diversion that breaks the con-
centration of players and even persuades
them to bet against their own inclinations.
On one occasion I watched a middle-aged
woman place, but then withdraw, a bet on
the heart. The operator countered: "Don't
blame me if three hearts come up lady.
'Cause you and I-I've been looking at you
for a long time-I figure our hearts could
get together. We don't need no Crown and
Anchor, honey. Our hearts could really do
something." Another time a woman was
winning repeatedly on the black choices
(spades, clubs, the anchor), which are all on
the bottom of the board. The operator tried
to persuade her to diversify her betting:
"You gotta go topside. No woman in the
world is satisfied on the bottom side."
Money Is Green
Within the stock marketthere are also about
a half dozen boards run by Azorean Por-
tuguese. In contrast to the exhibitionist style
of their black counterparts, the Portuguese
operators play quietly and dress plainly, typ-
ically in undistinguished trousers and white
or solid color long sleeve shirts open at the
ESTRATIFICACION SOCIO-RACIAL Y
ECONOMIC DE COSTA RICA, 1700-1850
Lowell Gudmundson Kristjanson
"a good example of the growing literature on Latin American
social history and demography.... a welcome addition to a small
but important historiography on the more peripheral areas of the
Spanish colonial world": Susan Socolow,
Journal of Economic History
"the study is a good analysis, showing conclusively that colonial
society was not a rural democracy, as traditionally believed."
J. Ignacio M6ndez,
The American Historical Review
"The author has given us a very realistic appraisal of certain
aspects of early Costa Rican life,..." James L. Busey,
Hispanic American Historical Review
"Censuses and hacienda reports form the basis of the data
used... and the trends are convincingly demonstrated".
Journal of Latin American Studies
"Costa Rican historians continue to lead, as the most
sophisticated in Central America. Several combine careful
archival research with imaginative statistical manipulation of
large quantities of data. Gudmundson's works exemplify this
social science approach". Murdo McLeod,
Handbook of Latin American Studies
EL JUDIO EN COSTA RICA
Jacobo Schifter Sikora, Lowell Gudmundson,
and Mario Solera Castro
The first comprehensive study of the characteristics and history
of the Jewish community in Costa Rica, highlighting the Polish
immigration of the 1930s, the migrant experience, and the
establishment of community institutional life since then.
Both volumes available from:
Editorial Universidad Estatal a Distancia
San Jos6, Costa Rica
collar. They socialize relatively little with bet-
tors, offer beer only after a player has be-
come seriously engaged in the game, and
refrain from giving gambling money to at-
tractive women. As one of them boasts, "If
you see anyone playing at my board, you
can be sure it's their money." The Por-
tuguese subscribe to some of the same
rituals used by the black operators, notably
replacing a "cold" set of dice with a sub-
stitute or passing the dice cup to an assist-
ing croupier to stop a losing streak, but they
also employ technical means of protection,
such as having smaller boards, which are
easier to keep under surveillance, and put-
ting a piece of wooden molding around the
board, which makes it difficult for players to
"fly a bet," that is, put money on the board
after the dice cup has been raised. Yet the
Portuguese boards are invariably busy, and
most of the business comes from blacks.
The stock market's 'high rollers' are particu-
larly attracted, as the Portuguese operators
are known for carrying large cash floats and
having no ceiling on bets. In addition the
Portuguese operators typically secure
choice locations, sheltered from the after-
noon sun and near the outside to attract
The Portuguese presence in the stock
market is the residue of what was formerly a
much higher profile. Credit for introducing
Crown and Anchor to festival cricket is
claimed by the son of an Azorean-bom farm
laborer whom I will here call Manuel de
Souza. Watching the game played in the
segregated white section of the race track in
the 1930s, de Souza surmised its appeal to
blacks and started going to festival cricket
matches with a dice cup, a small table, and
a tarpaulin that he stretched between trees
to make the first crude version of the stock
market. His prediction of the game's popu-
larity proved true, encouraging him to fi-
nance more boards in partnership with
other Portuguese. The profits launched him
on a business path that led to the acquisi-
tion of a restaurant, several small farms, and
a fleet of taxi cabs. "You can say that I owe
what I have to Crown and Anchor," he once
told me. "It gave me my start in life."
In the 1960s the black cricket clubs suc-
cessfully pressed the claim that the stock
market should be under their jurisdiction,
"I don't know a single
black person in this
country who has made
money without having a
but saw themselves incapable of running it.
Alternately, they made the stock market a
concession and sold it to de Souza, an ar-
rangement that gave them a cash flow to
stock their bars for festivals and that gave de
Souza complete control over the gambling
operation. He and his partners ran six
boards, and he sold the remainder of the
space, chiefly to Portuguese. His net profits
from the stock market, he reports, averaged
$30,000 a season.
De Souza secured his position through
patronage, the traditional basis of white-
black relations. He became a supporter of
black sports, hired black assistants at his
boards, and took on as his chief lieutenant a
black with a Portuguese surname. Still, as
the 1960s wore on, the spectacle of Por-
tuguese winning money from blacks at a
black festival became increasingly irrecon-
ciliable with the climate fostered by the
black social consciousness that developed
during that period. Black gamblers pressed
for more influence in the stock market, and
the clubs gradually responded by either
selling the concession to a group of black
businessmen or running the stock
By the middle of the last decade this pro-
cess had reversed the balance between Por-
tuguese and black operators, giving the
stock market its present, heavily black ap-
pearance. As all gamblers know, however, it
is just that--an appearance. The black op-
erators, with one or two exceptions, are un-
able to bankroll their own boards. Their
financial backing comes from unseen
"partners," who in most cases are whites or
racially-mixed syndicates. In return for
providing the cash float-as much as
$15,000 at some tables-the backers take
a 40 to 60% share of the winnings. The
arrangement often evokes comparison be-
tween the stock market and the wider soci-
ety-blacks are in visible positions and
appear to be making money, but whites are
behind them and in control. As one black
gambler commented, "You know, come to
think of it, I don't know a single black person
in this country who has made money with-
out having a white sponsor."
One is reminded here of a Bermudian
proverb, "Black is black and white is white,
but money is green." Culturally different
and socially divided, the races are drawn
together by a common interest in money.
But the stock market scenario illustrates
more than economic motivations. It also
reveals the distinctive political system in
which Bermuda's buoyant economy takes
its social form.
The theme of strategic biracial partnership
exemplified in the stock market has had
immense political currency in Bermuda. It
is the chief symbol and slogan of the United
Bermuda Party (UBP), a coalition of anglo-
whites, Portuguese, and blacks put together
two decades ago to undercut the black po-
litical movement-an objective that it con-
tinues to achieve, if somewhat less
impressively than in earlier years. Not sur-
prisingly, the gambling fraternity are closely
associated with the UBP One black table
operator, Dr. Vincent Bridgewater, holds a
UBP seat in the House of Assembly, and was
formerly a party appointee to the Senate
(then Legislative Council). The UBP's par-
liamentary caucus also includes at least two
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financial backers of black boards, and the
party has informally approached other
prominent table operators to enter politics.
The UPB's association with Crown and
Anchor was brought to light in a celebrated
1974 court case. The case was occasioned
by a game in a rented cottage in which a
black player lost $27,000 which he had bor-
rowed in $500 installments from those run-
ning the board, a biracial syndicate that
included Bridgewater and Nigel Davis, the
brother of a white UBP Member of Parlia-
ment. When the player welshed on his debt
the syndicate brought suit, represented by a
black lawyer, Charles Vaucrossen, who has
also been a UBP parliamentary candidate.
The judge ruled against the syndicate on
the grounds that money loaned specifically
for gambling is not recoverable, but the
debtor was ostracized from the stock mar-
ket and other betting circles. Meanwhile, the
private games continue, reportedly at
stakes that have sometimes included real
estate properties worth more than six fig-
ures. Well-placed informants insist that the
network of operators and regular players is
a segment of the UBP
The UBP's association with gambling is
highlighted by the strident anti-gambling
stand taken by the Progressive Labour Party
(PLP), the black opposition party. The PLP's
position is based on obvious political con-
siderations as well as a close relationship
with the black evangelical churches. Some
years ago there was lively debate in the Ber-
muda House of Assembly on a bill to intro-
duce a national lottery to finance a sports
stadium. The UBP supported the bill in
principle, but gave members a free vote in
order to mitigate the wrath of the black
churches, which campaigned forcefully
against it. The PLP sided with the churches,
unanimously opposed the bill, and even-
tually defeated it.
During the debate a supportive speech
was given by the current premier, John
Swan, who is also Bermuda's most suc-
cessful black businessman. He said that life
was a matter of chance, and suggested that
his honorable colleagues had been brought
to the House by chance. He continued,
"The main crux is that we have been living
in a period of chance. We have been taking
chances all our lives. I believe [the bill]
might provide an opportunity to decide
whether or not the community is prepared
to take a national chance." Swan's speech
was answered by the PLP's Austin Thomas,
a devout Pentecostal and the son of a
preacher. "Life for me," he sternly intoned,
"is no gamble." He went on to contend that
a "serpent" was responsible for the lottery
legislation, and then linked gambling with
alcohol and illicit sex. The proposed lottery,
he concluded, would be the "thin edge of
the wedge" in bringing "wholesale prostitu-
tion" to Bermuda.
This sort of argument takes many forms
and filters down to the street. Standing out-
side a bar, I once engaged a prominent
black board operator in a discussion of his
political leanings, which were strongly to-
wards the UBP "There is not one black per-
son in Bermuda with any money who is
PLR" he said. "Not one...If the white man
looks after you, you've got to protect him."
When a PLP supporter within earshot be-
gan to challenge him the gambler yelled,
"Shut the fuck up. It's niggers like you that
are holding back motherfuckers like me."
The stock market, then, is more than a
gambling casino and a festive display of
black style. It is also a kind of political the-
atre, a drama about the social construction
of power. The play leaves one with a cynical
but clear understanding of why Bermuda
remains the only democratic country in the
Caribbean and circum-Caribbean that has
yet to breakthe grip of white minority rule.
The prestigious scholarly journal of the
INSTITUTE OF CARIBBEAN STUDIES / UNIVERSITY OF PUERTO RICO
Caribbean Studies is entering its third decade of uninterrupted publication. It is
written and edited by and for Caribbeanists and other persons keenly interested
in keeping up with the best in Caribbean scholarly research and writing from a
multidisciplinary, multicultural perspective. Here is a sample of articles, essays
and research reports scheduled for publication in Volume 20 (1980).
Equality and Justice: Foundations of Nationalism in the
Caribbean / Wendell Bell
Esclavitud y Diplomacia: Los Limites de un Paradigma
Hist6rico / Francisco Scarano
The Trajectory of Canadian-Panamanian Relations / Graeme S. Mount
Piri Thomas: Author and Persona / Eugene V. Mohr
Exploration and Exploitation of Manganese Nodules in the
Caribbean / Edmund Dale
Bibliography of Theses and Dissertations on Venezuelan
Topics / William Sullivan
Trends in Caribbean English Fiction /Maria Teresa Babin
Malaise Social et Criminalit6 aux Antilles Franqaises / Auguste Armet
PLUS: Book Reviews Current Bibliography Documents
To keep abreast of significant developments in Caribbean studies in the 1980s,
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(or money order) for US$ in payment of this subscription.
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Continued from page 27
evidence of any causal relationship be-
tween cannabis use and mental deteriora-
tion, insanity, violence, or poverty; or that
widespread cannabis use in Jamaica pro-
duces an apathetic, indolent class of peo-
ple. In fact, the ganja complex provides an
adaptive mechanism by which many Ja-
maicans cope with limited life chances in a
harsh environment." Jamaican users have
their own views of legality. Dreher found
one belief commonly held is that the gov-
ernment has made ganja illegal not be-
cause it leads to criminality but because it
takes money away from medical doctors,
since people who use ganja do not get
sick." (Besides smoking, ganja is widely
used in Jamaica, but not Costa Rica, as an
herbal tea, tonic, etc.)
The Costa Rican researchers cite the
harsh laws, the difficulties in obtaining per-
mission from the drug enforcement au-
thorities to undertake the study, and the furor
in the Costa Rican press during the late
1960s when under North American influ-
ence marihuana smoking spread to middle
and upper class youths. Social class barriers
in this enlightened, democratic country
seem to preclude decriminalization.
Significantly all three books cite alcohol
abuse as a more important economic and
Please send additional information
300 North Zeeb Road 30-32 Mortimer Street
Dept. PR. Dept. PR.
Ann Arbor. Mi. 48106 London WIN 7RA
social problem in Costa Rica and Jamaica.
One of the Jamaican users proposed an
experiment that "the university doctors"
should perform in which they would select
any four "rum men" and give them an un-
limited supply of rum and select any four
"ganja men" and give them an unlimited
supply of ganja. Then give the two sets of
men the same piece of work to do and see
who completes the job. He predicted that
the university doctors would come back to
find the four rum men sound asleep with
the "sun high in the sky while the four ganja
men had not looked up since they first put
"In Jamaica, ganja use is
integrally linked to all
aspects of working-class
their shoulders to the ground." One
wonders what the NIDA bureaucrats would
have thought of a proposal to fund
These studies had some slight impact on
the marihuana issue in Costa Rica and Ja-
maica but not on the US. As of 1982, 11
states have repealed criminal penalties for
private possession of small amounts and
for private use. Federal enforcement of use
is virtually nonexistent; the emphasis being
on cultivation and sale. Supported by a
$450,000 award from NIDA, the Institute of
Medicine of the National Academy of Sci-
ences recommended in 1982 eliminating
criminal penalties for use. William Pollin,
director of NIDA, rejected the recommen-
dation. "It would be a terrible mistake and a
public health tragedy to do anything that
suggests a greater societal acceptance
of the use of marihuana, particularly by
The NIDA-funded cross-cultural re-
search may not have been policy relevant-
beauty lies in the eye of the beholder-but it
was very good research attractively written
up in these three books. The anthropolo-
gists relied on participant observation to de-
lineate networks of users and non-users
and to present many lively, fascinating case
histories. The research was suitably longitu-
dinal, delving into subject childhoods and
showing how use changes with age. The
Costa Rican study even includes a delight-
ful glossary of marihuana related slang.
Best of all, these studies effectively
placed marihuana in cultural contexts. Ja-
maican users are poor rural part-time farm-
ers and laborers. Informal networks link
users, vendors, and part-time cultivators
using marginal hillsides. Ganja use pro-
motes friendships, solidarity, the sharing of
jobs including cane-cutting, credit, and
sometimes social mobility, and varies con-
siderably with the local setting such as the
amount of permanent farm land available.
Cane-cutting paid on a piecework basis for
a group of men results in ganja use as "at-
tempts to deal with a highly charged, com-
petitive work environment." While most
upper and middle class Jamaicans are res-
olutely opposed to ganja, "among smokers,
smoking with companions symbolizes
comradeship, equality, and belonging," val-
ues particularly helpful to men who work
Costa Rican users were divided into three
types and settings. These were pastoralist-
escapists who retreated to rural settings to
smoke, fearing the risks at home or on the
job; street movers, often adolescents, who
run the risks of smoking on street corners,
and stable workers who smoke in safe
home or job environments. While all three
types had experienced more childhood
broken homes and family problems than
the paired non-users, the stable workers
smoked "as an aid in relating to the even,
steady life they led." Stable smokers con-
sider that "marihuana is an ordinary part of
everyday life having several functions that
he considers pleasant and useful." Street
movers such as shoeshine boys seek ad-
venture while the pastoralists want escape
Just as the biomedical tests revealed no
significant differences between users and
non-users, the studies of job and school
performance also washed out. Smokers
claim that marihuana provides energy and
work motivation but proof is lacking. Effects
of marihuana in Costa Rica differed with
user types with the stable workers reporting
that it enhanced work and recreation. In the
Costa Rica study "not a single user claimed
that marihuana had been harmful in his life.
Nor did any user see any relationship be-
tween his own well-being, social mobility,
and use of the drug."
The studies provide a picture of mari-
huana as a biomedically safe substance
that is mostly used by low-income males to
adapt to difficult environments. Use has
been illegal for more than 50 years in each
country with little effect. Except for its being
illegal, there are no adverse societal effects
that can be validly charged to marihuana,
and certainly no problems nearly so severe
as legal use of alcohol. The elites regard use
as "immoral" and "dangerous" and it is
their perceptions and views that continue
Meanwhile, the fad has long since gone
out of marihuana research. NIDA funding in
recent years has been relatively constant at
$4 million a year, only 8.2% of its current
budget. We should all be thankful that the
anthropologists got a small piece of the
action and brought us these three first-
rate books. A
48/CAfIBBEAN K IEW
to Volumes IX and X
By James F. Droste
Articles and Reviews,
AFRICA REVISITED. Marie-Denise
Shelton. Volume IX, Number 2,
THE AGONY OF PUERTO RICAN
ART Eneid Routte G6mez.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 16.
THE BLACK POWER KILLINGS IN
TRINIDAD. Gerald Guinness.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 36.
THE BOOK OF THE QUICHE.
Charles Lacombe. Volume IX,
Number 2, Page 42.
THE BUREAUCRACY OF MUSIC IN
PUERTO RICO. Francis
Schwartz. Volume IX, Number 3,
CAN WE LIVE WITH REVOLUTION
IN CENTRAL AMERICA? Richard
Millett. Volume X, Number 1,
THE CARIBBEAN IN THE 1980s.
Gordon K. Lewis. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 18.
CARIBBEAN EDGE. Nigel J. H.
Smith. Volume IX, Number 2,
A CARIBCENTRIC VIEW OF THE
WORLD. Lauren W. Yoder.
Volume X, Number 3, Page 24.
THE CASE FOR INDIGENOUS
DEVELOPMENT Mark D.
Szuchman. Volume X, Number 3,
CENTRAL AMERICAN PAINTINGS.
Rlcardo Pau-Llosa. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 50.
CERRO MARAVILLA. TomAs Stella.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 12.
CHANGING THE GUARD IN
DOMINICA. Robert A Michaels.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 18.
THE CHURCH THAT WILLIAMS
BUILT Selwyn Ryan. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 12.
COSTA RICA'S POLITICAL
TURMOIL. Samuel Stone.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 42.
COULD CUBA HAVE BEEN
DIFFERENT? Justo Carrillo.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 38.
CUBA AND NICARAGUA. William M.
LeoGrande. Volume IX, Number
1, Page 11.
CUBA AND PANAMA. Steve C.
Ropp. Volume IX, Number 1,
CUBA AND THE
CARIBBEAN. Anthony R
Maingot Volume IX, Number 1,
CUBA AND THE THIRD WORLD. H.
Michael Erisman. Volume IX,
Number 1, Page 21.
CUBA AND THE US. Max Azicri.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 26.
DANCE AND DIPLOMACY. Aaron
Segal. Volume IX, Number 1,
A DAY IN BABYLON. David J. Dodd.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 24.
DID HUMAN RIGHTS KILL
ANASTACIO SOMOZA? Bemard
Diederich. Volume X, Number 4,
DISCOVERING THE CARIBBEAN.
lan I. Smart. Volume X, Number
3, Page 32.
THE DOMINICAN TURN TOWARD
SUGAR Bruce J. Calder. Volume
X, Number 3, Page 18.
ELECTIONS AND PARTIES IN THE
EASTERN CARIBBEAN. Patrick
Emmanuel. Volume X, Number
2, Page 14.
THE EMPEROR BURNHAM HAS
LOST HIS CLOTHES. Thomas J.
Spinner, Jr. Volume IX, Number
4, Page 4.
THE END OF THE SEARCH. Barry
B. Levine. Volume X, Number 3,
EXOTICA AND COMMODITY. Sally
and Richard Price. Volume IX,
Number 4, Page 12.
FICTION OR REALITY: TESTIMONY
OF AN AUTHOR IN CRISIS.
Pedro Juan Soto. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 15.
THE FLOUR BOY. Cubena (Carlos
Guillermo Wilson). Volume IX,
Number 2, Page 25.
LA FORTALEZA REPLIES. Loretta
Phelps de C6rdova, et al. Volume
X, Number 2, Page 32.
LOS GAMINES OF BOGOT.
Thomas M. liams. Volume IX,
Number 2, Page 22.
A GUIDE TO THE ANDEAN PACT.
Robert Grosse. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 16.
GUYANA'S 1980 ELECTIONS. Lord
Avebury and the British
Parliamentary Human Rights
Group. Volume X, Number 2,
HONDURAS: AN OASIS OF
PEACE? James A. Morris.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 38.
AN IMPORTANT LIBRARY ON THE
CARIBBEAN. Marguerite C.
Suarez-Murias. Volume IX,
Number 2, Page 52.
IN DEFENSE OF RESTORING
Luis Escalante Arce. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 35.
IN DEFENSE OF THE FRENTE
Manuel Ungo. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 34.
IN DEFENSE OF THE JUNTA.
Robert White. Volume X, Number
1, Page 30.
INTERVIEWING PENA GOMEZ.
Mark B. Rosenberg. Volume IX,
Number 4, Page 10.
ECONOMICS, AND CULTURE.
Stephen Davis. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 14.
JAMAICA'S MAROONS AT THE
CROSSROADS. Kenneth Bilby.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 18.
JAMAICA'S 1980 ELECTIONS. Carl
Stone. Volume X, Number 2,
THE JOMBEE DANCE. Jay D.
Dobbin. Volume X, Number 4,
JUNGLE POLITICS. Donald J.
Waters. Volume IX, Number 2,
THE LITERACY CAMPAIGN. Leonor
Blum. Volume X, Number 1,
A MAN AND HIS POTENTIAL.
Miguel Barnet. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 40.
MEXICO AND OTHER DOMINOES.
Carlos Rangel. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 8.
MEXICO AND THE CARIBBEAN.
Anthony T Bryan. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 4.
MEXICO'S MODERN MILITARY.
Edward J. Williams. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 12.
THE MIGHTY SHADOW Linden
Lewis. Volume X, Number 4,
MIGUEL BARNET ON THE
TESTIMONIAL. Barry B. Levine.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 32.
MUNOZ AND THE 1980
ELECTIONS. Ismaro Velasquez.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 7.
THE MYTH OF MASTERY. Norman
Matlin. Volume IX, Number 4,
THE NEORICAN DREAM. Jaime
Carrero. Volume IX, Number 3,
THE NEW CUBAN PRESENCE IN
THE CARIBBEAN. Barry B.
Levine. Volume IX, Number 1,
NICARAGUA AND HER
NEIGHBORS. Mark B.
Rosenberg. Volume X, Number 1,
NO PLACE. Nana Wilson-Tagoe.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 37.
OH, YOU SEXY KID, YOU. Cruz
Hernandez. Volume IX, Number
4, Page 40.
OIL ON THE PERIPHERY. Jerry B.
Brown. Volume X, Number 3,
ON THE COVER: FRANCISCO
RODON. Francisco J.
Barrenechea. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 56.
ON THE COVER: OMAR RAYO. Luis
Zalamea. Volume IX, Number 4,
ON THE LIMITS OF THE NEW
CUBAN PRESENCE IN THE
CARIBBEAN. Gordon K. Lewis.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 33.
ON THE POLITICS OF THE CUBAN
REVOLUTION. Pedro J. Montiel.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 40.
PAINTING JORGE LUIS BORGES.
Francisco Rod6n. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 53.
PDP + NPP = A*PA*THY Thomas
Matthews. Volume IX, Number 3,
PERRO DE ALAMBRE. Marcia
Margado. Volume IX, Number 4,
THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF
EVERYDAY LIFE. Charles
Rosario. Volume IX, Number 3,
POETRY AND POLITICS. Aaron
Segal. Volume X, Number 1,
POLITICIANS IN UNIFORM. Gary
Brana-Shute. Volume X, Number
2, Page 24.
THE PUERTO RICAN CIRCUIT.
James W. Wessman. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 42.
PUERTO RICAN CULTURE AT THE
TURNING POINT Barry B.
Levine. Volume IX, Number 3,
PUERTO RICO'S 1980 ELECTIONS.
Harold Lidin. Volume X, Number
2, Page 28.
RACE AND DEMOCRACY IN
BERMUDA. Frank E. Manning.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 20.
REMEMBRANCES OF NEW YORK.
Eugene V Mohr. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 34.
REMEMBRANCES OF THINGS
PUERTO RICAN. John Hawes.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 22.
REQUIEM FOR A LOST LEADER.
Gordon K. Lewis. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 5.
ROCKERS. Aaron Segal. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 38.
SANDINISTA CHESS. Stephen M.
Gorman. Volume X, Number 1,
THE SANDINSTAS AND THE
COSTEfOS. Margaret D. Wilde.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 8.
THE SANDINISTAS AND THE
INDIANS. Richard N. Adams.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 22.
SLAVERY AND RACE IN HAITIAN
Hoffman. Volume IX, Number 2,
THE STATUS OF DEMOCRACY IN
THE CARIBBEAN. Barry B.
Levine. Volume X, Number 2,
SUGARCAKE DAY. E. A. Markham.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 36.
THE SYSTEM IS UPSTAIRS:
SELECTIONS FROM BENJY
LOPEZ. Barry B. Levine. Volume
IX, Number 3, Page 36.
A TALE OF WIT AND WOE. Helen I.
Safa. Volume IX, Number 3,
THIS TRAIN. Augustus C. Small.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 24.
TOWARD A NEW AMERICAN
PRESENCE IN THE
CARIBBEAN. Franklin W Knight
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 36.
TOWARD A NEW CENTRAL
AMERICAN DIALOGUE. Daniel
Oduber. Volume X, Number 1,
THE TRAUMAS OF EXILE. Luis P
Salas. Volume IX, Number 1,
WHAT DID HE SAY? WHAT DID HE
MEAN? Gerald Guinness.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 32.
WHEN THE TURTLE COLLAPSES,
THE WORLD ENDS. Bernard
Nietschmann. Volume IX,
Number 2, Page 14.
WHERE TO STUDY CENTRAL
AMERICA. Ralph Lee Woodward,
Jr. Volume IX, Number 1,
THE YEAR OF THE SERGEANTS.
Edward Dew. Volume IX, Number
2, Page 4.
Articles and Reviews,
ADAMS, RICHARD N. The
Sandinistas and the Indians.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 22.
ARCE, LUIS ESCALANTE. In
Defense of Restoring
Constitutional Order. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 35.
AVEBURY, LORD, AND THE
HUMAN RIGHTS GROUP
Guyana's 1980 Elections. Volume
X, Number 2, Page 8.
AZICRI, MAX. Cuba and the US.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 26.
BARNETT MIGUEL. A Man and His
Potential. Volume IX, Number 3,
BARRENECHEA, FRANCISCO J.
On the Cover: Francisco Rod6n.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 56.
BILBY, KENNETH. Jamaica's
Maroons at the Crossroads.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 18.
BLUM, LEONOR. The Literacy
Campaign. Volume X, Number 1,
BRANA-SHUTE, GARY. Politicians in
Uniform. Volume X, Number 2,
BROWN, JERRY B. Oil on the
Periphery. Volume X, Number 3,
BRYAN, ANTHONY T Mexico and
the Caribbean. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 4.
CALDER, BRUCE J. The Dominican
Turn Toward Sugar.
CARRERO, JAIME. The Neorican
Dream. Volume IX, Number 3,
CARRILLO, JUST. Could Cuba
Have Been Different? Volume X,
Number 4, Page 38.
CUBENA (CARLOS GUILLERMO
WILSON). The Flour Boy.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 25.
DAVIS, STEPHEN. Jamaican
Politics, Economics, and Culture.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 14.
DEW, EDWARD. The Year of the
Sergeants. Volume IX, Number 2,
DIEDERICH, BERNARD. Did Human
Rights Kill Anastasio Somoza?
Volume X, Number 4, Page 4.
DOBBIN, JAY D. The Jombee
Dance. Volume X, Number 4,
DODD, DAVID J. A Day in Babylon.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 24.
EMMANUEL, PATRICK. Elections
and Parties in the Eastern
Caribbean. Volume X, Number 2,
ERISMAN, H. MICHAEL. Cuba and
the Third World. Volume IX,
Number 1, Page 21.
GORMAN, STEPHEN M. Sandinista
Chess. Volume X, Number 1,
GROSSE, ROBERT. A Guide to the
Andean Pact Volume X, Number
3, Page 16.
GUINNESS, GERALD. The Black
Power Killings in Trinidad.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 36.
GUINNESS, GERALD. What Did He
Say, What Did He Mean? Volume
X, Number 4, Page 32.
HAWES, JOHN. Remembrances of
Things Puerto Rican. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 22.
HERNANDEZ, CRUZ. Oh, You Sexy
Kid, You. Volume IX, Number 4,
Slavery and Race in Haitian
Letters. Volume IX, Number 2,
IIAMS, THOMAS M. Los Gamines of
Bogota. Volume IX, Number 2,
KNIGHT FRANKLIN W Toward a
New American Presence in the
Caribbean. Volume IX, Number 1,
LACOMBE, CHARLES. The Book of
the Quiche Volume IX, Number
2, Page 42.
LEOGRANDE, WILLIAM M. Cuba
and Nicaragua. Volume IX,
Number 1, Page 11.
LEVINE, BARRY B. The End of the
Search. Volume X, Number 3,
LEVINE, BARRY B. Miguel Barnet on
the Testimonial. Volume IX,
Number 4, Page 32.
LEVINE, BARRY B. The New Cuban
Presence in the Caribbean.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 4.
LEVINE, BARRY B. Puerto Rican
Culture at the Turning Point.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 4.
LEVINE, BARRY B. The Status of
Democracy in the Caribbean.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 4.
LEVINE, BARRY B. The System is
Upstairs: Selections from Benjy
Lopez. Volume IX, Number 3,
LEWIS, GORDON K. The Caribbean
in the 1980s. Volume X, Number
4, Page 18.
LEWIS, GORDON K. On the Limits
of the Newv Cuban Presence in
the Caribbean. Volume IX,
Number 1, Page 33.
LEWIS, GORDON K. Requiem for a
Lost Leader. Volume IX, Number
3, Page 5.
LEWIS, LINDEN. The Mighty
Shadow. Volume X, Number 4,
LIDIN, HAROLD. Puerto Rico's 1980
Elections. Volume X, Number 2,
MAINGOT ANTHONY R Cuba and
the Commonwealth Caribbean.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 7.
MANNING, FRANK E. Race and
Democracy in Bermuda. Volume
X, Number 2, Page 20.
MARGADO, MARCIA. Perro de
Alambre. Volume IX, Number 4,
MARKHAM, E. A. Sugarcake Day.
Volume IX Number 4, Page 36.
MATLIN, NORMAN. The Myth of
Mastery. Volume IX, Number 4,
MATTHEWS, THOMAS. PDP + NPP
= A*pa*thy. Volume IX, Number
3, Page 9.
MICHAELS, ROBERT A. Changing
the Guard in Dominica. Volume
X, Number 2, Page 18.
MILLETT RICHARD. Can We Live
with Revolution in Central
America? Volume X, Number 1,
MOHR, EUGENE V Remembrances
of New York. Volume X, Number
4, Page 34.
MONTIEL, PEDRO J. On the Politics
of the Cuban Revolution. Volume
IX, Number 1, Page 40.
MORRIS, JAMES A. Honduras: An
Oasis of Peace? Volume X,
Number 1, Page 38.
NIETSCHMANN, BERNARD. When
the Turtle Collapses, the World
Ends. Volume IX, Number 2,
ODUBER, DANIEL. Toward a New
Central American Dialogue.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 10.
PAU-LLOSA, RICARDO. Central
American Paintings. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 50.
PHELPS de CORDOVA, LORETTA,
ET AL. La Fortaleza Replies.
Volume X, Number 2, Page 32.
PRICE, SALLY AND RICHARD.
Exotica and Community. Volume
IX, Number 4, Page 12.
RANGEL, CARLOS. Mexico and
Other Dominoes. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 8.
RODON, FRANCISCO. Painting
Jorge Luis Borges. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 53.
ROPR STEVE C. Cuba and Panama.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 15.
ROSARIO, CHARLES. The
Phenomenology of Everyday
Life. Volume IX, Number 3,
ROSENBERG, MARK B.
Interviewing Pefia G6mez.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 10.
ROSENBERG, MARK B. Nicaragua
and her Neighbors. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 4.
ROUTE GOMEZ, ENE1D. The
Agony of Puerto Rican Art.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 16.
RYAN, SELWYN. The Church That
Williams Built. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 12.
SAFA, HELEN I. A Tale of Wit and
Woe. Volume IX, Number 3,
SALAS, LUIS P The Traumas of
Exile. Volume IX, Number 1,
SCHWARTZ, FRANCIS. The
Bureaucracy of Music in Puerto
Rico. Volume IX, Number 3,
SEGAL, AARON. Dance and
Diplomacy. Volume IX, Number
1, Page 30.
SEGAL, AARON. Poetry and Politics.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 26.
SEGAL, AARON. Rockers. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 38.
SHELTON, MARIE-DENISE. Africa
Revisited. Volume IX, Number 2,
SMALL, AUGUSTUS C. This Train.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 24.
SMART IAN I. Discovering the
Caribbean. Volume X, Number 3,
SMITH, NIGEL J. H. Caribbean
Edge. Volume IX, Number 2,
SOTO, PEDRO JUAN, Fiction or
Reality: Testimony of an Author
in Crisis. Volume IX, Number 3,
SPINNER, THOMAS J., JR. The
Emperor Burnham has Lost his
Clothes. Volume IX, Number 4,
STELLA, TOMAS. Cerro Maravilla.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 12.
STONE, CARL. Jamaica's 1980
Elections. Volume X, Number 2,
STONE, SAMUEL. Costa Rica's
Political Turmoil. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 42.
SUAREZ-MURIAS, MARGUERITE C.
An Important Library on the
Caribbean. Volume IX, Number
2, Page 52.
SZUCHMAN, MARK D. The Case for
Volume X, Number 3, Page 28.
UNGO, GUILLERMO MANUEL. In
Defense of the Frente
Democratic. Volume X, Number
1, Page 34.
VELASQUEZ, ISMARO. Mufoz and
the 1980 Elections. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 7.
WATERS, DONALD J. Jungle
Politics. Volume IX, Number 2,
WESSMAN, JAMES W The Puerto
Rican Circuit. Volume IX,
Number 3, Page 42.
WHITE, ROBERT In Defense of the
Junta. Volume X, Number 1,
WILDE, MARGARET D. The
Sandinistas and the Costerios.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 8.
WILLIAMS, EDWARD J. Mexico's
Modem Military. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 12.
WILSON-TAGOE, NANA. No Place.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 37.
WOODWARD, RALPH LEE JR.
Where to Study Central America.
Volume X, Number 1, Page 47.
YODER, LAUREN W. A Caribcentric
View of the World. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 24.
ZALAMEA, LUIS. On the Cover.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 60.
by Title of Book
BATOULA. Rene Maran. Ed. Albin
Michel, 1938. Volume IX, Number
2, Page 33.
BENJY LOPEZ: A PICARESQUE
TALE OF EMIGRATION AND
RETURN. Barry B. Levine. Basic
Books, 1980. Volume IX, Number
3, Page 40, 41.
CARIBBEAN EDGE, Bernard
1979. Volume IX, Number 2,
CARIBBEAN WRITERS: A BIO-
ENCYCLOPEDIA. Donald E.
Herdeck, et al. Three Continents
Press, 1979. Volume X, Number
3, Page 32.
THE COMPLETE CARIBBEANA
1900-1975. Lambros Comitas.
KTO Press, 1977. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 32.
CONTRA VIENTO Y MAREA. Grupo
Areito (Roman de la Campa. et
al.) Casa de las Americas. 1978.
Volume IX, Number 1, Page 42.
CUBA: ORDER AND REVOLUTION.
Jorge Dominguez. Harvard
University Press, 1978. Volume
IX, Number 1, Page 40.
LA HABANA PARA UN INFANTE
DIFUNTO. Gabriel Cabrera
Infante. Editorial Seix Barral,
1979. Volume IX, Number 4,
HEREMAKHONON. Maryse Conde.
Union Generale d'Editions, 1976.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 33.
LABOR MIGRATION UNDER
CAPITALISM: THE PUERTO
RICAN EXPERIENCE. The
History Task Force, Centro de
Monthly Review Press. 1979.
Volume IX. Number 3. Page 42.
LA LEZARDE. Edouard Glissant.
Editions de Seuil, 1958. Volume
X, Number 3, Page 24.
MEMORIES DE BERNARDO VEGA.
Bernardo Vega. Ediciones
Huracan, 1977. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 34.
NUEVA ANTOLOGIA POETICA.
Ernesto Cardenal. Siglo XXI,
1978. Volume X, Number 1,
POPOL VUH-THE SACRED BOOK
OF THE ANCIENT QUICHE
MAYA. Trans. Delia Goetz.
University of Oklahoma Press,
1972. Volume IX, Number 2,
THE POVERTY OF PROGRESS:
LATIN AMERICA IN THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY. E.
Bradford Burns. University of
California Press, 1980. Volume X,
Number 3, Page 28.
LE QUATRIEME SIECLE. Edouard
Glissant. Editions de Seuil, 1964.
Volume X, Number 3, Page 24.
THE RETURN OF EVA PERON. V S.
Naipaul. Knopf, 1980. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 36.
SAYING AND MEANING IN PUERTO
RICO: SOME PROBLEMS IN
THE ETHNOGRAPHY OF
DISCOURSE. Marshall Morris.
Pergamon, 1981. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 32.
THE WINDS OF DECEMBER. John
Dorschner and Roberto Fabricio.
McCann and Goeghegan, 1980.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 38.
ZERO HOUR AND OTHER
Ernesto Cardenal. New
Directions, 1980. Volume X,
Number 1, Page 26.
by Author of Book
BURNS, E. BRADFORD. The
Poverty of Progress: Latin
America in the Nineteenth
Century. University of California
Press, 1980. Volume X, Number
3, Page 28.
CABRERA INFANTE, GABRIEL. La
Habana para un infante difunto.
Editorial Seix Barral, 1979.
Volume IX, Number 4, Page 40.
CARDENAL, ERNESTO. Zero Hour
and Other Documentary Poems.
New Directions, 1980. Volume X,
CARDINAL, ERNESTO. Nueva
Antologia Poetica. Siglo XXI,
1978. Volume X, Number 1,
COMITAS, LAMBROS. The
1900-1975. KTO Press, 1977.
Volume X. Number 3, Page 32.
CONDE, MARYSE. Heremakhonon.
Union General d'Editions, 1976.
Volume IX, Number 2, Page 33.
DE LA CAMPA, ROMAN, ET AL.
Contra viento y marea. Casa de
las Americas, 1978. Volume IX,
Number 1, Page 42.
DOMINGUEZ, JORGE. Cuba: Order
and Revolution. Harvard
University Press, 1978. Volume
IX, Number 1, Page 40.
DORSCHNER, JOHN AND
ROBERTO FABRICIO. The
Winds of December. Coward,
McCann and Goeghegan, 1980.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 38.
GLISSANT EDOUARD. Le Lezarde.
Editions de Seuil, 1958. Volume
X, Number 3, Page 24.
GLISSANT, EDOUARD. Le
Quatrieme Siecle. Editions de
Seuil, 1964. Volume X, Number
3, Page 24.
GOETZ, DELIA, trans. Popol Vuh-
The Sacred Book of the Ancient
Quiche Maya. University of
Oklahoma Press, 1972. Volume
IX, Number 2, Page 42.
HERDECK, DONALD E. et. al.
Caribbean Writers: A Bio-
Encyclopedia. Three Continents
Press, 1979. Volume X, Number
3, Page 32.
HISTORY TASK FORCE, THE. Labor
Migration Under Capitalism: The
Puerto Rican Experience.
Monthly Review Press, 1979.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page 42.
LEVINE, BARRY B. Benjy Lopez: A
Picaresque Tale of Emigration
and Return. Basic Books, 1980.
Volume IX, Number 3, Page
MARAN, RENE. Batouala. Ed. Albin
Michel, 1938. Volume IX, Number
2, Page 33.
MORRIS, MARSHALL. Saying and
Meaning in Puerto Rico: Some
Problems in the Ethnography of
Discourse. Pergamon, 1981.
Volume X, Number 4, Page 32.
NAIPAUL, V S. The Return of Eva
Per6n. Knopf, 1980. Volume X,
Number 2, Page 36.
Caribbean Edge. Bobbs-Merril,
1979. Volume IX, Number 2,
VEGA, BERNARDO. Memories de
Bernardo Vega. Ediciones
Huracan, 1977. Volume X,
Number 4, Page 34.
James F Droste is on the staff of CR.
An index to volumes one through six
appears in Vol. VII, No. 2; an index to
volumes seven and eight appears in
Vol. IX. No. 2.
An informative listing of books about the Caribbean,
Latin America, and their emigrant groups
By Marian Goslinga
Anthropology and Sociology
AGRICULTURE, LA PECHE ET LARTISANAT
AU YUCATAN: PROLETARISATION DE LA
PAYSANNERIE MAYA AU MEXIQUE. Yvan
Breton, Marie-France Labrecque, eds.
Presses de l'Universite Laval (Quebec,
Canada), 1982. 396 p. $15.00.
ALLIANCE OR COMPLIANCE: IMPLICATIONS
OF THE CHILEAN EXPERIENCE FOR
THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN LATIN
AMERICA. Virginia Bouvier. Maxwell School
of Citizenship and Public Affairs, Syracuse
LOS AMBULANTES: THE ITINERANT
PHOTOGRAPHERS OF GUATEMALA. Ann
Parker, Avon Neal. MIT Press, 1982. 164 p.
ASI VIVIMOS LOS TICOS. Miguel Salguero.
Editorial Costa Rica, 1982. 173 p. $15.00.
THE BORDER THAT JOINS: MEXICAN
MIGRANTS AND U.S. RESPONSIBILITY.
Peter Brown, Henry Shue, eds. Rowman
and Littlefield (Totowa, NJ.), 1982. 288 p.
CASTRO LIMPIA CUBA. Andres Lizarraga.
Editorial Ruiz Flores (Madrid, Spain), 1982.
186 p. 400 pts. About the boatlifts.
CONTEMPORARY CARIBBEAN: A
SOCIOLOGICAL READER. Susan Craig,
ed. College Press (Port of Spain, Trinidad),
1981-1982. 2 v. $35.00.
CUBAN AMERICANS: MASTERS OF
SURVIVAL. Jos6 Llanes. Abt Books
(Cambridge, Mass.), 1982. $14.95.
CULTO VODU Y BRUJERIA EN HAITI. Lucien
Georges Coachy. Editorial Diana (Mexico),
1982. 143 p.
CULTURAL Y CMVILZACION DESDE
SUDAMERICA. Guillermo E. Magrassi,
Alejandro Grigerio, Maria B. Maya.
Bi6squeda Yuch6n (Buenos Aires,
Argentina), 1982. 224 p.
LAS CULTURES POPULARES EN EL
CAPITALISMO. Nestor Garcia Canclini.
Nueva Imagen (Mexico), 1982. 224 p. Case
study of a Tarascan village in MichoacAn,
DE LA POBREZA A LA ABUNDANCIA EN
COSTA RICA. Jorge Corrales. Editorial
Studium (San Jos6, Costa Rica), 1982.
199 p. $10.00.
ENCONTRO DE INTELECTUAIS PELA
SOBERANIA DOS POVOS DE NOSSA
AMERICA, REALIZADA EM CUBA EM
SETEMBRO DE 1981. Fernando Peixoto,
ed. Hucitec (Sao Paulo, Brazil), 1982.
ENSAYOS SOBRE LA EDUCATION DE
ADULTS EN AMERICA LATINA Carlos
Alberto Torres. Centro de Estudios
Educativos (Mexico), 1982. 689 p. $19.50.
FROM ORAL TO WRITTEN EXPRESSION:
NATIVE ANDEAN CHRONICLES OF THE
EARLY COLONIAL PERIOD. Rolena
Adorno, ed. Maxwell School of Citizenship
and Public Affairs, Syracuse University,
1982. 181 p. $8.50.
HERITAGE OF CONQUEST THIRTY YEARS
LATER. Carl Kendall, John Hawkins, Laurel
Bossen, eds. University of New Mexico
Press, 1982. 320 p. $27.50. Essays on
Mexico, Guatemala, and Mesoamerican
society in general.
HISTORIC DA PROSTITUICAO EM SAO
PAULO. Guido Fonseca. Resenha
Universitbria (Sao Paulo, Brazil), 1982.
251 p. $16.50.
IDEOLOGIES E SERVICE SOCIAL:
Maria de Guadelupe de Oliveira e Silva.
Cortez (Slo Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 135 p.
LA IGLESIA DE LOS POBRES EN
CENTROAMERICA. Pablo Richard. Depto.
Ecumenical de Investigaciones, DEL (San
Josh, Costa Rica), 1982. 345 p. $7.50.
ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION: ECONOMIC
CONSEQUENCES FOR THE UNITED
STATES. Shelby D. Gerking, John H. Mutti.
Westview Press, 1982. 130 p. $14.00.
IN DEFENSE OF LA RAZA: THE LOS
ANGELES MEXICAN CONSULATE AND
THE MEXICAN COMMUNITY, 1929-1936.
Francisco E. Balderrama. University of
Arizona Press, 1982. $14.95; $7.95 paper.
MAQUILADORAS AND MIGRATION:
WORKERS IN THE MEXICO-UNITED
STATES BORDER INDUSTRIALIZATION
PROGRAM. Mitchell A. Seligson, Edward J.
Williams. Mexico-U.S. Border Research
Program, University of Texas, 1982.
272 p. $12.50.
LA MORTALIDAD EN MEXICO, 1922-1975.
Ignacio Almada Bay. ed. Institute Mexicano
de Seguro Social, 1982. 433 p. $17.50.
MULHER, SOCIEDADE E ESTADO NO
BRASIL. Carmen Barroso. Brasiliense (Sio
Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 190 p. $9.00.
EL PENSAMIENTO CRISTIANO
REVOLUCIONARIO EN AMERICA LATINA
Y EL CARIBE: IMPLICACIONES DE LA
TEOLOGIA DE LA UBERACION PARA LA
SOCIOLOGIA DE LA RELIGION. Samuel
Silva Gotay. Sigueme (Salamanca, Spain),
1981. 389 p.
PENSAR EN AMERICA LATINA. Hello Gallardo.
Heredia (San Jos6, Costa Rica), 1982. 229
RELACOES SOCIAIS E SERVICE SOCIAL NO
BRASIL: ESBOCO DE UMA
METODOLOGICA. Matilda Villela
lamamoto, Raul de Carvalho. Cortez (Slo
Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 384 p. $14.00.
SOCIEDAD, POLITICAL E INTEGRACION EN
AMERICA LATINA. Manfred Wilhelmy, et al.
Corporaci6n de Investigaciones para el
Desarrollo, CINDE (Santiago, Chile), 1982.
STATE POLICIES AND MIGRATION: STUDIES
IN LATIN AMERICA AND THE
CARIBBEAN. Peter Peek, Guy Standing,
eds. Croom Helm (London, Eng.), 1982.
403 p. $32.50. Published under the
auspices of the International Labour Office.
TRADICIONES COSTARRICENSES. Gonzalo
Chac6n Trejos. Editorial Costa Rica, 1982.
138 p. $7.50.
LAS UNIVERSIDADES:C LUJOS 0
INSTRUMENTS DE UNA SOCIEDAD
IGUALITARIA? IDEOLOGIA DE MIGUEL
DE LA MADRID. Artemio Vargas Arrazola.
Porria (Mexico), 1982.
WOMEN AND SOCIAL PRODUCTION IN THE
CARIBBEAN. Marcia Rivera Quintero, Kate
Young. Centro de Estudios de la Realidad
Puertorriquefa, CEREP (San Juan, Puerto
ANDRES BELLO, EL HOMBRE. Fernando
Vargas Bello. Editorial Andres Bello
(Santiago, Chile), 1982. 185 p.
CAMINHOS PERCORRIDOS. Heitor Ferreira
Lima. Brasiliense (Sio Paulo, Brazil), 1982.
303 p. $15.50. Autobiography with much
inside information on the Partido
Comunista do Brasil.
STUDIOS BOLIVARIANOS. Pedro Grases.
Seix Barral (Barcelona, Spain), 1981.
EVITA. Marysa Navarro. Corregidor (Buenos
Aires, Argentina), 1982. 371 p.
FRANCISCO DE MIRANDA, EL PRECURSOR:
PASSION Y MUERTE. Adelia Vieyra.
Corregidor (Buenos Aires, Argentina), 1982.
IDEOLOGIA Y PASTORAL MISIONERA EN
BARTOLOME DE LAS CASAS. Jesis Angel
Barreda. Universidad Pontificia de Santo
Tombs de Manila (Madrid, Spain),
1981. 200 p.
JOAQUIM NABUCO: POLITICAL,
ORGANIZACAO. Paula Beigelman, ed.
Atica (S5o Paulo, Brazil), 1982.
192 p. $8.50.
JOSE VASCONCELOS, 1882-1982:
EDUCADOR, POLITICO Y PROFETA.
Joaquin Cardenas Noriega. Ocano
(Mexico), 1982. 287 p. $11.50.
OSCAR ROMERO: BISHOP AND MARTYR.
James R. Brockman. Orbis Books, 1982.
256 p. $11.95.
EL PENSAMIENTO DE EDUARDO FREI.
Oscar Pinochet de la Barra. Editorial
Aconcagua (Santiago, Chile), 1982.
264 p. $20.00.
PERFILES POLITICOS. Jorge Mario Eastman.
Plaza & Janes (Bogota, Colombia), 1982.
360 p. $15.00. About Columbia's
ROMULO BETANCOURT AND THE
TRANSFORMATION OF VENEZUELA.
Robert J. Alexander. Transaction Books,
1982. 737 p.
RUFINO TAMAYO. Jacques Lassaigne. Rizzoli
International Publications (New York), 1982.
320 p. $75.00.
SANTA ANNA: ESPECTRO DE UNA
SOCIEDAD. Agustin Yaiez. Editorial
Oceano (Mexico), 1982. 264 p. $9.75.
EL TRUENO: GLORIA Y MARTIRIO DE
AGUSTIN DE ITURBIDE. Francisco
Castellanos. Editorial Diana (Mexico), 1982.
233 p. $9.50.
Description and Travel
AMAZONIA--10.000 ANOS. Ant6nio Loureiro.
Metro Cubico (Manaus, Brazil), 1982. 206
A BARBADOS JOURNEY. Roger A.
LaBrucherie. Imagenes Press (El Centro,
Calif.), 1982. 112 p. $15.00.
BUENOS AIRES DE AYER Y DE HOY. Roberto
Conde. Corregidor (Buenos Aires,
Argentina), 1982. 147 p. $19.50.
LA COSTA RICA QUE NO TODOS
CONOCEMOS. Manuel Salguero. Editorial
Studium (San Jos6, Costa Rica),
201 p. $10.00.
GEOGRAFIA DE COSTA RICA. Eusebio Flores
Silva. Editorial Universidad Estatal a
Distancia, EUNED (San Jose, Costa Rica),
1982. 473 p. $10.00.
ICONOGRAFIA DE BUENOS AIRES. Bonifacio
del Carril, A. G. Aguirre Saravia.
Municipalidad de la Ciudad de Buenos
Aires (Argentina), 1982. 256 p. $15.00.
MUSEO DE ORO DEL BANCO DE LA
REPUBLICA. Luis Duque G6mez. Edici6n
Delroise (Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 238 p.
TIME AND THE HIGHLAND MAYA Barbara
Tedlock. University of New Mexico Press,
1982. 245 p. $27.50.
EL CAFE EN COLOMBIA, 1930-1958.
Mariano Arango. Carlos Valencia Editores
(Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 300 p. $24.00.
CAPITALISM Y CRISIS ECONOMIC EN
COSTA RICA. Sergio Ruben Soto. Editorial
Porvenir (San Jose, Costa Rica), 1982.
266 p. $10.00.
CHILE IN THE NITRATE ERA: THE
EVOLUTION OF ECONOMIC
DEPENDENCE, 1880-1930. Michael
Monte6n. University of Wisconsin Press,
1982. 336 p. $30.00.
CRISIS ECONOMIC EN COSTA RICA. Helio
Fallas. Editorial Nueva Decada (San Jose,
Costa Rica), 1982. 139 p. $7.50.
DESAFIO Y SOLIDARIDAD: BREVE HISTORIC
DEL MOVIMIENTO OBRERO
PUERTORRIQUENO. Gervasio L Garc'a,
A. G. Quintero Rivera. Ediciones Hurachn
(Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico), 1982.
DESARROLLO Y COLONIZACION: EL CASO
COLOMBIANO. Diego Giraldo Samper,
Laureano Ladr6n de Guevara. Universidad
Santo Tomas de Aquino (Bogota,
Colombia), 1982. 182 p.
THE DILEMMA OF AMAZONIAN
DEVELOPMENT. Emilio E MorAn. Westview
Press, 1982. 250 p. $20.00.
EMPLEO Y DISTRIBUTION PERSONAL DEL
INGRESO: EL CASO DE SAN SALVADOR
Edmundo Dupr6 E. International Labour
Office, 1982. 102 p.
ENSAYOS SOBRE EL DESARROLLO DE
MEXICO. Gonzalo Robles. Fondo de
Cultura Econ6mica (Mexico), 1982.
407 p. $15.00.
FARM AND FACTORY: THE JESUITS AND
THE DEVELOPMENT OF AGRARIAN
CAPITALISM IN COLONIAL QUITO.
Nicholas P Cushner. State University of New
York Press, 1982. 231 p. $42.50; $13.95
HAITI: LAND OF POVERTY. Robert J. Tata.
University Press of America, 1982. 140 p.
$17.50; $7.75 paper.
HISTORIC DEL BANCO DE LA PROVINCIA DE
BUENOS AIRES. Horacio Juan Cuccorese.
Banco de la Provincia de Buenos Aires,
1982. 481 p. $20.00.
HISTORIC MONETARIA DEL PARAGUAY:
MONEDA, BANCOS, CREDIT PUBLIC.
Juan Bautista Paoli. Liding (Asunci6n,
Paraguay), 1982. 598 p. $25.00.
HOGARES Y TRABAJADORES EN LA
CIUDAD DE MEXICO. Brigida Garcia,
Humberto Mufioz, Olandina de Oliveira. El
Colegio de Mexico, 1982. 202 p.
LOMBARDISMO Y SINDICATOS EN AMERICA
LATINA. Lourdes Quintanilla Obreg6n.
Ediciones HispAnicas (Mexico), 1982.
358 p. $12.00.
MINERS, MERCHANTS, AND FARMERS IN
COLONIAL COLOMBIA. Ann Twinam.
Institute of Latin American Studies,
University of Texas, 1982. 208 p. $22.00.
MODELS DE DESARROLLO ECONOMIC:
COLOMBIA, 1960-1982. Alejandro Power,
et al. Editorial La Oveja Negra (Bogota,
Colombia), 1982. 293 p.
ORIGENES DE LA VIDA ECONOMIC
CHILENA, 1659-1808. Armando de
Ram6n, Jos6 Manuel Larrain. Centro de
Estudios Publicos (Santiago, Chile), 1982.
416 p. $58.00.
THE ORIGINS OF THE PERUVIAN LABOR
MOVEMENT 1883-1919. Peter Blanchard.
University of Pittsburgh Press, 1982. 203 p.
PETROLEO: cMEXICO INVADIDO? LOS
YACIMIENTOS MEXICANOS EN LA
ESTRATEGIA DE EE. UU. SEGUN SUS
PROPRIOS DOCUMENTS. Luis Subrez.
Editorial Grijalbo (Mexico), 1982.
174 p. $7.00.
LOS PIONEROS DEL IMPERIALISMO
ALEMAN EN MEXICO. Brigida Van Mentz,
et al. Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios
Superiores en Antropologia Social (Mexico),
1982. 522 p. Study of the role of German
capital in Mexico between 1800 and 1875.
LA POSGUERRA: PROGRAM PARA LA
RECONSTRUCTION Y EL DESARROLLO
ECONOMIC ARGENTINO. Aldo Ferrer. El
Cid (Buenos Aires, Argentina), 1982. 140 p.
History and Archaeology
LOS ANIMALS MAGICOS EN LAS URNAS
DE TIERRADENTRO. Alvaro Chaves
Mendoza. Museo de Artes y Tradiciones
Populares (Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 110
O ANTIGO SISTEMA COLONIAL. Jose
Roberto do Amaral Lapa. Brasiliense (Sao
Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 110 p. About Brazil.
THE ART OF THE AZTECS. Henri Stierlin.
Rizzoli International Publications, 1982.
208 p. $50.00.
LA BATALLA NAVAL DE SAN JUAN DE ULUA,
1568. Othon Arroniz. Universidad
Veracruzana (Mexico), 1982. 116 p. $5.00.
BUENOS AIRES: 400 YEARS. Stanley Robert
Ross, Thomas E McGann, eds. University of
Texas Press, 1982. 216 p. $20.00.
COSTA RICA 1948. Jacobo Schifter. Editorial
Universitaria de Costa Rica, 1982.
240 p. $7.50.
STUDIOS DE ARQUEOLOGIA
SUDAMERICANA: ARTE RUPESTRE Y
SANTUARIOS INCAICOS EN EL OESTE
DE ARGENTINA. Juan Schobinger.
Castafieda (Buenos Aires, Argentina), 1982.
133 p. $7.00.
STUDIOS Y DOCUMENTS DE ARTE
HISPANOAMERICANO. Enrique Marco
Dorta. Real Academia de la Historia
(Madrid, Spain), 1981. 138 p.
HISTORIC COMBATENTE. Jos6 Hon6rio
Rodrigues. Nova Fronteira (Rio de Janeiro,
Brazil), 1982. 407 p. $16.50. Essays on
Brazil previously published in journals.
HISTORIC DE SAN LUIS POTOSI. Primo
Feliciano Velazquez. Academia de Historia
Potosina (Mexico), 1982. 4 vols. $87.50.
LOS JUDIOS EN LA NUEVA ESPANA:
DOCUMENTS DEL SIGLO XVI
CORRESPONDIENTES AL RAMO DE
INQUISICION. Alfonso Toro, ed. Fondo de
Cultura Econ6mica (Mexico), 1982. 373 p.
Reprint of the 1932 ed.
LATIN AMERICA AND THE SECOND WORLD
WAR, 1942-1945. Robert Arthur
Humphreys. Humanities Press, (Atlantic
Highlands, NJ), 1982. 320 p. $38.00.
THE MEXICAN FRONTIER, 1821-1846: THE
AMERICAN SOUTHWEST UNDER
MEXICO. David J. Weber. University of New
Mexico Press, 1982. 416 p. $19.95.
MEXICO EN 1821: DOMINIQUE DE PRADT Y
EL PLAN DE IGUALA. Guadalupe Jimenez
Codinach. El Caballito (Mexico), 1982. 197
p. Study of the influence of the ideas of the
French publicist on the Mexican indepen-
1910: A REVOLTA DOS MARINHEIROS, UMA
SAGA NEGRA. Mario Maestri. Global (Sao
Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 170 p. About Brazil.
1930-1980, CINCUENTA ANOS DE HISTORIC
ARGENTINA: UNA CRONOLOGIA BASIC.
Gerardo L6pez Alonso. Belgrano (Buenos
Aires, Argentina), 1982. 414 p. $10.85.
PARAGUAY Y URUGAY CONTEMPORANEOS.
Jos6 Luis Mora Merida. Escuela de
Estudios Hispano-Americanos (Seville,
Spain), 1981. 318 p. 650 pts.
PERU'S INDIAN PEOPLES AND THE
CHALLENGE OF SPANISH CONQUEST
HUAMANGA TO 1640. Steve J. Stern.
University of Wisconsin Press, 1982.
295 p. $22.75.
DE PRECOLUMBIAANSE BEWONERS VAN
ARUBA, CURACAO EN BONAIRE. E. H. J.
Boerstra. De Walburg Pers (Zutphen,
Netherlands), 1982. About the Pre-
Columbian inhabitants of the Dutch ABC
LA PRIMERA CONSPIRACION POR LA
INDEPENDENCIA DE MEXICO. Ra1l
Cardiel Reyes. Fondo de Cultura
Econ6mica (Mexico), 1982. 177 p. $11.95.
PSYCHIC CONFLICT IN SPANISH AMERICA:
SIX ESSAYS ON THE PSYCHOHISTORY
OF THE REGION. Marvin Goldwert.
University Press of America, 1982. 86 p.
$16.75; $6.75 paper.
REFLEXIONES HISTORICAL Y FILOSOFICAS
SOBRE MEXICO. Eli de Gortari. Editorial
Grijalbo (Mexico), 1982. 204 p. $8.00.
LOS "SALVAJES" Y LOS "CIVILIZADOS": EL
ENCUENTRO DE EUROPA Y ULTRAMAR.
Urs Bitterli. Fondo de Cultura Econ6mica
(Mexico), 1982. 558 p. $12.50. Analysis of
the impact of the New World on Europe.
Originally published in 1976 in German as
Die "Wilden" und die "Zivilisierten".
Language and Literature
CARLOS FUENTES: A CRITICAL VIEW. Robert
Brody, Charles Rossman, eds. University of
Texas Press, 1982. 224 p. $19.95.
CHICANO POETRY: A RESPONSE TO
CHAOS. Bruce Novoa. University of Texas
Press, 1982. 240 p. $25.00.
CRITICAL DE LA POESIA MESTIZA. Alejandro
Lora Risco. Academia Superior de Ciencias
Pedag6gicas de Santiago (Chile), 1982.
336 p. $19.50. Critical interpretation of
Pablo Neruda's "Residencia en la tierra."
GABRIELA. Jorge Marchant Lazcano.
Ediciones Cerro Santa Lucia (Santiago,
Chile), 1982. 187 p. Play about the life of
HABLEMOS NAHUATL Y ESPANOL: METODO
AUDIOVISUAL PARA LA ENSENANZA DEL
NAHUATL. Joaquin Galarza, Carlos L6pez
Avila. Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios
Superiores en Antropologia Social (Mexico),
1982. 2 vols.
LA INSURRECCION. Antonio SkBrmeta.
Ediciones del Norte (Hanover, N. H.), 1982.
240 p. $8.00. Novel about the Sandinista
LA NOVELA CENTROAMERICANA: DESDE
EL POPOL-VUH HASTA LOS UMBRALES
DE LA NOVELA ACTUAL. Ram6n Luis
Acevedo. Editorial Universitaria, Universidad
de Puerto Rico, 1982. 503 p. $12.00.
SHABONO: A VISIT TO A REMOTE AND
MAGICAL WORLD IN THE HEART OF THE
SOUTH AMERICAN JUNGLE. Florinda
Donner. Delacorte Press, 1982. 305 p.
SONS OF THE WIND: THE SEARCH FOR
IDENTITY IN SPANISH AMERICAN INDIAN
LITERATURE. Braulio Mufioz. Rutgers
University Press, 1982. 344 p. $24.00;
I I -
Politics and Government
ALTERNATIVES POPULARES DA
DEMOCRACIA: BRASIL ANOS 80. Jose
Alvaro Moises, et al. Vozes (Petr6polis,
Brazil), 1982. 139 p. $7.00.
BELISARIO BETANCUR: LA VOLUNTAD DE
UN PUEBLO. EL PUEBLO INTERROGA A
BELISARIO. Gustavo G6mez Ardila.
Producciones Catatumbo (Bogota,
Colombia), 1982. 104 p. $7.00.
BOLIVIA: PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE OF
ITS POLITICS. Robert J. Alexander. Praeger,
1982. 157 p. $21.95.
BRAZIL: IMPRESSIONS AND INSIGHTS.
Hermann M. Gorgen. Ungar, 1982.
159 p. $29.95.
CIEN TESIS SOBRE MEXICO. Miguel de la
Madrid Hurtado. Editorial Grijalbo (Mexico),
1982. 116 p. By the new president.
COLOMBIA: REPRESION 1970-1981. Jaime
Torres Sanchez, et al. Centro de
Investigaci6n y Educaci6n Popular, CINEP
(Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 2 vols. $60.00.
LA QUESTION DE LAS MALVINAS. Bonifacio
del Carril. Emece Editores (Buenos Aires,
Argentina), 1982. 124 p.
DIAZ ORDAZ Y EL 68. Jose Cabrera Parra.
Editorial Grijalbo (Mexico), 1982. 194 p.
EL ESTADO COSTARRICENSE DE
1974-1978. Mylena Vega. Editorial Hoy
(San Jose, Costa Rica), 1982. 184 p. $7.50.
LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS Y TRUJILLO:
COLECCION DE DOCUMENTS DEL
DEPARTAMENTO DE ESTADO Y DE LAS
NORTEAMERICANAS, ANO 1945.
Bernardo Vega, ed. Fundaci6n Cultural
Dominicana (Santa Domingo), 1982.
GETULIO VARGAS E SUA EPOCA. Ant6nio
Augusto Faria. Global (Sao Paulo, Brazil),
1982. 108 p. $6.00.
O GOVERNOR GOULART E 0 GOLPE DE 64.
Caio Navarro de Toledo. Brasiliense (Sao
Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 123 p.
GUATEMALA 1982. Julio Molina. Editorial
Nueva Decada (San Jose, Costa Rica),
1982. 612 p. $17.50.
HISTORIC Y COYUNTURA DE LA REFORM
POLITICA EN MEXICO, 1977-1981. Alberto
Aziz Nassif. Centro de Investigaciones y
Estudios Superiores en Antropologia Social
(Mexico), 1982. 259 p.
HITLER EN AMERICA. Omar Diaz Aparicio.
Imprenta Departamental (Cali, Colombia),
1982. 432 p. $28.00.
IDEARIO. Omar Torrijos. Editorial Universitaria
de Costa Rica, 1982. 147 p. By the former
LATIN AMERICAN POPULISM IN
COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVE. Michal L.
Conniff, ed. University of New Mexico Press,
1982. 248 p. $19.95.
LIBERATION NATIONAL EN LA HISTORIC
POLITICAL DE COSTA RICA. Carlos Araya
Pochet. Editorial Nacional de Textos (San
Jose, Costa Rica), 1982. 219 p. $7.50.
THE MURDER OF CHILE: EYEWITNESS
ACCOUNTS OF THE COUP THE
TERROR, AND THE RESISTANCE TODAY.
Samuel Chavkin. Everest House (New
York), 1982. 288 p. $13.95.
THE NEWER CARIBBEAN:
DECOLONIZATION, DEMOCRACY AND
DEVELOPMENT Paget Henry, Carl Stone,
eds. Institute for the Study of Human
Issues, 1982. 250 p. $24.00.
NICARAGUA, LA REVOLUTION SANDINISTA:
UNA CRONICA POLITICAL, 1855-1979.
Claribel Alegria, D. J. Flakoll. Ediciones Era
(Mexico), 1982. 479 p.
NUEVOS VIENTOS SOBRE EL CARIBE.
Arturo Guerrero. Centro de Investigaci6n y
Educaci6n Popular, CINEP (Bogota,
Colombia), 1982. 92 p. $6.00.
EL PAPEL ESTRATEGICO DE PUERTO RICO
EN EL CONTEXT DE LA NUEVA
POLITICAL DE REAGAN HACIA EL CARIBE.
Jorge Rodriguez. Centro de Estudios de la
Realidad Puertorriquefia, CERER 1982.
POLITICS AND SOCIAL CHANGE IN LATIN
AMERICA: THE DISTINCT TRADITION.
Howard J. Wiarda, ed. 2d, rev., ed. University
of Massachusetts Press, 1982. 368 p. $9.95.
LA PRIORIDAD ES EL HOMBRE: LA
IDEOLOGIA DE MIGUEL DE LA MADRID.
Mario Ezcurdia. Editorial Porr6a (Mexico),
1982. 136 p. $5.00.
SI SE PUEDE: PROGRAM PRESIDENTIAL.
Belisario Betancur. Ediciones Tercer Mundo
(Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 286 p. $15.00.
LA SOCIAL DEMOCRACIA EN COSTA RICA.
Jorge Romero. Editorial Universidad Estatal
a Distancia (San Jose, Costa Rica), 1982.
U.S. INFLUENCE IN LATIN AMERICA IN THE
1980's. Robert Wesson, ed. Praeger, 1982.
242 p. $23.95.
VOTER PARTICIPATION IN CENTRAL
AMERICA, 1954-1981: AN EXPLORATION.
George A. Bowdler, Patrick Cotter. University
Press of America, 1982. 276 p. $21.75;
AMERINDIANS OF THE LESSER ANTILLES:
A BIBLIOGRAPHY Robert A. Myers. Human
Relations Area Files Press, 1981. 158
CATALOG DO ARQUIVO PARTICULAR DO
VISCONDE DO RIO BRANCO. Nadir
Duarte Ferreira, ed. Universidade (Brasilia,
Brazil), 1981. 201 p. $10.00.
CONTRIBUTION A LA BIBLIOGRAFIA DE
ROMULO BETANCOURT. Horacio Jorge
Becco. Biblioteca Nacional (Caracas,
Venezuela), 1981. 157 p. $14.00.
DICCIONARIO DE DERECHO AGRARIO
MEXICANO: CON REFERENCIAS A
PROBLEMS AGRARIOS, REFORM
AGRARIA Y AGRICULTURE. Antonio Luna
Arroyo, Luis G. Alcerreca. Editorial Porrua
(Mexico), 1982. 967 p. $27.50.
LA ECONOMIC PERUANA, 1950-1978: UN
ENSAYO BIBLIOGRAFICA. Teobaldo Pinzas
Garcia. Institute de Estudios Peruanos
(Lima, Peru), 1981. 156 p. $7.00.
FRANCISCO ADOLFO DE VARNHAGEN:
SUBSIDIES PARA UMA BIBLIOGRAFIA.
Hans Horch. Editoras Unidas (Sao Paulo,
Brazil), 1982. 453 p. $54.00.
FUENTES PARA LA HISTORIC DE LA CRISIS
AGRICOLA DE 1785-1786. Enrique
Florescano, ed. Archivo General de la
Naci6n (Mexico), 1981. 2 vols. $26.50.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY FROM THE
COLLECTION OF THE MONGUI MADURO
LIBRARY. Synagogue Mikve Israel-Emanuel.
The Synagogue (Curacao, Netherlands
Antilles), 1982. Published on the occasion
of the 250th anniversary of the
A SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
PUBLICATIONS AND STUDIES RELATING
TO HUMAN RESOURCES IN THE
COMMONWEALTH CARIBBEAN. Marianne
Rameser. Institute for Social and Economic
Research, University of the West Indies,
1981. 125 p. $8.50.
TRAVEL ACCOUNTS AND DESCRIPTIONS
OF LATIN AMERICA AND THE
CARIBBEAN, 1800-1920: A SELECTED
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Thomas L. Welch, Myriam
Figueras, ed. General Secretariat,
Organization of American States, 1982.
293 p. $20.00.
Marian Goslinga is the Latin American and
Caribbean Librarian at Florida International
CARIBBEAN STUDIES ASSOCIATION
IX ANNUAL MEETING
Santo Domingo Sheraton
Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic
May 25, 26, 27, 1983
Theme: "Caribbean Studies: International Dimensions."
Panels on Caribbean Studies in France,
Britain, Holland, the U.S.A., Venezuela, Central
America, the Eastern Caribbean, Trinidad,
Jamaica, Cuba as well as panels on the state
of the arts in migration studies, literature,
history, architecture, archeology and other
A Call for Papers
Send Proposals to Conference Chain
Lic. Jos6 del Castillo
Director, Museo del Hombre Dominicano
Calle Pedro Henriquez Urena
Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic
Copy to the President of C.S.A.:
Dr. Anthony P Maingot
Department of Sociology
Florida International University
Miami, Fla. 33199
in Urban Argentina
CORDOBA IN THE LIBERAL ERA
By Mark D. Szuchman
Between the 1870s, when the great influx of Euro-
pean immigrants began, and the start of World War
I, Argentina underwent a radical alteration of its
social composition and patterns of economic pro-
ductivity. Mark Szuchman, in this groundbreaking
study, examines the occupational, residential, edu-
cational, and economic patterns of mobility of
some four thousand men, women, and children
who resided in Cordoba, Argentina's most impor-
tant interior city, during this changeful era. The use
of record linkage as the essential research method
makes this work the first book on Argentina to fol-
low this very successful research methodology
employed by modern historians. 290 pages, $19.95
University of Texas Press 083
POST OFFICE BOX 7819 AUSTIN, TEXAS 78712
Gordon E. Finley
Las mas significativas y recientes
aportaciones al pensamiento psicologico
del continent americano, expuestas par
sus propios autores, se han logrado
conjuntar en este valioso texto que
permitira tanto a profesionales como a
estudiantes de psicologia actualizar
B.F. Skinner, Edwin I. Megargee, Rogelio
Diaz-Guerrero, Ruben Ardila y otros
reconocidos psicologos desarrollan en esta
obra diversos temas cuyo studio result
imprescindible, por igual, para aquellos
que se desempenan en el ambito de la
ciencia de la conduct, y para quienes se
aprestan a hacerlo.
Editorial Tillas, S.A.
Av. 5 de Mayo 43-105
Mexico 1, D.F
moneda y banca en
El libro esta escrito en un lenguaje claro y
comprensible teniendo en consideracion que el
mercado potential para el cual esta proyectado
esta representado por una amplia variedad de
El material esta dividido en tres areas. La
primera explore concepts basicos del dinero y
la banca, tales como el lugar del dinero en la
economic, la importancia de la banca y otros
La segunda parte hace un analysis detallado de
la banca en Centroamerica, la expansion y
contracci6n monetaria y los aspects
econ6micos del sistema bahcario
centroamericano en los iltimos cinco afios, y
finalmente, se estudia con detalle la banca
central en Centroamerica y sus principles
La tercera parte trata en una forma general y
especifica la teoria y la political monetaria
incluyendo aspects internacionales del dinero
y la banca de Centroamerica.
Escuela Bancaria Superior
Tegucigalpa, D.C., Honduras, C.A.
56/CAd?BBEAN e vie
Ships' Registry: Norway
"We hada great time.The S/S Norway
is a beautiful ship. And the entertainment
is byfar the bet."Mr Mrs.John Noterman,Sarasota, FL.
"This was our first cruise and I thought it was
"To start with, aboard the S/S Ni:o,,.a:,' you dc:,r I
have to worry about reservations anywhere. For the
price of your room, you have your meals and practi-
cally everything else included.
"The entertainment aboard the ship during the
whole cruise was excellent. We had a really profes-
sional performance of the Broadway show 'Hello
Dolly.' One night Al Martino, the famous singer, gave
us all a great show. And it's really hard to believe
but even the television shows on the TV set in our
stateroom were good.
"A lot of times we had food that I didn't think
they were able to serve aboard a ship. One night we
had prime rib and another night it was a delicious
roast duck. It was really very, very good.
"All the different sports you were able to play
aboard the S/S Norway were really surprising. I
mean we were actually able to play volleyball and
basketball. Imagine volleyball and basketball aboard
a ship. I was really impressed '
For more inforn iion about one-week cruises
departing from Miami aboard the magnificent
S/S Norway- our $100 million resort-and her visits
to St. Thomas and the unforgettable beach party
you can enjoy on NCL's private Out Island, see your
travel agent or use the attached coupon.
We'll be glad to send you a free booklet about
the S/S Norway that's full of hints and tips on how to
get the most out of your cruise vacation.
I Norwegian Caribbean LinesI
I First Fleet of the Caribbean i w
SNorwegian Caribbean Lines
P.O. Box 1111
Addison, ilrn..._,-: r.-,101
I Please send me your FREE S/S Norway cruising
I booklet (#102).