Caribbean Review

reVIEW

Vol. XII, No. 2
Three Dollars

Central America Devastated; Life in the Guerrilla Camps in El Salvador; What Happened in Ocho Rios; The
Battle Over the CBI, How Cricket is West Indian Cricket?; Sexual Opportunities Among the Saramaka;
Reggae, Spiritual Balm for a Trembling World?; 19th Century Puerto Rican Artist, Francisco Oiler.

CA,?BBAN

Certificate

In Latin

American-

Caribbean

Studies

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Caribbean related courses in
the University.
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and Area Center.
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materials.
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distinguished visiting scholars in
Latin American and Caribbean
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For further information contact:
Latin American-Caribbean Center
Florida International University
Tamiami 'rail
Miami, Florida 33199

Latin American-Caribbean
Studies Faculty
Irma Alonso, Economics
Ewart Archer, International
Relations
Ken I. Boodhoo, International
Relations
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, Moder Languages
Charles Lacombe, Anthropology
Barry B. Levine, Sociology
Anthony P Maingot, Sociology
James A. Mau, Sociology
Floretin Maurrasse, Physical
Sciences
Ramon Mendoza, Modern
Languages
Raul Moncarz, Economics
Marta Ortiz, Marketing
Mark B. Rosenberg, Political
Science
Reinaldo Sanchez, Modern
Languages
Luis P Salas, Criminal Justice
Jorge Salazar, Economics
Alex Stepick, Anthropology
Mark D. Szuchman, History
William T. Vickers, Anthropology
Maida Watson Breslin, Moder
Languages

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Bureau
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
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30 days prior to the anticipated
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Please write for details.

In this issue....

Crossing Swords
Central America Devastated
By Mark B. Rosenberg

Responses and Replies
From Wilson, Cowell, Prince and Maingot

Behind the Lines
Life in the Guerrilla Camps in El Salvador
By Mark Fazlollah

What Happened in Ocho Rios
Last Chance for CARICOM?
By Mirlande Hippolyte-Manigat

The Battle Over the CBI
The Debate in Washington
By Richard E. Feinberg, Richard Newfarmer
and Bernadette Orr

The Joint Oil Facility
Mexican-Venezuelan Cooperation
in the Caribbean
By George W. Grayson

How Cricket Is West Indian Cricket?
Class, Racial and Color Conflict
By L. O'Brien Thompson

Wives, Husbands, and More Wives
Sexual Opportunities Among the Saramaka
By Sally Price

The Incomplete Haitiana
A New Research Bibliography on Haiti
Reviewed by Leon-Frangois Hoffmann

Reggae International
Spiritual Balm for a Trembling World
Reviewed by Alan Greenberg

The Land of Look Behind
A Film About Reggae and Rastafarianism
Reviewed by Aaron Segal

Francisco Oiler
19th Century Puerto Rican Artist
By Haydee Venegas

Recent Books
An Informative Listing on the Caribbean,
Latin America and their Emigrant Groups
By Marian G'-:irng.-

Page 6

"If the peasants on the
cooperatives were pro-
tected and could re-
ceive their share of
profits that are currently
being stolen by guer-
rillas, the already weak
support for the rebels
might crumble."

Page 22

"The decade of the
1940s heralded the
dominance of non-
whites in West Indian
cricket. A unique tradi-
tion in style, flair, and ap-
proach to the game was
firmly established."

Page 32

"Hot deejays are Ja-
maica's street poets, or-
acular journalists and
phrase makers, and the
whole nation seems to
rock to their ribald lit-
anies and catechisms."

On the cover:

El Velorio (The Wake) by
Puerto Rican artist Fran-
cisco Oiler (oil on can-
vas, 224 by 397.5 cm.).
The painting, from the
University of Puerto Rico
Museum collection, is
presently on exhibition
at the Ponce Art Mu-
seum. See page 38.

JCAlBMBCAN
REVIEW

The New

Cuban

Presence

in the

Caribbean

edited by Barry B. Levine

July 1983, 274 pages
$26.50 (cloth), $11.50 (paper)

"Comprehensive and well-balanced ideo-
logically . useful for courses on interna-
tional relations, comparative politics, and
Latin American foreign policy."
-Carmelo Mesa-Lago,
University of Pittsburgh

"This book fills a void that has existed in
the study of Inter-American relations . .
The authors' clear, well-written prose is
suitable for teaching college students ...
especially valuable."
-Jorge I. Dominguez,
Harvard University

This book explores in detail the history and
nature of Cuba's influence in the Common-
wealth Caribbean, Mexico, and Central and
South America, as well as its relations with
revolutionary movements and communist
parties throughout Latin America. The authors
place Cuba's Western Hemisphere contacts
within the wider framework of the island's in-
volvements with the Third World (especially
Africa) and the Soviet Union. The meaning of
the new Cuban presence becomes clear in
the authors' analyses of the limits to that
presence and the way the United States
should respond to it.

Westview Press
5500 Central Avenue
Boulder, Colorado 80301

SPRING 1983

Editor
Barry B. Levine
Associate Editors
Anthony R Maingot
Mark B. Rosenberg
Contributing Editors
Henry S. Gill
Eneid Routte G.
Aaron L. Segal
Andr6s Serbin
Olga J. Wagenheim
Assistant Editor
Judith C. Faerron
Bibliographer
Marian Goslinga
Cartographer
Linda M. Marston
Editorial Manager
Beatriz Parga Bayon

Vol. XII, No. 2

Art Director
Danine L. Carey
Design Consultant
Juan C. Urquiola
Contributing Artists
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Eleanor Bonner
Terry Cwikla
Circulation Manager
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Project Manager
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Project Assistant
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Production Assistant
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Three Dollars

Board of Editors
Reinaldo Arenas
Ricardo Arias Calder6n
Errol Barrow
German Carrera Damas
Yves Daudet
Edouard Glissant
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Leslie Manigat
James A. Mau
Carmelo Mesa-Lago
Carlos Alberto Montaner
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2/CAI BBCAN rFVIEw

CROSSING SWRDI

Central America

Devastated

By Mark B. Rosenberg

Little that is new or enlightening has
been said about Central America in
recent years. Observers seem to be
coming forth with the same insights, gos-
sip, even warnings, as those which were
popular in 1981. True, some will admit, sev-
eral of the actors have changed and the
basic problems are more acute than they
were in 1981. But their ideas about the na-
ture of the Central American problem re-
main the same, and by now, they ring stale.
Debate pivots on structured yet simplistic
dichotomies: revolution versus counter-
revolution, communism versus democracy,
East versus West, winners versus losers.
This tendency to view Central America's
problems in paired opposites is under-
standable given the need that many observ-
ers have to reduce the region's reality to
graspable alternatives. However, to be true
to the situation, quite another reality must
be considered for the region. This other
reality rejects dichotomies with the realiza-
tion that even in the best of circumstances,
with the cessation of hostilities, there will be
few, if any, winners at the end of the
conflagration.
Upon reflection it becomes clear that
most of the contenders to the current con-
flict would have a difficult time adjusting to
peace. They would have the task of recon-
structing that which they carelessly, if not
carefully, destroyed during the last four
years. They would have to co-exist with
avowed enemies-individuals, groups, na-
tions, which have given them identity in
opposition, and a raison d'etre in conflict.
They would have the burden of confronting
their own precious scarcities, legacies of the
years of destruction and wanton neglect of
the human and material capital that had
begun to build and accumulate precisely in
the late 1970s when the conflagration be-
gan to assume its current dimensions.
But also during the 1970s, countries that
were becoming successful economically-
El Salvador, Nicaragua, Guatemala-were
at the same time failing politically. By 1979,
each of those countries confronted serious
internal rebellions, legacies of popular mo-
bilization, growing income inequalities and
declining real income for the working
classes. Economic success and political
failure went hand in hand.
But Central American governments only
barely began to meet the needs of their
populations. Social services, educational
opportunities and employment regularly

lagged far behind demand. Health care
clinics remain virtually non-existent in the
Honduran and Nicaraguan countryside; il-
literacy is rampant, underemployment per-
vasive. Costa Rica alone had been able to
address social needs in a reasonable fash-
ion. But for Costa Rica to have done so has
proven to be very expensive: the highest per
capital debt in the world, massive devalua-
tions, a startling real income decline un-
precedented in the country's history.
And now, stagnating export prices, the
rising demand for and cost of imports, gov-
ernment corruption-as well as the re-
gional conflicts-have stopped the Central
American economies dead in their tracks.
Perhaps it is corruption rather than ideology
that needs to be examined more closely.
For this corruption, taken with the paucity of
politically and economically skilled indi-
viduals (the former have gone into exile, if
not to their early graves, the latter have emi-
grated to safer lands), have together left this
area a human wasteland.
Nor has the ideological left been of much
help. Many of the difficult circumstances
facing the Sandinistas (in power) and the
FMLN (out of power) have been brought
about by their very policies designed to of-
fend and exacerbate the same geopolitical
conditions they need to overcome to be
able either to rule fruitfully or achieve power.
For example, the Sandinistas quickly lost
their potential link with the US, the US Con-
gress, by embracing the likes of Qadaffi and
Arafat and by pandering to Castro. Fawning
displays of obeisance to the Soviets and the
Bulgarians have only promoted militant at-
titudes among the US ideological right, pro-
hibiting any possible future relationship
with the US. The result is that social service
and educational gains made by the revolu-
tion are being mortgaged. Like Che before
them, the Sandinistas seem to be unwilling
to take those steps necessary to routinize
their revolution.
For its part, the FMLN's abortive "final
offensive" in late December 1980 ushered
in a period of regional militarization which
has set their cause back a decade, if not
forever. Popular insurrection has not oc-
curred and despite promises that it could, it
probably will not. The FMLN recognizes
this and has opted instead to participate in
bleeding the country, making them in effect
bedfellows with the extreme right.
The unprecedented militarization of Cen-
tral America thus is the result of these

groups creating their own self-fulfilling
prophesy and their inability to stay clear of
the cynical struggle between Castro and the
Reagan administrations. Castro needs en-
emies, but so apparently does this US ad-
ministration. The US chief executive and his
close advisors thrive on conflict and ten-
sion, major elements of their worldview. The
problem is that when the ink on their re-
spective memoirs is finally dry, Central
America will still be at war with itself. Do the
protagonists really believe that Central
America has to be destroyed to save it?
Where does all this leave Central Amer-
ica? If its population continues to increase
at the present level it will double by the year
2000. How will these people work? Live?
Survive? Since 1979, the region's average
annual economic growth has been negative
and during 1982 every Central American
economy experienced negative growth.
Gross domestic product per capital was less
in 1982 than it was in 1975! The economic
infrastructures of Nicaragua and El Sal-
vador have been gutted in the last four
years. Investor confidence, private invest-
ment, additional employment in the private
sector, have diminished to zero. As unjust as
the economic structure might have been in
the past, at least it generated some product,
some surplus, some hope.
The only benefactors of the current strife
can be the uniformed and civilian militar-
ists. Militarization, once a means to an end,
has become an end in itself. One Central
American general has now requested an-
nual military aid from the US in excess of
the combined total of all previous aid to his
country since 1946. All that would be left for
him or any other "victors" of the Central
American war will be more misery and
more poverty. We are witnessing the devas-
tation of Central America.

Crossing Swords is a
regular feature of Carib-
bean Review. The views
expressed herein are
the sole opinion of the
authors. Associate Edi-
tor Mark B. Rosenberg
is the director of the
Latin American and
Caribbean Center and
associate professor of Political Science at
Florida International University.

CAffBBEAN ~EVIEW/3

Responses and Replies
Wilson, Cowell, Prince and Maingot

Cheating Our Children

Dear Colleagues:
As researchers in the field of moral educa-
tion at Oxford, England, we have been fortu-
nate in being asked to visit and consult with
universities and governments in a good
many countries. Always we have been re-
ceived with great kindness and courtesy;
but this very fact, unfortunately, makes it
hard to get one important point across with
both tact and clarity. Perhaps we can try to
do this here in a way which will be helpful, or
at least provocative, for Caribbean readers.
When individuals or cultures or whole
nations feel themselves under threat, or op-
pressed, or insecure-and which of us does
not?-they search for some kind of security
or identity. As adults, we may already be
committed; but the question arises of what
kind of security or identity we want our chil-
dren to have. Do we want to tum them out
as good and strong little Englishmen, or
Americans, or Caribbeans? Should they be
taught to see themselves primarily as black
or white, male or female, Christian or com-
munist, rich or poor? Or does the answer lie
in a different direction?
There are four objections to indoctrinat-
ing children with an identity in these terms.
First, it is fragile: we may pump children full
of particular beliefs and values, only to find
that (quite understandably) they will reject
them later. All societies have tried this way,
and it has always failed. Second, it is ego-
centric and in a way dishonest: we should
not approve of a general right to indoctri-
nate, since there are cases (the Nazis, for
instance) of which we disapprove. Thirdly, it
is dangerous: that is precisely how the world
tums into armed camps of partisans. But
fourthly and most importantly, it is unrea-
sonable in itself; for we do not, on reflection,
really believe that the most valuable and
important features of human beings are to
be found in their skin-color, sex, social
class, race, nationality, or even culture.
Temptations to ideology and these false
identities are powerful because they fill a
vacuum: a vacuum which ought to be filled
by a better understanding of what we really
think to be important, and a proper com-
mitment to what is reasonable. In terms of
moral education-education, not training
or indoctrination-we want our children to
be able to love and be loved: to be able to
regard others as equals: to think for them-
selves: to acquire the altertness and deter-
mination to act well. We want them
committed, not to any particular ideology,

but to the whole business of rational discus-
sion, negotiation between equals, and the
excitement-for it is exciting-of working
out right answers to moral and social prob-
lems. We want them to enjoy and feel se-
cure in being human and being reasonable.
Plenty of lip-service is paid to these (non-
partisan) values; but not many official agen-
cies really believe whole-heartedly in them,
or do much to foster them. It is easier, and
politically more tempting, to play upon par-
tisan and ideological fears and desires. Any
serious program of moral and social educa-
tion must consist of giving children, not a
set of ready-made 'answers,' but the intel-
lectual and psychological equipment they
need to make up their own minds-just as
in any other subject, where we do not tell
pupils the answers (they can look up those
for themselves in the back of the book any-
way), but show them how a reasonable per-
son in science, or mathematics, or in this
case morals, goes about finding answers.
This is (we submit) not an intellectually
difficult idea to grasp. The point is that
grasping it firmly and putting it into educa-
tional practice has to be done in the teeth of
contrary pressures. We have to stand up
and be counted: either we are seriously con-
cerned with education, or we side with the
partisans. Education can only flourish if
governments and ideological movements
are willing to make space for it, and if edu-
cators are willing to fight for such space.
Otherwise it is ideologized out of exis-
tence-and not only in totalitarian coun-
tries: partisan pressures are just as strong, if
less formalized, in liberal societies. In the
Caribbean Review of Winter 1983 (Vol. XII,
No. 1) Anthony Maingot rightly asks for
'some healthy doses of skepticism' about
politicians and their language; but that is
not enough. First, we need to be skeptical
not only about politics but about the whole
attempt (often assisted by 'liberals') to en-
courage local or cultural identities at the
expense of a broader human identity. And
secondly, skepticism is not enough: we
need a more positive passion for introduc-
ing our pupils into the fraternity of rational
discussion and truth-seeking. Education in
general (not only moral education) involves
treating pupils as people, not just training
them as role-fillers or indoctrinating them
as citizens.
JOHN WILSON AND BARBARA COWELL
Oxford, England

John Wilson is a Fellow of Mansfield College,
Oxford, U.K., and Director of the Warborough

Trust Research Unit into moral education. Bar-
bara Cowell is a teacher and Research Fellow
of the Trust. Their latest book on this topic is
Dialogues in Moral Education (Religious Edu-
cation Press, Alabama, 1983.)

Straight Talk?

Dear Colleagues:
For a person who says he is in favor of
"straight talk" (Caribbean Review, Vol XII,
No 1), Anthony P Maingot has a somewhat
cavalier approach to factual information.
Apparently seeking to associate the Carib-
bean Regional Report published by Latin
American Newsletters with those who
have abandoned "objective enquiry" in re-
lation to the events in Suriname last De-
cember, because they put "revolutionary"
acts in a special category, Maingot writes:
"Even those who argued with the necessity
of the act accept the revolutionary nature of
the regime. The Latin American Regional
Report-Caribbean out of London for in-
stance regrets that the massacre had
caused a temporary vanishment of support
for the revolution."
What we said was: "Whatever chance
army commander Col. Desi Bouterse had
of drawing support for his uncertain pro-
gramme for revolution has temporarily van-
ished with last month's cold-blooded killing
of at least a score of opponents of the mili-
tary's three-year-old regime."
If Maingot has read the Caribbean Re-
gional Report since the overthrow of the
Arron government in February 1980, he will
know that we have consistently reported
and analyzed the developments in Sur-
iname, including the changing positions of
the military, without special pleading, on the
basis used inLatinAmerican Newsletters
since their foundation in 1967: accuracy of
information, and opinions openly sta-
ted, based on the judgment of our editors
and contributors. His suggestion that the
use of the word "revolution" is incompati-
ble with the exercise of normal critical intel-
ligence is hardly worth serious considera-
tion; it is even less convincing when based
on distortions of other people's positions.
ROD PRINCE
London, England

Rod Prince is the editor of Latin American
Regional Report-Caribbean.

4/CAiBBEAN REVIEW

I

Anthony P. Maingot Replies:

The readers will have to judge for them-
selves whether I distorted LARRC's
position vis-a-vis events in Suriname, es-
pecially as reported in the 21 January 1983
issue under the headline "Army massacre
derails Surinamese revolution." I shall be
content here to take up Editor Prince's invi-
tation to studyLARRC's coverage of events
in Suriname since the coup d'etat of Febru-
ary 1980. I do so with an eye to LARRC's
overall frame of analysis and editorial-like
interpretations rather than in pursuit of fac-
tual "truths." This is warranted because the
large circulation the Report enjoys and its
wide usage as a documentary source in
many college courses (including my own)
stems from the well-deserved reputation for
serious analysis gained by the original
Latin American Weekly Report. Unfortu-
nately, the "Caribbean" version is not up
to that standard.
LARRC showed its hand early on when
on 13 June 1980 it editorialized that the
coup leaders' "careful preservation" of the
"old regime's" constitutional forms and
practices was "a recipe for failure." Just as
early (22 August 1980) it began its practice
of defining "the left" in terms of one's posi-
tion vis-a-vis relations with Cuba, Grenada,
Nicaragua and Manley's Jamaica. When
Bouterse moved against this "left" his
moves were called a "palace coup." By 16
January 1981 another dimension of
LARRC's general framework makes its ap-
pearance: the Dutch as villains. It was, they
said, an "unholy alliance" between the
Dutch and Bouterse which toppled pro-
gressive Foreign and Defense Minister An-
dr6 Haakmat. Not one month later, however,
LARRC was taking a decidedly upbeat tone
about events in Suriname manipulated by
the same people seen as Dutch stooges
only weeks earlier. There was a new pro-
gressive on the scene, President Chin-A-
Sen carrying forth Bouterse's most recent
conversion to true socialism. No "palace
coup" this one. LARRC compliments
Chin-A-Sen's attack on the formerly pro-
gressive Haakmat (said to be one of a "gang
of four" enemies of the new revolution) by
stating that "the four have dubious leftist
credentials..." The real left on the other
hand (the minuscule groups, PALU and
RVP), "has maintained a solid position..."
Proof given? "Cuba has been invited to
send a resident ambassador."
Another dimension of LARRC's frame-
work becomes evident: never a probing

mention or even a question about the role
of Cuba, the Soviet Union or Grenada's
Bishop in the generation of Suriname politi-
cal dymanics. LARRC did not think it im-
portant to say (or even ask) who the Cuban
ambassador was or the size of his staff. On
the other hand, when Bouterse expelled the
deputy US ambassador, LARRC tells us
that Richard Laroche "was reportedly at the
US Embassy in Chile under Allende."
By 4 December 1981 LARRC's frame-
work begins to resemble an Agatha Christie
plot: "Having seized up Chin-A-Sen's weak-
ness, Washington is reportedly betting on
the shrewed Bouterse to serve up in the end
a similar safe brand of pseudo-socialism as
neighboring Guyana's.. .a hedge against
the left." Well, if that was the scheme it did
not work. On 19 February 1982 LARRC
interpreted that the dismissal of Chin-A-
Sen (hence forth called "pro-American"
and "conservative") meant that Washington
and The Hague "may have finally lost their
two-year battle to stop Suriname joining up
with the Cuba-Nicaragua-Grenada axis."
Ah, but wait, the plot thickens when only a
month later (26 February 1982) LARRC
reveals that "The Hague is now playing an
important role in undermining Bouterse."
Washington was also worried about his
"sharp turn to the left." But was it a turn to
the "real" left or to a "safe brand of pseudo-
socialism?" Well read on.
By 7 May 1982 LARRC informs us that
"things are now more to the liking of the
holders of the national purse strings, the
Dutch government." Facts cited such as
RVP ("ultra leftist" according to LARRC)
gains in ministerial positions and the arrival
of the first resident USSR ambassador (de-
spite relations since 1977) are not analyzed.
On the other hand when the inescapable
unpopularity of Bouterse and his "left"
friends at home and abroad is analyzed, it is
done in conspiratorial terms: "The hand of
Washington suspected in antigovernment
upsurge." Suriname, you see, is "an easy
target for foreign political penetration."
Easy, apparently solely for the US and Hol-
land, the only two mentioned.
And so, LARRC concludes that "it
all seemed to fit..."; a foreign engineered
conspiracy against Grenada's Bishop and
Bouterse. But what do you do about
labor unions such as the Moederbond
whose support provided the justification for
calling events there "revolutionary?" You
call them "conservatives."
The framework is now complete, the
pieces of the plot in place, the labels neatly

arranged for quick and clean explanation.
By 12 October 1982 Andre Haakmat (re-
member, formerly victimized by an "unholy
alliance") is now "the strongly pro-US for-
mer deputy premier"; mention of the "sui-
cide" of Maj. Horb (remember, an original
"progressive") is accompanied by a charac-
terization of Horb as "a focus for anti-com-
munists. .[who] had close ties with ousted
President Henk Chin-A-Sen and other pro-
US figures."
But enough of this and to the point: The
frightful aspect of LARRC's coverage of
events in Suriname is not its obvious "left-
ist" bias (it is entitled to its opinion) but
rather its consistent disdain and lack of re-
spect for the Surinamese people, their cul-
ture, institutions, indeed their individual and
collective intelligence. In its single-(and
simple-) minded search of, to use their own
language, "Uncle Sam under Bouterse's
bed" (cf. LARRC, 5 November 1982), it
overlooked the fact that the Surinamese
were an educated and sophisticated people
who had governed themselves relatively
peacefully and democratically until 1980.
They had, as Edward Dew noted in The
Difficult Flowering of Suriname (1978),
reached a delicate but promising form of
"close, cross-ethnic political collaboration."
Dutch sociologist Frank Bovenkerk has
remarked that Suriname just might have
more intellectuals per capital than any other
third world country. This fact alone should
caution us against facile conspiratorial ex-
planations of ideas and actions. When we
add to this the multiethnicity, the genera-
tional clash of return migrants, the highly
organized and mobilized groups (guaran-
teed a voice through a sophisticated pro-
portional representation electoral system)
we have a heady and conflict-prone prod-
uct. But we all know that the mix doesn't
end there: there is altruism as well as
human greed, disinterestedness as well as
power-hunger, heroism as well as perfidy
and cowardice. There is also Great Power
and Small Power imperialism. All these tend
to come packaged in "left" or "right" wrap-
pings. That wrapping is called ideology and
on that score I commend Mr. Prince's atten-
tion to the letter from Professors Wilson
and Cowell.

Associate Editor Anthony P Maingot is pro-
fessor of sociology and anthropology at Flor-
ida International University. During 1982-83 he
served as president of the Caribbean Studies
Association.

CAIBBEAN IJVIEW/5

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Behind the Lines

Life in the Guerrilla Camps in El Salvador
By Mark Fazlollah

ach time the hammock swayed, a
faint rustling broke the silence of the
night that wrapped Manuel's home. It
was only when the oil lamp flared with the
wind that the rats could be seen scurrying
on the beams above. Every darkened
corner of the room rippled as more and
more rats crawled up from the ground to
escape the torrential rain, already seeping
through the cracks in the wood walls.
There were no rats in the other room. It
was lit by candles and the rodents were
frightened by people shuffling past a table
supporting the bodies of two tiny girls. A
sobbing woman used her shawl to cover a
third child on a bed a few feet from the table.
The boy retched uncontrollably with his
knees pulled up to his chest.
The children had been playing outside
when the crop-duster sprayed insecticide
on the cotton field near their homes outside
the hamlet of Zamoran, El Salvador. Maybe
the children had been playing too close to
the field, or perhaps itwas the pilot's fault for
flying too near to their house. But by eve-
ning, the girls were dead. The boy stopped
moving before dawn.
It was the the girls' mother who sang the
first phrases of the death song. The hymn
has been repeated thousands of times in El
Salvador, where infant mortality is nearly
five times as high as in the United States.
The second time his wife sang the verse,
Manuel was briefly able to join her with a
soft, but beautifully clear tenor voice. "It's
four in the morning and you'll never return
again," they sang. But then Manuel's eyes
closed. He covered his face with a leathery
hand. "I can't sing," he gagged. It was more
of a gasp of rage than a sob. He pushed past
his wife and stumbled into the rain, sloshing
toward the sagging barbed wire that divided
the yard from the field. There was no way to
tell what thoughts passed through Manuel's
mind, but he was staring north in the direc-
tion of the base camp of leftist guerrillas
who freely roam the area around Zamor6n.

Journalist Mark Fazlollah has covered Mexico
and Central America for UPI and The Daily
Telegraph of London during the past two
years.

The Pacific coastal agricultural plain
seems as fertile for rebel recruitment as it is
for the cotton that for decades has sup-
ported the luxuries of the city dwellers. Most
of the deaths around Zamoran weren't from
combat. Some people were killed by insec-
ticides, and many children withered into un-
consciousness when chronic malnutrition
was combined with stomach infections
caused by drinking filthy water. Even before
the civil war, life expectancy was 15 years
shorter for Salvadorans than for Americans.
Death generally comes much sooner in El
Salvador's rural areas. Doctors and medi-
cine are concentrated in the cities.
The death rate merely reflects the poverty.
In the isolated areas where rebels first built
their bases, the peasant diet usually con-
sists of corn tortillas and salt. Beans could
provide iron, but peasants never were told
what they should eat. Meat is an unafford-
able luxury in many areas. Peasants don't
read about nutrition, of course. US State
Department figures show 70 percent of the
Salvadorans living in rural areas are illite-
rate, and the rate approaches 100 percent
in some hamlets. Guatemala is the only
Central American nation with illiteracy as
high as El Salvador.

Politicized Villagers
Union activists who came to Zamoran in the
early 1970s to organize the cotton pickers
helped politicize villagers. And the rightist
death squads who dragged peasant leaders
from their homes at night probably did
more to convince people to choose sides.
By 1979, rebel guns were flowing into
western Usulutan, a province the US Em-
bassy says will be one of the pivotal points
of the war. Rebels repeatedly denied Wash-
ington's contention that the weapons came
from Cuba and that guerrilla commanders
are trained on the communist island. But
one leader coyly noted that, "An adulterous
wife will continue to deny her infidelity even
after she has been caught by her husband."
Though the source of the weapons may be
debatable, it's clear there are plenty of guns
in the rebel-controlled countryside. At guer-
rilla camps about seven miles from Zam-
oran, some 500 insurgents carry modern

European and US-made automatic rifles.
Thousands of villagers have fled from the
50-square-mile guerrilla-controlled area
around Zamoran. Those who stay are not
necessarily rebel supporters. They simply
"don't have anywhere else to go," as one
widowed mother of four said. Most guer-
rillas in the area are peasants from the same
region. Like most of their neighbors, they
often are illiterate and have to call for help
from friends if they need to spell their
names. Most of them have never seen a
world map and wouldn't know Moscow
from Timbukto.
For many, there are concrete reasons for
supporting the guerrilla movement. Some
tell horror stories of their family members
being slain by government soldiers. Guad-
alupe, well into her 50s, stirred a huge kettle
on an open fire as she recalled how national
guardsmen killed her sister two years ago.
"I've got no one else," she said, explaining
why she came to work in one of the rebel
camps that dot Usulutan. In the rebel camp,
a cluster of lean-to huts perched on the side
of a hill overlooking the coastal agricultural
plain, Guadalupe always has food and
plenty of people to talk with.
The Usulut6n rebel camps are similar to
guerrilla bases scattered across the Central
American nation, where 6,000 to 8,000
fighters are backed up by thousands of
pistol-toting peasant sympathizers who are
integrated into the regular forces as weap-
ons become available. "Every time we cap-
ture a rifle, we add one more fighter to the
ranks," said Orlando Rivera, one of the local
commanders from the Popular Liberation
Forces. Rivera's dogmatically Marxist group
is on the far left of the rebel coalition.
Gabriel, a Liberation Forces guerrilla,
came from the Usulutan farm town of Jiqui-
lisco. His wife was picked up by local police
in 1980 and never seen again. His youngest
children stayed with relatives when he
moved to the rebel camp, but Gabriel's 13-
year-old boy came with him to the hills be-
cause police were also looking for the
youth. Young Gabriel stared at his dirty
home-made sandals while his father de-
tailed the mother's disappearance. Asked
what he would be doing in a few years, the

CAFBBEAN I VIEW/7

youngster immediately responded, "I'm
going to be a guerrilla."
In a rarely frank speech last year that ap-
parently put him at odds with State Depart-
ment hawks, US Ambassador Deane
Hinton said 30,000 civilians had been
"murdered" in the civil war. He said right-
wing "gorillas" were as much a threat as
the leftist guerrillas.
The rebels obviously are killers. Some of
them have been fighting for nearly a dec-
ade, though most only have two or three
years experience. They readily admit they
have killed many "ears," people they accuse
of giving information to the army. The na-
ture of guerrilla warfare requires that rebels
maintain support among civilians, whose
silence can make the difference between
life and death for the insurgents.
All four rebel organizations in western
Usulutan conduct regular political moti-
vation sessions for their fighters, cautioning
them to maintain good relations with peas-
ants. Rebel leaders say they have killed
members of their own forces because they
robbed local residents.
Army commanders are as aware as the
guerrilla leaders of Mao Tse-tung's quote
that the people act as water, allowing the
rebels to swim freely like fish. The guerrillas
must build support with the peasants, and
the army at times tries to get rid of the water.
The hamlet of La Quesera, a 10-hour
walk from Zamoran into the steep foothills
of Usulutan Volcano, was hit by an army
offensive in October 1981. Several men
and women, who openly admitted they sup-
ported the rebels, accounted for 31 resi-
dents allegedly killed by soldiers.
Ana rocked her frail baby in the ham-
mock strung across her one-room wood
shack. She spoke softly of how her nine-
year-old son was shot in the head by sol-
diers, who she said had fired on her family
and other peasants trying to escape from
La Quesera. "He didn't have a face," she
said, showing no emotion as she recalled
finding the boy's body after the soldiers left.
The Liberation Forces during the past
year have made La Quesera one of their
model politicized towns, operating schools
for children who learn rudimentary guer-
rilla philosophy. The children's spelling
lessons include words such as "enemy"
and "massacre."
The war touches everyone in the rebel
territory. At a guerrilla-organized dance, one
of the leaders of a Liberation Forces com-
mando unit called on peasants to join the
insurgency. "All people must participate.
Parents must bring their children over 12
years of age to turn them over" for guerrilla
training, he hollered to the peasants. The
villagers seemed to put up with the rhetoric
mainly because it soon was to be followed
by festivities, the only thing other than com-
bat that could break the daily monotony.
The Liberation Forces' tactic of politiciz-

ing "the masses" stems from its basic phi-
losophy that the Salvadoran revolution will
be a Vietnam-style prolonged war. Exotic
political rhetoric and philosophy play a less
important role in the Usulutan camps of the
other rebel groups, the People's Revolution-
ary Army, the Central American Workers
Party and National Resistance Armed
Forces. The communist party's tiny rebel
organization is the only group that is not
operating a base in the area. The five
groups make up the rebel coalition, the
Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front.
All the groups have geared up for a long
war. One of their most noticeable advances
in the past year has been the increase in
territory, about doubling the area they con-
trol. And there are smaller advances, but still
important. All the fighters now have boots.
At the beginning of 1982, at least half of
them were wearing tattered tennis shoes.
In a lean-to built from tree branches, a
Revolutionary Workers militiaman and his
father used two ancient Singer foot-
powered sewing machines to produce uni-
forms and back packs for the guerrilla
forces. Cloth is either stolen in rebel raids or
purchased from merchants who are willing
to do business without asking questions.
Part of the money for the cloth and boots
comes from a guerrilla extortion scheme to
shake down farm owners, a program that
has been going on for at least two years in
the lush cotton belt. Pablo, a Revolutionary
Workers commander, said his group re-
ceived "contributions" in excess of several
hundred dollars a year from some owners,
but he would not disclose the total amount
the rebels were receiving.
One of the Revolutionary Workers' pla-
toon commanders was more forthcoming.
He said farmers must give about half of their
earnings to the rebels, and if they cannot
pay, they are required to turn over basic
grain to feed the guerrillas. Three Usulutan
farmers said the only way they could main-
tain production was to pay the rebels and
allow guerrillas to operate a small combat
base in one of the empty buildings on their
farm. In return for the payments, the guer-
rillas avoided fighting near the farm, only a
half mile from the coastal highway and its
army patrol post.
The money from the farmers also is used
to purchase weapons, many of them report-
edly coming directly from corrupt army of-
ficers who net a premium price for the guns
they sell to the rebels. Several members of a
rebel band that stopped cars on an eastern
highway carried German G-3 automatic ri-
fles, each with a blue-and-white Salvadoran
army insignia still stuck on the gun butt.
If weapons can't be bought or captured,
they can easily be made. A group of peas-
ants and rebels worked for days to unearth a
500-pound aerial bomb that failed to deto-
nate when it slammed into the side of a hill,
burying itself about 10 feet deep. Undeto-

nated bombs are quickly dismantled and
the explosives are used by the insurgents to
destroy bridges and utility towers. A simple
but effective explosive for land mines is
made from a mixture of fertilizer and alumi-
num powder. The rebels produce Claymore
anti-personnel mines of Vietnam fame for
less than $5.00.
But while concentrating on building a
war machine, the guerrillas have neglected
basic human necessities, such as health
care. Money that was donated to the left for
medicine has been used instead for weap-
ons, a rebel spokesman in Mexico City ad-
mitted. Miguel, a Mexican doctor who
volunteered to aid the guerrillas after he
graduated from the university, bit his lip as
he overlooked the corpse of a 17-year-old
fighter. Cesar died because there was little
medicine in the rebel camp and there were
only crude surgical instruments to probe for
a bullet that hit the young guerrilla in the hip
and ripped into his bladder. "He shouldn't
have died," the tired, bearded doctor said,
almost wincing as he recalled the six days of
agony the youth suffered because there was
little anaesthetic. The flies buzzed over the
body in the open-air hospital, equipped
mainly with home-made elixirs for athlete's
foot and stomach parasites.
Miguel took the place of Belgian medical
student Jonathan Tempestad, who aided
the rebels for nearly a year before he re-
turned to Europe. There always seem to be
a few foreigners mingling with the rebels,
undoubtedly including some Nicaraguans.
One guerrilla boastfully blurted out that,
"We've got a Nicaraguan internationalist
this time," apparently unaware that he was
not supposed to say anything to confirm
the government's charge that guerrillas get
outside help. But the notoriety that rebels
give to any foreigner who joins their ranks
belies the accusation of massive interven-
tion by non-Salvadorans.

Guerrilla Expansion
The Salvadoran guerrillas appear capable
of carrying on the war with little outside
help. Most military analysts concede they
have expanded their territory over the past
year. By increasing their control on the
countryside, they are able to extort money
from more farms.
On the other hand, the government is
becoming less able to support itself. As the
economy weakens with every guerrilla sab-
otage action, the nation becomes in-
creasingly dependent on foreign as-
sistance. The tiny country where President
Reagan thought it would be so simple
to draw the line against a communist-in-
spired peasant revolt has proven so terribly
complex. All the solutions seem to raise
more problems; all the answers bring new
questions. US aid has failed to stop the reb-
els. And while Washington pumps money
into El Salvador, neighboring countries

8/CAI?BBEAN revieW

say American assistance is falling short
of meeting their needs to maintain
internal stability.
Ambassador Hinton has said he expects
Salvadoran leftists will participate in presi-
dential elections, set for December. But he
has not stated how exiled opposition lead-
ers can be convinced to return to their
homeland as candidates. When death
squads go on the rampage, low-level mod-
erates are the ones most frequently killed
because the leftists have fled the country or
know how to protect themselves. Liberal US
congressmen have repeatedly called for ne-
gotiations to end the war. But peace talks
will not quickly solve problems that have
been in the making for decades. If a prelimi-
nary dialogue could start, it could easily
break down in Vietnam-style bickering over
the shape of the negotiating table in Paris.
The alternative to negotiations is a mili-
tary victory by one of the warring factions.
Even the guerrillas concede the govern-
ment might win the war if it adopted some
rebel tactics and was able to fulfill some of
the insurgents' promises of reform.
The most important physical possession
of a peasant is his plot of land. Mexico
cooled the fires of its 1910 revolution by
implementing agrarian reforms that even-
tually parceled out land to some 2.5 million
families. The subdivision of land some-
times was disastrous for production, but
there was no resurgence of Latin America's
bloodiest civil war. "Once a peasant has his
land, he becomes part of the petty bour-
geoisie," a rebel leader said, explaining that
villagers become conservative when they
have something to conserve.
One reason the Salvadoran land reform
program failed to take away the guerrillas'
support was because peasants were not
protected after they received their land. A
report prepared for the US AID program in
El Salvador this year noted that rebels regu-
larly extract "war tax" from agrarian reform
cooperative farms in some areas. If the
peasants on the cooperatives were pro-
tected and could receive their share of prof-
its that currently are being stolen by
guerrillas, the already weak support for the
rebels might crumble.
The Salvadoran army is in the process of
implementing a plan for Vietnam-style
"strategic villages," which supposedly will
provide the necessary protection for farm-
ers. But the program could degenerate into
a bloodbath like that experienced during
Guatemala's most recent anti-insurgency
campaign, in which peasants sympathizing
with the left were simply exterminated.
The deep wounds of the Salvadoran civil
war can be healed. Maybe Guatemala offers
one good example of how to resolve a vio-
lent conflict. The Coca-Cola distributorship
in Guatemala from 1976 to 1980 was the
site of one of the bitterest labor conflicts the
nation had experienced. Dozens of union

organizers were killed and workers retali-
ated by gunning down their bosses. Suc-
cessful international pressure forced the
American owner to sell his interest in the
company. The current owners, industrialists
from the wealthy Castillo family, jacked up
wages and paid indemnification to the fam-
ilies of slain labor leaders. The company
now runs smoothly, without strike threats.
The lesson is that money can heal some of
the deepest scars.
In El Salvador, with a per capital income of
less than $600, it takes relatively little to
improve the standard of life for peasants
and laborers. The Salvadoran government
for years used terror to keep unions and
peasant organizations in line. But the tactic
has proven counterproductive. Now it must
try something else.
Reforms cost money, and nearly $1 bil-
lion of US aid to El Salvador has failed to
solve the problems. Congress, reflecting
the attitude of the US public, is skeptical
about any call for increased funding for El
Salvador. Americans will not support an in-
crease in assistance unless they believe
they are supporting a just government, and
El Salvador has a long way to go before it
can fill that requirement. D

Photos by the author. Page six: Guerrilla member of the Central
American Revolutionary Workers Party. Page nine, top: Guer-
rillas resting on a coffin. Center: A rebel platoon. Bottom:
Usulutan province company leader of the National Resistance
Armed Forces plans strategy on tourist map.

CAI BBEAN JreVIe/9

What Happened in

Ocho Rios

Last Chance for CARICOM?

By Mirlande Hippolyte-Manigat

From 15 to 18 November 1982, the 12
members of CARICOM and the
Bahamas met in Ocho Rios, Ja-
maica. It was the third heads of government
meeting since the signing, in July 1973, of
the Treaty of Chaguaramas establishing the
Caribbean Community. Previously planned
as a July 1982 meeting in Georgetown, it
had been canceled because certain leaders
were reluctant to travel to the Guyanese
capital in view of criticism of the Burnham
government for its violations of human
rights and public liberties. Moreover, many
thought it untimely to gather in Georgetown
after the termination of the Port of Spain
Agreement in June 1982 thus giving the
impression that they were openly support-
ing all Guyanese claims in its dispute with
Venezuela about the Essequibo. According
to rumors, the meeting was to be held in the
Essequibo itself. That prompted the St. Lu-
cian government to issue a communique
that "the presence of the heads of govern-
ment in the territory in dispute could be
interpreted more as a show of political force
than as a clear demonstration, from the part
of the CARICOM governments, of their will
to help, through diplomatic mechanisms in
the solution of the conflict between Guyana
and Venezuela."
Seven years lapsed without a meeting.
This abstention was striking evidence of the
crisis in CARICOM. The heads of govern-
ment conference is not a political gathering
as for instance, the "European Summit"
which meets three times a year and which
gives the political impulse to the commu-
nity activities without being, strict sensu,
an organ of the integration framework es-
tablished by the Treaty of Rome. The heads
of government as a body form the supreme
organ of CARICOM, the only one entitled to
make important decisions.
Indeed, the very fact that the CARICOM
leaders agreed to call a meeting at all was a

Mirlande Hippolyte-Manigat teaches Interna-
tional Relations at the Universidad Sim6n
Bolivar in Caracas. Her book, Haiti and the
Caribbean Community, was published by the
Institute of Social and Economic Research at
the University of the West Indies in 1980.

major event which attracted attention that
normally it would not have. The meeting
also attracted attention because on its
highly publicized agenda were such topics
as the US Caribbean Basin Initiative and the
Adams proposal to amend the Cha-
guaramas Treaty to hold member countries
accountable for violations of human rights
and parliamentary democracy. Moreover,
for many heads of government (the prime
ministers of Trinidad and Tobago, Domin-
ica, Grenada, Jamaica, Barbados) a CAR-
ICOM heads of government meeting was a
brand new experience. With the death of
Eric Williams who had been for 25 years the
undisputed leader of the English-speaking
Caribbean, and with the coming to power of
this new generation of politicians, the meet-
ing gave the new leaders their first oppor-
tunity to get together and test their relative
influence. Finally, international attention
was focused on the meeting because the
Caribbean as a region has been raised from
a situation of passive to that of active actor,
stemming from both its geo-strategic posi-
tion and its new ideological and political
importance in the East-West encounter.
The third heads of government meeting
was thus the major event in November.
After the event, all the Caribbean leaders
loudly expressed satisfaction that cannot be
fully explained by the results of the con-
ference. Indeed, one is puzzled by the una-
nimity of praise from the participants. For
the secretary general, Kurleigh King, the
conference was an "unqualified success";
echoing him, the prime minister of Trin-
idad, Georges Chambers, deemed the
meeting "gruelling but very successful, not
only valuable,...but an extremely important
one." But one gets the impression that such
praise does not square with the actual out-
come. it voiced, at worst, a strong relief, at
best, a forced enthusiasm. Two specific is-
sues particularly reflect this.

Commercial Mechanisms
CARIFTA, and then CARICOM, were created
on the assumption that the suppression of
customs barriers among the member
countries and the harmonization of the fis-

cal policies vis-a-vis the external world
would promote the continuous develop-
ment of the intra-regional exchanges. And
this result would serve as an incentive to
organized and specialized regional produc-
tion. Some associate institutions were
therefore created and provisions made par-
allel to the general Common Market Mech-
anisms to develop functional cooperation
among the participants in the economic
area (transport, banking, joint ventures), in
the social sphere (health, education) and, in
the political field (harmonization of foreign
policy, for example). But the backbone of
the integration framework, the first link of
the chain of cooperation, was trade. To pro-
mote trade a series of agreements were
signed and progressively implemented
(Common External Tariff, Agricultural Mar-
keting Protocol, Reserved List, Rules of Ori-
gins, Oil and Fats Agreement, etc.).
The initial implementation of the Free
Trade Area need be considered a success.
Contrary to other regional institutions (in-
cluding the European Common Market)
which have adopted the progressive re-
moval of customs barriers and a gradual
phasing in of a free trade area, 90 percent of
intra-Caribbean trade was free of import du-
ties and quantitative restrictions from the
very beginning. Consequently, the total
value of intra-regional imports which was of
the order of US $35.5 million in 1968
amounted to US $247.3 million in 1974, an
increase of 700 percent. Within the struc-
ture of the global imports, the intra-CAR-
IFTA section accounted for four percent in
1968,7.19 percentin 1974, eight percent in
1975, 8.12 percent in 1979 and 7.85 per-
cent in 1980. After having triggered off a
natural process of increase stimulated by-
the suppression of customs barriers, the Car-
ibbean mechanisms did not, however,
succeed in changing the pattems and the
orientation of commercial relations of the
member countries. These relations remain
heavily dependent on external sources of
supply and outlets, principally those of
North America and Europe. Following a
neo-classical analysis of Third World inte-
gration, these relations have not been trade-
creating as much as they have maintained

10/CAIBBEAN rT IEW

the previous system of trade-dividing. The
process of freeing up trade has mainly ben-
efitted the most powerful countries of the
region. This result is not, in fact, surprising;
for a free trade area to be successful among
unequal partners, it presupposes not the
free play of the market forces, but the inter-
vention of a supra-national authority capa-
ble of dividing trade production and trade
distribution among the participants. Short
of these mechanisms, the fruits of new rules
are normally proportional to the capacity for
production and commerce of the mem-
bers. Technically, there is no loss of oppor-
tunity for the poorer countries, but rather
there is a lack of equity in the sharing of the
increased resources that the system is sup-
posed to bring.
Had the area covered by CARICOM been
integrated into a single unit state, there
would not have been less inequality be-
tween the respective capacity of production

and sale of the region named Trinidad and
the region named St. Lucia, inequality
stemming from their unequal natural and
contemporary economic status. Rather
there would be greater equality in the shar-
ing of national revenues by virtue of a dis-
tributive policy necessary for preservation
of national equilibrium. For this reason the
newly created Organization of Eastern Car-
ibbean States is calling for a quota system
to give exports from their seven members
preferential treatment, via a guaranteed
market they would not be able to obtain in
the free trading system of the present
arrangement.
But it is not there that the main problem
lies. Were the richer members of CARICOM,
the MDCs, to apply special dispositions of
the Treaty favorable to the LDCs, at the risk
of a voluntary lessening of their own reve-
nues, the economic and commercial polar-
ization between the two groups would not

disappear, although the adverse effects of
this polarization on the general welfare of
the people would be reduced.

The Real Problem
The essential problem is that the Customs
Union itself does not function properly even
among the MDCs, and that, consequently,
the Caribbean market as a whole is ill-pro-
tected. In 1975, a World Bank report went as
far as labelling CARICOM "a disguised free
trade area" where different national quota
regimes were operating. Experts observing
the implementation of the Customs Union
mechanisms noted that items incorporated
in the Exemption List were not treated uni-
formly. As a consequence, regional busi-
ness could sell within the free trade area
manufactured goods in which there was no
regional value added. Because of the evi-
dent shortcomings, not only of the Com-
mon Market Treaty but of its implementa-

CA_?BBEAN VIEW/ 11

03,t;M 14x D^ ^U&AIuA rowpi;Ar

tion, and because of the absence of efficient
mechanisms controlling the strict obser-
vance of its dispositions of the CARICOM
members, we have come to this ill-regu-
lated situation where each country has in-
terpreted its commitments according to its
own interests, introducing deleterious com-
mercial practices aimed at getting more
from the system than it is putting into it.
CARICOM garment manufacturers, as a
group the second largest single employer
in the area after the sugar industry, and a
very significant employer of female labor,
are worried about competition from illegal
garment imports. Through the Caribbean
Association of Industry and Commerce
(CAIC) they are calling for a two year ban on
virtually all clothes from outside the region.
Misuse and inadequate policing of the CAR-
ICOM rules of origin and misuse of import
licenses by garment vendors, has lead to an
almost uncontrolled "suitcase trade." The
garments are imported, relabelled, and re-
exported to CARICOM countries, under the
preferential arrangements for locally-made
products. The manufacturers claim they are
facing "a crisis of survival."
On 28 October 1982, the Trinidad and
Tobago Manufacturers Association presi-
dent, Bruno Rivas, denounced the trade re-
strictions in the CARICOM markets and said
that his association was thinking of calling
on the government to close off the local
market if the trend continued. During the
Ocho Rios Conference, Prime Minister
Chambers himself denounced the exclu-
sion of Trinidad's products from regional
markets and the abuse of the Treaty provi-
sions regarding goods exported to Trinidad
in violation of the agreed rules of origin. He
called for a review of the articles in the Treaty
dealing with import restrictions, industries
and trade practices, and special recom-
mendations to deal with rules of origin and
certifying countries who violate the rules.
For his part, the prime minister of Bar-
bados, Tom Adams, had warned, during the
same venue, his Trinidad counterpart that
instant action would be taken "if Barbados
is notified of any breach of the CARIFTA
rules of origin governing trade in the Com-
mon Market on the part of Trinidad and
Tobago manufacturers." Referring to what
he called "phony manufacturers," he
stressed that Barbados was absolutely and
resolutely against import and export whole-
salers posing as manufacturers.
Faced with this global situation of collec-
tive dissatisfaction and individual com-
plaints, the CARICOM Summit was unable
to adopt appropriate measures to correct
the existing shortcomings in the mecha-
nisms of application of the Free Trade Area
rules. The final comminiqu6 simply urged
the members to remove completely, by the
end of 1983, all quantitative restrictions im-
posed on intra-regional trade and to "give
priority to regionally produced goods of

comparable quality over similar goods from
third countries." At its last meeting held in
Georgetown in January 1983, the CAR-
ICOM council of ministers ordered a full
scale inquiry of the situation, with special
attention to the garment industry, before
making any binding decision on its future
development. It is obvious that neither the
heads of government nor the council of
ministers have been able to cope with the
deleterious situation. They neither sanction
the non-observance of the Treaty nor can
they prevent future breaches.

Misuse and inadequate
policing of the CARICOM
rules of origin and misuse
of import licenses, by
garment vendors, has lead
to an almost uncontrolled
"suitcase trade."

The Jamaican Challenge
In this already tense context, Jamaica de-
cided, on 4 January 1983, to introduce a
parallel exchange rate, a two-tiered ex-
change system. Under the new monetary
system, the Jamaican dollar remains tied to
the US dollar at 1.78, but only for vital im-
ports such as basic foods, medicines, gov-
ernment payments and imports used for
export production. Other imports, includ-
ing those from CARICOM, will be at higher
parallel market rates. In addition, Jamaica
has also introduced a foreign exchange
quota system applicable both to CARICOM
as well as non-CARICOM imports, thereby
jeopardizing the principle of trade prefer-
ence on which the common market is
based.
These measures aroused what the Ja-
maican Daily Gleaner called the "gather-
ing storm of our Caribbean partners." All
the governments reacted negatively. By the
Trinidad and Tobago Manufacturers' Asso-
ciation estimates, Trinidad manufactured
goods will be 60 percent more expensive
for Jamaican consumers. Barbados expor-
ters guessed that their exports would rise by
50 percent in price. The new measures will
work against CARICOM goods for they will
render them less competitive.
Once again, Jamaica had become the
CARICOM bad guy. The newspapers called
back to the surface the old slogan of "Ja-
maica first" in the name of which the coun-
try broke with its partners to go for
independence on an individual basis
provoking the demise of the Federation of
the West Indies. Some years ago, facing
similar problems of balance of payments,

Jamaica had also acted in the same selfish
way, disregarding its obligations as a party
to the Common Market Treaty. On 12 Octo-
ber 1975, Jamaica extended to CARICOM
imports the same licensing system which
had been operating for all other imports
since January 1974. By so doing, they had
put an end to the privileged treatment that
regional goods were enjoying. These mea-
sures provoked a crisis in CARICOM, not
only because of the adverse effects on the
volume of the imports and in some national
sectors of production, as for example, the
garment industry in Barbados and Trinidad,
with a great impact on employment; but
also because of the retaliatory measures
adopted by Prime Minister Eric Williams.
Williams announced, on 26 October 1977
that Trinidad's new CARICOM policy would
no longer be based on patience, unrecipro-
cal generosity and unilateral understand-
ing, but on what has since become known
as the "tit-for-tat policy."
The same kind of situation is breeding
again. From many quarters, people are call-
ing for retaliatory measures against what is
termed Jamaican obstructionism. On 25
February 1983 the Barbados Central Bank,
in what it described as a "defensive" move
designed to remove some of the disadvan-
tages faced because of the Jamaican deci-
sion, instituted a floating exchange rate for
the Jamaican dollar vis-a-vis the Barbadian
dollar. The Jamaican Central Bank criti-
cized the action as being "discriminatory"
and questioned its legality. But, in an effort
to appease its partners' fears, the Jamaican
government, the day after, issued a state-
mentwhich, afterjustifying the measures by
the economic catastrophe that the country
had experienced throughout the '70s, gave
evidence that the non-oil imports from
CARICOM more than doubled from 1977 to
1982, passing from US $33.10 million to
US $67 million. In addition, it stressed, "the
commodities which under the new system
will enjoy the official rather than the parallel
rate of exchange, account for approx-
imately 60 percent: it is therefore wrong to
assume that all CARICOM imports have
been put on the parallel market, when in
fact, only 40 percent are affected." Pointing
to the fact that if the Jamaican dollar had
been devalued, the situation would have
been worse, given that Jamaica is the main
CARICOM trader, the statement went on to
remind Jamaica's partners that they had
great interest in supporting Jamaica in its
"herculean task" of recovery.
Whatever the outcome of this new diffi-
culty, it illustrates the deficiencies of the
Treaty of Chaguaramas which does not pro-
vide for the necessary corrective measures.
The fact of the matter is that the Jamaican
decision was not in keeping with the spirit of
the Treaty; however, it did not breach any
legal disposition. Although there exists a
Standing Committee on Finances, it plays

12/CAIBBEAN P TIVE

more of a coordinating rather than a regula-
tory role. As stressed by the Jamaican gov-
emment, changing the foreign exchange
rate is an act of sovereignty. It is therefore
wrong to accuse Jamaica of having violated
the principles of financial cooperation.
Within the CARICOM framework, as it now
exists, there is nothing akin to the European
Monetary System which is compelling for
the member countries. However, the Jamai-
can attitude, irrespective of its legal justifica-
tion, paved the way for other initiatives of
the same kind.

Ideological Pluralism
Beyond any doubt, the problem of ideologi-
cal and political pluralism which now
characterizes the CARICOM area, both at
the national and the international level, was
the most important one in Ocho Rios. With-
out officially being a topic, it raised two ma-
jor questions. The first one is whether any
integration movement can support the cor-
rosive effects of ideological and political di-
versity, in the name of pluralism, without
altering its profile, its orientation, its mecha-
nisms of functioning, thereby putting in
jeopardy the results expected out of the ex-
perience. The second is whether the mem-
bers of any integration movement which
have previously based the endeavor on the
principles and the reality of relative homo-
geneity, must, can or are disposed to put up
with the "deviation" introduced by one or
some of them, and in the case that they do
not accept the new situation, what kind of
corrective measures can they deem appro-
priate to apply both in terms of sanction and
dissuasion?
Though an eventual incompatibility of
principle has never been properly assessed
and convincingly demonstrated, either for
the Caribbean or for other experiences of
integration, the European one included, the
first question raises the problem of the
structural and functional compatibility be-
tween pluralism and a certain type of inte-
gration process. In the context of the Ocho
Rios Conference, however, the second
question took precedence over the first, and
the matter was that of the acceptance, toler-
ance or rejection of diversity.
It must be stressed that the grounds for
pluralism were not recently introduced
within CARICOM with the triumph of the
Grenada revolution which has become its
paramount symbol. At least since the im-
plementation of cooperative socialism in
Guyana in 1970 and of democratic social-
ism in Jamaica in 1974, a progressive shift
from the relative homogeneity of indepen-
dence days has developed towards more
diversity in types of government, more vari-
ety in programs of economic development,
and more autonomy with regard to interna-
tional commitments.
But the changes which occurred in these
big CARICOM countries did not upset the

functioning of the institution. Guyanese and
Jamaican socialism lacked the doctrinal
"purity" and regional proselytising. One fact
which might be forgotten now illustrates
this general consensus: in 1972, under
CARIFTA patronage, the four independent
MDCs (Barbados, Jamaica, Guyana and
Trinidad) jointly recognized and established
diplomatic relations with Cuba, and in so
doing, challenged the ostracism that the US
had imposed on the island ten years before,
within and outside the OAS.
Thereafter, things changed. Guyana and

Referring to what he calls
"phony manufacturers,"
Adams stressed that
Barbados was absolutely
against import and export
wholesalers posing as
manufacturers.

Jamaica increased state participation in
their economic systems; such initiatives
burdened their national commitments.
Coupled with economic crises, they could
not meet their commitments to CARICOM.
Economic difficulties stemming from inter-
state economic pluralism, however, was not
technically incompatible with participation
in an integration movement.
A more striking shift at the international
level took place even before the Grenada
revolution. We witnessed a progressive bi-
polarization, within CARICOM, between a
moderate and even "conservative" sector
led by Trinidad and Barbados, and a "radi-
cal" one by Guyana and Jamaica. The con-
solidation at the northern and southern
frontiers of CARICOM of these two poles of
socialist attraction, more symbolic than
dangerous, had already modified the in-
stitution's profile. Greater heterogeneity
strained intra-regional relations, and placed
the whole process in a defensive position,
as far as individual strategies were
concerned.
In this already difficult context, the Gre-
nada revolution took place in March 1979. It
was rapidly given an importance and a pub-
licity which are not proportional to the size
of the island (as Fidel Castro put it, it was "a
great revolution in a small country"). Its im-
pact appeared to go beyond that of Guyana
and Jamaica. The new Grenadian ideology,
from the beginning, was more radical and
more militant and deserves comparison
with the East European or Cuban process
more than with its Caribbean precedents.
The revolution not only broke from the pat-
terns of the Westminster model, as far as

public liberties, human rights and demo-
cratic liberalism are concerned, but Gre-
nada appeared to be a consenting
beachhead for the expansion of Cuban-So-
viet strategy in the Caribbean.
Grenada's Caribbean partners tried first
to isolate the island at an individual diplo-
matic level. Dr. Williams never accepted the
new regime and, in November 1980, Bar-
bados withdrew its diplomatic representa-
tion in St. Georges. The small islands
appeared, Dominica and St. Lucia among
them, at first to have been attracted by Gre-
nada's example. The neglected LDC's were
suddenly brought to the forefront of Carib-
bean actuality, and had become a new po-
tential "triangle of socialist experience," an
evolution which was confirmed by the sign-
ing of the St. Georges Declaration, in July
1979 between Grenada, Dominica and St.
Lucia, by which the three countries affirmed
anti-imperialist convictions distinct from
the moderate attitude of the rest of CAR-
ICOM. But both Dominica and St. Lucia
returned to the moderate fold, the first by
the triumph in July 1980 of the Dominica
Freedom Party of Eugenia Charles, the sec-
ond by the return to power of John Comp-
ton in May 1982.
It is worth stressing that since the Gre-
nada revolution and after the "alarms"
caused by St. Lucia and Dominica, all elec-
tions organized in the Commonwealth Car-
ibbean have been won either by conserva-
tive or moderate parties. The elections
confirmed the strength of the democratic
model and contributed to isolating Grenada
within CARICOM as an "anomaly"; all the
more so after the electoral success of the
Jamaican Labour Party in November 1980.

The Adams Proposal
Tom Adams, prime minister of Barbados,
announced in July 1982, that at the forth-
coming CARICOM Conference he was
going to propose an amendment to the
Treaty of Chaguaramas to hold members
accountable for violations of human rights
and to ensure that principles of parliamen-
tary democracy are observed. Barbados se-
cured the support of Jamaica and
Dominica, and on the eve of the Ocho Rios
Conference, the major question was
whether this bold proposition would get the
backing of all the CARICOM members.
The adoption of an amendment requires
the unanimity of the members and one
could easily expect that Grenada would veto
it. Moreover, the publicity given to the pro-
ject jeopardized it giving members time to
make up their minds about the political
worthiness of raising such a question in the
context of along-expected conference tak-
ing place under an umbrella of fraternity.
Furthermore, Grenada cleverly played the
role of the defendant who did not want to be
victimized. Instead of challenging the pro-
posal, Prime Minister Bishop backed it fully,

CAl?BBEAN P1EIEW/13

and went as far as arguing that it was even
too bland. He proposed a list of other rights
to be enshrined in the Treaty; the right to a
job, to join a trade union, the right to elec-
tricity, running water, health care and re-
sponsible government leadership. Besides,
he stood firm on his principles and warned
that "no amount of outside pressure of any
form or type is going to force the people of
Grenada to speed up their agenda for elec-
tions." He further challenged: "Grenada will
never again see Westminster parliamentary
elections. That is dead in our country." He
made no apology for the fact that there were
political detainees in Grenada, saying that
every revolution creates dislocation." Fi-
nally, he claimed that Grenada was "the
most democratic country" in the Caribbean
area and proposed the creation of an inde-
pendent team to look at the record of all the
CARICOM members on the matter.
Actually, the conference did not discuss
the subject. According to inside accounts,
the intervention of Prime Minister Cham-
bers of Trinidad was decisive for avoiding
the topic. The Adams proposal was never
formally submitted as a part of the agenda.
Chambers declared upon his return to Trin-
idad that he got from Bishop the assurance
that he had laid out a timetable leading to a
referendum on a constitution and then to an
election-but an election according to Gre-
nada's own view on those matters. For
Chambers, it was important that "someone
had the capability of having conversations
with M. Bishop" with whom he raised the
question of "good neighborliness." It is evi-
dent that, instead of antagonizing the re-
gime he preferred to accept it, with the hope
to amend it.
The Ocho Rios Declaration only commit-
ted the heads of government to the political,
civil, economic, social and cultural rights of
the peoples of the region, in accordance
with the Universal Declaration of Human
Rights, the International Covenant on Civil
and Political Rights and the International
Covenant on Economic, Social and Cul-
tural Rights. Bishop could legitimately
claim success because he was able to avoid
the difficult situation in which he could have
been placed, had the amendment been
fully discussed and submitted to a vote. The
Trinidad Guardian, in its edition of
24 November, went as far as to say that
Bishop had "every reason to pat himself on
the back," for he had succeeded, it seemed,
"in fooling the heads of government about
his intentions and about his supposed time-
table for bringing democracy to Grenada."
But Adams too claimed victory, insisting
that the Grenada revolution had been de-
feated by three principal factors: its accep-
tance of the principles of human rights; the
release (timely done during the conference)
of 28 detainees, and its stated commitment
to social, political, economic and cultural
rights. Asked to comment on the satisfac-

tion expressed by Grenada, he declared: "It
is always possible, when you are engaged in
a battle, to retreat ten miles in one direction,
retreat 20 miles in another direction and
then 100 miles in a third direction, and say
that you have not been defeated."
Ideological and political pluralism have
been given official recognition as one of the
major problems affecting CARICOM. It is
difficult to anticipate in what direction
things will evolve. Short of extemal interven-
tion that, so far, the CARICOM leaders reject,
the Grenada revolution is heading towards
consolidating itself, asserting its ideological

Tom Adams was going to
propose an amendment to
hold members accountable
for violations of human
rights and to ensure
that the principles of
parliamentary democracy
are fully observed.

grounds, extending state control over every
sector of national life. At the international
level, only the United States strongly rejects
it: the Bishop government is enjoying not
only socialist support, in the name of inter-
nationalist solidarity, but also some kind of
help from countries like France and Vene-
zuela, in the name of respect for the ideo-
logical and political pluralism, and with the
belief that by isolating Grenada, one could
give her the reason for shifting completely
left, and for being definitely lost for the
moderate Western bloc.
For the moment, the CARICOM coun-
tries do not have any alternative but to deal
with Grenada. It appeared politically embar-
rassing to give the impression that they are
following the American path of ostracism,
to isolate totally the island and to engineer
any kind of movement aimed at overthrow-
ing it. But nor can they accept it totally, for its
character, orientation, principles and com-
mitments go against their own. Besides,
after the events in Suriname, a few days
after being granted, like Haiti, observer sta-
tus in four CARICOM standing committees
(Agriculture, Health, Education and La-
bour), they have every reason to question
the effectiveness of an attitude made up of
comprehension and tolerance.
One is therefore dealing with a situation
to which, in the short term, there is no satis-
factory outcome. And from the CARICOM
point of view, either the "surgical solution"
of amputating the supposedly ill member
from the body, or the blind attitude of toler-
ating Grenada, with or without the illusion of

amending it, are both damaging. In the first
instance because of the negative effect
such a decision would deserve, in the sec-
ond one because even though by its pres-
ence Grenada does not impinge on the
functioning of CARICOM, it will always be
seen as the stumbling block in explaining
the virtual political ineffectiveness into
which the institution has fallen.

Unfulfilled Expectations
And so, the long due CARICOM Summit
which was supposed to bring solution to the
many pending problems accumulated over
seven years did not fulfill expectations.
CARICOM was unable to solve the prob-
lems because, fundamentally, its existence
is not secure enough to give it the political
stamina necessary to tackle the technical
and political obstacles which block its
functioning.
CARICOM lacks the institutional strength
necessary to any integration movement. As
its secretary general put it in Ocho Rios, it
"cannot force any member state to do what
it does not want to do. CARICOM is not a
supranational organization. It concentrates
mainly on areas of cooperation." But, what
is more, CARICOM, in spite of its un-
authoritarian presence, is not credible, even
for its own members. There is in each terri-
tory a growing awareness of the specificity
of domestic interests and of the necessity to
give individual solutions to problems which
are still molded in a global situation of un-
derdevelopment and dependence charac-
teristic of the region.
The two strategies-autonomy ("go-it-
alone") and integration-have always per-
vaded Caribbean life, for the states always
had the possibility of, if not adopting one or
the other, at least determining the dynamic
relationship between them. When the
Federation of the West Indies was set up,
integration was considered a prerequisite to
independence; with CARIFTA then CAR-
ICOM, it appeared to be a support for na-
tional strategies. Now, in the midst of an
unprecedented crisis, the integration ap-
proach has entered the phase of serious
competition with the national approach,
and is placed in a defensive position.
It is doubtful, however, that the members
will adopt any decision aimed at putting an
end to the experience, in spite of the striking
evidence that the integration process is
dragging its feet and that no progress can
be expected in the near future. The likely
consequence of the conjunction of so
many impediments (among which the
shortcomings of the economic mecha-
nisms and the corrosive effects of the ideo-
logical and political pluralism are the most
important) is that, CARICOM, as a frame-
work for Caribbean unity, may well grow
obsolete, or fall into total disuse, a condition
which, for a regional institution, is worse
than a clear demise. O

14/CARBBEAN e viEW

The Battle Over The CBI

The Debate in Washington

By Richard E. Feinberg, Richard Newfarmer and Bernadette Orr

M ore than a year has passed -i.A
since President Reagan first
unveiled his plan for the
economic recovery of Central
America and the Caribbean, the
Caribbean Basin Initiative. In a
speech before the Organization of
American States on 24 February
1982, Reagan declared that eco-
nomic progress in the Caribbean
basin "was vital to the security inter-
ests of this nation and this hemi-
sphere." Reagan argued that eco-
nomic growth was a necessary
condition for democracy, and
warned that "economic disaster
has provided a fresh opening to the
enemies of freedom."
Since that first presentation of
the plan, the CBI has faced strong
criticism as well as praise in its long
and frustrating journey through
Congress. This spring, the new
98th Congress reopened debate on "Y
the economic and foreign policy ra-
tionale of the measure, its probable
impact both domestically and within the
beneficiary nations, and its merit at a time of
continued economic recession and high
unemployment here at home.
As originally proposed by the president,
the CBI was to have three legs-trade, in-
vestment, and concessional aid-to gener-
ate foreign exchange, create new employ-
ment, and raise production levels. In brief,
the CBI would:
1. Provide $350 million in supplemental
assistance to meet balance-of-payments
shortfalls in key countries, notably El Sal-
vador (which was scheduled to receive
$128 million).

Richard E. Feinberg is director of the Foreign
Policy Program at the Overseas Development
Council and author of The Intemperate Zone:
The Third World Challenge to US Foreign Pol-
icy. (W.W. Norton, 1983). Richard Newfarmer
is director of the Trade and Industrial Policy
Program at ODC and the editor of From Gun-
boats to Diplomacy: New U.S. Policies for Latin
America. (Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1984).
Bernadette Orr is a free-lance journalist.

you'll love it! Sunshine, good food, dancing, and a chance
o observe the Caribbean Basin Initiative at first hand."

2. Establish one-way, duty-free access to
US markets for Caribbean basin exports for
a 12-year period-the so-called Free Trade
Area.
3. Create an investment tax credit of 10
percent for US businesses investing in the
Caribbean basin.
Let us examine each component in
greater detail.

Economic Assistance
The administration proposed $350 million
in quick-disbursing funds to help Carib-
bean basin countries meet pressing bal-
ance-of-payments needs. Shortages of
foreign exchange are a major cause of the
profound economic crisis gripping the re-
gion. The cost of imported energy has risen,
whereas prices of such key commodities as
sugar, coffee, bauxite, and nickel have de-
clined. The drop in export prices in 1981
alone reduced the region's export earnings
by roughly $500 million. In addition, high
market interest rates have increased the
burden of a swollen foreign debt.
The aid portion of the CBI was the only

~- ---------------

CAIBBEAN P VIEW/15

measure to become law, after pass-
ing both houses in September
1982. It stirred controversy for sev-
eral reasons. First, the $350 million
amount provided less than 10 per-
cent of the external resources
needed to cover the region's bal-
E ance of payments shortfalls. Al-
though a substantial increase over
Sthe $474 million provided to the
m region in the FY1982 budget, the
SCBI supplemental nonetheless was
Sa small sum relative to the need-
Sor the aid levels of other donors.
SFor example, Venezuelan President
Luis Herrera Campins pointed out
I that his country's aid program for
@ the Caribbean provided an equiv-
Salent amount of money each year,
5 despite the much smaller size of
SVenezuela's GNP as compared to
Sthe US. Certainly, by itself, the sup-
plemental aid was insufficient to
*| stimulate strong, positive growth.
SMost Caribbean basin countries
experienced little or even negative
per capital income growth in 1982, and the
continuing disbursal of CBI monies in 1983
will not be able to halt the decline.
A second objection to the aid portion of
the bill was the emphasis on the Central
American countries: El Salvador alone was
scheduled to receive $128 million, or 37
percent of the total. Two other Central
American countries-Costa Rica ($70 mil-
lion) and Honduras ($35 million)-were
also to receive significant aid. Outside Cen-
tral America, only the Dominican Republic
($40 million) and Jamaica ($50 million),
were to be major beneficiaries. The evident
slant toward Central America prompted
human rights groups and congressional
critics of US policy to view the CBI as a
means of financing misconceived US se-
curity objectives, rather than as a true effort
to promote development The fact that the
proposed aid was for general balance of
payments support reinforced this impres-
sion. Aid that is slated for "development
projects," for example, in the agriculture or
health sectors, is more carefully pro-
grammed and monitored.

In its final version of the bill, therefore,
Congress made several adjustments.
Amounts were reallocated to give more rep-
resentation to smaller Caribbean countries
and to reduce controversial aid to El Sal-
vador (see Table 1). The House also re-
quired-and Secretary of State George
Schultz agreed-that 12.5 percent of the
total $350 million be spent for basic needs-
oriented projects. A Senate proposal to con-
vert the CBI from a bilateral to a multilateral
fund administered by the World Bank-
where development concerns would domi-
nate-passed the Foreign Relations Com-
mittee but was eliminated in the final bill.
The second and third components of the
CBI were never passed by the 97th Con-
gress, although a revised trade bill was ap-
proved by the House in late December.

The Free Trade Area
President Reagan heralded the FTA as the
"centerpiece" of the CBI. Indeed, trade liber-
alization is potentially the most important
development instrument at the disposal of
the administration. Development econo-
mists contend that trade is a much more
important stimulus to sustained growth
than development assistance. Coming at a
time of rising demands for protectionism,
the FTA is a positive step-albeit small-in
the direction of a more accessible US mar-
ket for developing countries.
The FTA, in reality, will affect only slightly
more than five percent of the region's total
exports to the US. As the president men-
tioned in his formal announcement of the
CBI before the Organization of American
States, 87 percent of the region's exports
into the US already enter duty free. These
exports include petroleum, products cov-
ered by the Generalized System of Prefer-
ences (GSP), and other goods, mainly
agricultural products not produced in
quantity in the US.
Whether the original or an amended ver-
sion of the FTA is adopted, it is certain that
some categories of goods that are now "du-
tiable" will not be granted free entry under
the CBI. These include textiles, products not
eligible for GSP because their value-added
in the CBI country of origin is too low, and
products not eligible for GSP because the
country exports more than is allowed under
the legislation (most of the category is
sugar exports). The exclusion of textiles
from the program is particularly lamentable
because this industry holds the greatest op-
portunity for expanding exports and cre-
ating jobs in the Caribbean.
The economic impact of the FTA upon
the region will depend on two things: How
much more US consumers buy of the im-
ported product because prices fall and
goods are cheaper and how much more
consumers buy of the imported product
from the region favored with a price advan-
tage and shift away from similar imported

goods produced elsewhere. The total
amount of new trade generated for the CBI
countries therefore depends upon how
high the original tariff was prior to cutting,
the responsiveness of consumers to
changes in prices, and the shift of con-
sumer purchases into CBI imports at the
expense of other imports.
Our study (Richard E. Feinberg and Rich-
ard Newfarmer, "The Caribbean Basin Ini-
tiative; Bold Plan or Empty Promise?" in
From Gunboats to Diplomacy: New
U.S. Policies for Latin America) of the
FTA revealed that the impact of eliminating
the tariffs would initially raise only about
$45-90 million in foreign exchange for the
beneficiary nations. The reason for this is
that for many of these products tariff levels
are not high, and consumers are not partic-
ularly responsive to price changes.
The new US demand created for imports
from the region will amount to only $23
million. But the region will also benefit from
consumers shifting from already imported
products to those imported from the region.
This response will vary widely. For un-
differentiated products where brand names
are unimportant, such as beef, handbags,
and scrap tobacco, the effect could be
large, limited only by the capacity of the
exporting countries to expand their produc-
tion. For other products, the effects are
likely to be somewhat less. Even relatively
large consumer shifts to CBI country prod-
ucts, however, would generate additional
exports of less than $100 million, or one
percent of the region's 1980 exports.
The FTA is only one element in the trade
package. A potentially more important
change, at least in the short run, was the
decision in May 1982 to impose worldwide
sugar quotas, a move which undermined
some of the beneficial effects the CBI was
intended to produce. The CBI had included
a provision for sugar quotas. However, the
quotas for the Caribbean's three principal
sugar producers-the Dominican Re-
public, Guatemala, and Panama-turned
out to be even lower than the amounts the
administration had originally proposed.
The Caribbean basin nations opposed
even the higher quota levels originally pro-
posed in the CBI, since this was the first
time the US had imposed quotas since
1974. Since sugar is one of the region's
major foreign exchange earners, the impact
of the restrictive quotas implemented in
May was severe. The Organization of Ameri-
can States estimated that total losses for
Latin America would be about $90 million
through the end of 1982. Many officials
from the sugar-producing Caribbean na-
tions expressed concern that the losses
from lower sugar exports would more than
offset the amount of supplemental aid to
their countries. Nonetheless, as part of the
political dealing over the 1982 budget cuts,
the administration bowed to the powerful

group of US sugar growers and levied the
new quotas, thereby supporting a higher
domestic sugar price. Their imposition sent
contradictory signals to friendly govern-
ments in the Caribbean, many of whom
questioned the sincerity and depth of the
administration's commitment to assisting
their economic growth. Said one Domin-
ican Republic diplomat, "You can be sure"
that the president lost some credibility in his
country. The $41 million in supplemental
aid "is certainly not enough to offset the
impact of the quotas."
The emphasis on the tariff-reducing as-
pects of the CBI obscured one key point: the
impact of all the proposed changes in trade
regulations would likely be much less than
that of renewed US domestic growth. An
acceleration in the US growth rate from zero
to three percent per year would probably
generate over $300 million in new export
earnings for the region. Or consider the
effects of lowered US interest rates. Debt
service not infrequently absorbs from 15
percent to 25 percent of export earnings of
CBI countries. If interest rates were to fall by
five percentage points on the debt of $5.4
billion dollars owed to private creditors (as
of 31 December 1980), interest payments
would be reduced by more than $250 mil-
lion. In the coming years, even if the CBI is
tremendously successful, economic
growth in the US based upon a sound mon-
etary and fiscal policy will probably have a
far greater impact on the region's welfare.
The FTA, then, provides an opportunity
for the region to increase in modest mea-
sure its domestic employment, export earn-
ings, and growth. Its impact could be
greater if it included freer trade in sugar,
textiles and other manufactured products.
For this to occur, the administration would
have to reverse its stand on trade adjust-
ment assistance, worker training, and other
legitimate trade concerns of domestic la-
bor. Without an appeal to labor, the CBI will
face a continuing tough battle, since during
1982 organized labor was the most virulent
and consistent opponent of the measure.
With the unemployment rate about 10
percent nationally and even more for indus-
tries and regions competing with low-wage
imports from the Caribbean, labor's reac-
tion to proposed trade liberalization is un-
derstandable. The administration cannot
hope to enlist the support of domestic labor
for freer trade in the very industry which
would benefit the region if it fails to aid
American workers to make the painful ad-
justment to alternative employment. In its
own statement on the CBI, the AFL-CIO
called for the entire trade and tax incentives
portion of the bill to "be sent back to the
drawing board." Labor has not changed its
position and in fact its strength in Congress
has grown as a result of the November 1982
elections, in which the Democrats gained
26 new seats. It remains to be seen whether

16/CAI?BBEAN REVIEW

S 00 200 300 400 500 Miles
0 200 40 6000 8Kilometers

Beneficiaries of the Caribbean Basin Initiative.

Copyright Linda Marston, 1983.

President Reagan's support for a jobs bill
will be able to defuse the strong protec-
tionist sentiments which the domestic re-
cession has provoked.

Investment Tax Credit
The third major component in the CBI pro-
posal was a five-year investment tax credit.
A US parent corporation may claim a credit
against its total tax liabilities for an amount
equal to 10 percent of new investment in
plant and equipment in Caribbean basin
countries. These incentives were coupled
with increased protection for foreign invest-
ment offered through the Overseas Private
Investment Corporation. The US private in-
surance sector was also encouraged to be-
come active in the Caribbean basin, to
reduce the risk associated with investment.
The US Treasury Department estimated
that the cost of the investment tax credit in
foregone tax revenues would be $40 mil-
lion. No one knows how much new invest-
ment would be generated by this $40
million. New investment is highly sensitive
to swings in the business cycle, changes in
the perception of risk, and changes in over-
all levels of profitability.
Studies of the US experience with do-
mestic tax credit, however, offer reason for
skepticism. Although this experience con-
tains no "substitution" effect, i.e., shifting
among regions in response to changes in
relative profitability, it does illustrate the un-
certainty of this instrument. According to a

recent study by the Office of Tax Analysis in
the Department of Treasury of the 1973
investment tax credit on new domestic in-
vestment, every dollar of tax expenditure
generated only 76 cents of new investment.
Using the 76 percent figure, an investment
tax credit in the CBI that costs the US Treas-
ury $40 million can be predicted to gener-
ate only $30 million of investment. This
may be even less in the case of a foreign tax
credit because of increased risks associated
with doing business abroad.
Although the exact estimate of the new
investment generated varies depending on
the assumptions, the relatively small
payback for tax expenditures can be traced
back to a central weakness of this instru-
ment: Much of the new investment would
occur anyway because business activity is
ongoing. Yet to get an additional invest-
ment, the Treasury has to include all inves-
tors in the tax credit. Thus, if US investors in
the region currently spend $400 million on
new plant and equipment, and an invest-
ment tax credit creates an additional $30
million of investment, the total tax expendi-
tures will be $43 million.
In the course of the CBl's passage
through the legislative process, the invest-
ment tax credit provision proved to be the
most controversial aspect of the bill. It was
unpopular with labor and congressmen
who feared job flight from their districts.
Many deficit-minded congressmen were re-
luctant to endorse a measure reducing

Treasury revenues still further. Several
economists observed that it was unlikely
that the tax incentives would generate a
large impact of new investment as long as
business conditions in the region remain
precarious. Weak domestic economies, a
depressed international economy (particu-
larly in the US), and in some countries high
political risk, have depressed expected prof-
itability. Without growing markets, busi-
nessmen cannot justify new investments. In
fact, capital flight now constitutes a serious
drain to Caribbean basin countries. For at
least the foreseeable future, US investors in
many countries will probably invest only
that amount which is absolutely necessary
to maintain their ongoing plant and equip-
ment. This investment will occur anyway
and the investment tax credit would be an
unrequited loss to the Treasury. These argu-
ments were responsible for the fact that the
investment tax credit was never seriously
considered in either house.
At the same time, however, the govern-
ment has mounted an impressive surge of
activity designed to promote US investment
and trade. At least eight federal depart-
ments or agencies have developed promo-
tional programs focused on the Caribbean.
The US Department of Agriculture has es-
tablished an agricultural information center
for US businesses interested in Caribbean
markets, and is working closely with an Ag-
ribusiness Promotion Council to design ap-
propriate investment projects for the region.

CAI?BBEAN P1VIEW/17

USAID and the Peace Corps are devoting
greater resources to small business ven-
tures and entrepreneurial training in the re-
gion. The Department of Commerce has
opened a Caribbean Basin Business Infor-
mation Center, to provide comprehensive
economic information to interested US
businesses. According to recent State De-
partment statements, the response has
been dramatic: "literally thousands of com-
panies have asked for guidance on trade
and investment opportunities." The Center
is sponsoring a series of regional seminars
throughout the US on business oppor-
tunities in the Caribbean basin.
A key agency supporting greater invest-
ment in the Caribbean has been the Over-
seas Private Investment Corporation
(OPIC), which provides political risk insur-
ance to US investors operating in develop-
ing countries. Since FY1980, OPIC has
sharply stepped up its activities in the Carib-
bean, mainly in the politically less volatile
islands. OPIC has issued insurance policies
on 47 new projects in FY1981 and FY1982,
totalling $361 million in new investment;
authorized direct loans to 18 small and me-
dium sized joint ventures, also in
FY1981-82, totalling $149 million; and
supported investment feasibility studies
and missions. Follow-up investment mis-
sions to Haiti and Jamaica that occurred in
late 1982 and early 1983 may result in new
investment for those countries.
Lastly, the government has developed a
program of bilateral investment treaties,
which provide clear rights and obligations
for the host government, the US govern-
ment, and the foreign investor. The State
Department, which strongly supports such
treaties as a means of improving the invest-
ment climate in developing countries, re-
cently concluded a treaty with Panama.
Another was successfully negotiated in
January 1983 with Costa Rica and final
ratification is expected by the end of this
year. Many other Central American and Car-
ibbean nations have expressed an interest
in such a treaty, which could serve to attract
greater investment while guaranteeing cer-
tain rights of their countries vis-a-vis the
investor. Thus, with or without the CBI, the
administration has aggressively sought to
promote US trade and investment linkages.
If a US economic recovery takes firm hold,
these efforts could well produce some suc-
cess at the margin, especially in the insular
countries.

The Economic Response to
Political Problems
But there is more to the CBI than econom-
ics. In fact, the CBI is an unabashed attempt
to use economic assistance to attack the
roots of unrest in the area, a foreign policy
objective reminiscent of the Alliance for
Progress. The concept of a "Caribbean
basin" is more geographical than eco-

nomic. Central America differs from most
Caribbean islands in culture, economic
structure, and, most importantly, political
institutions. In the Dominican Republic and
much of the English-speaking Caribbean,
relatively stable and democratic structures
already exist. Since the negotiation of new
Panama Canal Treaties and the removal of
this historic irritant in US-Panamanian rela-
tions, Panama too has enjoyed stability and
economic prosperity. The Caribbean Basin
Initiative has a better chance of success on
the Caribbean islands and in Panama,
where the requisite political stability exists.

The losses from lower
sugar exports more than
offset the amount of
supplemental aid.

In Central America, the political status
quo has been challenged by powerful insur-
gencies, and violence and chaos are tearing
at the very foundations of society. At bot-
tom, the administration is more concerned
about the Caribbean islands. This priority is
reflected in the fact that $243 million of the
$350 million of the emergency supplemen-
tal assistance package was originally ear-
marked for Central America.
In Central America, the administration's
economic and political strategies have
been working at cross purposes. The ad-
ministration's economic plan aims to stim-
ulate business, but a confrontationist
diplomacy threatens to delay restoration of
investor confidence. By heightening politi-
cal conflict, the United States threatens to
inflict deeper wounds on already badly
mangled economies. Fearing that political
strife will continue and even worsen, fright-
ened Central American businessmen are
stashing their savings in Florida's banks
and condominium market. Because capital
flight often occurs through illegal channels,
it is not possible to measure its magnitude
exactly. One study sponsored by AID esti-
mated capital flight during 1979 and 1980
to have surpassed $500 million. The invest-
ment climate in Central America has cer-
tainly deteriorated since then. Informed
observers believe capital flight from El Sal-
vador alone has reached $500 million per
year.
The investment climate has been so bad
in Central America that even US govern-
ment agencies have hesitated to commit
their own resources there. Although it has
vastly increased its activity in the Caribbean
nations, the Overseas Private Investment
Corporation has been virtually closed for
business in El Salvador, Guatemala, and
Nicaragua, and has been only considering

small projects in Honduras and Costa Rica.
The proposed changes contained in the
CBI will allow for a greater OPIC involve-
ment in the region, but its activities will still
be constrained by its own risk criteria.
The Export-Import Bank (Eximbank) has
also been unwilling to undertake major new
exposures in Central America. It is note-
worthy that, according to the language in
the legislative package the administration
sent to Congress, the Eximbank promises
to expand its activity in the Caribbean basin
only "where its lending criteria allow."
In the absence of peaceful resolutions to
conflicts within and between nations, pri-
vate capital will continue to flee Central
America. Without investor confidence, two
of the three prongs of the CBI-investment
incentives and trade opportunities-will be
irrelevant to Central America. The remain-
ing prong--official aid-will in large mea-
sure be devoted to maintaining consump-
tion levels and indirectly to purchase
weapons. Investment planning and imple-
mentation, whether by the public or private
sector, cannot proceed safely and efficiently
in an environment of political turmoil.
The administration's diplomacy of con-
frontation has also prevented the realization
of a truly multilateral Caribbean Basin Initia-
tive. The administration had been consult-
ing with Canada, Mexico, Venezuela, and
Colombia. It has not yet, however, been will-
ing to make the political compromise nec-
essary to permit the elaboration of a
cooperative and integrated approach to the
region's economic problems. Each donor
nation is pursuing its own programs, largely
as if the CBI had never been announced. As
a result of its uncompromising diplomacy
and divergent concepts of national interest,
the administration is actually working at
cross purposes from other donors.
There is an alternative to strictly bilateral
effort. A genuinely multinational frame-
work, based on a common political vision,
would have several economic advantages.
A multilateral mechanism would allow for
more efficient coordination of scarce re-
sources. It would make donors feel it in their
interests to match contributions made by
others, thereby sharing the aid burden more
widely. Moreover, multilateralism provides
mechanisms for the transfer of aid re-
sources without political tensions and re-
sentments that accompany bilateral pro-
grams. The Caribbean Group for Eco-
nomic Cooperation and Development has,
since 1977, provided such a multilateral
vehicle for aid to the insular Caribbean. The
administration's uncompromising bilateral
and hardline diplomacy has impeded the
formation of a similar group for Central
America.

Congressional Inaction
With so much attention focused on it, why
Continued on page 47

18/CAIBBEAN REVIEW

The Joint Oil Facility

Mexican-Venezuelan Cooperation in the Caribbean

By George W. Grayson

he four-fold increase in oil
prices achieved by OPEC in
late 1973 sent economic
shock waves through the countries
of the Caribbean basin. Not only did
energy and other imports become
more expensive, but an in-
creasingly sluggish demand in the
United States and other indus-
trialized states retarded the growth
of export earnings. Internationally,
Caribbean area nations suffered gy-
rating changes in their terms of
trade, balance of payments deficits,
and growing foreign indebtedness
to public and private financial
institutions. Domestically, they
experienced budget shortfalls,
escalating prices, and rising
unemployment.
Where could the hard-pressed
countries of the region seek as-
sistance? Not surprisingly, they in-
cluded Venezuela on the list of
nations from which aid was sought.
After all, Christian Democratic Pres-
ident Rafael Caldera had, through
his Trinindadian-bom foreign min-
ister, Aristides Calvani, inaugurated a new
Caribbean policy rooted in geopolitical
concerns. Specifically, the Venezuelan lead-
ers wished to assure safe passage of their
country's petroleum shipments, promote
political stability in poor and backward is-
land states, and develop markets for such
exports as processed foods, petrochemi-
cals, textiles, and light manufactures. In
November 1971, Calvani convened a con-
sultative meeting in Caracas of foreign min-
isters of Caribbean states; two subsequent
sessions focused on regional transporta-
tion concerns; and in April 1973, Venezuela
became the first non-English-speaking
member of the Caribbean Development
Bank.
As a leading OPEC participant, Venezuela
benefited handsomely from the surge of

George W Grayson is professor of govern-
ment at the College of William and Mary and
author of The Politics of Mexican Oil (Univ. of
Pittsburgh Press, 1980).

energy prices. Thus, the Democratic Action
government of Carlos Andr6s P6rez, which
won elections in 1973, greeted the request
from its neighbors for assistance by cre-
ating a cash-loan plan to offset the rise in oil
costs incurred by Panama and the five Cen-
tral American countries. Under this "First
Program of Financial Cooperation" un-
veiled at Puerto Ordaz in December 1974,
Venezuela agreed to allow beneficiary im-
porters to keep in their central banks all
monies above $6.00 per barrel paid for oil,
the international charge for which was then
$12.00. To finance balance of payments
deficits, Venezuela would loan these re-
tained monies to the buyers for six years;
however, if a participating nation proposed
suitable development projects, cospon-
sored by an international financial institu-
tion, it could borrow the funds for up to 25
years, with a six-year grace period, at soft
interest rates equal to those levied by the
Inter-American Development Bank in its
operations with ordinary capital resources,

approximately 8 1/2 percent. The
Venezuelan Investment Fund (FIV),
its income generated from taxes on
oil and gas sales, was created to
approve programs and projects un-
der the Puerto Ordaz Accord. This
agreement, later expanded to in-
clude Jamaica and the Dominican
Republic, covered a volume of oil
equivalent to 5/6ths of all imports
in the base year (1972), then a
gradually decreasing percentage of
purchases until expiring on 31 De-
cember, 1980.
Sixty-two percent of the $678
million committed and wholly dis-
bursed under the program by Jan-
uary 1982 had been converted into
long-term loans for projects in the
areas of energy, water, agriculture,
transportation, and industry. The
allocation of resources was as fol-
lows: Costa Rica, 12 percent; El Sal-
vador, 15 percent; Guatemala, 19
o percent; Nicaragua, 11 percent; Ja-
maica, eight percent; Dominican
Republic, six percent; Honduras, 13
percent; and Panama, 16 percent.
Originally, the Perez regime viewed the aid
scheme as a transitional measure to enable
countries, previously dependent on Venezu-
elan supplies, to adjust to higher energy
charges. Yet, the doubling of oil prices in
1979 because of the Iranian revolution and
the subsequent Iraqi-Iranian war led Car-
acas to cast about for partners in a new
venture that would benefit regional econo-
mies ravaged by the sharp increase in oil
prices.
In a parallel move, Venezuela attempted
to convince the entire OPEC group to es-
tablish an aid program for all poor nations.
When the cartel members, which prefer to
aid their ideological brethren, turned
thumbs down on the proposal, Mexico
emerged as the prime candidate for inclu-
sion in a regional undertaking. Its produc-
tion had climbed from 209,855 barrels per
day (BPD) in 1974 to 536,926 BPD in 1979,
while its announced proven reserves had
shot up more than eightfold to 45.8 billion
barrels in the same period.

CAfBBEAN TEVIEW/19

At first, pleas from governments of the
region to furnish discounts or special ar-
rangements fell on deaf ears in Mexico. Pa-
trimony Minister Jose Andres Oteyza
stated: "Although they are needy, priority in
selling them our oil will be determined by
the terms of international trade rather than
by any other consideration."
At least three events prompted Mexico to
reevaluate its "strictly business" stance. In
September 1979, President Jos6 L6pez
Portillo launched his "Global Energy Plan"
in a UN speech. Among other things, this
proposal called for cooperation between
producing and consuming nations, and the
establishment of "a short-term system, to
be put into effect immediately, for resolving
the problems of developing countries that
import petroleum." This system "would
guarantee supply and the honoring of con-
tracts, stop speculation, provide for com-
pensation for price increases, and even
ensure considerate treatment on the part of
the exporting countries."
On 24 January 1980, the Mexican chief
executive spent nine hours in Managua
where he condemned the "satanic ambition
of imperial interests" and suggested that
the Sandinista revolution-like the Mexican
and Cuban ones before it--offered a viable
path for Latin American nations anxious to
escape the problems besetting the hemi-
sphere. He offered assistance to the coun-
try's fishing and communications indus-
tries and pledged that Petroleos Mex-
icanos (PEMEX), the state oil monopoly,
would supply 7,000 BPD of crude, one half
of the nation's consumption and an
amount termed "indispensable" for the re-
gime's survival. Nicaragua has yet to pay
Mexico a penny for these oil imports.
Two weeks later L6pez Portillo welcomed
to Mexico City Jamaican Prime Minister
Michael Manley. The leaders discussed re-
gional issues, stressed their support for
ideological pluralism and self-determina-
tion, and announced increased economic
cooperation. L6pez Portillo agreed that
Mexico would provide 10,000 of Jamaica's
27,000-BPD oil requirements in exchange
for 420,000 tons of bauxite each year.

The Joint Facility
Costa Rican President Rodrigo Carazo Odio
joined the Venezuelan government in urg-
ing Mexican involvement in an area as-
sistance venture. Carazo's interest in such a
program was sharpened when Shell of Cu-
racao, which had been supplying his coun-
try, cancelled its contract in 1979, forcing
Costa Rica to purchase crude on the Rotter-
dam spot market. This lobbying bore fruit
on 3 August 1980, when L6pez Portillo and
Luis Herrera Campins, a Christian Demo-
crat who had succeeded Carlos Andres
Perez, agreed to the "Economic Coopera-
tion Program for Central American Coun-
tries," commonly known as the joint facility

or the San Jose Accords, after the city in
which the signing ceremony took place.
This plan represents the first collabora-
tive aid effort between an OPEC and a non-
OPEC country. Under its terms, Mexico and
Venezuela each pledged to ship up to
80,000 BPD of oil on concessionary terms
to nine nations of the area (those covered by
the Puerto Ordaz plan plus Barbados). The
exporters promised to grant the importers
credits amounting to 30 percent of the
commercial price of their purchases for a
period of five years at an annual rate of four
percent. Should the resources derived from
these credits flow to "economic develop-
ment projects of priority interest," notably
those spurring domestic energy produc-
tion, the loans could be extended to 20
years at a two percent interest, with a five
year grace period. These credits were of-
fered at a fraction of the commercial rate;
for instance, the Eurodollar interest rate at
that time hovered over 10 1/2 percent.
The donors have different financing
mechanisms. The purchasing country
must pay Venezuela the full market price for
the crude within 60 days of delivery. Pe-
troleos de Venezuela, the national oil com-
pany, informs the Venezuelan Ministry of
Energy and Mines when the transaction has
been completed and the payment received.
In turn, the ministry relays the information
to the FIV, which calculates 30 percent of
the value of the sale and transfers that
amount to the Central Bank, payable to the
recipient nation. The latter may either have
the money transferred immediately to its
central bank or draw on its account at
the Venezuelan Central Bank at a later date.
In practice, the FIV has made quarterly
deposits based on estimated sales during
the next quarter, with payments generally
made in dollars.
Mexico follows a much simpler pro-
cedure. The beneficiary state merely pays
70 percent of the value of the shipment
upon delivery or within 60 to 90 days, re-
taining the other 30 percent.
Mexico and Venezuela would equally sup-
ply the needs of recipients, although ship-
ments of petroleum were to be made in
accord with commercial contracts entered
into bilaterally by Mexico and Venezuela and
the individual purchasing nation. Moreover,
an effort would be made to dispatch the oil
in ships operated by the Multinational Fleet
of the Caribbean(NAMUR), which was con-
ceived in 1975. The agreement gave rise to
government-to-government transactions
between Mexico and Venezuela, on the one
hand, and the importing country, on the
other. In theory, all states of the area, includ-
ing Cuba, were eligible with donor approval
to join the program, which could be re-
newed annually after an initial one-year pe-
riod. In practice, there was no love lost
between the Caracas and Havana regimes,
militating against membership for the latter.

Even after the agreement was approved,
Venezuela tried to convince Trinidad and
Tobago, through the course of extensive
talks, to become the facility's third supplier.
Instead, the island oil producer announced
formation of its own loan plan for the eleven
members of the Caribbean Common Mar-
ket. Between 1980 and 1982, Trinidad and
Tobago pledged $208 million to pay the
incremental cost of oil, fertilizer, and as-
phalt. Economic considerations at home
and political problems abroad limited al-
locations to approximately $75 million.
Caracas and Mexico City have renewed
the San Jose Accords in 1981 and 1982.
The second renewal was especially impres-
sive because of the Herculean economic
problems, including huge foreign indebt-
edness, afflicting both countries whose for-
eign exchange earnings declined pre-
cipitously because of falling oil prices.
In August 1982, the donors agreed to
continue granting five year loans automati-
cally. Meanwhile, they modified the criteria
for the 20-year credits to emphasize priority
development projects and those that pro-
mote regional economic integration. De-
spite the 50/50 supply provision, Mexico
failed to match Venezuela's shipments dur-
ing the first two years of the facility. Mexican
exports averaged only 37,925 BPD, 47.4
percent of its 80,000 BPD target in the first
year. The two suppliers did, however, share
the load more equitably during the second
year. Economic and political considera-
tions in Venezuela have enlarged Mexico's
role in the facility since August 1982.
Mexico and Venezuela agreed to supply
half of each recipient's imports. In fact, refin-
ery conditions and propinquity have dic-
tated that Venezuela become the exclusive
supplier of Barbados, although in March
1983 the Barbadian energy minister report-
edly explored the possibility of obtaining
shipments from PEMEX. Mexico would
probably be the sole exporter to Belize
should this former British colony, which be-
came the eleventh facility beneficiary in Au-
gust 1982, request oil. Ships for NAMUR
have yet to be acquired, possibly because of
the unfavorable economic conditions af-
fecting tanker owners in the early 1980s.
Hence, the multinational enterprise exists
only as a paper fleet.

Problems
The San Jose Accords have encountered a
number of problems. To begin with, virtually
all of the region's refineries were equipped
to accommodate reconstituted Venezuelan
crude (55 percent crude plus light oil, diesel
oil, gas oil, kerosene, etc.) not the heavy,
sulfurous Maya grade comprising the bulk
of initial PEMEX shipments. Even when
their refineries could handle Mexican oil,
countries found that it produced excess
heavy fuel oil, necessitating the importation
of gasoline and diesel from elsewhere. Ad-

20/CAIBBEAN REVIEW

Oil Deliveries Under the San Jos6 Accords, 1980-1982*

1981-1982***

Oil Supplied by % Oil Supplied by %
Mexico (BPD) Total Venezuela (BPD) Tota

0
5,225
3,875
4,225
875
525
5,725
5,575
5,275
6,625

0.0%
48.0
32.9
31.1
100.0
8.5
27.1
44.7
35.5
23.2

1,601
5,650
7,920
9,381
0
5,637
15,430
6,898
9,601
21,912

i Sh

100.0%
52.0
67.1
68.9
0.0
91.5
72.9
55.3
64.5
76.8

Total Oil Supplied by
shipments Mexico (BPD)

1,601
10,875
11,795
13,606
875
6,162
21,155
12,473
14,876
28,537

0
4,175
5,500
5,050
0
0
7,500
7,850
11,975
12,100

% Oil Supplied by
Total Venezuela (BPD)

0.0%
38.4
45.4
44.2
0.0
0.0
35.9
57.5
48.5
46.6

1,307
6,707
6,612
6,383
0
514
13,361
5,793
12,693
13,892

% Total
Total Shipments

100.0%
61.6
54.6
55.8
0.0
100.0
64.1
42.5
51.5
53.4

1,307
10,882
12,112
11,433
0
514
20,861
13,643
24,668
25,992

Total 37,925 31.1% 84,030 68.9% 121,955 54,150 44.6% 67,262 55.4% 121,412

*Data supplied by the Venezuelan embassies in Washington, D.C. and Mexico City.

**The figures for Mexico cover the 12 months beginning October 1, 1980; the figures for Venezuela cover the period from August 3,1980 to
July 31,1981.

***The figures for Mexico cover the 12 months beginning October 1,1981; the figures for Venezuela cover the period from August 3,1981 to
July 31,1982.

justments in utilization capabilities are ex-
pensive and time-consuming and, until
they could be accomplished, the Domin-
ican Republic and other countries insisted
that Venezuela either furnish all of their oil
or, at least, pre-treat the Mexican crude so
that is could be run efficiently through local
refineries. This factor, combined with
PEMEX's lack of experience with, and
knowledge of, the recipients' oil markets
heretofore served principally by Venezuela,
accounts for Mexico's puny first year ex-
ports. Since then, Mexico has adjusted its
crude mix to better meet the needs of im-
porters. For the last two years, it has pro-
vided only the relatively light Isthmus variety
(which is still heavier and more sulfurous
than reconstituted oil) to Costa Rica, El Sal-
vador, and Nicaragua. Additionally, most re-
cipients have now made refinery modifica-
tions or blended Mexican and Venezuelan
imports to permit processing.
Nevertheless, as late as 12 March 1982,
the commission of Mexican and Venezue-
lan representatives which coordinates the
facility received a communication from
Honduras declining Mexican oil. This move
reflected a protracted dispute between the
Honduran government and Texaco, which
operates the country's single antiquated re-
finery which was shut down for a year be-
ginning in September 1981. The US firm
resisted Mexican crude on the grounds that
its refinery, when operating at full capacity
to satisfy domestic demand for light gas
and diesel fuel, produced excessive fuel oil,
which-under the terms of the Accords-
could not be exported. Even though a com-
promise has apparently been reached-the
refinery will operate below full capacity and
Texaco will import 2,000 BPD of product
from Trinidad-Honduras received no Mex-
ican crude in either 1982 or the first

quarter of 1983 (except for 5,497 BPD in
February 1983).
A May 1983 US State Department report
pointed out that beneficiaries have paid in-
ternationally posted prices underthe facility.
In some instances, these charges have
exceeded spot market prices, even when
the advantage of concessional financing
is considered.
Financial distress has caused Mexico and
Venezuela to discontinue conversations
about the possible joint purchase, leasing,
or construction of one or more refineries to
process their crude for ultimate shipment to
facility participants and other purchasers.
Expanding the scope of the program has
also posed a challenge to exporting coun-
tries. Cuba, which depends on the Soviet
Union to provide over 95 percent of its oil on
cut-rate terms, has never sought to affiliate.
The donors have rejected overtures for
membership from the Bahamas, Grenada,
Guyana, and Sheldon Rappaport, a Swiss
entrepreneur, who wished to use a refinery
in Antigua to supply that and adjacent min-
istates. A member since August 1982, Be-
lize has not yet asked for assistance. And the
experience with Haiti proved disastrous.
Haiti joined the facility in late 1980 and
received PEMEX crude valued at $11 mil-
lion the following April. According to a
Washington Post article published on 25
December 1981, US officials believe that
two businessmen, one alleged to be Presi-
dent Jean-Claude Duvalier's father-in-law,
diverted the cargo to Curago, where it was
refined into No. 2 fuel oil. The shift of the
seller's market to one favoring buyers foiled
the middlemen's plan to turn a sizable profit
on the ultimate sale of the shipment, which
may have been destined for South Africa.
The petroleum glut meant that the fuel oil
was worth only $8.6 million at the time,

which would still have produced a profit
given the 30 percent price break anticipated
by Haiti. Outraged at what one ob-
server called "voodoo economics," Mexico
billed the Port-au-Prince government for
the full $11 million. Both donors subse-
quently barred Haiti from further aid for fail-
ing to live up to its contractual obligations,
which include devoting facility oil ex-
clusively to domestic requirements.
More serious than membership ques-
tions have been the recipients' difficulty in
designing projects that would qualify for
long-term credits. An inability to devise ap-
propriate projects meant that, as of
mid-1982, Venezuela had granted only five
of these loans compared to 70 under the
Puerto Ordaz agreement: four to the Do-
minican Republic ($27 million) and one to
El Salvador ($12 million). Mexico has been
even less forthcoming. Of course, the
Puerto Ordaz program lasted six years
whereas the joint facility began in mid-1980
and required months to begin functioning.
The above-mentioned State Department
study indicates that three other factors have
hampered the development and imple-
mentation of projects: lack of guidelines
supplied by Mexico and Venezuela, limited
institutional capability by the donors to re-
view proposals for long-term financing, and
an acute shortage of cash for expensive,
energy-related activities.
Awarding loans has posed an in-
creasingly difficult challenge to Mexico and
Venezuela, both of which are starved for
dollars with which to conduct trade and
meet payments on their foreign debt, which
exceeds $108 billion between them. Nine-
teen eighty-three is a presidential election
year in Venezuela, and criticism of foreign
aid at a time of domestic distress by busi-
Continued on page 49

CAIBBEAN Pl"lW/21

1980-1981**

Recipient

Barbados
Costa Rica
El Salvador
Guatemala
Haiti
Honduras
Jamaica
Nicaragua
Panama
Dominican Republic

.12~
Cu
A..

I~

' Uw~~~~i I,`

How Cricket Is West

Indian Cricket?

Class, Racial, and Color Conflict
By L. O'Brien Thompson

Enthusiasts of international sports are
perhaps aware of the passionate in-
terest in the game of cricket in the
Commonwealth Caribbean. From the in-
ception of international competition in the
nineteenth century until the 1950s, En-
gland and her former colony, Australia, vied
with each other for supremacy. Since the
1950s, however, an outsider, the West In-
dies, threatened and eventually became the
dominant force in the game.
West Indian cricket is best understood by
analyzing its relationship to social structure.
The penetration of European powers into
the Caribbean was responsible for bringing
together people of diverse racial and ethnic
backgrounds. Colonialism compounded
these differences and led to a history of
racial, color, and class conflict. These are
the ingredients which give substance and
meaning to the West Indian tradition in
cricket. The contribution of the Afro-West
Indian has been so prominent as to obscure
the impact of the other racial and ethnic
groups on this art form. Since transplanted
Africans learned the game from trans-
planted Englishmen, it is appropriate to
start with an examination of the game in
the place of its origin.

The Roots of Cricket
The game of cricket was conceived in the
latter part of the eighteenth century. By the
early nineteenth century, with social and fi-
nancial support coming from the upper
class, aristocrat, peasant, and proletarian
combined to make it the refined art form we
know today. Cricket became an English in-
stitution for all intents and purposes in
1827, when Oxford and Cambridge first
played the "University Match." It has been
an annual event of much social significance
ever since. By the 1850s, influenced greatly
by the headmaster of Rugby College, Mat-
thew Arnold, the game came to be per-
ceived as a molder of character. Accord-
ingly, participation was strongly encour-
aged at the great Public Schools-Eton,
and Harrow, for example. The masses were

L. O'Brien Thompson teaches sociology at
West Virginia State College.

not far behind in cultivating enthusiasm for
a game which was soon elevated to the
status of a national pastime. Despite its
overall appeal, cricket, nevertheless, be-
came identified with the British aristocracy.
The pursuit of leisure is typically associated
with this class. For them cricket became an
important social and recreational outlet.
One would be hard pressed to find a game
which matches cricket as a reflection of the
traditional ethos of the aristocracy.
Cricket is a team sport played from 11:30
in the morning to 6:30 in the evening. Al-
though it can be tiring, it is not as physical as
American football or basketball. As if to
consciously minimize the effects of possi-
ble exhaustion, the organizers of the game
have included periods of respite. Fun and
relaxation seem to be the maxim. There are
breaks for lunch (40 minutes) and tea (20
minutes). While on the field of play, drinks
are served. Selection depends on the vag-
aries of the weather. It is not unknown for
some cricketers to order brandy on wintry
days in the notorious English weather.
The emphasis on decorum and etiquette
as reflected in the culture of the artistocracy
are hallmarks of the traditional game. Good
behavior and deportment are stressed.
Chatter commonly found in baseball, foot-
ball, and basketball has no place. Courtesy
dictates that distractions likely to impair the
concentration of players are forbidden.
When a captain has to say something to a
player, the whisper is the rule. By the same
token, players who "appeal" to the umpire
for a decision are expected to abide by his
ruling without question, even though his
judgement is obviously bad. The unhappy
player finds himself accepting the inevita-
ble with a stiff upper lip. And batsmen who
know that they are out should not be dis-
posed to await the umpire's decision but
anticipate it and walk. It is as if a baseball
batter anticipates that he has struck out and
elects to walk without checking with the
umpire.
The attire worn by cricketers is formal,
given the circumstances: long sleeve shirts,
conservatively tailored cream flannels, and
white boots. In chilly conditions, cricketers
may augment their attire with long or short

sleeve sweaters of standard design. When
the monarch pays the annual visit to
"Lords," the famous cricket ground and
headquarters of the game, blazers become
part of the ritual attire. This social event is
the "Ascot" of the cricket season.
Once the upper class gained control of
the game, class distinctions became a char-
acteristic feature. Those who played in
championship matches for love rather than
money became known as "gentlemen."
Those who could not afford this luxury were
dubbed "players." At cricket grounds "gen-
tlemen" and "players" used different dress-
ing rooms and entered separate gates onto
and from grounds. Each year the best of the
"gentlemen" competed against the best of
the "players." These distinctions were aban-
doned in the 1950s and the annual contest
has accordingly been discontinued.
What has been described represents the
culture of a game which accompanied Brit-
ish colonizers as they accumulated a vast
empire from the seventeenth century right
through the nineteenth century. The game
took root in Australia, New Zealand, India,
and the West Indies.
If Englishmen played cricket in the latter
part of the eighteenth century, it is assumed
that the role performed by slaves must have
been marginal. The arduous task of prepar-
ing pitches and fields was doubtless their
responsibility. Maybe a few favorite slaves
were allowed on the field to retrieve balls or
even bowl. This situation must have pre-
vailed up to emancipation in the nineteenth
century. What spare time slaves earned
must have been spent learning the rudi-
ments of the game, among other things.
There is reason to believe that this situa-
tion took a change for the better after eman-
cipation in 1834. Since this historic event
coincided with a refinement of the technical
aspects of the game in England, a few years
must have elapsed before this development
was introduced to the colonies. In turn, the
freed slave would have been the last sector
of the society to be exposed to the refine-
ment of this complex art form.
At this early stage the Afro-West Indian
would not have been able to purchase the
equipment required for formal games. His

CAr?BBEAN r*VIEW/23

social and economic plight necessitated
improvisation. Given the traditions that
have endured in "bat and ball," the Afro-
West Indian was not lacking in ingenuity.
Too poor to buy a "willow," the Afro-West
Indian invented the bat made out of the
branch of a clammy-cherry or a coconut
tree. A young breadfruit or a knitted ball
took the place of the well stitched leather
ball. A variety of objects were used for
stumps-"tin-can," "rocks," or even a piece
of cardboard. Any available piece of land
was appropriated for a playing field. Inge-
nuity extended to rule making and pro-
cedure. Take firms as an example. Two or
three players may enter a pact which local
custom referred to as a firm. If a member of
a firm takes a catch, it is the turn of his firm
to bat. He may give the ball to another
member of his firm to bowl or he may bowl
it in such a manner as to minimize the
chances of the member of his firm getting
out. The key to this cooperative adaptation
is for the firm to dominate the "crease"
rather than engage in the more arduous
pursuits of bowling and fielding. For those
not batting, possession of the ball is impor-
tant since it is one way of gaining control of
the bat. In this milieu a premium is placed
on solid batting, aggressive bowling, and
fielding. Firms have many variations.
Knee cricket is another improvisation.
One knee is placed on the ground and a
miniature bat takes the place of a standard
bat. Similarly a marble is substituted for the
usual ball. When a bowler underhands the
marble and the batsman strikes it, he gets
off his knee and runs to the bowler's end.
Should the marble pass the bat, however,
and the wicketkeeper breaks the wicket be-
fore the bat touches the ground, the bats-
man is out. Very often play is held up as
participants argue back and forward about
whether the batsman is out or not.
Beach cricket should not go unmen-
tioned as another interesting innovation. A
pitch is chosen on that part of the beach
where the waves encroach, therefore leav-
ing a relatively firm surface. A used tennis
ball is substituted for the obvious reason
that it bounces on this surface. Fielders take
positions on the beach and in the water. In
this game, in addition to being declared out
when a fielder catches the ball right off the
bat, one may lose one's wicket when the
fielder catches the ball after one bounce.
The ability to hit hard over a fielder's head or
to stroke the ball along the ground be-
comes important in this adaptation. Once
again the game may take several forms de-
pending on the whim of the participants.
The settings and adaptations only begin
to give us a glimpse of the uniqueness of
the West Indian tradition in cricket as it
emerged over the decades. At an early age
quickness of eye and nimbleness of foot are
cultivated. In the absence of formal coach-
ing and with a disposition to get on with the

game, unorthodoxy of technique prevails.
The approach to the game is uninhibited
and aggressive rather than stifled and de-
fensive. There is zest and spirit whether
bowling, batting or fielding. In this milieu,
fun, comaraderie, and enjoyment super-
cede the will to win. It is not an exaggeration
to claim that "bat and ball" came to repre-
sent a way of life for the West Indian masses.

The West Indian Game
The West Indian cricketer is depicted as
moving with "feline grace," being "lithe,"
"panther-like," "tigerish," and "loose-mus-

In polite society this type
of conduct was dismissed
as "not being cricket," as
hooliganism.

cled." A correlation between his move-
ments and the flair he brings to his trade is
implied. Thus the West Indian is known for
his attacking game, his relish of playing with
"abandon," and his spontaneity. We are told
that when the flow of the game is in his
favor, he is "devastating." In the midst of
adversity, however, he is said to lack re-
siliency, the will to discipline himself and
grind the situation out.
There is no doubt that the impression has
been left that the manner in which the West
Indian plays the game is due to "native char-
acteristics" or "instinct." However, when
one examines the formation and develop-
ment of the West Indian personality, a differ-
ent picture may be drawn. Slave masters
and European travelers almost to a man
described the slave as a "noble savage."
Recent research provides an alternative in-
terpretation of the life the slave carved out
for himself in a hostile environment. In spite
of the attemptto deracinate and deculturate
the African slave in the West Indies, he is
said to have successfully resisted cultural
assimilation. While manipulating his en-
vironment, the slave developed distinctive
patterns of speech, song, dance, humor,
religion, spirit, movement, and expression.
Enough has been said about movement.
Expression, on the other hand, calls for
more analysis, especially since West Indian
spectators are "notorious" for their lively
and active engagement in the proceedings
on and off the field of play. Indeed their
participation in this regard often influ-
uences the tempo of the game. The con-
trast of expression with the colonizer should
therefore enhance our understanding. The
West Indian is predisposed to be more bois-
terous than the Englishman. He gesticu-
lates more, is more of an exhibitionist, and
more gregarious. Often characterized as

"easy-going," the West Indian is nonethe-
less depicted as aggressive and volatile.
The elan and effervescence of West Indian
cricketer is thus inextricably tied to his so-
cial nature rather than instinct.
The post-1834 period is important in
helping us grasp the dynamics of the
growth of cricket among the non-white
masses. There was a need for providing the
emancipated slaves with an education if
they were to be absorbed into a changing
economy. Since racism predominated, it
was felt that a rudimentary education was
sufficient. It did not take long for the plan-
tocracy to come to the conclusion that it
was to their advantage to broaden the edu-
cational opportunities of the more fortunate
non-white. Accordingly, he was permitted
limited access to secondary schools. The
impact of the non-white on the game is
directly linked to this development.
Cricket is an expensive game. In order to
play formal matches, it is necessary to gain
access to a field, maintain it, and get per-
sonal and team equipment. Catering and
transportation have to be added to basic
costs. The pittance paid to peasants during
the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth
century precluded the playing of the game
in a formal setting. "Bat and ball" was the
alternative. However, as increasing num-
bers of non-whites attended and graduated
from "colleges" and obtained public sector
jobs, a material base for elevating them-
selves to formal competition was laid.
Following the tradition set by the great
English Public Schools, those responsible
for secondary education made cricket an
integral part of school activity. The English
notion that cricket and scholarship com-
bine to mold the personality of a gentleman
filtered into the educational system in the
colonies. C.L.R. James, in Beyond the
Boundary, explains: "...our masters, our
curriculum, our code of morals, every-
thing, began on the basis that Britain was
the source of all light and leading, and our
business was to admire, wonder, imitate,
learn; our criterion of success was to have
succeeded in approaching that distant
ideal-to attain it was, of course, impossi-
ble. Both masters and bdys accepted it as in
the very nature of things. The masters could
not be offensive about it because they
thought it was their function to do this, if
they thought about it at all: and, for me, it
was the beacon that beckoned me on."
In like manner the culture of the great
English game was transmitted to those
non-whites who attended secondary
schools in the colonial West Indies. They
learned to obey the umpire's decision with-
out question even though his judgement
might have been obviously questionable.
They were taught to be magnanimous to
their opponents in defeat. They were so-
cialized to be modest and play down their
victories. They cultivated the habit of pre-

24/CAIBBEAN ITVI W

senting a stiff upper lip in the face of adver-
sity. They learned all about esprit de corps.
Whereas the great English Public
Schools had coaches on their staff, this was
not the case in the West Indies. The style
cultivated on backyards, beaches, streets,
and any available piece of land tended to
dominate on the playgrounds of secondary
schools. To recap, it was aggressive, zestful,
and unorthodox. A master or groundsman
would pass on a few tips here or there but
nothing was suggested which was likely to
alter the player's style radically. The com-
bination of a passionate love of the game,
regular practice, and formal competition
blended to produce outstanding talent. The
"college boy" tradition was ready to stamp
itself on the regional and international
scene given the opportunity.
International recognition was, however,
slow in coming. Unlike their English coun-
terparts who continued the marriage of
sports and scholarship at universities, few
talented scholar-cricketers in the colonies
could afford a university education. To be-
gin with there was no regional university
until 1948 when the University College of
the West Indies was opened. And during the
period, 1834-1900, there were very few
scholarships for colonials to attend metro-
politan universities. The intellectually am-
bitious son of the plantocrats, of course,
had no such constraints. As a result, on
graduation from secondary school, non-
whites either entered the civil service or the
teaching profession. In these halcyon days
of colonialism, non-whites were rarely ap-
pointed to the highest positions in second-
ary schools and the civil service. Racial
exclusion reigned in the established white
clubs. There was no other alternative for
non-whites who wanted to play the game
consistently in a formal setting but to form
their own clubs. As indicated, the growth in
number of graduates facilitated this move.
Given the inordinate stress on color and
other status differences in colonial society, it
was not surprising that club affiliation dupli-
cated the line of stratification.
We have seen that as a result of coloniza-
tion the West Indian population was made
up of people of African, European, and
Asian stock. Miscegenation between Af-
ricans and Indians was insignificant when
compared to what took place between Af-
ricans and Europeans. The different shades
and colors produced by the latter combina-
tion have plagued West Indian society. Suf-
fice to say that the more Africanesque one's
appearance, the closer one was to the pit
of the stratification system.
No West Indian island matched Bar-
bados in the enduring emphasis on social
distinctions based on color. As the major
secondary boy schools of this island-Har-
rison College, Lodge, and Combermere-
increased the pool of non-white graduates
during the first half of the 20th century, a

number of cricket clubs were founded pred-
icated on class and color distinctions. Thus,
in addition to Wanderers and Pickwick, es-
tablished clubs which catered to patrician
and middle class whites respectively, Car-
Iton and the Young Men's Progressive Club
attracted other whites and browns, and
Spartan and Empire sponsored blacks.
These clubs competed against each other
every Saturday during the cricket season
under the auspices of the Barbados Cricket
Association (BCA). It is fair to say that
cricket was in the forefront of the attack on
social exclusivism. At this stage, however, it
was benign as a political force.
Analogous cricket clubs emerged in
other West Indian territories. Since most of
the members came out of the "college boy"
cricketing tradition, decorum and conduct
were in the classic tradition. Style and ex-
pression were rooted in native custom. Dur-
ing what may be called the golden era of
intercolonial cricket, the 1940s, this tradi-
tion was arrayed in all its glory. One of the
famous products of this era, Frank Worrell,
captures its styles and spirit: "This period
cricket-wise could be called the roaring for-
ties. This was the swashbuckling era of the
West Indies cricket when in each inter-
colonial match one could see a combina-
tion of flash, style, solidarity in technique
and a high degree of camaraderie between
players of both teams."
It is not surprising that an observer of
international cricket for many a year was
able to appreciate and give us an insight
into the heart of the uniqueness of the West
Indian tradition in cricket. In a tribute to the
former Trinidad and West Indian cricketer,
Lord Constantine, the Englishman, Neville
Cardus wrote: "His cricket was a prophesy
which has gloriously come to pass, for it
forecast, by its mingled skill, daring, abso-
lutely un-English trust to instinct and by its
dazzling flashes of physical energy, the
coming one day of Weekes, Worrell, of
Headley, of Walcott, of Kanhai, of Sobers.
All of these cricketers remain, for all their
acquired culture and ordered technique,
descendants of Learie, cricketers in Learie's
Lineage."
The decade of the 1940s heralded the
dominance of non-whites in West Indian
cricket. A unique tradition in style, flair, and
approach to the game was firmly estab-
lished. The cake of custom with respect to
control of the game at the highest levels-
administration and captaincy-had to wait
further social and political developments.
Since the "college boy" tradition monopo-
lized the playing scene and plebians were
noticeably underrepresented, class and
race still remained major stumbling blocks
to the ideal of equal opportunity in cricket.

Social Change
The entry of plebians into the mainstream
of West Indian cricket was facilitated by an

unprecedented series of disturbances in the
late 1930s. The masses "revolted" against
an oppressive colonial system which de-
nied them a stable economic life and exclu-
sion from the franchise. The politically
conscious middle class non-white sup-
ported this uprising. Although many of this
class qualified to vote, they were excluded
from political power. Almost overnight or-
ganizations dedicated to bringing about so-
cial, political, and economic changes
sprung up. In some quarters it was felt that
political parties were the best force for
change. The stark reality was that union
leadership held greater promise. In Bar-
bados, for example, both the Progressive
League and the Congress Party antedated
their labor unions. In both cases the moving
spirits were educated middle class men of
color who saw the colony's problems in
political terms but found out that the
masses were more concerned with their
economic plight. This was the social con-
text in which a cricket association for the
Barbadian masses was founded.
Joseph Mitchinson Hewitt saw the need
for an association which could cater to the
aspiring cricketer "whose chances to bring
his talent to the forefront in cricket did not
depend on the school he attended and his
social class." The Friendly Cricket Associa-
tion saw the light of day in 1937. Grantley
Adams, who emerged from the 1937 distur-
bances as the most influential labor leader
and politician in Barbados, was the first
president of the association. As the organi-
zation thrived its name was changed to the
Barbados Cricket League (BCL).
Youth and adults whose cricketing expe-
riences were limited to matches between
"streets," "alleys," and "parishes" on any
available piece of land revelled in the im-
proved conditions. Headmasters made
what playing fields they possessed available
to the organization. The plantocracy chip-
ped in; they rented and gave land to the
people of their district for playing fields.
The conduct and decorum of the game
in this setting frequently deviated from the
norm found in the more prestigious BCA.
This should be expected given their social
origins. Agricultural workers and the "ur-
ban" proletariat made up the bulk of BCL
players. Acute subordination characterized
their relationships with white Barbadians.
Nor was their interaction with the colored
middle class any more respectful. The first
half of the 20th century was one in which
the typical educated non-white West Indian
remained alienated from the masses. In-
deed many of the pejorative terms used
liberally by whites to refer to the disposition
of blacks found ready acceptance among
this category. No wonder that their behavior
on the field often bordered on the irreverent.
It was not unheard of for matches to be
abandoned in the BCL due to disorderly
Continued on page 50

CAIBBEAN rIVIEW/25

Wives, Husbands, and

More Wives

Sexual Opportunities Among the Saramaka
By Sally Price

6iwt used to be that all the men of the
World lived in one village and all the
Women in another. No man had ever
ventured into the women's village and sur-
vived, but one day Anasi the Trickster-Spi-
der devised a clever and mischievous
scheme. Hiding on his back in a hollowed-
out log that the women stepped over on
their way to the river, and working through a
discreet hole that he made just large
enough to accommodate his penis, he sur-
reptitiously introduced every one of them to
the pleasure of sex." The entertaining
Saramaka folktale that describes this esca-
pade honors Anasi as the founding father of
sexual relations, and remarks that "That is
how our present way of life began."
The idea of one man having sexual ac-
cess to many women is a primary deter-
minant of Saramaka social life. Although
both men and women characteristically
have a number of lovers and spouses in the
course of their lifetime, the imbalance be-
tween men's and women's sexual oppor-
tunities exerts a profound influence on
conjugal relations and on the character of
social interaction more generally.

Affairs and Marriages
Sexual banter is enjoyed by Saramakas of
all ages. Toddlers are frequently teased
about sex and encouraged to develop their
verbal wit in this direction, elderly women
love to issue brash sexual challenges and to
reminisce about the days of small
breechcloths when, given the correct angle,
you could enjoy a good view of a man's
testicles and so on. When this kind of joking
is exchanged between sexually active peo-
ple, it often ends in a clandestine ren-
dezvous. A teenager whose husband had

Sally Price is a Postdoctural Fellow in the De-
partment of Anthropology at Johns Hopkins
University. She is presently doing research in
Martinique. This article is excerpted from her
book, Co-wives and Calabashes, to be pub-
lished by the University of Michigan Press in
December. Co-wives and Calabashes won for
Sally Price the Alice and Edith Hamilton Prize,
an annual prize for the best book-length man-
uscript illuminating the lives and achieve-
ments of women.

gone to the coast a few months earlier, for
example, once complained to a young man
in my presence that she had not been feel-
ing well. He offered to diagnose the prob-
lem for her, describing at length how he
would have to feel all around until he arrived
at a certain place that God had given her.
"What place was that," she inquired coyly.
"A very special place that was made to be
shared with others," he replied. He then
amused her with tall tales about the size of
his penis. Even if they slept at opposite ends
of the village, he boasted, he would still be
able to make her pregnant. In the course of
the conversation, she mentioned casually
that she always slept alone in her house.
The stage was set.
Partly as a result of such exchanges,
nights are a time of active travel on the
Suriname River and its tributaries, as men
quietly paddle through the darkness to vil-
lages where lovers await them. A woman
whose husband was away for the night once
remarked, "All men 'walk about' too much.
As soon as night falls, they're out there on
the water, and they just keep fooling around
until dawn, without even sleeping." Al-
though sexual adventures may be initiated
by either the man or the woman, men seem
to take pleasure in recounting experiences
in which they played a passive role and were
seduced by an extraordinarily beautiful (and
often anonymous) woman. In some, the
encounter culminates in the discovery that
the woman had been a female forest spirit
disguised as a human being. In all, it is
the man's personal irresistibility that drives
the woman mad with desire and leads her
to pursue him. I cite here two variations
of a favorite theme that were told during a
men's meal in Dangogo.
One man related how an attractively fat
Saramaka woman once got off a bus with
him in the coastal village of Balen. Walking
along, they came to a creek, where she
asked him to hold her towel while she
bathed. He stood motionless on the bank
and watched as she removed first her dress,
then her slip and finally her underpants.
There were her beadlike cicatrizations, glis-
tening in the sun! Then she went to the side
of the stream where she defecated and then

urinated, he said, providing graphic sound
effects for each body function. After she
bathed, she put on her underpants, her slip
and her dress and said, "Let's go." She took
him to her house and told him that she slept
there all alone. Unfortunately, he said, he
was recovering from a hernia operation, so
he told her good-by and walked away.
Inspired by this episode, an older man
followed it with the story of a local woman
who once asked him to accompany her
upstream to her garden. At dawn they met at
a designated bend in the river. She then
joined him in his canoe, and they continued
to the landing place of her horticultural
camp. Halfway along the forest path, she
announced that she was hot and tired and
would like to wash off in the creek. The man
telling the story detailed the removal of
each piece of clothing and, like his younger
friend, stressed that he watched the entire
process without moving or making a
sound. When she was finished bathing,
they went to her house in the camp. There
he sat down on a stool and stared and
stared at her until he could stand it no
longer, and they finally made love.
An extramarital relationship may con-
tinue secretly for some time because of
various kinds of obstacles to marriage. A
woman who is having an affair while her
husband is on the coast would be giving up
a great deal if she remarried before he re-
turned and distributed the supplies that he
bought there. Lovers whose kinship ties or
ritual involvements could cause them prob-
lems often try to keep their affair from
becoming public. Members of a single lin-
eage, for example, or people whose lin-
eages are linked by an "avenging spirit" are
loathe to announce a desire to marry. And a
man who is sleeping with a woman in a
village or lineage where he has a past his-
tory of adultery is particularly careful to
keep out of sight of the woman's kinsmen
and neighbors. If an affair continues over
time, however, it inevitably enters into the
stream of village and regional gossip. The
woman's young child may refer innocently
to the man's visits; someone may see him
leaving her house before dawn; something
he owns may be noticed in her house; or

26/CAIBBEAN REVIEW

she may become pregnant. However it
leaks out, an affair that becomes public
knowledge is a matter of concern to the
relatives of both participants, and efforts are
made either to terminate it (not an option if
it has resulted in pregnancy) or to recognize
it as a legitimate marriage.
Marriages that are not preceded by exten-
sive discussion, controversy and negotia-
tion are extremely rare in Saramaka. The
number of people who feel entitled to raise
objections, together with the range of social
and ritual problems that can be cited, put
almost any relationship in a potentially
questionable light. But it is also rare for the
objections not to be manageable through
some combination of persuasion, divina-
tion, prayer, ritual action and compensatory
payments. Pregnancies constitute an es-
pecially forceful incentive for the resolution
of problems: the man's kin take pride in
his ability to provide the other group with a
new member, and the woman's kin are ea-
ger to legitimize the relationship for the sake
of the child's well-being.
The recognition of a marriage-through
a formal announcement to the ancestors
and the exchange of special gifts-estab-
lishes partnerships that vary greatly in their
stability and tone. At one extreme, a preg-
nant woman whose lover fulfills his conju-
gal duties only reluctantly and minimally
and then leaves her after the child is born is
described as having taken a fendi m nu-
a "husband for [nothing but] sex." At the
other extreme, a woman may spend her
whole life with a single husband, living pri-
marily in his village, gardening with his
mother and sisters and sharing the raising
of her children with him and his kin; and a
man may offer the kind of emotional com-
mitment and material security to a wife that
gradually builds a relationship of total and
lifelong solidarity. Most conjugal relation-
ships not only fall somewhere in between
these extremes, but also vacillate through
time. A woman may alter her primary resi-
dense according to the husband's chang-
ing involvements with other wives; strained
relations between in-laws may discourage
either partner from visiting the other's vil-
lage; personal obligations such as attention

to a possession god or mourning for a close
relative may cut into the time they have
together; a joint trip to the coast may
strengthen the marriage. And a couple may
divorce and remarry later, sometimes with
different spouses in the interim, as they play
out the passions and frustrations of a
stormy love relationship.

Individuals also vary considerably in the
kinds of marriages they are inclined to de-
velop. Some men acquire reputations as
die-hard monogamists, either out of per-
sonal preference or from an inability to
manage the jealousies of co-wives, while
others are referred to as "many-wife-ers"
(hia-muy&8-ma) because of their prefer-

CAIBBEAN FEVIEW/27

ence for having four or more wives at a time.
One Dangogo man was widely criticized for
divorcing wives too readily, while his
nephew was mocked for keeping wives who
were known to be unfaithful. One 30-year-
old woman was devoting her adult life to the
pursuit of a man who had rejected her after
a brief marriage, following his activities
from day to day, baring her soul to any of his
relatives who would listen, and gossiping
heatedly about his continuing marriages.
Another woman was famous for marrying
anyone who could supply her with tobacco
and, by menopause, had had eight recog-
nized marriages, five of which lasted less
than a year. Styles of marrying are one of the
many ways in which Saramakas play out
their individuality. There is a full range of
culturally acceptable arrangements within
which people experience very different
selections and find very different kinds
of satisfaction.

A Man's-eye View of Marriage
The emotions that are felt between mar-
riage partners are as varied as the individual
personalities themselves, ranging from ad-
miration to condescension, trust to suspi-
cion, fulfillment to frustration, and lively
passion to near indifference. But some of
these feelings are promoted more strongly
than others by cultural convention, tradi-
tional wisdom, and popular consensus.
One of these is a husband's distrust of his
wife. Saramaka men view wives as poten-
tially untrustworthy, and protect themselves
by taking wives into their confidence only
partially and with real caution. A folktale
about a legendary hunter, Basi Kodjo, de-
scribes how he was nearly lured to his death
by the Bush Cows that he had been killing
when one of them assumed the form of a
beautiful woman and became his wife. Like
a Saramaka Mata Hari, she used her ex-
traordinary sexual charms to pry out the
secrets of his success and of his invul-
nerability to attack. It was only at the very last
moment that his wise grandmother inter-
vened, warning him against revealing his
final secret, and setting up the bloody con-
frontation in which he foiled the treachery of
his seductive wife and slew the entire Bush
Cow population. Although this tale serves
as a caution against trusting outsiders, it is
also explicitly understood by Saramaka
men as a warning about women and, in
particular, wives. Men all agree in principle
that it is foolish to tell wives about their
protective "medicines." One supported this
view by describing what could happen if he
were to reveal to a wife the rituals with which
he protected his hunting dog from jaguars,
explaining that in a later moment of jealous
rage, for example over a co-wife, she would
be in a position to kill the dog out of spite by
transgressing one of the special prohibi-
tions required by the protective ritual. Men

are also concerned with protecting their
possessions from their wives, and it is cus-
tomary for a man to lock his house and take
the key whenever he leaves the village so
that his wives will not help themselves to
supplies such as kerosene or soap.
Men recognize that such fears are more
justified in some cases than in others, and
some "test" each of their wives through sys-
tematic experimentation. One man left a jar
of pomade in his wife's house each time he
married, to see whether she would take any
of it while he was away with his other wives.
And trivial demands are sometimes made

The segregation of the
sexes is as strongly
embedded in Saramaka
concepts of propriety for
meals as it is in Western
notions about public
bathrooms.

by men expressly to reassure themselves of
a wife's reliability and obedience.
Men also think that women must be
"trained" by their husbands in order to be-
come fully accomplished in the art of wifely
service. One man took pleasure in describ-
ing how one of his wives had not realized,
until he took the time to explain it to her, that
pieces of manioc cake should be served
with the patterned side facing up. Another
made a point of correcting the way a young
wife tied up her hammock when not in use.
In general, men address many criticisms
directly to their wives (about their dress,
their social behavior, their cooking and so
forth) of a sort that would be entirely inap-
propriate for the women to reciprocate.
In Saramaka ideology, only a man is en-
titled to make direct demands on a spouse.
He may tell her to cook when he is hungry
or to prepare heated water for him to bathe
in, but she must never be the one to suggest
that he go hunting or fishing. He may send
her on small errands, but when she needs
some service from him, she must make a
formal plea for his cooperation, often with
the help of a member of his family who is in
a position to ask him favors on her behalf.
A man may also place restrictions on his
wife's social life. One man, for example, for-
bade his wife to visit her classificatory sister
who lived in another section of his village,
on the grounds that it was improper for a
woman to wander about in a husband's
village as if it were her own.
The way in which spouses address and talk
about each other reinforces the asymmetry
of their relationship. A husband may use any

of his wife's names freely, bothwhen speaking
to her and when talking about her. In contrast,
it is generally only an older woman who has
been married to the same man for many
decades, who feels audacious enough to call
out his name; proper etiquette prescribes
avoidance of a husband's name, and the use
of respectfully elliptical substitutions such as
"that man there".
Meals are another reflection of the nature
of husband-wife relations. To Saramakas on
the Pikilio, the separation of the sexes dur-
ing meals is an essential principle of daily
life, and the way in which men expect to be
served relates directly to cultural ideas
about male and female roles. Visual isola-
tion continues to be the critical variable. To
Saramakas, one of the most exotic features
of Western culture is the custom of women
eating within sight of their husbands; the
segregation of the sexes is as strongly em-
bedded in Saramaka concepts of propriety
for meals as it is in Western notions about
public bathrooms.
In this context, men's meals are seen as a
crucial test of the success with which each
women fulfills her role as a wife. While a
woman eats her own meals informally,
often directly out of cooking pots, she lav-
ishes the utmost care on those prepared for
her husband. When men's meals are con-
cerned, Saramakas are extremely attentive
to the shape and color of manioc pieces,
the immaculateness of the dishwares, the
coolness and clarity of the water, the white-
ness of the rice and the smoothness with
which it is mounded and the amount of
bone and fat included in the meat or fish.
The proper arrangement of men's meals is
carefully specified. The calabash hand-wash-
ing bowl must cradle the calabash drinking
bowl, with a metal spoon placed inside; each
food dish must have a cover, and the water
must be served in a sparkling aluminum
teapot. These displays are the symbolic
culmination of Saramaka women's work, for
behind each meal that a woman serves her
husband lies her horticultural efforts, her
skills at food processing and cooking, her
attention to cleanliness and her mastery of
the etiquette of meal service itself. Even her
artistic sensitivities are in evidence, for the
calabash bowls must be handsomely carved
and a colorfully embroidered cloth ideally
covers the entire setting until the men sit
down to eat.
Conventions of sexual behavior also re-
flect the Saramaka view that men should be
less accountable to their wives than women
are to their husbands. As one man noted:
"Men are more difficult [m66 6gi-literally,
'fiercer'] than women. If you're a man, you
can interrupt an evening chat with your wife
and say, 'Well, good night. I'm going over
there [to my other wife's house].' The wife
will just say good night. But if a woman tried
that, she'd never set foot in that house
again! That's just the way men are made."

28/CAIBBEAN REVIEW

This image accurately portrays the usual
behavior, if not the emotions, of Saramaka
wives. I once saw a young woman looking
on, for example, as her husband loaded a
marriage basket to present to a new wife;
her resentment remained largely under
control, expressed only in the bitter remark,
made under her breath, that his excessive
passion for this new woman was going to
drive him to carry water from the river for
her (a task that Saramaka women normally I
perform for their husbands).
A man requires his wife to tolerate not
only his other marriages, but also his affairs,
and may even ask her help in getting to-
gether his best clothes for a night out in an r
undisclosed woman's hammock. The num-
ber of different women that a man sleeps .
with over the course of a lifetime may easily -
run into the hundreds. My neighbor Naai
once lamented that one of her great-grand- ,
sons was going to have a hard time finding
a wife because there were almost no eligible
women on the Pikilio with whom his older
brother had not already either been married
or had an affair. As one of the older brother's
wives listened quietly, she discussed how,
since two brothers should not "take" the
same woman, the younger one's option
was betrothal with an apron girl.
For a married woman, the main deterrent
against having an affair is the understand-
ing that her husband will leave her if her
infidelity is discovered. But more direct
means of control are said to be used by
some men who are particularly concerned
about keeping their wives to themselves.
One man prepared for a trip to Paramaribo
by aggressively forbidding everyone except -
one old, crippled woman from approaching
his house during his absence, in order to
assure his wife's fidelity. And some indi- "
viduals allegedly know how to make ritual
preparations that can prevent a woman -
from having intercourse with men other
than her husband-most commonly when
the latter is on the coast. Some of these
operate by rendering her lover impotent, .
others by making her unable to say yes
to another man's advances. There are
also said to be solutions that a couple can
rub on their bodies to make their marriage
last forever. All such preparations are con-
sidered extremely dangerous to use, and
stories of cases in which they backfired and
killed one or another or the people involved
are frightening enough to make most men -
vow never to try them.

A Husband's Family
Among her husband's kin, a woman is al- A2
ways considered an outsider, a "woman-
come-to-a-husband" (muy~&-k6-a-
mrnu), and her guest status in the village is ..
symbolized in many ways. She does not
leave her house without the double layer of
skirts and the decoratively sewn cape re-
Continued on page 54 Five-year-old playing dress-up. On page 27: 40-year-old woman.

CAIBBEAN 11EIW/29

The Incomplete Haitiana

A New Research Bibliography on Haiti

Reviewed by L6on-Frangois Hoffmann

The Complete Haitiana-A
Bibliographic Guide to the
Scholarly Literature 1900-1980.
Michel S. Laguerre. 2 vols., lxxiii,
806 pp.; xix, 756 pp. Kraus
International Publishers, Millwood,
N.Y; London, England; Nendeln,
Liechtenstein. 1982. $250.00.

he Complete Haitiana-A Bibli-

ographic Guide to the Scholarly
Literature 1900-1980 consolidates
various bibliographies dealing with all as-
pects of Haitian reality, and adds a consider-

Leon-Frangois Hoffmann teaches in the De-
partment of Romance Languages and Litera-
tures at Princeton University. His book, Le
Roman Haitien, Id6ologie et Structure, has re-
cently been published by Editions Naaman in
Quebec, Canada.

able number of entries. It covers "books,
monographs, theses, dissertations, reports,
essays in books and encyclopedias, journal
and magazine articles, government docu-
ments, pamphlets, documents of interna-
tional organizations, conference proceed-
ings and feasibility studies." It is international
in scope. Entries are grouped under 65 topi-
cal headings. Many entries are cross-listed.
Scholars have long waited for the ap-
pearance of such a reference work, and we
are all grateful for the availability of The
Complete Haitiana. This is all the more
reason to regret that it is so amateurish and
slipshod. Of its most salient imperfections I
shall mention only a few.
A rapid check of the entries dealing with
language and linguistics turns up no fewer
than ten missing relevant books and arti-
cles. These are not obscure, marginal pub-
lications, but include Paul C. Berry: Writing
Haitian Creole (1964), Serge Denis: Nos
Antilles. Notre creole (1975) and loana

Vintila-Radulescu: Le Creole franqais
(1976). That Michel Laguerre has missed
Paul Zumthor's article "Le Francais creole
de Haiti," in the Dutch collection Levende
Talen (1953) is excusable; but he has also
missed (among others) Fr6d6ric Doret: "Le
Cr6ole" (Le Temps, 1940), David Odnell:
"Le Creole, langue national du people ha-
itien" (Panorama, 1955) and Gerard F6r-
6re: "Diglossia in Haiti" (Caribbean
Quarterly, 1977).
The same spotty coverage is apparent as
regards religion and especially vodm~n-all
the more surprising in that Laguerre has
written extensively on the subject. I will men-
tion only three books, one in German, one
in Portuguese and one in Spanish, to illus-
trate that The Complete Haltlana's claim
to be international in scope should be ac-
cepted with reservations. They are: Axel
Danneskjold-Samsoe: Der Schlangen-
kult in Oberguinea und auf Haiti (1907),
Arthur Ramos: As cultures negras no
nouo mundo (1937) and Carlos Este-
ban Deive: Vodu y magia en Santo Do-
mingo (1974).
As for topical headings and cross-refer-
ences, I will only deal with literature and
literary criticism, about which 1 know some-
thing. While there is no heading for works of
fiction dealing with Haiti, a number of nov-
els and plays by non-Haitian authors are
listed. Thus Graham Greene's novel The
Comedians is found under "History of
Haiti" and Aim6 C6saire's play La Tragedie
du roi Christophe under "Biography." One
wonders why Guy Endore's Babouk, a
novel loosely based on the life of Makandal,
is listed under "Folklore" but not cross-
listed under "Biography" or "History." And
since Laguerre includes such marginally
relevant adventure novels as Jean-Baptiste
Cayeux's L'Agent special chez les ton-
tons-macoutes and G6rard de Villiers'
S.A.S. Requiem pour tontons-mac-
outes as well as Hughes Rebell's porno-
graphic Les Nuits chaudes du Cap-
Franqais (under "Urban Studies"!), why
not Don Smith's equally worthless Haitian
Vendetta? Kenneth Roberts' 1947 best sell-
ing historical novel Lydia Bailey is not
listed, but, under "Travel and Description,"

30/CAIBBEAN F'VIEW

we find: "Roberts, K., 1952, On Haiti: ex-
cerpt from Lydia Bailey. Sat Rev 35 Oct
18:62." Beale Davis' potboiler The Goat
Without Horns is listed under "Religion,"
but no mention is made of Henry Bedford-
Jones' Drums of Dambala, or of Theo-
dore Roscoe's Murder on The Way, or of
John W. Vandercook's Murder in Haiti (al-
though other works by Vandercook are in-
cluded). In Spanish, Alejo Carpentier's El
reino de este mundo is listed (though not
under its Spanish but under its French title:
Le Royaume de ce monde), but not his El
siglo de las luces. We also find Freddy
Prestol-Castillo's El Masacre se pasa a
pie, but neither Jaime Laso's Black y
blanc, nor Julio Gonzalez Herrera's Tre-
mentlna, cleren y bong6, nor Gerardo
Gallego's El embrujo de Haiti.
A "Foreign Fiction Dealing With Haiti"
heading would have been interesting and
useful. At the very least, such works, whim-
sically scattered as they are among various
headings, should have been identified as
fiction. One is amused at the thought of a
historian interested in the American oc-
cupation of Haiti making desperate efforts
to consult Irwin (not Erwin, as listed in The
Complete Haitiana) Franklyn's Knights
of the Cockpit, only to find that it is a
quasisurrealistic fantasy, in which US Ma-
rine pilots fly in the face of Caco anti-aircraft
batteries and foil a plot by a nephew of the
Habsburgs to have himself crowned Em-
peror of Haiti.
Haitian novels, not identified as such, are
also peppered throughout, without rhyme
or reason, under various headings. If Fille
d'Haiti, by Marie Chauvet (unsexed and re-
baptized Maurice Chauvet by Laguerre) is
found under "Socialization, Family and Kin-
ship," why not herLa Danse sur le volcan,
or her Fonds des NLgres? My favorite
among works of this kind is Joseph V.
Pierre-Louis' Pied de femmes [sic]. What
this barely literate musing by a pathetic foot
fetishist is doing under "Music and Dance"
is anyone's guess.
Laguerre has nothing but criticism for his
predecessor Max Bissainthe, without whose
Dictionnaire de bibliographie haitienne
(composed without benefit of large grants,

Market Women by Dieudonne Cedor. Facing page: Mountain Road by Eddy Pierre. From the
collection of the Haitian Art Co., Key West, Florida.

computers and professional staff), he could
never have attempted his own arrogantly -
and erroneously entitled "Complete"
Haitlana. Bissainthe at least took the trou-
ble to look at his material.
That no heading is provided for literary
criticism, although a considerable number
of entries are precisely that, will, I suppose,
be regretted only by students of literature. To
be sure, most writings on Haitian literature
can be construed to deal, directly or indi-
rectly, with "History," "Cultural Identity," "Val-
ues and Norms" and such. But, here again,
one is puzzled by the criteria used both to
select and to arrange entries. Surely such
important articles as Frederic Doret: "A pro-
pos d'une enquite: pourquoi I'on ne lit pas

en Haiti" (La Petite Revue, 1927), or Ste-
phen Alexis: "Modern Haitian Thought"
(Books Abroad, 1956), or Maks Dominik:
"Vodou ak literati ayisyin" (Sel, 1978)
should have been included. If my "L'lmage
de la femme dans le poesie haitienne," why
not G&rard Etienne's "La Femme noire
dans le discours litteraire haitien"? Ulrich
Fleischmann's excellent Ideologie und
Wirklichkeit in der Literatur Haitis
(1969) is missing, although his cursory
1976 resume in French of this fundamental
work is included (22.0032). To the literary
scholar, The Complete Haitiana will
prove next to useless.
It will not be of much help to the student
Continued on page 59

CAI?BBEAN iEVlEW/31

Reggae In

Spiritual Balm fo:

Reviewed by

Reggae International, Stephen
Davis and Peter Simon. 192 pp.
Alfred A. Knopf/Rogner and
Bernhard Books, New York, 1983.
$14.95

A anyone who travels knows thatJamai-
can reggae has swept through the
world like a cultural shockwave. Bob
Marley T-shirts abound in Paris, Lagos,
Kuala Lampur. His bootlegged cassettes
blare from stereo boxes in Morocco and
Nepal. There are Rastafarian reggae bands
in South Africa, Brazil and Kansas-the last
composed of dreadlocksed white musi-
cians who play stunning versions of classic
Studio One rhythms from the early days of
reggae in Kingston. In Australia, an aborig-
ine reggae band called No Fixed Address
plays to sell-out crowds in Sydney, New
South Wales.
In the ten years since Perry Henzell's
seminal film The Harder They Come in-
formed the youth of North America and
Europe of the raw electric energy of Jamai-
can music, reggae has, as the song lyric
says, "gone international."
In their ambitious new book, Reggae In-
ternational, Stephen Davis and Peter Si-
mon chronicle the amazing cultural
diaspora of Jamaican music. In less than
200 oversize pages, they attempt to explain
a country, a culture, and a people as well as
a music. The miracle is that they succeed,
combining a text by the most authoritative
Jamaican, English and American writers on
reggae with hundreds of colorful, visually
seductive images of Jamaican life. In their
earlier book, Reggae Bloodlines (1977),
Davis and Simon, a reporter/photographer
team that has covered Jamaica for The
New York Times and The Boston Globe,
offered a journalistic portrait of Jamaica
during the rough political climate of 1976.
But where Reggae Bloodlines only offered
a highly subjective, impressionist reading of

Alan Greenberg is a respected film-maker
whose most recent work, Land of Look Behind,
is a documentary of Jamaica in the wake of
Bob Marley's funeral in 1981. His next project
is Love In Vain, the life of Mississippi bluesman
Robert Johnson.

Jamaican society, Reggae International
brims with a dry-eyed scholarship at once
very passionate and entertaining to read.
The new book's greatest asset is editor
Davis's multinational cast of authors. In his
thoughtful introduction, Michael Manley
defines reggae as a "revolutionary im-
pluse," and candidly describes Bob Mar-
ley's 1971 Jamaican hit "Trench Town
Rock" as one of the catalysts of his own
radicalization and identification with the Ja-
maican underclass. Manley's years as prime
minister (1972-80) coincided with reggae's
international rise, and here for the first time
this literate and articulate politician de-
scribes how reggae influenced his years
in office.
After Davis conducts the reader on a brief
voyage through the cruel ironies of Jamai-
can history (his theory that West Indian
sugar literally energized early modern Eu-
rope to imperial domination over the rest of
the world is interesting but debatable), Reg-
gae International begins with a scholarly
examination of the role played by music in
Jamaica's turbulent past. In his first chapter,
"Voices Crying in the Wilderness," Garth
White, director of Kingston's African-Carib-
bean Institute, reviews almost 500 years of
Jamaican music, from the feather-clad
drummers and trumpeters accompanying
an Arawak cacique to his first meeting with
Columbus in 1494, to the dangerous,
bumping proto-reggae of the Rude Boys,
those mid-60s urban terrorists of the West
Kingston ghettos. White chillingly de-
scribes the response of Jamaican slave cul-
ture to the European music-quadrilles,
waltzes, sea chanteys-it was exposed to
over the centuries, as well as the secret sur-
vival of African rhythms in the rituals of spirit
cults like Pocomania, gumbay, obeah and
myal. In the following chapter, "Ska and
Rock Steady," White identifies for the first
time a distinctive third stream flowing be-
tween the bouncing ska of the early 1960s
and the slowed-down Rock Steady music
that prefigured modern reggae after the hot
summer of 1966. This new element in the
development of reggae was Rude Boy mu-
sic, based on James Brown's sound and
preeminant in Jamaica in 1964-65. Among
the Rude Boys' earliest musical heroes were
Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Bunny
Livingston, or "The Wailing Rude Boy
Wailers," as they were known at the time.

32/CAIBBEAN rEView

ernational

i Trembling World

Alan Greenberg

Other writers take up the early days of
reggae itself. Randall Grass (a respected
writer on African music) writes on the trans-
formation of basic Jamaican rhythms into
reggae and the development of the Jamai-
can harmony trio, the key vocal configura-
tion in reggae from the Maytals to Black
Uhuru. A previously unpublished writer,
Luke Ehrlich, contributes important essays
on the technical structure of reggae and on
the peculiar art form of Jamaican "Dub"
music, instrumental re-mixes of reggae
songs that appear on the flip sides ofJamai-
can records to be used as the basis of
"toasts" by the disc jockeys at Jamaica's
outdoor "sound system" dances. Ehrlich's
apt metaphor for dub is "x-ray music," since
in dub the vocals and lead instrumental
parts are usually erased, leaving only the
barest rhythmic bones of the original tune.
The most original writing in Reggae In-
ternational is the almostJoycean carib pa-
tois of Jamaica's prime reggae writer, Carl
Gayle, who contributes a 15,000-word
jeremiad on the deejays who have basically
taken over Jamaican music since the 1981
death of Bob Marley. Hot deejays like Yel-
lowman, Lui Lepke and Eek-A-Mouse are
Jamaica's street poets, oracular journalists
and phrase makers, and the whole nation
seems to rock to their ribald litanies and
catechisms on Saturday nights. Gayle's pa-
tois is written phonetically, giving the reader
an unerring feeling of the lilt and synco-
pated tilt of Jamaican speech.
This book contains dozens of concise
and often funny interviews with reggae's
master musicians, but it is Bob Marley, the
so-called King of Reggae, who naturally
gets pride of place in this text. Davis in-
cludes one of the last major interviews that
Marley gave, filled with insights into his
character and personality, illustrated by a
dozen extraordinary family snapshots of
Marley's youth in the hill parish of St. Ann.
Bob Marley saw his life and music as a
mission, a vocation to spread the message
that Ras Tafari-Emperor Haile Selassie I of
Ethiopia-was a contemporary messiah,
Jah incarnate. "We know and we under-
stand," he sang, "Almighty God is a living
man." The ingenuousness of that claim
goes unchallenged in Reggae Interna-
tional, which assumes that Rasta became
the ideology of reggae in the 1970s, a meta-
phoric spiritual nationality that provided

young Jamaicans with a dignified alterna-
tive to a life of menial labor or emigration.
Davis and Simon treat Rasta with sympathy,
and Selassie himself is given nothing less
than a hagiography. (Readers interested in
the other side of Selassie's reign should
consult the recently published The Em-
peror-Downfall of an Autocrat [Har-
court, Brace Jovanovich] by Polish
journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski.)
The latest trend in Jamaican music are
the "Dub poets," a new generation of folk
bards who embrace Jamaican speech to
the throb of hard dub rythms. In his pithy
and soulful essay, Mervyn Morris of the Uni-
versity of the West Indies celebrates the five
pioneer dub poets-Linton Kwesi John-
son, Mutabaruka, Oku Onuora, Brian
Meeks and Mikey Smith. After the recent
hegemony of "lovers rock" reggae and
deejay doggerel, the dub poets are reclaim-
ing reggae music for issues and ideas.
Reggae has become a world-wide me-
dium of dance and protest, and this interna-
tionalization of what began as Kingstonian
slum music is the prevailing theme of Reg-
gae International. Chapters on reggae in
England and so-called "White Reggae" are
slightly labored but still interesting for the
specialist. One of the best of these is a piece
on Britain's short-lived "2-Tone Movement"
of the early 1980s, in which integrated Eng-
lish bands united against racism and fas-
cism under the improbable aegis of recre-
ated ska rhythms, written by Dick Hebdige,
a young British sociologist and author of
the key work on dress factions (mods, rock-
ers and teddy boys) in England-Subcul-
ture-The Meaning of Style (Methuan).
The major presence in this book is Ste-
phen Davis, even though he usually sub-
merses his own voice beneath the eloquent
babble of his writers. Here he abandons the
casual, first-person style that gave Reggae
Bloodlinesits immediacy, and confines
himself to low-key profiles of Edward Seaga
and the crucial but usually ignored world of
Kingston's recording studios and session
musicians, as well as a final summing-up
that is very moving in terms of the passing
of Bob Marley and its meaning for Jamaica.
Davis feels that reggae music is a form of
Caribbean psychic hygiene, spiritual balm
for a world trembling on the brink of calam-
ity and suicide. Millions of fans around
the world would agree with him. D

CARBBCAN PtVIEW/33

CAI?BBEAN rEVIEW/35

ar;
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'-' --" ,:k

._ .- ... .-
_: ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 2 ._-_.. ..- .. .__ _-_-_-_ _-.._

Above, the poet Mutabaruka. Far right: scene from the state funeral of Robert Nesta Marley. Stills
from The Land of Look Behind.

The Land of Look Behind
Directed and produced by Alan
Greenberg; Director of photography:
Jorg Schmidt-Reitwein; Music by K.
Leimer, Bob Marley, and the Wallers. 90
minutes. Color, subtitles.

and of Look Behind is a film about
reggae music and the Rastafarian
Sect from which it springs. Shot on
location in Jamaica this film is a world apart
from its more commercially oriented prede-
cessors dealing with similar subject matter.
The Harder They Come had a melodra-
matic morality play plot and lots of sex and
violence alongside the music. Rockers re-
lied on a light comedy plot to showcase a
gang of Jamaican musicians at work and at
play. Land of Look Behind has neither
plot nor customary documentary narrative.
Instead it relies on lots of striking Jamai-
can images and a sequence of marijuana
drenched Rastafarians to tell their own sto-
ries. The advantage of this technique is that
no external voice, text or narrative is super-
imposed on the Rastafarians. The disad-
vantage is that in consciously speaking for
the white man's camera and tape recorder
(no actors are used), there is a conscious
insertion of even more rhetoric, hyperbole,

Aaron Segal teaches political science and
communications at the University of Texas at El
Paso. He regularly reviews films for Caribbean
Review.

36/CATFBBEAN PFVIEW

The Land of Look Behind

A Film About Reggae and Rastafarianism

Reviewed by Aaron Segal

and sheer posing than is part of this lo-
quacious sect. The director, in allowing the
Rastafarians on film to "be themselves," has
encouraged them to be a version of them-
selves which they hope will play well in Ja-
maica and abroad. For instance, a tailor
assures us that his sewing machine is only
"temporal work" and gives him no "spiritual
satisfaction" which he gets from being a
Rastafarian and from his future singing ca-
reer. Similarly, a small boy, huddled in a
corner and seemingly high on something,
proclaims that he is "the second Bob
Marley." (The film was made in May-June
1981 shortly after the death of the re-
nowned reggae singer).
Neither cinema verite nor ethnography,
this film is determined not to be a docu-
mentary nor to help viewers with clues. For
instance several Rastafarians refer to Mar-
cus Garvey (the Messianic Jamaican leader
of a 1920s Back-to-Africa movement) but
we are leftto puzzle out who he was and how
his movement related to the Rastafarians.
Several on-camera subjects talk about
Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia and his
portraits abound. Yet no narrative, voice-
over, text or director's clue gives us any idea
of how the Emperor fits into Rastafarian
beliefs, much less his dramatic visit to
Jamaica in 1971, or the effects on the sect
of his death in 1975.
Instead we have rhetoric, marijuana

smoke, and vivid images. Land of Look
Behind is the rugged, inaccessible Cockpit
Country of Central Jamaica where runaway
slaves carved out a strip of freedom. We
begin in Quick Step, a dilapidated village
whose dirt roads are dotted with wrecked
small planes; the jetsam of the marijuana
export trade. Then we go to Marley's mas-
sive funeral in Kingston, a posed sermon by
a robed Rastafarian dignitary, and a splash
of angry black man poetry by a Jamaican
who has taken an African name and who is
playing at being angry for the camera.
Two women sharing a bubble-pipe be-
side a stream espouse in verse their views
on women and Rastafarianism. The setting
is lovely and some of the verse effective but
one wonders whether they ever get around
to doing any laundry and if the men do the
same. Reggae singer Gregory Isaacs, a
young man clinging to his expensive cas-
sette player and records in the midst of ab-
ject poverty, our friend the spiritual tailor,
and others including a curbside male
"peacenik" all expound on their beliefs and
views. But we never stay with anyone long
enough to find out what they do off-camera
or whether there is more to Rastafarianism
than marijuana, reggae, and rhetoric
(there is).
Land of Look Behind fails as a film
about Rastafarians although it tries much
harder than its predecessors. It fails be-

cause it takes at their word a few self-se-
lected spokesmen rather than examining
what this religion means to the lives of its
ordinary followers.
Land of Look Behind is much better as
a film about the impact of reggae music on
Jamaica. Here its images are effective: of
thousands quietly mourning Marley, of
flourishing recording studios feeding the
dreams and fantasies of thousands, and of
songs such as "a rich man's heaven is a
poor man's hell" which capture the experi-
ences of so many Jamaicans. Born in the
Kingston slums, put together by self-taught
musicians, introducing a beat which re-
flects the hazardous, edgy but essentially
optimistic quality of Kingston slum life, reg-
gae is Jamaican with its roots Rastafarian.
Only in Jamaica do its lyrics and music
syncopate and speak directly to so many.
Elsewhere reggae for export has relied pri-
marily on its beat which has been incorpo-
rated into a bewildering variety of different
sounds in Britain and North America.Land
of Look Behind has more than a dozen
songs, shots of several live performers, and
even more poignant-of Jamaican reggae
audiences. Its soundtrack is available as a
commercial recording. This film offers a
glimpse of the meaning of reggae to a few
Jamaicans. It is their investment in hope
and dignity in a world which is often poverty,
humiliation, and sorrow. O

CAI?BBCAN rEVIEW/37

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Francisco Oiler

19th Century Puerto Rican Artist

By Haydee Venegas

rancisco Oiler lived his life between a
Paris in the full throes of an artistic
revolution, a Spain that was about to
lose the last vestiges of her former power,
and a Puerto Rico that was developing a
self-identity and national culture.
Oiler's style tended to take on the aes-
thetic color of the place where he was work-
ing. He understood and adopted the
aesthetic outlook of the realism and proto-
impressionism of his years as a student in
Paris in 1858 to 1865; of the full impres-
sionism prevailing during his second trip in
1874, and of the late-impressionism of his
third and last trip of 1895 to 1896. In Spain
one of the greatest masters of all times,
Velazquez, exerted a profound influence on
his work. In Puerto Rico he participated in
movements that provoked social and cul-
tural change.
Oiler studied his country intensively and
gave us his interpretation of what Puerto
Rico was like during his lifetime without
ever falling into the trap of the picturesque.
He rejected the Academy and even while in
Puerto Rico, far from the avant-garde move-
ments and lacking the stimulus of contact
with other painters, he was able to maintain
a high level of artistic production. Francisco
Oiler was the first painter to ponder deeply
on the meaning of Puerto Rico. His relative,
Jos6 Paniagua, stated that Oiler: "worked
principally in the realist school, what I would
dare to call 'boricuismo'."
But even though much of Oiler's oeuvre
deals with the reality of Puerto Rico, its great
men, its landscape, its fruits, this is not the
only frame of reference for his painting. His

Haydee Venegas is Assistant to the Director of
the Museo de Arte de Ponce in Puerto Rico.
The Museum is present commemorating the
150th anniversary of the birth of Francisco
Oiler with a special exhibition (until 31 Decem-
ber 1983). The Oiler exhibition will also be
seen at the following locations: El Museo del
Barrio, New York (20 January to 18 March
1984); Museo de Arte Contemporaneo de
America Latina, Washington (30 March to 6
May 1984); Museum of Fine Arts, Springfield,
Mass. (27 May to 6 July 1984); Museo Univer-
sidad de Puerto Rico, Rio Piedras (August
through September 1984).

Self-Portrait. Un page 38: ne Student.
presence and participation in the avant-
garde movements that changed the course
of Westem art is of major importance, as is
the influence he exerted on 19th century
Spanish art. From a remote and isolated
Puerto Rico, Oiler left us significant images
which, while depicting themes of local ori-
gin, transcend the limits the Caribbean Sea
and Atlantic Ocean placed on his native
island.
Francisco Manuel Oiler, son of Cayetano
Juan Oiler y Fromesta and Maria del Car-
men Cestero y Dbvila, was born on 17 June
1833 on Cristo Street in Old San Juan, now
occupied by the Parque de las Palomas.
From his early youth Oiler showed a great
interest in drawing. In 1844, his father sent
him to the studio of Juan Cleto Noa to take
his first lessons. Such was the child's talent
that after nine months his teacher no longer
had anything to teach him.
Thanks to an interest in calligraphy, upon
finishing his studies in 1848, Oiler began
work as a clerk in the Royal Treasury in San
Juan. This lasted a short time: "he was dis-
missed...when he was found caricaturing
the superintendent and the head of the de-
partment. On seeing the caricatures Gover-
nor Juan Prim recognized the youth's talent
and offered to send him to study in Rome."

Spain and France
The desire to study painting in Europe re-

mained very much on his mind. In 1857 he
went to Spain. There he enrolled in the
Academy of San Fernando under Federico
de Madrazo y Kuntz (1815-1894). Of his
production during the year and a half he
spent studying in Spain, all that survives is a
small painting, Lady Bullfighter on a
horse. This is the oldest extant original
composition by Oiler, and here he displays
a greater knowledge of anatomical drawing
and an increased control of brushwork. He
returned to Puerto Rico.
He was able to raise some mastered
money and in 1858 he traveled once more
to Europe. It is not yet known why he chose
to go to Paris on this occasion when Rome
was still considered the Mecca of art, but it
could have been due to the influence of his
former teacher Federico de Madrazo who
had studied in Paris. Moreover, at this time,
France exerted a very strong cultural influ-
ence on Spanish America. That same year
Dr. Ram6n Emeterio Betances, a passion-
ate advocate of Puerto Rican independence
and the abolition of slavery, was exiled in
Paris, where other young men from wealthy
creole families were also pursuing studies.
Oiler enrolled in the studio of academic
painter Thomas Couture (1815-1879).
During the time that Oiler studied with Cou-
ture, he proved to be, according to Cort6n,
"an affectionate protector." Couture visited
the studio twice weekly to watch the pro-
gress of his students and to correct their
works. His teaching was based on the im-
portance of drawing as the foundation of
painting, on the study of classical propor-
tions, on a knowledge of anatomy, and the
need to copy the works of the old masters.
Oiler also enrolled in the studio of Gleyre
together with Monet, Bazille and Sisley. This
atelier was the most promising center of
studies prior to the reform of the Academy
in 1863. Gleyre's theories and methods of
teaching were similar to those of Couture.
Oiler showed a keen interest in studying;
attending night courses at the Ecole Impe-
rial et Special de Dessin and morning
classes at the Academie Suisse.
Camille Pissarro was probably one of the
first artists with whom Oiler became friendly
on his arrival in Paris, due to their common

CAIBBEAN "PCvEW/39

-S

The Ponce Silk-Cotton Tree
Caribbean background. Oiler painted with
Pissarro and David Jacobsen at La Roche
Guyon. Already by 1861 Antoine Guillemet
and Paul Cezanne, and later Armand
Guillaumin, were working at the Suisse. In
1895 Pissarro wrote to his son that it was
Oiler who took him to meet Cezanne: "Was I
not right when in 1861 Oiler and I went to
see the curious provencial at the Acad6mie
Suisse where Cezanne's figure drawings
were ridiculed by all the important artists,
among them the famous Jacquet whose
works sold at exhorbitant prices."
Oiler was often to be found at the Cafe
Guerbois and the Brasserie Andler and the
Brasserie des Martyrs. Others who fre-
quented these spots included Ricardo de
los Rios, Dr. Aguiar, Paul Martinez, Theodule
Ribot, Antoine Vollin, Edouard Manet,
Edgar Degas. Founded in 1845, the Bras-
serie Andler, located at the Rue
Hautefeuielle #28, was a favorite resort of
Gustave Courbet and Charles Baudelaire
and was known as the "realists sanctuary."
In 1859, Courbet began to visit the Bras-
serie des Martyrs where he made his fa-
mous utterances in defense of realism.
Thereafter Oiler embraced the teachings of
Courbet and was immediately converted to
that avant-garde movement.
The younger painters preferred the Cafe
Guerbois, located at the Avenue Clichy,
where Manet defended Courbet's theories
and Zola expounded on avant-garde art and
literature. The subjects of discussion, not
restricted to defending realist doctrines, in-

cluded commentary on important exhibi-
tions as well as on the writings of such
cultural and scientific innovators as Charles
Darwin, whose famous work, The Origin of
the Species, was published in 1860.
At last, in 1864, a painting by Oiler was
accepted at the Salon: Castle in the
Vicinity of Saint-Michel (Oise ChAteau
aux environs du Saint-Michel Oise).
Cezanne's paintings were still not accepted
by the 1865 Salon. Oiler, however, had two
works exhibited then, a charcoal drawing of
his father, Cayetano Oiler, and Darkness
(Les Thnebres), a depiction of the darkness
following the Crucifixion.

Puerto Rico
Oiler returned to Puerto Rico with Dark-
ness which he gave to the Jesuits for the
Church of San Jos6 in San Juan. Soon
afterwards he wrote to his friend Pissarro.
Pissarro replied promptly on 14 December
1865. The intimate and irreverent tone of
his letter shows the close friendship and
affection that bound Pissarro and Oiler, and
the close ties between Pissarro, Cezanne
and Guillemet. The anti-clerical feeling of
the majority of the intellectuals and artists of
the time is clearly evident.
In spite of the contempt Pissarro felt for
the Academy and which he manifested in
no uncertain terms, he was atthe same time
interested in exhibiting at the Salon. Pissarro
wrote to Oiler that he, Cezanne and
Guillemet were hoping that Oiler would
send a painting to the 1866 Salon, prefera-

bly a study of a mulatto woman. The last day
for submitting works was 20 March. Unfor-
tunately, the two paintings arrived late. In
spite of his desire to do away with all that
stood for the Academy, Guillemet, too, was
interested in having Oiler send paintings to
the Salon and the Universal Exhibition of
1866, both controlled by the Academy. This
love-hate relationship was common to all
avant-garde artists at this time. C6zanne
tried during his whole life to have his paint-
ings accepted by the Salon but was only
able to get in once, and then only through
the assistance of Guillemet.
Guillemet also tried to convince Oiler to
return to Paris and told him that: "to be far
away from Paris is not good. New ideas are
constantly emerging. Tryto come back, ask
your sister-in-law for money, try to get
money-there is nothing like Paris. What
the devil do you want with Puerto Rico?"
When C6zanne found out that Oiler could
not return to Paris, he wrote Pissarro on 23
October 1866: "I am very sorry that Oiler, as
Guillemet tells me, cannot come back to
Paris, as he may be very bored at Porto Rico
and then too with no colours within reach, it
must be very difficult to paint."
The 1867 Salon accepted Oiler's Negro
Beggarwoman (La negresse men-
diante). This was one of the first works in
which Oiler openly manifested his anti-
slavery sentiments. He must have been very
attached to this painting, because he exhib-
ited it again in 1875 and 1883. The
Flogged Negro (Le negre fouette) is an-

40/CAfBBEAN I rVIE

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I-rencn Lanascape II
other painting in which Oiler censured the
dehumanizing institution of slavery. The in-
difference with which some of the slaves
witness the punishment inflicted on one of
their companions contrasts dramatically
with the blood-thirsty expression of the ex-
ecutioner. This painting and Negro Beg-
garwoman, as well as The Wake were
painted expressly for the Salon. After the
abolition of slavery Oiler would continue to
do works of social criticism, in which he
exalted the freed slaves and the oppressed
classes.
On 14 June, on the occasion of the
Fiestas de San Juan, Oiler presented 45
paintings to the Puerto Rican public on the
premises of the Sociedad Econ6mica de
Amigos del Pais. The exhibition established
Oiler's prestige among the intellectuals as
well as with the general public. Frederico
Asenjo closed his essay on the exhibition,
with the following words: "An artist who
reaches the stature of my friend Oiler has a
right to aspire to glory; and this unfortu-
nately our poor society cannot give him, as
it contains nothing that even hints at the
existence of the fine arts. All we can do here,
and it is indeed very little, is to recognize
him as our finest painter."
After the success of this exhibition Oiler
decided not to heed the advice of Asenjo,
Guillemet and Pissarro that he return to Eu-
rope. Instead, he established himself in San
Juan. He married Isabel Tinajero in that
same year, by whom he had two daughters.
On 1 September, Governor Jose Maria Mar-

chessi granted him permission to open his
Academy of Drawing and Painting at #11
San Jose Street. Over 200 students enrolled
in the school where they received free les-
sons using the Hendrick method. As a
guide to his pupils Oiler published in 1869 a
book called Conocimientos necesarios
para dibiuar de la Naturaleza: Elemen-
tos de laperspectiva al alcance de todos.
Some months after Oiler opened his
academy he asked for economic assistance
from the municipal government of San
Juan. In 1870, the Assembly approved a
subsidy of 100 escudos (50pesos) and the
Academy was constituted as a public con-
cern. For his work as an art teacher, on 10
November 1870 he was named Caballero
de la Real Orden de Carlos Ill, ratified by
Amadeo I the following year. In turn, as a
token of gratitude, Oiler decided to under-
take a portrait of the King. He exhibited the
portrait of Amadeo I at the Public Exhibition
of Agriculture, Industry and Art in June
1871. Governor General Gabriel Baldrich
awarded Oiler a gold medal and 500
pesetas. Baldrich also recommended Oiler
for a higher honor. In answer to this petition
King Amadeo I appointed Oiler Painter-in-
Ordinary on 22 January 1872.
General Baldrich was the best remem-
bered of all the Spanish governors of Puerto
Rico. Oiler's portrait of him depicts a man of
gentle and scrutinizing look; one hand
touches his sword, while the other is placed
on books. Baldrich was at the same time a
soldier and a man of culture who promoted

education and the arts. Oiler sought to
outdo himself in this painting; the subtle
tonalities of the face, the quality of his gaze
derive from a profound study of the sitter's
physical appearance and personality.

Return to Europe
For Oiler, the year 1873 began full of new
plans and hopes. Eight years had passed
since his return from Paris, and in spite of
his relative success in Puerto Rico, the de-
sire to return to France grew stronger every
day. He petitioned for travel to Vienna for the
Universal Exhibition. In June 1873 he set
sail for Europe on an English steamer, in
the company of the musician Felipe Gutier-
rez. Oiler must have arrived in Vienna after
the Exhibition had already opened. The-
odule Ribot, his old comrade from the cafes
of Paris, was in Vienna as the representative
of France and he probably returned to the
French capital in his company.
In the eight years since Oiler had left Paris
many of his friends were already beginning
to receive a certain amount of recognition.
The picture dealers Durand-Ruel and P6re
Tanguy were interested in selling the works
of the young avant-garde painters. The
writer Emile Zola and the critic Th6odure
Duret in their reviews of the Salon defended
the new artistic movements. Duret began to
acquire their paintings, as did a group of
professionals among whom were Faure,
the singer, Chocquet and doctors Paul
Gachet and Georges Bellio; we know that
these last two acquired, among other

CARIBBEAN IKIEW/41

uuayaoas
works, paintings by Oiler. In 1872 doctor
Gachet bought a house in Auvers-sur-Oise
where he set up a graphics workshop.
Pissarro, Guillaumin and C6zanne worked
there for a lengthy period of time.
Upon his arrival in Paris, Oiler found his
old friends organizing their first major col-
lective exhibition in the former atelier of the
photographer Felix Nadar. This exhibition,
motivated by the constant rejection of their
paintings by the Salon, lasted from 15 April
to 15 May 1874. In it thirty artists showed
their works. It was organized by the Societe
anonyme cooperative d'artistes peintres,
sculpteurs et graveurs, founded at the end
of the previous year at the Cafe Guerbois.
The reviews of this exhibition were devas-
tating, and from then on the group was
called the "impressionists." Oiler did not
participate in this exhibition. Like Manet and
Fantin-Latour, he would be reluctant to take
part in it because he was still aiming at
acceptance by the Salon.
Soon his palette underwent a drastic
change and Oiler began to show interest in
the new techniques his friends were using.
The Student must date from this period. In
this painting, even though the brushstroke
is similar to the portraits of General Bald-
rich and Sicard6 y Osuna, his palette is
lighter and the paint thicker. We witness
Oiler's interest in the effects of light and in
the reflection in the mirrors. The scene, typi-
cal of its time, displays a marked harmony
of color. One of the main interests of the

impressionists was to capture the fleeting
moment that would never return; scenes of
everyday reality were a part of this manner
of painting. Nevertheless, the careful use of
perspective and the emphasis on detail was
still foreign to the pure impressionist tradi-
tion gaining momentum at that time.
Around 1875, Oiler's brushstrokes be-
came even freer and he began to apply pure
colors without mixing them. In Banks of
the Seine, the subject matter as well as the
manner of applying the paint are solidly
based on impressionist principles; we have
the high-key palette, the interest in the light
that saturates the whole scene, and, above
all, the treatment of the smoke that issues
from the barges that ply along the river. The
paint was applied with great speed and the
details were reduced to a minimum in the
attempt to capture the fleeting moment.
The Windmill, also of 1875, is a more
finished work: it must have taken Oiler sev-
eral days to complete. Here he also applied
his colors directly upon the canvas without
mixing them, building up his tonal values
by the application of multiple layers of pig-
ment, one upon the other. This work shows
Oiler to be as an artist who has reached
maturity, who is cognizant of the theories
and techniques of impressionism.
The Flogged Negro and a Portrait that
he had brought from Puerto Rico were not
accepted by the Salon of 1875. That year
Oiler presented both works at the fourth
Salon des Refuses and later added five

more, among them the Negro Beggarwo-
man that had already been accepted by the
1867 Salon. Renoir and Manet were the
only members of the group who, beside
Oiler, had tried to enter the 1875 Salon.
Manet's work was accepted, whereas Re-
noir's was also rejected. Edmund Maitre ad-
vised Renoir to participate in the Salon des
Refuses; but he did appear in the catalogue.
The reviews of the exhibition were negative,
although not as devastating as those of the
impressionist show of the previous year.
Oiler must have arrived in Madrid at the
end of 1877. He immediately set to work on
Colonel Contreras at Trevifo. To achieve
accuracy in the details of the arms and mili-
tary equipment he went to the Artillery Mus-
uem. On 27 January 1878, he presented
this painting at the General Exhibition of
Fine Arts in Madrid. In 1879 he executed in
Madrid a remarkable painting, calledSpan-
ish Landscape. In this work the paint is
applied in a manner similar to that of
Banks of the Seine.The Spanish school
had not yet begun to exert its full influence
on Oiler, so that in this work he still con-
formed to impressionist principles. He still
showed himself interested in movement,
light and capturing the fleeting moment.
Possibly all that separates this landscape
fromBank of the Seine and The Windmill
is the atmosphere and color of the land-
scape of Castille. Oiler became "the intro-
ducer of impressionism into Spain." The
Study of Horse and Rider, painted on the

42/CAIFBBEAN REVIEW

Hacienda Aurora
back of the Spanish Landscape, is even
bolder and more modern. Here he first drew
the outline which he then filled in.
In the portrait of Colonel Francisco En-
rique Contreras of 1880, the great impact
of Spanish painting on Oiler becomes evi-
dent. The loose and thick brushstrokes in
the landscape and the soldiers are still near
the works Oiler did in Paris and Lourdes.
The color scheme and the direct applica-
tion of unmixed pigment in certain areas
are also characteristics that he retains from
the French school. Yet in the more tradi-
tional treatment of the figure, Oiler begins to
move away from the French avant-garde.
Oiler never showed any inclination to-
wards the picturesque nor the academic in
his choice of subject-matter nor did he opt
for the historic themes so much in vogue in
19th century Spain. Dario Regoyos, "the
Hispanic painter most consciously impres-
sionist" met Oiler much later during Oiler's
last visit to Paris when both of them were in
contact with Pissarro in March-April 1895.
When the Puerto Rican artist set up his stu-
dio in Madrid towards the end of 1877, he
was already a mature, completely formed
artist, with the prestige that being a Knight
of the Order of Carlos III and a Pintor Real de
CAmara conferred upon him; he was not
just another painter. Moreover, he had come
from Paris where he had been in contact
with the avant-garde style that had definite
repercussions among the artists of the
Spanish city in which Oiler lived.

In May 1883, Oiler opened an exhibition
in the palace of La Correspondencla de
Espafia for the inauguration of the new
building of that newspaper. He presented
72 works. The exhibition was highly suc-
cessful and was visited by members of
Madrid society, including the Infanta Maria
Isabel. The Puerto Rican journalist Antonio
Cort6n published his review on the paint-
ings of Oiler in the literary newspaper La
Tribuna. Cort6n, a good friend of Oiler and
director of La Correspondencla de Es-
pafia, sums up Oiler's work with these
words: "The artistic personality of Oiler re-
quires careful study. He is not a painter like
Fortuny, Sala and others who have innate
ability. In addition he does not cultivate any
one genre exclusively nor blindly follow the
precepts of a chosen pictorial school. He is
an eclectic painter who selects at random
from the best of all schools whatever these
have to offer him in the way of beauty and
utility. On this account the spectator enter-
ing his studio or visiting this exhibition, mar-
vels at how these works so variegated, so
different one from the next, bear the same
signature. This phenomenon, if it really be
such, is explained by a very simple fact:
Oiler is a worker who lives by his art."
From the 72 works he included in this
exhibition, we know the names of only 35.
Fortunately Oiler retumed to Puerto Rico
bringing several with him, such as the Self-
Portrait of 1880, The Beggar, andAn Un-
employed Man, that show the influence on

him of the Spanish school, particularly
Velazquez. An interest in conveying charac-
ter is common to all three works. In The
Beggar, exhibited for the first time at the
Fine Arts Exhibition of 1881, the brush-
stroke is lighter and more free; the color
scheme is almost monochromatic and pro-
duces a harmonious sensation in contrast
to the sad and scrutinizing look of the
model. Oiler wanted to exalt the beggar by
presenting him as a grand personage. His
attributes, a rustic staff, and two cigars, are
far from being the medals and decorations
of the generals painted by the artist. He does
not hold his staff with the haughtiness with
which Colonel Contreras grasps his sword.
Yet the figure has an air of quiet dignity.
On the other hand, in An Unemployed
Man the impact of the image is achieved in
part through the juxtaposition of the darkly-
clad figure against a lighter background.
The foreshortening of the hand that is ex-
tended towards the spectator as if in the act
of begging for alms contributes to increas-
ing the impact made by the composition.
The head is beautifully rendered; the way in
which he holds it, together with the overall
expression and the gesture of the hands
make this figure look more lifelike.
The Palace of Alcafilces must have
been painted around 1882, when its owner,
the Marques de Alcafiices, was instrumen-
tal in having Alfonso XII receive Oiler in
audience. This small painting was executed
with all the details of a miniature. The light

CARTBBcAN VIEW/43

enters through the openings of the room at
the rear, making the background brighter
than the foreground. In this way, Oiler in-
verts the traditional order. In this unique in-
terior, the style of the decoration is distinctly
Spanish. Nevertheless the treatment does
not recall the work of any other contempo-
rary artist in Spain. The study of light and
the handling of the colors show that Oiler
had not forgotten the principles of impres-
sionism. The sense of depth and the inter-
est in details that characterize The Student
are even more in evidence in this work. This
interior was one of Oiler's favorite paintings.

Back to Puerto Rico
After this momentous triumph in Spain,
Oiler returned to Puerto Rico where he
found that his Academy of Drawing had
been closed. The next ten years of his life
would be of great inner struggle. The situa-
tion was utterly unpropitious for pictorial
creativity, due to the almost total lack of any
kind of artistic incentive. How must he have
felt, after participating in the lively cultural
life of Paris and Madrid, on finding himself
transplanted into a provincial milieu that
offered no kind of challenge? He aged
rapidly and, for all his penetrating look, the
process is evident in his Self-Portrait done
on his return to Puerto Rico.
During this period he received few official
commissions. La Sociedad Econ6mica de
Amigos del Pais and the Puerto Rican Athe-
naeum asked Oiler to undertake several
portraits of distinguished Puerto Ricans.
Most of these works were commissioned
after the death of the personalities con-
cerned so that Oiler was forced to rely on
photographs instead of painting from the
model. Jose Alegria who was for a time a
student of Oiler remarks: "In painting these
portraits the artist suffered deeply on be-
coming convinced that he was unable to
paint in the academic style, that he could
not be a subtle and original artist and make
use of the knowledge and the pictorial tech-
niques he possessed, since there was no
room for them." Nevertheless, Oiler suc-
ceeded in conveying the character of these
men, many of whom had been his friends
or acquaintances: the energetic and impa-
tient disposition of Manuel Corchado y
Juarbe contrasts with the romantic and
tragic figure of the poet Jose Gautier
Benitez. In the portraits done nearer to
1885 he depicts the figure in three-quarter
length, facing the spectator against a plain
grayish background on which the figure
projects a shadow. He continued using this
format, while increasingly lightening the
background, as in the portrait of Jose
Julian Acosta of 1881.
During these ten years he spent long pe-
riods of time in various towns of the interior
or on the north and south coasts of Puerto
Rico. He studied exhaustively the exuberant
Puerto Rican landscape and its intense

light. The variety of greens in the tropics
would enrich his palette. Belonging to this
period we have The Ponce Silk-Cotton
Tree in which he delights capturing the
green and rose colored reflections in the
river.
Oiler's interest in depicting the reality of
his surroundings led him to undertake an
inventory of old sugar mills although the
elaboration of sugar had become more
highly mechanized by that time. In the
course of these years he would be con-
cerned not only with the light of the tropics,
but would also delve into the problems of
the representation of depth. In The Ponce

Francisco Oiler was the
first painter to ponder
deeply on the meaning of
Puerto Rico.

Silk-Cotton Tree and The Sugar Mill he
utilized light to build a perspectival scaffold-
ing. In both we find that the foreground is in
shadow followed by an area of brilliant light
in the middle ground, which darkens once
again as the landscape recedes. Some of
the landscapes he painted at this time were
presented at the Puerto Rico Exhibition of
1883.
In 1889 Oiler settled once more in San
Juan and established the School of Draw-
ing and Painting Dedicated to Young
Ladies, this being an attempt to revive his
old Adademy. It lasted for only a short time
and in 1890 Oiler moved to the Hacienda
Santa Barbara of his friend Manuel
Elzaburu. There he painted The Wake. In
this work and in The School ofRafael Cor-
dero we find a very similar approach to that
of his anti-slavery paintings in the 1870s.
Oiler himself defined it in 1904 when he
said: "The artist, like the writer, has the obli-
gation to be useful; his painting must be a
book that teaches, that serves to improve
the condition of mankind, that castigates
evil, that exalts virtue.... We need paintings
that represent our customs, that will correct
our defects and extol our good deeds."
While in Rafael Cordero he exalted the pa-
tience and dedication of the black artisan
who dedicated his free time to instruct his
fellow-beings, in The Wake he criticized the
barbaric practice of the baquine.
Thebaquind, called baquini, quiniban,
flor6n or "the wake of the little angels" is a
ritual celebrated upon the death of a child. It
was believed that a child, being free from
sin, would go directly to heaven and for this
reason a celebration was held. Oiler
strongly criticized this practice which he
considered to be "an orgy of brutal appe-
tites under the veil of an uncouth supersiti-
tion." The only person that does not
participate in the orgy and who meditates

on the tragedy is the most humble of them
all, the freed black man; he alone acts with
dignity. The Wake has been the object of a
large number of interpretations that range
from considering itto be a mere representa-
tion of local customs to the critical analysis
of its social content.
The Wake encompasses all the pictorial
genres that Oiler practised. There are por-
traits, landscapes, still lifes and animals, all
integrated into a single great genre scene.
To impart movement, balance and empha-
sis to so many figures and objects and
merge them unto one harmonious com-
position presented a pictorial problem. To
have all twenty-six figures in The Wake
function visually Oiler had to avail himself of
all his artistic know-how. It was necessary to
impose a thematic and pictorial unity on a
whole series of disparate elements: the ges-
tures of the protagonists, the colors, the
light, the perspective, the expressions, tex-
tures and so on. In spite of the agglomera-
tion of characters, Oiler solved the
compositional problem with skill. To
achieve this he found it necessary to do a
number of studies and sketches, following
the precepts of his teachers in France.
The Sketch for The Wake is a schematic
version of the scene. The figures are mere
brushstrokes with scant definition. Oiler
must have produced other sketches closer
to the finished version. The studies of cats
and dogs are loosely executed. The
brushstrokes are short and loaded, and the
animals are sketched with freedom. What
most interested Oiler in these was captur-
ing movement. The studies of the figures
are more finished. In them Oiler mainly re-
solved the poses and expressions. He found
the models for these preliminary studies for
The Wake in the Hacienda Santa Barbara.
He also did some still lifes that are clearly
related to the plaintains that hang from one
of the rafters: Ripe Plantains and Green
Plantains. The study of the ripe plantains
shows them in several stages of ripeness. It
is a sober composition in which the yellows
and greens of the vegetable complement
the pinkish gray of the background. The
slight shadow that projects against the wall
envelops the pure image in air. In the other
study Oiler depicted a bunch of green plan-
tains on a table top. The simple and at the
same time dynamic composition of this still
life gives it a modern flavor.
The Wake, Oiler's most ambitious paint-
ing, was in his own words: "the object of all
my love as an artist." It was exhibited for the
first time at the Exhibition of Puerto Rico in
1893, held to commemorate the fourth
centennial of the discovery of Puerto Rico.
The Wake drew the most attention. Alejan-
dro Infiesta in hisMemoria of the exhibition
wrote an extensive analysis of it, praising the
composition but chiding Oiler for his incur-
sion in the field of social criticism. F6lix
Matos Bernier wrote a devastating review,

44/CAI?BBEAN I"VIEW

while Jose Zequeira and Antonio Cort6n
clearly understood its implications. Both
considered it to be Oiler's masterpiece.

Paris Anew
When the exhibition ended, Oiler sailed for
Paris with The Wake and several other
paintings. It is said that he stopped at
Havana, where he exhibited The Wake
which was very well received. The date of his
arrival in Paris is not known, but it must have
been before 20 March 1895, the deadline
for submitting works to the Salon. In the
entry form Oiler wrote the title in Spanish,
(In velorio de Angelitos, but in the cata-
logue it was listed as Mis a pied. To Oiler's
great surprise, he found that the friend of his
youth, Antoine Guillement, was a member
of the jury while Vollon was on the commit-
tee of the Academie. It is possible that
thanks to the intervention of the former The
Wake was accepted by the Salon. It may be
noted in passing that the only time a work
by Cezanne was ever admitted to the Salon,
it was also due to Guillemet's influence.
As soon as Oiler had completed the re-
quirements for the Salon, he went to see his
friend Pissarro. On 23 March, Pissarro wrote
to his son that he had just been visited by
Oiler who had come from Puerto Rico to
present a large painting at the Salon.
Pissarro found that Oiler had aged very
much. Nor did he like The Wake.
Oiler remained for some days at Eragny
with Pissarro, for in another letter Pissarro
told his son that Oiler was taken by a paint-
ing he was doing of a washerwoman. This
subject was used by Oiler in his Landscape
with Washerwoman. In this painting we
can see the change in style that took place
in Oiler's work. The scene is bathed in a
kind of light not present before. For the first
time we see the use of a diagonal that re-
cedes into space to achieve an effort of per-
spective. This element would henceforth be
featured in Oiler's latter landscapes.
Towards the end of June 1895, Cezanne,
who had welcomed him with affection, in-
vited Oiler to his house in Aix-en-Provence.
After a number of misunderstandings, the
long friendship between Oiler and C6zanne
came to an end. At this point, Oiler went to
Cruzier-le-Vieux Allier to be with his old
friend Dr. Aguiard, where he made several
plein air studies. On 20 October he was
already back at his hotel in Paris. He wrote to
Pissarro on 1 February 1896, promising to
recount the details of his misunderstanding
with Cezanne; he added that he had done
some landscape studies that he would
bring so that Pissarro could correct them.
In the course of his stay he also renewed
his contacts with the merchants Tanguy and
Durand-Ruel and met Vollard. Fernandez
Juncos related that in the course of this,
Oiler's last stay in France, he painted in
Manet's studio; this probably is a reference
to Monet, as Manet had died in 1883. At that

time Monet was living at Giverny where he
received his friends. He was engaged in his
studies of light and atmosphere, such as the
famous series of the Cathedral of Rouen.
Pissarro and Manet were undoubtedly the
artists who exerted the greatest influence on
Oiler's style during this last sojourn of his in
France. When he painted his French Land-
scape I and then II, he incorporated into
his works many of the new tendencies. The
short brushstroke that Oiler employed in
these works closely resembles that of
Pissarro and Monet of that same time. The
light that filters through the trees and falls in

He was not just another
painter.

a brilliant cascade illuminating the slope, is
achieved with great dexterity. Both paint-
ings represent the same place, seen from
opposite sides. In French Landscape I,
Oiler depicted a peasant who had aban-
doned the task of cutting wood to look at a
young woman approaching with a flock of
geese, a subject also painted by Pissarro. In
French Landscape II we find on the ex-
treme right-hand foreground two easels
and other painting implements shown on
their own. Could the artist have been wait-
ing for a more suitable moment or a better
light in which to paint, or could this have
been meant as a posthumous tribute to his
former companions Edouard Manet (d.
1883) and Berthe Morrisot (d. 1895)?
The small Garden also dates from this
time. The brushstroke, the evocation of the
atmosphere and in part the color key in this
painting is reminiscent of Manet's Garden
of the Artist at Versailles of 1881. The
simplicity and harmony of this composition
shows Oiler as interested in the play of light
and color, and he seems to delight in the
application of the pigment.
Oiler insisted in participating in the Salon
and in 1896 a portrait was accepted. From a
note left by Pissaro at his hotel inviting Oiler
to visit him the next day, we know that he
was still in Paris on 16 June 1896. But by 3
August, Oiler was back in Puerto Rico.

A Final Return to Puerto Rico
He returned with new strength and with a
totally renewed palette. Fernandez Juncos
says that he brought with him some impres-
sionist paintings from Europe. "The most
notable of these paintings is in this city [San
Juan] and it depicts a marvelous landscape
of the Seine, with bushes and trees in flower;
the others were little to the taste of the pub-
lic, being unused to this manner of painting
in which the artist dispenses with a multi-
plicity of details and with the optical effect of
different color combinations so as to con-

centrate on the general visual effect."
One of the first works that Oiler executed
upon his arrival in Puerto Rico was Land-
scape with Royal Palm Trees. He poured
forth into this painting all the knowledge of
color, light and perspective he had acquired
in Paris. He applied his colors straight from
the tube in short dabs of thick pigment. The
light filters through the palms and forms an
arrangement of lighter areas against dark
shadows. The composition is compact. He
achieves depth by means of the fence that
runs from the extreme lefthand side to the
center and through the path that is partially
hidden by the vegetation. The rosetone of
the fence in the foreground reappears on
the mountain in the background.
In 1897 Oiler entered the spring contest
of the Puerto Rican Athenaeum and won
first prize. The following year he must have
gone to the Hacienda Aurora, property of
his good friend Dr. Esteban Saladafia who
had taken his family there to safeguard
them from the invading troops during the
Spanish-American War. It is at that time that
he must have painted the landscape Ha-
cienda Aurora. Here the brushwork and
general treatment is more naturalistic. The
representation of the structures, the sugar
mill, the areas of cane and the Sierra de
Luquillo are deftly achieved. Each one of
these areas is a landscape in itself; through
a masterly use of color, balance and per-
spective, Oiler integrated the three scenes
harmoniously. He achieved movement
through the diagonal of the path along
which two black women are seen walking.
As soon as the new American govern-
ment was installed Oiler tried to recover
from Ponce city hall the portraits of his for-
mer benefactors, King Amadeo of Savoy
and General Baldrich. He tried to recover
the two paintings offering to replace them
with a portrait of Washington. On 20 March
the municipal assembly authorized the ex-
change but it never took place and the por-
traits of the two Spaniards remain to this day
in Ponce city hall, whereas the Washington
is in the Puerto Rican legislature.
Towards the end of 1899 his nephew An-
gel Paniagua married and moved to Hatillo.
On 3 March 1900, Oiler went to spend a
week with the newly married couple. In the
course of this visit, which lasted a month, he
painted Hatillo. This small landscape de-
picting a street of that town is rendered in a
high color key and with an abundance of
light. The road that crosses the foregound
forms a diagonal that recedes in the form of
a curve. It is reminiscent of Landscape
with Washerwoman painted in France
and is similar to the Landscape with
Thatched Hut that he must have also
painted at about that same time.
In June 1900 Isabel Tinajero, Oiler's wife,
died. In spite of this loss, Oiler maintained
his rhythm of work. He asked San Juan city
hall to return his paintings of Ramon

CAblBB AN reTVIW/45

Power, Jose G. Padilla, Fray Irningo Ab-
bad, Manuel Sicard6 y Osuna, Jose
Campeche and Dr. Francisco Oiler.
These works had belonged to the former
Sociedad Econ6mica de Amigos del Pais,
and had been placed in the Hall of Sessions
of San Juan city hall. The paintings were
returned to him on 22 August, and on 13
November he presented them to the Puerto
Rican Athenaeum. In the Summer of 1900
he attempted to be sent as a representative
of the United States to the Universal Exhibi-
tion of Paris. On 26 July he wrote a letter to
John Hay, the Secretary of State, containing
his request. This was denied, although the
United States included among its represen-
tatives a number of inferior artists from
Cuba. Together with his letter to Hay, Oiler
sent another to President McKinley accom-
panying a portrait Oiler had painted of him.
In the course of these years Oiler painted
portraits of the American military governors
Guy Henry and George W Davis and of
the first civil governors Charles Alien and
William H. Hunt. He painted the portrait of
Governor Beekman Winthrop in 1905, but
this was not acquired by the executive
council, and only a bust-length study has
survived. These portraits, except the last,
have the vitality and lifelikeness that Oiler
achieved when working from a model. He
placed his sitters against a clear back-
ground, characteristic of the portraits he did
after his last trip to France.
During this period of activity and enthusi-
asm, he harbored hopes that his profes-
sional and economic situation might
improve under the new government; Oiler
even attempted to open an art museum. In
1901 he wrote to the executive council ask-
ing its assistance in establishing an art gal-
lery in the American Warehouse building on
#3 Fortaleza Street. He even included a
plan showing how the gallery would be set
up. In this letter Oiler offered to put at the
council's service all the knowledge that he
had acquired at first-hand in the course of
visiting the principal museums of Europe.
He offered to run it ad honorem and to
obtain the paintings needed to make it into
a fine gallery that would "give glory not only
to Puerto Rico but also to the United States."
Unfortunately, this plan also fell through. All
this must have been extremely frustrating.
Oiler, after having taken part in the great
artistic and cultural movements in Europe
and after having been honored by the King
of Spain, now found himself unable not
only to improve his own personal situation,
but also that of his people, who were not
given the slightest opportunity to come into
contact with the best examples of contem-
porary art. The new government had im-
posed a situation of the most rigid isolation,
characterized by an almost total lack of any
interest in the arts. Thenceforward Oiler
would take refuge in the memory of his
days in Europe. In 1902 when the Souffrier

volcano erupted in Martinique, Oiler sent
to the Minister of Fine Arts of France a letter
and a painting to be auctioned on behalf of
the victims. In this letter, which he signed
"FM.O., Knight of the Order of Charles II," a
title he did not usually employ in his corres-
pondence, he says: "In my heart I am a
Frenchman, in France I spent my youth,
and to her institutions I owe what I am..."
From this letter we may judge the state of
confusion into which he had fallen as a
result of the prevailing situation.
In spite of his isolation, in the first years of
the 20th century, Oiler was to create a series

The Wake, Oiler's most
ambitious painting, was in
his own words: "the object
of all my love as an artist."

of still lifes and landscapes in which he at-
tempted to capture the essence of his be-
loved native country. The still lifes of these
dates are the product of the artist's desire to
create an art rooted in Puerto Rico.
Guavas, Mameyes, and Mangos, and
other species of fruit that foreigners con-
sider exotic are the typical fruits of the Carib-
bean. In these still lifes he places them on a
table against a light background; Oiler pres-
ents the fruits in various stages of ripeness,
in some cases he even shows the inside. In
spite of the analogies between these still
lifes and those of Cezanne of the 1890s,
Oiler's are quite different. Not only does he
present a compositional and formal study,
but he also dissects the fruit; the fruit itself as
well as the composition are of interest to
him.
In 1902 Oiler moved to the town of Rio
Piedras where he taught at the Normal
School until 1904, when his contract was
cancelled. What motivated this dismissal?
Could it have been the copy of an examina-
tion that Oiler had some months before
handed to the principal of the school? Or
was it caused by the speech that he deliv-
ered to the students and faculty? This
speech was printed and distributed by Oiler
himself in the form of a small pamphlet. In it
he advanced his theories on the nature of
art; he expressed his allegiance to the realist
school of Courbet and to the theories of
Proudhon. These theories were probably
considered subversive by the Normal
School administration.
This dismissal did not discourage him
and once more on 16 September 1904, he
opened a School of Drawing and Painting
on #4 Duffaut Street in Santurce. For the
first time he asked all students who enrolled
to pay in advance a fee of two dollars. Dur-
ing this period Oiler was present at a num-

ber of soirees at the homes of some of his
friends; Adolfo de Hostos remembered how
at one of them Oiler explained his theory of
how light affects objects.
He was to spend the following years in the
town of Bayam6n, where he stayed at the
Hotel Bella Vista, and in Catafio, where he
acquired a small house facing the harbor of
San Juan. On 10 December 1907, Edwin
Dexter, Commissioner of Public Instruction,
appointed him as special teacher for the
Bayam6n district. In 1910, he became ill
and the doctor advised him to move to the
country. He spent a long period convalesc-
ing at the Guaraguao farm owned by his
relatives. During this time Commissioner
Dexter was able to keep paying his salary as
a special teacher. In May 1912, when Oiler
began to recuperate, Dexter, a kind and
cultured man, asked him to write a history
of the painter Jos6 Campeche.
On 14 May 1917 Oiler was admitted to
the Municipal Hospital in Santurce, where
he died on 17 May at 6:00 PM., just short of
his eighty fourth birthday. The only Puerto
Rican painter that Oiler is known to have
been friendly with was Ram6n Frade. On
Oiler's death, Frade asked Angel Paniagua
to place a bunch of forget-me-nots on his
tomb. In the letter where he made this re-
quest he also says: "Death snatches away a
friend, a companion! And I have so few
friends, so few companions....
Francisco Oiler was the only Latin Ameri-
can painter to participate in the develop-
ment of impressionism. His style fluctuated
between the two schools to which he paid
allegiance, the impressionist and the realist.
He visited major European museums
where he studied the works of the old mas-
ters. From these sources he took diverse
elements, without slavishly copying any-
one. He was a master of perspective, pub-
lishing a book on this subject. He was a
person of intellectual curiosity; he kept upto
date with scientific developments, es-
pecially those concerning light and color.
He was interested in philosophy, literature,
the occult sciences, geometry, geography,
anatomy, grammar and languages, but es-
pecially art and artistic theory.
He fought for the abolition of slavery. He
documented the horrors of this brutal in-
stitution. After abolition he continued to
combat social injustices of every kind.
As a portrait painter he was interested in
capturing the physical likeness of his sitters
as well a their inner being. By means of his
genre scenes he strove to educate his peo-
ple. His creole still lifes are unique in style
and in them he was ahead of his time. He
made a profound study of the landscape of
his country and depicted it with tender real-
ism, never lapsing into the picturesque. He
was the first painter to represent the reality
of Puerto Rico and in so doing laid the
foundation for the development of a
boricua art of quality and excellence. D

46/CAIBBEAN REVIEW

CBI Battle...
Continued from page 18

has the CBI languished in Congress for
months? After formally being introduced in
Congress on 17 March 1982, the CBI was
split into its separate components and sent
to the Foreign Affairs and Ways and Means
Committees in the House, and Foreign Re-
lations and Finance Committees in the
Senate. Each portion of the bill galvanized a
different set of interest groups in favor or in
opposition to the package. In addition to
organized labor, which remained the most
consistent opponent throughout the pro-
cess, various aspects of the CBI drew criti-
cism from US sugar growers, textile and
shoe manufacturers, church and develop-
ment organizations, and budget-conscious
citizens and congressmen.
Within the Caribbean, businessmen from
Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands sought
guarantees that their export position would
not be adversely affected by the CBI. CAR-
ICOM objected to the selected, exclusion-
ary aspects of the bill and the fact that the
plan was developed with inadequate con-
sultation with leaders in the affected coun-
tries. CARICOM and other nations in the
basin also recognized the essential and
complementary nature of the trade and in-
vestment incentives, and were confused
and damaged by the sugar quotas.
Finally, some church organizations,
farmers' cooperatives and small business
groups in the Caribbean concluded that the
CBI would only enhance American control
over local resources, open the door to in-
creased participation of American multina-
tionals in local economies, and increase
economic dependence on the United
States. At a conference sponsored by the
Development Group for Alternative Policies
in Jamaica in December 1982, representa-
tives from 12 nations argued that American
firms, not local interests, would be the ma-
jor beneficiaries of the CBI. As Neville Lin-
ton of the Caribbean Council of Churches
said, "It [the CBI] again means multina-
tionals, large industry and export to the
United States. Do we only industrialize for
the US to meet its needs, or do we move
into production and exports which are en-
hancing our own societies?" And former
Salvadoran Minister of Economy Jorge Sol
added, "At least the Alliance for Progress
promoted a degree of social progress.
The aid section of the bill was approved in
September, once it was agreed to give
greater emphasis to basic needs develop-
ment and reduced amounts to El Salvador.
The momentum on the CB1 then seemed to
come to a halt. The administration insisted
that the CBI remained a "top priority," but
House Ways and Means Committee Chair-

TABLE 1. Who Benefits from the CBI
Administration's
Original Proposal

Dominican Republic
El Salvador
Honduras
Jamaica
Costa Rica
Belize
Haiti
Eastern Caribbean
Guatemala
AIFLD
Total

$ 40 million
128
35
50
70
10
5
10

2
$350 million

Latin American Caribbean Regional
ROCAP *(Central American Regional Program)

Total

As Passed by
Congress

$ 41 million
75
35
50
70
10
10
20
10

15
14
$350 million

SOURCE: AID
*Includes $2 million for AIFLD and $2 million for Inter-American Foundation.

man Dan Rostenkowski (D-lll.) predicted
the bill had virtually no chance of passage.
Meanwhile, the Senate Finance Committee,
chaired by Robert Dole (R-Kan.), awaited
the results of the House before he would
take action to move the bill in the Senate.
A major push camejust prior to the presi-
dent's trip to Latin America in early Decem-
ber during the 1982 lame duck session. It
seemed politically undesirable for Reagan,
Secretary of State George Schultz, and As-
sistant Secretary of State Thomas Enders
to appear in Central America without offer-
ing some encouraging news on their
much-heralded and long-awaited initiative.
The greatest push came in the House, and
the administration helped arrange a trip to
the region for members, including Ros-
tenkowski, to convince them of the critical
need for the bill. That trip "had an enor-
mous amount to do with [the chairman's]
change of opinion," said one Ways and
Means staff member.
Once the members returned to Wash-
ington, Rostenkowski became one of the
CBI's strongest supporters, moving the bill
forward quickly and stifling several attempts
to cripple it with amendments. Through his
efforts, the CBI passed the full committee

on 9 December by a strong 27-6 vote and
was sent on to the House for a final decision.
But the version passed on to the floor of the
House had undergone important altera-
tions from the initial plan. Most significantly,
the five-year, 10 percent tax credit for invest-
ment had been removed, due to the appar-
ent ineffectiveness of the measure and the
lack of a political constituency. Ros-
tenkowski chose to delete it to give the bill a
decent chance of passage by the full House.
In its place, the committee voted for tax
deductions for businesses holding conven-
tions in beneficiary countries.
Although such a tax break will undoubt-
edly bring in greater income to the Carib-
bean nations, and although Special Trade
Representative Bill Brock said the new mea-
sure "in the short term can be even more
beneficial" than the original proposal, it is
clear that its impact would be much more
limited. Rather than helping to diversify the
export base of the Caribbean economies
and take advantage of the 12-year duty-free
trade provisions, the tax measure will result
in greater income and investment only in
the tourism and service sectors, and does
nothing to promote new manufacturing
and light industry in the basin.

TABLE 2. The Cut in Sugar Quotas

FY 1983 Sugar Exports to the United States (millions of tons)

Country

Dominican Republic
Guatemala
Panama

Oriainallv Prooosed CBI Quota

780,000
210,000
160,000

Actual Quota

492,300
134,400
81,200

SOURCE: USDA figures

CAIBBEAN reVIEW/47

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Protectionist sentiment in the House also
led to the addition of petroleum and its de-
rivatives, leather goods, and footwear to the
list of products excluded from the Free
Trade Area. And, in its final version, which
passed the full House on 17 December,
tuna was also exempted. The Ways and
Means Committee did manage to reverse
an earlier recommendation of the trade
subcommittee to place a quota on rum im-
ports from the region. Instead, rum re-
mained eligible for the Free Trade Area, and
Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands were
granted rights to all excise tax collected on
rum sold in the United States, as compen-
sation for lower shares of the US rum
market.
The final measure also raised the local
content requirement to 35 percent from
Reagan's proposed 25 percent, again in re-
sponse to labor concern that a flood of im-
ports produced in other countries could be
assembled in the Caribbean and then later
enter the US duty-free. Lastly, the CBI legis-
lation gave the president the authority he
requested in the original bill to exclude any
country which does not sign an extradition
treaty with the US or which is "communist."
It was the action in the Senate, or more
precisely the lack of action there, that ulti-
mately prevented the CBI from reaching the
president's desk. Finance Chairman Dole

48/CAI?BBEAN "EVIEW

had apparently been waiting to see what
happened to the bill in the House before
acting on it in his committee. The CBI, in-
troduced in March, was not considered until
20 December, two days after the House
adopted the measure. Despite administra-
tion pleas to hold back amendments,
thereby avoiding the need for a conference
with the House, two amendments were
adopted.
One amendment eliminated an earlier
provision exempting products produced in
the Virgin Islands from meeting the local
content requirement for duty-free entry to
the US. The original measure had been
intended to give Virgin Island products pref-
erential status over products from else-
where in the Caribbean. A second
amendment also took aim at preferential
treatment of the Virgin Islands by requiring
Virgin Islands rum distilleries to comply with
US federal water pollution controls. The
House had earlier voted to exempt the
Virgin Islands distilleries from the
requirements.
Despite all these compromises, however,
the bill was never taken up by the full Sen-
ate, which adjourned on 23 December.
Senator Jessee Helm's (R-N.C.) filibuster
over the administration's tax bill prevented
any work from being accomplished and
frustrated the exhausted senators. It was
clear soon after the Finance Committee re-
ported on the bill that it had no chance of
passage by the 97th Congress.
In the 98th Congress which opened in
January, the CBI must embark on the same
long path it nearly completed in December.
The White House has continued to empha-
size the high priority it places on passage of
the CBI. In his January 1983 State of the
Union address, President Reagan said, "fi-
nal passage of the remaining portions of
our (CBI).. .is one of this administration's
top legislative priorities for 1983."
Nonetheless, the CBI faces some tough
going on Capitol Hill. Buried under labor
opposition and scholarly analyses which re-
veal its inefficiencies, the investment tax in-
centive is likely to die in Congress. The
remaining portion-the Free Trade Area-
has already been reintroduced, but at a time
of rising protectionist sentiments. On the
other hand, the bill enjoys a residue of inter-
est and support among congresspersons
who worked on it in the 97th Congress. The
best guess is that the FTA will eventually
reach the president's desk for his signature,
but that labor and selective business op-
position will succeed in excluding impor-
tant products from the list of duty-free
items.
Whatever eventually transpires in Con-
gress, the CBI cannot begin to substantially
contribute to the region's economic growth
until the global economy begins to recover
and, in Central America, unless peace is
restored. O

NIEUWE WEST-INDISCHE GIDS
NEW WEST INDIAN GUIDE
Edited by
H. Hoetink, Richard Price, Sally Price (Book Reviews), H.U.E. Thoden van
Velzen, J. Voorhoeve, P Wagenaar Hummelinck (Man. Ed.), L.J. Wester-
mann-van der Steen
Now an exclusively English-language journal, the NWIG continues its long
tradition of quality scholarship on Caribbean issues.
The first volume produced by the new editorial board includes contributions
by, among others, Gabriel Debien, Antonio T. Diaz-Royo, Angelina Pollak-
Eltz, Nina S. de Friedemann, Jerome S. Handler, Leon-Frangois Hoffmann,
Franklin W. Knight, Anthony P. Maingot, Frank Manning, Ransford W. Palmer,
and Raymond T Smith.
The greatly expanded Book Review section, intended to cover all significant
social science and humanities publications on the Caribbean, includes re-
views of Brereton's A history of modern Trinidad, Mintz's Esclave = facteur
de production, Rodney's A history of the Guyanese working people, Price's
Sociedades cimarronas, Fouchard's The Haitian Maroons, Dash's Literature
and ideology in Haiti, Barthold's Black time, Levine's Benjy Lopez, John-
son's Puerto Rico, Hoetink's The Dominican people, Dekker's Curacao
zonder/met Shell, Warner's Kaiso! the Trinidad calypso, Bickerton's Roots of
language, Alleyne's Comparative Afro-Afro-American, and many others.
The "new" NWIG is a must for any committed Caribbeanist. Try it at the
special introductory subscription rate (US$10 for a whole year). Simply send
your check or money order for $10, made out to "Treasurer, NWIG" to:
Biltseweg 17, 3735 MA Bosch en Duin, Netherlands. (For payment in Dutch
guilders, send f.25 to acct. no. 37.52.44.239, RABO-bank, Zeist)
Published continuously since 1919

Oil Facility...
Continued from page 21

ness groups andthe Confederation of Vene-
zuelan Workers, the nation's major labor
organization, forced temporary suspension
of Venezuelan credits under the facility in
March. Consideration of project funding re-
sumed after the annual meeting of the FIV
in April. Mexico vowed to continue extend-
ing concessionary loans, at least until the
end of the third year of the Accords.
Attractive terms notwithstanding, several
beneficiaries have not kept up their pay-
ments for petroleum acquired from the
suppliers. As mentioned above, Nicaragua
has failed to pay for oil received from Mex-
ico (Venezuela made its last shipment in
July 1982 after the Managua regime halted
payments in May 1982). This did not pre-
vent the head of the Nicaraguan Energy
Institute from asserting that the 1983 oil
price decline would save his government
$6 million on Mexican imports alone. In
mid-1982 Mexico refinanced an $80 mil-
lion oil debt that Costa Rica had contracted.
Even so, Mexico assured the San Jose gov-
ernment that it would guarantee oil supplies
to Costa Rica for the next three years, as well
as continue financing oil explorations un-
der a 20-year facility credit.

Prospects
Both Mexico and Venezuela have exagger-
ated the amount of aid bestowed under the
joint facility. Former President L6pez Por-
tillo was especially prone to hyperbole. In
his sixth state of the nation address, he
claimed that Mexico alone had made $700
million available to beneficiaries between
1980 and 1982. In fact, the total credit out-
lay for both donors in this period was $857
million, according to the Financial Times,
a highly respected British publication.
Still, the San Jose Accords have proven a
practical and generous source of as-
sistance. For that reason, the Reagan ad-
ministration was quick to pull the program
under the tent of the Caribbean Basin Initia-
tive and to insist-somewhat mis-
leadingly--that Mexico and Venezuela were
"sponsoring countries" of this US venture.
Venezuela and Mexico have not ignored
political and economic factors in granting
assistance. For instance, its border dispute
with Venezuela helps explain Guyana's ab-
sence from the facility. Caracas also is
weary about Grenada's revolutionary re-
gime; yet, the absence of a refinery on the
postage stamp-sized island gives a sound
justification for excluding it from a facility
established to export crude to beneficiaries.
Nonetheless, Venezuela's Christian Demo-
cratic administration has aided the Sand-
inistas whom it often criticized; and Mexico
has supplied the governments of Guate-

mala and El Salvador, despite refugee and
border problems with the former, and an
ideological conflict with the latter that has
found the PRI, Mexico's official party,
cultivating the Salvadoran opposition.
Belt-tightening in Mexico and Venezuela
means that the facility will be modified sig-
nificantly in mid-1983. The maximum vol-
ume of oil supplied by each nation may be
reduced from 80,000 BPD to 60,000, more
or less the amount now delivered. The re-
bate may fall from 30 to 20 percent of the
commercial price; this change would leave
the value of concessional aid essentially in-
tact because of the $5.00 per barrel price
drop in 1983. Meanwhile, the stabilization of
oil prices offers some relief to the recipients.
The donors may also double the interest
rate on five-year credits to eight percent and
cut from 20 to 15 years the long-term loans
on which the interest charge would triple to
six percent. If a country such as Guatemala
were found to be self-sufficient in oil, it
would be eliminated from the facility. Dis-
cussion has also focused on technical as-
sistance, equipment, and resources to spur
hydrocarbon exploration in recipient na-
tions through a trinational company, PE-
TROLATIN, constituted by the state oil
companies of Brazil, Mexico, and Venezu-
ela. The formation of, and the promulgation
of projects by, what at best will be a loosely
organized firm remains highly speculative.
Might the program be sacrificed on the
altar of economic necessity? Despite mis-
givings by an array of business, labor, and
bureaucratic groups in Venezuela and, to a
lesser extent, Mexico, termination seems
improbable because the scheme has ad-
vanced important, mainly political, goals of
the two nations; namely, (1) providing re-
sources to countries which run chronic bal-
ance of trade deficits with the donors, (2)
encouraging energy nationalism through
government-to-government accords in the
oil sector, (3) promoting economic sta-
bility-or, at least, militating against in-
stability-in a region afflicted by civil strife,
(4) offering a means for relatively developed
states anxious to avoid revolution to influ-
ence, if not moderate, the actions of Nic-
aragua's Sandinistas, (5) demonstrating
that Latin Americans can help each other
without Washington's involvement, (6) en-
hancing the donors' international prestige
by providing foreign aid with "no strings
attached," (7) emphasizing that political
problems spring from continuous econom-
ic crises suffered by small, energy-depen-
dent nations, (8) embedding a vital stone in
a mosaic of international cooperation,
thereby indirectly criticizing the OPEC's un-
responsiveness to granting preferential treat-
ment to Third World consumers.
With respect to the last point, especially
salient to Mexico, Oteyza commented: "First
Mexico and Venezuela signed the agreement
to supply the Central American and Carib-

bean region with petroleum on favorable
conditions. Now we are succeeding in
achieving, with the OLADE [Latin American
Energy Organization] framework, the intro-
duction of a Latin American energy cooper-
ation program. And this is how we will
continue to work, in the hope that we will
eventually be able to work at a worldwide
level, which is the ultimate objective."
As the donors revise the terms, the recip-
ients must emphasize conservation, inten-
sify exploration for domestic energy
supplies, and become more proficient in
fashioning development projects that merit
funding. D

ANNALES
DES PAYS
D'AMERIQUE

CENTRAL ET DES
CARAIBES

PUBLICATION BILINGUE
(FRANCAIS-ESPAGNOL)

CENTRE DE RECHERCHES
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DE INSTITUTE D'ETUDES
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PRIX 45,OOF-FRAIS DE PORT
ISBN 2-7314-0004-8

CABBEAN rEVIlE/49

Cricket...
Continued from page 25

conduct. There were fights between players
and players, players and umpires, and play-
ers and spectators. This conduct was more
prevalent among teams from the "country"
than from the "town." Deviance extended to
illegal deliveries-pitching or throwing the
ball rather than bowling it with a straight
arm. The beamer-a delivery aimed at the
batman's head-eschewed in the BCA,
found an outlet in this environment. Simi-
larly the convention proscribing the use of
"bouncers" against tailenders-players
listed low in the batting order because of
limited skills-was often violated. In polite
society this type of conduct was dismissed
as "not being cricket," as hooliganism.
And yet to overlook its source, as was
common practice, is to misunderstand the
message behind the act. To demand that
BCL players conduct themselves on the
field in the manner befitting BCA players is
nothing less than ethnocentric. Whites and
the educated men of color, "college boys,"
are products of a different type of socializa-
tion. Whatever problems exist at home or
on the job can be left behind on Saturday
afternoons. The "college boy" tradition
mandates that a competitive spirit prevail
while having fun, entertainment, and relaxa-
tion. The occasional dubious decision by
an umpire can be shrugged off lightly as
"hard luck". As James put it: "when you
enter the sporting arena you left behind you
the sordid compromises of everyday exis-
tence." Not so with the typical BCL player.
Poor, treated as social pariahs, unem-
ployed or given a subsistence wage, cricket
matches on Saturday afternoons provide
for these players a temporary escape from

the miseries of everyday life. Frustration
and repression are given free reign on the
playing field. All too often aggression is not
only meted out to the ball but on players of
opposing teams. The umpire too comes
under fire. The poor fellow has aggression
displaced on him, a symbol of authority.
Misbehavior in this milieu has underlying
political overtones: it is an unwitting re-
bellion against the status quo. As a cultural
phenomenon, cricket in the West Indies
should be viewed as a reflection and ex-
pression of class, racial, and color conflict.

Frustration and repression
are given free reign on the
playing field. All too often
aggression is not only
meted out to the ball but
to the players of opposing
teams.

The circumstances, conduct, and behav-
ior found in the BCL were so dissimilar from
that found in the BCA as to deserve distinc-
tive treatment. The "plebian" tradition
seems an appropriate designation. Pitches
and playing fields did not match those in
the senior league. Umpires were less
qualified. Very often there were no tables,
benches, or drinks for lunch. When water
was needed and a "standpipe" was within
distance, players would get their respite.
Frequently players could not afford to wear
boots and sometimes shared a pair of pads
instead of wearing both.
Impoverished means did not, however,
dampen the style and approach to the

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game cultivated on the beaches and yards.
The technique of the typical BCL player was
not as sound as that found in the BCA. On
the other hand there was more spirit, zest,
and enthusiasm. It made for smaller scores
and excitement. Whether batting, bowling
or fielding, there seemed to be more aban-
don. The culture dictated that batsmen get
into an attacking mode and endeavor to
dispatch as many balls as possible to the
boundary. For the fast bowler, less attention
was given to out-foxing the batsman; the
impulse to shatter the stumps with most
deliveries prevailed. And in fielding there
was the irresistable urge to make every
catch and stop spectacular. Solidarity of
technique took a backseat to showmanship
and exhibitionism. The game in this milieu
was theater at its best.
The batmanship of Everton Weekes epit-
omized the spirit and flair of the plebian
tradition in cricket. As he graduated to the
more competitive international arena, he
was forced to discipline himself. Frank Wor-
rell, a member of the famous "W" partner-
ship, saw it this way: "[Weekes] improved
his technique as the years went on. His
years in the League [English] provided him
with the opportunity of tightening up his
defense which in 1948 was vulnerable."
The aggressive flair characterizing his pre-
international days never deserted him, how-
ever. A close observer notes that "Weekes
remained a real tigerish batsman who dic-
tated to bowlers once he got going."

Coalescence of Traditions
By 1950 the "college boy" tradition in
cricket was well established on the regional
and international scenes. Players from a
plebian background had also penetrated
the exclusive social circle. The cricketing
world was to witness these two traditions
coalesce into a unique spectacle. What bet-
ter place to show off this extraordinary talent
but England! The 1950 tour of this country
proved historic in that it was the first time
that the colonized trounced their masters in
their backyard. This event had significant
psychic and political ramifications. Eupho-
ria was short lived. In the following year the
West Indies challenged Australia for the
"championship" and was soundly defeated.
This defeat was an ominous one in that the
seeds for an attack on racial and class priv-
ilege in the highest realms of West Indian
cricket were sewn.
Frank Worrell, later knighted for his con-
tribution to cricket and sportsmanship and
a member of the 1950 and 1951 West In-
dian cricket teams, questioned the leader-
ship capacity of the captain, John Goddard,
the son of a wealthy Barbadian white family:
"Having not assimilated sufficient cricket-
ing knowledge uptil 1952...he floundered
and the team with him." In justifying his
criticism, Worrell noted that Goddard had
learned his cricket in the 1930s and the

50/CABBEAN e1~VI

1940s when "there wasn't the same science
in the game... as there seems to be now. The
field placing was unimaginative." At the
same time one may infer from Worrell's
logic that had Goddard been a serious stu-
dent of the game, his experience in club,
intercolonial, and international cricket
should have been enough.
The Australian disaster was a clear signal
that new and effective leadership was
needed regardless of race and class. The
cricket authorities felt otherwise; they stuck
with tradition, summoned an aging and un-
fit Goddard out of retirement to lead the
regional team to England in 1957. Al-
though all of the blame for the poor show-
ing should not rest with the captain, there is
little doubt that he was a part of the problem.
However, the changing social and political
climate contributed to pushing the West In-
dian cricket authorities in a direction they
had hithertofore strenuously resisted.
We have already seen that the unrest of
the 1930s acted as a catalyst for the found-
ing of BCL. By the 1950s middle class peo-
ple of color were less apt to disassociate
themselves from the masses and their West
Indian heritage. More people were being
drawn to the towns and the urban-rural di-
chotomy was breaking down. The Univer-
sity College of the West Indies was
increasing its numbers and graduates,
thanks to policies enacted by newly self-
governing colonies. Positions in teaching,
the civil service, and even the private sector,
formerly the exclusive preserves of whites
or near whites, were opening up for blacks.
These developments ushered in a period of
change in the cricketing arena.
In Barbados, the black middle class polit-
ical leadership was responsible for building
publicly owned social centers and playing
fields where the masses could ply their art in

more congenial and adequate settings.
More teams joined the BCL. The coming of
age of the BCL was celebrated with the
initiation of an annual competition between
the BCA and the League-shades of the
Gentlemen vs. Players contests. Social pro-
gress likewise penetrated the BCA. Spartan
and Empire, for example, relaxed the quali-
fication for entry. And more and more
darkskinned Barbadians found their way
into YMPC and Carlton. Notwithstand-
ing these developments, it took a political
crusade to expedite the hiring of a black
as captain of the West Indies as a rou-
tine matter.
The force of the crusade resided in an
objective assessment of the facts. One
could not help but notice that the political
leadership of the time, Norman Manley, Eric
Williams, Grantley Adams, and Forbes
Bumham, was technically superior to that
which superceded it. These men of color
had graduated with honors from elite Brit-
ish universities where they imbibed such
qualities as achievement, expertise, compe-
tence, professionalism, and universalism.
Their predecessors, colonial whites, fos-
tered charlantanism, amateurism, and par-
ticularism. A residue of these characteristics
could be found among members of the
West Indian Cricket Board of Control. The
obvious question needed to be posed for
public discussion: If Prime Ministers and
Chief Ministers are non-white, what's wrong
with a non-white captain?
In the midst of constitutional changes
and social progress, C.L.R. James was
brought to the West Indies to assist in orga-
nizing a new political party in preparation
for the historical federal elections. More
than anyone else he politicized the issue.
His case was made more convincing be-
cause of the presence of a number of black

candidates with impeccable qualifications.
James' choice, Frank Worrell, was a great
cricketer, a professional who had mastered
the technical and tactical aspects of the
game. He also served successfully as cap-
tain of a Commonwealth team to India. It
did not hurt his cause that he was likeable,
socially respectable, and well educated.
Worrell was appointed to lead the West
Indies team to Australia in 1960. The team
was a hit both on and off the field. On the
field the West Indian tradition was seen at its
best-dashing, zestful but competitive
cricket. Worrell's captaincy was especially
lauded: "He was firm with them [players],
yet gentle...On the field he was never de-
monstrative. He remained calm...in all
crises the team faced."
It is largely as a consequence of Worrell's
impact that within four years he handed
over the captaincy to Garfield Sobers, who,
like Worrell before him, was knighted for his
contribution to sportsmanship and the
game. Unlike Worrell, Sobers did not have a
grammer school education. His nursery
was the plebian tradition. No one was more
pleased than Sir Frank Worrell that the
democratic tradition had now fully perme-
ated West Indian cricket. Before his death
he stated: "A lot of capital is made of the fact
that in the West Indies team now there is a
preponderance of coloured players over
whites as opposed to the old days when the
reverse obtained. But nowadays selection is
a matter of ability. This is the determining
factor. Formerly a chap might win selection
because he came from the correct drawer
of society. Nowadays your social standing
doesn't carry much weight."

The International Game
In turning to trends in the international

CAI?BBEAN 1EVIEW/51

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game, once again it is best to view them
from the standpoint of their social base. The
particular issue for analysis is the changing
character of the conduct and decorum of
players and spectator behavior.
In 1954 an England team toured the West
Indies under the captaincy of Leonard Hut-
ton, who was later knighted. His team was
one of the most unpopular ever to visit the
region. A dour and defensive professional
batsman, he sought to mold his team after
his image. Needless to say the play was
uninspiring. It is speculated that the will to
win at the price of spectator enjoyment was

Solidarity of technique
took a backseat to
showmanship and
exhibitionism. The game in
this milieu was theater at
its best.

partly related to Hutton's personality and
partly a response to pressures of the white
community in the West Indies who were
finding it difficult to accommodate to social
change. Whatever the reason, Hutton's tour
coincided with the introduction of bottle
throwing on the West Indian cricket scene.
Not only did Hutton's approach to the
game run counter to the West Indian tradi-
tion, the contrast between spectator behav-
ior in Britain and that in the West Indies
compounded the situation. West Indian
spectators tend to be active participants of
the game. Running commentaries are the
norm. If one is not accustomed to constant
chatter by spectators during play, it can be
disturbing. Players can expect unsolicited
advice. Should they fail to comply and
come "unstuck," jeering is the usual re-
sponse. By the same token, appreciation of
an excellent piece of bowling, batting or
fielding is expressed noisily and enthusi-
astically. In short, the cricket scene is a
dramatic scene, an interplay of players
and spectators.
Fun and entertainment during the breaks
sustain the drama. The consumption of
spirits adds levity to the proceedings. Ex-
cesses are to be found primarily in the
"bleachers" where the masses are located.
This part of the ground is separated from
the area where the more "respectable"
watch the game. In fact, during test
matches the seating pattern of spectators
follow along the lines of social stratification:
whites enjoy the game from one corner and
browns and blacks, depending on social
class, take their places elsewhere as if pre-
scribed by law. Bottle throwing incidents
usually originate in the "bleachers."

In an era of growing political awareness
and social change, test matches between
England and the West Indies provided the
setting for the disaffected to vent their frus-
trations. These important social occasions
possess the elements capable of precipitat-
ing social disorder: class, racial, and inter-
national conflict.
International conflict is included since
national honor is perceived by many to be at
stake in these contests. This is especially
true of matches in which England is in-
volved because of the legacies of colonial-
ism and the efforts of Labor and
Conservative governments to restrict col-
ored immigration to Britain. Nor has it gone
unnoticed that the initial decision to ban
South Africa from the Commonwealth
Cricket Conference was urged by the "col-
ored Commonwealth" on their reluctant
peers. And so, in a community of states
bifurcated along conflicts such as white/
colored, rich/poor, underdeveloped/devel-
oped, is it surprising that the traditional
game was touched by these social forces?
The emphasis on results in modern so-
cieties help to fill in the backdrop for an
understanding of the decline in conduct
and decorum in the international game.
The values of utility and success, primarily
material success, are preeminent in bour-
geois culture. Ruthless competition in pur-
suit of personal, corporate, political, and
national goals has become an everyday fea-
ture of social life. Some observers maintain
that the prevalence of the use of illegitimate
and illegal means to achieve goals has be-
come a way of life for many. In America, the
distinction between pre-and post-Water-
gate morality reinforced this perception.
The dishonesty and hypocrisy of public offi-
cials in authority perhaps fed tendencies to
buck authority which were already present
in the system. These tendencies, in the era
of satellite communication, were diffused
around the globe and provide background
for an understanding of boorish behavior
on the international cricket scene.
International cricket began to boom as
never before after cessation of hostilities in
1945. By 1960, in Britain, changes had
taken place in the game. The abolition of
the distinction between "gentlemen" and
"players" is especially germane since the
status of amateur all but disappeared. Once
the emphasis of playing for a livelihood be-
came exclusive, the compulsion to do well
and win at all costs became paramount.
This development helped to make it fanciful
for some to bend the rules to achieve their
goals. Increasing consciousness of the use
of "illegal" deliveries underscores this point.
No one country held monopoly on this
form of cheating. England had her Loaders
and Locks; Australia her Meckiffs and Sla-
ters; and the West Indies had her Griffiths
and Gilchrists. In a similar vein rule changes
were suggested and made to stymie the

52/CARBBEAN FEIEW

assets of opponents. Rules relating to "leg
before wicket" and "cutting and crease"
come to mind. Some home teams were
known to "doctor" pitches to suit their
needs and so tip the outcome of matches.
Enough has been said to render an un-
derstanding of the growing tendency of vio-
lence and intimidation in the international
game. Given the climate and the accep-
tance of the new ethic, if it takes the infliction
of an injury to a batsman to shake his confi-
dence or dislodge him, so be it. Deadly
offensive weapons such as super-fast
bowlers are therefore prized. And since for
every action there is a reaction, why not
invent helmets and protective clothing.
Cricket matches, therefore, ceased being
contests in "friendly strife" and are now out-
right battles. The old English game has be-
come Americanized in more ways than one.
More and more, then, the attitude of play-
ing the game for fun-"for its own sake"-
has given way to the spirit of winning at all
costs. An occurrence in a limited over
match between Australia and New Zealand
best illustrates this point. With the last ball to
be bowled, a New Zealand batsman had an
outside chance of giving his team a victory
if he could score six runs. To prevent this
outcome, the Australian captain ordered his
bowler to deliver the ball underhand so that
it would roll along the pitch. The desired end
was achieved and Australia won the match.
Two other incidents are worthy of men-
tion. During a tour of New Zealand in 1980,
the West Indian fast bowler, Michael Hold-
ing, reacted to what he considered a bad
and biased decision by kicking down the
stumps. He was not restrained by the "col-
lege boy" code of responding with a stiff
upper lip. Nor was this the case with the
Australian bowler, Dennis Lillee, when he
kicked the Pakistani captain during a test
match at Perth in 1981.
The reaction to these occurrences was
predictable: "it is not cricket." Administra-
tors rushed to include clauses in touring
players' contracts to cover public displays
of temper and flaunting of authority. In the
old days the code was sufficient to keep
boorish behavior in check. Those who
failed to abide by the rules had to get out of
the game. Today severe penalties could well
lead to a player boycott.
These trends have led many to the con-
clusion that cricket is no longer the sporting
spectacle it used to be. Players are creatures
of their times. The business-like approach
to the game will continue. Players will be
very methodical. Those whose instincts
favor attack, dash, and flair will remain in the
limelight as long as they are consistently
successful. The reward system will force the
average player to choose defense over at-
tack. The element of risk and uncertainty
will be reduced. In treating the game as a
business and thus ignoring traditional loy-
alties and practices, the Australian en-

trepreneur, Packer, merely capitalized on
tendencies already inherent in the game.
To blame him for destroying its spirit
is myopic.
A unique tradition emerged in the 19th
century and blossomed in the 20th century.
Its character was derived from the African
and English experiences. In terms of code
of conduct and behavior, the earliest dis-
cernible strain, the "college boy" tradition,
was classically English. From an inaus-
picious beginning at the local level, by
1950, it gained international acclaim. As
social and political development proceeded
under predominant non-white leadership,
the "plebian" strain began to flourish locally.
The behavior of this tradition was in keep-
ing with the class situation of the partici-
pants. In terms of style, both strains
cultivated an aggressive approach, replete
with flair and abandon.
By the mid-1950s, there was a boom in
international cricket. In a generation of tur-
moil and change, certain social and cultural
tendencies in the advanced democracies
seeped into the international game. In-
creasing professionalization also had an

impact on the approach, style, and behavior
of cricketers. The spirit of friendly strife gave
way to an attitude of grim struggle where no
quarters are asked and none given.
In responding to a comment which the
respected English cricket journalist, E.W.
Swanton, made about the relationship be-
tween the cricket ethic and social life in the
West Indies, C.L.R. James asserted: "There
is a whole generation of us, and perhaps
two generations, who have been formed by
it not only in social attitudes but in the most
intimate personal lives, there more than
anything else." And yet, one would have
expected the cricket scene to be more in
evidence as background material for short
stories and novels than it has. Indeed, the
cricket scene in the West Indies, involving
the interaction of players and players, play-
ers and spectators, and spectators and
spectators, is fraught with humor, pathos,
irony, tragedy, and excitement. Cricket is the
focal point of discussion under street lights,
on the beaches, in the barber and rum
shops, at parties, and in drawing rooms.
Here then is a challenge to West Indian
self-understanding. O

CARBBEAN PEVIEW/53

THE CEABEAN

IeIEw AWARD
The Caribbean Review Award is an annual award to honor an individual
who has contributed to the advancement of Caribbean intellectual life. The
winner of the fourth annual award is Sidney W. Mintz. He joins previous
recipients Gordon K. Lewis, Philip M. Sherlock, and Aim6 Cesaire.
Sidney W. Mintz is an anthropologist of wonderful breadth. He teaches in
English at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. He teaches in French at
the Ecole Pratique des Sciences Sociales in Paris. He has done field
research in Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Haiti. He is or has been on the editorial
boards of eleven different journals. His articles have appeared in at least 40
different journals and reviews; his book reviews have appeared in an
additional 20. Some 70 articles, forwards, and prefaces, in English, French,
and German, have appeared in books, anthologies, handbooks,
proceedings, and encyclopedias. His work has been reprinted widely and
often translated into Spanish.
Sidney W. Mintz is well known for Caiamelar: the Subculture of a Rural
Sugar Plantation Proletariat; Worker in the Cane: A Puerto Rican Life
History; Caribbean Transformations; Slavery, Colonialism, and Racism; and
Working Papers in Haitian Society and Culture.
He is presently working on two manuscripts: An Arc of Pearls is a social
history of the Caribbean; Sweetness and Power is a history of sugar
consumption in England and its relationship to the Caribbean world.
The Award committee consisted of Lambros Comitas (Chairman),
Columbia University, New York; Fuat Andic, Universidad de Puerto Rico,
Rio Piedras; Wendell Bell, Yale University, New Haven; Locksley
Edmondson, University of the West Indies, Mona; Anthony P Maingot,
Florida International University, Miami.
Nominations for the fifth annual Caribbean Review Award-to be
presented at the Ninth Annual meeting of the Caribbean Studies
Association in Spring 1984-should be sent to The Editor, Caribbean
Review, Florida International University, Miami, Florida 33199.
The award recognizes individual effort irrespective of field, ideology,
national origin, or place of residence. In addition to a plaque the recipient
receives an honorarium of $250, donated by the International Affairs Center
of Florida International University.

Wives...
Continued from page 29

quired for proper women's attire. She does
not go visiting in the village without a spe-
cific errand to do. She does not cook in an
open-sided structure (gangasa), which is
the generally preferred cooking house for
Saramaka women. She refrains from sing-
ing and dancing at community "plays." She
does not bathe in the river when any of her
husband's relatives are within sight. She
often contributes cooked food to an an-
cestral feast without attending or partaking
of the food herself. And in countless other
ways, her behavior is required to communi-
cate deference and respect to her hosts. A
popular song of the late 1960s expressed
this principle quite clearly: "NA waka pidi
tabiku m66; A manu k6nd&, w6, I d6."
(Don't walk around begging for tobacco
anymore; [Bear in mind that] you're in your
husband's village).
A woman who has spent little time with
her husband's kin must be particularly care-
ful about her demeanor in his village. But
even when a woman has spent most of her
life in a husband's village, she remains a
"woman-come-to-a-husband," and al-
though her interactions with other villagers
become increasingly relaxed over the years,
her behavior is still judged in terms of
the rules for that status.
In addition to the general conventions for
their behavior, women-come-to-husbands
are often subjected to restrictions imposed
at a more local level. One village on the
Suriname River has designated certain
boulders at its landing, considered particu-

larly desirable for laundering clothes and
hammocks, as off-limits to female affines.
The lineage members of one horticultural
camp on the upper Pikilio reserve their
heaviest rice pestle for the wives who work
there, and claim that they do not allow wives
to use any other. And residents of the Pikilio
say that a woman must be willing to "swal-
low rocks" if she marries a man from the
upper Gaanlio, because of the various hard-
ships imposed on wives in those villages.
Women often devote conversations to
the analysis of their feelings about living in
their husband's village versus their own,
and about gardening with their husband's
kinswomen versus their own, for these in-
fluence important ongoing decisions in
their lives. A married woman's residence is
always divided; she is never expected to
declare a permanent arrangement, but
rather adapts it to particular needs as they
develop through time. Her residence pat-
tern may change when she becomes the
medium for a possession god based in her
own village, when her aging mother needs
to be cared for, when a sister she feels close
to alters her primary residence or gardens,
when her husband divorces a wife or takes
on a new one, when he goes off to the coast
for a few years and so on.
The woman's husband and his kin invari-
ably press her to spend as much time as she
can in their village and to garden in their
camp. A kin group's ability to attract and
hold onto affinal women adds to their pres-
tige and power within the community. At the
same time, however, relationships between
a woman and her husband's kin (especially
his female kin, with whom she interacts
most frequently) are, more often than not,
strained. It is so common for women to
contrast the relaxation they feel when living

"sister-with-sister-with-mother" with the
tensions of life among a husband's kinswo-
men that they can effectively convey their
thoughts by saying very little. One woman
gave a friend the following summary of the
relationships she had in her husband's vil-
lage: "There's one woman named Yimba
[her husband's mother] and I'm [barely] on
speaking terms with her. There's another
woman named Bodibo [a sister-in-law].
Even though she kills me [with malicious
gossip], I still speak to her." Although she
said nothing more, her friend understood
that she was citing these as the warmest
relations that she had in her husband's vil-
lage. And the powerful emotion behind an-
other woman's distillation of her husband's
village relations was carried fully by her tone
of voice, as she declared cryptically, "One
mother-in-law is with me there, along with
one sister-in-law!" Such statements, heard
frequently in women's conversations, repre-
sent a rhetorical form (used also to charac-
terize co-wives) that carries meaning with
little need for further elaboration.
Some discussions however, provide
more detail on the kinds of problems that
women perceive. One common accusation
is material hardship. Women often com-
plain about being left outwhen the results of
a local man's hunting or fishing efforts are
distributed; one woman accused her
mother-in-law of intercepting conjugal gifts
that her husband was sending her from the
coast; another woman told how she was
forced to build her own storage house in an
affinal camp even though she had a hus-
band and four able-bodied brothers-in-law
in Saramaka. And another ranted that only
divine intervention forced her sisters-and-
mother-in-lawto leave her the last few ofthe
several dozen manioc cakes that she had

54/CAIBBEAN reviEW

baked in their camp. Support of a rival co-
wife is also frequently cited as evidence of
hostility (though I have never heard the co-
wives in question acknowledge such soli-
darity). The most common allegation
against a husband's kin, however, is mali-
cious gossip. Women repeatedly present
themselves as the victims of false rumors
spread by their husband's relatives. This
frustration contributes importantly to
women's gossip sessions and, is a central
subject for women's popular songs as well.
Although women often discuss their hus-
band's kin as a collective body, they also
entertain distinct expectations about the re-
lationships they will have with those in par-
ticular kinship positions. The relationships
most frequently cast in terms of cultural
stereotypes are those between a woman
and her husband's mother and sisters.
A woman and her mother-in-law exercise
great restraint with each other, and there is
no expectation that feelings of real warmth
will develop between them. Women see
themselves as being under the thumb of
their husband's mother when they are in the
same village. Mothers-in-law are said to en-
joy the prerogative to make specific de-
mands on their daughters-in-law (e.g., to
carry water or cut firewood) and even
though such services are more often of-
fered by the younger woman than de-
manded by the older, the principle looms

large in Saramakas' abstract image of this
relationship. When, to cite just one exam-
ple, a woman said she intended to explain
to a recently-married younger woman that
she was her (distant classificatory) mother-
in-law, the woman she was talking to
chimed in supportively, "Yes, just bring her
all the rice you need threshed and she'll
understand." The aspect of my life in the US
that Saramaka women were most curious
about was the nature of my relationship with
my mother-in-law. Did I ever say her name
out loud? Did I ever walk behind her while
she was bent over doing laundry at the
river? If a photo was taken of me, would I
show it to her? Specific rules of etiquette
reinforce this image. For example, a
woman should not sit on a stool that be-
longs to her mother-in-law, and a mother-
in-law may not be the one to help a new wife
unload the special basket that she brings on
her first formal visit to the husband's village.
In contrast, sisters-in-law are supposed
to offer friendship and solidarity. In relation-
ships with me, which were unusual in hav-
ing no basis in (even very distant
classificatory) kinship, most of the women I
knew chose to define me as a sister-in-law,
and this was an explicit gesture of cordiality
and friendship. Unlike mothers and daugh-
ters-in-law, sisters-in-law spend significant
amounts of time together-eating, garden-
ing, sewing, raising children, gossiping,

and so forth. And unlike the tensions be-
tween co-wives or between mothers-and

U-

rn

^1965)

Florida International University now
offers a Master of Arts program in
Economics with an emphasis in
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daughters-in-law, strains between sisters-
in-law are viewed as individual difficulties in
living up to "normal" standards of friend-
ship and solidarity. The ideal relationship
between a woman and her brother-in-law
(either husband's brother or sister's hus-
band) is similarly defined; addressing each
other repeatedly by the term suagi, they
play a game of exaggerated affection-em-
bracing liberally, exchanging compliments
and in general carrying on a platonic and
highly stylized flirtation.
The interactions between a woman and
the people who are classified as her hus-
band's grandparents are also specially de-
fined; addressing each other by the terms

for husband and wife (minu, muyie) or,
for two women, by a special adaptation
(kamb6) of the term for co-wife (kam-
b6sa), affines in alternate generations
"play" with each other at being husbands,
wives, and co-wives. The teasing that goes
on between a woman and her husband's
grandparents is more cautious than that
allowed for her own grandparents, more
circumscribed by expectations of deference
and distance, and more heavily comple-
mented by small gifts and services. But
there is often real warmth, and the kinds of
interpersonal conflicts that mar other affinal
relationships rarely intrude on the fictive
"marriages" of alternate-generation affines.

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Although women tend to cast their hus-
band's kin in a distinctly negative light, they
also like to discuss the pleasures of life in a
husband's village, which are as unan-
imously agreed on as the tensions. Their
guest status there implies not only re-
strictions, but also a kind of preferential
treatment; although having to wear "good
clothes" all the time is seen as part of the
formality and lack of relaxation in a hus-
band's village, it carries to Saramaka
women a sense of festivity as well. Women
often describe a visit to their husband's vil-
lage in terms of the special clothes they
wore, the elaborate hairdo they had braided,
and the sweet dishes that they cooked and
presented to their affines. Ideals for the
treatment of "women-come-to-a-husband"
center on praise and extreme cordiality, and
even when these ideals are not fulfilled on
the level of actual feelings, they may still be
reflected in the rhetoric with which affines
interact with each other.
Women often cite the festive atmosphere
of a visit to a husband's village as their moti-
vation for not wanting to marry men from
their own village. The image of loading a
basket with special foods plays a central role
in glowing descriptions of these trips, and
reference is frequently made to elaborate
hairdos for the occasion. One man sum-
med this up by noting that Saramaka wom-
en love the "K6 baAal" of a separate hus-
band's village; when they arrive there, he ex-
plained, their sisters-in-law will call out, "K&-
badal [here, an exclamation of surprise and
pleasure] Sister-in-law has come to visit!"
In contrast, conjugal visits within the
woman's own village, with people who have
known her since childhood, are said never to
inspire the same excitement On a more
practical level, a woman's presence in her
affinal village allows her both to spend time
with her husband and to compete actively
with her co-wives over his affection, conjugal
services, and material resources, and this is a
central motivation in decisions about resi-
dence and gardening. Because of the current
definition of residence alternatives, a woman
cannot expect her husband to spend more
than a few days at a time visiting her in her
own village, so thatthe days she spends in his
village constitute almost her only oppor-
tunities to be with him.
While the actual amount of time women
spend in their husband's village may be
quite slight, their residential base there car-
ries great symbolic importance. A woman
who simply uses an affinal relative's house
rather than having one of her own while she
is visiting her husband is seen as having a
distinctly tenuous conjugal arrangement.
And the clearest way for a woman to declare
her decision to divorce a husband is to
"pack up her things" (pii lai) that is, to
remove her clothes and kitchenware from
her house in his village. Because of this
understanding, a man may accuse his wife

56/CAJBBEAN REVIEW

of leaving him if she takes too many of her
pots and pans back to her own village. Even
when a husband dies, the proper procedure
is for the woman to leave "one plate" in his
village for the period of mourning; after a
respectable amount of time, she then re-
turns to sleep in her house there for a cou-
ple of nights before completing her
withdrawal from his village and the termi-
nation of the marriage.

A Husband's Wives
Saramakas explicitly equate the relation-
ship between a man's wives with outspoken
hostility. In dyadic interactions, a standard
synonym for the verb "to fight" (feti) is "to
make [act like a] co-wife" (mbei kam-
bdsa), and the current gossip in any village
contains ample support for this association.
Although there are a few famous instances
in which co-wives became friendly with
each other, solidarity between them is far
from an expected development. Rather, the
ideal image of co-wife relations centers on
the control of hostile feelings and on the
relatively peaceful maintenance of separate
lives. Saramakas feel that each wife should
have her own house (ideally nottoo near the
others') and serve her own dishes in the
house where the husband is eating. Expec-
tations of cordiality are generally phrased in
terms of a willingness to say a cool good
morning to a co-wife if she should happen
to walk by. From the time they are first intro-
duced-in a cryptic and visibly tense an-
nouncement of the new wife's arrival on the
scene-co-wives are expected to interact,
at best, with an icy cordiality.
Saramaka ideals for conjugal relation-
ships stress the man's responsibility to treat
all his wives equally. When more than one
wife is present in his village, he is supposed
to sleep with one of them for three nights,
then go on to the next one's house for three
nights, and so on, maintaining as regular a
rotation among them as circumstances al-
low. When a man distributes presents, such
as cloth or kitchenware, there should be
equal amounts for each wife. And the re-
sults of his fishing and hunting efforts
should be given evenly to whichever wives
are in the village. In Saramaka ideology
(even if not in some men's personal feel-
ings), there is no "principal" wife.
Not surprisingly, most co-wife quarrels
involve accusations that one woman is try-
ing to maneuver herself into a privileged
position, and the most frequent conjugal
complaint heard from women is that their
husband is favoring another wife. Each
woman does her best to keep track of her
husband's sleeping arrangements in order
to know whether she is receiving her fair
share of his time. If she feels she is being
slighted, she does not generally broach the
problem with the husband directly, but
rather discusses it with her husband's sis-
ters or others in the neighborhood, who

may eventually bring it up with the husband.
Women also make it their business to find
out the nature and quantity of all conjugal
gifts that their co-wives receive. And they do
their best to keep track of the distribution of
their husband's major hunting kills as well.
Women discuss their grievances with
their own kinswomen, mimicking their
co-wives' actions and ways of talking, and
laying bare their feelings. There is strong
supportiveness expressed in such sessions,
for nearly every woman has had similar
experiences. I cite one example.
Ndolia was talking with Moninge, a
woman from another lineage in her village.
Ndolia's lineage had recently denied her
permission to join her husband in Kourou,
French Guiana, where he was working in a
construction crew. He had already set the
posts of a house for her there, she ex-
plained, and now her co-wife from a down-
stream village would probably end up living
in it instead. She felt as though she had
died; her coffin was already made, and all
that was left was to be buried. But there was
one particular incident that hurt the worst of
all. Since it happened, she had been unable
to eat; she wanted to do nothing but cry.
She hadjust visited her husband's village to
clear the ground infront of her house there,
and saw her co-wife, who approached her
with a broad grin and inquired effusively
whether she was busy making preparations
for her trip to the coast. That woman not
only knew very well that Ndolia wasn't
going; the husband's sisters said that she
had been celebrating that fact for two solid
days! The whole experience was painful,
but it was her co-wife's smile of satisfaction

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that hurt the worst of all. In the course of
relating all this to Moninge, Ndolia men-
tioned the names of the six women who
were traveling in the large motor-driven ca-
noe that she would have taken downriver on
her way to Kourou. One was a former co-
wife of Moninge's. "Woman," said Moninge,
"I divorced that husband of mine a long
time ago, but even now when I hear that that
woman is joining him in French Guiana, it
really hurts, do you hear? It hurts me a lot,
woman. It hurts me still."
Even when women are not describing
particular problems, many of their conver-
sations reflect general feelings toward their
co-wives through their choice of words. In

contrast to most Saramaka modes of per-
sonal reference, which are intended to com-
municate either respect or affection, the
terms that are used for co-wives are
charged with sarcasm and bitterness. "Your
friend" is commonly used when talking to a
woman about her co-wife, and any derisive
term is considered appropriate for a woman
to use in speaking of her husband's other
wives-from "that other one" to "that slut of
mine." A woman may also convey her feel-
ings about a co-wife in the way she chooses
to talk about her husband. For example,
one woman began referring to her husband
derisively as "Gogo-a-kini's husband," after
the man expressed his love for a new wife

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through the creation of a highly compli-
mentary play name, Gogo-a-kini, (literally
"buttocks-to-the-knees," lavish praise, in
Saramaka, of a beautifully ample rear end).
Co-wife rivalries are most commonly ex-
pressed in conversation and through song.
But there are other outlets as well. The stan-
dard method of attacking a co-wife through
supernatural means is to straddle a dish of
food that she has prepared, thus polluting it
so that it must be thrown out. I have heard
stories of this technique being used by
young and old women from various villages
and with various consequences. In one
well-known case, the co-wife threw out her
polluted food without comment but later,
once the other woman had served her own
food and the husband was about to eat it,
she grabbed a machete and with one swift
blow "split the bowl in half," at which the
man's komanti (warrior) god cried out
"hooo hooo" and he ran off into the forest.
Physical fights are also not rare among
co-wives. For example, when one woman,
who felt her husband was neglecting her,
brazenly called to him in his other wife's
house and "informed" him that he had
more than one wife, the other woman
sprang up, burst out of the house, and
fought with her. In another case a woman
attacked her pregnant co-wife, ripping off
her outer skirt and forcing her to run off in
just her underskirt. And the only large-scale
fight among kinswomen that occurred dur-
ing my fieldwork was understood by
Saramakas in part as a "practice" for fight-
ing with co-wives. Although magical prepa-
rations were banned because of the close
kinship ties involved, the women did en-
gage in other techniques that are associ-
ated with co-wife fights-biting each other,
clubbing each other with sticks and urinat-
ing on each other. Co-wife fights provide a
lively topic of conversation, as people remi-
nisce about particularly fierce confronta-
tions or women evaluate their chances of
coming out on top if they attack a rival.
Supernatural aids (fdti 6bia) play an impor-
tant role in these discussions; for example,
women generally explain the decision not
to fight a co-wife by asserting that the other
woman has purchased specially prepared
body lotions that will assure her victory
through magical means.
When a woman dies, her present (and, to
a lesser extent, her former) co-wives are
required to go through a period of intense
mourning which functions in part to protect
them from accusations of having contrib-
uted to her death. They wear old clothes
which they may not launder, their hair is
cropped close to their head by the dead
woman's kin, their possession gods may
not come to them, and they may not have
sexual intercourse. Of all the sets of mourn-
ing regulations that Saramakas recognize,
only those for a husband or wife are more
stringent than those for a co-wife. E

58/CAIBBEAN PrVIEe

Haitiana...
Continued from page 31

either. Let us suppose he wants to find man-
uals or histories of Haitian literature. He
would probably first think of Chapter 24:
"Creative Arts and Recreation." There, he
would find part of Berrou and Pompilus'
Histoire ... ,cross-listed from Chapter 11:
"General History"; "General History" would
direct him to Chapter 22: "Cultural Continu-
ity" for the other volumes of Berrou and
Pompilus. Now, since the main entry for this
history of Haitian literature is in Chapter 22,
the student would logically enough go
through the whole chapter to find other
such works. That would be a mistake. He
wouldn't find Ghislain Gouraige's Histoire
de la literature haitienne, not even as a
cross-listing. The work is actually main-
listed in Chapter 13: "Post-Independence
(1804-1914)" and only cross-listed in the
two following chapters, also dealing with
History. Nor would the student find the three
volumes by Fardin and Jadotte, which ap-
pear in Chapter 2: "General Commentary
and Research" and nowhere else. Nor
would he find Viatte's Histoire litteraire de
l'Amerlque franqaise, also main-listed un-
der "General History" and cross-listed only
under Chapter 27: "Language and Linguis-
tics." And, to make everything even clearer,
we find Berrou and Pompilus described un-
der 22.0016 and 22.0017 as a two-volume
work published in Port-au-Prince by
Editions Caraibes in 1975 and, this time as
Pompilus and Berrou, we find it described
under 11.0242 as a three volumes work
published in Paris by Editions de I'Ecole in
1974.
Another point: Surely very few users of
The Complete Haltlana will be unable to
read French, and one therefore wonders
whether it was indispensable to give transla-
tions of all French titles. Especially since
translations from languages other than
English are generally stilted and very often
just plain wrong. A few examples: 7.0034: a
"cocotier" is a "coconut tree," not a "cocoa
tree"; 11.208: "A travers 1'exposition colo-
niale" means "Going through the Colonial
Exhibition," not "A survey of the Colonial
Situation"; 12.0701: "LAsiento frangais"
means "The French slave-trade monop-
oly," not "The French seat" (1); 12.0550: Is it
possible that Laguerre doesn't know who
the abbe Gr6goire was? He translates
"Labb6 Gr6goire et Haiti" as "Father Gre-
gory and Haiti"; 19.006: "survivances [de
l'lndien]" here means "what remains of
him," not "his survivors"; 24.0045: "bois
cochon" is an aphrodisiac and not, I fear, "a
witticism." 44.0546: "Washington prevee la
caida de Duvalier" means that Washington
"forsees" his fall, not that they "perceive" it;
11.0220: "cuentas de Tesoreria" means

"Treasury Accounts," not "Tales of
Tesoreria"; 21.0101: a possible translation
of El Masacre se pasa a pie might be The
River Masacre is forded on foot, but
surely not The Massacre goes on foot. And
so on and so forth.
We now come to the last characteristic of
The Complete Haitiana I wish to bemoan:
its unbelievable sloppiness. Reviewers find
a sadistic delight in calling attention to oc-
casional misprints, and this temptation
should be resisted. But The Complete
Haitiana is such a scandalous example of
careless editing and proofreading that the
matter cannot be passed over. Let us exam-
ine pages xvi and xvii of Laguerre's Intro-
duction, for instance: The best specialist of
colonial Saint-Domingue is Debien, not
D6bien, as he is called here and throughout.
"The late Albert Mangones" will be sad-
dened to learn of his death: Laguerre was
referring to his father, the late Edmond
Mangones. The preposition a takes a grave
accent. Manigat's Haltiana was published
by Collectif (not Collectifs) Paroles.
Aubourg's Haiti...was published by Cen-
tre...de I'Lcole (not d'Ecole)...en Sciences
Sociales (not Science Sociale) [in point of
fact, it was simply published in Cahiers
d'anthropologie, 2, 1976]. Legendre pre-
pared the catalogue of the Bibliotheque des
(not de) Freres. Lespinasse's work was pub-
lished by the Institut Interamericain (not In-
teramericaine). Milo Marcelin wrote
Ecrivains haitiens (not haitiennes).
Michel Laguerre's own Etudes...were pub-
lished by Presses (not Presse) de l'Univer-
site de Montreal. Albert Valdman wrote
Creole (not Creole) et enseignement pri-
maire (notpremlere). I will not bother to list
the misprints and errors in footnote 16:
there are 9 (nine), in three and a half lines of
text. All this in two pages.
Laguerre seems to have no idea of what
accents are used for: the same word, or
name, is at times spelled with, at times with-
out diacritical marks; acutes turn into
graves and vice-versa: circumflexes are ap-
parently dismissed as ostentatious embel-
lishments. The same situation holds for
Spanish where, in addition, tildes are
granted or withheld with joyous abandon.
A quick review of those names in the
Index with which I am familiar is also reveal-
ing. I have already mentioned Irwin Frank-
lyn and Marie Chauvet. There are no such
persons as Pritchard Hesketh and Vernon
Hesketh; there is, however, a Hesketh Ver-
non Pritchard. Stephen Alexis does not ap-
pear in the Index, and no wonder: those of
his works listed are attributed to his son
Jacques-Stephen Alexis. Riffinelli er-
roneously becomes: Ruffinelle; Gazarian:
Gararian; P6lliakov: Palliakov; Gilles
Lefebvre: Giles Lefebre; Labuchin: Labuchi,
and Victor Mangones: Victor Mangobes.
(Laguerre must have a grudge against the
whole family). Fleischmann loses his final

"N." One of Legrand Bijou's works is in-
dexed under Bijou Legrand (without
cross-reference).
First and middle names fare no better:
Pompee-Valentin de Vastey becomes
Rompee-Valentin; Jean-Eric Joassaint be-
comes Jean-Erie; Janheinz Jahn becomes
Jahneinz; Alcibiade Pommayrac becomes
Alciabiade; Herv6 Mehu becomes Herue
Mehu, Ruth Danenhower Wilson becomes
Ruth Danehaver; Rodolphe D6rose be-
comes Radolphe and Christopher Clague is
gallicized into Christophe.
There is much, much more to say, but I
have depressed the reader enough.
The Haitians have a proverb: Pitit ki pa
gen manman tete grann or, as we would
say: "If you can't have honey you make do
with molasses." So we will make do with
The Complete Haitiana and those of our
libraries which can afford $250.00 will order
it. For all I know, specialists in the natural
sciences and development experts will find
it satisfactory; of course humanists and so-
cial scientists will consult it also, no doubt
with occasional profit. But we will think of
what it might have been, and sigh for honey
as we thumb through the molasses. D

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Latin American Center, University of
California (Los Angeles), 1983.

FOLK-MEDICINE IN VENEZUELA. Angelina
Pollak-Eltz. Fr6hrenau (Vienna, Austria),
1982. 231 p.

HEALTH IN THE HIGHLANDS: THE
CHIMALTENANGO DEVELOPMENT
PROGRAM OF GUATEMALA. Ulli Steltzer.
University of Washington Press, 1983. 128
p. $30.00; $9.95 paper.

INDOCUMENTADOS MEXICANOS. Patricia
Morales. Editorial Grijalbo (Mexico), 1982.
270 p. Study of Mexican migration to
the U.S.

MAIN CURRENTS IN CARIBBEAN THOUGHT
THE HISTORICAL EVOLUTION OF
CARIBBEAN SOCIETY IN ITS
IDEOLOGICAL ASPECTS, 1492-1900.
Gordon K. Lewis. Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1983. 400 p. $25.00.

THE MAN-OF-WORDS IN THE WEST INDIES:
PERFORMANCE AND THE EMERGENCE
OF CREOLE CULTURE. Roger D.
Abrahams. Johns Hopkins University Press,
1983. 240 p. $24.50; $12.95 paper.

"MARCHIN" THE PILGRIMS HOME:
LEADERSHIP AND DECISION-MAKING IN
AN AFRO-CARIBBEAN FAITH. Stephen D.
Glazier. Greenwood Press, 1983. About
Baptists in Trinidad.

THE MUSIC OF BRAZIL. David P Appleby.
University of Texas Press, 1983. 248 p.
$22.50.

NAHUATL MYTH AND SOCIAL STRUCTURE.
James M. Taggart. University of Texas Press,
1983. 272 p. $22.50.

EL PUEBLO: THE GALLEGOS FAMILY'S
AMERICAN JOURNEY, 1503-1980. Bruce
E. Johansen, Roberto Maestas. Monthly
Review Press, 1983. 208 p. $20.00; $10.00
paper. A Chicano saga.

RITUALS OF MARGINALITY: POLITICS,
PROCESS AND CULTURE CHANGE IN
CENTRAL URBAN MEXICO, 1969-1974.
Carlos G. V6lez-lbafiez. University of
California Press, 1983. 270 p. $27.50.

SER O NO SER: LA ANGUSTIA EXISTENCIAL
PUERTORRIQUENA. Lucas Moran Arce.
Imp. Universitaria de Ponce (Puerto Rico),
1982. 120 p. $8.00.

SOCCER MADNESS. Janet Laver. University of
Chicago Press, 1983. 232 p. $17.50.
Analysis of the sport's effect on Brazilian
society.

TESTING THE CHAINS: RESISTANCE TO
SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH WEST INDIES.
Michael Craton. Cornell University Press,
1982. 389 p. $25.00.

TIERRA ADENTRO: SETTLEMENT AND
SOCIETY IN COLONIAL DURANGO.
Michael M. Swann. Westview Press, 1982.
445 p. $20.00.

WHITE COLLAR MIGRANTS IN THE
AMERICAS AND THE CARIBBEAN. Arnaud
E Marks, Hebe M.C. Vessuri, eds. Dept of
Caribbean Studies, Royal Institute of
Linguistics and Anthropology (Leiden,
Netherlands), 1983. 251 p. Dfl. 25.00.

WHITE POWER IN JAMAICA: CONTROL OF A
SLAVE PLANTATION SOCIETY. E.K.
Braithwaite. Institute of Social and
Economic Research, University of the West
Indies (Mona, Jamaica), 1982.

WOMEN AND THE ANCESTORS: BLACK
CARIB KINSHIP AND RITUAL. Virginia
Kerns. University of Illinois Press, 1983.
256 p. $17.95.

Biography

ANDRES BELLO, JURISPERITO DE AMERICA
Benjamin Ardila Duarte. Tall. Graf. del
Banco de la Republica (Bogota, Colombia),
1982. 252 p.

DAYS AND NIGHTS OF LOVE AND WAR.
Eduardo Galeano. Judith Brister, tr. Monthly
Review Press, 1983. 192 p. $16.00; $8.00
paper. Translation of Dias y noches de amor
y de guerra, the personal testimony of the
Uruguayan author and political activitist.

EL HOMBRE EN SU ACCION, CESAR
VALLEJO: CUATRO EPISODIOS. Jorge
Falc6n. Ediciones Hora del Hombre (Lima,
Peru), 1982. 223 p. Political and social
views of the Peruvian author.

FELIX VARELA. Joaquin G. Santana. Ediciones
Cubanas (Havana, Cuba), 1982. 124 p.

IDEA, SENTIMIENTO Y SENSIBILIDAD DE
JOSE MARTI. Humberto Pifiera LIera.
Ediciones Universal (Miami, Florida), 1982.
490 p. $25.00.

60/CAIPBBEAN REVIEW

JUAN PABLO DUARTE. Mariano Lebr6n
Savifi6n. Oficina Nacional de
Administraci6n y Personal, ONAP (Santo
Domingo), 1982. 129 p.

JUAN PERON AND THE RESHAPING OF
ARGENTINA. Frederick C. Turner, Jose
Enrique Miguens, eds. University of
Pittsburgh Press, 1983. 360 p. $24.95.

LA LIBERTAD RELIGIOSA EN EL
LIBERTADOR SIMON BOLIVAR. Constatino
Maradei D. Ediciones Tripode (Caracas,
Venezuela), 1982. 158 p.

MARTI POR MARTI. Jose Marti. Ediciones
Cubanas (Havana, Cuba), 1982. 404 p.

PRISIONERO DE CASTRO. Armando
Valladares. Pierre Golendorf, ed. Editorial
Planeta (Barcelona, Spain), 1982. 174 p.

PROFETAS OU CONJURADOS? Isolde Helena
Brans Venturelli. Sutora (Sao Paulo, Brazil),
1982. 215 p. Biography of Aleijadinho.

SOR JUANA INES DE LA CRUZ, O LAS
TRAMPAS DE LA FE. Octavio Paz. Seix
Barral (Barcelona, Spain), 1982. 658 p.

ZAPATA: 3000 DIAS DE LUCHA. Ram6n
Valdiosera. Editorial Universo (Mexico),
1982. 171 p.

Description and Travel

ANDEAN REFLECTIONS: LETTERS FROM
CARL O. SAUER WHILE ON A SOUTH
AMERICAN TRIP UNDER A GRANT FROM
THE ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION,
1942. Robert C. West, ed. Westview Press,
1982. 139 p. $15.00.

BAEDEKER'S CARIBBEAN. Baedeker.
Prentice-Hall, 1983. 250 p. $14.95.

BELIZE GUIDE. Paul Glassman. Passport Press
(Moscow, Vt.), 1983. 128 p. $9.95.

THE GREATEST ESCAPE, OR HOW TO LIVE
IN PARADISE IN LUXURY FOR 250
DOLLARS PER MONTH. Tom McLaughlin.
Thompson, Roberts & Clare (Houston,
Tex.), 1983. 200 p. About Mexico.

LA PLATA VISTA POR LOS VIAJEROS,
1882-1912. Pedro Luis Barcia. Librerias
Juvenilia (Buenos Aires, Argentina), 1982.
273 p.

MEXICO. Antonio Haas, Albano Guatti,
Armando Milani. Scala Books (New York,
N.Y.), 1982. 243 p. $34.95.

MEXICO EN EL SIGLO XIX VISTO POR LOS
ALEMANES. Brigida Margarita Mentz de
Boege. Universidad Nacional Aut6noma de
Mexico, 1982. 477 p.

VIAGEM AO INTERIOR DO BRASIL. Georg
Wilhelm Freyreiss. A. L6fgren, tr. Itatiaia
(Belo Horizonte, Brazil), 1982. 138 p.
Translation of Reisen in Brasilien, a 19th
century travel account

Economics

THE AMAZON RUBBER BOOM, 1850-1920.
Barbara Weinstein. Stanford University
Press, 1983. 376 p. $29.50.

ARAB-LATIN AMERICAN RELATIONS:
ENERGY TRADE AND INVESTMENT
Fehmy Saddy, ed. Transaction Books, 1983.
205 p. $29.95.

ATLANTIC EMPIRES: THE NETWORK OF
TRADE AND REVOLUTION, 1713-1826.
Peggy K. Liss. Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1983. 348 p.

BANANAS, LABOR, AND POLITICS IN
HONDURAS, 1954-1963. Robert
MacCameron. Maxwell School of
Citizenship and Public Affairs, Syracuse
University, 1982.

BONDS OF MUTUAL TRUST THE CULTURE
SYSTEMS OF ROTATING CREDIT
ASSOCIATIONS AMONG MEXICANS AND
CHICANOS. Carlos C. Velez-Ibafiez. Rutgers
University Press, 1983. 185 p. $22.50.

CREDIT AND SOCIOECONOMIC CHANGE IN
COLONIAL MEXICO: LOANS AND
MORTGAGES IN GUADALAJARA,
1720-1820. Linda L. Greenow. Westview
Press, 1983. 250 p. $17.50.

DEVELOPMENT IN THE POLITICS OF
ADMINISTRATIVE REFORM: LESSONS
FROM LATIN AMERICA. Linn Ann
Hammergren. Westview Press, 1983.
220 p. $19.00.

DEVELOPMENT STRATEGIES IN RURAL
COLOMBIA: THE CASE OF CAAUETA.
Robin R. Marsh. Latin American Center,
University of California (Los Angeles), 1983.

THE DILEMMA OF AMAZONIAN
DEVELOPMENT Emilio F Moran, ed.
Westview Press, 1983. 348 p. $25.00.

DOLLARS & DICTATORS: A GUIDE TO
CENTRAL AMERICA. Tom Barry, Beth
Wood, Deb Preusch. Resource Center
(Albuquerque, New Mexico), 1982.
263 p. $5.95.

ENSAYOS SOBRE EL DESARROLLO DE
MEXICO. Gonzalo Robles. Fondo de
Cultura Econ6mica (Mexico), 1982. 409 p.

HACIENDAS AND ECONOMIC
DEVELOPMENT GUADALAJARA,
MEXICO, AT INDEPENDENCE. Richard B.
Lindley. University of Texas Press, 1983.

IMPACTS OF MEXICAN OIL POLICY ON
ECONOMIC AND POLITICAL
DEVELOPMENT Jesus-Agustin Velasco.
Lexington Books, 1983.

INDUSTRIALIZACION Y DESARROLLO
REGIONAL EN COLOMBIA. Dirk Krijt,
Franklin Maiguascha, Menno Vellinga. Vrije
Universiteit (Utrecht, Netherlands) &
Carvajal (Cali, Colombia), 1982. 159 p.

LA INVERSION EXTRANJERA EN LA
INDUSTRIAL MANUFACTURER
COLOMBIANA Juan Ignacio Arango E
Editograficas (Bogota, Colombia), 1982.
346 p.

DE LAATSTE KOLONIE, DE NEDERLANDSE
ANTILLEN: AFHANKELIJKHEID,
BELASTING-PROFUT EN GEHEIME
WINSTEN. Rudie Kagie. Het Wereldvenster
(Bussum, Netherlands), 1983. Nfl. 19.50.
Study of the economic dependence of the
Netherlands Antilles within an international
framework.

THE LATIN AMERICAN ECONOMIES:
GROWTH AND THE EXPORT SECTOR,
1880-1930. Roberto Cortes-Conde, Shane
J. Hunt, eds. Holmes & Meier, 1983. 260 p.

MANUFACTURING IN THE BACKYARD: CASE
STUDIES ON ACCUMULATION AND
EMPLOYMENT IN SMALL-SCALE
BRAZILIAN INDUSTRY. Hubert Schmitz. E
Pinter (London, Eng.), 1982. 232 p.

MERCHANTS AND JEWS: THE STRUGGLE
FOR BRITISH WEST INDIAN COMMERCE,
1650-1750. Stephen Alexander Fortune.
University Presses of Florida, 1983. Based
on thesis, University of California (San
Diego), 1976.

MEXICAN GOVERNMENT AND INDUSTRIAL
DEVELOPMENT IN THE EARLY
REPUBLIC: THE BANCO DE AVIO. Robert
A. Potash. Rev. ed. University of
Massachusetts Press, 1983. 264 p. $27.50.

EL MOVIMIENTO OBRERO PETROLERO:
PROCESS DE FORMACION Y
DESARROLLO. Hector Lucena. Ediciones
Centauro (Caracas, Venezuela), 1982.
538 p. About Venezuela.

CAI?BBcAN lEVIEW/61

NEGRO SLAVERY IN THE SUGAR
PLANTATIONS OF VERACRUZ AND
PERNAMBUCO, 1550-1680: A
COMPARATIVE STUDY. Gerald Cardoso.
University Press of America, 1983. 224 p.
$21.50; $10.75 paper.

NOW WE CAN SPEAK: A JOURNEY
THROUGH THE NEW NICARAGUA.
Frances Moore Lappe, Joseph Collins.
Institute for Food and Development Policy
(San Francisco, Calif.), 1982. 127 p. $4.95.

RELACIONES INTERNACIONALES EN LA
CUENCA DEL CARIBE Y LA POLITICAL DE
COLOMBIA. Juan Tokatlian, Klaus
Schubert, ed. Camara de Comercio
(Bogota, Colombia), 1982. 592 p.

SOUTH AMERICA AND THE WORLD
ECONOMY FROM INDEPENDENCE TO
1930. Bill Albert. Humanities Press, 1983.
88 p. $6.50.

TRABALHADORAS DO BRASIL. Maria Cristina
A. Bruschini, Filvia Rosemberg. Brasiliense
(Sao Paulo, Brazil), 1982. 203 p.

URBAN WORKERS AND LABOR UNIONS IN
CHILE, 1902-1927. Peter DeShazo.
University of Wisconsin Press, 1983. 384 p.
$30.00. Based on thesis, University of
Wisconsin.

U.S.-MEXICO RELATIONS: ECONOMIC AND
SOCIAL ASPECTS. Clark Winton Reynolds,
Carlos Tello, eds. Stanford University Press,
1983. 400 p. $25.00.

History and Archaeology

AFTER AFRICA: EXTRACTS FROM BRITISH
TRAVEL ACCOUNTS AND JOURNALS OF
THE SEVENTEENTH, EIGHTEENTH, AND
NINETEENTH CENTURIES
CONCERNING THE SLAVES, THEIR
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN THE
BRITISH WEST INDIES. Roger D.
Abrahams, John E Szwed, eds. Yale
University Press, 1983. 480 p. $45.00;
$12.95 paper.

AVONTUREN AAN DE WILDE KUST DE
GESCHIEDENIS VAN SURINAME MET
ZIJN BUURLANDEN. A. Helman. A. W.
Sijthoff (Alphen aan den Rijn, Netherlands),
1982. 208 p. A history of Suriname.

LA BATALLA NAVAL DE SAN JUAN DE ULUA,
1568. Oth6n Arr6niz. Universidad
Veracruzana (Xalapa, Mexico), 1982. 116 p.
Account of Sir Frances Drake's attempt to
take the fortress.

BITTER GROUNDS: ROOTS OF REVOLT IN
EL SALVADOR. Liisa North. Zed Press,
1982. 144 p. $7.95.

COLOMBIA. PORTRAIT OF UNITY AND
DIVERSITY. Harvey E Kline. Westview Press,
1983. 144 p. $16.50.

EL CONFLICT DE LAS LANZAS JINETAS:
EL PRIMER ALZAMIENTO EN TIERRA
AMERICANA DURANTE EL SEGUNDO
VIAJE COLOMBINO. Demetrio Ramos
P&rez. Fundaci6n Garcia Arevalo (Santo
Domingo), 1982. 190 p.

CUBA BETWEEN EMPIRES, 1878-1902.
Louis A. Perez, Jr. University of Pittsburgh
Press, 1983. 465 p. $34.95.

DUTCH AUTHORS ON WEST INDIAN
HISTORY: A HISTORIOGRAPHICAL
SELECTION. M.A.P Meilink-Roelofsz, ed. M.
Nijhoff (The Hague, Netherlands), 1982.
384 p.

EARLY MAN IN THE NEW WORLD. Richard
Shutier, ed. Sage, 1983. 200 p. $29.95;
$14.95 paper.

FROM COLUMBUS TO CASTRO: THE
HISTORY OF THE CARIBBEAN,
1492-1969. Eric Williams. Random House,
1983. 608 p. $8.95. Reprint of the 1970 ed.

FROM THE PALM TREE: THE CUBAN
REVOLUTION IN RETROSPECT. Juan
Betancourt, ed. Lyle Stuart (Secaucus,
N.J.), 1983. 224 p. $12.00.

GUATEMALA IN REBELLION: UNFINISHED
HISTORY. Jonathan L. Fried, et al. Grove
Press, 1983. 360 p. $7.95.

HISTORIC DA CIVILIZACAO DA ARABIA E DO
BRASIL DESDE A IDADE MEDIA. Ant6nio
Leite Pessoa. Achiame (Rio de Janeiro,
Brazil), 1983. 206 p.

HISTORIC DE LA CONQUISTA Y POBLACION
DE LA PROVINCIA DE VENEZUELA. Jose
de Oviedo y Bafios. Ediciones Fundaci6n
Cadafe (Caracas, Venezuela), 1982. 2 vols.
Facsimile reprint of the 1824 ed.

HISTORIC, INDICE Y PROLOGO DE LA
REVISTA "LA PALABRA Y EL HOMBRE,"
1957-1970. Samuel Arguez. Ediciones
Universal (Miami, Florida), 1982. $12.95.
Study of the Mexican periodical.

HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF THE
PROVINCE OF ITZA SUBJUGATION AND
EVENTS OF THE LACANDON AND
OTHER NATIONS OF UNCIVILIZED
INDIANS IN THE LANDS FROM THE
KINGDOM OF GUATEMALA TO THE
PROVINCE OF YUCATAN IN NORTH

AMERICA. Juan de Villagutierre Soto-Mayor.
Robert D. Wood, tr. Labyrinthos (Culver City,
Calif.), 1983. 480 p. $39.95. Translation of
Historia de la conquista de la Provincia de
el Itza, originally published in 1701.

HISTORIC POLITICAL, ECONOMIC Y SOCIAL
DE LA ARGENTINA, 1536-1914. Juan C.
Pereira Pinto. AZ (Buenos Aires, Argentina),
1982. 460 p.

A LATE FORMATIVE IRRIGATION
SETTLEMENT BELOW MONTE ALBAN:
SURVEY AND EXCAVATION ON THE
XOXOCOTLAN, PIEDMONT OAXACA,
MEXICO. Michael J. O'Brien, et al.
University of Texas Press, 1983.
254 p. $25.00.

LATIN AMERICA: AN INTRODUCTION. Jan
Knippers Black. Westview Press, 1983. 450
p. $30.00; $14.50 paper.

LIFE IN PROVINCIAL MEXICO: NATIONAL
AND REGIONAL HISTORY AS SEEN
FROM MASCOTA, JALISCO, 1867-1972.
Carlos B. Gil. Latin American Center,
University of California (Los Angeles), 1983.

MEXICO: CLASS FORMATION, CAPITAL
ACCUMULATION, AND THE STATE. James
D. Cockcroft. Monthly Review Press, 1983.
416 p. $25.00; $12.50 paper.

MEXICO: GIANT OF THE SOUTH. Eileen
Smith. Dillon Press (Minneapolis, Mn.),
1983. 144 p. $9.95.

LA MUJER EN LA HISTORIC DE MEXICO.
Ricardo Romero Aceves. Costa-Amic
Editores (Mexico), 1982. 750 p.

LA MUSIC DOMINICANA EN LOS SIGLOS
XIX Y XX. Bernarda Jorge. Universidad
Aut6noma de Santo Domingo, 1982.
207 p.

ONCE BENEATH THE FOREST
PREHISTORIC TERRACING IN THE RIO
BEC REGION OF THE MAYA LOWLANDS.
B. L. Tumer. Westview Press, 1983.
160 p. $15.00.

OPERATION PUMA: THE AIR BATTLE OF
THE BAY OF PIGS. Edward B. Ferrer. Leah
La Plante Chase, Robert B. Engelman, trs.
International Aviation Consultants (Miami,
Florida), 1982. 245 p. $13.00. Translation
of Operaci6n Puma.

PARAGUAY. Riordan Roett Westview Press,
1983. 135 p. $16.50.

THE SETTLEMENT SURVEY OF TIKAL.
Dennis E. Puleston. University Museum,
University of Pennsylvania, 1983.

SLAVERY WAR, AND REVOLUTION: THE
BRITISH OCCUPATION OF SAINT
DOMINGUE, 1793-1798. David Patrick
Geggus. Clarendon Press (Oxford, Eng.),
1982. 492 p.

62/CAI?BBEAN I~TIVE

d

Language and Literature

CANA ROJA. Eutimio Alonso. Ediciones
Universal (Miami, Florida), 1982. 350 p.
$14.95. Novel about the Cuban Revolution.

EL FOLKLORE EN LA NOVEL
VENEZOLANA. Luis Felipe Ram6n y
Rivera. Contexto Editores (Caracas,
Venezuela), 1982. 335 p.

A GRAMMAR OF MAN: A MAYAN LANGUAGE.
Nora C. England. University of Texas Press,
1983. 362 p. $25.00.

EL HABLA POPULAR CUBANO DE HOY.
Argelio Santiesteban. Ediciones Cubanas
(Havana, Cuba), 1982. 376 p.

KUNA WAYS OF SPEAKING: AN
ETHNOGRAPHIC PERSPECTIVE. Joel
Sherzer. University of Texas Press, 1983.
288 p. $22.50. About the Kuna Indians of
the San Bias Islands (Panama).

LITERATURES IN TRANSLATION: THE MANY
VOICES OF THE CARIBBEAN AREA.
Edmundo Desnoes. Ediciones Hispamerica
(Gaithersburg, Md.), 1983. 180 p. $12.95.

MYTH AND IDEOLOGY IN CONTEMPORARY
BRAZILIAN FICTION. Daphne Patai.
Fairleigh Dickenson University Press, 1983.
320 p. $30.00.

LA NOVELA EN AMERICA LATINA.
PANORAMAS 1920-1980. Angel Rama.
Procultura (Bogota, Colombia), 1982.
520 p. $26.00.

WINDS ABOVE THE HILLS: A COLLECTION
OF POEMS FROM ST MAARTEN,
NETHERLANDS ANTILLES. Wycliffe
Smith, ed. St. Maarten Council of Arts,
1982.

Politics and Government

LOS AMOS DE CUBA. Juan Vives. Zoraida
Valcarcel, tr. Emece Editores (Buenos Aires,
Argentina), 1982. 328 p. Translation of Les
Maitres de Cuba.

BRAZIL: STATE AND STRUGGLE. Latin
American Bureau. LAB (London, Eng.),
1982. 120 p. $5.00.

BRAZILIAN COMMUNISM, 1935-1945:
REPRESSION DURING WORLD
UPHEAVAL. John W F Dulles. University of
Texas Press, 1983. 296 p.. $25.00.

CONEXION EN TEGUCIGALPA: EL
SOMOCISMO EN HONDURAS. Roberto
Bardini. Universidad Aut6noma de Puebla
(Mexico), 1982. 90 p.

ESTADO E IDENTIFICATION EN
VENEZUELA. Ignacio Purroy. Vadell
(Valencia, Venezuela), 1982. 313 p.

FACELESS ENEMY. Pir Nasir. Exposition Press,
1983. 224 p. $12.50. About Venezuela.

FIDEL CASTRO SPEECHES: BUILDING
SOCIALISM IN CUBA: Fidel Castro. Monad
Press (New York, N.Y), 1983. 400 p. $30.00;
$7.95 paper.

THE FUTURE OF CENTRAL AMERICA:
POLICY CHOICES FOR THE U.S. AND
MEXICO. Richard R. Fagen, Olga Pellicer,
eds. Stanford University Press, 1983. 224 p.
$20.00; $11.95 paper.

THE IMPACT OF INTERVENTION: THE
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC DURING THE U.S.
OCCUPATION, 1916-1924. Bruce J. Calder.
University of Texas Press, 1983. 352 p.
$22.50.

LATIN AMERICA IN NIXON'S SECOND TERM.
David Wingeate Pike, ed. American College
in Paris, 1982. 290 p. $28.00.

MEXICO FRENTE A ESTADOS UNIDOS: UN
ENSAYO HISTORICO, 1976-1980. Josefina
Zoraida Vazquez, Lorenzo Meyer. El Colegio
de Mexico, 1982. 235 p.

MEXICO, 1910-1982: REFORM OR
REVOLUTION? Donald Hodges, Ross
Gandy. Rev. ed. Zed Press, 1983. 208 p.
$30.00; $9.95 paper.

THE NEW CUBAN PRESENCE IN THE
CARIBBEAN. Barry B. Levine, ed. Westview
Press, 1983. 274 p. $26.50; $11.50 paper.

NICARAGUA, LA REVOLUTION SANDINISTA:
UNA CRONICA POUTICA, 1855-1979.
Claribel Alegria, D. J. Flakoll. Ediciones Era
(Mexico), 1982. 476 p.

PODER POLITICO Y DEMOCRACIA EN
COSTA RICA. Jose Luis Vega. Editorial
Porvenir (San Jose, Costa Rica), 1982.
168 p.

PRACTICE POLITICAL A LA DOMINICANA.
Marcio Mejia Ricart. Ayo Press (Santo
Domingo), 1982. 300 p.

LOS PROBLEMS DE LA
INSTITUCIONALIZACION Y
PRESERVACION DE LA DEMOCRACIA EN
LA REPUBLICAN DOMINICANA. Jose Pefia
G6mez, et al. FORUM (Santo Domingo),
1982.

PUERTO RICO: A POLITICAL AND CULTURAL
ODYSSEY. Arturo M. Carri6n, et al. Norton,
1983. $19.50.

SALVADOR. Joan Didion. Simon & Schuster,
1983. $12.95

SOVEREIGNTY IN DISPUTE: THE
FALKLANDS/MALVINAS. Fritz L. Hoffman,
Olga Mingo Hoffman. Westview Press,
1983. 150 p. $18.50.

YESTERDAYS SOLDIERS: EUROPEAN
MILITARY PROFESSIONALISM IN SOUTH
AMERICA, 1890-1940. Frederick M. Nunn.
University of Nebraska Press, 1983.
365 p. $26.95.

Reference

AN ANALYTICAL DICTIONARY OF NAHUATL.
Frances E. Karttunen. University of Texas
Press, 1983. 376 p. $35.00.

BIBLIOGRAFIA SOBRE LA EDUCATION EN
EL PARAGUAY Sofia Mareski. Centro
Paraguayo de Estudios Sociol6gicos, 1982.
95 p.

BUSINESSMAN'S GUIDE TO THE
CARIBBEAN. Connie Garcia, Arthur
Medina. Puerto Rico Almanacs (Santurce,
Puerto Rico), 1983. 624 p. $45.00;
$35.00 paper.

CARIBBEAN DATABOOK. Caribbean/Central
American Action. C/CAA (Washington,
D.C.), 1983. $25.00. Current factbook on
the Caribbean.

HISPANIC MENTAL HEALTH RESEARCH: A
REFERENCE GUIDE. Frank Newton,
Esteban L. Olmedo, Amado M. Padilla.
University of California Press, 1982. 658 p.
$35.00; $19.95 paper.

SLAVE AND CITIZEN: A CRITICAL
ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY ON
SLAVERY AND RACE RELATIONS IN THE
AMERICAS. Robert Detweiler, Theodore
Kornweibel. Campanile Press (San Diego,
Calif.), 1983. 300 p. $6.00.

SPANISH AMERICAN LITERATURE: A
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 1970-1980:
LITERATURE HISPANOMAERICANA,
BIBLIOGRAFIA SELECT, 1970-1980.
Walter Rela. Imprenta AS (Montevideo,
Uruguay), 1982. 231 p.

SPANISH AND SPANISH AMERICAN
LTERATURE: AN ANNOTATED GUIDE TO
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHIES. Hensley
Charles Woodbridge. Modern Language
Association of America, 1983. 50 p. $10.50;
$5.75 paper.

WHO'S WHO IN LATIN AMERICA:
GOVERNMENT AND POLITICS. Bruck &
Corke, eds. Decade Media Books (New
York, N.Y), 1983. 300 p. $65.00. Spanish
and English.

Marian Goslinga is the Latin American and
Caribbean Librarian at Florida International
University.

CAIBBEAN rPVIEW/63

Barry B. Levine shatters

the myth of the victimized
immigrant.

BENJY

LOPEZ

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 Ferndndez, 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 the
Americas.
"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 Calderon 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, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde.

$9.95 direct from Waterfront Press

WATERFRONT PRESS
52 Maple Avenue Maplewood, New Jersey 07040

Please write for our full catalogue of books in the area of Puerto Rican studies.

Adaptive Responses
of Native Amazonians
Edited by
RAYMOND B. HAMES
WILLIAM T. VICKERS
A Volume in the STUDIES IN ANTHROPOLOGY Series
This volume comprises an introductory re-
view followed by fourteen substantive stud-
ies of the environmental adaptations and
human ecology of the Indians of Amazonia.
In all, seventeen indigenous societies in six
modern nations are discussed in detail.
Each chapter is problem oriented and uses
original quantitative data to test specific
hypotheses concerning human adaptations
to a Neotropical ecosystem. The chapters
focus on settlement patterns, nutrition,
and the subsistence strategies of hunting,
fishing, foraging, and cultivation. The au-
thors represent a broad range of theoreti-
cal approaches to ecological anthropology:
ethnoecology, cultural ecology, cultural
materialism, and evolutionary ecology.
April/May 1983, 536 pp., $49.00
ISBN: 0-12-321250-2
Send mp, i ent 'ithi order and save postage and handling. Prices are in U.S.
dollars and are subject to change without notice.
ACADEMIC PRESS, INC.
A Subsidiary of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Publishers
New York London Toronto Sydney San Francisco
312044 111 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10003

Mobility
and Integration

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

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	Front Cover
	Table of Contents
	Front Matter
	Main
	Back Cover

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