West Indians of Costa Rica: Race, Class, and the Integration of an Ethnic Minority 9780773569058

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The West Indians of Costa Rica Race, Class, and the Integration of an Ethnic Minority

The Jamaicans, Barbadians, and other West Indians who migrated to Costa Rica at the turn of the twentieth century found themselves in a country that prides itself on its Spanish and “white settler” origins. In The West Indians of Costa Rica Ronald Harpelle examines the ways in which people of African descent reacted to key issues of community and cultural survival from 1900 to 1950. Harpelle focuses on Caribbean migrants and their adaptation to life in a Hispanic society, particularly in Limón, where cultures and economies often clashed. Dealing with such issues as Garveyism, Afro-Christian religious beliefs, and class divisions within the West Indian community, The West Indians of Costa Rica sheds light on a community that has been ignored by most historians and on events that define the parameters of the modern Afro-Costa Rican identity, revealing the complexity of a community in transition. Harpelle shows that the men and women who ventured to Costa Rica in search of opportunities in the banana industry arrived as West Indian sojourners but became Afro-Costa Ricans. The West Indians of Costa Rica is a story about choices: who made them, when, how, and what the consequences were. ronald n. harpelle is assistant professor of history at Lakehead University.

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The West Indians of Costa Rica Race, Class, and the Integration of an Ethnic Minority ronald n. harpelle

Ian Randle Publishers Kingston McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston · London · Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2001 isbn 0-7735-2162-3 (cloth) isbn 0-7735-2281-6 (paper) Legal deposit second quarter 2001 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec First published in Jamaica 2001 by Ian Randle Publishers 11 Cunningham Avenue Kingston 6 isbn 976-637-057-5 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author and publisher. Printed in Canada on acid-free paper This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (bpidp ) for its activities. It also acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for its publishing program. A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Jamaica.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Harpelle, Ronald N., 1957– The West Indians of Costa Rica: race, class, and the integration of an ethnic minority (McGill-Queen’s studies in ethnic history) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-7735-2162-3 (bnd) isbn 0-7735-2281-6 (pbk) 1. West Indians – Costa Rica – History. 2. Costa Rica – Ethnic relations – History. i. Title. ii. Series. f1557.w54h37 2001 305.896’972907286 c00-901083-1 Typeset in Palatino 10/12 by Caractéra inc., Quebec City

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Contents

Tables and Figure

vii

Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction: West Indians in Costa Rican History

xi

part one 1 Limón and the Caribbean: From Railway Construction to Banana Production 3 2 Banana Boom: Expanding Plantations and Labour Management, 1899–1914 25 3 Defending Empires: West Indians and United Fruit Go to War 42 4 Dependence, Depression, and Dislocation, 1922–34

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part two 5 Confrontation and Accommodation: Silence in the Face of Discrimination 91 6 Class Divisions and Internal Dissent 103 7 The “Africanization” of Costa Rica: Racism and Reaction 120

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Contents

part three 8 The Crisis of Identity: West Indian Responses to Assimilation 139 9 Pounding at the Door: Civil War and the Modification of the Electoral Base 162 Conclusion: The Evolution of an Afro-Costa Rican Subculture 184 Notes 191 Bibliography 219 Index 235

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Tables and Figure

tables 4.1 Production of Bananas According to Farm Size 67 4.2 West Indian and Nicaraguan Migration to Costa Rica before May 1927 82 4.3 Position in Labour Force of Economically Active West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 83 4.4 Types of Economic Activities Practised by West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 83 4.5 Comparison of the Two Main Types of Occupations of West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 84 6.1 Crimes Committed Against Morality and Good Customs 116 7.1 Value of Export Crops in 1949

121

7.2 Value of Domestic Agricultural Products Including Forestry and Fishing in 1949 121 7.3 Employment with the Northern Railway Company According to Skin Colour 132 8.1 Occupations in Panama and Limón between 1935 and 1949 145

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figure 7.1 Banana Exports from the Province of Limón, 1893– 1953 122

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Acknowledgments

In the course of researching and writing this book I have been helped by countless people. I would particularly like to express my gratitude to David L. Raby, Timothy E. Anna, Peter Blanchard, Martin Klein, Michael Conniff, D.K. Gordon, T.E. Vadney, Henry Heller, Aviva Chomsky, Stephen Palmer, Doug Sprague, Barbara Angel, and Eugene Miller for their comments and suggestions during the preparation of this manuscript. I would also like to thank the staff at the Archivo Nacional de Costa Rica, the Biblioteca Nacional, the Archivo Legislativo, the Ministerio de Cultura, Juventud y Deportes, and the Registro Civil de Costa Rica for their assistance in obtaining the documents that form the core of my research. In addition to the people at various institutions in Costa Rica, I would like to thank Philippe Bourgois and Rafael Bolaños for allowing me to use the United Fruit Company files they obtained in Bocas del Toro. My research also depended on the assistance of several individuals from the West Indian community. I am grateful to Silvester Cunningham, Walter Ferguson, Stanford Barton, Quince Duncan, and Alfred King for taking the time to help me understand their community’s history. My greatest personal debt is to my companion, Kelly Saxberg, for her encouragement and support at the most difficult of times. Kelly’s belief in the project and her many personal sacrifices made the completion of my manuscript possible. The research for this book was supported by a Doctoral Fellowship from the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada, (sshrc ), and much of its final preparation by a research grant from the sshrc and a time

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release grant from the International Development Research Institute. This book has also benefited from the comments made by reviewers and editors at McGill-Queen’s University Press. Their criticisms and suggestions helped me to clarify many of the arguments made here, but I take full responsibility for any errors or ommissions.

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Introduction: West Indians in Costa Rican History He had a grievance that he nursed Against the bad white man He nurtured it until it worsened And grew clear out of hand Joe Gordon could not understand This man’s arrogance and pride It galled, as did his oppressive hand And would not let him bide Alderman Johnson Roden “The Outlaw” … los piopios negros se cambiaban de acera para no toparse unos con otros, en su desesperante lucha por pasar inadvertidos. Quince Duncan Hombres Curtidos, 125 Nadie nos contó la historia un día detrás de la tarde la encontramos vestida de multitudes en las manos de mi abuelo . . . Shirley Campbell “De Frente”

The evolution of the West Indian community’s self-perception in Costa Rica during the twentieth century is reflected in the work of these three generations of writers. A.J. Roden was a West Indian-born tailor who went to Costa Rica in 1911 at the age of eighteen in search of work.1 Later in life, frustrated because his poetry had gone unrecognized, he burned all but a handful of the hundreds of poems he

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had written over the years. With his own hand he erased a lifetime of artistic expression and his testimony to the struggles of West Indians in an adopted homeland. His poem “The Outlaw” gives testimony to the hardships encountered by tens of thousands of West Indians who made their way to and through Costa Rica in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Writing two generations later, Shirley Campbell, who was born in San José in 1965, has enjoyed the success that escaped A.J. Roden. Unlike Roden, Campbell writes in Spanish and has published collections of her poetry.2 “De Frente” speaks of the frustration of the current generation of Afro-Costa Ricans, whose history remains in the shadows of the country’s past. In contrast to the older man’s work, which is angry and focuses on the tension that existed in the segregated world of the banana plantations in the Province of Limón, Campbell concerns herself with the impact of assimilation on the current generation of Afro-Costa Ricans, particularly with loss of identity. Her work speaks to the problems that people of African descent continue to face in modern Costa Rica. The generation that separates A.J. Roden and Shirley Campbell is bridged by Quince Duncan, Costa Rica’s most highly acclaimed AfroCosta Rican author. Duncan, who was born in 1940, is also a product of the West Indian diaspora to Costa Rica. Like Shirley Campbell, Quince Duncan was born in San José, but he was raised in the Province of Limón and later returned to the highlands, where he became one of the country’s most significant authors. He has published several books in Spanish, making his work the best known literary testament to the lives of people of African descent in Costa Rica. Donald K. Gordon argues that although Duncan focuses on the West Indian experience in Limón and examines social issues in Costa Rica, his work has a universal quality because it illuminates the crisis of identity that befalls the offspring of the first generation to arrive in a new cultural setting.3 Duncan’s books speak to the frustration expressed by both Roden and Campbell in describing the dilemma of Costa Rican-born West Indians as being a “prisoner of both worlds, trapped between two cultures.”4 Like most people of African descent in Costa Rica today, Duncan, who has made his home in San José for most of his life, has become separated from his West Indian roots. His work highlights the discourse between the generation that pioneered in Costa Rica and the generation that exists after a century of integration and assimilation. The voices of Roden, Duncan, and Campbell are important because they come together to encapsulate the little known history of West Indian immigration and settlement in Costa Rica. They represent

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three generations that span the twentieth century and express the transformation of a West Indian immigrant community into what have come to be known as Afro-Costa Ricans. A.J. Roden was an English-speaking pioneer born in the West Indies who arrived in Costa Rica hoping to secure a future for himself. In contrast, Duncan and Campbell were born in Costa Rica, and Spanish is the language of their literary expression. This book tells the story of the transformation of the West Indian identity in Costa Rica during the first half of the twentieth century. During this period an immigrant community was forged, and the number of Costa Rican-born West Indians grew to become the majority of the people of African descent in the country. The West Indians who migrated to Costa Rica in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries found themselves in a country that prides itself on its Spanish and “white-settler” origins. According to popular belief, when the Spaniards arrived in Costa Rica during the colonial era, they discovered a very small indigenous population that could not provide sufficient labour for the development of large haciendas.5 Instead, the Europeans became poor immigrant farmers who developed a more egalitarian society because they had a common heritage and practised small freehold farming. The lack of a sizable indigenous population also meant that miscegenation was less common and that Costa Ricans viewed themselves as “racially” pure. Geographical factors in the development of Costa Rican society were also important because the nucleus of settlement was in the Central Valley region of the highlands. This combination of an egalitarian social structure, a homogeneous population, and relative isolation is often considered the source of the country’s political stability and the reason Costa Rica, unlike its neighbours, developed into a peaceful society with a common Spanish ancestry. Nevertheless, in recent decades this notion of homogeneity has come under increasing scrutiny as scholars have developed a more critical approach to Costa Rica’s development as an independent nation.6 Similarly, the Central Valley region, a “fertile cup in the mountains scarcely forty by nineteen miles” where the majority of the population lives, has long overshadowed the regional, ethnic, and social differences that exist in other parts of the country. In fact, this highland region, which some writers describe as “the real Costa Rica,”7 does not encapsulate the distinctions that are obvious to even the most casual observer. Costa Rica is a country that occupies an area of more than 50,000 square kilometres, with numerous climatic zones and significant regional variations. Despite the differences that exist, the Central Valley region has always played a definitive role in discussions of Costa Rican history and society. The Central Valley’s political and

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economic power has resulted in cultural domination, and nowhere is the contrast between the “real” and the “other” more evident than in the province of Limón, where thousands of West Indian immigrants have made their homes and built their communities. This book is about one of several “other” Costa Ricas that exist beyond the Central Valley region. The English-speaking West Indian communities that developed in the Province of Limón, a frontier region on the lowlands of the Atlantic coast, have long been ignored by the Costa Rican mainstream. The Costa Rica that is described in this book plays an important part in the history of the West Indian diaspora. It is a story with closer parallels in the Western Caribbean region than elsewhere in Costa Rica and highland Central America. The emphasis here is on Caribbean migrants and their adaptation to life in a Hispanic society. The focus is on Limón as a region where cultures and economies clashed and where an “other” history of Costa Rica unfolded. This book frames the Caribbean immigrant experience in Costa Rica within the histories of both the West Indian diaspora and the political and economic struggles of one Central American republic during the first half of the twentieth century. Limón, and in particular its Caribbean community, has a different and often separate history from that of the rest of Costa Rica, but the region does not exist in isolation. During the period under consideration, Limón and its West Indian residents were increasingly forced by historical circumstance to engage the political and social forces that emanate from the Central Valley region. Limón is understood to be a province on the Atlantic coast of Costa Rica, a coast visited over the centuries by various aboriginal peoples, European explorers, conquerors, pirates, and others, including merchants, travellers, fishermen, missionaries, and colonizers. The Port of Limón is the province’s main city and lies at one end of the railway line from San José. As the train descends the mountains to the coastal plain, Hispanic society gives way to a Caribbean community that is neither wholly West Indian nor Costa Rican. Limón was in the early twentieth century Costa Rica’s window on the world. It is where cultures came together and where a separate Costa Rican idendity was forged. What follows is a narrative that is both chronological and thematic. The structure is dictated by the availability of documentation on West Indians in Costa Rica, a group that has been largely overlooked or taken for granted in most twentieth-century histories of the country and region. The archives in Costa Rica contain substantial information about the West Indians of Limón, but the holdings reflect both the central government’s sporadic interest in the region and the massive political and economic impact of the United Fruit Company. The

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West Indian community is rarely the focus of the documentation because people of African descent were rarely central to the interests of the power brokers. A similar problem exists with the research material procured elsewhere. The records of the United Fruit Company, as well as those found in United States, Jamaican, and British archives, tend to focus on events that affected corporate or institutional interests. Nevertheless, by combining these resources and by applying quantitative methods to some particularly important data, it has been possible to focus on the themes of integration and resistance. This book provides a detailed chronology that is intended to serve as a platform for the future development of sub-themes in the history of people of African descent in Costa Rica and elsewhere in the western Caribbean. In recent years the West Indian diaspora has become a focal point among scholars interested in highlighting aspects of the history of the sojourners who ventured to Middle America in search of work on construction projects and in the agricultural export industry.8 The present text owes a great deal to the efforts of numerous scholars from a range of academic fields, but it differs from most because the literature to date has focused on the role of West Indians as migrant labourers, with less emphasis on the social history of the communities that were formed. The reason for the primacy of labour in the literature is that some of the world’s first multinational corporations cast their shadows over the entire region. The history of the Atlantic coast region cannot be told without reference to the impact of foreign owned corporations on the politics and economies of the countries in which they operated. Although the United Fruit Company played a leading role, this study also recognizes the importance of the Costa Rican, United States, and British governments in the lives of the West Indian community. West Indians experienced life in Limón as a diverse social unit, and their reactions to events illustrate their different interests. On this point the research by Philippe Bourgois and Michael Conniff is important. Both authors focus on Panama and stress the importance of the community’s efforts to retain its West Indian identity. They recognize that all the men and women who migrated to Panama, no matter what their social rank, colour, or island of origin, underwent a process of acculturation that altered their collective identity as West Indians. In Panama, they received the same welcome and had to overcome the same obstacles in order to establish themselves in the country. However, the internal social dynamics of the West Indian communities, with divisions along the lines of ethnicity, religion, and class, tempered the ability of many to confront the challenges posed

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by the Hispanic majority. The problem for the communities in Panama was that internal division mitigated against a united resistance to the pressures of integration. This book will build on the ideas presented by Michael Conniff, Philippe Bourgois, and others because the interplay between class and ethnicity is the central feature of the West Indian experience in Costa Rica. Limón was a buffer zone between the Caribbean and Hispanic worlds. Consequently, it was a meeting point where cultures collided and, most importantly, where West Indians became Afro-Hispanics. The process accelerated after 1930 when the Costa Rican government took more direct control over of Atlantic province of Limón. The problem for the West Indian community was that several of its leaders shared the ideology of their Hispanic counterparts. As a result, some community leaders sought to further their own interests at the expense of the cultural identity of their fellow West Indian compatriots. The ideology of the West Indian elite in Costa Rica undermined the ability of the community as a whole to resist integration with the Hispanic majority. Therefore, one proposition of this book is that the evolution of the Afro-Costa Rican was conditioned by the response of West Indian community leaders. In their own interest they often collaborated with the banana companies to the detriment of workers on the plantations, docks, and railway. Moreover, those who emerged as the leaders of the West Indian community, a small number of shop owners, farmers, professionals, and a labour elite, acquiesced as the Costa Rican government sought to Hispanicize the community. Their personal economic security in Costa Rica was obtained at the expense of the majority of the West Indians. This study also argues that the reaction of the West Indian community was conditioned by its inability to overcome the stigma that Costa Ricans placed on dark skin. Costa Rica distinguished itself from its neighbours as a “white-settler” society. Cultural identity in Costa Rica was expressed by the Spanish language, the Catholic religion, and a presupposition of a European heritage. In contrast, the people who migrated to Costa Rica from the Caribbean were mostly English-speaking Protestants of African descent. Language and religion could be and were changed, but skin colour was a different matter. The élite of the West Indian community understood the limitations of skin colour in a racist society and, therefore, also understood the need to maintain a degree of unity among all of their fellow sojourners. As a result, the internal contradictions of ethnicity and class among West Indians in Limón serve as the thread that binds the history of the community together.

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Although this book traces the ethnic transformation of the West Indian community in Costa Rica in order to illustrate how the integration of a minority group occurred, it focuses on the tensions that conditioned the transition. A combination of government policies, social pressure, economic necessity, and United Fruit Company decisions helped transform a West Indian community into a much more amorphous group of Afro-Costa Ricans. Class divisions within the West Indian community also prevented members from taking a united stand against the company or the government, yet the West Indian identity remained vital until the 1950s. The responses of individuals to the pressure to conform varied, but the outcome was inevitable given the lack of unity among community members. The following discussion details both the development of the West Indian community in Limón and its struggle to maintain a separate identity. The first part of the book deals with the establishment of the West Indian community in Costa Rica and the early struggles that the immigrant workers engaged in during the rise of the United Fruit Company. This section begins with a brief history of Costa Rican efforts to incorporate the Atlantic coast region more fully into the country’s political, social, and economic spheres. The discussion examines the attempts by the Costa Rican government to develop a national identity and the steps taken to keep non-Europeans, and in particular people of African descent, out of the country during the nineteenth century. Later, the introduction of thousands of itinerant workers from the Caribbean region to the Atlantic coast is discussed in relation to the emergence of liberalism as a new political force. The introductory chapter is followed by an account of the rapid expansion of the banana industry in Costa Rica and the United Fruit Company’s efforts to manage its West Indian labour force. Of note is the first attempt by the West Indians to form a labour union in Limón and the strike that ensued. This section also introduces Marcus Garvey, a young Jamaican who later became the leader of one of the most important black nationalist groups in the history of the United States. His story is treated in two parts because he visited Limón during two very different economic phases in Limón’s history and his role was different in each. He first arrived in Limón as one of thousands of West Indian migrant labourers, at which time he had his first encounter with United Fruit and the local West Indian élite. Garvey’s attacks on the latter highlight divisions within the community that served to facilitate Costa Rican efforts to pressure individual members into assimilation or emigration. After examining some of the first labour struggles in Limón, the book explores a post-wwi period of heightened unrest, during which

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Marcus Garvey returned to the region. Once again, a major strike is the backdrop for a discussion of the company’s efforts to control West Indian workers. Garvey and his Universal Negro Improvement Association (unia ) arrive as interlopers whose interest goes beyond their proposed objective of uniting Africans of the world. The book discusses how these two forces worked together to weaken labour organization on the plantations and put an end to working-class solidarity among West Indians. The last part of the first section guides the reader through a period of crisis in the banana industry when plant disease and economic depression impacted on the community. Once again a strike takes place in the province of Limón, and the United Fruit Company responds. However, unlike in the previous disputes, West Indians avoid confrontation with the company because their interests have changed and because the unia has intervened to deter participation. The 1934 strike is also different because the strikers are Hispanic workers who do not enjoy the support of their West Indian counterparts. Nevertheless, like the previous confrontations with the company, the 1934 strike results in retribution against West Indians in the form of hiring restrictions on United Fruit’s new and disease-free Pacific coast plantations. The acquiescence of West Indian community leaders to United Fruit interests is shown to culminate in the collapse of the region’s economy and the further impoverishment of people of African descent in Costa Rica. Part two examines a series of attempts by Costa Rican governments, organizations, and individuals to destroy the West Indian community. Examples of discriminatory legislation and racist campaigns are used to explore West Indian reactions to the growing crisis the community faced. The Costa Rican government is shown to have systematically attempted to undermine the economic, social, and cultural foundations of the West Indian community. The reactions of West Indians to the pressure applied by the Costa Rican government is examined here. Particular emphasis is placed on the role that the often self-styled community leaders played in events, and an effort is made to highlight the points of conflict that existed among West Indians. The most poignant example of appeasement is illustrated in the way hysteria over religious sects led the community to turn on itself rather than deal with an oppressive government. The reactions of West Indian community leaders and the Costa Rican government to the proliferation of African-influenced religious sects in Limón in the 1930s is telling. The existence of a few eccentric and even radical religious sects became the pretext for a broad attack on several nonconformist denominations and individuals. All had existed in the

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West Indies and Costa Rica prior to the 1930s, but when the Costa Rican government cast its eyes upon the non-conformists, the West Indian élite joined in the attacks. Several religious groups, the mentally ill, and others not considered to fit in in Costa Rican society were identified as a threat and persecuted because they were different. The discussion of Costa Rican efforts to suppress the West Indian identity is extended through an examination of legislation used to restrict the rights of community members. In one instance the book looks at attempts by the Costa Rican government to take control of the education system in Limón, and in another a controversy over the hiring practices of the Northern Railway is examined. With respect to education, the government legislated the closure of English schools and forced parents to send their children to inadequately funded public schools. In the case of discrimination in the railway, a well organized group mounted a campaign to save the country from Africanisation. The group, which enjoyed the support of several prominent Costa Rican politicians, further intensified xenophobic reaction to the West Indian presence. As in all previous cases, West Indian interests were undermined by the community’s failure to defend itself, and the Costa Rican state proved eager to impose restrictions. Part three examines the integration of West Indians into Costa Rican society during the 1940s and early 1950s. This section opens with a discussion of the assimilation process and the response of community members to the growing identity crisis. An examination is offered of the Costa Rican efforts to identify non-citizens and the West Indian community’s attempts to come to terms with this increased scrutiny. The most significant aspect of this portion of the research is its demonstration of how young people who were neither completely West Indian nor Costa Rican chose to become Afro-Costa Ricans. Statistical methods are employed to examine the more than two thousand people of African descent who opted for Costa Rican citizenship between 1935 and 1950. The study shows that Costa Rican-born West Indians who chose to become citizens were those most likely to succeed in Hispanic society. Their success also meant turning their backs on the West Indian identity of their parents and struggling for admission into the Costa Rican mainstream. The final section of the book challenges the notion that José Figueres paved the way for West Indian participation in the political process. The chapter summarizes the events leading up to and comprising the 1948 civil war. West Indian votes were the drawing card for the victors, but the task of integration had already been completed. The community is shown to have been waiting with open arms to embrace the first government to recognize their place in Costa Rican

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society. In return for the West Indian community’s support for the new republic, a final offer of citizenship was made to West Indians. Salvation from discriminatory government policies came after 1948, but the price was the total integration of the West Indian community and the marginalization of its British-Caribbean identity. Consequently, whatever remains of the West Indian identity in Limón exists like empty buildings in a near ghost town where the remaining inhabitants cling to what is left of a once thriving community. The main objective of this study is to shed light on a community that has been ignored by most historians and on events that serve to define the parameters of Afro-Costa Rican identity. Other groups, like the aboriginal inhabitants of the Atlantic coast who were displaced by the arrival of the banana industry or the Hispanic Costa Ricans who migrated to the region from other parts of the country after the arrival of the West Indians, are not included in this book. Their histories, though relevant to the study of the Province of Limón, await elaboration and are deserving of more attention than this chapter in the history of Costa Rica is able to provide. In this book particular attention is paid to how people of African descent came together and were divided over key issues during the decades between 1900 and 1950. The turning point occurred in the 1930s and 1940s when the first generation of Costa Rican-born West Indians reached the age of majority and began making decisions that were in their personal interest. Consequently, although the history of the region is often framed within the context of workers’ struggles, the purpose here is to reveal the complexity of a community in transition. This is a story about choices – who made them, when and how the decisions were made, and what the consequences were for the West Indians of Costa Rica.

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PA R T O N E

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1 Limón and the Caribbean: From Railway Construction to Banana Production

The first European contact with Costa Rica’s Atlantic coast occurred in September 1502 when Christopher Columbus landed near the present day city of Puerto Limón.1 The great navigator discovered that the region was a sparsely populated lowland area that extended along the length of what later came to be known as Central America. After Columbus moved on, the Atlantic lowlands slipped into obscurity as the Spanish conquest and settlement of the Americas was diverted to what were considered much richer coasts than that of Costa Rica. The coastline did become a part of the maritime networks that developed in the Caribbean region during the European expansion to the Americas, but it remained a backwater within the Spanish Empire and was never effectively colonized. During the colonial period Europeans exploited the Atlantic coast of Central America for hardwood, turtles, and other natural resources. A few outposts were also established in the region adjacent to where Columbus had landed, but colonial development in Costa Rica was concentrated in the highlands and on the Pacific side of the isthmus. The only significant concentrations of people along the coastline, apart from some escaped slaves, pirates, and others who washed ashore, were a number of dispersed aboriginal communities. The native peoples of the Atlantic coast, like their counterparts in the rest of the Americas, were devastated by the diseases introduced through contact with the Europeans and by the ravages of a protracted conquest. According to one author, the European invasion resulted in a dwindling of the indigenous population to near extinction by the

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4 The West Indians of Costa Rica

1660s with the result that the “coastal areas of the Caribbean were either empty, or their aboriginal populations had proved so recalcitrant that attempts at conquest had not succeeded.”2 Consequently, the indigenous groups that survived into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in Limón did so because they had retreated to the most remote reaches of the region. The Bri Bri settled inland in the border region between Panama and Costa Rica, where they subsisted on small plots of land. In addition to growing their own food, they augmented their diets by hunting and fishing. Similarly, the Miskito, who are commonly associated with Nicaragua and Honduras, inhabited an area near the mouth of the San Juan River that now serves as the boundary between the two countries.3 Others visited and used the region’s resources on a seasonal or itinerant basis, but the entire area remained relatively independent and unpopulated until the end of the nineteenth century. In Costa Rica the efforts to harness the productive potential of the Atlantic lowlands of Limón date back to the sixteenth century when Spanish colonists attempted to establish cacao plantations in the region. However, Costa Rica, unlike other parts of Central America, did not experience the “cacao boom” of the sixteenth century and only produced a significant quantity for a short period before the industry all but disappeared.4 One of the greatest obstacles to the viability of cocoa production in Costa Rica was the problem of marketing the product. Markets were distant, and the coastal region suffered from a lack of security that made production expensive. Planters were forced to do battle with the ever encroaching tropical forests and to defend themselves from raids by indigenous groups who resented the Spaniards’ occupation of the land.5 Despite the suitability of the soil and climate, returns on sales of cacao could not compensate for the cost of transportation, taxation, and security. Consequently, the Atlantic Coast of Costa Rica remained an undeveloped frontier region that also served as a buffer between the highland and Caribbean cultures. In addition to the difficulties of disposing of the harvest, Costa Rican plantations also experienced labour shortages. The relatively small native population in the region before the conquest declined throughout the colonial period and remained hostile toward the interlopers. African slaves were imported to make up for the shortage of indigenous labourers, but Costa Rica did not develop into a significant slave owning society, and the plantations experienced a constant shortage of labour.6 The weak market for agricultural products from the region also made the price of slaves prohibitive for

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5 Limón and the Caribbean

most estate owners because they had to compete with the lucrative sugar industry in the Caribbean region and Brazil. The vagaries of life in the lowlands also limited the appeal of establishing slave plantations in the region. The humid climate, with average temperatures of between 20 and 25 degrees centigrade, was ideal for the production of cacao, but it favoured the spread of tropical diseases among humans. Consequently, the European proprietors of cacao plantations preferred to live in the highlands and left the management of their plantations in the hands of ex-slaves or freedmen.7 Ultimately, slavery proved so uneconomical in the Costa Rican case that many owners freed their slaves rather than pay for their upkeep.8 As a result, according to Carlos Meléndez Chaverri, the slave population in Costa Rica was insignificant when slavery was abolished in 1825, and not more than one hundred people were freed from bondage.9 Without exception, historians have argued that Africans disappeared into the collective Costa Rican gene pool and, therefore, ceased to exist as a separate group after Independence.10 However limited slavery was in Costa Rica during the colonial period, the political machinations of the nineteenth century played a more important role than biology in the disappearance of the African in the country’s history. With the effective end of the Spanish Empire in Central America, Costa Ricans sought to distinguish their economic, geographic, and political interests from those of their neighbours. The task of nation building throughout the isthmus was complicated by the fact that most of the new states laid claim to far more territory than they could effectively control. Initially, Costa Rica joined other newly orphaned Central American countries in an attempt to hold the region together by forming the United Provinces of Central America. Political problems sparked by regional rivalries resulted in the instability of the union and its failure to resolve the key issues of territoriality and national interest.11 Then, in 1839, political intrigue among regional leaders resulted in the demise of the United Provinces. The inability of Central Americans to resolve their differences during the first decades of independence fostered conditions that precipitated a midcentury invasion by mercenaries from the United States. The mercenaries, known as the “filibusters” and led by William Walker, carried out the armed takeover of Nicaragua in 1855. Walker, who was supported by annexationists from the southern United States, made himself President of Nicaragua, declared English as the official language, and reintroduced slavery. The events in the neighbouring republic proved to be one of the most significant turning

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points in Costa Rican history because Nicaragua’s humiliation provided Costa Rica with its first real opportunity to distinguish itself as an independent nation. President Juan Rafael Mora declared war on Walker in 1856, and Costa Rican forces were sent to the northern border area. A decisive battle took place at Santa Rosa, where the Costa Rican army dislodged a contingent of Walker’s men, marking the turning point in the fight against Walker. From Santa Rosa the Costa Ricans chased the mercenaries into Nicaragua and again defeated Walker’s forces. The triumph immortalized several of the participants and provided Costa Rica with its first symbols of patriotism. The shortage of patriotic symbols upon which to hang a Costa Rican identity was a result of the country’s road to independence. In Costa Rica the Spanish Empire collapsed under its own weight and not as a result of war.12 No mass destruction or epic battles occurred on Costa Rican soil during the struggle for independence in Latin America. The economy remained intact, political ascendency among the creole population was not challenged, and the only real disadvantage of the relatively bloodless struggle for independence was that no one emerged as the country’s “Great Liberator.” Instead, Costa Rica obtained its political freedom by default, with the events that led to its independence happening elsewhere in Latin America. Therefore, the mid-century fight against Walker became known as the “National Campaign” because it was the country’s first real test of nationalism and patriotism. The success of Juan Rafael Mora’s forces in the struggle against the invaders played an important role in the development of Costa Rican nationalism. With the triumph of the National Campaign, Costa Rica finally had a number of heroic national figures. The most significant to emerge was Juan Santa María, a young man who sacrificed his life in the battle at Santa Rosa. The youth’s sacrifice was credited with the defeat of the mercenaries and the salvation of Costa Rica. Juan Santa María’s death became the country’s leading symbol of patriotism, and the National Campaign marked the most important political event of the nineteenth century.13 The victory against Walker and the filibusters offered Costa Ricans proof of their ability to protect themselves from foreign interlopers. However, William Walker’s escapades in Central America also served to convince Costa Ricans that their geographical insularity was not a guarantee against foreign aggression. The Walker affair alerted politicians to the fact that Costa Rican independence was reversible and that additional steps were needed to guarantee the country’s sovereignty. After the National Campaign, influential Costa Ricans began to concern themselves more with the issues of national

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identity and territorial sovereignty. As they struggled to define themselves as a nation, Costa Ricans also became increasingly aware of their country’s place in a world that extended far beyond Central America. It was within this context that Costa Ricans watched from a distance as the Civil War unfolded in the United States and some politicians worried openly about its aftermath. As the Civil War proceeded toward its conclusion Costa Ricans grew ever more anxious about the outcome because they could not be sure what the impact would be on Central America. A victory for the South was a major concern in Central America given the experience with William Walker, but the success of the North was seen as a much greater threat to Costa Rican sovereignty. Costa Rican politicians postulated that the North would liberate thousands of Africans from the bonds of slavery and then encourage them to migrate south to places like Costa Rica. In 1862 concern mounted among Costa Ricans as Abraham Lincoln proposed to establish “coloured emigration to Central America [on] Government steamships, and provide them with all the necessary implements of labour, and also sustenance until they [could] gather a harvest.”14 Central America was said by politicians in the United States to have available land and a climate favourable to Africans. The proposal even identified the location of the colonization scheme in Central America: a place known as Chiriqui.15 The concern over a victory for the North brought to the surface an issue that plagued Costa Rica and all of Central America in the nineteenth century. Undefined or disputed boundaries hampered the ability of the various governments to control immigration by undesirables. Costa Rica’s boundaries with the neighbouring countries of Nicaragua and Colombia were largely unregulated, and the coasts were indefensible against intruders in the mid-nineteenth century. As a result of the perceived need to insulate the country from foreign encroachments, the Costa Rican government passed the Ley de Bases y Colonización (Law of Settlement and Colonization). The preamble to the Ley de Bases y Colonización stated that the United States was only six days’ travel away and that a law regulating the settlement of people in the country was necessary to save Costa Rica from certain ruin.16 Nowhere in the document is it more clear what the objective of the law was than in the clause that prohibited the immigration of the “Negro and Chinese races” and, where necessary, denied them entrance to the country.17 For the framers of the national identity, the issue was clear; Costa Rica was a “white-settler” society, and the government had to ensure that it remained so. The Ley de Bases y Colonización became the legal means by which to exclude all undesirable “races” from settling in Costa Rica. Just as

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the war against Walker had served to solidify the nationalism that developed in Costa Rica after independence, the Law of Settlement and Colonization further reinforced the country’s identity. By 1862 Costa Rican politicians had developed a sense of nationalism based on a claim to a large national territory, the country’s ability to defend itself, a national hero, and, most importantly, an idea of “racial” homogeneity. As a result, the law was an expression of Costa Rican interests and of the notion of a common European heritage that came to pervade all aspects of the country’s self-identity. With the 1862 law as security against an invasion by undesirable racial elements, the government turned its attention to the geographical definition of Costa Rica. In the highland region and along the Pacific coast the state was well defined, but on the Atlantic side of the central mountain range lay a large area that had yet to be fully incorporated into national economic and political spheres. The northeastern half of the country had long been a source of interest because of its potential as a gateway to Europe, but for centuries the region existed just beyond the control of the Central Valley, and there was some question as to the location of the boundaries with Costa Rica’s neighbours. While Costa Rica had a valid legal claim to a portion of the Atlantic coast, communication links and colonization were prerequisites for undisputed control over the region. Consequently, exploration of the northeastern part of the national territory became a necessary step toward establishing an undisputed claim to sovereignty over an important frontier region of Central America. At the same time as the Ley de Bases y Colonización was being drawn up and debated, the government also invested in an expedition to find out more about the Atlantic coast region.18 Captain José Antonio Angulo was commissioned to do the job and reported on conditions in Matina, Talamanca, Moín, and the Atlantic coast region. Angulo made an inventory of the places he visited and offered suggestions as to the region’s suitability for agricultural production. As part of the study, Angulo counted heads and noted the diversity of ethnic groups living along the coast. People of African descent were encountered at a few locations, and their existence speaks to the ties the Atlantic lowlands had with the Caribbean region and with the slave trade in Costa Rica19 The region was home to a number of small communities that depended on trade in cacao, hardwood, and other tropical products. Captain Angulo’s final report to the government indicated that the Atlantic coast had potential for further commercial exploitation by highland Costa Ricans, and he encouraged further study of the matter. His findings so interested the government in San José that an engineer was hired shortly afterwards to

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offer an expert opinion on the suitability of the region for agricultural development and on the technical aspects of such a venture.20 In June 1864, after making his way through the dense forests that blanketed the Atlantic region, Juan Mechan submitted his first report on the route from the Central Valley to Limón on the Atlantic coast.21 The route was treacherous as it involved a drop of over one thousand metres from the Central Valley to the Atlantic lowlands and the traversing of several deep gorges. Two months later Mechan submitted a second report on the region, giving details of water supplies, the potential for port construction, and the prospect of its incorporation into the highland economy. His recommendation was that if Costa Rica wanted to develop its full potential, then the country needed to harness the wealth of the Atlantic coast.22 Mechan’s report helped convince the government in San José that developing networks to the Atlantic coast was not only feasible but also a necessary and lucrative venture. The Costa Rican government decided almost immediately to construct a permanent link with the Atlantic coast that would open the region for exploitation and provide a direct route to European markets. There had always been some interest in the economic potential of the Atlantic coast, but so little was known about the region that the earliest surveys of the area did little to convince investors. During the colonial period, settlements existed along the coast and inland at Matina, but their link with the highlands was limited to a trail through the jungle. Though nominal citizens of the Costa Rican state, the residents of this isolated region tended to be better connected to the commercial networks of the Atlantic coast of Central America and the Caribbean.23 Indeed, British interests along the western shores of the Caribbean dated from the 1600s, and isolated communities along the coast from Belize to Panama were often the front line in the power struggle between Spanish and British interests. Aboriginal communities in the region also remained outside of the country’s economy and went unrecognized by government officials. By the 1860s effective control over the Atlantic lowlands was still a long way from becoming a reality. Costa Rican governments had attempted to incorporate the region through political means, but these efforts had minimal impact on the economic isolation of the Atlantic seaboard. For example, in 1847, in an effort to assume effective control over the region, President José María Castro Madriz made the first modern attempt to extend political recognition to the Atlantic lowlands. Elections were held in Matina in 1848, and the first municipal council assumed office on 1 January 1849.24 The municipal council was more symbolic than

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anything else because it was a municipality nearly void of constituents. Thirty-five years later, when the first census was taken in 1883, the entire region of Limón had less than two thousand inhabitants.25 Shortly after Matina was extended political recognition, a cartographer was commissioned by the government, and in 1856 a new map of Costa Rica was produced. The map defind the Atlantic coast region as extending beyond present-day boundaries and into Panama. However, despite the formal extension of political representation to a handful of residents in the Atlantic region and because of claims to land contested by neighbouring states, the Costa Rican government still needed to integrate the entire region into the Central Valley’s sphere of influence. The construction of a port on the Atlantic coast was seen, therefore, seen as an effective way to legitimize Costa Rica’s claims to the region, while at the same time providing benefits for the highland coffee producers by reducing the distance to European markets.26 Without a port on the Atlantic coast and a railway linking it to the Central Valley, Costa Rica’s exports and imports went though the Pacific coast port of Puntarenas and around South America to get to Europe. While a roundabout trade route might have been adequate when Costa Rica existed as an insular backwater within the Spanish empire, an independent country with a national orientation had to look for a competitive advantage. European markets were essential to Costa Rica and its neighbours during the nineteenth century because North American markets were in their infancy. Consequently, the construction of a railway and an Atlantic coast port became the cornerstone of Costa Rica’s strategy for economic development. By the middle of the nineteenth century, when the world was being transformed by steam power, the Costa Rican government may have wanted a railway to the Atlantic, but the state was not in a position to build it at public expense. Attempts were made, therefore, to get foreign investors to build the railway in exchange for land grants, but the first two concessions granted by the government for the construction of an interoceanic railway in the southern part of the country failed before they began.27 For example, the concession granted in 1859 to Ambrose W. Thompson of the United States illustrates the price Costa Rica was willing to pay in order to enter the modern age. Thompson was given permission to build an interoceanic railway using a strip of land in the extreme south of Costa Rica. His railway was to be located between the Estrella River and the boundary with the Granadian Federation (Panama). In return, he was granted a large area of land and expected to colonize it with “pacific and industrious people who [knew] about agriculture and other useful skills and who [would] eventually become Costa Rican citizens.”28 Thompson was

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unable to find enough colonists or get proper financial backing for the enterprise, and his agreement lapsed, leaving Costa Rica without a railway to rival the Panama Railway.29 The colonization schemes of the Costa Rican government were typical of those undertaken at the time by governments throughout the hemisphere. A common assumption was that economic prosperity for a small country like Costa Rica should be predicated on the modernization of an infrastructure to facilitate agricultural development. Another important ingredient in the nineteenth-century recipe for economic growth was the attraction of the right kind of immigrants to a region.30 By the end of the 1860s, given the failure of private investors to realize the Costa Rican dream of a railway link to the Atlantic, the government recognized that it would have to undertake the project itself. As a result, in 1869 the government of Jesús de Jiménez approved and ratified the formation of the Compañia del Ferrocarril de Costa Rica.31 Shortly after General Tomás Guardia came to power, financing for the project was obtained from British bankers. Guardia’s Liberal administration introduced a new constitution in 1871 that helped establish a much less arbitrary system of governance. The new opening created the conditions for the rise of a new political force known as “The Generation of ‘88.” Henry Meiggs, the pre-eminent railway builder of the time, was contracted to build the railway, and construction began in 1871. The beginning of construction on the railway line between the highlands and the Atlantic coast was marked by the building of a storehouse at the future site of Puerto Limón. The railway project soon ran into difficulty as it was plagued by labour shortages, hundreds of deaths, and constant interruptions because of the roughness of the terrain and the ravages of the weather. However, the greatest obstacle to the project’s completion proved to be the perpetual shortage of necessary finances. It was a task that required greater resources than the country could marshal, and, as a result, the 170 kilometre railway link begun in November 1871 was not completed until December 1890.32 From the beginning, fiscal problems associated with the construction of the railway worked against Costa Rica’s interests. By the time the last spike was hammered in, the country had lost control of the entire enterprise because the railway and the land around it had been used as collateral. In the process foreign investors obtained massive land concessions that served to limit the extent to which nationals could benefit from the agricultural frontier that was being opened by the project. Work began at both ends of the line at the same time. The highland section was completed first because the density of the highland

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population meant that the labour supply was adequate for the task. The railway had to compete only with the agricultural sector for workers, and the relatively short harvest season for coffee meant that workers were available for most of the year. However, the largest section of the railway passed through lowland areas that were unattractive to the Hispanic peasants. People from the highland regions and the dry Pacific coast region of Guanacaste understood that the Atlantic coast lowlands were rampant with malaria and yellow fever. The hazards of life in the lowlands, combined with the availability of small plots of land and seasonal employment in the highlands, kept Costa Rican labourers from seeking employment in the construction of the railway’s coastal section. The result was that labour for the construction of the lowland section of the railway had to be found outside of the country. Although the Ley de Bases y Colonización proscribed the immigration of particular groups, the government had to be flexible if the dream of a railway was to be realized. In fact, the government was often pragmatic when it came to adhering to the Ley de Bases y Colonización. For example, on several occasions after the law was passed, labourers from prohibited races were allowed into the country to work for coffee producers. On one occasion, Federico H. Alberding succeeded in convincing the government to allow him and his associates to import Chinese workers because of a labour shortage.33 As part of his presentation, Alberding argued that if the Costa Rican Railway were built, the Chinese workers would help to prevent the dislocation of already scarce national labour resources. Alberding’s underlying concern was that a scarcity of labour in the highland areas would translate into higher costs and lower profits. The government accepted Alberding’s argument and gave him permission to bring Chinese workers into the country. In so doing, a precedent was set for the introduction to Costa Rica of large numbers of people from the prohibited ethnic groups. The Chinese workers were but one segment of the foreign labour force used to complete the railway. Chinese labourers made important contributions and, according to a recent study by Moises Gui Leon Azofeifa, moved quickly into commercial positions in the region’s nascent communities.34 Although it is true that some of the Chinese workers survived to become small business owners, others did not fare as well in Costa Rica. For example, in 1874 a report by the “Superintendente de Chinos” indicated that of the 300 people in the camps established by Alberding to hold labourers until they were employed, 145 had been sold, eight had been injured, and eight had died. Of the eight that had died, at least five had been shot.35

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In addition to the Asian workers, the construction company imported seventeen hundred inmates from prisons in New Orleans, and a similar number of Italian labourers were brought in shortly afterwards.36 However, neither group solved the problem.37 According to one source, the men from New Orleans were “thieves and murders,” and “fewer than 25” survived.38 The working conditions on the railway proved too much even for the hardened criminals, so the recruiters turned to southern Europe as an alternative labour pool. The Italians arrived in Costa Rica to find that the recruiters had lied to them about the rate of pay and living conditions they could expect in Limón. Within no time the Italian workers revolted, with the Italian government intervening on their behalf, and the Costa Rican government decided to allow the men to either return home or become immigrants who could live and work where they chose. A new search for suitable workers was initiated, and it focused on the neighbouring Caribbean islands, where there existed a large pool of available labour. The over-expansion of sugar cultivation throughout the world during the nineteenth century, together with the emancipation of slaves in the British Empire, had generated unprecedented levels of unemployment in the West Indies. Shortages of work in the nineteenth century meant that the unemployed had to leave the countryside, and many drifted into urban centres like Kingston, Jamaica. The existence of these labour pools throughout the West Indies attracted contractors in search of men to work on railways and other large construction or agricultural projects. In some cases workers were contracted to work for a specific time and in a particular place, while others merely obtained passage to destinations like Costa Rica where work was rumoured to be available. Although few reliable statistics are available on the migration of West Indians to Costa Rica, it is evident that British colonies in the Caribbean supplied the majority of the labourers for the project. The traditional figures used by historians have been gleaned from travelogues, newspaper reports, and census data.39 The problem for historians is that the records are incomplete because they only record official figures and do not account for unofficial immigration within the region. Therefore, no accurate assessment exists of the total number of people from the West Indies and elsewhere who either immigrated to or just passed through the region in the decades around the turn of the twentieth century. One important group that is always overlooked are the women who arrived in the region as daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers of the workers. Since they were seldom contracted for work in the West Indies they were not counted as part of the labour drive and the details of their arrival are

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less clear. Nevertheless, thousands of women did make their way to the region, where they too found employment in and around the construction project. The study of Caribbean migration to Costa Rica and Central America is also hindered by the transient nature of the West Indian labour force. Workers who were contracted in Kingston for a particular job often took advantage of the numerous other opportunities that presented themselves along the way. Some people obtained land, others started businesses, and most had several different jobs during the course of their working lives. Many moved on to other locales after a month, a year, or longer and settled elsewhere in the Caribbean region or the world. These men and women often moved across national boundaries without reporting to the local authorities, and, as a result, the true figures will never be known. One good estimate is that as many as 400,000 people of African descent went to and through Middle America between 1850 and 1950, with the majority arriving before 1920.40 Among the earliest waves of West Indian migration to Costa Rica, the most significant occurred during and after the French attempt to construct the Panama Canal. According to one source, between 1882 and 1888 a total of 19,000 labourers were contracted to build the canal. Thousands of men from throughout the Caribbean worked on the project, but the majority were from Jamaica.41 When the French failed to complete the canal in Panama, these men were left without work, and because many lacked the means to return to their Caribbean homes, they either remained in what became Panama or turned to Costa Rica in search of other employment opportunities. Although no precise figures are available, hundreds of former canal labour found work in Costa Rica on what, by the 1880s, had become Minor Cooper Keith’s railway venture or on the adjacent banana plantations.42 Minor Keith went to Costa Rica in 1871 to oversee construction of the first segment of the Atlantic railway, which was being built by his uncle, Henry Meiggs. Owing to other commitments, Meiggs gave Keith and Keith’s brothers the task of supervising the job in Costa Rica. A multitude of fiscal, labour, and engineering problems plagued Meiggs’s attempt to build the railway. In 1874 the company Meiggs had founded to construct the railway went bankrupt, having completed only the first thirty-two kilometres out of Limón. Keith, who had nowhere to go, decided to remain in Costa Rica, where he managed to survive by taking advantage of the opportunities that existed in Limón and neighbouring areas during the 1870 s. 43 He was rewarded for his persistence with a few partial construction contracts on the railway. At the same time, Keith began experimenting with

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growing bananas for export, taking full advantage of the railway lines that had been completed on the Atlantic lowlands. He secured land deeds and developed several plantations near the port of Limón. In 1883, when the government of Costa Rica was ready to complete the railway project, Keith was the only contractor in position to finish the rail link between the highlands and Limón. The agreement, known as the Soto-Keith contract, came to haunt later governments because, in return for renegotiating the British loans that had already been spent on the railway’s construction, Keith was granted a ninety-nineyear lease to 800,000 acres of land, exempted from taxation, and given ownership of the railway that he was to complete.44 The land and transportation facilities that Keith obtained in the Soto-Keith contract complemented the export market for bananas that he had developed while waiting for the resumption of railway construction. Consequently, by the time the link between Limón and the highlands was complete, Keith’s Tropical Trading and Transport Company was already taking full advantage of the railway, and his plantations produced millions of bananas for the United States market. The growth of the banana industry in Costa Rica was exceptional. In 1880, Costa Rica recorded the export of a mere 360 bunches of bananas.45 Within a decade Keith’s company emerged as one of the most important producers of bananas in the world, and when the railway was completed in 1890, over one million stems of bananas with a total value of $410,000 were exported from Costa Rica.46 Keith’s network of banana plantations and his control of a vital communication link gave him an unprecedented role in the Costa Rican economy.47 With the termination of construction on the Costa Rican railway, Keith began what one author has called a “railway construction fever.”48 Branch lines were constructed by Keith to extend his control over banana-producing land, and by the beginning of the twentieth century a large net of rail lines stretched across Limón. Minor Keith’s development of Costa Rica’s export agriculture potential was also made possible by the relative ease with which bananas were grown in the region. Although the Caribbean coastal plain was covered with dense tropical forest, agricultural development in the region was straightforward, and the cost of banana production was minimal. There was no tilling or fertilizing of the soil, and maintenance amounted to keeping the underbrush in the fields down. The only significant expenditures were in the construction of transportation links with the plantations and the clearing of the forest in preparation for production. The process of claiming tropical forest for cultivation was accomplished in stages. After an area was surveyed, crews were sent to

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clear the underbrush to permit the planting of banana “suckers” in rows. After the bananas were planted, the tall trees were felled. The young fruit stalks would then begin to appear in the tangled mass of trunks, limbs, and branches. The tropical climate allowed for the rapid decay of the fallen trees, which resulted in the growth of well fertilized and orderly plantations. Keith was able, therefore, to exploit the high fertility of the virgin soil and could count on as many as twenty-five years of production on one plantation before soil depletion dictated abandonment of the individual farm.49 Minor Keith also realized a profit from his plantations within a short period of time. Approximately six months after the parent plant was planted, a “sucker” would sprout from the same root, and six months later another would appear. The first sucker was removed and transplanted in another location, but the second was allowed to grow because it coincided with the maturation of the parent plant. Twelve to fourteen months after a “sucker” was planted, a stem of bananas was ready for export, the plant was cut down, and the second sucker was allowed to grow to maturity. Consequently, there were always three or four generations of banana plants growing at one time. The nature of the production process meant that plantations grew exponentially, and Keith was able to reinvest at a rapid rate. His plantations spread along Costa Rica’s Caribbean coastal plain, and within a few years Keith began looking at the neighbouring republics of Central and South America for new opportunities. Once Keith had created a vast plantation system in Costa Rica, he used the existing land and transport facilities as collateral to finance the expansion of his holdings into other parts of Latin America and the Caribbean.50 The rapid growth of Keith’s empire produced financial difficulties, and in 1899 the Tropical Trading Company was forced into a merger with the Boston Fruit Company, resulting in the creation of the United Fruit Company. Thus, the Costa Rican government’s desire to build a railway resulted in both the foundation of the United Fruit Company and the transformation of a remote region into a massive plantation controlled by a foreign corporation that was largely exempt from domestic control. The United Fruit Company and its predecessor had some minor competition in Costa Rica, but control over the railway system guaranteed a transportation monopoly for Keith. Another facet of the development of the banana industry was the growth in Limón’s population. Between 1883 and 1927 the population of the province grew from a few thousand to over 32,000 people. Migrants arrived from around the world to participate in the windfall that resulted from the mounting consumption of bananas in North America and Europe. Speculators, merchants, artisans, and

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professionals were attracted by the opportunities offered in Limón. Many were Europeans who invested in Limón’s agricultural industry and related enterprises during the nineteenth century to become members of the Costa Rican élite. However, the majority of the early pioneers were of African descent. One study estimates that close to 43,000 Jamaicans made their way to Costa Rica to work on the banana plantations between 1891 and 1911.51 They sold their labour, and many gave their lives to the development of the industry in Costa Rica. Aviva Chomsky argues that the collective experience of the West Indians was conditioned by their experience as individuals from former slave-holding societies in the Caribbean.52 Although it is true that the West Indians had a collective experience that grew out of the African diaspora and that this experience assisted the migrants to both function within a plantation system and to struggle against it, it is also true that the people who arrived in Limón were from capitalist and often post-plantation societies. Therefore, West Indian struggles in Costa Rica also need to be framed within the context of experience with capitalism and modernization. This distinction is important because it speaks to the ability of West Indian migrants to deal with the issues they confronted as they participated in the emergence of United Fruit as a modern multi-national corporation. Like the fruit company, the West Indian community in Costa Rica was transnational, adaptable, and complex, and so were their responses to the challenges they faced. In Limón, the distance of individuals, both spacial and social, from the Port of Limón and its business class conditioned the impact of the banana industry on their everyday lives. Some people lived independently in small, isolated villages by the sea, while others lived a cosmopolitan existence in a vibrant port city. In contrast to the highland areas of the country, people living on the Atlantic coast were more closely linked to the rest of the world. The constant arrival of ships in Limón meant that news from abroad arrived in every conceivable form. Visitors brought firsthand information about events and opportunities elsewhere, newspapers from the ports of the world circulated among residents, and imported goods were readily available in Limón. External influences were so prevalent that the people who lived and worked in the region were said to be “as familiar with the currency of the United States as they [were with] their own currency.”53 Banana cultivation in Costa Rica also challenged the country’s ability to meet the demands of expansion. The increased economic activity in the province of Limón provided business leaders with markets

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and labourers with job opportunities. Towns, roads, and other signs of economic prosperity transformed the region into an important agricultural frontier, but it was a frontier often beyond the grasp of a small and impoverished nation like Costa Rica. State-supported schools, hospitals, police, and other services could not keep up with demand. Consequently, in the absence of effective government administration, people living in Limón could often avoid paying taxes, occupy public land with impunity, and generally ignore their responsibilities to Costa Rica. Living in a region that remained beyond the effective control of the Costa Rican government also meant hardships. The misery endured by the immigrant workers has not been fully documented, but all accounts indicate that life was not easy in the lowland jungles of Costa Rica. No accurate account exists of the lives lost in the construction of the railway, but it is estimated that at least five thousand deaths occurred in the first forty kilometres from Limón to the interior, and a popular tale claims that there is one West Indian buried under every railway tie.54 Accurate statistics for the death and accident rates on the banana plantations are also lacking, but existing evidence shows that labourers died in higher than average numbers.55 Statistics for Limón indicate that disease, a lack of clean water, and malnutrition in the region took its toll on the labour force. According to one study, Limón had the highest mortality rate in the country between 1906 and 1925.56 Given that a large portion of the population was composed of able-bodied young men and women, the mortality rate in Limón was unreasonably high during the first quarter of the twentieth century.57 If Limón had had the same demographic profile as a highland province, with a higher percentage of elderly residents and children, the death rate would have been even greater. The popular belief that West Indians were resistant to tropical disease and best suited for work in the region served only to mask the hardships endured by the work force. Not only did labourers risk their lives, they were forced to work in a system akin to debt peonage. According to a 1925 United States Consular report, the fruit company extended credit to workers in order to “hold the man on the job.”58 According to Consul John James Meily, the majority of farm labourers were “continuously slightly” indebted to United Fruit. Moreover, the company combined the credit system with the “ever present threat of blacklisting” to “stabilize” the labour force and to “prevent promiscuous migration from farm to farm.”59 Banana production required a reliable workforce, and United Fruit was not opposed to using coercive means to achieve stability.

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Despite the incredible hardships encountered by West Indian labourers, more and more workers continued to arrive in the province. Guillermo Nanne, who was the director general of the Costa Rica Railway, reported in 1875 that Limón had become a “town of more than one thousand souls.”60 The census conducted in 1883 indicates that there were 1,273 foreigners resident in the region of Puerto Limón, and of their numbers 68 per cent were Jamaicans, who formed 48 per cent of the province’s total population.61 By 1901, the municipality of Limón had 11,157 inhabitants. Nine years later the population had increased to 18,195.62 The population continued to grow, and in 1927 the municipality boasted 32,278 residents, of whom 57 per cent were of African descent.63 A small number of Caribbean migrants had begun living in San José and other parts of the country by 1927, but the vast majority remained in the province of Limón, where a number of vibrant communities developed and became the foundation for the West Indian presence in Costa Rica. As a result of the banana industry, the West Indian population of Costa Rica developed into the largest ethnic minority in the country. West Indian migrants to Costa Rica became members of a community that reflected the interests of peasants, workers, and others. Limón was not just a series of barracks for men who worked on the plantations. By the second decade of the twentieth century the population of the province was more or less equally divided between men and women from all over the Caribbean. The result was a complex community with social structures not contained within the experience of plantation labourers. Significantly, there was a large peasantry whose interests sometimes varied from those of the plantation labour force. The acquisition of land, as Charles Koch has shown, was an important step toward higher social status, and some of the West Indians who migrated to Costa Rica in search of employment obtained a degree of security that set them apart from other individuals in the community. The West Indians who went to Central America were men and women in a position to migrate from their islands of origin. They were not castoffs from the West Indies. The people who migrated to Central America were those who could sell their labour or skills to companies like United Fruit. That is one of the reasons literacy and skill levels were higher among the West Indian immigrants than among highland Costa Ricans. West Indians went to Costa Rica as a labour force adept at dealing with modern capitalist enterprise. They were class conscious, as revealed by the social divisions within the community, often educated, and deeply religious, and many sought to become independent merchants or farmers. Some may have been

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20 The West Indians of Costa Rica

itinerant labourers, but many arrived with the aspirations of immigrants and established a stratified community. The majority of the West Indian population has always lived within fifty kilometres of Puerto Limón. Settlement patterns were either along railway lines in the interior or along the coast to the north and south. As a result of the different opportunities available, coastal dwellers had lives that differed from those of people who lived inland along the railway tracks. Coastal villages were, in many ways, pioneer villages because West Indians could obtain land and become independent agricultural producers. In the interior little or no land was outside the control of the United Fruit Company, and most people worked in the banana industry. People along the coast produced bananas, cacao, and copra on their land, fished in the ocean, hunted turtles on the beaches, and harvested hardwood in the forests. The southern coastal area was an important region for the production of foodstuffs consumed in Limón. For the most part these producers relied on the communication, marketing, and transportation systems established by United Fruit in the region, but there were also a number of subsistence farmers whose contact with the formal market was minimal. Consequently, a degree of economic independence existed for some along the coast, but most people were directly or indirectly linked to the plantation economy.64 In contrast, the population of the province’s interior has a history that is much more closely linked to agricultural export production. Some of the first independent small farmers were railway labourers that the government and construction companies sought to retain during periods of unemployment.65 Small plots of land were distributed to the workers in lieu of wages and as a means of keeping them around for the eventual resumption of construction. Similarly, the banana plantations relied on rural communities to provide shelter for and supplement the incomes of its casual labourers.66 Also, although the fruit company controlled most of the arable land in the region, it was impossible to manage every hectare. As a consequence, United Fruit produced bananas on the best land and rented some of the rest to independent farmers in order to retain its claim to as much land as possible. Limón’s transformation into a bustling enclave contrasted with the sluggish growth in some of the other regions of Costa Rica. Consequently, during the first decades of the twentieth century the land and employment available in the province began to attract Costa Ricans from other parts of the country. Population pressure mounted in the highland region during the late nineteenth century, with the

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21 Limón and the Caribbean

result that the traditional agricultural frontiers around the Central Valley disappeared as peasants and others claimed more land. The country did have an abundance of unoccupied land in other regions, but these areas were inaccessible. The government devoted its attention to the transportation routes and commercial infrastructure in the Central Valley region at the expense of regions like Puntarenas and Guanacaste.67 Thus, by the early twentieth century Limón was one of the only areas in the country where employment opportunities existed and where the infrastructure was well developed. The problem Costa Ricans had with migration to Limón was that the province was not like the rest of the country. Limón was exotic, populated by people of African descent, and dominated by foreign capital. The popular image of Limón among Costa Ricans was based on nineteenth-century literature that depicted the province as being far removed from civilized highland society. Representative of this type of characterization is the work of Monsignor Bernardo Augusto Thiel, a German national who was the head of the Catholic Church in Costa Rica at the turn of the twentieth century.68 Thiel spoke several languages, travelled throughout the country, and wrote extensively about the Costa Rica he saw. In his work on Limón, West Indians appear as they did in newspaper reports and other accounts of the period. He portrays the inhabitants of Limón as a foreign element, as well as a vanquished and immoral group within a cultured society.69 In the eyes of Thiel, and others, West Indians were not shopkeepers, labourers, peasants, or parents; they were that part of the portrait of Limón that a skilled painter would contrast with the beauty of the region. In Thiel’s hands, West Indians were not seen as individuals who formed a part of Costa Rican history. The religious leader offered low estimates of the number of individuals he encountered on his visit to the Atlantic coast and was careful to stress the transitory nature of the West Indians he described. He stated that few of the foreigners had “come to the country with the desire of taking root.”70 Thiel sought to maintain the conservative image of Costa Rica as a traditional society made up of the descendants of European colonists by emphasizing the exceptional nature of the West Indian population. The idea of tradition was not only the hallmark of Conservatives like Thiel. His more liberal minded contemporaries also emphasized the value of tradition in the country’s image. Among these was Pío Viquez, a writer who was one of Costa Rica’s most exemplary liberal ideologues at the turn of the century. Viquez contrasted Limón with the purity of other regions of the country, attributing feminine qualities to the latter that underlined his sense of nationalism. His work leaves the reader with images of the chastity of a mature “white”

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22 The West Indians of Costa Rica

society and the licentious nature of the coastal dwellers. For example, Viquez portrayed Cartago, in the Costa Rican heartland, through its daughters, who he described as being pure and civilized. In contrast, the author depicted Limón as the place where the “mulata,” with feverish temperament and equatorial passion, were found.71 For Viquez and the late nineteenth-century framers of Costa Rican nationalism, the country might have been seduced by all that was tempting about the Atlantic coast, but the purity and values of the nation were only to be found in the highlands. The image of Limón as an untamed region changed somewhat during the first decades of the twentieth century, but the inability of Costa Ricans to see West Indians as a central part of the landscape continued. Even after Limón became the motor of Costa Rica’s export economy, highlanders who visited the region could not see that a new generation of pioneers was making a home in Costa Rica. For example, the work of Manuel Goméz Miralla, one of Costa Rica’s most famous photographers, offers a visual counterpoint to the impressions created by Bernardo Theil and Pío Viquez. Many of Goméz Miralla’s prints can be found in the Archivo Nacional de Costa Rica. He visited Limón in 1921, and in all the pictures that he took West Indians appear as secondary elements even though, by then, they formed the majority of the province’s population. People of African descent are seen working in the distance or walking by, but they are always peripheral to the camera’s focus on the “white” foreman or the scenery being featured. Even as late as 1921, there was no room in Costa Rica’s self-image for people who did not fit in the mould of a homogeneous “white-settler” society. The image of Limón as depicted by Thiel, Viquez, and Goméz Miralla was typical, and most people in Costa Rica remained unaware of the emergence of a West Indian majority in Limón during the first decades of the twentieth century. The average Costa Rican citizen of the period was tied to a town, small city, or region far removed from the banana plantations of the Atlantic coast. Their interests were local, and few people from other parts of the country ever had an opportunity to venture to Limón. As a result, the West Indian community of Limón remained obscure and distant until mounting pressure on land in the highlands and rising concerns over unemployment cast a new light on Limón. A boom in banana production in the first decades of the century made Limón attractive and helped focus people’s attention on the issue of foreign labour in Costa Rica. Despite the attitudes of most Costa Ricans toward Limón, by 1900 the Atlantic region was considered by many to have a brilliant

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23 Limón and the Caribbean

economic future. The only significant obstacle to settlement was that all of the best land was under foreign corporate control and that much of the marginal land was farmed by West Indians. Another drawback was that the government exercised only secondary control over the region because the United Fruit Company provided most of the essential services. As the company, known popularly as “el pulpo” (the octopus), spread its tentacles, it generated hostility among Costa Ricans who were excluded from the industry. The critics thought that the fruit company was cheating the national treasury out of tax revenue and, therefore, holding back the country’s development. Opponents of the traditional élite began to argue that national resources like the land held by the fruit company should be controlled by Costa Ricans and that this could only be accomplished through political change. For critics the most threatening aspect of the banana company was United Fruit’s monopoly over a lucrative agricultural product. Control over land, labour, communications, and commerce in the Atlantic region meant that individuals or other companies could not compete even if they had the means to. Moreover, the company’s control over the railway, the highland economy’s life line, meant higher costs and loss of profits for people in other parts of the country. On the railway bananas took precedence over all other freight moving to and from Limón.72 United Fruit ensured that rail transport was available to the company when the ships from the “Great White Fleet” arrived in port.73 Coffee and merchandise waited on the docks or on sidings when bananas were being shipped, and any additional costs caused by the inconvenience were not absorbed by United Fruit. The economic potential in Limón and the fruit company’s monopoly over the region led critics to question the contracts that existed between the Costa Rican government and United Fruit. The original contract with Minor Keith exempted the Tropical Trading Company from export taxes. In the 1890s critics insisted that some sort of tax be placed on banana exports, but there was no opportunity to renegotiate the contract. However, the 1899 amalgamation of the Tropical Trading Company and the Boston Fruit Company to form the United Fruit Company created an opening. The Costa Rican government took advantage of the amalgamation to seek renegotiation of the ninety-nine-year Soto-Keith contract. As a means of revoking the contract the government brought in new legislation. In 1900 a decree was passed that allowed tax free exportation of bananas from Costa Rica to continue for a period of ten years, at the end of which a new contract would be worked out. Consequently, in 1910 the government of Ricardo Jimenez signed a new banana contract with the

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24 The West Indians of Costa Rica

company. The 1910 contract was for a duration of twenty years and imposed a tax of one cent us per stem exported from the country.74 The new contract set the stage for future negotiations with the company because it contained both an export tax and a more reasonable time frame. The only problem was that the government tied itself to the fortunes of the industry, and the 1910 contract was signed when banana production in Costa Rica was at its peak. Production was expected to increase, and no provision was made for declining exports. Some revenue was better than no revenue, but the problem of unrestricted immigration, unemployment, and demands for social welfare fell squarely on the shoulders of the government.

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2 Banana Boom: Expanding Plantations and Labour Management, 1899–1914

The 1910 contract was agreed to at the end of a decade of spectacular growth in the Costa Rican banana industry.1 The first significant shipments of bananas from Costa Rica began in the late 1880s when just under one million stems were exported. By 1900 exports had climbed to 3,420,186 stems and two years later to 4,174,199. By 1908 approximately ten million stems were being exported each year, and the industry peaked in 1913 when Costa Rica became the world’s leading exporter of bananas with the export of 11,117,833 stems, which were destined primarily for the United States.2 Although high export levels were a consequence of the physical and climatic characteristics of the Atlantic coast, perhaps the most important factor in banana production was the availability of a compliant labour force. United Fruit proved adept at managing its labour force by building upon divisions among the workers themselves.3 An important strategy against labour organization was the manipulation of loyalties and prejudices by the company. Different types of work were performed by labourers from different ethnic groups. Hispanics, for example, often performed the dirtiest and least skilled jobs on the plantations in Limón. In contrast, West Indian workers tended to hold better positions on the plantations, the railway, and the docks. United Fruit not only segregated workers with different ethnic backgrounds when they were on the job but also made sure that each group was housed in separate living quarters whenever feasible. Similarly, each group participated in their own particular community organizations, went to different churches, and often played on sports

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26 The West Indians of Costa Rica

teams that reflected their ethnic or island identity. Every community along the Atlantic was pan-Caribbean and multinational in its composition, and internal divisions were common. In the case of the West Indian communities, United Fruit managers understood and capitalized on rivalries whenever an opportunity presented itself. The company recognized that island allegiances were strong and sought to maintain them. For example, the use of company buildings was given to particular groups like the Jamaica Burial Association, the St. Kitts Sports Club Committee, or any of several other “West Indian” organizations that could be found in every locale in Limón. Religious leaders were given passes to travel on the United Fruit trains and permission to use company facilities for their services. Another example of the community divisions encouraged by United Fruit occurred in its own shops and on work crews. One group or another often dominated a given job because people with a particular West Indian background were in a position to claim a space in the workforce for themselves, their offspring, and their compatriots. Nevertheless, on the labour front the fruit company had to remain vigilant and did intervene whenever workers banded together over employment issues. The company’s first significant confrontation with a labour union in Costa Rica reveals the management strategies employed by United Fruit. The Artisans and Labourers Union of Costa Rica was the first labour organization established by the West Indian community in Limón.4 The union understood the implications of the 1910 contract for West Indian workers, so they prepared for a confrontation over the new agreement. In preparation, the union organized social functions and ran a cooperative store where members discussed the new contract.5 A number of minor work stoppages occurred prior to the implementation of the contract, and tension mounted among workers.6 As was expected by the union, when the implementation date approached, the company asked its employees to take a 12 per cent reduction in pay. Workers were being asked to finance the new tax on bananas through a reduction in their wages. Instead of accepting the rollback, the union called for its members to strike for better wages. According to Aviva Chomsky the union was formed in 1910 and dissolved in 1911. Her information is derived from British consular reports written by Frank Nutter Cox, who stated that the union was incorporated on 26 July 1910 and claimed a membership of 5,000. Cox further stated that the government of Ricardo Jimenéz “inadvertently” approved the statutes of the union and then revoked its approval “when the scope and objectives” of the organization were understood.7 However, according to legal documents filed with

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Costa Rican authorities, the union was actually formed in November 1909 and was dissolved in February 1914.8 If this was the case, the workers of Limón came together in anticipation of the new contract and not after the fact, which means that they understood the contract’s implications and sought to unite in order to better respond to the expected changes.9 United Fruit’s response to the call for a strike by the Artisans and Labourers Union was to bring in strike breakers in order to undermine support for work stoppage. The company dispatched a labour recruiter to the Caribbean to search of replacement workers. After failed attempts to reach agreements with the governments of Jamaica and Haiti, both of which had concerns about the employment conditions in Costa Rica, the recruiter went to St. Kitts.10 In St. Kitts, the company promised prospective workers seventy cents per day in wages and free accommodation on the plantations. The offer was attractive, and 680 men were put on a ship bound for Limón before the local authorities could prevent their departure. United Fruit had the strikebreakers it needed, and the men found themselves in the middle of a simmering labour dispute. Upon arrival in Limón the men from St. Kitts found that although the Fruit Company’s promises of seventy cents per day were true, other West Indian workers were already on strike because eighty-five cents per day was considered an insufficient wage.11 The St. Kitts men also found that the housing was dismal or non-existent, that they had to purchase tools from the company to do their jobs, and that all they were given to eat were bananas. Within days of their arrival they began leaving the plantations, and a week later a group of the men went to the company commissary in Limón to ask for food. The men were ordered to leave, and one of them was struck by a “white” company manager. The St. Kitts men responded by breaking windows on the building, and the manager of the commissary panicked. The police and military soon arrived, and the protest turned into a riot in which one man was shot and critically injured and many of the St. Kitts men were severely beaten.12 The incident at the commissary marked the beginning of a more serious confrontation between West Indian workers and Costa Rican authorities.13 The following day, 25 November, a larger riot occurred when the St. Kitts men, backed by the Artisans and Labourers Union and hundreds of other members of the community, gathered to protest the treatment of the West Indians the day before. The Costa Rican government responded to the situation by sending an additional 300 soldiers and policemen to Limón. Police and soldiers were also stationed at main centres along the railway line to prevent men from

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28 The West Indians of Costa Rica

the plantations from joining those protesting in the city. At the demonstration the vice consul, C.G. McGrigor, a United Fruit Company employee, addressed the men, urging them to return to work and cautioning them against demonstrating in the streets. In response, the protesters threw stones at the British official, and the police responded by firing warning shots to disperse the crowd. The gunfire scattered the protestors, but tension continued to mount in Limón. The stones thrown by the West Indians were aimed at Vice Consul McGrigor, a man they did not trust.14 The strikers would not listen to McGrigor because he was a civil engineer with United Fruit and was seen by many as representing company interests over those of British subjects.15 He later reported that he thought there was a conspiracy to kill him, causing him to telegraph a request for intervention by the British Naval vessel Pallas, which was in Jamaica at the time.16 McGrigor did not have faith in the ability of the Costa Rican authorities to deal with the angry men and, therefore, sought to use an authority that the West Indians would be more apt to respect.17 Meanwhile, as the vice consul struggled to regain control of the situation in Limón, the consul general for Costa Rica, Frank Nutter Cox, made his way to the coast. Cox, who was born in Costa Rica to Scottish parents and who was the general manager of the Compañia de Ferrocarril de Costa Rica, arrived in Limón on 27 November.18 He met with the governor of the province and United Fruit officials before calling a meeting to address the men from St. Kitts. The consul general announced that the United Fruit Company had agreed to raise the wages of the St. Kitts men to the market rate of eighty-five cents per day. The speech by Cox took place in a private courtyard, and only men from St. Kitts were allowed to attend. All others were barred from entering the courtyard and addressing the consul. The consul was also joined on the platform by Reverend Pitt, a Wesleyan minister and conservative member of the local West Indian community. The arguments put forward by the consul and the church leader convinced a number of the men to accept the offer, but there was continued discontent in the streets of Limón. For the most part, the Costa Rican government sat on the sidelines during the first days of conflict in Limón, but it chose the consul’s visit as the time to increase pressure by putting a vagrancy law into force.19 The governor waited until after the men from St. Kitts had been given an opportunity to accept Consul Cox’s offer. Then the declaration was made, and the police began arresting those considered to be agitators.20 Vagrancy laws had existed in Limón prior to 1910, but they were only enforced when United Fruit needed labourers. In 1910, the law was used to compel the men to work as a means

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of restoring order to a region in turmoil. As a result of the threat of being jailed and sentenced to forced labour, many of the men from St. Kitts decided to return to the farms, and the number of strikers on the streets of Limón dwindled. The British authorities were quick to blame the Union and Jamaicans in particular for fomenting the unrest. Consul Cox reported to the Foreign Office that the main objective of the Jamaicans was to exclude fresh labour from the West Indies in order to raise wages for themselves. His understanding of the matter came from Vice Consul McGrigor, who claimed that the Jamaican labourers had threatened the men from St. Kitts, but he then conceded that proof of McGrigor’s allegations “was difficult to find.”21 In a conversation with the manager of the United Fruit Company, the consul was also assured that the trouble was linked to the dispute with the Artisans and Labourers Union and that the St. Kitts men were caught up in the struggle.22 Consul General Cox wrote in his report of the incident to the Foreign Office that the Jamaicans who had organized the Union were “a dangerous criminal element” and responsible for all the violence. No mention was made in the consul’s report of the new banana contract that had served to bring the union into existence or of the wage rollback that had caused the men to strike. Assured that the strike was the act of criminals and that the St. Kitts men’s concerns had been addressed, the consul concluded his visit to Limón after only two days. At the time that Cox was making his presentation in Limón, another battle between police and workers was taking place in Siquirres, a town on the railway line to San José. There, the Costa Rican police acted to prevent a group of St. Kitts men from going to Limón to meet with the consul. According to the police, they were rushed by the men and thus forced to take action. Twenty men from St. Kitts were subsequently arrested, bound, and put on the next train to San José. While in the custody of the Costa Rican police the men were severely beaten. When news of the abuse spread to Port Limón, The Times, a local West Indian newspaper, demanded an investigation by British authorities. The community was outraged that a number of their members had been detained and physically abused by Hispanic police simply because they desired to meet with their government’s representative in Costa Rica. The scandal of the arrests grew when, on the following day, The Times published a report stating that the men had been put on the same train Consul General Cox had taken when he returned to San José. It was also reported that the consul “did nothing to stop the abuse of British subjects.” According to the newspaper report, Cox

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had gone to see the men who were being held in another car, noted their condition, and instead of taking action, “walked back to the car in which he was travelling.”23 The editor of the newspaper was outraged at Cox’s failure to intervene and demanded an explanation. The consul general ignored the personal attacks in The Times and, instead of investigating the treatment of British subjects, filed a report with the Foreign Office indicating that he had helped the men and that they had been “very kindly treated” by the police. He further stated that, in effect, the men were lucky because the police had been so impressed with the bravery of the unarmed West Indians who rushed them that they would not give “the order to fire on such good men.” Cox also told his superiors that all of the men who had been arrested were released the following day.24 In reality, however, the men were maltreated, served as many as sixty days in jail, and then had to find their own way back to Limón. To make matters worse for the men from St. Kitts, the United Fruit Company manager in Limón, Mr. Wetmore, posted a notice that St. Kitts men would be granted the market wage for their services, but the Company then waited almost two weeks to make the offer official.25 Meanwhile, many of the St. Kitts men who were not in jail in San José fell ill in Limón. On 14 December Consul Cox reported that 120 had been admitted to hospital and that ten of these men had been diagnosed as starvation cases. A week later a physician at the hospital reported that he had seen 150 St. Kitts men that week, that 108 were in hospital, that one had died, and that many “were suffering from malaria, from ulcers on the feet, and all of them from anemia.”26 A relief campaign was initiated by The Times, but the collection fell far short of the needs of the men. As a result of United Fruit’s callous disregard for the wellbeing of the men it had contracted in St. Kitts, many of the recent arrivals were soon unfit for work, and the company added to their misery by denying all responsibility for their welfare. The consul general then requested that arrangements be made to repatriate the St. Kitts men at their own expense. A short time later, after many became too ill to earn their passage, he suggested that the Costa Rican government pressure the us government in to getting the United Fruit Company to repatriate the workers.27 Some were eventually sent back to St. Kitts, but most remained on the shores of Central America, where they and their memories of the event melded into the West Indian community and its collective conscience.28 The St. Kitts riots were not an isolated attempt by United Fruit to drive the price of labour down by creating a surplus of potential workers. Among the most persistent themes in the documents on the

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Caribbean coastal region was the ability of United Fruit to regulate and manipulate the flow of labour. For example, one report by British authorities on the situation in Honduras reveals that the same strategy was commonly employed by the company to reduce the price of labour. The author of the report stated that the events in Honduras were a duplication of what had happened in Costa Rica in 1910. Men who had been brought to a banana port were denied passage out of the port, thereby trapping them on the plantations. In Honduras, as in Costa Rica, the company maintained a surplus of hundreds of labourers in order raise the levels of unemployment and keep wages down. According to the report’s author, United Fruit’s labour practices were dangerous because the “idle and hungry [were] those that [were] bound to cause trouble.”29 The fruit company’s attitude toward labour is evident in the words of a company official who stated that a foreman’s work was “to kid the men into thinking they [were] fairly paid because the Company [wanted] to pay them just enough to keep them at work, and no more.”30 The company practice of “kidding” men into destitution, and thereby generating hostility within its workforce, meant that United Fruit was always on guard against troublemakers. The company circulated descriptions and even photos of blacklisted individuals. The circulars went to the managers of United Fruit Company plantations throughout the Caribbean and to the management of subsidiary companies like the Northern Railway in Costa Rica and other affiliated offices in the region. To be blacklisted by the company made it extremely difficult to find employment anywhere along the Atlantic coast between Belize and Colombia. Although the St. Kitts affair was a labour issue complicated by West Indian rivalry, it also pitted British subjects against the Costa Rican government and an expanding us commercial empire. British influence in Latin America was fading rapidly by the turn of the twentieth century, and places like Limón became the final resting place of British imperial sentiment. The estimated 20,000 West Indians living in Limón in the 1910s gave the province the distinction of having one of the largest concentrations of British subjects in Spanishspeaking Latin America. At the time, only the Panama Canal Zone and perhaps Cuba could claim to be home to more West Indians than Limón. Despite the significance of their presence, the West Indian communities of the region were not a priority for consular officials. The British representatives in Costa Rica and elsewhere along the coast often dismissed the concerns of West Indians. A review of British consular files for Costa Rica reveals that one of the most consistent complaints of British authorities in the region

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was that the West Indians relied on consuls to settle matters the officials considered trivial. Consuls accused the West Indians of taking up too much of their time with petty issues while more important work was left undone. Nevertheless, people of African descent living in Limón were proud British subjects and demonstrated their allegiance to the crown at every opportunity. One such occasion of the West Indian community’s expression of pride in its “British heritage” was the coronation of King George V in 1911. The celebration of the coronation was also marked in Limón by a confrontation between Marcus Garvey, a young man who had participated in the demonstrations of 1910, and the self-styled West Indian élite of Limón, whose interests were tied to the fortunes of the fruit company.31 Garvey’s presence in Limón, though not unknown to scholars, has been largely overlooked as a formative period in his development as one of the most significant black nationalist leaders in us history. The confrontation, which pitted a new arrival to Limón against West Indians who were well established in Costa Rica, serves to underline one of the most significant and divisive tensions in the community and to shed light on Garvey’s early involvement with political issues. Marcus Garvey arrived in Limón in 1910 to take a job as a time keeper with the United Fruit Company. In Limón, Garvey witnessed the deplorable living conditions of plantation workers and the brutal treatment of the strikers by United Fruit. He also learned a great deal about how the expatriate community functioned and came to understand how important it was for people like him to accept the existing hierarchy among West Indians in order to succeed. The tale of Marcus Garvey’s experience in Limón offers one of the best illustrations of how the West Indians could be a self-regulating entity whose internal dynamics were a function of the community’s relationship with Costa Rica and the United Fruit Company. Shortly after his arrival, Garvey became the proprietor and editor of a local newspaper called The Nation, which he used to challenge and berate what he considered to be a complacent attitude on the part of the West Indian community’s leaders. Throughout his stay in Limón, the future founder of the Universal Negro Improvement Association used The Nation to attack what he saw as injustices committed against West Indians and to criticize the community’s leadership. In response, elite members of the West Indian community suggested that he follow their lead because they had more experience in Costa Rica and better positions in the local hierarchy. The Times, a rival newspaper that supported the status quo and took exception to Garvey and his newspaper, led the verbal assault on The Nation.

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Garvey’s troubles began when he defended the rights of people involved in religious sects that were drawing large crowds in Limón. In a lengthy article and letter to the editor of The Times, he attacked the attitudes of community leaders toward the religious sects.32 In what is the first known document signed by Garvey and his earliest statement on the issue of race, he attacked the “Millennial Darwinists” in the community, who preached intolerance and a doctrine of racial inferiority. The response to his defence of religious freedom and Afro-Christian practices was an editorial in The Times stating that Garvey did not know what he was talking about and demanding to know who had made him the defender of the faith.33 The Times focused on Garvey’s credibility, but the issue raised in the exchange between the two papers highlighted the religious divisions within the community. Garvey’s defence of non-conformist religious groups and their right to worship was a challenge to the community’s leaders, who sought to distance themselves from their African heritage. The end of the debate did not end the attacks on Garvey and The Nation. A few weeks later, on 8 April 1911, The Times carried a letter to the editor that referred to “The Nation with such an a– for its Editor” and went on to ridicule Garvey for his pretensions.34 Clearly, there were those in the community who considered Garvey to be troublesome and out of place in the city. Garvey was also attacked by The Times for “seeking prominence” and was warned that he “must be first humble before he can be exalted.”35 Nevertheless, the future “Provisional President of Africa” was undaunted by his critics and continued to irritate community leaders by speaking out against what he saw as discrimination and a lack of solidarity among people of African descent. No sooner had the furore over Garvey’s defence of non-conformist churches died down than he was once again at the centre of controversy. This time his attacks went beyond the West Indian community to include Costa Rican attitudes toward people of African descent. In early May 1911 Garvey was apprehended and manhandled by the local police for his paper’s coverage of a fire that had consumed several small businesses.36 According to Garvey, shortages of water and a poorly trained “white” fire brigade contributed to the disaster. A fire broke out in the centre of Limón and a number of West Indianowned commercial establishments went up in flames. The situation was aggravated by the fact that the home of one of the most prominent residents of Limón, Cecil Lindo, an expatriate Jamaican who was considered “light-skinned,” was spared by the efforts of the fire department. In the pages of The Nation Garvey questioned what he considered to be the fire brigade’s racist actions and, in the process, managed once again to inflame public opinion in Limón.

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34 The West Indians of Costa Rica

A few days after he had reported on the fire, an opportunity to silence Garvey and The Nation, presented itself. While the newspaper’s detractors apparently turned a blind eye, drunken members of the fire fighting corps showed up at The Nation where they roughhoused Garvey and tore up his office.37 In the fracas, Garvey’s printing press was damaged, and The Nation was effectively put out of business. In order to rescue the newspaper Garvey was forced to go to the only machine shop in town to try to have his printing press repaired. Unfortunately, like most things in Limón, the machine shop was owned by United Fruit. When Garvey first went to the Northern Railway’s metal shop the men on the shop floor agreed to repair the broken piece. However, when management caught wind of the situation Garvey was told that the company would not cast a necessary part for his press.38 Consequently, the little newspaper was put out of business by the community’s largest employer, and Garvey received a first-hand lesson about the power of a company like United Fruit.39 In Limón, Marcus Garvey came face to face with the problem that confronted every West Indian migrant who arrived in the region looking for work. He found that there was really only one employer and that any attempt to agitate for change in Limón resulted in a confrontation with United Fruit. Moreover, the local West Indian élite was wary of anyone who attempted to steer an independent course in Limón because the wellbeing of the community depended on United Fruit and every effort was made to appease the company. Despite the often deplorable living and working conditions in the banana enclave, many of the West Indian residents of Limón had a vested interest in the community and were not willing to allow someone like Marcus Garvey to challenge their position. The final showdown between Marcus Garvey and the local West Indian elite began in March 1911 when he put up posters around town “calling upon British subjects to unite and celebrate the Coronation of King George V.”40 His efforts to celebrate the coronation brought him into direct conflict with the people who dominated the West Indian community in Costa Rica and taught Garvey how not to organize an event in Limón. While he was not alone in his desire to honour the king, Garvey challenged the community leadership by not consulting them on the coronation celebrations. The first salvo came from The Times, which thought that Garvey should be congratulated on his patriotism but that he needed a committee to back his idea.41 Garvey responded to the criticism by establishing a committee. However, his rivals did not consider his effort to involve more people acceptable since Marcus Garvey remained in charge. Pressure mounted to get Garvey to amalgamate his committee with one that

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was hastily set up by his detractors. It was argued that in Limón there could be only one real celebration and thus only one committee. The ploy worked because Garvey’s committee, finding itself starved of financial support after the second group came into existence, soon accepted a forced merger. Shortly thereafter Garvey was pushed out of the executive, and the planning of the celebration went ahead without him.42 Garvey refused to accept the dictates of the new committee and apparently withheld the money he had already collected for the event. In an attempt to discredit him, Garvey was accused of stealing the $2,500 he had collected, and he became the community’s leading pariah.43 The accusations were never proven, but the pressure on Garvey mounted, and he was compelled to leave town before the celebration took place. While Marcus Garvey’s first encounter with Limón illustrates divisions within the West Indian community, the importance of his sojourn is that he witnessed the predicament of people of African descent in Costa Rica. Like many people who ventured to the Costa Rican coast before and after him, Marcus Garvey left Limón with tales of discrimination, repression, and injustice. His experiences were shared by others, and news of the problems faced by West Indians in Central America spread throughout the Caribbean. On the island homes of the West Indians the constant influx of information about events like the 1910 strike raised some concern for the wellbeing of the thousands of young men and women who migrated to Central America in search of economic opportunity. As a consequence of such concerns, Jamaican and British authorities occasionally commissioned reports on the labour and living conditions of West Indians abroad. After the 1910 strike one such report was submitted to the British government following a visit to Limón by Governor Sydney Oliver of Jamaica.44 United Fruit’s repeated complaints about Jamaican agitators and articles in the Jamaican press played a role in Oliver’s decision to make an official visit to Costa Rica and Panama in late 1911. The report on his visit, which was sent to the Colonial Office, offers a view of Limón and the West Indian community in 1911 through the eyes of a unique observer of Caribbean society.45 Sir Sydney Oliver was a Fabian socialist and the author of several books, including White Capital and Coloured Labour. His report was written during a period of rapid growth in the Costa Rican plantation economy, and he foresaw continued expansion throughout the Atlantic region of Central America. He also offered the opinion, shared by others, that the banana zones were “practically selfgoverning as the Republican Governments count for nothing except

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36 The West Indians of Costa Rica

the moderate cost of buying them” and that government along the Atlantic coast was “a matter of adjustment between American or English bosses and coloured British subjects.” The problem, left unstated by Oliver, was that West Indian workers could not afford to bribe local government officials and were, therefore, forced to adjust to whatever their bosses decreed. Oliver’s observations were frank with regard to relations between United Fruit and its employees. According to the governor, the tensions between United Fruit and its West Indian labourers were unavoidable. United Fruit was portrayed as a typical “American” commercial enterprise. The company controlled every aspect of economic, political, and social life in the region, and its domination of so many spheres was “uncongenial to the Jamaican temperament.” Oliver, like Costa Rican and United Fruit officials, judged the West Indians to be dependable yet independent in nature and in need of the social contact provided by their community. Governor Oliver was especially interested in labour issues on the plantations given that his visit was in response to the events of 1910. In this regard, he contrasted the Costa Rican banana industry and its employees with what he knew of Jamaica and noted some important differences. Oliver observed that conditions for employees in Costa Rica were somewhat more harsh than in Jamaica but that higher wages and longer work weeks allowed the labourer a “good margin of saving.”46 However, he also noted that the lack of family ties or attachment to land in Costa Rica meant that West Indian workers felt less secure, resulting in a high degree of social tension. Oliver also observed that, owing to the isolation of Limón and the fruit company’s absolute control over the region, vagrancy laws in Costa Rica were more easily enforced when labour was needed on the plantations or, as in the case of unrest, when workers needed to be brought to heel. The governor of Jamaica also commented on social aspects of West Indian residence in Costa Rica. Oliver was of the opinion that in Limón, West Indian labourers were more apt to spend their money on liquor and prostitutes. He observed that in Costa Rica there was an “immense plurality of young men” and that the largest building in Siquirres was a four-storey brothel.47 As a consequence, venereal disease spread throughout the plantation region and even back to Jamaica with returning West Indians. He did not comment on the situation that West Indian women found themselves in, but he must have known that, at the time, British authorities in neighbouring Panama were concerned about the number of abandoned West Indian children forced to turn to prostitution in order to survive.48 He would also have been aware that prostitution was legal in Costa

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Rica and that United Fruit turned a blind eye to the presence of prostitutes in the camps because it was seen as a means of keeping the men on the plantations.49 These observations speak to the desperation of some and the working climate of a plantation region in the midst of an economic boom. Sydney Oliver came away from Costa Rica optimistic about the future of West Indians in the region. His only substantive suggestion was that the British government should be prepared either to play a larger role in the region or to “hand over Jamaica to the United States.” He urged the British authorities to enhance their representation in Costa Rica in order to better serve the West Indians in Limón and ensure the interests of the empire. Moreover, despite recent events in Costa Rica, he thought that the overall position of the West Indian labourer in Limón was “good and apparently secure.” In fact, Oliver reported that although he had not visited the new plantations bordering Panama, he had heard that Bocas de Toro was a “’negro paradise.” The governor of Jamaica was also satisfied that the problems of 1910 were over because United Fruit’s “attempt to import labour was so unsatisfactory” and that the company had learned its lesson. He concluded that the importation of strikebreakers was unlikely to be repeated and that the recent troubles in Limón could be relegated to the past.50 However, despite Sydney Oliver’s optimism about the conditions in Costa Rica for West Indians, another major racial incident occurred within days of his departure. Once again the community was faced with an overt display of hostility toward people of African descent. The event that reminded the community of its vulnerability was the murder of several West Indians by an angry mob at the Tres Hermanos mine in the distant province of Guanacaste. At Tres Hermanos, a couple of dozen West Indians held positions as guards and foremen, which gave them authority over the hundreds of Hispanics who worked at the mine. On 20 December 1911 a West Indian security guard prevented a gun toting miner from entering the mine. Words were exchanged, and before long a riot broke out. All the West Indian employees and their families were forced to flee for their lives into the neighbouring countryside. The crowd apparently sought to “kill every Jamaican” and murdered at least three before the Costa Rican authorities responded to the riot.51 The official death toll varied from that reported by survivors, who stated that many more people were said to be “dead in the bushes and eaten by crows.”52 When order was restored, the Costa Rican authorities discovered that the corpses of the dead men had been treated with indignity and mutilated by the rioters. In the days that followed, the West Indians who had survived the riot made

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their way to San José, where they brought news of the event to the British authorities. Consul General Frank Cox was once again at the centre of controversy. According to one of the survivors, when the West Indians from Guanacaste finally arrived in San José they appealed to Cox for help, but he sent them away, saying that the “damn Jamaican Government [was] not paying him to look after [them].”53 Of course, Cox denied the allegations in his report to his superiors, but the survivors’ version of events was spread among the West Indian community, and many people believed their compatriots. As a result of the backlash caused by the consul general’s initial reluctance to deal with the matter, Cox was forced to press the Costa Rican government to bring the murderers to trial. A revealing aspect of the event was that the police in Guanacaste initially allowed the murderers to get away. When the Costa Rican government did take action, after the British consul general finally insisted that the matter be dealt with, only a few men were arrested, charged, and convicted of murder. The Costa Rican authorities conceded that the delay on the part of the police had permitted some to escape and that justice had not served the murdered men. The survivors of the attack, who found themselves destitute and a long way from Limón, eventually made it back to the Atlantic coast, where their tales further reinforced the isolation of West Indians in the Costa Rican mainstream. The governor of Jamaica was also wrong about the United Fruit Company’s attitude toward the recruitment of labour. At the time that Oliver wrote the report on his trip to Costa Rica and Panama, an Italian ship was docking in Limón with a cargo of South Asian labourers who were to work on the plantations. According to the quarantine officer at Colon, Panama, the men who were “dumped ashore in Port Limón” were rejected by port authorities in Panama for health reasons.54 The shipping company maintained an agent in India who was paid for each person induced to go to Central America to work for one of the large us corporations like the Panama Canal Company. The South Asians were then transported to the Western Caribbean, where they either went to work under contract or were put ashore wherever possible. Apparently, it was easier to unload unfit workers in Costa Rica than elsewhere in the region, and the United Fruit Company was not in the habit of discouraging anyone from helping to keep the price of labour down. Once ashore in Limón the men became part of the labour pool and helped to create a surplus of available workers.55 United Fruit took advantage of the fact that these men, thousands of miles from home and unable to find jobs in Panama, were in a desperate situation. The

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presence of the South Asians in Costa Rica, like that of the men from St. Kitts, helped to keep wages low by increasing the number of unemployed. Moreover, the South Asians could be counted on not to band together with any of the other groups that made their homes in Costa Rica because they shared no common heritage with the other communities. In order to get the men into the country after they were rejected by the Panamanians, United Fruit and port authorities turned a blind eye to Costa Rican law and the physical condition of the new arrivals. Although Costa Rica prohibited the immigration of “Coolies” and some other “races,” the South Asian men were assisted in their clandestine entrance into the country because the local authorities could not hope to keep up with all the company’s intrigues. Given the legal and extra-legal means used by United Fruit to create a surplus labour force, demands for better wages and working conditions continued to lead to spontaneous work stoppages by workers on the plantations. The violent incidents in Limón in 1910 and at the Tres Hermanos Mine in 1911 were followed by a decade of heightened tension between West Indian labourers and the United Fruit Company in Costa Rica. The “adjustment” between bosses and West Indian workers was not the smooth set of negotiations the governor of Jamaica had imagined. After 1913 the industry began a gradual decline that culminated in the collapse of Limón’s plantation economy in the 1930s and 1940s. In the face of a declining industry, West Indian workers engaged in a protracted struggle with the fruit company to maintain a subsistence level of income. Theirs was a losing battle because in addition to the decline in the banana industry, the completion of the Panama Canal served to add thousands of additional workers to an already massive labour pool in Costa Rica. Throughout the 1910s tension rose in the banana growing region as the company, with the support of local governments, sought to check West Indian labour organization. In early 1913 the mounting hostility between management and labour once again erupted into a violent confrontation. The scene was new in that the trouble occurred in the boundary region between Panama and Costa Rica, where United Fruit had begun expansion into the Sixaola river valley and where the presence of government and judicial authorities was minimal. The spread of plantations to the Bocas del Toro region, which included a large number of Costa Rican plantations, marked a major shift in the focus of United Fruit’s interest in the area. The core of plantation activity was moving away from the Port of Limón, thereby diverting West Indian interests to a new hinterland. As workers moved to the new plantation regions they brought with them the collective experience of the struggle of previous decades. No sooner

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did the plantations begin operation than the tension mounted between workers and their employer. The events in the Bocas Division underline the continuation of disputes between labour and management on United Fruit plantations. In early 1913 as railway employees went on strike, refusing to work until the company gave them higher wages and vacation time. The railway workers were followed off the job by farm labourers, who complained about the coupon system of payment, in which the men were only able to receive their wages through purchases at the United Fruit commissary. Other complaints that surfaced in the strike were the compulsory deductions made by the company from workers wages to pay for rent, the arbitrary rejection of fruit produced by independent farmers, and the imposition of penalties on labourers by farm managers. In each instance, the workers saw the fruit company’s actions as unjust and designed to deny them a decent living. As the strike spread the Panamanian and Costa Rican police were called in to make arrests and evict striking workers from the company barracks and houses on company land. Some of the men fled the region while others built shelters for themselves in the neighbouring forests. Those who refused to leave were chased out by the police and had their possessions looted in their absence. The details of the episode are similar to those of any other in which West Indian workers attempted to withhold their services from the company. Dozens of men were arrested and one was killed during the incident.56 A report on the incident of 1913 by B.P. Wynter, president of the West Indian Immigration and Protection Club of Bocas del Toro, offers a community member’s version of events and highlights the continued problems West Indians had in securing the protection of the British government. He maintained that West Indians were being abused by the company and that the local authorities helped to enforce the injustice by supporting United Fruit. Wynter was especially concerned about the men on the Costa Rican side of the border. He wrote the consul in Colon to seek “protection for those who are resident under the jurisdiction of the Costa Rican government, and are surrounded by soldiers who are semi-savages.”57 Wynter wrote the consul in Colon despite the fact that a British vice consul was resident in Bocas del Toro. As in the case of the 1910 riots in Limón, where the king’s representative was also an employee of the company, he described a situation in which the British vice consul could not be trusted because he worked for United Fruit. The British authorities contacted the vice consul, Costa Rican authorities, and the manager of the United Fruit Company in Bocas de Toro. All three blamed the workers for the violence and suggested

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that the demands for compensation for stolen personal property were absurd. After a brief investigation into the event by Costa Rican authorities, the consulate came to the conclusion that neither the Costa Rican police nor the United Fruit Company would be held accountable for the death of the West Indian worker.58 Consequently, the British authorities responded to Wynter’s appeal by ignoring the complaints about the arrest and shooting of British subjects and suggesting that the West Indian Immigration and Protection Club hire a lawyer to settle the issue in civil court. The West Indian Immigration and Protection Club was not in a position to sue the governments of Costa Rica and Panama or the United Fruit Company. Its members were working-class immigrants who merely sought economic justice and the security of a living wage. The reluctance of the consulate to deal with complaints by British subjects living in Bocas del Toro once again illustrated to community members that formal channels were often closed to people of African descent. As before the violence and discrimination against West Indians was overlooked by the authorities, and community members were expected to get on with their lives. Consequently, the concerns of the workers remained unresolved, and the needs of people of African descent were not addressed by the British authorities. The tension between West Indians and their paymasters remained, but the outbreak of war in Europe served to suspend the struggle for justice on the plantations until the end of the decade.

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3 Defending Empires: West Indians and United Fruit Go to War

The disruption caused by World War One served as a watershed in the struggles between management and labour on United Fruit Company banana plantations in the Western Caribbean. According to government documents of the period, West Indian workers, who were the majority of company employees in most locations, shouldered the burden of the wartime shortages in silence because the British Empire demanded sacrifices of British subjects. The workers also tolerated adjustments made by United Fruit as the demand for bananas declined during the war, and relative peace prevailed on the plantations. However, the end of hostilities in Europe in 1918 marked the beginning of a period of heightened tension between the United Fruit Company and its West Indian employees. As the war overseas drew to a close workers were anxious to see the return of higher levels of pay and employment while managers sought to extend the advantages the company had gained over labour during the war. The stage was set for renewed conflict between management and labour, but the impact of war had changed the way many West Indians related to the world around them. When war broke out in Europe, United Fruit was the largest producer of tropical fruit in Latin America, supplying the United States with 19,000 tons of bananas each week.1 During wwi the increased risk of losses at sea and the changes that occurred in the us domestic economy combined to create a crisis in the banana industry.2 The volume of bananas imported by the United States decreased by 29.1 per cent between 1914 and 1918, but the value of banana imports

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decreased by only 7.5 per cent.3 The price of bananas rose throughout the war, from thirty-four cents a bunch in 1914 to forty-four cents in 1918, with the result that profit levels remained acceptable even though the volume of exports dropped. With the decline in exports came a reduction in the demand for labour and a corresponding impact on wages. The decline in the volume of sales was not the only problem faced by United Fruit. The company’s ships, the “Great White Fleet,” became the focus of attention among governments in the region, which were authorized to use emergency powers to secure essential goods and services. Consequently, the threat that ships might be confiscated without compensation by a Central American government led the company to hand over twenty-four ships to the United States, where they were used as part of the war effort. By the end of the war thirty-seven of United Fruit’s largest ships were being used by the United States government, and several more were in the hands of the other allied nations.4 Consequently, between 1914 and 1919 the company lost an estimated 83 per cent of its shipping capacity.5 However, the decision to hand cargo ships over to the us had as much to do with business as it did with patriotism. The ships were idled by the war, and United Fruit was compensated by the United States government for their use. United Fruit’s contribution to the war effort also included suppressing pro-German activity on its plantations. In Central America the rivalry between the United States and Germany began in the last decades of the nineteenth century when both countries sought greater influence in the region. German nationals lived and worked in Costa Rica’s banana enclave, where they often rivalled United Fruit in business. Moreover, the fruit company had a number of Germans in its employ when hostilities broke out in Europe. Consequently, there were numerous reports of confrontations between employees with different sympathies, and the company, which tied its fortunes to the United States, could not afford to take chances.6 United Fruit was particularly worried about German maritime activities because every ship hauling bananas was needed and any vessel lost at sea could not be replaced during the war. The adage that “loose lips sink ships” was as pertinent to the banana business during wwi as it was to any navy.7 As a result, company policemen were used to investigate and identify enemy sympathizers, and business rivals were singled out for special scrutiny. Although United Fruit played an active role in the effort to win wwi , its employees paid the price. Despite United Fruit’s declining profits and increased security concerns, the greatest impact of wwi

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was felt by West Indians in Limón. Fewer ships and declining exports meant shortages of work and a dramatic increase in the cost of imported goods. As banana exports were cut back, wages remained the same or were reduced owing to the increased levels of unemployment. People who worked on a piece rate basis often lost their jobs so that salaried employees would have work to occupy their time. Meanwhile, because of increased transportation costs and the wartime economy, prices increased by over 100 per cent on some food items. For example, the price of both rice and flour rose from five cents to twelve and a half cents per pound between 1914 and 1918.8 The lower incomes and higher prices on the plantations created hardships for workers and their families. According to one report, the West Indians in the region bore “their trials patiently” even though many could not have provided adequately for their families.9 The West Indian community’s patience can be attributed to its identification with the British Empire. As British subjects the West Indians of the region responded to the war in the same way as their counterparts throughout the Caribbean. Funds were raised to help in the war effort, self-imposed rationing occurred, and many young men signed up to join the West India Regiment. In total five battalions were raised in Costa Rica and Panama, and thousands of men went to war. For the West Indian community it meant the temporary, and in some cases, permanent, absence of sons, fathers, and brothers from the region. Although the war took many able bodied men out of the labour pool, life on the homefront remained difficult because unemployment levels continued to grow as the demand for bananas declined. The Costa Rican government’s response to the increased levels of unemployment in the banana growing regions was to attempt to document West Indians in Limón and to prevent the migration of foreigners to Costa Rica. On 31 January 1918 La Gaceta published a law requiring all foreigners resident in Costa Rica to obtain a certificate of inscription from the government. After 1 March 1918 the police were empowered to require foreigners to produce proof of inscription, and employers were prohibited from employing unregistered people.10 United Fruit, ever more concerned about costs than about the wellbeing of its workforce, recognized the law as an effort to “control the movement of Jamaican labor.” Moreover, the law had been passed “without a thought of the amount of clerical work” involved in keeping track of the status of the majority of its employees.11 United Fruit managers objected to the new provision because they were in the habit of employing a strategy of moving large numbers of workers from one division to another without always getting the permission of the governments involved. As a migrant labour

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force West Indians also depended on their mobility to take advantage of employment opportunities throughout the region, and the regulations created new obstacles to earning a living. Although the First World War imposed hardships on the West Indian community, it did serve as a period of relative calm between the mounting labour radicalism of the first half of the decade and a new wave of struggles after the hostilities in Europe ceased. West Indian workers had few options during the war years because patriotism, the reality of wartime scarcities, and increased government control over their lives rendered them powerless. They waited instead for the end of the war, when they hoped to see the return of their jobs and better wages. On the other hand, United Fruit, was positioned to take advantage of the increase in demand for its products. The allies returned the surviving ships borrowed from United Fruit making it possible for the company to increase production. In the United States, industrial capacity had increased during wwi , and the nation began the task of converting to the demands of peace time production. In addition, returning soldiers and European immigration meant improved markets for bananas in the United States and Canada. The future of the market for bananas looked promising in 1918, and to ensure profitablitity, United Fruit concentrated on keeping production costs down. While United Fruit was reluctant to see costs increase, West Indian workers sought economic justice. The West Indian community had made sacrifices during wwi , and it was no secret that wages were extremely low. According to one report commissioned by the British authorities, wages at the end of 1918 “were a long way below subsistence level.”12 Understandably, with the end of the war West Indian workers expected the company to increase wages and raise living standards to pre-1914 levels. Although higher wages and lower prices were expected, workers’ needs were ignored by a company interested only in capitalizing on the end of hostilities in Europe. The result was that soon after armistice a strike began on the plantations in the boundary region between Costa Rica and Panama. The 1918–19 banana workers strike was called after the company took over work previously performed by an independent contractor, lowered the rate paid to the workers, and dismissed those who refused to accept the wage cut.13 To make matters worse, the Standard Oil Company began operations in the area and presented United Fruit with competition for workers. Standard Oil needed labourers and sought to attract them by offering wages that were higher than those offered by United Fruit. The fruit company responded by getting Standard Oil to reduce its wage scale to that

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of the banana plantations. United Fruit’s actions were so brazen that the entire West Indian community was soon up in arms. A group of ministers, barbers, tailors, and others who were not employees of the company formed a strike committee to assist the workers in their negotiations. They presented a list of demands to management in Bocas del Toro in December 1918, but United Fruit refused to recognize them as representatives of the company’s employees and attempted to have the leaders arrested.14 Strike action by the field employees followed and soon spread throughout the division. The thrust of the demands was a simple request for a living wage in return for one’s labour. The workers felt justified in their demands given the sacrifices they had made during the war, but, owing to what one us government official regarded as the “ruthless and reactionary policy on the part of United Fruit Company management on the Bocas Division,” the strike dragged on for three months.15 The strike spread to the southern part of the Limón Division, and there were numerous acts of violence committed by both sides. Several fatal shootings took place, many people were beaten by police, dozens were arrested, company property was destroyed, and in retaliation the labourers’ camps were burned by the company. To make matters worse, the fruit company brought in strikebreakers and called upon the Costa Rican and Panamanian governments for police protection.16 The fact that the West Indians were of African descent and that the replacement workers were Hispanics was not missed by strikers. United Fruit also relied on the ambiguity of the region’s political status to call upon both the Panamanian and Costa Rican governments for assistance in putting down the strike. In 1918 the boundary between the two countries was still being negotiated, and United Fruit used the dispute to its advantage. In effect, United Fruit had twice the police and judicial protection it was entitled to, and the company made full use of whatever assistance could be obtained. Therefore, although United Fruit complained that the Panamanian police were slow to react to company demands for assistance, they were able to rely on Costa Rican authorities, who were considered more obliging. In one notable example, a strike leader from the Panama side of the Sixaola River crossed the bridge into Costa Rican territory, where he hoped to discuss the situation with the governor of Limón, who had come to investigate. Instead of getting a hearing with the governor, Edward Russell and several others were “invited” to Limón to discuss the issue. The police then seized the men and dragged them off to prison. Several months later, a letter to the War Office in London indicated that the men were still imprisoned on La Uvita Island in the bay just off Port Limón and were dying of starvation.17 The Costa Rican

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authorities were complicit in helping United Fruit break the strike and were even willing to seize individuals from neighbouring Panama whose only crime was trying to negotiate a truce.18 As a result of the repression by police on both sides of the river and after British officials were asked by the West Indian workers to mediate, the strike was settled in February 1919. The British investigator rebuked United Fruit for its treatment of its employees and obtained the concession of a moderate increase in wages. Nevertheless, many workers were fired for their participation and chased off the plantations or moved away on of their own accord. Others were imprisoned, and the whole affair left a bitter taste in the mouths of the West Indian community. The importation of 650 Hispanic workers from the Panama Canal Zone and more from the Costa Rican side of the border helped to keep the plantations in production during the strike, but in the aftermath the company was still faced with a shortage of labour. United Fruit mangers complained that they could not find enough new workers to replace all those who had been fired or imprisoned, or who had left voluntarily.19 Recruitment efforts were increased after the strike, but the company still had a hard time obtaining replacement workers. As a result, United Fruit sought to take advantage of any available pool of labour. After apparently exhausting the supply of Hispanic labourers and, incidently, increasing ethnic tensions on the Bocas and Sixaola plantations, the company finally found an unlikely source of West Indian workers. At the same time as the fruit company was experiencing its labour difficulties in the Bocas and Sixaola regions, the British government was dealing with a problem of its own. In December 1918 soldiers of the West India Regiment in Taranto, Italy, rioted over the discriminatory policies of the British War Office toward soldiers from the West Indies. British West Indian soldiers of African descent were not allowed to rise above the rank of sergeant, and even though they had been trained as a fighting force, the men from the Caribbean were assigned the tasks of labour units. The West Indian soldiers became enraged when, as a function of their skin colour, they were put on work details while Italian prisoners of war looked on. The men felt that at the very least the Italians should have been pressed into service before soldiers of any colour were required to do drudge work. Although forcing the Italian prisoners to perform labour was against the rules of war, the West Indians were angered at being on the work gangs.20 The perception of further discrimination culminated in a revolt and the subsequent arrest of several men, and the British decided to demobilize the West India Regiment.

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As a result of the demobilization, British authorities in Panama were informed that 1,200 men would soon be sent to Cristobal by the War Office. Authorities in Britain, anxious to get rid of the West Indian soldiers, were deaf to the potential problems posed by the return of so many men to places with depressed economies. The prospect of over one thousand men arriving in the Canal Zone at a time when unemployment levels were already high disturbed British officials in Panama. The consulate was concerned that the returning soldiers would aggravate the already tense relations between the West Indian community in the Canal Zone and the Panamanians. The consul, therefore, suggested an alternative to returning the men to Cristobal. He informed the Foreign Office that landing so many “West Indians in one lot would undoubtedly precipitate trouble…[but that] it [was] nevertheless possible that all the men could eventually be absorbed in Bocas and Costa Rica.”21 The British desire to avoid labour unrest among West Indians in the Canal Zone was matched by United Fruit’s desire to find surplus labour for its plantations in the Bocas region. As a result, in April, United Fruit contacted British authorities to attempt to have the returning soldiers diverted to Bocas, where they could be used to make up for the shortage of labourers occasioned by the strike at the beginning of the year. The United Fruit Company offered to receive 1,000 demobilized West Indian volunteers on the plantations of the Bocas district. The plan was to take 300 at a time and to put them to work on the plantations. United Fruit was not proposing to reward the veterans with jobs for their efforts in the Great War. Rather, the fruit company was hoping to keep the cost of labour in Bocas and Costa Rica as low as possible. A report prepared at the time by British authorities who looked into the proposal indicated that the wage the company was prepared to offer to the former soldiers was equivalent to that of the worst paid labourer prior to the strike.22 Nevertheless, British officials, despite having played a leading role in resolving the violent strike a few months earlier and although aware that the men would be hard pressed to survive on the wages being offered by the company, were intent on heading off trouble in the Canal Zone and did not attempt to ensure that veterans of the Great War were treated with dignity. The British consul in Panama thought the fruit company proposal was worthy of serious consideration, but he insisted that the workers be made to sign a document stating that they accepted the conditions of employment. According to the consul, the West Indians had to be informed of the situation on the banana plantations; “otherwise there [would] be serious trouble as working in the jungle is unpleasant.”23 The returning veterans,

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however, were spared such a fate by the War Office, which insisted on sending all 1,200 men to Colon because demobilized soldiers were required to be returned to their port of origin.24 It was July when the men finally arrived in Cristobal, and most disappeared into the West Indian community. United Fruit did its best to persuade the veterans to work on banana plantations and enjoyed some success at recruiting the men. At the same time as United Fruit was trying to steer the returning soldiers to banana ports, the company was also increasing its efforts to secure labour from other parts of the Caribbean region. However, United Fruit’s reputation as an employer of West Indians, combined with the radicalizing effects of the war, only complicated the task. In April 1919, A.F. Coombs, a labour recruiter in Colon, revealed the problem when he reported his difficulty in getting “the right kind of men” in the Canal Zone.25 Coombs’ job was so difficult in Panama that he sought permission to go to Jamaica, where he was certain he could get a “better selection of hard working men, within the reach of pay.”26 The recruiter also had other motives for going to Jamaica. According to his letter, the workers available in Panama were too politicized, and some were already arranging for yet another strike against the company. He thought that the arrival of Jamaicans from “the country parts of Jamaica who know nothing about strikes would be of great help.27 Coombs’ only other suggestion for recruitment was to send about one hundred Hispanics to the plantations in the Sixaola region. Recruitment of Hispanics posed a problem because he had been instructed to “send only Jamaicans and to avoid sending Panamanian, Costa Rican or Nicaraguan laborers.”28 Hispanics were not wanted because managers, having brought in several hundred during the strike, thought that there were already too many of them on the Bocas and Sixaola plantations. The company’s strategy, according to one source, was to maintain ethnic divisions on its plantations in order to reduce the effectiveness of labour organization.29 By April 1919 United Fruit was growing concerned about unrest among Hispanic workers, and company managers sought to correct the balance in the workforce. A.F. Coombs’ request to managers that they recruit men in Jamaica was denied because a strike was brewing on the company’s Jamaican plantations, and company officials in Bocas did not want to strengthen the position of workers on the island by decreasing the size of the surplus labour pool.30 In fact, strikes elsewhere in the Caribbean region affected banana plantations in Costa Rica and Panama even when the fruit company was not directly involved. At

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the time Coombs was recruiting in the Canal Zone, a dock-workers strike in Colon prevented the company from sending workers to the banana plantations. Similarly, a few weeks after labour recruiter Coombs reported the difficulty in finding the right kind of men, a “strike flash bit the Isthmus,” and it became nearly impossible to find workers for the Bocas region.31 Riots led by demobilized soldiers also occurred in Trinidad and Belize, raising the spectre of the spread of radical political ideas, an even greater threat to the interests of the fruit company. Therefore, strikes and other disturbances throughout the region often prevented United Fruit both from recruiting new workers and from moving men around its own divisions. Labour recruiter Coombs’ job was made more difficult by the regional West Indian press. He complained that The Workman, a West Indian paper from the Canal Zone, published “outrageous” articles about the strike. Even after the 1918–19 strike was defeated, The Workman continued to draw attention to the living and working conditions on the plantations. The Workman was joined by the Central America Express in Bocas del Toro and El Pais in Limón in its criticism of the fruit company’s treatment of workers. The West Indian press in the region served as a forum for worker’s interests and as a platform for the broadcast of ideas on labour organization. Information circulated widely even though United Fruit cultivated ethnic and other divisions in its workforce and even though the plantations were in isolated regions. The company could do little to combat the influence of groups like the returning soldiers or the West Indian press. In spite of United Fruit’s best efforts to contain labour disputes and radical ideology, West Indian workers throughout the Caribbean region kept abreast of events on the plantations. Company and government officials worked together to prevent the spread of what they considered subversive ideas, but they were unable to break all communication links between workers in various parts of the Caribbean region. The nature of work on the plantations and the demands of the industry meant that people often travelled from one place to another. With them they brought news, ideas, and first handaccounts of events elsewhere. As might be expected, news of labour conditions and disputes were of particular interest to people looking for better opportunities and economic security. Management’s belief that radicalism resulted from outside influences was reinforced by their attitudes toward people of African descent. The general perception of the people whose job it was to run the plantations was that as a group West Indians were easily influenced. Internal company documents were littered with references to West Indians as foolhardy, arrogant, self-righteous, and,

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most importantly, malleable. The managers constantly worried about the effects of agitators and waged a tireless battle to rid their plantations of individuals who stirred things up among the workers. Agitators, according to one manager in Panama, “frequently develop[ed] from half-educated preachers and would-be lawyers or newspaper publishers.”32 To combat this menace the company maintained a spy network, and individual managers shared intelligence with their counterparts on other plantations. The names, descriptions, and even photos of “troublemakers” were distributed among managers. When it came to defending the interests of the company against malcontents, managers worked together to find solutions. One good example of company attitudes is found in a letter appealing to British authorities for assistance in dealing with West Indian agitators. H.S. Blair wrote: With a few notable exceptions, the negro labourer has little initiative, – he is an imitator – and must have leadership and guidance. His sense of proportion, his idea of values and his relation to society other than that of his fellows, are unstable and erroneous and must be directed for him. This direction should be furnished him by his employers or by a responsible government. This responsibility should not be shirked. When it is shirked the negro turns to follow whatever other sort of leadership may offer and here is where he is exposed to all sorts of exploitation which is usually presented to him as some sort of uplift.33

In response J.R. Murray of the Panama legation responded that the British government officials in a foreign country had no means of dealing with agitators and that the measures to rid the community of these people were best left up to the United Fruit Company.34 The company was thereby given a free hand by the region’s senior British representatives to take steps to curtail unrest on the plantations. However, the company could not stop agitators from stirring things up. In September 1919 rumours began to circulate about the possibility of another strike in the Bocas del Toro and Sixaola districts. Anonymous letters urging people to unite in order to struggle for improved working conditions on the plantations were also left surreptitiously in public places for West Indian community members to find. Company managers met with frustration in dealing with those responsible for fomenting unrest because there was “no real case sufficient to run” the agitators out of the district.35 And, given that labour shortages made it more difficult for United Fruit to fight back, a second strike in 1919 seemed imminent. The situation was also complicated by a new and potentially more serious external threat to United Fruit’s interests in the tropics.

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In mid-1919 company officials in Costa Rica and Panama became alarmed when a new newspaper surfaced on the plantations in the Bocas Division. The Negro World, a publication of the Universal Negro Improvement Association (unia ), contained news about racial conflict around the world, articles on Pan-Africanism, and calls for unity among people of African descent. The Negro World, a conduit for the radical ideas of Marcus Garvey, was considered by authorities throughout the region to be a threat to the stability of the plantation system in the Caribbean. United Fruit, governments in the region, and the British authorities all played an active role in suppressing the paper, which they described as “decidedly seditious in character and of a nature to foment trouble.”36 According to a fruit company manager, the circulation of The Negro World had to be prevented because Panama and Costa Rica would soon have labour problems “in comparison to which those in the States [had] been enjoyable picnics.”37 The company, fearing heightened radicalism among its employees, attempted in September and October 1919 to halt the distribution of The Negro World in Costa Rica. According to company intelligence, the paper was being sent to the Costa Rica Division from the Bocas Division on a company launch.38 Management began a search for those responsible for distributing the newspaper and narrowed it down to a few individuals, who were reprimanded for their actions. United Fruit managers were under the impression that they had curtailled the spread of subversive ideas because it was assumed that only a few key people had ever been involved. However, the unia and its ideology was a different matter. The company soon found out that little could be done to stop people from sharing information, and The Negro World continued to turn up throughout the region. The company managers in Bocas finally came to the conclusion that they could not stop the circulation of the newspaper on their own, so they asked their lawyer to consult the government about the issue of subversive newspapers and to pursue legal means of preventing the distribution of such material.39 The company representative in Costa Rica acted in a similar fashion to have the government move on the issue of The Negro World. United Fruit was joined by the British government, which sent Consul Frank Cox to consult the Costa Rican government about Marcus Garvey’s newspaper. As a result of the pressure from the company and British authorities, the president of Costa Rica, Francisco Aguilar Barquero, gave orders to the post office to “hold all copies of this paper in a safe place and [make certain] that no employee or otherwise [was] allowed to see them.”40 In another move, the government requested that the New York post office prohibit the

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mailing of The Negro World to Costa Rica.41 Finally, in order to prevent the organization from becoming established in the country, the Costa Rican government seized the charter and constitution sent by unia headquarters in New York to supporters in Limón.42 The government’s concern stemmed from fears of renewed violence in the wake of the recent events in the Sixaola region and from the memory of the 1910 St. Kitts riots. The governor of Limón’s perception of Garvey was that the leader of the unia was a Bolshevik, and the minister of the interior referred to The Negro World as “Pure Dynamite.”43 Both reflected the government’s growing concern with the existence of a large West Indian community in Costa Rica. By 1919 many Costa Ricans were questioning the wisdom of allowing so many people of African descent to enter the country freely, and some were asking for controls even if United Fruit was dependent on imported labour. As an organization, the unia presented a challenge to the Costa Rican government because there was no room in the political system to accommodate people of African descent. Garveyism was a serious threat to United Fruit and the governments of the region because it meant organization of people based on the colour of their skin. Before Garveyism became a factor, workers were divided along a number of social and geographical lines, making it relatively easy for the United Fruit Company labour organization. Unrest among one group of workers could often be contained because no unifying voice existed among the West Indians. With the advent of the unia and its establishment of a sophisticated communication network, the fruit company would no longer be able to restrict labour unrest to one farm, one division, or even one country. Garveyism presented United Fruit with the threat of international organization among plantation workers, and the company understood the implications of a united voice. Company managers were not prepared for the arrival of the unia, and the organization spread throughout the region faster than anyone had ever expected. Between 1919 and 1922 chapters of the unia were founded throughout the Caribbean basin and in Central America from British Honduras to the Panama Canal. Two of the most important centres for unia activity were Limón and Bocas del Toro. Limón’s small community eventually produced more branches of the unia than Jamaica and many other larger West Indian societies.44 By the mid1920s, there were reported to be twenty-three branches of the unia in Costa Rica and forty-seven in Panama, many of which were in the Bocas del Toro region.45 The entire Caribbean coast was, therefore, one of the most important areas of unia activity outside of the United States. The popularity of the organization in the Western

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Caribbean can be attributed to the deplorable conditions the banana workers experienced. The lives of West Indians in Costa Rica and Panama were decidedly different from the lives of their counterparts in the United States. On the banana plantations thousands of men toiled side by side with “white” overseers looking on. Garveyism, with its emphasis on racial solidarity, was a time bomb in the eyes of United Fruit managers, and they were determined to diffuse it. The apparent threat posed by the unia to company operations in Panama and Costa Rica reached a fever pitch in the latter part of 1919. A telegram sent by Marcus Garvey in December to his contact in Bocas del Toro in December was intercepted by the United Fruit Company, and it added a new dimension to the unia’s activities. Garvey sent the telegram to A.W. Williams, informing him that representatives of the unia were on their way to the region. The same telegram also asked Williams to organize a “big meeting” for the unia representatives to speak at.46 The purpose of the visit was to collect funds for the Black Star Line, a stock company Garvey had incorporated in June 1919. On 17 December, the British vice consul informed the company manager in Costa Rica that Henrietta Vinton Davis and Cyril Henry, representatives of the Black Star Line, would be visiting Bocas del Toro and Limón. The visitors were on the maiden voyage of the Frederick Douglass, a vessel Garvey had bought as the flagship for his new shipping company, which would cater primarily to the needs of people of African descent.47 H.S. Blair, manager in Bocas, initially hoped that he could block the unia representatives from coming up from Colon, but he received no assistance from the Panamanian government and was unable to stop them on his own. Blair, recognizing that it was “useless to oppose them,” decided that it would be better for the company to display a “neutral and friendly attitude” and hope for the best.48 In Limón, news reached the company superintendent, G.P. Chittenden, that the Jamaicans expected the arrival of the unia officials to spark “a strike and [were] just awaiting [the] arrival in order to start.”49 Chittenden’s attitude, like Blair’s, was to wait and see. Within months of the arrival of the unia on the banana plantations, both company managers had felt powerless to stop the organization of West Indians in their jurisdictions. They hoped that any trouble would begin in the Canal Zone, where the unia officials would be arrested and “where the presence of 20,000 troops in itself [was] sufficient to break any uprising.”50 However, as the date of arrival grew near, United Fruit began to realize that the unia was not the foe the company had initially envisioned. Reports from the company manager in the Canal Zone

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indicated that “from all accounts [the organizers’] sole purpose on the Isthmus has been to further the sale of stock of the Black Star Line.”51 The unia was interested in selling stock to the West Indian labourers and was, in the opinion of one manager, more interested in “encouraging the goose to lay the golden eggs, rather than advocating a strike, which would stop the purchasing power of the Jamaicans.” Nevertheless, G.P. Chittenden feared the outbreak of violence and was not optimistic about the ability of the police to maintain control. He wrote: At the final show-down the Costa Rican government can be counted on to do its best for law and order but its best will only manifest itself after trouble has started and probably after many of both races, African and White, have been killed.53

Despite company and government fears of violence, the “dynamite” contained in The Negro World and the visit by the Black Star Line representatives did not explode into a race war. Rather, reports indicate that the unia did everything it could to work with the company in order to avoid problems that might lead to a disruption of work. The company was advised that the unia officials would be arriving, and assurances were given that they were not looking for trouble. The visit took place without incident, and the company was reassured that the unia did not present a problem to the operation of the fruit business in Central America. For their part, the labourers were generally supportive of the unia although some people harboured reservations about the organization. For example, United Fruit Company officials reported that many West Indians were “against [the unia’s] collections of money” and its “methods of carrying on business.”54 People were probably sceptical because the organization was new and because the preparation for the visit was hampered by United Fruit efforts to prevent the spread of the unia’s influence. Whatever the initial reservations of some West Indian workers, when the Frederick Douglass returned for a second visit a few months later, the unia representatives were given an even more enthusiastic welcome. On the second visit the unia benefitted both from a better understanding of the organization on the part of workers and from the open support offered by the fruit company. By the time Henrietta Davis returned to Central America in April 1920, United Fruit had had learned not to fear the representatives of the Black Star Line. Instead, the company provided trains at “a little more than cost” for the people of the division to travel to Almirante.55 Hugh Mulzac, an

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officer on the ship that brought Davis to port, describes how the fruit company declared a holiday for its employees because it knew that it would lose them for the day anyway.56 United Fruit, therefore, was realistic in its understanding of West Indian attachment to the unia and sought to take advantage of situations like Davis’ visit. After the visit, company officials indicated that they were satisfied because the event had not had an adverse effect on the labour situation. According to one official, “all the speeches made by the visitors had in view the collection of money.”57 Management’s attitude toward unia fundraising was reflective of the company’s strategy of keeping workers in debt in order to keep them working. Men who needed money were considered to be less likely to cause trouble. The unia helped to keep men on the job by encouraging them to invest in the Black Star Line, and United Fruit assisted in the effort by giving workers the opportunity to buy shares. Although the unia did not heighten tensions in the region, the company remained cautious, and labour unrest continued to plague the Costa Rican and Panamanian Divisions. Near continuous disruptions broke out in 1919, 1920, and 1921. Most of the strikes were small and easily contained to one farm or sector of the operation. After the Bocas strike of 1918–19, the next notable strike by United Fruit Company employees occurred in early 1921 in Limón. According to one estimate, 2,500 farm and railway workers walked off the job to protest layoffs and a 30 per cent wage reduction.58 Moreover, for the first time in Costa Rican history, banana plantation workers received the support of workers in San José, where the Confederación General de Trabajadores collected funds and offered other assistance to the strikers in Limón.59 The 1921 strike is also important because it was the last in which West Indian workers played leadership roles.60 The solidarity between Hispanics and West Indians was, however, short lived due to the outbreak of hostilities between Costa Rica and Panama over their mutual border in the Atlantic coast region. During the strike Costa Rican and Panamanian nationalism came to the forefront and laid bare West Indian indifference to national politics.61 The loss of support from their Hispanic counterparts in the capital brought the strike to an abrupt halt. No sooner had the company steered clear of the 1921 strike than Marcus Garvey announced his plans to visit Limón and Bocas del Toro. By 1921 Marcus Garvey had developed a reputation as an orator whose speeches were often inflammatory. In the United States and elsewhere he was considered unpredictable and watched closely by government agents. However, the United Fruit company had developed a special relationship with the unia because, according to one

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us government source, Marcus Garvey received $2,000 per month from Minor Cooper Keith.62 The source might actually have been referring to West Indian remittances to the unia, which were seen to originate with the company payroll, and presenting them as Minor Keith’s contribution. Nevertheless, the report makes clear that United Fruit, like local churches and other organizations on the plantations, undersood the unia’s symbiotic relationship with the company. No doubt the relationship between the unia and the company played a significant role in the planning of Garvey’s visit. For example, in a letter to his counterpart in Almirante, the manager in Limón wrote that the local leaders of the unia had agreed to arrange Garvey’s meetings “so as not to interfere with fruit cutting or loadings.”63 The company wasted no time in asking for the unia’s cooperation because Garvey’s return to Costa Rica would coincide with that of two banana boats that needed to be loaded and sent on their way. Upon arrival Marcus Garvey immediately agreed to postpone his appeal to workers on the plantations at the convenience of United Fruit. As part of the agreement, the fruit company arranged for a holiday and “special payday” to coincide with Garvey’s visit to Limón. The arrangement was acceptable to Garvey because, as he later stated, he had gone to Costa Rica “for the purpose of doing business.”64 Marcus Garvey also changed his meeting schedule and took the opportunity to travel to San José on a special train provided by the United Fruit Company. In diplomatic terms, Garvey was able to demonstrate his desire not to interfere with the banana business and, as a result, was permitted to meet with some very important people. A special train was ordered from the Northern Railway, and Garvey was allowed to occupy coaches previously reserved only for white passengers. Garvey considered his trip to San José a step forward for people of African descent in Costa Rica, but the company also had another good reason for sending him to the highlands. In San José, away from the attention generated by the visit, the superintendent of the company’s operations had a chance to size Garvey up. In San José he visited G.P. Chittenden, and arrangements were made for him to meet president Julio Acosta. Both the President of the republic and the manager of the United Fruit Company in Costa Rica were given an opportunity to have a look at the man referred to as the “Provisional President of Africa.” Both decided that Garvey did not represent a serious threat to the country or United Fruit interests. Chittenden wrote to Blair in Panama telling him not to worry because, like them, Garvey “too is an employer of labor, understands our position, is against labor unions, and is using his best endeavour to get the Negro race to work.” Chittenden also

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advised Blair that “if you play up to his vanity a little, and talk to him the way you talk to one of your own laborers with whom you are on extra good terms, you will have no trouble with him.”65 The Costa Rica Division manager’s assessment of the proper way to deal with Garvey proved accurate because the activist’s subsequent speeches to workers in Limón were favourable to the company. When Garvey returned to Limón, after the ships in port were loaded, he told the West Indian audience that “they should not fight the United Fruit Company” as it “meant their bread and butter.”66 Garvey’s efforts to diffuse the labour situation in Limón both pleased the company managers and benefited the unia. In order to make a profit, both the company and the unia depended on a productive West Indian labour force. Labour disputes were not in the interest of either party. Despite Garvey’s previous troubles with some members of the West Indian community in Limón, his reception in 1921 generated a considerable amount of support for unia enterprises. Even though Garvey “announced that he would receive nothing but U.S. currency in contributions,” the amount he collected “might easily [have been] as much as $50,000, all of which he took away with him in cash.”67 At one meeting he collected “two scrap baskets and one suit case full of United States gold notes,” and at another, “he stood beside a pile of gold notes which reached above his knees.”68 Garvey reported that his assistant was “occupied all day and all night writing out shares in the Black Star Line and selling bonds of the Liberian Construction Loan.”69 United States consular reports indicated that after his visit, United Fruit Company employees continued to send about $2,000 a month to Garvey.70 The amount of money generated by labouring West Indians is astonishing given the pay scale for workers on the plantations, which explains why the unia invested so much in its relationship with United Fruit. However, despite Garvey’s general appeal to workers in Limón, there were members of his audience who disliked him. The Federación de Trabajadores “endeavoured to start a counter-attraction during Garvey’s stay.”71 The Federación was the same organization that had led a strike against the company a few months earlier and had supported West Indian workers on the picket line. Criticism of Garvey by the Federación signalled the differing interests of the unia and organized labour. The Federación was not alone in its efforts to upstage Garvey. Hecklers in his audiences also demanded that he provide financial statements for his various enterprises. Rather than challenge his critics, Garvey ignored their concerns and concentrated on telling his supporters what they wanted to hear.

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Garvey recognized the desire of West Indian labourers to be their own masters and told them that the route to prosperity was through shares in companies like the Black Star Line that were owned by people of African descent. Descriptions of the event illustrate the kind of appeal Garvey had among the plantation workers. According to one report: The people came down from all sections by the thousands; they were inside the coaches, they hung outside of the coaches at the doors and windows, and they sat on top of the coaches; the coaches could not hold them; they did not have enough coaches to bring them down from the different parts of the line to Port Limón.72

Marcus Garvey enjoyed popular appeal throughout the plantation region because he understood the members of his audience and knew what their lives were like and what they struggled against. The people who dropped everything to fête Garvey’s visit were some of the most exploited workers in the western hemisphere, and their experience with Hispanic authorities and “white” bosses had made them receptive to the unia. Although the company initially worried that the unia would radicalize the West Indians, in 1921 the managers thought that Marcus Garvey’s speeches would be favourable to business, and they were “very well satisfied with the results of the visit.”73 What particularly interested United Fruit was that Garvey urged his followers to “work, earn money, and support the Association.”74 There was no talk of strike action or agitation for wage increases or better conditions. In fact, the company was so pleased with his performance in Limón that it facilitated his trip to Bocas del Toro by providing him with transportation on a company launch.75 Marcus Garvey was no longer considered the threat that he had once appeared to be, and United Fruit, more than happy to make his tour of the plantations a financial success, purposely played up to his vanity. To his dismay, Garvey’s reception in Bocas del Toro and Almirante was much less positive than in Limón. On the plantations where the unia had made its first appearance in the region, the West Indians were adamant about obtaining information concerning the Black Star Line Corporation. Many of them were shareholders in the corporation and concerned about the financial difficulties the company was experiencing at the time. Upon his arrival in Almirante, only a small crowd assembled to greet Garvey, and he “passed through them as though treating every one with contempt.”76 According to the Panama Star and Herald, Garvey’s first concern was to “enquire of his

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subordinate on the pier regarding the U.F. Co’s operations – when bananas are cut, ships loaded, laborers paid.”77 Reports on his visit also indicate that Garvey refused to discuss the Black Star Line, choosing instead to focus on Africa and its glorious future.78 His audience proved mostly hostile. Some people yelled at him, calling him a “damn thief,” and many balked at his insistence that they pay up to 75 per cent more than originally advertised to hear him speak.79 Garvey finally responded to the obscenities that were being shouted at him by saying: I cannot come all the way from New York to speak to you for 50 cents. You are a bunch of ignorant and impertinent Negroes. No wonder you are where you are, and for my part you can stay where you are.80

The people who took Garvey to task were, according to a us military intelligence report, the “better class of Negroes, including doctors, lawyers, clerks, etc.” These people, who were essentially the same self-styled community élite Garvey had clashed with in 1911, attempted to persuade others to ignore him.81 Their efforts did not deter Garvey and his organization because he finally obtained paying audiences and managed to sell some shares in the region. However, Garvey’s efforts “did not meet with the degree of success which he expected.”82 His support came from the lower classes, and he was not received by “influential and representative Negroes.”83 His speeches in Panama were similar to those in Limón in that he asked the people to earn money in order to support the unia. However, on the Panama side of the border the company manager voiced a note of concern. H.S. Blair wrote to his counterpart in Costa Rica that there was a “possibility of future trouble from [Garvey’s] assumptions and remarks on the race question,” and he indicated that he would have to keep an eye on the unia.84 The hostile reception and limited support in Panama were indicative of tensions within the West Indian community in the region, but the unia was not deterred by criticism.85 The organization continued to appeal to the West Indian community, and the popularity of Garveyism spread. Nevertheless, Garvey’s efforts to ensure harmony in the workforce were not always shared by others. On 18 June 1921 the San José Division of the unia and the African Communities League (acl) unveiled its charter at the Club de Obreros. Although it is possible that the only venue available to the organization was a working men’s club, the minutes of the meeting were filled with the kind rhetoric that worried the United Fruit Company. For example, Mr

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61 Defending Empires

Thomas, the secretary of the Honourable Advisory Board of the Siquirres Division, urged members of the organization to be “ready for action when the bugle shall call every man to his post” because, according to the speaker, war was inevitable to “get those white-belly squatters out of Africa.”86 Siquirres was a plantation town in the Atlantic coast region, and Mr Thomas was followed to the podium by another representative from the same division whose speech reminded people that they could expect nothing from the “white race after years of long and faithful service.”87 Their objective was to encourage people to support the unia, but the suggestion that they be prepared to fight and the language used to describe the oppression of people of African descent echoed the sentiments of the West Indians who worked on the plantations. The kinds of speeches made by the San José Division of the unia were not an isolated incident. United Fruit was aware that throughout the region the various branches of the unia were adopting stances often more radical than Garvey’s. To combat the threat of radicalism, the company used its espionage system to keep an eye on the activities of suspected troublemakers. United Fruit relied on its “secret service” to report on the happenings at meetings and to spread distorted information among the workers.88 According to one company official, the espionage system was “spread to every nook and corner and [was] as much a part of the business as a bunch of bananas.”89 Company spies were everywhere and were quick to alert the company to individuals or groups that might cause problems for United Fruit. About a year after Garvey’s visit to the region, the espionage activities brought one of the company’s worst fears to the attention of management. Evidence was uncovered suggesting that the unia and the Universal African Legions (ual), the organization’s paramilitary wing, were preparing for a race war in the plantation region that spanned the Costa Rican and Panamanian border on the Atlantic coast. The Legions provided security for unia events and, in the Bocas division, also work in conjunction with the Boy Scouts to offer training in military drills. The leaders of the ual obtained their training from local police forces and, most importantly, from veterans of the British Empire’s West India Regiment. Heightened ual activity in 1922 alarmed the fruit company because the objectives of the group in Bocas appeared to be different from those presented by Garvey during his visit. In contrast to other places in the region where the unia was established, the plantations around Bocas de Toro were among the newest in Central America, and the West Indians there were almost all

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62 The West Indians of Costa Rica

company employees. As a result, the unia in the Bocas Division focused almost all of their organizational efforts on defending themselves against the company and its officials. Some spoke openly about taking control and waiting for a chance to get at “white people.”90 Meetings, parades, and drills with wooden rifles were held in several parts of the division. At one meeting the audience was told that the time would soon come when people of African descent in control.91 The United Fruit Company seriously began to worry that the ual was preparing for a race war on its plantations. According to spy reports, a large number of men were armed and prepared to take control by force when the time came.92 Managers in Panama were faced with a potentially violent situation and wasted little time getting the Panamanian authorities to assist. The Panamanian government was asked by the fruit company to take firm action against the ual. Panamanian officials decreed that no one was allowed to wear the military uniform of the ual and that all of the organization’s activities were prohibited.93 Despite the ban, United Fruit’s division headquarters continued to receive reports indicating that the Legions were still holding meetings, drills, and parades.94 The threat to company interests was such that the Panamanian government was again contacted, and the police were sent to investigate. A group of twenty-seven men were arrested, and most were summarily sentenced to fifteen days in jail.95 After the arrests, the company used its informants to compile a list of individuals who were still active with the ual on both sides of the river. These people, along with those who had been arrested, were dismissed from the company’s service. Spies for United Fruit also infiltrated unia meetings and reported on the general proceedings and on statements made by individuals.96 Finally, after enough information was collected, the company took up the issue with the authorities, who “handled the matter fairly well.”97 On 1 September 1922 President Porras of Panama banned all paramilitary organizations and presented Congress with a proposal granting the fruit company absolute authority over meetings on its plantations.98 With the surgical removal of key militants and the requirement that the company approve all meetings, unia activities in Panama and southern Costa Rica were brought under effective control. The silencing of the ual marked the end of the post-war phase of hostilities between United Fruit and its labourers in the region. Within a few short years of the end of the war, United Fruit was able to deal with the challenge posed by the pent-up hostilities West Indians harboured toward the company. Labour organization was crushed, Garveyism was brought under control, and West Indian

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63 Defending Empires

workers were left to ponder an uncertain future in a tottering regional banana industry. The company relied on its ability to manipulate West Indian migration to create an artificial labour surplus, and the desperation of West Indian workers, combined with a shortage of work, gave the company a bludgeon with which to keep radicalism at bay for years to come. The aftermath of the 1918–22 period is remarkable because of the absence of labour radicalism among West Indians on the banana plantations. Management broke the resolve of West Indian workers on its plantations by crushing strikes and eliminating the threat posed by the only organization capable of uniting them against the company. During the 1920s and 1930s, banana production in the region declined to nineteenth-century levels as plant disease swept down the coast. West Indian workers were defenceless against the combined efforts of company managers and nature. A new chapter in the history of West Indians in the western Caribbean began as they developed new strategies for survival that included integration, isolation, and emigration.

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4 Dependence, Depression, and Dislocation, 1922–34

The arrests and harassment of late 1922 marked the end of a period of heightened labour unrest on fruit company plantations in the Panama and Limón Divisions. United Fruit was as reliant as ever on a docile workforce, but environmental forces became an important factor in the destiny of the banana industry in the region. Workers had new concerns because an old problem was threatening the banana industry. By the early 1920s the plantations of the Atlantic coast region were much less productive than they had once been, and throughout the decade production dropped by 25 per cent. Management and workers were faced with a bleak future as the banana industry declined steadily in the region. Soil exhaustion after years of intensive cultivation and the spread of plant disease caught up with the industry in the 1920s, and United Fruit abandoned many plantations that failed “to reflect the necessary margin of profit.”1 Exports of bananas from Limón declined quickly and by 1917 had stabilized at about 8,000,000 stems per year.2 Banana production remained constant between 1918 and 1929, but Costa Rica declined in importance as an exporter of bananas from the Caribbean region. As the industry contracted, levels of unemployment rose with a corresponding increase in the tensions between various groups of workers. To compound matters, the population of the province of Limón increased rapidly between 1892 and 1927 from 7,484 to 32,278. The average annual growth rate was 4.3 per cent, which was greater than that of any other province in the country and more than double the

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national average of 1.8 per cent.3 The West Indian community continued to grow as new members arrived and as the workers who had first settled in Limón began marrying and having families. The banana industry also attracted Hispanic labourers, who began to drift into the province in large numbers in the 1920s. Most new arrivals in the province sought employment with the company or its subsidiaries, but small plots of land were also available in some locations. The problem for small farmers was twofold: there was little market for anything other than bananas, and United Fruit had a monopoly over the production and distribution of the commodity. Consequently, even if farmers grew bananas, United Fruit’s produce was given priority in the market over that of private producers. Independent farmers’ bananas were picked up only if there was room on the United Fruit ships that docked at the company wharf. Since Costa Rica had an abundance of private producers, United Fruit used its monopoly over marketing to control individual planters. The company was often accused of refusing the bananas produced by anyone who had complained to Costa Rican authorities about their treatment by United Fruit. Government documents and the testimony of informants indicate that the fruit company arbitrarily rejected good fruit from private producers whenever there was a conflict of interests.4 To make matters worse for individual farmers, whenever United Fruit could not win in fair competition with private producers, it changed the rules to benefit its own production. Several days before a ship was to arrive in Puerto Limón for a cargo of bananas, United Fruit normally posted information about its requirements in the local company commissary. The planters would then cut all the bananas that were ready for export and carry them to a pre-arranged location along the tracks. A train with United Fruit agents would arrive at a specified time, and decisions would then be made as to how many stems were “acceptable.” In theory, United Fruit agreed to purchase all of the bananas of a given quality. However, informants reported that the decisions were based on orders from the division office and not only on the quality of the fruit. As a result, the quality of bananas for export was altered to suit production levels on company plantations.5 One informant stated that producers knew what to expect from the tonnage of the ship. If it was a small ship, the percentage of rejected stems would be high, and United Fruit, expecting confrontations with the farmers, would send burly company employees were sent to pick up the bananas. The informant described a “big Jamaican” who was used whenever planters had to be told that the majority of their bananas were useless. He indicated that the “Jamaican” was

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known to be violent and that the farmers feared him. When this man arrived with the train, farmers knew that the fruit company had bananas to get rid of. To protest his judgment was to risk violence and jeopardize future business with the company. Economic survival in the Atlantic region was, therefore, contingent on good relations with United Fruit. Nevertheless, independent farmers were also important to the fruit company for two reasons. First, although the contracts that had given Minor Keith his land specified that he could use up to 800,000 acres, the actual amount was limited to the land brought into production within a specified period of time. A land reserve was allowed, but it was important for United Fruit to keep as much land as possible under cultivation. Renting or leasing farms to independent producers helped the company to defer the cost of expansion into new areas and retain its claim to the land. Second, independent producers provided a cushion against any shortfalls on the company farms. In Costa Rica the United Fruit Company purchased three times more bananas from private producers than it grew on its own plantations.6 This meant that all of the bananas produced by the company were sent to market and that only the best quality product was selected from the independents. Although some large banana plantations co-existed with United Fruit in Limón, small producers were very important to the industry. The small farmers relied on family members and the occasional hired labourer to produce their crops. Unlike large plantations, smaller producers were able to incorporate their families into every stage of production and more intensely cultivate their land. A system of labour exploitation existed whereby the family, and not just the head of the household, played an important role in export agriculture.7 In this way, women and children were indirectly incorporated into the workforce, and their unremunerated labour kept the price of bananas down by helping to keep wages on the plantations low. The scale of production on small farms resulted in minimal investment costs and intensive use of the land. The efficiency of small farms in Costa Rica is revealed by figures obtained from a petition that banana producers filed with the government in 1928. As part of their presentation, 284 private farmers provided production statistics for the previous crop year. The petitioners represented only a fraction of all the private producers, but the range in farm sizes makes them a representative group.8 However, no matter how efficient a small producer was, the problem of marketing with United Fruit remained. The reports on farm size and production also shed light on the environmental impact of banana production. In contrast to large producers,

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67 Dependence, Depression, and Dislocation Table 4.1 Production of Bananas According to Farm Size Farm Size

Number of Farms

Average Size

Stems per Hectare

Percentage of Total Production

under 20 hectares 21–50 hectares 51–100 hectares 101–500 hectares over 500 hectares

204 20 15 31 14

4.6 39.7 79.5 268.7 2032.1

292 180 196 69 62

9.3 4.8 7.8 19.3 58.8

Source: ancr , Congreso Series, no. 15031

who relied on labourers to tend to the crop and on economies of scale, the small producer had a more intimate knowledge of the land under cultivation. Farmers with only five hectares to care for could attend to the requirements of individual plants and address problems of drainage or disease before a large area was affected. As a consequence of the intensive farming methods employed by small producers, West Indian farmers were five times more efficient than large landowners. They had less land yet produced more bananas per hectare than any large operation. However, small farmers did not dominate the market because United Fruit monopolized vital sectors of the industry. Because of the dominance of United Fruit and its subsidiaries, the people of Limón depended on the company not only for their livelihoods but also for every other aspect of their lives. Typical residents of the province were likely born in the company hospital, educated in the company school, lived in company housing, obtained household supplies and clothing from the company commissaries, and, if they could afford it, looked forward to being carried to their final resting places in the Northern Railway’s funeral car. Resentment toward the company and its control over the economy and society existed in Limón, but United Fruit’s most powerful adversaries were members of the Hispanic middle-class from the highlands. By 1925, with the end of the 1910 contract in sight, producers and other critics had begun to organize their opposition to the company. Several petitions were sent to the government asking that a variety of measures be taken to assist producers and workers. Deputies from opposition parties in Congress were quick to speak to the concerns of those affected by the decline. A well organized opposition to the United Fruit Company emerged and began to target specific issues concerning the multinational’s presence in the country. As the termination date of the 1910 contract approached, a protracted public debate began.

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68 The West Indians of Costa Rica

In an effort to quell the opposition, President Ricardo Jiménez, a leader who saw foreign investment as the key to the country’s economic development, entered a new round of negotiations with United Fruit long before the expiration date of the contract. Jiménez was serving his second term in office and had a history of good relations with the fruit company. On 2 November 1926, halfway through its second mandate, the Jiménez government presented Congress with a new contract intended to replace the existing 1910 agreement. The new proposal resulted from discussions with United Fruit and was intended to allow the further extension of United Fruit banana plantations to new regions of Limón in return for a slight increase in taxes. United Fruit needed disease free land to maintain production levels, and the government saw the increase in taxes and more jobs for Costa Ricans as a fair trade for the new plantations.9 The new agreement ultimately failed, but it set the tone for the more important negotiations that followed. Congress, which counted several of the fruit company’s chief domestic opponents as its members, slowed the passing of the agreement. A congressional commission was formed to examine the contract, and hearings were held. One of the most elaborate presentations to the commission originated with a group known as La Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País. The Amigos del País were a nationalistic group whose members had long voiced their concerns about United Fruit. The public debate dragged on long enough for United Fruit to discover that the land it had initially coveted was less suitable than originally presumed. At the last minute, the United Fruit Company pulled out of the contract negotiations, and the government was forced to reconsider its position with respect to the banana industry. The failure of the 1926 contract meant that the government lost its advantage because later negotiations were framed within the context of the global economic crisis of 1929. United Fruit’s withdrawal from the negotiations was indicative of the company’s bargaining position in small countries like Costa Rica. According to the company’s president of the day, Victor M. Cutter, by 1926 United Fruit employed 70,000 workers and farmed 1,834,000 acres in a total of nine countries. In addition to bananas, the company also produced sugar cane, coconuts, and cacao, and had 31,000 head of cattle and 11,000 draught animals on its tropical farms. In addition, the company owned 93 ships and controlled 1,541 miles of railway and 722 miles of tramways with 187 locomotives, 22 tramtrains, 5,320 railway cars, and 1,859 tramcars. The company also reported operating “radio telegraphy, telegraph and telephone lines, sugar mills, a model sugar refinery, ice plants, electric light plants, laundries,

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hospitals, water works, and sewerage systems.”10 Given the scope of its operations it is no wonder that the United Fruit company was dubbed “the octopus” by its detractors in Central America. Meanwhile, the Costa Rican economy was less impressive. In the British legation’s annual report on Costa Rica for 1921, the country’s finances were described as “little short of chaotic.”11 The report discussed a large public debt, high rates of inflation, deficit spending, and restrictions on imports and exports. Little had changed by the time the government and the fruit company began negotiations on a new contract.12 The government was keen on keeping United Fruit in Costa Rica, but many people blamed President Jiménez and his predecessors for the state of the economy and were anxious to consider alternatives to development. La Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País and the people behind the organization were representatives of the growing opposition to the United Fruit Company and its foreign labour force. Joaquín García Monge, the president of the society, was known to be sympathetic to labour and small producers.13 García and the other members of the organization saw themselves as Costa Rican nationalists, but their message was often overtly racist. For example, one of the first communications from the group’s secretary general, M.A. Zumbado, stated that West Indian immigration was not desirable. Zumbado’s reasons were that West Indians were prone to crime and that their presence in the country threatened to “mongrelize” the white race. His answer to the problem was to stop the immigration of people of African descent and sterilize those who were already in the country.14 The society’s charter also called for the nationalization of United Fruit’s holdings and the possession of all land by Costa Ricans.15 The congressional commission’s final report reflected the concerns of the Amigos del País in that it attacked United Fruit for its monopolization of resources in the Atlantic region and for introducing a race that the commissioners claimed had a predisposition to illnesses such as tuberculosis, syphilis, and insanity.16 The xenophobic reaction to United Fruit was not completely unexpected. One of the most visible and easily targeted aspects of the multinational’s presence in the country, next to its near absolute control over the Atlantic seaboard, was the extremely large foreign population it attracted and continued to prefer in its operations. Critics used the West Indian community as an example of the multifaceted threat posed by the company. West Indians were not only different in terms of culture, colour, language, and religion but also defenceless because of their tenuous legal position in the country. Government documents indicate that in 1927 only twenty-five of about

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twenty thousand residents of West Indian origin had become Costa Rican citizens.17 For decades little was said about the existence of a large West Indian population on the Atlantic coast because relatively few highland Costa Ricans actually ventured to Limón. For most people who lived outside of Limón the only accurate statistical information on “Negroes” in Costa Rica was the 1892 population census. At that time only 634 people of African descent had been found in Costa Rica.18 In 1927, three decades later, the Costa Rican government conducted another census of the country’s inhabitants, and the information gathered in the new census brought Costa Rica face to face with the actual dimensions of the West Indian presence. The census showed that people of African descent formed the majority of the population in Limón and that 431 of them were already living in San José. In the hands of United Fruit’s critics, the data on West Indians in Costa Rica became a means to illustrate the social imbalance caused by the company’s presence. Simultaneous with the growing criticism of the company was an increase in tension between Costa Rican workers in Limón and their West Indian counterparts. Petitions to the government for restrictions on the employment of foreign labour increased after 1925. The petitioners achieved legislated requirements that contracts with the United Fruit Company include discriminatory hiring practices. With each attempt to withdraw some of the land and privileges given to the company, foreign labour became a more prominent issue. What began as petitions, ended up as proposals for hiring quotas and, finally, laws that discriminated against foreigners in the work force. One of the first proposals for restrictive legislation came in 1927 when reforms to the Law of Railways were introduced demanding a quota of Costa Ricans in the labour force and that all employees be able to speak, read, and write Spanish.19 The company was able to defend itself at the time by claiming that there were not enough qualified Costa Ricans. Nevertheless, the company did agree to ensure that all positions requiring contact with the public would be staffed by Spanish speaking employees.20 The first attempt to force a quota of Costa Rican employees had resulted in a draw between United Fruit and the government, but the tide was changing. The new contract with United Fruit, which was passed in 1930, was a turning point in the history of West Indians in Costa Rica. The Amigos del País exploited people’s fears and generated hostility toward United Fruit by spreading the perception that people of African descent threatened the nation. During the contract negotiations, José Guerrero, a prominent member of the Sociedad Económica Amigos del

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País and the director of the Oficina Nacional del Censo, published an article in Joaquín García Monge’s Repertorio Americano and then reprinted it in future president Otilio Ulate’s La Tribuna. The article, entitled “Como quiere que sea Costa Rica, blanca o negra? El problema racial del negro y las actuales contrataciones bananeras,” was a direct attack on United Fruit and people of African descent.21 Guererro used material from the 1927 census to raise fears of a West Indian invasion in Costa Rica, arguing that an extension of United Fruit interests would further Africanize the country. The article served to underline the concerns of the company’s opponents. According to the critics, United Fruit’s domination of the banana industry threatened to undermine the country’s national identity as a “white-settler” society. In the end the 1930 contract singled out people of African descent and opened the way for future restrictions on the community. Among other things, the company agreed to pay twice as much in taxes, encourage more private planters, establish medical facilities for employees, ensure that work camps conformed to the sanitary code, and, most importantly, introduce a hiring preference for Costa Rica citizens and give the state 2,146 hectares of the Atlantic lowlands, which it would transform into agricultural colonies for landless Hispanic peasants.22 There were, however, many people who thought that the company had won once again and that the price exacted by the United Fruit Company from Costa Rica was excessive. One of the provisions that upset the critics was permission to begin new operations on the Pacific coast. They argued that United Fruit would need to employ thousands of people on the Pacific coast and that West Indian labourers would migrate to Costa Rica’s other shore. As a result, several congressional deputies issued a public statement in La Tribuna objecting to the contract. They argued that in addition to imposing an economic system that was disadvantageous to the country, United Fruit had succeeded in the “Africanization of a sector of the national territory,” and in order to prevent the further “Africanization” of the country they demanded that 60 per cent of the work force be Costa Rican.23 The congressional critics were not satisfied that a provision in the 1930 contract requiring United Fruit to hire Costa Ricans whenever they were equal in aptitude and suitability would be enough to prevent the further spread of people of African descent throughout the country. Their argument was that the wording of the hiring clause allowed the company to continue using its existing labour force on the grounds that it was the most suitable. Nonetheless, an initial step was taken in the 1930 contract to guarantee positions for Costa Ricans, and other restrictions on the foreign labour force soon followed.

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72 The West Indians of Costa Rica

In Limón, the contract settlement received quite a different reception than in San José. Limón’s leading newspaper, The Searchlight, ran extensive articles on the banana industry and the impending contract. The editor of the newspaper, Samuel Nation, was someone whose livelihood and position in the West Indian community depended on the fortunes of United Fruit. Nation appealed to the government to give the fruit company “the chance to develop the banana industry.”24 Nation’s editorial comments stated that the fate of West Indians in Costa Rica was linked to that of United Fruit and that the community needed to support the company at all costs as a matter of survival. In an editorial on 12 July 1930 he wrote that critics of the banana contract only envied the company’s care of and attention to the West Indian community. His portrayal of the fruit company as the protector of the “coloured labourer” served to add credibility to what the critics had been saying all along, that the West Indian community was a functional part of United Fruit’s operations and that its presence in the economy undermined Costa Rican interests. In the aftermath of the 1930 contract several congressional deputies continued to attack the government for its acquiescence to the fruit company’s demands. They rallied nationalist support to attack United Fruit at every turn, and the fallout from the attacks landed squarely on the shoulders of the West Indian community. For example, in August 1932 Congress created a special commission to look into the United Fruit Company’s compliance with the 1930 contract.25 Otilio Ulate, who became president in 1949, Adriano Urbina, and Jorge Ortiz E., all deputies who had initially opposed the contract and the West Indian presence in the country, were selected to conduct the inquiry. Although the issue examined was the impact of the 1930 contract had on the economy of Costa Rica, the politicians cast their gaze on the West Indians resident in Limón. The commission travelled to Limón, where it met farmers, workers, and businessmen who complained about the United Fruit Company and its operations.26 The study was conducted for two months, during which any individual or body that had been affected by the contract was encouraged to participate. The deputies found United Fruit to be in violation of virtually every clause in the contract, noting that the company had not met its commitment to bring more land under cultivation or to grant additional contracts to private planters. The commission urged stern action on the part of the government to ensure United Fruit’s strict observance of the 1930 agreement and recommended rescinding United Fruit’s concession if it did not comply with the terms of the agreement.

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73 Dependence, Depression, and Dislocation

One of the issues raised by opponents was United Fruit’s employment of West Indians instead of Costa Ricans. The commission’s report began with a statement that identified as a key issue “the problem of the predomination of workers from the coloured race” in Limón’s labour force.27 The concern expressed by the commission resurfaced a few months later when residents of Limón sent Congress a petition with over five hundred signatures. The petition attacked the United Fruit Company and requested the prohibition of “Negro” immigration.28 Like the congressional commission, the petitioners argued that the “Negro race” had a privileged position in Limón because of United Fruit Company hiring preferences that left the “white race” out on the street. The petition highlighted the ethnic tensions that existed in Limón and served as yet another call for the government do something to protect the country from the invasion of people of African descent. The commission’s report and the petition from workers were presented to President Ricardo Jiménez, who had been re-elected for a third term in 1932.29 The document was not binding on the government, but President Jiménez was sensitive to the concerns of the opposition because their strength was increasing with every election. His new government was faced with a declining world economy and mounting dissatisfaction among the working class. As a result, President Jiménez chose to initiate negotiations for a new agreement that would address opposition concerns and buoy his government through a difficult period. The Costa Rican government sought to replace the 1930 contract with a deal that would help the country to confront the mounting economic crisis of the period. Declining exports and rising unemployment rates were cause for concern. The fruit company was interested in discussing a new deal for a related but different reason. Plant disease on the Atlantic coast had been spreading across on the plantations of Limón since the late 1910s, and the industry was unable to arrest its advance. United Fruit and the Jiménez government began looking for ways to deal with their common problem, and a new round of contract negotiations ensued. While the government and the company sought to negotiate a means of ensuring their mutual interests, the West Indian community was left to watch events unfold. Although some in the community were content to put their faith in the benevolence of the fruit company, others sought alternatives to the status quo. There were individual expressions of reaction and resistance to the changes imposed by the economic crisis of the 1930s, but the best way to illustrate the

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74 The West Indians of Costa Rica

internal politics of the West Indian community during this period is to look at the evolution of the unia during a time of crisis. The unia had the unique distinction of being the only organization in Limón that was, in theory, open to everyone of African descent. Therefore, the unia was the only public forum in which West Indians could vie for the support of their counterparts, making it was a battleground for competing ideologies. Although the unia began disintegrating in the United States and elsewhere after Garvey was charged with mail fraud in 1922, the organization remained active in Limón until long after the “Provisional President of Africa’s” imprisonment in 1925. The unia continued to play a role in the lives of West Indians in Limón throughout the 1920s. The vitality of the organization in Costa Rica was cause for concern for the company and government authorities. According to a report from the us Consul in Limón, class consciousness among West Indians was growing during the mid-1920s, and the activities of the unia and the acl were “fostering this restive spirit.”30 The only thing that eased some of the concern was the consul’s belief that the leaders of the unia were “men of little ability or force of character.” However, the report warned that should strong leadership be found it was “probable that organization of the ’Colored’ labor of the district could be accomplished with great rapidity and once concerted action seemed possible serious trouble could be confidently looked for.”31 At the time, Garvey was in jail, and his organization was being torn apart by internal wrangling, mismanagement, and the rise of rival groups in the United States. United Fruit was also concerned that a strong leader might emerge on the plantations, and in November 1927 all Tropical Division managers were sent a copy of newspaper reports on Garvey’s deportation from the us. They were cautioned about his possible arrival in places like Limón and advised on how to deal with Garvey if he showed up.32 Managers were told to circulate a couple of slanderous articles gleaned from newspapers in the United States to discredit him with the local population. G.P. Chittenden passed several circulars on to his subordinates in the region, and each compiled reports on unia activities in their localities.33 Despite the company’s fears of potential unrest, there was no increase in the levels of tension in Limón. One of the managers from the region stated that news of Garvey’s release had been circulating but that trouble was not expected because the “crowd [had] had an expensive lesson in Black Star shares and [would] hesitate before putting out anything more.”34 He also stated that in 1927 responses to membership drives by the unia were “decidedly lukewarm.”

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Part of the reason for the decline in support for the unia in Limón was that by 1927 the local organization was under the presidency of Samuel Nation, a one time executive member of the Artisans and Labourers Union who had evolved into an outspoken anti-communist ally of the United Fruit Company and become the editor of a local West Indian newspaper, The Searchlight. Under Nation’s conservative leadership the unia in Limón could be counted on to support United Fruit in its endeavours. However, Samuel Nation’s political orientation was not shared by everyone in the community, and the unia became an ideological battleground. The dispute over control of the unia in Limón during the late 1920s and 1930s was characterized by a struggle between the self-styled West Indian élite and their more radical compatriots. Samuel Nation and his supporters controlled the organization until 1928, when the unia was taken over by Theodore Smith, a less reactionary individual. The battle lines were drawn, and the struggle continued as the previous administration attempted to subvert the power of the new leaders.35 Theodore Smith was elected to office at a time when the unia everywhere was preparing for the Sixth International Convention of the Negro Peoples of the World in 1929. The 1929 convention resulted in a formal split between one faction of the original unia that had refused to relinquish control when Garvey was released from jail and Garvey’s faction, which he had renamed the Universal Negro Improvement Association and African Communities League of the World. The new organization, established in August 1929, was loyal to Marcus Garvey and, since he had been banished from the United States, depended on the West Indian communities of the Caribbean region for support. The other unia remained headquartered in the United States, where the issues confronting people of African descent were much different than in the western Caribbean. In Limón, where Garvey remained popular, the two local factions of the unia struggled to present themselves as loyal Garveyites despite internal class divisions. Under Theodore Smith’s direction, the local leadership initially professed its loyalty to Garvey. However, a short time later secret plans were made to withdraw from the new Garvey organization because it was perceived as being too passive to meet the challenges of the times.36 West Indian community leaders like Samuel Nation were concerned about the direction being taken by the local unia and sought to prevent a drift toward radicalism.37 At the time, a member of the local executive of the unia, C. Cornwall, was accused, among other things, of signing a letter that had helped imprison Garvey and of destroying a United Fruit commissary in Siquirres. Similarly, Theodore Smith was criticized for bringing

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“voodooism” to the organization because he consulted Obeahmen.38 These slights revealed the tensions that existed within the community in Limón. Some West Indians equated radical politics with expressions of their common African identity. Smith, Cornwall, and their supporters were portrayed by their detractors as manipulators, practitioners of the “black arts,” and a threat to the interests of all West Indians in Costa Rica. In their defence the members of the unia who were loyal to Smith and Cornwall accused the community élite of being too friendly with United Fruit managers and Costa Rican authorities. According to one letter to the local newspaper, some West Indians were “so appreciated and esteemed by the white race, because they [were] in a position of accommodation, [and could] be utilized in one way or another.”39 Their concern was twofold. One the one hand, unemployment rates were higher than ever in the early 1930s because of the spread of plant disease and the onset of the global economic crisis. On the other hand, many people in Limón were affected by the growing number of attacks by individuals, groups, and government officials against West Indians in Costa Rica. The people who wanted a more proactive organization understood that those who benefited the most from cooperation with United Fruit and Costa Rican authorities depended on an acquiescent West Indian community. They knew that during Samuel Nation’s tenure as president of the Limon Division, the unia had not been confrontational and had reflected the West Indian community leaders’ interests. Under Smith, a more radical approach was taken to the problems that faced the community in Costa Rica. Smith’s supporters attacked the community élite and Nation’s newspaper for their conservatism. The Searchlight was thought to be a tool of United Fruit and subsidized by Garvey. On the streets of Limón people commonly referred to The Searchlight as “The Flashlight” because it consistently expressed opinions that were not considered illuminating.40 In fact, The Searchlight’s most important advertising client was United Fruit, and people in Limón were quick to note the difference between the small number of West Indians who enjoyed a privileged position in Limón and Theodore Smith’s followers.41 As a result of the mounting hostilities in the Limón Division and in response to a request by Samuel Nation and his cohorts, the unia (1929) sent its international organizer to investigate the matter. M.L.T. de Mena, a woman who later became the head of the unia (1929) in the United States, arrived in Limón in mid-1930. Marcus Garvey needed international support for his fledgling organization, and Limón was still an important centre of unia activity. De Mena may

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not have sought to curry favour with whomever was in charge, but she was not prepared to alienate whatever support existed for Marcus Garvey. Consequently, although the local West Indian elite initially cheered the arrival of de Mena, who was thought to carry “a good broom,” they soon came to realize that Garvey’s new unia was as pragmatic as ever. At the end of her visit The Searchlight stated that she was a “poor executive” because she had not cleaned up the mess.42 Samuel Nation felt that she had come to Limón with her mind already made up to keep the existing leadership. De Mena’s response to the situation was predictable because she was interested in keeping Garvey’s unia alive as an international organization. In order to retain the loyalty of the unia in Limón, de Mena merely ordered the local president and two of his officers to be less autocratic but did not force them to resign. In other words, the new parent organization was much like the original in that it sought to keep dues flowing and was not willing to get involved in local power struggles.43 Undeterred, the local West Indian elite continued its attacks on the leadership of the Limon Division of the unia. Those who were critical of the leadership looked forward to the annual elections for an opportunity to get rid of the Smith administration. An effective campaign against Smith was begun by his opponents, and the standard bearer was The Searchlight. The newspaper never missed an opportunity to attack the existing president and his administration and did not report on the specific activities of the organization. The struggle culminated during the October elections when the Smith administration was defeated and all were asked to leave the organization on the grounds, according to The Searchlight, of mismanagement and popular disapproval.44 The following August, a convention chaired by Samuel Nation was held in Limón to discuss the future of the unia in Costa Rica. Representatives from the various branches and affiliated lodges gathered to discuss the issue. The people who attended the convention were described by The Searchlight as “a select crowd of the intellectuals of Limón.”45 At the convention, in the name of the all the Costa Rican branches of the organization, the Limon Division officially embraced the unia (1929), which was loyal to Garvey.46 In an effort to formalize the defeat of the radicals, a new charter for the Limon Division was unveiled. The new charter spoke for the entire Limon Division and all of the Garvey clubs in the region. Thus, the organization was safely in the hands of the local West Indian élite when the United Fruit Company and the Costa Rican government began negotiating a contract to replace that of 1930.

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78 The West Indians of Costa Rica

The new contract, signed in 1934 in the midst of the largest strike in the country’s history, presented the West Indian community with a new challenge. The 1934 agreement marks a watershed in the history of the West Indian community in Limón because it sanctioned discrimination against people of African descent. Unlike the 1910 contract, which also coincided with a labour dispute, the strike in 1934 was conducted by Hispanic workers with little West Indian support.47 The reasons for the lack of support for the strike among West Indians are numerous. For one thing, the people on the picket lines in 1934 who destroyed crops and who became involved in altercations with the Costa Rican authorities were primarily newcomers, and West Indians had grown to fear Hispanic immigration to Limón. After years of relentless attacks on the community, people of African descent were reluctant to throw their lot in with a group that displayed so much animosity toward them. Also, because they were long time residents of Limón, many West Indians enjoyed a higher degree of economic security than their Hispanic counterparts. The relative security and traditional independence of the West Indian community had resulted in a decline in labour radicalism among people of African descent. Another significant reason for West Indian abstention from the strike was that the local leaders of the unia worked with the fruit company to manipulate community members and keep them from participating in the strike. The work stoppage was organized by the Sindicato de Trabajadores del Atlántico, which was affiliated with the Costa Rican Communist Party. The Party had its origins in the global economic crisis of 1929, was founded in 1931, and within a few years had obtained a significant degree of support from the Hispanic working class. The Communists benefited from the increasing despair of labouring Costa Ricans and enjoyed particularly strong support on the banana plantations. As a result, the party managed to make significant inroads in Limón at the beginning of the 1930s despite strenuous efforts by United Fruit and the Costa Rican authorities to curtail organization on the plantations. Both the successes and the failures of the Communist Party’s organizational efforts became evident in August 1934. The strike was called after United Fruit did not respond to a list of demands submitted by workers in the form of a petition. The strike demands should have appealed to all labour in the banana industry in Limón since higher wages, better working conditions, and job security were sought. When the company failed to acknowledge the labourers’ concerns, a work stoppage occurred. After three weeks, private planters in the region signed an accord with the workers,

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but United Fruit refused to accept the terms of the agreement. As a result, the strike continued and entered a more violent phase.48 Throughout the work stoppage, attempts were made to garner West Indian support but to no avail. The Communist Party could not attract the West Indian workers because the organization’s efforts were obviously half-hearted. For example, Trabajo, the Communist Party’s weekly newspaper, rarely published anything in English, but during the strike a few articles written for West Indian consumption suddenly appeared. The most transparent overture to the West Indians came on 12 August when Trabajo reprinted an article from The Daily Worker.49 The article was a call for black and white workers in the us to unite, but its appearance in Trabajo amounted to an admission on the part of the Communist Party that they were not in touch with the West Indian community; instead the article served only to illustrate just how divided the plantation labour force was. Of more relevance to readers in Limón was an editorial that paid tribute to West Indian workers for their support, but there was no evidence that anyone in the community was participating in the strike. During the strike, the Communist Party struggled to bring people of African descent into the fold and to keep on top of the mounting tension between the striking Hispanics and their West Indian counterparts. The difficulties that the strike organizers had in obtaining support from West Indians were outlined in a letter captured by the police during a raid on the strike headquarters. The letter, from Manuel Mora, the head of the Communist Party, made reference to the “damned Negroes” and their reluctance to join the strike.50 Mora did not explain why the Communist Party and strike leaders were unable to get a significant number of West Indian labourers to participate, but it is clear that the community feared the consequences of any dispute with the company or government. By 1934, petitions, newspaper articles, and attacks in Congress had made the entire West Indian community aware of the tenuous nature of their residency in the country. That the issue of the West Indian presence in Costa Rica always focused on employment and that many of the striking Hispanics had, at one time or another, endorsed calls to do something about the Africanization of the country meant that unity among the workers was out of the question. However, West Indian abstentioned from the 1934 banana strike should not be viewed as indicative of a lack of class consciousness. Newspaper reports, United Fruit Company correspondence, and government documents indicate that the West Indian workers were as politicized as any other group. Ethnic differences served to divide workers, but the efforts of the West Indian elite in Limón also helped

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80 The West Indians of Costa Rica

to ensure that people of African descent did not participate in the strike. One of the most revealing aspects of the strike was the role played by the unia in assisting United Fruit in keeping West Indians on the job. The unia used its position in Limón to threaten members of the community who considered joining the strike. While Marcus Garvey was in Jamaica commemorating the hundredth anniversary of the emancipation of slaves in the British colonies, the unia in Limón was further aligning its interests with those of the United Fruit Company rather then those of its working-class brethren. The local unia division was conscious of both the working conditions on the plantations and the reservations that the community had about participating in a Hispanic strike. Like Garvey the local unia leaders understood that employment with the fruit company enabled members to keep the organization alive and in a position to further the personal interests of some West Indians in Costa Rica. As a consequence, the Limón Division of the unia sent a memorandum to the heads of all of the company’s divisions and departments outlining its position. In its opening, the memorandum claimed to represent the “Negro wherever domiciled,” yet it went on to say that the organization was at the company’s “service always for all reasonable matters” of “mutual understanding and general welfare.” The unia asked the company to tell all “colored workers” that a meeting was to be held at Liberty Hall to discuss the strike. According to the unia, the meeting was intended to remind workers of their duty and debt to “the hands that [had] fed them for the past number of years.” The memorandum was signed by a group called “THE COMMITTEE” and came from the local division headquarters, where the people who had thrown out the Smith administration were still in power. The role of the local division of the Universal Negro Improvement Association in undermining the strike by working with the United Fruit Company was a comment on the West Indian community’s relationship with the industry. The unia’s memorandum identified the interests of West Indians with those of the company, noting that the West Indian community was composed of “law-abiding sojourners” who had a “moral and sober desire not to intentionally act or contribute in any degree [to] that which would interrupt or tend to mar the smooth working” of United Fruit in Costa Rica.51 Whereas the unia had been founded as the defender of Africans everywhere, in Costa Rica it had become the defender of certain West Indian interests in the country. Matters of mutual understanding and general welfare were also the concern of the new weekly newspaper, The Atlantic Voice, whose

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appearance in Limón coincided with the beginning of the strike in August 1934.52 The day after the unia memorandum was sent to United Fruit, The Atlantic Voice carried a copy of a widely distributed flysheet about the banana strike that was aimed at West Indian workers.53 The flysheet was reproduced on the front page of the English section of the newspaper and followed by articles of a similar nature. The announcement itself was an attack on communism stressing the mutual interests of a good relationship between the United Fruit Company and West Indian workers. Although the text was different from that of the memorandum sent to the fruit company, there were distinct similarities. The flysheet was circulated by “A SOJOURNER’S COMMITTEE,” while the unia memorandum was signed by “THE COMMITTEE.” Also, the thrust of both documents was to keep West Indians loyal to their community and the company. Finally, since Samuel Nation, in addition to being an outspoken anti-communist, was both a member of the unia executive and the newspaper’s leading journalist, the connection between the two was evident. Clearly, West Indian community leaders used their access to the local press to discourage participation in the strike. The Atlantic Voice was particularly vocal in its opposition to the strike and in reminding West Indians of the possible consequences of lending their support. Reports of potential government reprisals like the cancelation of naturalizations and the deportation of all foreign participants in the strike accompanied each issue of the paper. West Indians were told that if they involved themselves in the labour unrest, the government and company would seek retribution against individuals and the community. Through the newspaper the sojourner’s committee also warned West Indians that the British government would not protect them from ill treatment for “taking part in the strike, or aiding and abetting the strikers.”54 The Committee argued strenuously against West Indian participation in a strike led by the Costa Rican Communist Party.55 Common cause with Hispanic workers was not desirable to the élite, who were interested in maintaining control over the West Indian community. In the end, propaganda and threats kept the West Indians out of the strike and at the same time perpetuated ethnic divisions. Despite the lack of West Indian participation in the strike, “foreigners” were singled out by the government and the mainstream press as primary agitators. The government wanted to contain the strike before sympathy for strikers spread to other regions of the country, and it was convenient to label the workers ungrateful foreigners. Threats were made by the government in both the English and Spanish press to revoke naturalizations of strikers and deport foreigners

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82 The West Indians of Costa Rica Table 4.2 West Indian and Nicaraguan Migration to Costa Rica before May 1927

Migration Period Not Given 1870–1900 1901–1905 1906–1910 1911–1915 1916–1920 1921–1925 1925–1927 Total*

Percentage of All West Indian Immigrants

Percentage of All Nicaraguan Immigrants

2.99 12.93 15.43 26.37 20.89 7.96 12.44 3.98

5.08 2.55 5.08 10.17 4.24 14.41 27.11 31.36

100.00

100.00

* Columns may not total 100 as numbers have been rounded. Source: Government of Costa Rica. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927). San José: Ministerio de Economia y Hacienda, 1928.

participating in the strike.56 The problem for the West Indian community was that although its members were not involved in the strike, they formed the largest and most visible minority group in the country. In reality, most of the “foreign agitators” were Nicaraguan labourers who had come to Costa Rica from a country that had recently experienced a lengthy occupation by the United States marines.57 The political history of the Nicaraguans and their position within the provincial economy dictated their participation in the strike. A closer look at the foreigners who were in the province of Limon around the time of the strike reveals that the Nicaraguans and West Indians comprised the two largest immigrant groups and that they occupied different positions in the local economic and social structures. Evidence of the different interests of the two groups is found in the 1927 population census, as suggested by a sampling of the census data focusing on 748 individuals in the communities of Cahuita on the Atlantic coast and Siquirres, which is located inland from Limón. The samples were comparable in size and illustrative of communities with different historical backgrounds. The table 4.2 shows that West Indian immigration to Costa Rica peaked between 1905 and 1915, whereas the majority of Nicaraguans in the census arrived between 1920 and 1927. The late arrival was reflected in the data on employment, which show that West Indians were more likely to be self-employed or the owners of small farms or businesses than were the Nicaraguans. According to the sample, 47 per cent of West Indians were either self-

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83 Dependence, Depression, and Dislocation Table 4.3 Position in Labour Force of Economically Active West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 Place in Workforce Not given Employee Self-Employed Owner Total*

Percentage of West Indian Males

Percentage of Nicaraguan Males

1.49 51.74 23.38 23.38

3.39 83.90 11.02 1.69

100.00

100.00

* Columns may not total 100 as numbers have been rounded. Source: Government of Costa Rica. Censo de población de Costa Rica (11 de mayo de 1927). San José: Ministerio de Economia y Hacienda, 1928.

Table 4.4 Types of Economic Activities Practised by West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 Type of Activity Not given Cacao farming Banana farming In the home Other Total*

Percentage of West Indian Males

Percentage of Nicaraguan Males

1.49 33.83 34.33 20.40 9.95

3.39 5.93 76.27 11.86 2.54

100.00

100.00

* Columns may not total 100 as numbers have been rounded. Source: Government of Costa Rica. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927). San José: Ministerio de Economia y Hacienda, 1928.

employed or employers, as compared with 13 per cent for the Nicaraguans. Consequently, the West Indian absence from the largest strike in Costa Rica’s history was due, in part, to the fact that the West Indians had different economic interests than more recent arrivals to the Atlantic Zone. (See Table 4.3.) The census sampling also indicates that almost 77 per cent of the Nicaraguans were employed in the banana industry whereas only 34 per cent of West Indians worked on the banana plantations.58 (See Table 4.4.) The data also indicate that Nicaraguans were much less likely to have secure economic positions because the majority of them were day labourers. (See Table 4.5.) West Indians continued to work for United Fruit, but they formed a lower percentage of the total workforce than they once had and

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84 The West Indians of Costa Rica Table 4.5 Comparison of the Two Main Types of Occupations of West Indians and Nicaraguans in 1927 Type of Occupation

Percentage of West Indian Males

Percentage of Nicaraguan Males

National Average

Farmer Day worker

28.36 31.84

2.54 77.12

4.33 12.72

Source: Government of Costa Rica. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927). San José: Ministerio de Economia y Hacienda, 1928.

tended to occupy positions which required more skill. This is not to say that their livelihoods did not depend on the health of the banana economy in Limón or that no West Indians were exploited by the company. West Indians lived in Limón and depended on the company as the motor of the local economy. The difference between 1934 and the first decade or so of the century was that in the mid-1930s West Indians had a more diverse range of occupations inside and outside of the industry. In fact, many had become small producers who also employed labour on occasion. As proprietors of their own small farms and businesses, many West Indians no longer relied on work with the banana companies for part of their income. If they had, they would probably have been more sympathetic to the strikers’ demands, but as farmers they suffered because of the strike. Their bananas rotted in the fields or were destroyed by angry strikers if they were found on the railway sidings waiting to be picked up.59 The question of individual security was also important during the strike because Limón was a vast region, and violent confrontations between strikers and farmers could not always be prevented. As a result, West Indian farmers were at the mercy of events in 1934 and had no desire to contribute to a tense situation. One interviewee who remembers the strike has stated that it was not a black man’s fight and that the West Indians stayed home because they did not want trouble.60 Workers within the West Indian community had experienced the mounting discrimination and resentment of the Hispanics who migrated to Limón in search of employment during the 1920s and 1930s. They knew that petitions had been sent to the government to ask that all “Jamaiquinos” be expelled from the country. For some time before the strike, the Costa Rican government had been considering the introduction of legislation to forbid people of African descent from moving to the highlands. According to British sources, the Costa Rican government understood the West Indian menace to be “economic no less than ethnological” and was prepared to “go

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so far as to prohibit mixed marriages.”61 The objective was to ensure that Costa Rica did not “imitate the example of Panama, which [was] already on the way to becoming a black republic.”62 West Indians were reminded of their vulnerability in the months before the strike when, in April 1934, the Costa Rican government let it be known that it was considering restricting the immigration of people of African descent.63 West Indians did not need new legislation to restrict their freedom as they understood the unwritten laws that based access to housing and employment on the colour of an individual’s skin. The North American managers who ran United Fruit contributed to the ethnic divisions by imposing a system of segregation in the workforce. There were separate barracks, eating arrangements, work crews, and social activities for Hispanics and West Indians. Segregation within the company extended to the community at large. A glance at the original 1927 census returns for the Port of Limón shows not only that Hispanics and West Indians lived outside United Fruit’s “White Zone,” which was reserved for management, but also that the two groups tended to live in separate neighbourhoods.64 By 1934 discrimination against people of African descent had become commonplace in Costa Rica, and United Fruit sought advantage in joining the government in restricting the freedom of the West Indian community. The company and government exploited the division between Hispanics and West Indians during the negotiations for the new banana contract. At about the mid-point in the strike, Congress submitted a set of contract reforms, which the fruit company accepted. Along with a commitment to favour private planters, pay higher prices, and expand production on the Pacific coast, United Fruit agreed to favour Costa Ricans in the workforce and not to introduce “Negroes, or Jamaicans” to the new banana zone.65 The exclusion of West Indians from jobs on the Pacific coast at a time when their Spanish speaking counterparts were on strike can only be seen as having a dual intent: Hispanics could rest assured that the Pacific coast would not be “Africanized,” and the strike on the Atlantic coast would be undermined by the new employment opportunities for those who were not identified as troublemakers. On 28 August, just three days after United Fruit accepted the reforms proposed by Congress, an agreement was reached in the office of the secretary of labour between representatives of the banana planters and the workers. The labour dispute was over, except for a brief and unsuccessful resumption after United Fruit refused to accept the terms of the agreement.66 The West Indian community was the biggest loser despite having refrained from participating in the

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strike. In the months that followed, Congress entered the formal debate on the contract, which was ratified on 7 December 1934. The final version of the contract contained few surprises, but its intent was clear. In exchange for new investment in Costa Rica, the United Fruit Company was given control over the banana industry on the Pacific coast. In terms of the workforce, article 5 of a “companion law” regulating conditions of work established a preference for Costa Ricans in the banana industry and the prohibition of “coloured people” from employment with the company on the Pacific coast. The only defence of the West Indian community in relation to article 5 came from the Communist Party. The Communists were openly opposed to the contract from the start, and Trabajo was the only publication to defend the rights of the West Indians. Among the several items that made reference to West Indians was one appealing for West Indian solidarity with Costa Rican workers to fight the contract that was being debated in Congress.67 The appeal called upon West Indians to join the Communist Party and, therefore, fell on deaf ears. The plea for cooperation was penned by Harold Nichols, a young West Indian who was living in San José at the time. Nichols was not representative of his community because he was one of a few hundred West Indians who had moved away from Limón. Seeking to become a member of the Hispanic community in San José, Nichols had made the kind of commitment to Costa Rica that the majority of the community was reluctant to make. He had left the community in an attempt to distance himself from his West Indian identity. Nichols may have been known in Limón, but his affiliation with the Communists and his apparent desire to become Costa Rican meant that his appeal went unheeded. The people of Limón did very little to express their displeasure with the clause in the contract that restricted their mobility. Other than one letter to the editor, The Atlantic Voice was silent at a time when the community’s future in Costa Rica was at stake.68 The desire to appease United Fruit prevented West Indian leaders from defending their community’s interests. People living in Limón province still depended on United Fruit’s presence in the economy in 1934, and the shift in the company’s operational base had a direct impact. However, without concerted opposition from the leaders of the West Indian community, the ratification of the contract proceeded through three readings.69 The fear instilled by the company and its unia allies, combined with the economic vulnerability of the community, had served to silence the people most affected by the new agreement. With the sole exceptions of a petition that a small number of Costa Rican-born West Indians, sent to the two deputies from Limón and

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a motion by Manuel Mora, the Communist Party deputy, no opposition to the clause was mounted in Congress.70 Although Mora was not alone in his opposition to the entire agreement, both deputies from Limón, Juan E. Romagosa and Virgilio Chaverri, supported the contract despite its discrimination against their constituents and its certain contribution to the industry’s further decline in their province.71 In early December 1934, during Ricardo Jiménez’s third administration, the Cortés-Chittenden contract became law with a vote of twenty-nine deputies for and only twelve against. Article 5 was buried in the contract and became part of the new reality for West Indians in Costa Rica. Even after the contract had been passed and although the contents were well known, there was no public comment on article 5. La Tribuna, a newspaper that had consistently opposed the contract, only mentioned the discriminatory article on 16 December, and then not in an editorial but in an interview with a prominent lawyer, Luis Castro Ureña. Limón’s leading newspaper was clearly on the side of the United Fruit Company, its biggest advertising account, and, therefore, did not oppose the contract. The Atlantic Voice only commented on the restriction of West Indian liberty two weeks after the contract became law, but by then it was too late.72 The failure of The Atlantic Voice and the unia to defend West Indian interests in the 1934 strike and subsequent contract reflected the contradictions occasioned by a reliance on the United Fruit Company for protection. The company, which the unia supported during the strike, disregarded the interests of the West Indian community in favour of labour peace and profits. Gone were the matters of “mutual understanding and general welfare,” even though West Indians had not bitten the hands that “fed them.” As a consequence of the contract, people of African descent in Limón were forced to begin a thorough examination of their future in the country, and they could no longer depend on the unia or the West Indian elite to defend their interests. People of colour suddenly found themselves unable to move freely about the country in search of work, and the tenuous position of most West Indians in Costa Rica was exacerbated by the new contract. In addition to the legal and extra-legal limits on their access to employment, the residents of the Atlantic coast were faced with a natural threat to their livelihood. Panama disease had been advancing throughout the province since the early part of the century. The disease attacked the root system of the banana plant with the result that plants rotted before the fruit reached maturity. In optimum conditions planted areas could be used for as many as twenty-five years,

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but with the advent of Panama disease, banana growers were forced to move to new areas after a shorter period of time. At the same time as Panama disease was affecting Limón, Sigatoka, a plant disease that had devastated banana crops in the South Pacific, was making its way through the Caribbean. The disease first appeared in the West Indies in 1934 and spread rapidly throughout the Caribbean region.73 Sigatoka is a leaf-spot disease that attacks the leaves, preventing the plant from producing the large bunches of bananas required for export. In 1938 Sigatoka arrived in Costa Rica, and agriculturalists had to look for an alternative to bananas if they were to continue farming. The prospect of losses due to the Panama and Sigatoka diseases was enough to make the fruit company look elsewhere to extend its plantations. Thanks to the new banana contract, the United Fruit Company temporarily escaped the disease by expanding its plantations on the Pacific coast. Until 1934 the United Fruit Company had been able to move only around the province of Limón, and the land that the company abandoned was often taken over by peasant producers who gambled that their intensive farming techniques would offset soil depletion and disease. As long as United Fruit was in the province a mechanism existed to export bananas to the us market. With the 1934 contract United Fruit began moving its operations to the Pacific coast with the result that both jobs and the market for bananas disappeared in Limón.74 The provisions of the 1934 contract marked the culmination of a decade of efforts to restrict the West Indian presence in Costa Rica. Initially, the community relied on the benevolence of the United Fruit Company to press for its rights in the country. A handful of voices in the community kept members on guard against discrimination, but it was the omnipresent company that had sheltered West Indians until 1934. The problem was that West Indians were only protected as long as United Fruit required their services. What the unia and the West Indian elite did not calculate was that United Fruit might one day leave the region. When plant disease resulted in a gradual reduction in the Atlantic coast crop, the only solution was for the company to move to the Pacific. It was quite willing to forego its West Indian labour force in order to maintain a profitable enterprise; United Fruit simply abandoned the community that it had helped to create.

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PA R T T W O

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5 Confrontation and Accommodation: Silence in the Face of Discrimination

The signing of the banana contract in 1934 marked the beginning of the final stage in the Costa Rican government’s efforts to establish firmer control over Limón. The United Fruit Company had played a custodial role in Limón, offering a full range of health, security, education, and social services to the people of the province. The 1934 agreement, with its provisions to permit United Fruit to focus its operations on the Pacific coast, cleared the way for the Costa Rican government to assume a greater pressence in the daily life of the province and its inhabitants. The West Indian community, which was the most obvious expression of the government’s shortcomings in the region, was singled out for special attention. Looming large over the community were the restrictions on employment and the growing resentment toward people of African descent in Costa Rica. For the first time in the history of their community, West Indians in Costa Rica were faced with a legislated restriction on their access to employment, and, as part of the effort to fill the vacuum left by United Fruit’s withdrawal from the region, the government introduced a series of reforms in taxation, education, and labour. As a result, individual West Indians were forced to clarify the nature of their relationship with Costa Rica and decide between cooperation and resistance. Although article 5 of the 1934 contract was intended to prevent “gente de color” from occupying positions with United Fruit on the Pacific coast, its meaning has been distorted in both the popular and professional understanding of Costa Rican history. Many people

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believe that the law prohibited people of African descent from going to the Central Valley. For example, Michael Olien wrote an ethnohistory of the people of African descent in Costa Rica that begins with the “African Negro,” takes the reader through the early twentieth century with the “West Indian Negro,” and culminates in the 1948 civil war with the almost magical appearance of the “Costa Rican Negro.”1 Olien’s discussion is particularly interesting in that it reflects the changes apparently brought about by the 1948 civil war. His interpretation is based on the popular assumption that people of African descent were prohibited from settling in highland communities until José Figueres came to power in 1948.2 In fact, there was never a law restricting people of African descent from settling anywhere in the country; the changes Olien observes are the result of a more protracted and systemic discrimination against people of African descent in Costa Rica. Many historians have sought to find evidence of a prohibition against the free movement of people of colour in Costa Rica, but no law was ever passed.3 Nevertheless, the guardians of the “whitesettler-society” myth continue to misrepresent the history of the African presence in Costa Rica. One of the most recent examples is María Eugenia Bozzoli de Wille’s assertion that in 1936 “León Cortés forbade Blacks from entering the almost purely White highlands.”4 Bozzoli’s claims are unsubstantiated, leaving the companion clause in the 1934 contract as the only legal impediment aimed squarely at the West Indian community. However, the companion clause merely prohibited the United Fruit Company from employing people of African descent in its Pacific coast operations; it did not prohibit West Indians from working for other employers, buying land, or starting businesses of their own in the region. The companion law did, of course, impact on West Indian decisions to stay in Limón, with most, but not all, preferring not to migrate to other parts of the country, but this was a choice freely made. Members of the community asserted their individual independence by electing to remain outside the Costa Rican mainstream, and the absence of people of African descent beyond the Province of Limón’s borders was the result of a conscious decision on their part. People remained in Limón because it was their home, where they had strong personal, family, religious, cultural, and economic ties.5 Nevertheless, the 1934 contract served to lessen the security that Limón provided West Indians by increasing the community’s dependence on the Costa Rican government and Hispanic institutions. The Costa Rican government obtained United Fruit Company land in Limón, using it to foster Hispanic colonization as a means of helping

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the country to overcome some of the problems caused by the global economic depression of the period. The withdrawal of United Fruit gave highlanders a freer say in the development and administration of the province. As a result, the government became ubiquitous in Limón, and West Indians experienced a higher degree of interference in their lives. For the West Indians who lived in Limón, the imposition of highland authority amounted to an intrusion into their affairs because many of the region’s pioneers thought of the Costa Rican government as a foreign power whose nominal control over the province was fast becoming absolute.6 In addition to the alienation experienced by West Indians, highland Hispanics also experienced unease when they ventured to Limón. By the late 1920s Limón had become Costa Rica’s new frontier region, where landless peasants from the highlands could find a degree of economic security. However, as people began to move into the region in search of opportunities, they discovered that some some of the land and many jobs were already occupied by West Indians.7 Within this context, the 1934 contract helped reinforce xenophobia among Hispanics and established a precedent for the extension of further restrictions on people of African descent. It is not surprising that attacks on the West Indian community in Limón became more frequent and more direct after 1934. Discrimination had always been a part of life in Limón because the social structure of the region reflected divisions of race and class. The three most visible groups in Limón were Hispanics from Costa Rica and elsewhere in the region; United Fruit managers, who were mostly of European descent and usually us citizens; and the West Indian community. The ethnic divisions within Limón were palpable even to the most casual of observers. Hispanics were generally linked by their common cultural identity, company managers lived in an exclusive area known as the “White Zone,” where they maintained a separate lifestyle, and the West Indian community existed in clusters throughout the province, but differences did exist within each group. The West Indian community was internally divided by the allegiances that its members had to different islands, religions, and social organizations.8 For example, in 1931 an editorial in The Searchlight complained that it was “customary” to “dub every degrading thought or action as emanating from ’the Isle of Springs.’”9 The editor reminded his readership that Jamaicans were not the only West Indians in Limón and that other groups were proportionately more responsible for illegal or immoral activities.10 The divisions within the West Indian community were reinforced by the fact that people attempted to recreate their individual island communities by establishing separate churches,

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sports clubs, benevolent societies, and other associations. Every community institution and organization in Limón reflected the fragmentation of the West Indies. Even the smallest towns and villages had cricket teams representing different islands or associations that were identified with specific West Indian groups. Until 1934 the ethnic divisions in Limón were conditioned by a complex social understanding that permitted West Indian community leaders to associate with other élite groups in the region. Both United Fruit and the government needed to maintain good relations with “responsible” members of the West Indian community because there was a need to guarantee social and labour harmony. As a result, West Indian community leaders were able to engage company representatives and government officials over issues that confronted the Caribbean residents of the region. For example, the leaders of all the important associations regularly toasted the newly elected presidents who passed through Limón on their customary pilgrimage to Washington dc before taking office. In exchange for the occasional audience with the president or other important officials, the community closed ranks with the company and government when necessary. From their pulpits, at their meetings, and in the press, the leaders of the West Indian community berated members who challenged the existing power structure or who conformed to the racial stereotypes of the company and the Hispanics. At various times they even proclaimed the inferiority of their race and urged people to work to overcome their disadvantages. They were also prepared to remain silent when overt acts of discrimination were committed against West Indians. Discrimination against people of African descent, especially the West Indians, was evident everywhere in Limón. For example, the exclusive Park and Lincoln Hotels had policies that denied service to people of African descent. Their clientele was drawn mainly from United Fruit Company management, tourists passing through Limón, and the Hispanic élite.11 Similarly, the police in Limón prohibited “poor or coloured children” from playing in Vargas Park while the children of the local élite were enjoying their recreational hours.12 The park, which is located along the sea wall in the centre of town, was a place where West Indian nursemaids took their charges to play. The children of West Indians were not allowed within the segregated world that the North American managers desired for their offspring. In addition, segregated seating at Limón’s three cinemas was introduced in the mid-1930s because of complaints by the growing number of Hispanic patrons.13 The rules were usually unwritten, and they increased in number after the 1934 contract.

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Another aspect of the changes that took place in the 1930s was that the Hispanic professionals, government officials, and wealthy businessmen who moved to Limón were not the same as the labouring poor who traditionally sought refuge in the province. Since they envisioned themselves as members of the “white race” and because their fortunes were closely tied to those of United Fruit, the new Hispanic élite adopted the racial attitudes of company officials. As the Hispanic population grew in Limón, distinctions between the company managers and wealthier Costa Ricans became more obscure. United Fruit concessions in the 1930s also opened the province to large numbers of Hispanic peasants from the highlands and other regions of the country. As a result, the number of Hispanics in the province grew rapidly, with the percentage of West Indians decreasing in direct proportion. The 1934 contract also served to intensify the ethnic divisions in Limón by establishing a new benchmark for discrimination against West Indians. A good example of the intensification came shortly after the 1934 banana strike ended when the municipal government began making plans for a public bathing area to be constructed in the heart of Limón.14 It was completed in December 1936 but was restricted to “white people” with “good customs.” West Indian community leaders were aware of the project and the discrimination it entailed but did not publicly oppose the discriminatory rules of the new establishment until the structure was nearly complete. When they did voice their concerns to municipal officials, the Hispanic politicians argued that the public bathing area was meant to attract tourists and that the presence of West Indians would be detrimental. Despite the half-hearted protest of some influential West Indians, the local government refused to change the rules and, instead, proposed the building of another bathing complex outside of town. The other bathing area would be open to everyone but was meant for West Indians, prostitutes, the poor, and others considered a liability to the tourist industry because of their “low social order.”15 When the “Whites Only” bathing complex was opened on 1 February 1936, the municipality and province went out of their way to make it a success. The Northern Railway Company, with its large West Indian workforce, was contracted to supply a special train to bring dignitaries and others to Limón for the event. The governor of Limón invited company mangers and influential Costa Ricans like the archbishop of Costa Rica, Rafael Otón Castro Jiménez, to attend. The grand opening was to be a major event in the history of the city and province. Finally, Limón was to have a tourist attraction that all Costa Ricans and visitors of European descent could enjoy without

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the inconvenience of sharing their leisure with undesirables. The West Indian community stood by in silence on the appointed day as the invited guests and their entourage made their way through town from the train station to the Balneario Municpal. Although the bathing complex threatened to remain in the heart of Limón as a monument to white supremacy in Costa Rica, the issue came to an unexpected conclusion a short time after the inauguration. Within few weeks of the grand opening, the building was razed by a tropical storm. Informants remember the storm as the most unusual ever to occur in Limón. According to one source, the storm blew in the biggest waves ever seen on the Atlantic coast, and within a few hours the bathing complex had been completely destroyed. Dolores Joseph, a West Indian resident of Limón, captures the event in one of his short stories. Joseph describes the storm and destruction of the balneario as “divine intervention.” He writes that it was poetic justice when “the ire of Neptune sent the whole contraption, barricade and dancehall to HADES.”16 After 1934, given the inaction of community leaders, divine intervention may have seemed the only defender of the rights of ordinary West Indians in Limón. One of the most remarkable aspects of the building of the exclusive bathing complex was the silence of the West Indian community. Throughout the lengthy contract negotiations involved in the development of the project and during the construction of the complex itself, The Atlantic Voice all but ignored the issue of discrimination. The local West Indian newspaper also missed an opportunity to complain when the grand opening was held. Similarly, the storm and its result, so eloquently described by Dolores Joseph, received little mention in the local press. Rather, there existed a conspicuous silence on the part of those in the West Indian community who were in the best position to protest the overt discrimination. The issue of the bathing complex, like so many other acts of racism in Limón, faded into the collective memory of the West Indians, marking another stage in the crisis that loomed before the community. Although the controversy surrounding the bathing complex was a serious matter for West Indians in Limón, the event only served to highlight the mounting discrimination people of African descent experienced in Costa Rica. On the federal level the West Indian community was threatened by the Costa Rican government’s desire to either collect rent or evict small producers from land on the margins of the banana plantations. One of the issues that concerned government officials after United Fruit began moving its operations out of Limón was land tenure in the province. Although some West Indians owned the land they farmed, most small producers rented or squatted

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on land. In the aftermath of the 1934 contract the government of Costa Rica took a closer look at land ownership in Limón and discovered that many West Indian farmers were vulnerable because they did not hold formal titles to their property. Throughout the period of West Indian settlement in Limón, availability of land, was limited by the presence of United Fruit. Some individuals managed to rent or buy land, but many were unable to afford farms of their own. Instead, people lived on land alotted to them by the company or squatted on plots of land outside the concessions granted to United Fruit. Among the territory that the company and other property owners did not use was a strip of land along the coastline referred to as the Maritime Mile. Retained by the Costa Rican government as a kind of boundary marker, the strip was the only inalienable, fertile land in the region and, therefore, one of the few places where squatters could live without having to deal with United Fruit’s police force. Although the land was owned by the Costa Rican state, no real effort was made to control its use so long as the occupiers were not considered permanent. According to one report, at various times the government even encouraged occupation of the land as a means of fostering the production of comestibles for local consumption.17 In addition to the Maritime Mile, people squatted on government land along roads and the railway tracks. All along the interior railway lines people were allowed to occupy small pieces of land because of government indifference. During Ricardo Jiménez’s third administration (1932–36) and under the supervision of León Cortés, the government began to charge rent for land within the Maritime Mile and at some places along the railway tracks. Whereas the 1934 contract stipulated that United Fruit not charge more than one colon per annum per hectare for land it rented to private producers in the region, by the end of Jiménez’s mandate, annual rents on land controlled by the Costa Rican government had increased from two colones to twenty-four colones per hectare. West Indians were the clear target of discrimination because they formed the majority of the smallholders affected by the increase. Fortunately, the person put in charge of dealing with the tenants, Aurelio Castro, lacked the resources and information to administer the rental collection properly, and West Indian farmers enjoyed a reprieve of sorts.18 As a consequence, the government’s first attempt to regulate West Indian land tenure in Limón fell short of its objective, but small farmers knew there would be future problems. The failure of the Jiménez government to systemize and regulate land tenure in the province was noted by the incumbent president,

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León Cortés, who took office in 1936. President León Cortés and his administration brought the Costa Rican government’s discrimination against people of African descent to new levels. Although Cortés had negotiated article 5 of the 1934 contract, his true zeal for repressing the West Indian community in Costa Rica became evident when he assumed the presidency. For four years under the Cortés administration the West Indian community sustained a barrage of legal and extra-legal attacks that undermined its attachment to the country and widened the already existing divisions in Limón. One of León Cortés’ first acts as president was to call for a census of the Maritime Mile lands in order to determine the proper level of taxation. The Atlantic Voice, finally speaking out in defence of West Indians, helped to organize the farmers so that they could represent themselves in the discussions on rental rates. The newspaper pointed out what the government already knew, that the settlers were “of coloured origin without any apparent voice or protection in the political life of the country.”19 The Atlantic Voice established committees at Penshurst, Cahuita, and Old Harbour in the southern part of the province.20 Despite these efforts, and for some unexplained reason, by mid-June only two of the affected occupants had come forward. In November, when the government decision on how to tax the users was made public, the newspaper, whose editor was Samuel Nation, lamented the apathy of those who occupied the land.21 In fact, West Indian farmers, knowing their land claims were tenuous at best, were cowed into not defending themselves against the Costa Rican government’s attacks. When introduced, the new regulations required occupants of government lands to sign four-year leases to the land they were cultivating. Despite protests the rental charges remained very high, and the government insisted on collecting all unpaid taxes. Farmers complained that under the new scheme they could not afford to make improvements to the land if they were not to be compensated at the end of the contract period. Appeals were made by farmers to the minister responsible, and assurances were given that the high rental rates would be reconsidered. When the government did act, the rental rates remained high, but the leases were extended to fifteenyears, at which time the land would be sold to the highest bidder. Successful farmers would then be in a position to buy the land they occupied, but many faced the prospect of losing their farms. To make matters worse, the only marketable crops that could be grown commercially were bananas or cacao.22 Banana production was in constant decline because of the effects of disease, and cacao was subject

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to fluctuating world markets.23 Therefore, West Indian farmers faced near certain ruin if they accepted the terms established by the Cortés government. Despite government assurances to the contrary, in December 1936 announcements were made indicating that if all accounts had not been brought up to date by the end of the year, the land would be sold to cover the back taxes.24 Pressure continued to mount as the government initiated legal proceedings against people owing back rents.25 In the case of farmers who marketed bananas through United Fruit, the government made claims against the payment for the fruit. If money could not be obtained by this means and the farmer was unable or unwilling to pay the rent, the land was confiscated.26 Never in the history of the community had the government pressed so hard to force farmers off the land. At the same time, the government demanded similar rents from those tenants using the United Fruit Company land that it had obtained by the 1934 contract.27 In the case of these lands, the law permitted nationals to claim twenty hectares for homesteading purposes. Foreigners were allowed to make a request to rent the land, but in June 1937 The Atlantic Voice reported that hundreds of West Indian applicants had not gotten answers or had had their applications returned.28 As a result of the government’s actions in the province of Limón, West Indians were forced to bind themselves to unreasonable contracts for the land they already farmed and were prevented from obtaining additional land because they were not citizens. Appeals to the government continued, but the authorities insisted that the contracts had to be signed and the rent paid. The authorities remained intransigent for months, making it impossible for farmers to plan their investments and convincing some that Costa Rica was not a place to settle permanently. Nevertheless, West Indian farmers persisted in their appeals to the government and were finally able to persuade the politicians that serious discrepancies had occurred because of the structure of the contract process. In August 1937 the government put a halt to the confiscation of lands already under cultivation, reduced the tax by 50 per cent, and forgave the arrears.29 While the settlers won some concessions, they were, nevertheless, forced to sign contracts, which meant that the government had a more solid legal claim to the land and that in the future West Indian farmers could be evicted or denied new leases. Local officials were also reported to have charged farmers exorbitant fees for drawing up the contracts, and the West Indians were defenceless. When it appeared that the government would ease up, further

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protest by the farmers was muted because community leaders urged people to cooperate with the government officials. A few months later, the official responsible for taxing the farmers went to Limón to investigate continued complaints of abuse of authority. After a cursory review of the situation he declared that no irregularities had been found, and no further action was taken to protect the West Indian farmers.30 Nevertheless, complaints about high rents continued for the duration of the León Cortés administration. Rental rates finally decreased in 1939, but only because the spread of plant disease made growing bananas on the Atlantic coast nearly impossible and left farmers without a marketable export crop.31 The government only relented because of pressure from the Hispanic farmers who occupied former United Fruit Company land. Their small victories extended to the West Indians who occupied the Maritime Mile, but tension continued to build in the region. Another group of West Indians affected by the government’s desire to regulate landholding in the region were those living on governmentowned strips along the railway lines. Local officials and unscrupulous individuals demanded service fees from people squatting along government owned rights of way. In November 1936 The Atlantic Voice published an editorial advising people who lived and farmed on the land to apply for legal possession. At the same time, incidents began to occur involving individuals who claimed to represent the government.32 Men arrived from San José with documents and threatened the occupants with eviction if they did not pay a given amount. Another common practice was for police officials to charge fees for leaving squatters alone and for keeping other people from settling on land already claimed by someone else. By 1937 local police regularly charged illegal fees to designate the lots that the government had allocated to individuals along the railway lines.33 These lots were small and occupied by people who did not rely exclusively on farming to make a living. In addition to the fees for designating lots, the tenants were asked to pay high rents and threatened with eviction if they did not sign contracts.34 Once again the community asked for justice, but the result for many West Indians was that they were no longer able to live relatively free of government interference. After 1934 no village or group in Limón was too isolated to be beyond the reach of the authorities, and the government began to scrutinize all aspects of life in the region. One of the most striking instances of discrimination in Limón began in the mid-1930s when an apparent epidemic of mentally ill West Indians began to alarm the Costa Rican authorities. In 1936 the governor of the Province of Limón, Ricardo Alvarado, appealed to

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President León Cortés for a solution to the problem caused by these “individuals from a foreign race” who were wandering the streets of Limón.35 His request stemmed from concerns expressed by the directors of institutions like the Chapuí asylum and the Hospital for Incurables, who argued that Jamaicans occupied spaces that Costa Ricans could use and insisted that something had to be done about demented foreigners. The government responded by stating that Costa Rica was not responsible for foreigners resident in the country, and the British consul was asked to help send undesirable West Indians to Jamaica. As part of the effort the secretary of state, Manuel Jimenéz, wrote to the governor of Limón seeking authorization to obtain proof of “Jamaican” nationality from West Indians in order to deport an “alarming number of demented people.”36 A survey was then made of all the mental institutions in the country to find out how many foreigners were wards of the state. In addition, the chief of police in Limón was asked to identify any other individuals in the city who appeared to be mentally deficient.37 The police supplied a list that included people who were in jail at the time and individuals living in and around the city. The police were not capable of diagnosing mental illness, but they could be called upon to identity undesirables. The concern expressed by Costa Rican authorities was that the “locos” posed a danger to the citizens of Limón. The investigation produced a list of over fifty individuals considered too dangerous to be loose in Costa Rica, and the government attempted to deport all of them to Jamaica. Some of the individuals were guilty of crimes and already in jail, but others were merely judged incapable of caring for themselves and seen as a burden to society. Almost half of the dangerous foreigners on the list were women, and while the Costa Rican authorities considered them Jamaican, the names of people born in Costa Rica or on other Caribbean islands were also included. One of the derogatory terms for West Indians in Limón was “Jamaiquinos,” and the government of Jamaica was expected to take responsibility for any and all persons of African descent. Community leaders in Limón found out about the proposed deportations from articles that appeared in a San José newspaper, the Diario de Costa Rica. They tried to obtain information from the British authorities but were unable to get a clear picture of what was involved. The British consul, ever intent on dealing with issues that confronted the West Indian community, denied knowing more about the proposed deportations than what had been published in the San José press.38 In fact, on several occasions the consul was approached

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by the government for his advice and co-operation in the matter and proved happy to comply.39 The British authorities advised San José that detailed information about the individuals was necessary in order to deal with the question of repatriation.40 The British also had concerns about the nationality of the West Indian residents in Limón and were not interested in repatriating people whose status was in doubt. Subsequently, with the assistance of the British consul, the Costa Rican government appealed to the Jamaican government to accept responsibility for the entire group. However, a Jamaican birth could be proven for only a few of the people that the Costa Ricans wanted to deport, and most, therefore, did not qualify for repatriation. The Costa Rican government could not produce sufficient information to convince the Jamaican authorities to accept all of the proposed deportees, and, in the end, none of the people on the list were expelled from the country.41 Some members of the West Indian community were also concerned about those the government described as demented. Part of their concern was for the well being of the individuals involved, but some community members worried about the unflattering attention generated by “demented Jamaicans.” With United Fruit having begun its move to the Pacific coast, people in the province already found themselves in a tenuous economic position, and by 1936 West Indians in Costa Rica were experiencing heightened levels of discrimination by Hispanics. They understood the threat that growing numbers of apparently sick people posed to the well being of the entire community. Therefore, in the aftermath of the failed deportation attempt, West Indian community leaders were quick to join the Costa Rican authorities in their efforts to deal with the spread of what they portrayed as mental illness.42 The governor of Limón and leading members of the West Indian community worked together to get to the root of the problem. However, they did not link the decline of United Fruit, the marginalization of people of African descent, or the increased discrimination against the West Indian community in Costa Rica to the apparent rise in the incidence of mental illness. Instead, in another direct attack on the community, the West Indian élite and their Hispanic counterparts chose to focus not on the fundamental problem of racism but on the increase in the popularity of African-based religious practices. According to The Atlantic Voice, religious sects were one of the “principal causes of so many insane Negroes” in Limón and a disgrace to the West Indian community.43

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6 Class Divisions and Internal Dissent1

Throughout the long period of decline in the banana industry, community members sought solutions to their immediate dilemmas while struggling to redefine their relationship with Costa Rica. Those best placed to deal with the crisis relied on the security of their class position in the West Indian community and on their ability to use the legal system to overcome the obstacles they encountered. However, most people were at the mercy of the Hispanic authorities, who replaced the company officials as the power brokers in the region. For many, one of the only sources of security and protection from the arbitrary actions against people of African descent was the expression of religious devotion within a congregation. With respect to religion, most people accepted the guidance of mainstream Christian churches, but others looked elsewhere for solutions. A wide variety of choices was available to those seeking alternatives to the mainstream because Afro-Christian spiritualism had arrived in Limón with the first West Indian immigrants. As tensions mounted in Limón in the 1930s, mainstream religious leaders were unable to assuage the concerns of their followers, and a new wave of religious ferment swept across the region. In fact, the election of President León Cortés coincided with the appearance of what was considered one of the greatest threats to social stability since the arrival of the West Indians. On 20 September 1936 the Diario de Costa Rica reported that a new “form of lunacy” was “taking a very serious hold on one section of the population.”2 Dementia apparently resulted from participation in the “savage” religious practices of what the newspaper called

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“Cocomia.” The Diario de Costa Rica presented “Cocomia” to Spanish speaking Costa Ricans as an evil practice with “strange and frightful repercussions.” According to the article, the threat of “Cocomia” was serious enough to have seen the practice prohibited in Cuba. In extreme cases, the author warned, children were sacrificed. Moreover, by the newspaper’s account, “Cocomia” was on the rise in Limón, where practitioners were detained on several occasions by Costa Rican authorities. However, the newspaper claimed that the police were powerless because in every case they had been unable to prove that laws had been broken and had been forced to release the individuals they had arrested.3 The new religion was portrayed as a looming evil prevalent among people of African descent and a threat to the stability of the nation. “Cocomia” was actually a religious practice native to Jamaica and popularly known as Pocomia or Revivalism.4 It was also synonymous with the practices of a wide variety of Christian and quasiChristian religious sects that existed in Limón during the period. As a group, the sects, or “cultos” as they were referred to in Spanish, included the Pentecostal Baptists who spoke in tongues and other groups whose practices reflected strong African influences. The English and Spanish press distorted more than just the name of the religion; it also attributed all sorts of “diabolical” rituals to the cults. Women were said to be naked from the waist up during worship, and human sacrifice was often hinted at. Some groups were also accused of smoking marijuana and engaging in scandalous sexual behaviour with minors as part of their ritual. Clearly, the exaggerations illustrated the ignorance of the accusers, but these wild claims also served to raise the alarm at a time when the West Indian community was already under scrutiny. The Atlantic Voice, as the representative of the West Indian élite, followed up on the story in the Diario de Costa Rica with a series of letters, articles and editorials decrying the evils of the religious cults.5 W.A. Petgrave, in a letter to the editor, encapsulated the fears of the West Indian élite when he wrote that Pocomia cults were increasing in numbers during 1936 and attracting “the lower order” of the community. The writer urged the government to pass laws against religious cults and to use an “iron hand” in dealing with practitioners. Petgrave, a community leader in Siquirres, went so far as to send a petition to the secretary of state asking that action be taken to suppress the cults and demanding that adherents of Pocomia be expelled from Coasta Rica. Though the cults could have been ignored and isolated within the community, the problem for Limón’s West Indian élite was that a small number of people were drawing attention to

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the fact that African influences were a part of their collective heritage. As a consequence of their angst over the Costa Rican attitude toward people of African descent, the community élite proved willing to join in the repression of fellow West Indians. Precursors to what was known as Pocomia in the 1930s had arrived in Costa Rica with the West Indian immigrants at the turn of the century. At the time of the St. Kitts strike in 1910 the Limón Times attacked the Revivalists in Limón, and Marcus Garvey was criticized for his defence of the practitioners.6 Samuel Nation, then a reporter for the Limón Times, accused some of the strike leaders of being Obeah men.7 Similarly, a United Fruit manager singled out “halfeducated preachers” as agitators in the 1919 strike in Bocas del Toro.8 In a subsequent report on the incident a company official quoted Theophilus Glashen, a Baptist minister and one of the strike leaders, as telling the men that God had sent him to rescue them, to which the men responded, in reference to “white people,” “we shall murder them, we shall kill them.”9 People like Glashen posed a threat to the interests of the fruit company and those who benefitted most from the multinational’s presence. The West Indians along the Atlantic seaboard of Central America also interacted with other parts of the Caribbean in their development of religious beliefs. In the same way that Marcus Garvey was radicalized by his experience on the plantations, Limón also played a role in the emergence of a significant West Indian religious leader. Joseph Hibbert, the founder of the “Ethiopian Coptic Faith,” one of the three pillars of Rastafarianism, spent twenty years in Costa Rica from 1911 to 1931.10 Hibbert’s experience in Costa Rica led him to believe in the day of reckoning for the white race and in the return to Africa for the chosen race. The hardships and discrimination he suffered in Limón served to form an integral part of his doctrinal teachings.11 Although by 1936 Joseph Hibbert had long since left Costa Rica, his experience with Hispanic authorities, company officials, and the religious hierarchy in Limón was shared by all those who remained in the country. With some exceptions, religious divisions tended to reflect the social structure in Limón. The Catholic Church catered primarily to Hispanics while the Anglican Church was the spiritual refuge of United Fruit officials and the West Indian community leaders. The Anglican Church in Limón was at one time the largest congregation in Central America. However, with the decline of British influence in the western Caribbean, the church lost much of its vigour and by as early as the mid-1910s had a difficult time meeting the needs of its members. According to Reverend Arthur R. Gray of the Episcopal

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Church in the Canal Zone, the “Caribbean Anglicans” of Limón had “not seen a real church or heard the liturgy in several years” but continued to resist “the invitation of dissenters” to join their churches.12 The dissenters belonged to non-conformist churches like the Methodist and Baptist that enjoyed their greatest popularity among the ordinary workers and peasants of the province. Together, the mainstream churches formed a common front that supported the established order. However, life in Limón was the natural enemy of mainstream religious formalism because the province’s isolation made it a world apart. People lived in small communities along the coast or along the railway lines. As a function of their size, these communities were often beyond the reach of mainstream religions because established churches preferred to have the people come to them.13 Also, because the West Indians of Costa Rica were a cross section of the Caribbean, every possible religious influence could be, and often was, represented in Limón. There was no shortage of alternatives to the mainstream religions since the pan-Caribbean nature of Limón’s population meant that several religious influences existed in every community. Groups like the Seventh Day Adventists, Witnesses of Jehovah, Russelites, and Bedwardites could be found throughout the province. Another one of the alternatives to the mainstream in the 1930s just happened to be Pocomia, an Afro-Christian sect that, at another time, might have been seen as misguided but relatively harmless. Although the details of the development of Afro-Christian religions in Limón are sparse, insights can be gained through an examination of similar practices in Jamaica during the same period.14 By the 1920s Pocomia had evolved in Jamaica to become the latest version of a long line of African-influenced religious practices. The sects were made up of people who followed the leadership of individuals considered to be both healers and priests. Dance, “speaking in tongues,” and spirit possession were combined with mainstream Christian beliefs to form a fluid basis for Pocomia’s religious tenets. Two principle dimensions to Pocomia in Jamaica were relevant to its popularity in Limón. First, Pocomia was more strongly influenced by African tribal religion than Christianity.15 Second, it appears to have been viewed as a source of security for dislocated rural migrants.16 In essence, Pocomia in Limón was a charismatic religion whose new vision of the future appealed to a large number of the community’s oppressed. Of all the African-influenced religions popular in Limón, Pocomia stood out in the 1930s because it was gaining a reputation for radicalism in Jamaica at the same time. At the time of the heightened popularity of Pocomia in Jamaica, independence from Britain was on the

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horizon, and there were many expressions of people’s frustration with colonial rule. However, Pocomia was more radical than the anti-colonial movement in Jamaica because it identified imperialism with the “white race.” Some people in Jamaica became so concerned about the spread of “Revivalism” that in 1937 prominent members of the business community asked the government of the island to enforce a law passed in 1802 against “self-styled preachers.”17 The fears of business leaders were realized the following year when a number of labour rebellions took place in Jamaica. According to one author, the social unrest of 1938 in Jamaica was linked to the popularity of Revivalism.18 Social and economic links between Limón and the Caribbean also guaranteed the free flow of information and the spread of ideas. People in Limón shared problems with their counterparts in other parts of the Caribbean region because many of them depended on the United Fruit Company or other multinational corporations for their livelihoods. Newspapers like the Negro World, the Blackman, and others were passed from hand to hand, farm to farm, and town to town. The spread of information of all sorts was also facilitated by the population’s perpetual need to migrate about the region in search of opportunities. For these reasons, information about the common struggles of West Indians informed everyday discourse in Limón and helped to extend the geography of any social phenomenon. As a result, conditions were always good for the spread of radicalism among the West Indians in Limón, and the late 1930s were optimal. The limited details available on Revivalism in Limón are consistent with descriptions of religious movements elsewhere.19 Events described in one study of Jamaica found that adherents were often converted “shortly after traumatic experiences involving economic disasters.”20 In Limón the problems resuting from the spread of plant disease and the economic crisis of the 1930s were compounded by government attempts to impose its control over the region. By 1936 chronic conditions of economic disaster existed in the province. The circumstances in which the West Indians of Limón lived were also similar to those that occasioned the rise of millenarian movements elsewhere in the world.21 Therefore, Limón was an ideal location for the development of radical responses to a life of chronic poverty. Another aspect of Revivalism in Jamaica that appears to have been characteristic of the version in Limón was the predominance of women participants motivated “at least in part by the need for economic security.”22 While studying Pocomia in Jamaica, Donald Hogg found that many of the women involved were single, separated, or widowed and that many left the group after entering relationships with men or achieving economic security. Revivalism, with its

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emphasis on communal security, no matter how poorly organized, had the potential to attract many women in Limón, where plantation agriculture served to separate families. With the disruptions caused by the depression and the spread of plant disease, men from Limón left the region in search of employment. The economic crisis of the 1930s also affected women more than men because of the limitations society placed on their ability to secure work outside the home. The biggest employer of women in Limón was the United Fruit Company. Women were hired in large numbers to work as maids, cooks, nannies, and general servants. The withdrawal of the company from the region meant a sharp decline in the availability of work for women and a corresponding increase in the flight of men in search of opportunities elsewhere. In Limón, the frustrations and insecurity of many West Indians found expression in a Pocomia group led by Altiman Krimbell Dabney.23 Dabney was not an ordinary spiritual leader. He was the “Heir of Law, Crownprince First of the First Resurrection Fourpole Demander, E-3 V V F C C S G X G,” and claimed to have been sent to Costa Rica by the “God of the black race.”24 Dabney had more than an impressive title, he was also known as a popular “healer” and was consulted by people who could not afford, or did not trust, the healthcare offered by the United Fruit Company hospital. On the other hand, community leaders portrayed him as a lunatic to be both scorned and pitied. Nevertheless, by the mid-1930s Dabney’s reputation and his religious preachings had spread throughout the province and he had gained noteriety as a radical.25 Alti, as he was locally known, became the leader of “The New Jerusalem Revelation Baptist Church” at the beginning of the decade and was constantly harassed by government authorities because of his religious teachings. In late October 1936 he was accused of kidnapping a fourteen-year-old girl who became a medium for God at religious meetings. In his defence Dabney later claimed that the young girl had been brought to him by her grandmother.26 There was some doubt about the matter in the minds of the police, who investigated but did not arrest Dabney for kidnapping. Instead, the incident was treated as a family dispute. The authorities did, however, continue to worry about Dabney’s influence among West Indians and were on the lookout for any opportunity to put him out of business. After much searching for a pretext for raiding Dabney’s sanctuary, the “Crownprince” was arrested, the young girl he was accused of kidnapping was returned to her parents, and the New Jerusalem Revelation Baptist Church was closed for good. The police and newspaper reports on the matter reveal how serious a threat Dabney was thought to be.

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Dabney’s appeal among West Indians stemmed from his knowledge of the “black arts” and his defiance of authority. His temple, “The Healing Balm Tabernacle,” was located close to the city centre and was guarded by a small group of his followers. For ceremonial purposes Alti wore a head-dress that included horns and a cape made of animal skin. In his sermons he preached that Limón would be consumed by fire and water but that “the Gods would not allow any harm to befall his sanctum [because] it could not be approached by anything profane.”27 When the police stormed the temple, they found stockpiles of clothing and other items that loyal followers had brought for the judgement day. The authorities believed that the faithful had sold all their earthly belongings and given the proceeds to Alti, their “Shepherd,” for safekeeping.28 Alti’s capture was not an easy matter because his sanctuary was guarded by his followers, who resisted the police with sticks and knives.29 According to newspaper accounts, the first attempt to subdue Dabney was repelled by his supporters, and the police were forced to seek reinforcements. A few hours later “more than 28 wellarmed police along with a large crowd of concerned community members again attacked the Healing Balm Tabernacle in an attempt to subdue Alti.”30 After a protracted battle, the police put down the resistance, and several people were taken into custody. Of note is the fact that the majority of those who defended the temple against the police were women. When the police finally captured Alti he defied them by refusing to wear clothes and exploded with a series of expletives about Costa Rica and Hispanics in general. The police were forced to wrap Alti in a sheet and march him to the station along with his entire “Body Guard who were all dressed in fantastic costumes.”31 Unlike their experience with the demented West Indians who were not deported, the Costa Rican authorities were successful in ridding the country of Alti and what they considered a particularly dangerous group. Within a matter of days Alti, five women, two men, and three children were paraded through the streets of Limón and deported to Jamaica as undesirables.32 The Diario de Costa Rica reported that the government intended to put an end to the practice of Pocomia in Costa Rica and that more expulsions were expected to follow. No further expulsions were reported, although many people were detained and mistreated by the authorities in their search for suspected Pocomians. An interviewee who remembers the event has given a partial explanation for the small number of deportations, noting that most of Alti’s followers were not Jamaicans but CostaRican-born West Indians who could not be expelled because no other country would accept them.

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Alti’s deportation was a different matter because he had a history of problems with the authorities. According to a report carried in The Daily Gleaner, in 1932 police entered Alti’s tabernacle during a service, destroyed the interior, and took the worshippers down to the police station. About a month later, the police went to the homes of church members in the middle of the night and arrested several people, jailing them without trial. When Alti was refused an explanation, he sued the Costa Rican government for $7,000 in damages. His followers claimed that he had won his case, but the Costa Rican government reneged on its obligations to the courts, and Alti never received redress.33 Following the events of 1932 Dabney continued to suffer at the hands of police and eventually sought protection from the British authorities. He reported to the British legation in Panama in 1933 that his life had been threatened by the local police on several occasions, and he told the press that he had been constantly harassed because of his beliefs. Alti also told British authorities that members of the police force had been caught attempting to demolish his temple. Although Dabney and at least some of his followers were British subjects, he was refused assistance because the British authorities also considered him a troublemaker. The harassment continued, and on 3 May 1936, when León Cortés was about to be inaugurated, Dabney was told by a policeman that the government was making plans to kill him.34 There is no proof other than Altiman Dabney’s word that such a plot existed, but it is significant that he should have linked his problems to the individual responsible for the most systematic attack ever made on the West Indian community. León Cortés was the minister in the Jiménez government who signed the 1934 contract and the companion clause into law, and he made no secret of his concern over the African presence in Costa Rica. As soon as León Cortés assumed office in 1936 his ministers began issuing orders that were direct assaults on the wellbeing of the West Indian minority. Alti responded to the threats against himself and his community by accusing León Cortés of discriminating against people of African descent. The police had a difficult time building a case against Shepherd Alti because his mere presence and preachings were perfectly legal. Dabney was not breaking any Costa Rican laws by dispensing his medicinal services or by exercising his religious freedom. Therefore, an effort was made to infiltrate his organization using a “Secret Service” that reported on his activities. A couple of West Indians were enlisted, and, according to the spies, Alti voiced “lengthy anathemas” against President León Cortés during his sermons.35 Government officials took his threats against the government and Cortés seriously.

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His denunciations of the president of the Republic, a man they believed was beyond reproach, were considered not only evidence of his dementia but also the kind of proof required by the authorities to label him a pernicious person. By portraying Alti as a lunatic and threat to the state, the government could deport him from Costa Rica in summary fashion. Alti was not given a fair trial after his arrest, but care was obviously taken to avoid the involvement of the British authorities and perhaps even to prevent some sort of reaction from the West Indian community. Alti had been permitted to practise his religion for several years while the police built a case against him, and even though he had fallen behind in the rent on his temple, the police did not help his landlord to evict him. Newspaper reports also indicate that he was accused by the police of abducting the young girl long before they dealt with him. One of the reasons the police took so long to build their case is that Alti was an extremely popular figure among the poorer West Indians and they feared the wrath of his supporters. Proof of Alti’s popularity was uncovered by the police when they raided his temple. Among the items confiscated from Dabney’s church were “thousands” of letters from people from all over the province asking for cures and potions.36 Since the West Indian population in Limón amounted to less than 19,000 in the mid-1930s, Alti’s popularity clearly extended far beyond the confines of his sanctuary overlooking the city. As a popular healer and religious leader he was a threat because he preached solidarity among West Indians in the face of discrimination in Costa Rica. One of his followers summed up Alti’s beliefs when she remarked that “…the black race should link together as it was from the beginning.”37 Altiman Dabney’s calls for racial solidarity in the 1930s were significant because, with the decline of the unia , the community lacked an organizing body to act in their defense. The New Jerusalem Revelation Baptist Church, with Altiman Dabney as its leader, promised to unite the West Indians in a time of acute crisis. One of the most revealing pieces of information about Alti surfaced when he was inadvertently allowed to make a final statement in the local press. The police gave La Voz del Atlántico, the Spanish half of the local newspaper, a copy of Alti’s statement, which was intended to serve as proof of his insanity. Instead, he was given a public platform for his parting message. Dabney cursed Costa Rica for persecuting him and wished that the “brightest day be converted into the darkest night with rain, wind, thunder and lightening, earthquakes and floods.”38 He also called upon the “God of the black race” to bring disaster upon Costa Rica. With the unwitting assistance of the

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police and La Voz del Atlántico, Altiman Dabney’s parting statement was broadcast throughout Limón. The West Indian community could not but be reminded of God’s ability and desire to intercede on behalf of people of the African descent in Costa Rica. Only a few months prior to his arrest, the “Whites Only” bathing complex had been destroyed by precisely the kind of apocalyptic forces Dabney called upon for justice. The authorities in Limón were right to be concerned because groups such as Altiman Dabney’s were a threat. People like Dabney catered to individuals uncomfortable with the existing religious denominations. The followers of the cults infuriated the West Indian leaders because the Hispanic press used hearsay about cult practices to denigrate West Indians in general and shame the entire community. Cult followers were said to be “haunted” or led by “evil spirits.”39 Moreover, it was rumoured that the police had discovered several human skeletons in Alti’s temple and that the practitioners of Pocomia used human blood in their ceremonies. Although the rumours circulated freely, an interviewee has stated that they were “not verified but … noised around” and that the “noise” became too loud for the community to bear. The government relied on public opinion to determine when Alti could be removed. The local newspaper carried extensive accounts of the cult’s vile practices and mocked those who believed in the preachings of people like Dabney. In addition, Samuel Nation’s articles against Pocomia and in support of police action were taken as the sanction of the community leadership. In two reports, one written by the local chief of detectives and one submitted by the justice secretary to the minister of foreign relations, justification for the treatment of the Revivalists was linked to Samuel Nation’s articles.40 Nation, as the self-styled leader of the community, had proven himself a loyal ally in the struggle to maintain control of Limón on so many occasions that the authorities gauged their actions according to his opinion of events. It was not the first time that The Atlantic Voice had swayed public opinion, and the newspaper’s attacks on Dabney served to fuel the discrimination already being experienced by the West Indian community. Samuel Nation was joined by other West Indians in taking a firm stand against the cults endemic to Limón. According to The Atlantic Voice, several dozen members of the West Indian community wrote President León Cortés to express their “utter regret and shame” concerning the “heinous mysticism” that characterized Dabney and his followers. They thanked Cortés for his timely intervention in the matter and urged him to continue his efforts to eradicate Pocomia in

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Costa Rica. In addition, the newspaper published an old letter to Dabney from the British legation in Panama indicating that he was considered a nuisance.41 The support of community leaders for government repression did not curb the incidence of religious fanaticism, but it did provide a precedent for further action against West Indians. In the months and years that followed, the Costa Rican government took advantage of the West Indian élite’s support for, and British ambivalence toward, the suppression of religious cults. The Costa Rican government was not interested in seeing Pocomia or any other spiritual movement capture the imaginations of West Indians in Limón. On several occasions local police officials, under the command of the governor, harassed and occasionally arrested cult members. Repression worked in specific cases but did not put an end to the existence of religious cults. In April 1937, the primary concern of the local élite was that a few of Dabney’s former disciples had begun to follow a man who became known in the press as the new “Pocomanian” chief. George Davis, a man with a history of confrontations with West Indian community leaders, became the new focus of attention. Davis was arrested after Ferdinand McIntosh, a suspected follower of the new chief, was arrested for murder. According to newspaper reports, Ferdinand McIntosh had a fit of insanity and Davis was called to use “spiritual powers” to cure him. McIntosh was found wandering in the Panamanian border region and was returned to Limón by people concerned about his state of mind and his obvious inability to care for himself.42 After returning to Limón he grew violent, and his neighbours became so concerned he might hurt someone that they threw him to the ground and bound him hand and foot. Davis was called upon to assist in the matter. He arrived and prayed with the man, and after McIntosh had calmed down, Davis released him from his bonds. The next morning, according to newspaper reports, McIntosh awoke in a rage, took off his clothes, and chased his family out of the house with a machete. The family was terrified and hid in a neighbouring house until McIntosh burst in and attacked them. The unfortunate victim of his wrath was his four-year-old sister, who, according to Samuel Nation, was “made into mince meat.”43 McIntosh then ran into the ocean and had to be rescued before being subdued. The police immediately began looking for Davis because he had been involved and had released McIntosh from the restraining devices. Although Davis was an unwitting accomplice in the tragedy, he was certain the police would blame him and decided it best to go into hiding.

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George Davis feared the consequences of his actions even though he was not responsible for what had happened. As a man constantly harassed for his religious teachings, he had to worry about reprisals. When Davis was finally apprehended by the authorities he was accused of more than merely contributing to the incident. Hysteria had replaced common sense, and The Atlantic Voice alleged that McIntosh had been advised by George Davis to “get a sacrifice and eat its brain and heart.”44 Despite Samuel Nation’s efforts to smear Davis with wild accusations, the religious leader was released from custody because the police lacked evidence of his participation in the murder. Nevertheless, Davis’ reputation as a “Pocomaniac” had been firmly established by the young girl’s death. Davis continued to teach his religious beliefs in his chapel at Camp One Road but not without drawing the unwanted attention of the authorities and some of his compatriots. Like Alti, George Davis was considered a thorn in the side of local authorities. The week before the tragedy, in a scene reminiscent of Jesus clearing the temple of pedlars, Davis cleared a meeting of the Jamaica Burial Scheme Association out of a house owned by United Fruit. The company had given Davis permission to hold religious services, and upon seeing a secular organization using the building, he attempted to put a stop to the meeting. Davis considered the building to have been “consecrated to the service of his God,” and, according to a newspaper report of the incident, he ran “amuck.” To make matters worse, he committed a serious breach of protocol in Limón by insulting a United Fruit Company official.45 In response to the attack, United Fruit cancelled Davis’ complimentary travelling pass on the Northern Railroad, and The Atlantic Voice began a series of personal attacks on the “new Pocomia priest.” Although the newspaper focused on Davis’ recent actions, Samuel Nation had another reason for launching his vehement attack. A few years earlier, Samuel Nation, a respected member of the community, had supported George Davis in his bid to have the Pentecostal Union Baptist Church incorporated in Costa Rica. Davis had registered his church as a branch of the Pentecostal Union Society of Oregon. Later, Samuel Nation discovered that the organization he had helped to establish used a “Holy Rolly” method of worship that involved members speaking in tongues. In 1931, the newspaper editor began his attacks against “Brother Davis,” calling him a trickster who played on people’s superstitions.46 After the Alti incident, Nation again used his newspaper to discredit Davis.47 In retaliation, Davis used the rival newspaper on the Atlantic coast, the Central American Express, to publish his rebuttal and to threaten Nation with a lawsuit if he continued to libel him in his newspaper.48 Nation quit

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his slanderous attacks, but government officials continued to monitor Davis’ activities and harass him at every opportunity. After the McIntosh girl’s murder George Davis was forced to publicly dissociate himself from Pocomia and devote his attention to the Pentecostal Baptist Society. Despite his efforts to avoid confrontation with the authorities, the police were determined to put an end to Pocomia.49 Consequently, Davis’ chapel was broken into and searched by police in January 1938 because of rumours that he had once again been practising Pocomia. All the police found was a copy of the Bible and some lanterns, which they siezed. George Davis was incensed by the raid and threatened legal action against anyone who slandered him by linking his church with Pocomia.50 He was especially angry that the police had acted illegally by breaking into the chapel and had not treated him with the respect a religious leader deserved. By coincidence, within days of the raid the Diario de Costa Rica published a warning from the Costa Rican government to suspected practitioners of Pocomia. The newspaper printed a picture of Altiman Dabney and his wife along with an article stating that the government would be deporting anyone considered a Pocomian.51 The problem for the government was that unlike Altiman Dabney, George Davis did not make threats against the president or other authorities. Instead, he maintained a dignified stance as one of many religious leaders in Limón and did not present the government with the opportunity they were looking for. Nevertheless, in November 1938 the governor of Limón requested that Davis, like Altiman Dabney, be deported. However, the request was denied by the secretary of the interior because the Costa Rican government lacked the evidence needed to pass a deportation decree and was reluctant to force another deportation issue on the British authorities.52 Although George Davis and what was called “Pocomia” were targeted by United Fruit, the West Indian elite, and Costa Rican authorities, the “cults” continued to be popular in Limón. The government’s only recourse was to arrest people of African descent suspected of being “Pocomaniacs” and charge them with being immoral. Police records during the period of heightened hysteria over the cults in Limón indicate the degree of government action. Table 6.1 demonstrates that a person was far more likely to be arrested and charged with morality crimes in Limón than anywhere else in the country. In 1936 and 1937 one third of all morality charges were laid in Limón, where only about 7 per cent of the population lived but where almost everyone of African descent resided. The arrest and deportation of individuals was the most expedient means of attacking the “maniacs,” but other solutions were entertained.

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116 The West Indians of Costa Rica Table 6.1 Crimes Committed against Morality and Good Customs Province

1934

1935

1936

1937

1938

Population*

San José Alajuela Cartago Guanacaste Heredia Limón Puntarenas

40 4 2 1 4 15 9

16 5 4 9 1 6 15

86 21 19 23 14 113 40

185 38 43 27 54 166 42

208 67 32 62 37 80 50

153,183 97,577 70,198 51,142 38,407 32,278 28,739

Total

75

56

316

555

536

471,524

* Population figures are from the 1927 census and are meant to serve as an indication of the relative dimensions of the police action. Source: Gobierno de Costa Rica. Anuario Estadístico, (1935–38). Reproduced by Chadwyk-Healy Ltd., London.

Continued agitation by Limón’s leading citizens led the government to look into the possibility of sterilizing people considered incurably insane, and Pocomians were thought to be crazy.53 The Atlantic Voice, the English half of the local newspaper, which prided itself on being at the forefront of attempts to “uplift the negro race,” regarded sterilization as the only effective method of stemming the evil in society. In a statement echoing Hispanic attitudes toward people of African descent, Samuel Nation argued in favour of the sterilization of “the offspring of germ infested, diseased parents, who must not only drag out their own weary, wretched existence, but who…constitute a dangerous menace” to public health.54 In this respect, Nation agreed with the members of the Amigos del País who, a decade earlier, had argued that the most effective way of dealing with people considered undesirable was to prevent them from reproducing. Once again, the West Indian élite’s concern about appearances kept them from defending the entire community against attacks from Costa Rican authorities. When Nation’s invectives against the practitioners of Pocomia diminished, his counterpart with La Voz del Atlántico published editorials that went even further in their condemnation of countercultural religious practices. In April 1939 La Voz del Atlántico raised fears among its readers by stating that Pocomia had reached new heights in the region.55 According to one editorial, adherents of Pocomia were involved in desecrating graves, robbing corpses, dealing in body parts, and kidnapping children.56 The editorial demanded that the government use stronger measures to eliminate the cults from Costa Rica. The paper presented the religious cults to Hispanic readers

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as a threat to all the decent people in the province and predicted more tragedies if the “Altimen” were not eliminated. The editorials against Pocomia reported the most outrageous abuses said to have been committed by the cults. What was lacking and what the police authorities seem to have overlooked was any proof of wrong doing. Everything was hearsay and based on police reports that speculated on the nature of items found in the possession of suspected practitioners. The information about practices that filtered to the government and newspapers was based on observations by outsiders to the religious ceremonies. At meetings, adherents were said to jump about, scream, and even fall into a comatose state.57 One interviewee has reported that people would fall unconscious, lay on the ground for up to a day, and then get up and walk away. All of the accounts of cult activities spoke of the extraordinary nature of the groups and their rituals. Nonetheless, there were few consistent patterns of deviant behaviour, and the authorities may not have been able to distinguish between Pocomia and other non-conformist religious expressions. Consequently, doubts concerning the practices of Pocomia also carried over to speculation about the exact nature of other, presumably more respectable, groups. George Davis was not the only leader of a Protestant sect to be singled out for harassment. While the initial attacks were against people like Dabney, other less threatening groups also became targets. The United Fruit Company joined in the harassment of the non-conformists by suspending its sponsorship of annual excursion trains for religious denominations. According to The Atlantic Voice, the decision was made because of the “bad behaviour and unwarranted miscarriage of law and order among certain groups who patronized the excursions.”58 The implication was that not all religious organizations were respectable or worthy of company support. At the height of the hysteria over Pocomia, The Atlantic Voice lumped other groups like the “Witnesses of Jehovah, Russelites, Adventists and Bedwardites” into the same category.59 All were nonconformist and exclusive groups that attracted some members away from the mainstream churches. The Bedwardites and some Adventists also displayed elements of racial intolerance, and some affiliates were accused of “preaching race prejudice.”60 In response to the attacks in the press, Frank Fletcher, a Seventh Day Adventist minister, wrote to The Atlantic Voice to complain about the ignorance of the writer of the article. He argued that the Seventh Day Adventists were respected throughout the world and that the newspaper should attempt to prove things before printing them.61 Despite Fletcher’s

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criticisms the newspaper did not change its editorial policy, and the attacks on divergent religious groups continued into the next year. On a regular basis the newspaper took pains to describe extravagant rituals witnessed in Limón. At the same time as “Pocomania” was being singled out by the government and the press as a problem in Limón, Obeah, which was a medicinal and spiritual practice common to the West Indies, was also being scrutinized. In a sense, Obeah was an option of last resort for many who could not afford, did not respond to, or perhaps did not trust the modern medical treatment offered by the United Fruit hospital.62 In September 1937 an Obeah man called Todopoderso (All Powerful) Nelson was arrested in Limón for being a “pernicious person.” Nelson was suspected of being a thief and a charlatan who took advantage of other people’s misery. When the police arrested him, he was found to be in possession of vials containing contents of unknown origin: “funny kinds of oil” and “concoctions of weeds.”63 The Atlantic Voice was particularly critical in its coverage of the scourge of Obeah. The Atlantic Voice, which seemed to enjoy privileged access to people in police custody, stated that Nelson claimed not to be a Pocomian or to know anything about George Davis and the “cults.” Nelson said that he was a “child of God, a healer and an Evangelist Preacher.”64 One of the most interesting things about him was that he also had in his possession a receipt book indicating something about the value of the work he performed. At the time, a typical West Indian worker was unemployed or underemployed, yet Nelson could ask for as much as 400 colones for his services. The fact that Nelson was able to sell his services for a high price is indicative of the faith some people in Limón placed in Obeah. However, the African origins of Nelson’s practices raised the suspicion of the authorities and of West Indian community leaders, who tried desperately to dissociate themselves from their African roots. For those members of the community who sought refuge in ties to Costa Rica’s Hispanic power brokers, any demonstration of West Indian resistance to integration was seen as a threat. The concerns over Pocomia and the dementia with which it was associated by the community leaders disappeared after Altiman Dabney and the others were deported or driven underground. Attacks on the more acceptable of the cults also ended, and these fringe groups were able to overcome the stigma attached to being out of the mainstream. Nevertheless, Samuel Nation’s attitude toward the religious sects reflected those of others in the community worried about anyone who drew attention to their African ancestry.

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In most cases the people least able to defend themselves came under attack, and the West Indian élite did little to help. The mentally handicapped, the eccentric, and the radical were all treated the same way because they drew unflattering attention to the community. West Indian community leaders were socially Hispanic and chose to join in the condemnation of individuals at the fringes of society because they did not want to be rejected. They had what Frantz Fanon has called “black skin” and “white masks.”65 Accordingly, the community that they represented was portrayed as one whose members were childlike and in need of direction. Where discrimination against West Indians was obvious, community leaders blamed West Indians for not doing their part to demonstrate that they were equal in every way to the Hispanic majority. The attitude of the West Indian leadership reflected the Social Darwinism that was prevalent in highland society and helped the government to justify its over-reaction to Pocomia in Limón. The failure of community leaders to defend the religious freedom of individuals served as an invitation for the Costa Rican authorities to increase the pressure on people of African descent to conform to Hispanic ideals. At stake was the West Indian cultural identity, and the community was all but defenceless.

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7 The “Africanization” of Costa Rica: Racism and Reaction

The fallout from the Pocomia affair extended throughout Limón, bringing the West Indian community’s cultural and ethnic differences to the forefront of government concern over issues of national identity. The problem for the community was twofold. The United Fruit Company, which had long been the community’s lifeline, was rapidly disappearing from the lives of people in the province, and the Costa Rican government’s presence was increasing in direct proportion to the corporation’s decline. The result was a greater level of government intervention in the lives of the West Indian community, which had much less recourse to protection from the United Fruit Company. Nevertheless, the fate of the West Indians of Costa Rica remained in the hands of the company because it continued to be the country’s largest single employer. The company’s importance was ensured when it was allowed to abandon its disease ridden and exhausted Atlantic coast plantations in favour of fertile land on the Pacific side of the country. Consequently, by mid-century the value of United Fruit Company products were not only exceeded that of coffee in the Costa Rican economy but also amounted to almost one third of the country’s total agricultural output. In addition to controlling 58.2 per cent of the export market, United Fruit employed 19,100 workers in 1949.1 The following tables clearly show that the decisions made by United Fruit Company managers and executives could have a major impact on the Costa Rican economy.

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121 The “Africanization” of Costa Rica Table 7.1 Value of Export Crops in 1949 In Thousands of US Dollars

Percentage of Total Export Value

Percentage of Combined Export Value

ufc Products Coffee Other export crops

20,438 1,991 2,693

58.2 34.2 7.6

29.1 17.1 3.8

Total exports*

25,122

99.9

49.8

* Percentages do not total 100 due to rounding of numbers. Source: Stacy May et al., Costa Rica: A study in Economic Development. (New York: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1952), 51.

Table 7.2 Value of Domestic Agricultural Products Including Forestry and Fishing in 1949 In Thousands of US Dollars

Percentage of Total Export Value

Percentage of Combined Export Value

All crops Livestock and related products Forestry and fishing

12,472

35.4

17.8

6,688 5,130

47.3 14.5

23.7 7.3

Total domestic products*

24,290

97.2

48.8

* Percentages do not total 100 due to rounding of numbers. Source: Stacy May et al., Costa Rica: A Study in Economic Development. (New York: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1952), 51.

All of the discriminatory policies implemented during the 1930s and 1940s had as their backdrop the economic crisis of the period and its consequences for Limón. Whereas the province accounted for almost 100 per cent of all banana exports from Costa Rica prior to 1930, its share gradually declined over the next two decades.2 Plant disease, labour unrest, and declining world markets took their toll on the province’s economic mainstay. The country’s pre-1929 levels of banana exports were not reached again until 1947, but by then Limón produced only 13 per cent of the country’s total exports of the fruit. The economic collapse was so great in Limón that 1943 actually marked the first year since the 1880s that no bananas were exported from the province. Figure 7.1 details the rise and decline of the banana industry in Limón.

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122 The West Indians of Costa Rica 12 10 8 6 4 2 0

1893 1898 1903 1908 1913 1918 1923 1928 1933 1938 1943 1948 1953 Limon

Sixaloa

To t a l

Figure 7.1 Banana Exports from the Province of Limón, 1893–1953 (in millions of stems) Source: Clarence F. Jones and Paul C. Morrison. “Evolution of the Banana Industry of Costa Rica.” Economic Geography 28, no. 1 (1952): 1–19. (Note: figures for 1948–1953 are projected from data obtained in various archives).

The sharp decline in production after 1927 signalled the end of the first phase of the banana industry in Limón. Banana production and exports from the province declined throughout the 1930s. With the start of the European war in 1939 the industry lost even more momentum. As had occurred during World War One, the industry’s decline accelerated during World War Two because of changes in the domestic economy of the United States. The Great White Fleet came under attack from German submarines, and several ships were diverted to participate in the war effort. Limón’s status as the province with the country’s most dynamic export economy was lost in the 1930s, and West Indians paid the full price. The West Indian community suffered disproportionately from the decline of the banana industry because options available to people of African descent were limited. In Limón unemployment rose continuously throughout the 1930s and into the 1940s, and wage levels worsened for company employees during the same period. In February 1940 an editorial in The Atlantic Voice claimed that West Indians were affected the most by the poor economy and that as many as six to seven thousand able-bodied men were either unemployed or underemployed in Limón.3 West Indians were in a tight spot because they were unable to find work in Limón and were prevented from sharing in the benefits of the expansion of United Fruit plantations on the Pacific coast. Therefore, as the employment situation worsened,

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young men and women were obliged to look beyond Costa Rica’s borders for employment opportunities. Throughout the 1930s the United Fruit Company and its subsidiary, the Northern Railway Company, grew increasingly concerned about the attraction of alternative employment in Panama and elsewhere. In 1937 an exchange of correspondence between the manager of the Northern Railway and his superiors described the situation faced by skilled West Indians in Costa Rica. A memorandum to a United Fruit Company manager stated that all the foreign employees with the Northern Railway had placed their names with other railways and would leave if given the chance. These employees were dissatisfied because their salaries had been rolled back and were identical to those paid in 1907.4 According to the railway manager, they were working longer hours than in the past due to the growing shortage of skilled labour, and the cost of living was increasing. Company officials were especially concerned about the loss of “coloured” conductors and engineers because they were paid only half the salary of “whites.”5 As a result of the threat of the loss of skilled West Indian labour, the Northern Railway was forced to raise wages.6 The men were given a slight increase, but the pattern of inadequate wages remained throughout the 1940s. While highly skilled workers such as engineers and conductors were difficult to replace, the company could afford to be less flexible in dealing with workers who performed jobs that required little or no training. The poor bargaining position of the workers was evident late in 1941 when the “mooring men” sent the company manager a petition pleading for a living wage.7 The first part of the company’s response came when the managers denied the wharf workers their traditional Christmas bonus, an essential part of family income in Costa Rica.8 The rest of the response was a letter from the manager informing them that they were lucky to be employed and free to work elsewhere if they wished. He stated that at the moment there were “quite a number of men who [were] unemployed” and that they would be “only too willing” to work for the wages that had resulted in the mooring men’s complaints.9 Once again the company forced its employees to carry more of the burden for the declining industry. Workers were not the only people affected by the combined effects of economic depression and the devastation wrought by plant diseases. As the economy worsened United Fruit began to concentrate on its operations elsewhere at the expense of Limón and its residents. Everything the company could use on its other plantations began to disappear from Limón. As a result, small farmers began to complain

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in the 1930s that the fruit company was removing the telegraph lines, rails, and bridges on which local communities depended. Their complaints fell on deaf ears, and in the 1940s the destabilization of the local economy through United Fruit’s withdrawl continued.10 The entire support system for the province was threatened by the existence of plantations elsewhere because the company owned everything related to communication and transportation in Limón. As a consequence of the general deterioration of the railway and marketing infrastructure in the Atlantic region, farmers began to demand corporate responsibility.11 In 1936 private producers in Limón asked the government to reform the 1934 contract. They wanted the transport companies to pay an appropriate amount to have rail lines repaired. Complaints about the constant deterioration and reduction of the transportation infrastructure came from farmers of small plots of land throughout the region. An example of the impact of the 1934 contract on marketing in the region was the community of Cahuita. In interviews, residents there have told of the struggle to retain access to the railway mainline – the most direct route to external markets. Loss of the local tramline would have meant returning to dugout canoes as a means of doing business with the Port of Limón. Eventually the people of Cahuita assumed responsibility for the tramline in order to maintain an overland link with the rest of the country.12 But, while the community of Cahuita managed to retain its antiquated but functional connection with the markets, many other farmers stood by helplessly as their economic lifeline was ripped up and carted away. People in the countryside were not the only ones affected by the decline of the banana industry in Limón. Urban centres like Siquirres and the Port of Limón lost many businesses that catered to the needs of the fruit company and its labour force. According to an urban census of housing and living conditions in Costa Rica in 1949, Limón had the country’s highest proportion of non-residential buildings in poor condition. Of a total of 1,891 buildings in Limón’s urban centres, 766 or 40 per cent were found to be in a poor state of repair.13 After 1934 Limón also demonstrated one of the highest levels of inadequate housing in the entire country. Poor housing went hand in hand with poor health, and one of the most telling indicators of the cumulative effects of Limón’s decline was the level of infant mortality. In 1940 The Atlantic Voice reported that in only one month seventy children in the province had died of malnutrition.14 While tropical diseases were a common cause of death in the province during the United Fruit period, malnutrition was never an issue before 1934.

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The result of United Fruit’s abandonment of the Atlantic lowlands was catastrophic in both material and human terms. The omnipresence of the fruit company during the formative years of the banana industry in Limón and its decline in importance in the provincial economy served as the backdrop for the Costa Rican government’s continuing efforts to bring the West Indian community under firm control. The diminution of United Fruit’s role in the province meant not only a loss of jobs and opportunities but also the heightened presence of Costa Rican authority, and the youngest members of the community proved to be among the most vulnerable. One of the targets of the Costa Rican authorities in the late 1930s was the Protestant Church-run English education system, which did not adhere to the national education program. The problem, as the government saw it, was that most churches and even organizations like the Universal Negro Improvement Association ran schools throughout the province. The schools were successful, with Limón boasting the highest literacy levels in the country during the first four decades of the twentieth century. West Indian parents placed a high value on education, and teachers were provided with salaries and classrooms by the communities themselves. Nevertheless, even though the schools offered a good educational foundation and did not compete for students with the state-run schools, the private schools were perceived as a threat because they and their curriculums were beyond the government’s control.15 The first alarm was sounded in the late 1920s when the secretary of education complained that the private schools were an “acute problem for the public education system.”16 According to Secretary Ricardo Fournier, the private schools tended to “denationalize their areas” because they did not teach national ideals and the sentiments of Costa Rica.”17 The problem faced by the Costa Rican government in its struggle to promote national sentiments was that it could not keep up with the demand for education in Limón, where there were not enough public schools.18 The problem of private schools in the province became accute when the fruit company shifted its operations to the Pacific coast and the Costa Rican government moved into Limón in the wake of the 1934 contract. Initially, many private schools were partially funded by the United Fruit Company because of the benefits of having a workforce that spoke, read, and wrote the same language as the managers. When the company moved the bulk of its operations to the Pacific coast, schools and community facilities were left with little or no support. Whereas the Costa Rican government offered free public education, private schools were forced to rely exclusively on tuition fees to fund

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their operations. In rural areas the private schools were often the only schools, and they had to be supported by the community. In places where the public schools could not accommodate all of the students who wanted to enroll, the private institutions met the need. Despite their efficacy, private educational institutions became a concern to the government as it tried to fill the void left by the departure of United Fruit. As part of a general revision of the country’s education system, the government of Rafael Angel Calderón Guardia, which came to office in 1940, pushed forward a program of educational reforms. The changes were aimed at appeasing the Catholic Church and asserting greater control over the public school system. The Catholic Church lobbied successfully to have public schools teach religion as part of the regular curriculum, and, under Calderón, the archdiocese was empowered with the supervision of religious instruction.19 The church decided who would teach religion in all public schools, and parents who did not want their children to attend the religion classes were required to make a formal application to the local authorities. Since the majority of West Indians were not Catholic, this application process affected them most directly. Along with religious instruction came a new emphasis on Spanish in the classroom. In 1940 an education department official visited Limón and argued for the necessity of teaching the official language in the private schools.20 His sentiments were echoed by the Spanishlanguage press, which insisted that West Indians needed to be assimilated. As testimony to the mounting social tensions in Limón, in a letter to La Voz del Atlántico a resident of Siquirres argued that strict regulations should be imposed on private schools in an effort to assimilate the “coloured race” in order to elevate West Indians and make them easier to handle.21 The problem, as outlined by the writer, was similar to that mentioned by the secretary of education a decade earlier when he stated that the West Indian community “lacked national sentiment.” The government was urged by Hispanics to insist on Spanish instruction and to limit the number of private schools as a means of forcing children to attend public institutions. The response of the West Indian community was carried in the English section of the same newspaper a few weeks later. A local West Indian school teacher argued that dialogue between various generations of West Indians had to be maintained through English schools because language was the only link children had with their past.22 Despite the efforts of some West Indians to maintain their educational institutions, new regulations were introduced, and private

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schools came under increased government scrutiny. Under the Calderón government, private schools were no longer allowed to compete with public schools for students. As a result, the hours of instruction at private schools had to be altered so that they would not conflict with the public school schedule. To attend a private school, students had to attend in the late afternoon or on weekends. The government’s official aim was to standardize and regulate education in the country, but the legislation struck a blow against English language education in Limón. Another part of the reforms introduced by the Calderón government placed all private schools under the jurisdiction of the San José-based National Educators Association. The Association relied on a provincial administration office for the certification of schools in the region.23 A small number of private schools in Limón received certification and became known as “official schools.” Other schools in the province remained open, but, without government certification, no official recognition was extended to students who attended these institutions. In addition, an agreement was reached among the “official” private schools to limit their number in order to maintain high enrolments.24 For example, after negotiating with the other private institutions to permit the establishment of a new official school in 1943, the Salvation Army agreed to wait until all the other certified institutions had opened for the school year before opening its doors. To assure the viability of the designated institutions, the new school was allowed to accept only students who had a withdrawal slip from one of the other “official” institutions. Consequently, an artificial shortage of classroom space was created, and some children who, for religious or other reasons, did not attend one of the official schools were denied an education recognized by the Costa Rican state. Although the public schools offered some relief for parents who wanted to educate their children but were not willing or able to enroll them in the official schools, space in public institutions was also limited. The education crisis created by the attempt to impose a new system on Limón became a chronic problem in the 1940s.25 In 1944, to further complicate matters for West Indian parents, rumours circulated that discrimination was behind the rejection of many children by the public schools.26 Officials with the Junta de Educación argued that the rejections were the result of shortages and that an appeal was being made to the inspector of schools in San José.27 The response came in two stages. A few months after the problem was put before the inspector, a decree was passed by Congress that made all unauthorized private schools illegal.28 The second blow came when the government authorities decreed that for the

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1945 school year fluency in Spanish would be a prerequisite for attendance in all schools.29 Although private schools operated elsewhere in the country, Limón was the target of the legislation because it was the only province in Costa Rica where the language of instruction in most schools was not Spanish. When Spanish became a prerequisite for attendance and advancement, the whole system of private schools came into question. Private schools continued to function in Limón, but the government threatened to close all the private schools in the province in order to force education in Spanish on the children. Although the government relented half way through the school year and allowed the private schools to continue with English instruction, the decision came at a price. In order to prevent the abolition of English language schools in Limón, the community began to regulate itself.30 In November 1945 Samuel Nation, editor of The Atlantic Voice and also director of one of the recognized private schools, threatened to call on the government to close unauthorized schools that were slated to open in 1946. Nation chose to ignore government efforts to assimilate West Indian children through the mandatory use of Spanish in the classroom and, instead, focused on competition between the school he represented and the other private institutions. He claimed that unofficial schools had an unfair advantage in attracting students because they did not have to meet the same standards as the designated institutions. He also argued that the unofficial schools threatened the whole private system because the level of instruction was inferior in some institutions. Samuel Nation did not take into account the religious or social issues that contributed to parents’ decisions to send their children to unofficial schools. He also failed to defend his community against the government’s imposition of Spanish as a prerequisite to education in Limón. The efforts to force Spanish on the West Indian community had wide ranging effects. Interviewees have indicated that the new government policy created problems for families because many parents could not speak Spanish and wanted their children to be educated in English. Poor children who could not attend private schools where instruction was in English were also unable to attend public schools if they were not fluent in Spanish. Even when a student was fluent in Spanish and attended a public school, the curriculum became another hurdle because it was designed for the children of highland Costa Ricans. In addition to the Spanish language, the new curriculum introduced a history, folklore, and culture that was foreign to Limón, and West Indian children were placed at a further disadvantage. Consequently, in the 1940s the West Indian community, which

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129 The “Africanization” of Costa Rica

had proven better educated than their Hispanic counterparts in the 1927 census, saw their children take a step backwards. One of the telling examples of the difficulties that the children of West Indian immigrants faced in the classroom was a textbook written by Carlos Monge Alfaro. In 1943 Monge Alfaro published Geografía Social y Humana de Costa Rica. He argued that the “Negro” in Costa Rica was always in “magnificent physical condition, but [was] pedantic and stupid.” He also described people of African descent as “a transient group without a national consciousness and no spiritual nationality.”31 People like Monge Alfaro considered West Indians a threat because they represented all that was wrong with Limón. Like the socio-economic structure, “la raza negra” was a deviation from Costa Rica’s colonial legacy. To critics, the West Indians were analogous to the detestable United Fruit Company, which was criticized as a foreign element without roots in Costa Rican soil. Therefore, in the 1940s the first generation of Costa Rican-born West Indians were educated in a system that sought to strip them of their identity and lower their level of educational achievement. The West Indian community’s history and culture remained outside the education system, and the values of the Hispanic majority were thrust upon their Costa Rican-born children. In addition, the control exercised by the government in San José over the school system meant that it was a useful political tool.32 The youth of Limón were taught to look upon their own culture as something alien and improper. Signs were posted at the schools warning students not to speak English, and those who did were punished. “Real Costa Ricans,” as portrayed by Monge and others, were not of African descent.33 Limón’s West Indian population was considered an aberration and could not be accommodated in a history of Costa Rica that was based on a European-settler model. Another example of the Costa Rican efforts to gain control over the West Indian community came in the form of changes to the government’s legislation of the Northern Railway Company. The railway was the only transportation link with Limón and the sole means by which people of African descent travelled to the highlands. In San José the small West Indian community that emerged in the first quarter of the twentieth century lived in the shadow of Northern’s railway station. Many held jobs with the railway company and were based in the capital, or catered to the needs of West Indians resident there. As a result, the Northern Railway Company was one of the most visible expressions of the West Indian presence in San José, and it became the target of the animosity Costa Ricans had towards people of African descent.

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130 The West Indians of Costa Rica

Apart from concerns about its monopoly over transportation between San José and the Port of Limón, Northern attracted attention because its work force was composed of a large number of West Indians. In fact, West Indian workers were so important to business in Costa Rica that in June 1937 the superintendent of the company’s Limón Division wrote Costa Rica’s President, Léon Cortés, to request reconsideration of article 5 of the 1934 contract.34 Cortés was familiar with the contract because he was the minister who had negotiated the agreement with United Fruit on behalf of the Jiménez administration. The company pointed out that on the Pacific coast some private planters, and even the government-owned railway company, also used “coloured” labour.35 As a consequence, the company asked that the clause be struck from the contract in order to allow the continued employment of West Indian labourers on the Pacific side of Costa Rica. In response, Cortés instructed the minister of development to inform the company that the clause was valid and was a legitimate means of protecting the racial composition of the country.36 Two years later, during the 1940 presidential election, the government asked for an accurate count of the workers used by United Fruit in Costa Rica.37 The fruit company reported that of its 10,292 employees, 69.5 per cent were Costa Ricans, and only 12 per cent were “British Negroes.”38 Northern Railway correspondence was careful to stress the fact that some of the “British Negroes” were naturalized Costa Rican citizens.39 The company also listed all Hispanics, regardless of nationality, as Costa Ricans in order to increase the percentage of “natives” in the workforce. Therefore, of Northern’s 1,718 employees, 62 per cent were Costa Ricans and only 32 per cent were considered West Indians. The rest of Northern’s employees were described as “white,” meaning they were from the United States or some other predominantly Anglo-Saxon society.40 The Northern Railway’s report on its employees also indicated that the “Costa Rican” workers held better positions within the company than West Indian workers. According to the study, West Indians tended to work in the dirtiest and lowest paying jobs. They were used as firemen, who shovelled coal into the engines, and they also worked in the shops and in construction. Hispanics occupied similar positions, but they also worked as engineers, as conductors, and in jobs that required dealings with the public. Therefore, the report showed that West Indians were not a serious threat to Costa Rican jobs and the advancement of Hispanic workers with the railway. However, the company’s report was not made public, and as result West Indian employees continued to be singled out as a threat to Costa Rican workers.

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131 The “Africanization” of Costa Rica

The government’s request for details about the composition of the workforce coincided with a public attack by Hispanic workers on West Indians working for Northern Railway. The attack originated with Milton Murillo M., an extra fireman who began working for the Northern in November 1937. Murillo had a history of creating problems for the railway company, and on 17 September 1939 he resigned in protest against Northern’s preference for “coloured” workers.41 Shortly thereafter, Murillo and a group of “Costa Rican” employees from the company visited the offices of La Tribuna, where they presented their case against Northern. The article that appeared in the newspaper questioned the percentage of Costa Ricans working for the company.42 The group told La Tribuna that since 1934 the railway had been replacing Costa Ricans with West Indian men. They claimed that only 20 per cent of the workers were Costa Ricans and that they were being humiliated by the discriminatory practices of some bosses.43 A short time later, at the Northern Railway station in San José, unknown persons distributed pamphlets that questioned the number of West Indian workers on the railway. Within a month opposition to Northern’s hiring practices had escalated from a small number of disgruntled workers to a well-organized group calling itself the “Comité Pro-Costarricenses Blancos,” a shadowy organization linked to the Liga Cívica de Costa Rica. This group placed public announcements in the San José papers and challenged Northern’s manager to prove that Costa Ricans were not being discriminated against.44 According to The Atlantic Voice, the protest was only the latest in a long series of similar complaints about favouritism at Northern. In response to the criticism, Frank Sheehy, the superintendent of the railway company, felt compelled to request another breakdown of the workforce according to skin colour.45 The difference this time was that the focus was on specific jobs at Northern, and Sheehy made the request knowing that the protests would not go away even if the company provided information showing no discrimination against Costa Ricans. The figures compiled by the company indicated that “white” people had the best jobs and usually the majority of the positions in a given category of work. In all, “white” people accounted for 92 of the 178 positions reviewed by the company. A survey conducted a few weeks later also claimed that eighteen of forty-one “colored” enginemen and firemen were Costa Rican nationals.46 However, the company used a bit of slight of hand to enhance its findings because the term “white,” in line with the Costa Rican self-perception, was used to describe everyone who was not of African descent. Table 7.3 shows the results of the survey.

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132 The West Indians of Costa Rica Table 7.3 Employment with the Northern Railway Company According to Skin Colour

Position

Percentage of White Employees

Percentage of Coloured Employees

Total Number of Employees

Conductors Brakemen Enginemen Firemen

72 57 66 27

28 43 34 73

22 76 29 51

Source: Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to Munch, 11 October 1939.

A few weeks after the initial protest, Milton Murillo, on behalf of a group of Northern’s critics, wrote a letter to La Tribuna in which he made derogatory remarks about the railway company and its superintendent. In his letter Murillo accused foreigners of committing “errors and abuses” and taking advantage of Costa Rican benevolence. Murillo also defended his group’s criticisms as an act of true nationalism in the name of the Costa Rican working class.47 The company did not respond directly, but a small group of “white” employees approached the Diario de Costa Rica with a letter indicating that Murillo was a disgruntled employee and that if there were any real discrimination by Northern they would be the first to denounce it.48 In a letter to Sheehy’s secretary, who was the Limón correspondent for the Diario de Costa Rica, Vicente de la Peña, the man responsible for organizing the group of “white” employees who defended the company, speculated that Murillo was not working alone.49 While de la Peña was trying to get the Diario de Costa Rica’s editors in San José to give his side of the story, the newspaper continued to accept paid announcements critical of the West Indian presence in Costa Rica.50 The Comité Pro-Costarricenses Blancos published a series of rhetorical questions about the company’s hiring preferences. Among other things, the company was essentially accused of eliminating “white” telegraph operators, forcing Hispanics to work in positions with West Indians as their supervisors, and firing people who refused to take orders from “Negroes.”51 The Comité ProCostarricenses Blancos’ announcement was especially provocative given the high levels of unemployment that prevailed in the 1930s and the relentless efforts by the government to assimilate or eradicate the West Indian presence in Costa Rica. Although the Northern Railway Company had recently conducted a study of its labour force and could have challenged the Comité ProCostarricenses Blancos, it did nothing to defend its West Indian

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employees. Instead, Superintendent Sheehy stated that he had no intention of answering the questions because of their anonymous and all-too-public presentation. Nevertheless, Sheehy did ask Northern’s lawyer for advice, and Porfirio Góngora Umaña advised him to refrain from answering the questions unless they came from the government’s Labour Office.52 The issue did not go away, however, for the questions were circulated once again in a flysheet distributed some months later in San José. Once again, in accordance with his lawyer’s advice, Sheehy did not address the issues raised by the Comité Pro-Costarricenses Blancos, and Northern remained silent rather than defend some of its most loyal employees. The company’s critics based their protests on two points of contention that permitted the railway company to avoid the hiring restrictions imposed on the United Fruit Company. In the first instance, the Northern Railway, although a subsidiary of United Fruit, was not bound by the 1934 contract. Instead, Northern abided by the Soto-Keith concession, which allowed it to appoint employees without taking their nationality into account. United Fruit, on the other hand, was bound by a clause in the 1930 contract that had been carried over to the 1934 agreement with the government. The contract stipulated that Costa Ricans were to be given preference whenever they displayed the same abilities and competence as foreigners. United Fruit, therefore, was required to hire Costa Ricans and promote them above people of other nationalities. Furthermore, the 1934 contract stipulated that the fruit company had to use Costa Rican workers for at least 60 per cent of its workforce. The Northern Railway preferred English speaking employees in positions where communication with managers was essential. Hispanics could cut and haul bananas, but running a railway was a different matter because there was no room for miscommunication. As a consequence, the people who attacked Northern felt justified in their belief that the company had an obligation to give preference to Costa Ricans in a time of high unemployment. Northern also attracted the attention of the critics because the 1934 contract had an unexpected effect on the workforce in Limón. The prohibition against employing West Indian labourers in United Fruit’s expansion on the Pacific coast created a drain on the skilled labour pool in Limón. As a result of the demand for skilled and unskilled “white” labour on the Pacific coast, many West Indian workers were promoted to new positions on the Atlantic coast. This was especially true of the Northern Railway, the one industry based in Limón that was somewhat independent of the banana industry because it was the country’s main lifeline to foreign markets. Thousands of Hispanic workers

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were shifted to the other side of the country, and those who stayed behind thought their status as company employees in Limón was undermined during the 1930s. Another aspect of the restriction of West Indian workers to the province of Limón was that rising unemployment among people of African descent meant that the Northern Railway and United Fruit profited from the 1934 contract. A United States consular report on wages in Limón in 1936 indicated that “colored” engineers were paid less than half the wages of “white” engineers.53 The “colored” engineers received “approximately $60.00 per month” while “white” engineers were paid $150.00 per month and “furnished with a house and one servant.”54 Similarly, “Colored Conductors” were paid only 75 to 85 colones per month in 1937, while their Hispanic counterparts received 145 to 165 colones for the same job.55 Personnel reports from the Northern Railway Company also indicate that a strong correlation between English surnames and lower wages in skilled trades existed.56 In addition to being cheaper to employ, West Indian workers also had much less political influence in Costa Rica and were restricted from selling their labour in other parts of the country. From an employers point of view, the West Indians of Limón were an ideal labour pool because they were cheaper and in no position to protest. The West Indians working for Northern were lucky to have jobs, and everyone knew it. Nevertheless, the company had to weigh the benefits of its policies with respect to the West Indians against its relations with the Costa Rican government. In the end, Northern, like United Fruit, acquiesced in the face of continued pressure to rid its operations of “coloured” foreigners. Following the protests of 1939 Northern made changes that helped identify and reduce the number of West Indians it employed. The first evidence of conciliation on Northern’s part came in mid-1940 with the introduction of a new policy of including information on skin colour on the lists of workers reviewed for promotion, demotion, or release.57 Therefore, after United Fruit abandoned the West Indian community on the Atlantic coast, the Northern Railway gave in to public pressure and began its own policy of discrimination. Beginning in 1940 skin colour became a major determinant in the decision to terminate a worker’s employment with the company. The company archives indicate that some West Indian workers were released even though they had seniority over Hispanics who continued to be employed.58 Moreover, unlike West Indian workers, the Hispanics released on the Atlantic coast were offered employment on the Pacific if they had a good work record and if their skills were needed in the new operations.59 The people who shared the concerns of groups like

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the Comité Pro-Costarricenses Blancos could rejoice at yet another victory in the battle against the “Africanization” of Costa Rica. Although some of the most blatant discrimination against West Indians occurred during the Léon Cortés’ administration, the fate of the community did not change after he left office in 1940. His successor, Rafael Angel Calderón Guardia, won the presidency on a vague platform of social reform. One aspect of his reform was the introduction of a labour code in 1943 that specifically required employers to use Costa Rican citizens as 90 per cent of their workforce.60 Calderón made only two exceptions to this stipulation: United Fruit was permitted to use foreigners as 40 per cent of its labour force on its cacao plantations, which were all in Limón, and the Northern Railway was allowed to maintain a labour force that was 25 per cent foreign.61 In both cases the focus was limited to the province of Limón, and the fruit company received special attention because of its continued importance to the Costa Rican economy. However, for West Indians the issue of Costa Rican citizenship became more important, as it was fast becoming the main prerequisite for employment everywhere in the country. Citizenship presented both a problem and an opportunity for most members of the West Indian community. Older members, who had been born abroad, could become naturalized citizens, but at the cost of severing ties with the British Empire. On the other hand, younger people, who formed a new generation of Costa Rican-born West Indians, faced a very different challenge because they were neither British subjects nor Costa Rican citizens, but retained the option of becoming one or the other. The children of the West Indian diaspora were only protected by their parent’s status until they reached the age of majority, and the mounting pressure on the community in the 1930s forced the issue of identity on the Costa Rican-born. The decline of the banana industry in Limón, combined with the victories of the West Indian community’s enemies, caused thousands of the province’s residents to take stock of their lives in Costa Rica.

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PA R T T H R E E

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8 The Crisis of Identity: West Indian Responses to Assimilation1

The West Indian community of Limón, especially its youth, found itself in a precarious situation when the banana industry began to disappear. They could not find work in Limón, they could not follow the company to the Pacific coast, and, most importantly, they had nowhere else to go because they were living in their country of birth. Despite being at home in Limón, the majority of people of African descent were still considered foreign nationals by the Costa Rican authorities. In the 1930s, in response to pressure to do something about the “Africanization” of the country, the government began a process of both tightening immigration and documenting foreigners.2 Registration in any form was a particularly sensitive issue among the West Indian community because only 607 of the 19,136 people identified as “black” in the 1927 census were Costa Rican citizens.3 Although a breakdown of the 607 individuals was not made in the census tabulations, it is possible to speculate that very few, if any, of the Costa Ricans of African descent were of West Indian origin. A review of some of the original census forms for the city of San José suggests that many of the people of African descent living in the capital in 1927 and identified as “black” were born in the Province of either Puntarenas or Guanacaste. These people were the descendants of Costa Rican slaves or dark skinned immigrants, or their descendants, from neighbouring Nicaragua.4 A further review of government documents reveals that prior to 1927 only twenty-five individuals from the West Indies had become naturalized citizens.5 All twenty-five were from Jamaica, and some

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had European backgrounds, which would have excluded them from being categorized as “black.” For example, the Lindo family, one of Costa Rica’s pre-eminent immigrant families, was part of the European planter class from Jamaica, whose members made a fortune selling their banana plantations in Costa Rica to the United Fruit Company. They identified with the West Indian community to the extent that they shared a common birthplace and a degree of loyalty to the monarchy, but as persons of European descent, they were a class apart. Far more West Indians were of African descent, and they formed the largest portion of the foreigners resident in Costa Rica. The onset of the Great Depression caused the governments of Central America to seek means of regulating the presence of foreigners in their countries. West Indians, as the most visible minority in Costa Rica, were singled out. Beginning in 1930 the government stiffened immigration rules to expel people who had entered the country illegally. In 1930 the government began requiring a substantial deposit from those who did not arrive as tourists or who were suspected of entering the country as visitors in order to avoid paying the deposit.6 The deposit was intended to prevent “undesirable, troublesome immigrants” from migrating to Costa Rica in search of employment.7 While, on the surface, the changes may have looked like a means of protecting the existing labour force, the laws were used to restrict particular foreigners from freely entering the country. Europeans and North Americans were not asked for a deposit, but people of African descent had to pay upon arrival. The 1930 “Immigrants Law” required West Indians who came to the republic to pay $250 us and all resident foreigners to apply for permission from the governor if they wished to leave the country temporarily.8 The 1930 legislation marked the beginning of a new phase in the country’s immigration history and created new problems for the West Indian community. Nevertheless, critics continued to demand that West Indian immigration be further restricted, and the government was not averse to using tighter controls as a threat against the community. In December 1934, just days before the contract with United Fruit was brought into law, the government indicated that a new immigration law was to be drawn up.9 The new law was part of the scare campaign conducted by the government to keep West Indian workers out of the strike and was forgotten by the Jiménez administration as soon as the labour dispute was settled. Consequently, the new law had still not been passed by 1936 when Léon Cortés took over the presidency. However, the new president was a man whose mission included the repression of the West Indian minority, and he set out

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immediately to strengthen the existing regulations. On 1 August 1936 The Atlantic Voice reported that in the future all applications for permission to enter the country would have to be made directly to the minister of public safety, and a fee of one thousand colones was to be charged to applicants whom the authorities thought might stay in the country and take work away from Hispanic Costa Ricans.10 Léon Cortés was quick too put his stamp on immigration policy, and the West Indian community was the target of his new legislation. At the end of the month, The Atlantic Voice began reporting on the first abuses of the new law by local authorities. Under the new regulations, West Indians still resident in the country had to obtain documents permitting re-entry before leaving. Large sums were reported to have been paid to obtain the necessary documents, and some of those who obtained certification of Costa Rican residency were still refused re-entry.11 Not satisfied with the new restrictions, the government modified the immigration law in 1937 to allow the arrest and expulsion of individuals found to have entered the country illegally.12 According to one source, the new law’s restrictions on immigration were zealously enforced by the government of Léon Cortés, with the focus being on people of African descent.13 However, Cortés was not the only politician to support restrictions on West Indian immigration. The ban against the free entry of “the coloured strain” dated back to the Jiménez presidency, and after Cortés had tightened things up, the Calderón administration added an all out ban on “non-white” immigration.14 In 1942 the government passed a decree prohibiting the immigration of “the black race, Chinese, Arabs, Turks, Syrians, Armenians, Gypsies, Coolies, etc.”15 Although restrictions on West Indian migration had existed in the past, the new decree came at an important time in the community’s history. By 1942 the economic situation had deteriorated considerably in Limón, and large numbers of young men and women were looking elsewhere for employment. Coupled with the restrictions on mobility within the country and the burdensome requirements for re-entry, the new law stimulated emigration.16 At the same time as restrictions were increased on the immigration of West Indians, other new laws were established to document the people already in the country. A law requiring that all inhabitants of the country obtain an identification card was passed under the González Víquez administration in November 1931. The “Cédula de Identidad” was introduced as both a means of documentation and a method of taxation to help pay off the foreign debt. People in the Atlantic Zone, who had very little experience with the Costa Rican government, were reluctant to allow themselves to be identified, and

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many ignored the new law. Some had only just arrived, others had entered illegally, and the majority were not ready to concede Costa Rican dominance over their lives. Some people resisted government pressure to obtain a cédula even though it was needed for various transactions and was expected to be produced on demand by government authorities. Under the law everyone who made money in Costa Rica, regardless of nationality, was required to obtain a cédula. Both corporations and individuals were required to obtain one to conduct business within the country. The police could ask to see an individual’s cédula as proof of identification, and failure to produce it could result in a fine of up to five colones. The cédula was also required at banks, government offices, and in all legal matters. It could even be required to board a train, see a doctor, set up a stall at the market, sell produce on the street, or conduct many other public activities.17 By the mid-1930s, despite increased pressure from the government and the urging of community leaders, there were still many people who had not obtained cédulas, according to The Atlantic Voice.18 The newspaper, under the direction of A.J. Roden and Samuel Nation, published several announcements urging West Indians to comply with the law. The law was explained and the consequences laid out in an effort to encourage people to make an application. After people did apply, The Atlantic Voice carried the names of those whose cédulas were ready to be picked up. In this way the newspaper applied peer pressure to undocumented West Indians and facilitated the government’s efforts to register the entire community. Nevertheless, many West Indians were reluctant to apply and managed to get by without proper documentation only because the Costa Rican government did not have the means to enforce the law to its fullest. In 1936, during the first months of the Léon Cortés administration, a new and more specific form of documentation was introduced. All foreigners in the country were required to obtain a “carnet de extranjero” or residential certificate.19 The “carnet” was issued only to those who could prove that they had entered the country legally. Therefore, it was a card that went further than the cédula in identifying people as non-nationals. People who did not obtain proper identification were fined, denied services, and subject to imprisonment or expulsion from the country. Once again editorials in The Atlantic Voice urged people to comply with the latest government efforts at registration, but, as in the past, West Indians resisted. The government’s motives were obvious to community leaders, who were also aware of the implications of the restrictions on immigration. Simultaneous with the pressures applied by the government

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were warnings by influential figures to obtain Costa Rican citizenship. The first warning appeared as an editorial in The Searchlight on 25 July 1931. Samuel Nation told his readers that “the question of the Naturalization of our men looms more forcibly before us than it has ever done and the necessity is more apparent than ever.”20 The cause of Nation’s concern was a rumour that Costa Rica had offered to pay half of the passage required to send two thousand unemployed West Indians “home” to Jamaica.21 The plan was not feasible because the Jamaican government had unemployment problems of its own and was reluctant to assist the Costa Ricans in shifting the burden of poverty to Jamaica. Nevertheless, Nation and others thought that the only way to safeguard members of the community was to encourage the naturalization of all West Indians living in Costa Rica. However, naturalization was only one option open to the West Indian community. People in Limón came to understand that while they were struggling to preserve their identity, the objective of Costa Rican governments after 1930 was to denigrate and preferably eliminate everything “African.” Legislation was combined with overt discrimination in an effort to contain the growth and spread of the West Indian community. Government policies aimed at the Atlantic coast were designed to force assimilation on a group that had consciously distanced itself from Hispanic society. West Indians were left with two alternatives. They could stay and make the best of a bad situation, or they could turn their backs on the problem. Large numbers of people chose to leave the country. Migration as a means of self-preservation had long been practised by West Indians in Limón. Some people had family in the West Indies to whom they could return; others relied on the United Fruit Company to provide them with opportunities in another part of the Caribbean region; and others drifted for generations in search of security. The majority of the West Indians in Costa Rica had come from Jamaica, and many had worked in other countries on the way. As the employment and living situation in Costa Rica became more precarious, many people moved again. Reports from newspapers and interviewees indicate that during the 1930s and 1940s many thousands of people left the country in search of security elsewhere. Throughout the period, Limón’s local newspaper, The Atlantic Voice, reported that people from the community were leaving the country in large numbers. Regular maritime service from the ports in Costa Rica and Panama provided access to the world, and the West Indians took advantage of the ease with which they could travel. Family in other parts of the Caribbean made repatriation an attractive option for some people whose traditional systems of community

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support had been broken down by the nature of plantation life in Limón. Successful West Indians often retired to the Caribbean or saved enough money to return to their home islands, where they hoped to assume their former positions within those societies. Children of West Indians living in Limón were also sent to Jamaica to attend school, obtain training, and renew family ties. Education abroad was attractive to some because West Indian children in Limón were faced with a language barrier. Even if a child attended elementary school in Limón, more advanced educational opportunities were limited in the province. Also, it was cheaper to send children to Jamaica to live with family than to board them in San José with strangers. However, while education in Jamaica was considered second to none, the island was unable to provide employment opportunities, so West Indians leaving Costa Rica in search of work had to look elsewhere. Panama and the Canal Zone were particularly attractive as alternative places to look for work. Links with Panama were strong because many people either had personal knowledge of the country or had friends or family employed there who could assist them in finding work. In addition, the existence of the Panama Canal provided opportunities that were not available in Limón. Employers in the Canal Zone required skilled labourers and offered the unskilled opportunities to learn trades. A report to the general manager of the Costa Rica Division of the United Fruit Company in 1941 clearly stated that all of the good men, “especially the younger ones [had] long since gone to the Zone.”22 Moreover, during periods of economic decline the Canal continued to function. The following table shows data collected on people who applied for Costa Rican citizenship between 1935 and 1949. Applicants living in Panama were likely to be skilled workers such as carpenters, mechanics, and electricians. Those who remained in Limón tended to have fewer marketable skills and, therefore, fewer opportunities for employment abroad. Panama was such an attractive option for the unemployed in the Caribbean region during wwii that the country eventually tightened its restrictions on foreign labour. For example, in August 1940 the Panamanian government set a penalty of up to one year in jail and a five-hundred-dollar fine for illegal entry.23 A few months later Panama revoked the citizenship rights of children who had been born in the republic but whose parents were foreigners.24 Despite the obstacles set by the Panamanian government, United Fruit’s manager in Limón estimated that between January 1940 and July 1941, forty-four hundred West Indians had left Almirante and Bocas del Toro for the Canal Zone. Wages were apparently so attractive in the Canal Zone

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145 The Crisis of Identity Table 8.1 Occupations in Panama and Limón between 1935 and 1949 (Panama)

(Limón)

Type of Occupation

No.

Percentage

No.

Percentage

Mechanic Carpenter Chauffeur Office worker Day worker Electrician Other*

22 22 19 12 12 10 109

10.19 10.19 8.80 5.56 5.56 4.63 55.07

43 24 14 48 155 3 305

7.26 4.05 2.36 8.11 26.18 0.51 51.53

Total

216

100.00

592

100.00

* There was a total of 103 other occupations listed. Source: Government of Costa Rica, Libro de acuerdos del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, vol. 2 to vol. 8.

during wwii that people were willing to risk an encounter with Panamanian authorities by travelling there despite the government’s use of fines, imprisonment, and expulsion from the country as deterrents. United Fruit’s plantations in Almirante and the neighbouring Sixaola region of Costa Rica proved attractive to many West Indians from farther up the coast. In addition to attracting replacement labour from the entire province of Limón, Bocas provided many workers from Costa Rica with an opportunity to slip more easily into the Canal Zone without being caught by the authorities. A large part of United Fruit’s Panama Division in Almirante was in Costa Rica, and labour moved freely back and forth between the two countries. West Indians ran less risk of getting caught by Panamanian authorities if they travelled on ships originating in Panama. The number of young people who left for Panama is unknown, but by 1942 a vibrant community of Costa Rican West Indians had been established at Colón, where men and women from Limón congregated.25 Those who made it to the Canal Zone wrote home about their successes, and unofficial migration into Panama continued to flow through the door that was open at Bocas del Toro and Almirante. Interviewees have reported that it was common for people to enter Panama surreptitiously, where they would join the mass of undocumented West Indians already in the country. In response, the Panamanian government took several steps toward restricting the immigration of foreigners who sought work on the Canal renovations. On several occasions The Atlantic Voice reported on the imprisonment and expulsion of immigrants to Panama for illegal entry into

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the country.26 But, despite frequent and lengthy newspaper articles designed to discourage migration to Panama, people continued to go there in search of work. In part, the Panamanian government was unable to eliminate the illegal migration of foreign nationals because the workers were assisted by corporations that needed their labour. For example, United Fruit documents indicate that when the Panamanian government enforced hiring restrictions, the company manipulated its records to show a high percentage of nationals in the workforce. Costa Rican, Nicaraguan, and other “Latin labourers” were included with Panamanians in the workforce to come up with the required 75 per cent quota.27 In addition to risking the sanctions of Panamanian authorities, there was a legal means of obtaining work on the Canal. However, few of the West Indians in Costa Rica could meet the requirements established by the Panamanian government. In June 1941 an official labour recruiter from the Canal Zone travelled to Costa Rica looking for a quota of two thousand men. His search was restricted when it came to West Indian labourers because applicants for employment had to provide documentation that many in Limón could not produce.28 Panamanian authorities insisted that people hired to work on the Canal be Costa Rican citizens or have residential certificates so that they could be repatriated when the project finished. As a consequence, only 280 men were found in Limón, where unemployment rates were very high. The recruitment effort was so unsuccessful in Limón that the office was moved to San José, where eligible labourers could be found.29 Although no official statistics are available to verify the number of people who left Costa Rica during the period, it is possible to make reasonable estimates. Between 1927 and 1950 the “Negro and mulatto” population in Costa Rica decreased from 21,257 to 15,188 for a net loss of 6,139 or 29 per cent. If everyone had remained in the country and population growth had followed the national average, the total West Indian population could have been as high as thirtyfour thousand by 1950.30 Therefore, if the emigrants and their future offspring are included in the calculation of population decline, the loss to the community between 1927 and 1950 amounted to a total of nineteen thousand people or 62 per cent of the potential population. In addition, the drain on the community was aggravated by the fact that the emigrants were primarily young men who had a good chance of succeeding. For example, according to United Fruit managers, of the seventeen hundred labourers who remained in the Panama Division after the initial flight began in 1941, many were older men who were considered less than ideal workers.31 Women,

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children, the elderly, and anyone else less likely to obtain employment on plantations or in construction stayed where they were.32 However, while the West Indian population of Costa Rica declined between 1927 and 1950, the country as a whole enjoyed one of the highest rates of population growth in the world. The country’s total population increased by 68.4 per cent between 1927 and 1950 for an annual average increase of 31.1 per thousand. According to one source, out of fifty-three areas in the world for which reliable data were available, only Puerto Rico exceeded Costa Rica in the rate of population increase.33 The West Indian community in Costa Rica should have grown in number, but it was the only identifiable ethnic group in the country that declined in real and projected terms. A closer examination of the demographic patterns in Costa Rica reveals how devastating the loss of the banana industry was to Limón and the West Indian community. In Costa Rica, the populations of only the Provinces of San José and Puntarenas grew faster than the national average during the 1930s and 1940s. As the most important urban centre in the country, San José had many attractions. However, the location that experienced the highest growth rate was not an urban centre. The population of Puntarenas, the province where United Fruit relocated its operations, increased by 83.6 per cent between 1927 and 1950.34 Moreover, the number of people living in Osa and Golfito, the two cantons in which United Fruit’s operations were concentrated, increased by over 650 per cent during the period. In marked contrast, Limón had a growth rate of only 27 per cent, the lowest in the entire country. Nevertheless, the fact that the overall population of Limón increased while the West Indian population decreased indicates how quickly the province was changing. For those who remained in the country two strategies could be followed. They could either attempt to integrate into Costa Rican society or resist the forces of assimilation. The people most likely to try to fit in were either foreign nationals who had built a secure life for themselves or Costa Rican-born West Indians who did not have attachments to another country and were, therefore, obliged to petition the Costa Rican government for a national identity. Many of this new generation of West Indians in Costa Rica sought security in citizenship, but those who became citizens were still a minority of the total West Indian population in 1948. The majority of West Indians in Costa Rica maintained a distance from mainstream society, which indicates the reluctance of some members of the community to become Costa Rican. By 1950 there were as many as sixty-five hundred people of African descent in Costa Rica who were citizens.35 As citizens, West Indians

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could rely on the constitution to protect them, and they had access to opportunities that other people in the community did not. Although there is little evidence that those who became citizens were treated any better than the rest, access to government services and protection under the constitution were attractive aspects of citizenship. The legal status of an individual was important in terms of the security it offered. During the 1930s many people were threatened with the loss of their land because they were squatters and had no right to ownership. Similarly, young adults could not always get the education they desired because they were not nationals and were allowed access to publicly funded institutions only after Hispanics had been given an opportunity.36 Citizenship had its benefits, and some people thought that their wellbeing depended on becoming Costa Ricans. Charles Koch’s research on Costa Rica reveals a correlation between the social mobility of people of African descent and their integration into Costa Rican society.37 He presents a phenomenon identified as “selective ethnicity,” which he distinguishes from “compulsive ethnicity.” Koch maintains that the ethnic identity of people of African descent in Costa Rica was relative to their social status and that successful members of the community were able to select their ethnicity by virtue of their position in society. In effect, the descendants of the Caribbean migrants who settled in Costa Rica overcame their inferior social position at the cost of their West Indian identity. Similarly, Trevor Purcell expanded on Koch’s research by looking at conformity and dissension among West Indians in Costa Rica.38 He spent eighteen months with Costa Rica’s West Indian community and discovered that social stratification among people of African descent was related to differing levels of integration into the Hispanic mainstream. In Banana Fallout, Purcell shows that the social mobility of people of African descent depended to a great extent on an individual’s ethnic identity. Linguistic and cultural conformity were the conduits for an individual’s social mobility. For young West Indians, moving to San José, speaking Spanish, and marrying into a Hispanic family resulted in a higher degree of acceptance by “white” Costa Ricans. Acceptance by one group did not necessarily mean rejection by another, but Purcell notes the social implications of ethnic identity. Purcell saw the same correlation between class and ethnicity in the Afro-Costa Rican community as Koch had found. However, neither author is clear about who was most likely to be successful and, therefore, most likely to abandon his or her West Indian identity. Those West Indians who chose to formalize their Costa Rican status did so for a variety of reasons, but, in general, they were

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people who had a greater stake in Costa Rica. People who owned property, had secure employment, or had some other compelling attachment to the country were more likely to become citizens, and they followed the only two routes to citizenship open to them Naturalization was the route followed by people who were citizens of another country. Through the naturalization process people traded one citizenship for another. The other route was taken by Costa Rican-born West Indians who did not enjoy the benefits of citizenship elsewhere. These people exercised their “option” for citizenship in Costa Rica and were obliged to meet different criteria than people who became naturalized citizens. To become naturalized the applicant had to prove that he or she was in a position to contribute to Costa Rica. Immigrants who managed to purchase property or otherwise obtain security in Costa Rica were in the best position to succeed with their applications. Another important prerequisite was that the applicant obtain letters of support from influential individuals. Consequently, social status and ties to the dominant class were important measures of a person’s suitability for citizenship. The requirements were within the grasp of many West Indians, but others, who had been living in Costa Rica for up to 30 years, found it impossible to obtain citizenship. Prior to 1927 only twenty-five people with West Indian nationality had become naturalized Costa Rican citizens. However, in Limón, the mid-century census revealed that there were just over one thousand naturalized Costa Rican citizens. Since British subjects formed the largest group of foreigners in the province, it is likely that almost all of the naturalized Costa Ricans were West Indian. If so, the increase in numbers is indicative of how effective the pressure on the community to assimilate had been during the 1930s and 1940s. The only other large group of foreigners was comprised of Nicaraguans, and Costa Rican law permitted them to opt for citizenship as though they had been born in the country.39 Therefore, any Nicaraguan who had become a citizen was not included in the figures concerning naturalizations. Like the Nicaraguans, people who had been born in the country but whose parents were foreign nationals could make formal applications to be recognized as citizens.40 There were many Costa Rican-born West Indians in Limón, and they all had the right to opt for citizenship. Government documents reveal that none did so prior to 1928.41 However, as pressure to integrate increased, larger numbers of locally born West Indians chose to formalize their relationship with the country. In October 1930 the government passed a law creating a central registry for naturalization and options.42 The Civil Registry was to be responsible for

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150 The West Indians of Costa Rica

obtaining all relevant information and deciding on the merits of each application.43 Between 1935 and 1950 a total of 2,191 people of African descent opted for Costa Rican citizenship.44 Of the total, 2,155 identified themselves through their parents’ nationality as West Indian in origin. Those who opted for citizenship amounted to a total of 14.3 per cent of those people of African descent who were still in the country for the census of 1950.45 According to the rules, anyone who was born in the country, who had a respectable reputation, and who could supply written or oral documentation to back his or her claims had the right to Costa Rican citizenship. The application procedure involved providing a photograph, presenting proof of having been born in the country, and supplying personal details about such things as place of employment and residence. If official documents were not available, the individual simply had to have witnesses willing to affirm his or her birth in Costa Rica. Witnesses had only to be law-abiding Costa Rican citizens. The application was made in San José at the Registro Civil and elsewhere in Costa Rica through the provincial governor’s office or if the individual was outside the country, at the nearest Costa Rican consulate. The applications were then forwarded to San José, and after some months citizenship papers were sent to the applicant. Interviewees have indicated that when proof was available and all other requirements met, no application was refused. Only those judged to be criminal, vagrant, disabled, or insane were denied citizenship. Although no details are available concerning these cases, it is evident from the successful applications that the process was straightforward and generally fair. Applicants had to supply information concerning sex, marital status, civil status, employment, residence, place of birth, date of birth, and parents’ nationality. From the registry a profile can be obtained of those members of the West Indian community who decided, of their own volition, to become Costa Rican citizens. Although specific records for the period prior to 1935 are not available, a variety of sources indicate that naturalizations and options were uncommon before the late 1930s. Of the 2,155 people of West Indian origin who opted for Costa Rican citizenship between 1935 and 1950, 80 per cent were between twenty-one and thirty-six years of age. The youngest was a child of under one year, and only forty-nine children under the age of fifteen obtained Costa Rican citizenship.46 The oldest was fifty-nine years old, and only forty-two individuals were over forty-five years of age. Children usually obtained their citizenships at the same time as their guardians, but in some cases, especially among young adults, the option was requested by the child with the parent consenting. Young

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adults between sixteen and twenty-one comprised the majority of the minors who exercised their options. Older minors were usually members of the workforce and, therefore, on their way to being independent adults. The small number of older individuals is indicative of an inability to meet the requirements for the option. The chief condition for an option was to have been born in the country. The older the individual, the less likely he or she was to have been born in Costa Rica. Another factor was that the longer a person had lived without citizenship in Costa Rica, the less that person would have felt the need to obtain it. Younger people were more likely to have ambitions, desires, and plans that Costa Rican citizenship could help them to fulfil. Older individuals had already established a home for themselves in Costa Rica and were generally more secure. One way to judge the statistics on options is to compare them with the data collected in the 1950 census.47 While exact figures are difficult to arrive at from the 1950 census, 15,118 people were considered “black” or “mulatto.” As many as ten thousand of these were considered foreigners, and up to one thousand had become naturalized citizens.48 The remaining four thousand had either opted for citizenship or were the offspring of individuals who were citizens. The 1950 census showed that 7,728 British subjects lived in Costa Rica and that 7,060 of them were living in Limón. A handful of the British subjects in Limón were of European ancestry, but the vast majority were of African descent. However, only 50 per cent of those of African descent had been born outside the country and were British subjects. The other half were the children of West Indian immigrants, who the British authorities did not consider subjects of the king. West Indian parents could obtain either British or Costa Rican status for their children, but few appear to have applied for either. There may have been economic reasons for not clarifying their children’s status, but most parents appear to have simply failed to do to so. The choices available to the children of West Indian immigrants were limited because they did not acquire their parents’ nationality at birth and were, therefore, stateless persons. One of the more striking features of the profile of the 2,155 applicants is that one third were between the ages of 21 and 25. It is telling that so many people applied for Costa Rican citizenship shortly after reaching the age of majority. Interviewees have confirmed that those who exercised their right to the option tended to be young and independent of the community. Restrictions on social mobility in Costa Rica, coupled with discrimination against foreigners, dictated that West Indians had to

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dissociate themselves from their community if they wanted to get ahead in Hispanic society. Members of the community found it easier to live in Limón surrounded by other West Indians, but the opportunities for young people existed in San José and elsewhere in the country. Outside of Limón a knowledge of Spanish and reliance on government services were necessary because of a lack of community support. An analysis of the successful applications reveals that a disproportionate number of applicants lived in San José, where the West Indian community was almost non-existent and citizenship more imperative. Almost all the successful applicants had been born in the Province of Limón, but at the time of application 43 per cent lived in San José or outside the country, away from the influence of their peers. The profile of the applicants from Limón tended to mirror that of people from San José, with the exception of women. A smaller percentage of women living in Limón applied for citizenship, suggesting that those outside of the province required more security than their counterparts within the larger community. The statistics on female applicants lend support to the proposition that citizenship was an important means of survival for community members. Trends in the statistics on female and male applicants are identical in terms of age, application date, and their parents’ married status. However, female applicants differed from their male counterparts in some respects. As in other societies, women were more vulnerable because of the limitations society imposed on their mobility, opportunities for employment, and general independence. In Costa Rica a woman was considered the head of a household only if no male claimed the position even though she often bore sole responsibility for the wellbeing of the family. The data suggest that female applicants were in less stable situations and, therefore, more inclined to look to citizenship for security. Proportionately more women were outside the country when they sought Costa Rican citizenship. Proper documentation was important in countries like Panama where West Indians were the target of discrimination.49 In fact, Panama and Jamaica were the only two places outside Costa Rica where requests for options were made. Together, these two countries provided 22 per cent of the successful applicants, and most were women between the ages of 21 and 25. The reason for the disproportionate number of female applicants is that women tended to be less mobile and could not as easily move on to another country. The responsibilities of motherhood and the existence of fewer employment opportunities for women made them vulnerable wherever they were. Consequently, women were more

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likely to require the protection Costa Rican citizenship afforded them in their travels abroad. The women who opted for citizenship also tended to be people who had the best chance of succeeding while living away from the security of the community. In San José 50 per cent of the applicants were women, and they worked at a wider variety of jobs than their counterparts in Limón. Most of the women in the sample were employed performing “domestic duties,” but if they lived in San José they sometimes worked outside the home. Women applicants also tended to hail from rural communities in the province of Limón and were concentrated in San José, the largest city, where job opportunities were better than in the countryside. The city offered women choices and gave them a degree of freedom that they could not hope for in a rural setting. Twenty-five per cent of the female applicants lived in San José, whereas only 18 per cent of men who applied for citizenship had moved to Costa Rica’s capital. In total, half of the women who opted for Costa Rican citizenship between 1935 and 1950 were in either San José, Panama, or Kingston. Female applicants were also much more likely to be single (97.6 per cent) than their male counterparts (84.2 per cent). The high number of unmarried applicants is understandable since most were younger adults. Nevertheless, it is significant that women tended to be unattached and, therefore, free to make the decision on their own. That independence was a factor is also supported by data that suggest women applicants were more likely than their male counterparts to be divorced or widowed. Independence from the West Indian community and family ties meant that women were both in need of the security that citizenship afforded and freer to act according their wishes. It is likely that other women desired Costa Rican citizenship but were constrained by their position within society and the family structure. A woman’s ability to function independently after marriage was limited by laws that automatically considered men the head of the household. Even though the application was an individual matter, men tended to control family resources and were recognized by the authorities as the decision makers in their households. Moreover, some women may not have been able to procure the funds required to make an application or have had the freedom to travel to the appropriate government office. The financial constraints women faced are revealed in the employment statistics drawn from the sample. Eighty-one per cent of all women listed domestic duties as their occupation, indicating that they had no formal employment outside the home.

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On the other hand, men were listed as having a wide range of skills. They were mechanics, drivers, shoe makers, barbers, and carpenters, as well as other types of skilled workers and artisans. None of the male applicants admitted to being unemployed, which says something about the need for men to identify with a particular trade or job. In a number of cases no information was given about employment, but most of these applicants were minors or individuals living outside the country, where the information sent from the consulate was often less detailed than that found in applications originating in Costa Rica. Only 19 per cent gave their occupation as “jornalero,” which meant that they did not occupy skilled positions and worked by the day at whatever job they could find.50 The most revealing statistic in terms of the way citizenship was seen as a means of social advancement outside the community can be found in the percentage of individuals who opted for citizenship while living in the highlands. Assuming that most of the applicants living in San José stayed in the highland city, by 1950 between 70 and 80 per cent of all the people identified in that year’s census as “Negroes” or “mulattos” had opted for citizenship in the previous fifteen years.51 Given that several hundred people of African descent living outside of the Province of Limón were not of West Indian descent and, therefore, likely to be citizens, already, it is possible to see that the application for citizenship was an automatic part of moving to the highlands for young Costa Rican-born West Indians. Life away from family and friends meant reduced security and the need to seek protection from the Costa Rican constitution. The application for citizenship as right of passage is an important aspect of the subsequent history of the West Indians of Costa Rica. Once again, if people who applied in Limón were still there in 1950, they comprised a mere 7 per cent of the people of African descent in the province. The small percentage of people who opted for citizenship in Limón suggests two things. First, because of Limón’s relative isolation, less pressure appears to have been placed on individuals to conform. Second, the fact that most applicants in the sample were between the ages of 21 and 36 helps to explain who left the province between the census of 1927 and that of 1950. That thousands of younger people left Limón during the 1930s and 1940s indicates that a significant number of those who remained in the province opted for citizenship. Clearly, citizenship became an imperative even in Limón, with an entire generation having formally become Afro-Costa Ricans by 1950. Nevertheless, a significant number of people did not become Costa Rican citizens even though their friends, neighbours and family

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members did. Some of those who did not seek to become citizens may not have been in a position to do so. People with disabilities or children and those without proper documents were unable to apply for citizenship without the assistance of friends or family. A number of people, like those considered to be mentally ill, were outcasts with little hope of receiving support or assistance in their bid for citizenship. On the other hand, the sample reveals that West Indian parents were reluctant to make the decision for their children. The parents of most of the applicants had twenty-one years to apply on behalf of their children, but very few did. The low incidence of parent-initiated applications suggests the reluctance of West Indian immigrants to let go of their identity even as expressed through their children. Most parents probably hoped or assumed that their children would become British subjects at an appropriate time. Although children account for a large number of the people who lived in Limón but who were not citizens in 1950, there were hundreds of other people who resisted the pressure to integrate or emigrate. The foreign-born who maintained their status as citizens of another country are the easiest to delineate. They were people who relied upon their place of birth as a point of reference and security. In Limón ties with the empire remained strong among the province’s British subjects. Coronations, royal birthdays, and other events honoured in the empire were marked, and sometimes these celebrations by West Indians were even considered too ostentatious and detrimental to broader community interests. For example, in 1937 there was real concern among the West Indian élite in Limón that coronation celebrations would upstage a coincidental visit by President Léon Cortés. Another example of enthusiasm for the empire was the community’s response to World War Two. In 1939, while the rest of Costa Rica watched the development of the war in Europe with indifference, Limón’s West Indian community rallied behind Britain. Large amounts of money were raised to assist the allied war effort, and groups like the “Win the War Club” and the “Overseas Red Cross Committee” were founded.52 Overt expressions of loyalty to the empire illustrate that for many West Indians, Costa Rica was just a place to make money and not a real home. The desire to maintain their status as British subjects remained strong among West Indians in spite of the mounting pressure being applied by the Costa Rican authorities. Therefore, in 1950 a total of 2,669 people in Limón who had been born in British dependencies had not yet become naturalized citizens despite years of residence in Costa Rica. While status in the empire was a recourse open to some, not everyone enjoyed the luxury of being able to call upon the British authorities

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or the freedom to return to their island homes. Some people living in Limón came from West Indian communities elsewhere yet were not British subjects. Along the entire Atlantic coast of Central America there existed communities like those in Costa Rica, and the ocean linked them all. People of African descent in Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Panama were subject to pressures similar to those experienced by the West Indians of Costa Rica. Like their Costa Rican counterparts, they too migrated in search of opportunities, and many ended up in Limón. Although there are no accurate statistics available because people often hid or misrepresented their identities, this group of Central American West Indians was large enough to have its own neighbourhoods in towns like Old Harbour and Cahuita.53 West Indians born in Central America had the same rights as Costa Rican-born West Indians to opt for citizenship in Costa Rica if they could provide proof of their place of birth. However, the civil registry records reveal that few opted for Costa Rican citizenship. The reason they did not exercise their option is simple; in order to become Costa Ricans, they needed to enjoy citizenship status elsewhere in Central America or to have been born to Costa Rican citizens. Therefore, most Central American-born West Indians found themselves in exactly the same situation as their Costa Rican counterparts at a time when West Indians were being scrutinized everywhere on the isthmus. If these people and those who enjoyed status as British subjects are lumped together, they form a significant percentage, but not the majority, of the 7,060 people in the 1950 census considered foreigners of British origin. The largest number of people in this category were actually Costa Rican-born West Indians. In 1950, 4,391 non-citizens who had been born in Costa Rica still lived in the province of Limón. Many were children of British subjects, but a sizable number were adults who had a constitutional right to citizenship. They were burdened with all the restrictions placed on foreigners but enjoyed none of the protection accorded British subjects through international treaties. Their refusal to become Costa Rican citizens can be explained only as an act of tacit resistance to or disinterest in a society that treated people of African descent with scorn. Initially, those who resisted naturalization despite mounting pressure to conform constituted a majority of the West Indian community. Gradually, their numbers decreased as many chose to leave or become citizens, but a large number continued to resist government efforts. One of the most common demonstrations of resistance was the refusal by thousands to comply with government orders. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s the Costa Rican government was

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forced to reconsider and even withdraw legislation because many West Indians refused to comply. People refused to register property, send their children to public schools, or accept other efforts by the government to extend its control over the region. Interviewees have indicated that people lived anonymous lives whenever they could. To draw attention to oneself by conducting business with the government was to invite intrusion into an independent lifestyle. Resistance faded as the government introduced more sweeping changes and had its local authorities increase their vigilance. Nonetheless, the foot-dragging that went on was a demonstration of the rejection of Costa Rican authority by some West Indians. Even under increased pressure from the authorities, people could ignore government directives because Limón was an isolated area linked to the highlands by a single set of railway tracks. In addition, high levels of poverty, cultural differences, idiosyncrasies, and open hostility helped to keep West Indians isolated from Hispanic society. In Limón, goods and services could be obtained from within the community itself. Contact with Hispanics was only required when dealing with government authorities, and even then it was often possible to work through intermediaries like lawyers, friends, or family members. Knowledge of Spanish was optional because interpreters were either on hand or could be found. Moreover, many West Indians perceived the Hispanic culture and lifestyle as inferior to their own and thus minimized their association with Costa Ricans. Consequently, some West Indians who had been born in the country did not identify with Costa Rican ideals. They knew that they were not Costa Rican, and they were not inclined to accept any culture other than their own. There was also a degree of resentment toward members of the community who assumed positions and attitudes that reflected a desire to be accepted by the Hispanic majority. Divisions within the community had always existed between those at the bottom of the social ladder and those whose interests were tied to association with other élite groups.54 As citizenship emerged as a new means of upward mobility, class divisions within the community were intensified by nationalist sentiment. Those who were not British subjects and had not obtained Costa Rican citizenship were outcasts. Community leaders consistently attacked people from “the lower order” for not doing something to protect themselves from government initiatives. They attacked those who did not obtain a cédula, they criticized parents who refused to send their children to public schools, and they encouraged the government’s repression of religious minorities. From their pulpits, at their meetings, and in the

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press, the leaders of the West Indian community berated members who lived up to the racial stereotypes commonly entertained in Hispanic circles. The community élite were careful to advocate conciliation, not confrontation. They understood the tenuous position of West Indian immigrants and their children and pointed to the most expedient solution to the problem. West Indian salvation in Costa Rica was dependent on citizenship. Many West Indians saw citizenship as a means of achieving social and economic success within the country. They assumed that by becoming Costa Rican, they would obtain the same rights as Hispanic nationals and that this would make the struggle against discrimination easier. Some hoped that their participation in the democratic process would help to bring about change. However, citizenship proved to be a divisive issue because it alienated many young West Indians from their community. The young people who heeded the call to become Costa Rican gradually began to represent a new force in the community. A petition sent to President Léon Cortés in January 1940 revealed the distinctions that were emerging within the community. The petition from Jorge Curling De Lisser (Delisser) and Roberto Sutherland Polson is the earliest evidence of Costa Rican-born West Indians seeking special treatment. They asked the president to re-examine article 5 of the 1934 contract because it discriminated against Costa Rican citizens.55 Sutherland and Curling were “coloured” Costa Ricans who wanted their rights as citizens to be upheld. They argued that the constitution guaranteed them equality under the law and that article 5 discriminated against citizens of colour by prohibiting everyone of African descent from working for United Fruit on the Pacific coast. Their point was that everyone of African descent need not be excluded from the jobs on the Pacific coast, only non-citizens of colour. Cortés passed their petition to the minister of development, Ricardo Pacheco, on whose desk it sat for a month. On 22 February 1940 Curling and Sutherland sent a letter to the minister of development asking him to please respond to the petition. Ricardo Pacheco was not sympathetic to the plight of West Indians in Costa Rica. He had responded in 1937 to a similar request from United Fruit by stating that the law was a “legitimate means of protecting the racial composition of the country.”56 Consequently, the day after receiving the letter Pacheco wrote Curling and Sutherland informing them that it was a matter for the courts to decide.57 By telling the petitioners to take their case to the courts, Pacheco was both dismissing the concerns of the Afro-Costa Rican community and ensuring a continuation of the ban on people of African descent.

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Some months later a challenge to the law was launched in civil court by workers arguing that their economic interests were being seriously prejudiced by the restrictions on their activities.58 As with all other efforts, the civil court challenge failed because the article in the contract had been signed into law and repeal required the cooperation of the government. As a result of Curling’s and Sutherland’s efforts the debate was steered away from the issues of racism and toward the rights of citizens. However, the authors of the petition were the vanguard and represented only a minority of the total West Indian population in Costa Rica.59 Of those who had been born in Costa Rica and who had the legal right to opt for citizenship, only 272 had become citizens by 1940.60 People like Sutherland and Curling who challenged the law argued that those who had become citizens should be allowed to work anywhere they pleased. There were no benefits for West Indians, and the distinction made by the petitioners served to divide the community further. The few hundred people who had obtained Costa Rican citizenship by 1940 were organizing and demanding rights for themselves, not for the majority of the West Indian community. As a consequence, in 1940 the first in a series of meetings was held in San José to fight for the rights of “coloured” Costa Ricans. At the meeting, Alex Curling, a prominent, young Afro-Costa Rican, told the assembled group that “several Costarricans in good standing” were in sympathy with the cause.61 A few weeks later, ex-president Ricardo Jiménez wrote a letter to the Diario de Costa Rica defending citizens of colour.62 The response to Jiménez’s letter was mixed. On the one hand, the former president raised the ire of a group of fifty workers from the Pacific coast plantations who wrote a letter to La Tribuna accusing West Indians of being aggressive, vain, and a burden to Costa Rica.63 They chastised Jiménez for meddling in their affairs by advocating the abolition of the Pacific-coast colour ban. On the other hand, members of the West Indian community were appreciative of the ex-president’s contribution because he represented authority. They expressed their gratitude in a letter to a local newspaper in which they thanked Jiménez for his humanitarian sentiments.64 Obviously, they had forgotten that it was the Jiménez government that had passed the restrictive legislation into law in 1934. The letter from the West Indians came from a new group in Limón called the National Progressive Association of the Youths of Colour of the Atlantic Zone. The Association wrote its letter of thanks “in the name of Costarricans of the Coloured race.” A short time later, after a name change, the National Association for the Advancement of Young Coloured People (naaycp), a parody of W.E.B. Dubois’

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National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, began a membership drive. The organization cited a desire to assure the “welfare of future generations” of Costa Ricans of colour.65 The naaycp was followed by a number of similar organizations, such as the Afro-Costarrican Youth Uplift Association and the National Association for the Progress of Coloured Costa Ricans (napccr). Each group was established to represent those members of the community who had opted to become Costa Rican citizens. As such, they formed a distinct and generally élite group within the community. The new organizations styled themselves as the leaders in the struggle for Afro-Costa Rican rights. People who had been born in the country but who did not consider themselves to be Afro-Costa Rican were not represented. An example of how the community’s attitude toward Costa Rica had changed occurred in 1944 when Feresford Duncan, a founding member of the napccr, warned West Indians that the government was considering the imposition of restrictions against foreign workers in the Atlantic Zone.66 His concern was, once again, for those people who could become Costa Rican citizens but had not. Duncan’s appeal was aimed at securing converts for the cause and not in fighting a general injustice to people of African descent. Duncan did not see that the real issue for people of African descent was skin colour, not citizenship. The government’s response to the efforts of Duncan and others to get people to opt for citizenship was to tighten the legislation even more. Just weeks after Duncan’s warning, the law concerning the children of foreigners was altered to further restrict West Indians from becoming Costa Rican citizens. On 18 August 1944 President Teodoro Picado signed a decree that, among other things, required all young people to opt for Costa Rican citizenship before the age of twenty-two or lose their right to do so.67 What the decree meant for the majority of Costa Rican-born West Indians was that they had one year before the law came into effect to decide the course of their future, obtain the necessary documentation, and apply for an option. Those who did not act within the year but who had been born in Costa Rica would forfeit their right to become citizens. Duncan’s appeal was followed by editorials, articles, and other pleas for community members to opt for citizenship. In a strange twist that reflected the willingness of some community leaders to exchange a West Indian identity for a Costa Rican one, Picado was portrayed as a man who had given them a chance. Yet Picado’s imposition of an age limit for options was not an opportunity but rather another attempt to force the West Indians to conform or risk reprisals. That 1945 became the year in which more community members

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opted for citizenship than ever before is an indication that the threats worked. Nevertheless, despite the pressure, thousands of people still did not heed the call to become citizens, and divisions within the community remained centred on the key issue of affiliation with the Costa Rican state. All those who rejected Costa Rica by not becoming citizens and who did not enjoy citizenship status in some other country became the targets of discrimination within the West Indian community itself. The people who did not help themselves were criticized for being inferior and for not following leaders like Curling, Sutherland, and Duncan. The leaders of the West Indian community knew that their continued security in Costa Rica depended on convincing all those who could become citizens to do so. The Costa Rican government assisted in this matter by continuing to apply pressure on West Indians to either assimilate or emigrate. Throughout the 1940s the issue of citizenship weighed upon the community, and the West Indian élite tried to get more of their counterparts to opt for a Costa Rican identity. Towards the end of the decade the West Indian élite were presented with their best opportunity to secure a place in Costa Rican society for themselves and their community, and they acted upon it.

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9 Pounding at the Door: Civil War and the Modification of the Electoral Base

The decade that preceded the beginning of World War Two saw significant development in the self-identity of the West Indians of Costa Rica. For the community, the economic and social crisis occasioned by the period provided a catalyst for rapid change. The presence of Costa Rican authority in the lives of West Indians increased throughout the period and was ubiquitous by the end of León Cortés’ term in office. As a result of the mounting pressures, the 1930s saw the community evlove from an embattled group of immigrants to a national minority lead by Afro-Costa Ricans. The final steps toward the complete integration of the community’s Costa Rican-born children and the suppression of the West Indian identity came in the 1940s when the country faced one of its greatest challenges since gaining independence from Spain. In 1940 Ricardo Jiménez ran for a fourth presidential term and was overwhelmingly defeated by Rafael Angel Calderón Guardia. The new president soon set the stage for the development of a monumental political crisis. The story begins with Calderón’s victory at the polls, where he obtained support across the political spectrum. Ninety per cent of Costa Rican voters approved of his vague promises for reform. Calderón was supported by the working class and peasants because they were interested in seeing a return to higher levels of employment and an end to the economic disaster of the 1930s. The Catholic Church, which had lost much of its political influence in the late nineteenth century, became one of Rafael

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Calderón’s allies because the new archbishop, Víctor Sanabria, shared the government’s goal of reform.1 Calderón, who was supported by retiring President León Cortés, also enjoyed the backing of some of the most conservative elements in the country.2 As a consequence, Rafel Calderón came to power with the support of voters who expected very different things from his government. The new president was quick to establish a new direction for Costa Rican society, but his policies were not exactly what the conservatives had expected. Calderón, it seems, had a genuine interest in social reform. He sought to make fundamental changes in the role played by government and launched a campaign for “social justice.” Social security legislation, a progressive labour code, and constitutional amendments codifying workers’ rights were enacted during Calderón’s term in office. As a result of these efforts at reform, Calderón gradually alienated his upper-class supporters. With the decline of élite support, Calderón developed closer ties with the Communist Party, Vanguardia Popular. The West Indian community was, therefore, confronted with a serious dilemma. Interviewees have indicated that although they had supported Calderón in 1940, they felt betrayed by his shift to the left. The reason for their dissatisfaction was that in Limón the Communist Party enjoyed its most enthusiastic support among Hispanic workers seeking to displace West Indians from their jobs and land. The antagonism between West Indian workers and their Hispanic counterparts was reflected in their political affiliations. The Vanguardia Popular had few supporters among West Indians and their descendants in Costa Rica. Prior to Calderón’s presidency, the Communist Party had risen in popularity throughout the country, with the result that representatives were regularly elected to Congress. The communists had been responsible for building a solid labour movement in Limón, and its cadres had been at the forefront of every major labour disturbance in the province during the 1930s. By the time Rafael Calderón took office in 1940, Vanguardia Popular had become an important force in national politics. Because of Comintern policy, Vanguardia Popular was interested in working with the elected administration to form a popular front. The Calderón administration, which soon needed new allies, accepted the support of the Communist Party at the expense of other class alignments. Affiliation with the ruling party gave the communists more power than their representation in Congress would normally have afforded, and in the process Calderón alienated some of his most influential supporters.3 World War Two also served as a backdrop to Rafael Calderón’s term in office, and the forces that

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divided Europe were reflected in Costa Rica. By the time Calderón reached the end of his mandate, the political situation in Costa Rica had become highly polarized. In Limón the West Indian community struggled through the war years much as they had during World War One. West Indians were among the first in Costa Rica to support the war effort. They raised money for the British troops and received the gratitude of the British government for their contributions. There was also an effort to get people to register with the local consul in the event that they were needed at the front. When the Costa Rican government entered the war on the side of the Allies, the West Indian community welcomed the decision. However, it was the war’s effect on the economy that had the greatest impact on Limón. As plant disease spread throughout the banana plantations, farmers turned to cacao as a substitute cash crop. Cacao had been grown on the Atlantic coast during the colonial period and reintroduced by United Fruit in 1913. By the 1930s many small farmers had begun looking to cacao as an alternative to bananas. The main problem with cacao was that its price fluctuated as a result of its cultivation in other parts of the world where labour was cheaper. Another major drawback was that German companies and merchants controlled the processing and distribution of the product in Limón.4 In 1941 the Niehaus cacao factory closed because of the problems caused by the war and because the company was on the blacklist of individuals and companies with which the United States prohibited trade.5 In 1942 the Costa Rican government began to seize German properties throughout the country, and the Niehaus Company in Limón was put out of business.6 Newspaper reports indicate that cacao growers in Limón were hit hard by the closure, especially since no viable alternative existed. Like most Latin American countries, Costa Rica was not in a position to make a military contribution to the war. Costa Rica did declare war on Japan on 7 December 1941 after the attack on Pearl Harbour, but the country’s formal entrance into the war a day before the United States was its only decisive move. For most of its other wartime initiatives the government struggled to gain popular support. An effort was made to contribute to the Allied victory, but the only real role for Costa Rica was to assist the United States in securing agricultural supplies in the western hemisphere. For example, in Limón the United Fruit Company planted thousands of hectares of abaca for the production of Manila hemp for the United States government.7 The United States was also permitted to make military surveys of the Costa Rican coast in order to improve hemispheric

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defences. However, with the war, Costa Rica saw many markets for its products dry up, and the country experienced no tangible benefit from its association with the allied cause. Despite Costa Rica’s minor role in the war, the conflict resulted in one event that altered the course of the country’s history. In July 1942 the San Pablo, a banana boat owned by United Fruit, was torpedoed in Limón harbour by a German submarine. Twenty West Indian dock workers were killed, and the port facilities were severely damaged.8 The sinking of the San Pablo was not only a tragic loss of life but also a turning point in the life of the West Indian community in Costa Rica. The San Pablo was the last banana boat to dock in Limón in 1942, marking the end of the first phase of banana production on Costa Rica’s Atlantic coast. No banana ships departed Limón during 1943, and export levels remained at an all-time low until the 1960s. The sinking of the San Pablo initiated the beginning of a political redefinition of the country as a whole. After the attack on the San Pablo, the communists organized a demonstration in San José. The protest became violent, and the shops of German and Italian immigrants were looted. Their owners were attacked by an unruly crowd while the authorities stood by. The failure of the government to intervene in the rioting enraged the opposition, who pointed to the involvement of the communists as proof of the government’s political orientation.9 In fact, it was common knowledge that the communists played a role as agitators for Calderón’s administration. Since entering the war in 1941, the Costa Rican government had been involved in a vigorous campaign to persecute Axis nationals, who happened to form an important part of the country’s bourgeoisie. The riots that followed the sinking of the San Pablo were the most radical demonstration of support for the Allied powers, and the government’s reaction to the protests enraged Calderón’s opponents. Among the many people who attacked the government for its complicity in the riots was José Figueres Ferrer. Figueres was the son of a Spanish immigrant and a little known farmer who had studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. After the sinking of the San Pablo, he attempted to make a radio speech in which he both denounced the government’s incompetence and its apathy toward the riots in San José10 and expressed his indignation over the government’s treatment of the German and Italian immigrants. His speech was interrupted by police, and he was thrown in jail and later sent into exile. José Figueres was one of a growing number of opponents to Calderón’s government and one of its most outspoken critics. Since Calderón was fast losing the support of the conservatives who had

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helped him get elected, the arrest and exile of José Figueres Ferrer served to provide Calderón’s opponents with a martyr for the cause. José Figueres’ exile in 1942 marked the beginning of a new chapter in Costa Rican politics because he became the government’s most significant adversary. He was out of the country for the balance of Calderón’s term but he was not out of touch with events in the country. Most importantly, exile provided Figueres with an education in political organization and contacts who would later help him to win the civil war in Costa Rica. While abroad Figueres associated with people who were interested in the overthrow of dictatorships throughout the Caribbean region. He became an important member of a short-lived international group known as the Caribbean Legion.11 His international connections were matched by his ability to bring a variety of interest groups together in Costa Rica. While José Figueres was out of the country, the political situation in Costa Rica continued to deteriorate. In addition to generating antagonism among the conservative elements in Costa Rica, Calderón’s reforms in education, immigration, and labour, as well as his strong links with the Catholic Church, alienated increasing numbers of people. The West Indian community experienced continued pressure from the government and saw avenues for their advancement within Costa Rican society become more restricted. As a result, of all the Costa Rican-born West Indians who opted for citizenship between 1935 and 1950, more than one third did so during Calderón’s presidency. Similarly, newspaper reports indicate that the height of West Indian exodus from Costa Rica occurred during the late 1930s and early 1940s. Nevertheless, one author has suggested that West Indians enjoyed a higher degree of acceptance by Costa Ricans during the 1940s. Charles Koch states that Rafael Calderón’s administration and that of his successor, Teodoro Picado Michaliski, marked a transition period from the “anti-Negro policies of the Cortés regime.”12 He argues that Calderón was “favorable to Negroes” and that the Picado government attempted to incorporate them into Costa Rican society.13 According to Koch and others, when José Figueres came to power in 1948 he benefited from the two previous administrations’ efforts to come to terms with the problem.14 However, a review of the history of the West Indian community in Costa Rica during the Rafael Calderón and Teodoro Picado administrations reveals heightened efforts to both exclude people of colour from entering the country and force those who were already there to integrate. In 1942 the Calderón government changed its laws to prohibit the immigration of “the black race, Chinese, Arabs, Turks,” and

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other racial minorities.15 No other legislation, since the passing in 1862 of the Ley de Bases y Colonización, had gone so far as to impose a complete ban on people of African descent from entering the country. The Calderón administration also continued the policies established under the presidency of León Cortés with respect to education, land tenure, and other issues that had a direct impact on the ability of the West Indian community to maintain its presence and identity in Costa Rica. When Rafael Calderón’s term in office ended in 1944, the West Indian community was still under seige, and they worried about their future under his chosen successor. Teodoro Picado Michaliski came to power after the coffee oligarchy and traditional bourgeoisie split the opposition vote by supporting the return of León Cortés in the 1944 election. Cortés received only one-third of the votes, and Teodoro Picado assumed the presidency. Rafael Calderón remained behind the scenes, preparing for his return in the 1948 elections and exerting his influence over the Picado administration.16 While the defeat of León Cortés at the polls was good news for the West Indian community, the Picado administration continued along the path that had been defined by its predecessor. As a result, two years after the prohibition of the immigration of people of colour, the government of Teodoro Picado changed the law concerning options to impose an age limit for applicants. Beginning in 1944 Costa Rican-born West Indians had to opt for citizenship within one year of turning twenty-one. Picado also failed to reverse any of the legislation or initiatives established by his predecessors. As a result of the continuation of what Charles Koch refers to as “anti-Negro policies,” people of African descent in Costa Rica remained on the political sidelines throughout the first two presidential administrations of the 1940s. As the 1948 election drew near, the West Indian community could only wait with bated breath. The traditional view of the emergence of Afro-Costa Ricans in the country’s mainstream casts José Figueres in the leading role because he is the man credited with bringing people of African descent into the political process.17 Figueres’ elevation to the status of folk hero began when he returned to Costa Rica from exile in 1944. He immediately organized a moderate anti-communist political party that was supported by different social classes. From the very beginning Figueres advocated constitutional changes that would result in wider popular participation in Costa Rican politics. In 1945 the Partido Social Demócrata (psd ) was formed by a union of intellectuals from the Centro para el Estudio de los Problemas Nacionales and the Acción Demócrata (ad ), an oligarchic group that had split from León Cortés’ Partido Democrático. The psd , therefore, enjoyed a broad

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base of support but, without ties to the oligarchy, had little hope for triumphing over Calderón. Out of necessity, the psd was drawn toward a union with the National Union Party (pun ), led by Otilio Ulate, a politician whose biases against people of African descent were well known to the West Indian community.18 Both parties were concerned with Vanguardia Popular’s continuing role in the Picado administration, and each leader was determined to prevent Calderón from regaining the presidency. Ulate had been cultivating his popularity through his various newspapers and as a member of the opposition for two decades. He was a well-known public figure with a reputation for attempting to preserve traditional Costa Rican values and social relations. On the other hand, Figueres was much less well known, and his party lacked the support of the business community. He did, however, enjoy the backing of a growing and increasingly powerful middle sector of progressive professionals and small business owners who were wary of Ulate’s ties to the urban elite. Therefore, Ulate’s party needed the support of the psd to ensure victory at the polls. As the 1948 presidential campaign drew near, the two parties joined forces. A contest was held to see which party leader would run against Calderón the following year. In early 1947 Figueres was handily defeated by the experienced politician in the contest to become the opposition candidate, and he agreed to support Ulate in the race.19 The beginning of the 1948 presidential campaign coincided with the start of the Cold War, and the rhetoric used at the international level was echoed in the attacks directed at Calderón. During the campaign, Manuel Mora’s Vanguardia Popular was drawn even closer to the Picado administration, and Ulate made anti-communism a central part of his opposition. He focused on the evils of communism and pointed to Calderón’s various social programs as the beginning of Costa Rica’s decline. Ulate’s campaign was assisted by the élite groups most affected by the recent reforms.20 In July 1947, as part of the opposition strategy, business leaders in the main urban centres of the Central Valley locked their employees out in an attempt to pressure the government to retreat on its social programs. The lockout was known as the “Huelga de Brazos Caídos,” and it paralysed the entire country. As a result of the strike, the government was forced to grant electoral concessions to its political opponents, and Ulate’s supporters obtained increased control over election procedures. Elections in Costa Rica were traditionally marred by irregularities, and politicians were always quick to capitalize on situations that allowed for manipulation of the electoral process. The Huelga

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de Brazos Caídos gave the government’s political opponents a better chance to turn the upcoming presidential elections in their favour. The elections were to be held in February 1948. Rafael Angel Calderón and Otilio Ulate were the main candidates for the presidency. Calderón, as a former president, was the favoured candidate of the Picado administration, while Ulate was the representative of the disparate opposition forces. The race was extremely tight, and after the ballots were counted, two of the members of the National Electoral Tribunal announced that Ulate had won the elections. A third member, however, placed his victory in doubt by calling for further investigation. The situation deteriorated, culminating in a national political crisis and violence. Congress, which was dominated by Calderón’s party, was called upon by the government to annul the elections. Ulate was arrested, but released shortly thereafter when the archbishop of San José intervened. Open rebellion erupted throughout the Central Valley. A group headed by José Figueres and calling itself Liberación Nacional launched a civil revolt and within a few weeks defeated the forces loyal to the government.21 At the beginning of the civil war, President Picado’s government told all Costa Rican-born West Indians that their obligation was to defend the established order against Figueres and his supporters.22 The reaction of the majority of the community was to avoid taking sides. For example, when a rumour reached the coastal town of Cahuita that the government was sending soldiers to look for recruits, the young men fled.23 Most of the people in the community knew little about the intricacies of the political crisis; furthermore, they did not care. All they knew was that the trains were not running, the port was closed, and shots were being fired in Limón. The political struggles that concerned Hispanics were of little interest to West Indians. Experience told them that there were no guarantees that their interests would be protected by any of the warring factions. One man summed it up when he stated that the West Indians “didn’t care who did win because [they] we were just living.”24 Indeed, since most West Indians in Limón had passed up opportunities to become citizens of Costa Rica, it was no surprise that they refused to get involved in what were another country’s affairs. Most people in the community decided to lay low until the fighting had stopped. Nevertheless, some West Indians did get involved. For example, during the Huelga de Brazos Caídos, Otilio Ulate’s Diario de Costa Rica reported that “’Negroes and communist stevedores,’ some without shoes or shirts, [were] presuming to guard the streets of the

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capital as though they were citizens with something to defend.”25 The comments in the future president’s newspaper illustrate that even though thousands of West Indians had become citizens, they, like the communists, were still denigrated by some of the nation’s power brokers. However, Costa Rican-born West Indians did have a stake in the future of Costa Rica, and many were ready to participate in the political process. The problem was that there was no room for people of African descent in the mainstream political parties, and the West Indian community remained unrepresented at a crucial time in Costa Rican history. Consequently, a few months after the Huelga de Brazos Caídos an exclusively West Indian political group was formed.26 Few details about the group are available, except that it was called the “Comité Dimitrou,”27 had five hundred members, and was affiliated with the Communist Party.28 To call the group West Indian is a misnomer because its participants identified with Costa Rican politics and saw themselves as Afro-Costa Ricans. One of the leaders was Alfredo Nesbeth, a member of the Communist Party and the organizing secretary of coloured workers in the Atlantic Zone. He was also one of a few members of the West Indian community to have been given a job as a party scrutineer in the 1948 presidential elections. Nesbeth, a Costa Rican-born West Indian, praised Calderón’s efforts to establish social justice in Costa Rica and urged members of his community to assist the Picado government in its struggle against the capitalist opposition.29 Nesbeth and others like him had reason to support Vanguardia Popular because it was the only political party lobbying the government in their favour. Vanguardia Popular, however, was a communist organization associated with Hispanic working-class interests. Although it attempted to obtain special consideration for the West Indian community, ethnic differences kept support for the party to a minimum in Limón.30 The Communist Party was also unable to build a base of support among West Indians because the community’s leaders discouraged people from participating in any organization that was critical of the United Fruit Company. The Atlantic Voice, under the editorship of Samuel Nation, consistently attacked the Communist Party. Instead of encouraging West Indians to join in the political process, the English language press urged them to support organizations like the National Association for the Advancement of Costarricans of Colour. The problem with these organizations was that they were controlled by middle-class West Indians and did not represent the social interests of the majority of the community. The Comité Dimitrou was a radical group that spoke in the name of working-

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class members of the community, but its development was frustrated by the outbreak of hostilities in 1948. The experiment with radical politics came to an end with the civil war, and more moderate community representatives rose to speak for the interests of people of African descent in Costa Rica. Despite the limited participation of West Indians and their Costa Rican-born offspring in the civil war, the Port of Limón was one of the chief centres of activity because of its strategic importance to Figueres’ forces. Control of the port was important because the railway to Limón was the country’s main lifeline and because access to the sea meant that armaments could be more easily obtained from abroad.31 Figueres led an assault on Cartago while another force of sixty men flew into Limón in two dc -3s. Within hours Limón had been captured, and the city was placed under Figuerista control. The operation, known as Operación Legión del Caribe, began at eight in the morning on 11 April 1948 and was over by noon. Government forces in Limón were surprised by the combatants and capitulated before a proper defence could be mounted. The next day additional government troops arrived to engage the “revolutionaries,” but they were repulsed a few miles outside the city. Limón was secure and remained in the hands of the “revolutionaries” until the end of the civil war.32 Meanwhile, in the Central Valley, Figueres engaged government forces in Cartago, an important city just a few kilometres from San José. After another rapid victory his liberation army proceeded to surround San José. Negotiations began on 13 April, and within a few days the struggle was over. On 28 April Figueres and his troops entered San José triumphantly, and he emerged as the head of the provisional government.33 The entire affair was short-lived, and destruction in the country was generally minimal. The most important aspect of the war was that it came to serve as a watershed in Costa Rica’s modern history. Like the National Campaign of the midnineteenth century, the events of 1948 produced a new generation of politicians whose legitimacy rested on the role they had played in the struggle. State policy did not change immediately, but both the supporters of the former government and vocal opponents to the new regime were persecuted. Severe restrictions on political freedom were introduced in order to prevent a counter-revolution by Calderón’s supporters. According to one source, in the year that followed the civil war, “sixty unions were disbanded, seven thousand people were sent into exile, three thousand people were jailed and at least fourteen were executed.”34 Groups like the Comité Dimitrou evaporated because the repression that followed the victory was meant to serve

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as an example to the new government’s critics. Political dissent was not tolerated, and criticism from the left was muted. With the capture of Limón by the “Figueristas” and the subsequent successes in the Central Valley, the West Indian community sided openly with the victors. To have done anything else would have been to risk the same penalties imposed on the government’s enemies.35 Nevertheless, West Indians were familiar with Otilio Ulate and José Figueres. They knew that Ulate had a lengthy history of attacking the West Indian community and that Figueres had displayed proGerman sympathies during wwii . West Indians in Costa Rica also knew the realities of their situation, and they waited to see how the new political configuration would deal with them. The Junta Fundadora, the provisional government headed by Figueres, took steps to re-establish order in the country and, in so doing, increased the pressure on non-citizens. On 1 November 1948 the head of the Departamento de Extranjeros of the Ministerio de Seguridad Pública sent the United Fruit Company a request for information on all its foreign employees.36 The government wanted to know who they were, when they had been hired, and if they had returned to work after the civil war. The government was worried about the possibility of a “counter-revolution,” and its request to United Fruit specifically asked for information about foreign employees who had come from the northern border area of Los Chiles. At the time, Calderón was in exile in Nicaragua, where he enjoyed the support of Anastasio Somoza. Nicaraguan troops had invaded Costa Rica during the civil war, and the Junta suspected that some of the fruit company’s employees were sympathetic to “counter-revolution.” Nicaraguans in Costa Rica were targets not only because of Somoza but also because they were involved with organized labour. The new Costa Rican government devoted much of its time to dismantling the labour movement and attacking the left. The request made to the United Fruit Company was only the first in a series of attempts by the Junta to count the number of foreigners in the country. In April 1949, shortly after the request was made to United Fruit, a newspaper report in The Atlantic Post indicated that the government was concerned about the large number of West Indians who were not Costa Ricans.37 The article, quoting a report that had appeared in a San José daily, expressed the continuing fears of the Hispanic majority. According to the San José press, there were thirty thousand West Indians in Costa Rica who were not citizens, and of these many had no country of origin and more than half did not speak Spanish.38 By raising the spectre of a massive number of “African” foreigners in a country with a total population of 800,000, the press was reminding

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Costa Ricans that their democracy was still fragile. In reality, there were only about half the reported number of people of African descent in the country, and many had made the transition from being West Indian to being Afro-Costa Rican. The issue of “black” foreigners was also raised at a sensitive time because the leading political parties were jockeying for position in the run up to the elections for a Constituent Assembly, which would decide whether José Figueres or Otilio Ulate would become president. The fears raised in the press caused José Figueres, like several of his predecessors, to call for the enumeration and registration of all foreigners in the country. With the elections for a Constituent Assembly in the offing, the government was concerned that a large group of “coloured” foreigners, who had not “properly” adopted the customs or laws of the country, would vote against the government. Government ministers worried openly about the “grave political problem” presented by these people whom they thought would commit “irregular acts” at election time.39 A clear definition of “irregular acts” was not offered, but in the context of post-civil-war Costa Rica, where thousands of people were persecuted, West Indians had to fear being singled out as a threat to democracy. A more significant aspect of the government’s concerns is that for the first time in the country’s history, Afro-Costa Rican votes were a part of the calculations made by political parties in the development of their election strategies. Thousands of members of the West Indian community were eligible voters at the time and had participated in the most recent elections. An increase in West Indian and Afro-Costa Rican participation had occurred during the decade before the civil war as more and more West Indians had opted for citizenship. Calderón and his successor had courted many sectors of the population at one time or another and an appeal had been made to the West Indian community for support. One interviewee mentioned playing an active role in encouraging West Indians to become citizens in order to vote for Rafael Calderón in the 1940 presidential election. He indicated that he was approached to help bring about changes that would lead to the increased participation of Afro-Costa Ricans in national affairs. As a result of the interviewee’s efforts, a small number of West Indian votes went to Calderón in 1940. By the end of the decade thousands of people of African descent were prepared to cast their ballots in the elections for a Constituent Assembly, and politicians like Otilio Ulate had to worry that these votes would go against him because of his long history of attacking people of African descent. Afro-Costa Ricans may not have been aware of it at the time, but they had become a voting bloc, and political parties were beginning to pay attention.

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The elections for a Constituent Assembly were held under the supervision of the Junta Fundadora in order to legitimatize the political changes being planned.40 Figueres’s party, the psd, won only four seats in the Constituent Assembly, while Ulate’s Partido de Union Nacional (pun) won thirty-four.41 The victory was marred by the fact that a large percentage of people stayed home on election day. The Atlantic Post reported that sixty-five thousand people or about half the eligible voters in the country did not show up at the polls.42 The newspaper, in a wry expression of concern, asked rhetorically if the people who had not voted might actually have been casting their ballots for a party that was not allowed to participate in the elections. The reference was, of course, to the supporters of Rafael Calderón, the suggestion being that the Constituent Assembly did not represent the interests of all Costa Ricans. The massive abstention from the political process so concerned the government that a special commission was established to look into the causes.43 The Constituent Assembly was intended to function as a legal body charged with the task of resolving political problems and overcoming the social impasses that had been created by the civil war. The Assembly’s actions were partisan because they did not represent the entire spectrum of the Costa Rican electorate. Whereas it upheld Otilio Ulate’s claim to the presidency in 1948, it nullified the results of the congressional elections that had been held at the same time. In the congressional elections Calderón’s party had won a majority. New congressional elections were planned, but the chief opposition parties, whose leaders were in exile, were banned from participating. The new government needed a favourable majority in Congress in order to eradicate Calderón’s political power and push through new legislation. At the government level, social democracy became institutionalized as the basis for a new Costa Rica. Social democracy in the Costa Rican context meant that the government became the guarantor of prosperity within a free-enterprise system. The objective was to create an atmosphere for the rise of a middle class comprised of professionals, small business owners, and bureaucrats. The Junta was careful not to reverse the progressive reforms made by the two previous administrations. Instead, the new government sought to contain the reforms and introduce new policies that steered clear of radical solutions to the country’s ills. The state would play a bigger role in the economy and maintain social programs, but capitalism would prevail. The Junta imposed a 10 per cent tax on capital and nationalized the banking industry to gain more control over the economy. Along with the extension of relatively progressive legislation,

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the new government also worked to unite Costa Rica in the wake of the civil war.44 The new leaders of the country had to worry about the legitimacy of their government. As astute politicians, they knew that in order to ensure both a democratic system of government and their continued grip on power, they had to expand their political base. The distinctions that had developed in the past between classes, religions, and regions were down played, while nationalism was stressed. Despite these efforts to reunite Costa Ricans, some social divisions were not as easily overcome. The issue of ethnicity and tolerance for minorities was a different matter because Costa Rican nationalism was predicated on the notion of a “white-settler” society. Nevertheless, AfroCosta Ricans represented a small but significant section of the electorate and, as a group, had not yet committed themselves to any political party. Among those who began looking at the Afro-Costa Ricans in a new light was José Figueres, a politician who needed every vote he could muster if he was going to be a challenger in the next presidential election. José Figueres and his followers were not alone in their desire to include people of African descent in the political process. Many individuals from the West Indian community were becoming more openly involved in national politics. The community wanted to see some fundamental changes in the way people of African descent were treated in Costa Rica, and many Afro-Costa Ricans saw their best chance in José Figueres. Although citizenship, property rights, and discrimination continued to be concerns among people of African descent after the civil war, the colour ban in the 1934 contract was the single most important issue confronting the community. As a legal document the contract also provided the best opportunity to challenge discrimination, and it became the focus of the post-1948 Afro-Costa Rican struggle for equality. The community’s chief spokesperson on the matter was Alex Curling Delisser, who mounted an attack on the contract’s discriminatory article. Curling was a Costa Rican-born West Indian who had struggled to be a part of the Hispanic mainstream. He was born in San José in 1908, attended public school in the capital, and studied law at the University of Costa Rica. During World War Two he worked as a censor for the United States government in Panama and returned to Costa Rica in time to witness the events of 1948.45 He was among the first of his community to opt for Costa Rican citizenship and, by 1950, had become a recognized leader among Afro-Costa Ricans.46 For years Curling urged Costa Rican-born West Indians to exercise their right to citizenship in order to build a more secure future for themselves.

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In the 1948 elections he supported Otilio Ulate, and with the defeat of Rafael Calderón in the civil war, Curling seized the opportunity to become an outspoken critic of discriminatory legislation. During the post-1948 period Alex Curling made his appearance in politics as the defender of Afro-Costa Rican rights. In 1949 and 1950 he was the author of several public appeals for the rights of “coloured Costa Ricans.”47 Alex Curling did not raise new issues or make radical suggestions, but he did point out that there could be no lasting social revolution unless the rights of the largest minority group in the country were protected. Costa Rican-born West Indians needed a chance to integrate into Costa Rican society, and Curling saw the political turmoil caused by the civil war as a golden opportunity. To a certain extent he was right: the eyes of the world were on Costa Rica, and the civil war had created a more tolerant social climate. The victors needed to build support because they had ousted a popular leader and a powerful political coalition. However, in the aftermath of the civil war the political stalemate between José Figueres and Otilio Ulate meant that Afro-Costa Rican concerns could not be dealt with decisively. Alex Curling began a press campaign in 1949 and was credited with drawing the Junta’s attention to the continued existence of the discriminatory clause in the 1934 contract. His first letters reflected his position as a Costa Rican-born West Indian who had opted for citizenship. Although as patriotic as anyone else, he argued that the rights of people like him were violated by the 1934 clause. His most forceful attack came just a few months before Figueres handed the presidency to Ulate. In June 1949 Curling wrote to the United Nations’ League for the Defense of Human Rights to protest against the discrimination of people of African descent in Costa Rica. To pressure the government, the Diario de Costa Rica was sent a copy of his letter, and the newspaper published it.48 The letter was not the kind of publicity Costa Rican politicians wanted because they were attempting to build consensus within a divided electorate. Curling’s letter laid bare the notion of equality in Costa Rica, appealing for the League’s protection so that people of African descent could enjoy “justice and freedom” in a country that claimed to be a democracy. The appeal to the United Nations had an impact on Figueres’ government, which acted almost immediately to exclude Costa Rican citizens from the discriminatory provisions of the 1934 contract. The move by Figueres was also strategic in that it won him and his political heirs the unconditional support of Afro-Costa Ricans. Article 5 of the 1934 contract was partially rescinded on 4 November 1949 by decree 836.49 The new legislation was a curious and cautious proposition. It reflected

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the position of Costa Rican-born West Indians like Alex Curling but did not eliminate discrimination against all “coloured people.” Only those who could prove they were citizens were to be allowed immediate access to employment on the Pacific coast. All others remained subject to the provisions of the 1934 contract. Decree 836 also created yet another commission to look at the documentation of all West Indians resident in Costa Rica, with the aim of establishing a registry of “coloured people.”50 Thus, the decree was a compromise that did not seriously challenge the supporters of the 1934 contract but did help to maintain Costa Rica’s democratic image. Moreover, the interests of people like Alex Curling were protected, and their desire to force reluctant members of the West Indian community to become Afro-Costa Ricans was furthered by the new legislation. Importantly, Figueres rushed the legislation through prior to Otilio Ulate’s inauguration, thereby depriving the new administration of an opportunity to garner Afro-Costa Rican support while still leaving the new president sufficient flexibility to deal with West Indians. By 1949 efforts by a series of governments to contain the “West Indian threat” had worked, and there was no need for Ulate to focus his government’s attention on a problem that was gradually being resolved. Nevertheless, on 8 November, just four days after decree 836 was passed, Otilio Ulate assumed his official duties as president, and La Nación reported that the authorities on the Pacific coast had been instructed to verify the status of all “coloured elements who arrived in the region.”51 In addition, Costa Rican officials were asked to record their encounters with people of African descent in order to find out how many were moving to the banana zone in search of work. Though not quite a witch-hunt, the search for people of colour on the Pacific coast went beyond the provisions of decree 836 in that it was designed to monitor the impact of the legislation passed by Figueres. The move by Ulate’s administration also revealed his continued preoccupation with the presence of people of African descent in Costa Rica. The reaction of Afro-Costa Ricans to decree 836 was also contained in the same edition of La Nación. In a letter to the editor, Alex Curling expressed his support for the new government and his delight with the provisions of decree 836 by reaffirming his faith in the “Christian and democratic spirit” of Costa Rica. Curling’s comments were a bit pre-mature in that they could not account for Otilio Ulate’s move to document the presence of people of African descent on the Pacific coast. However, Curling’s expression of faith demonstrates his satisfaction with the way in which José Figueres accommodated his and other Afro-Costa Ricans’ interests. Alex Curling also expressed his

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pleasure in a similar letter to the newspaper in Limón, where it was published in Spanish one week and translated into English the next.52 Interestingly, his letter was aimed first at community members who could read Spanish, likely because they were the people in the community who would most benefit from the new political alignment in Costa Rica.53 Curling and other Afro-Costa Ricans followed up their success with decree 836 by going on a campaign to urge West Indians who had not yet obtained Costa Rican citizenship to do so. They reminded people of African descent that more security was afforded those who became Costa Rican citizens. Otilio Ulate was in power until 1953, and experience with the man told Curling and his followers that tighter regulations concerning foreigners and more discrimination against people of African descent were likely to follow. They did not have to wait long for the Ulate government to increase the pressure on West Indians to integrate or assimilate. Within months of his inauguration, Otilio Ulate’s government had succeeded where no other government had before. In February 1950 the United Fruit Company instructed all division managers to hire Costa Ricans before foreigners.54 The company was the largest industry in the country, and it sought to appease Ulate, who was a long time critic. In 1949 bananas accounted for 63 per cent of the value of all agricultural exports and 35 per cent of the country’s total exports.55 In addition to bananas, the United Fruit Company produced abaca and cacao in substantial amounts. Company products accounted for 58 per cent of the value of all export crops and 29 per cent of the value of both export and domestic crops produced in 1949.56 During the same year, 11 per cent of the total labour force in Costa Rica worked for United Fruit and its subsidiaries.57 Although the majority of the company’s operations were outside Limón, the Northern Railway, the port, and other important employers in the province were subject to the new hiring policies. There is no evidence that Ulate had forced United Fruit to fall in line with his desire for a “Costa Rican first” hiring policy, but there can be no doubt that the government was pleased. In addition to the new policy at United Fruit, members of the West Indian community who were not citizens faced other pressures to conform. By coincidence or design, the Costa Rican government imposed a new tax on some community members at the same time that United Fruit introduced its new hiring policy. In February 1950 Ulate’s government imposed a sliding scale of taxation on the country’s foreigners. The tax was applied to the annual renewal of residential certificates, and failure to comply with the new requirement

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could mean expulsion from the country. The only exceptions were supposed to be for people who came from countries that did not charge Costa Ricans a similar fee for residency. All British subjects, therefore, should have been exempt from the tax because Britain did not charge such a fee to Costa Ricans living under its jurisdiction. However, the tax was charged to British subjects if they were of African descent, and the British authorities did nothing to protect the West Indian community.58 The new hiring policy affected many people in Limón, but the new community leaders did not defend the rights of non-Costa Ricans to work for the company. Instead, Alex Curling and his supporters urged people born in the country to become citizens and offered to help them through the bureaucratic maze if necessary.59 In 1950 no one was willing to mount a defence of the undocumented and unprotected members of the West Indian community. The issue of the tax on residential certificates was a matter of little importance to people like Alex Curling because it mainly affected elderly West Indians – the parents and grandparents of the Afro-Costa Ricans. A protest was made to the Ulate government, but the appeals for fairness were ignored, and the issue disappeared.60 The new regulations for residential certificates meant that British subjects who were of African descent had to pay the maximum amount of fifty colones for renewal.61 It also meant that West Indians who had been born in the country but had not opted for citizenship were taxed. While there were some West Indians who could afford the residential certificates, the price was beyond the means of most. By 1950 Limón’s economy was in a shambles, and fifty colones was a considerable sum for subsistence farmers and the labouring poor. Although the United Fruit Company had abandoned 34,585 hectares of land in Limón by 1950, about half of it was handed over to the government for colonization by Hispanic Costa Ricans, and the rest rapidly returned to dense tropical forest.62 West Indian farmers did not benefit from the availability of land after 1934, and Limón endured the highest unemployment rates in the country. Even when land was cultivated, the markets for agricultural commodities produced by small farmers were limited. The price that people had to pay in order to stay in Costa Rica was extremely high. For example, in 1952 fifty colones could buy a pair of shoes, two shirts, and a pair of denim pants at a United Fruit Company commissary in Limón.63 If, as was common, there was more than one adult living in a home, the annual residential tax was an extreme hardship. The alternative to paying the tax was to become a citizen, but, in order to apply, a residential certificate was required.

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The Atlantic Post argued that the fifty colones charged for the residential certificate meant that the cost of becoming a Costa Rican citizen was one hundred colones or more.64 Applicants had to pay for a residential certificate, supply photos, purchase legal application forms, and incur other costs. The poor could easily spend several months worth of their income to become citizens. Obstacles also existed for the Costa Rican-born children of foreigners even though they had a constitutional right to opt for citizenship. They, too, required residential certificates because they were not Costa Rican citizens. To make matters worse, Alex Curling complained that West Indians often had difficulties obtaining citizenship because their applications were becoming “moth-eaten” in government offices.65 Government officials were letting the applications from West Indians collect dust while rapidly processing others.66 As a result, residential certificates had to be renewed during the course of the application, and applicants were not sure if the money they had invested would get them the citizenship they desired. The issue of the residential certificates faded away when the government set a deadline for West Indians who had been born in the country to opt for citizenship. The 1949 Constitution, modeled on that of 1871, kept the existing legislation on options for citizenship. However, the government included an article designed to eliminate the complications presented by older individuals who were eligible for citizenship. The article reimposed the limitations established by the Picado administration in 1944. Consequently, people over the age of twenty-five were allowed to apply for an option only for a specified period of time. In early November 1954 the period expired.67 Since the restriction was the same as the one the Picado government had imposed in 1944, the new limitation received the same reception from the leaders of the Afro-Costa Rican community. People like Alex Curling welcomed the new legislation as an opportunity for all of the Costa Rican-born to join them. The leaders of the Afro-Costa Ricans were interested in increasing the number of people who belonged to their community because presidential elections were in the offing. Otilio Ulate’s term in office ended in 1953, and the Afro-Costa Rican élite saw an opportunity. As part of their strategy, community leaders sought to trade Afro-Costa Rican votes for access to power. According to one author, a group called the Black Whiz wrote to the three leading parties prior to the 1953 elections and asked to be permitted to join as a bloc.68 The Black Whiz was turned down by Otilio Ulate’s pun and Rafael Calderón’s Republican Nacional Party. However, José Figueres, the man responsible for decree 836 accepted the support of the Black Whiz, and the Partido

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181 Pounding at the Door

de Liberación Nacional (pln) became the preferred political party of people of African descent in Costa Rica. Only Figueres and the pln saw the benefits of allowing Afro-Costa Ricans into its organization. Afro-Costa Rican votes were important to the pln because Figueres’ popularity diminished while the Junta Fundadora de la Segunda República governed. The failure of his party to contest elections successfully for the Constituent Assembly and Congress forced him to attempt to regain the popular support he had enjoyed in mid1948. In October 1951 Figueres established the Partido de Liberación Nacional to replace the psd and began to reconstruct his political power base.69 The pln’s desire to overcome previous electoral defeats paved the way for Afro-Costa Rican involvement in national politics. The Afro-Costa Rican community and its political aspirants did not have to worry about presenting their concerns to the pln because Figueres came to them. José Figueres joined Afro-Costa Rican leaders in appealing to the non-citizens of the community to enter the mainstream. Through his desire to obtain support among the residents of Limón, Figueres did things that no other national leader had done before. He went to the Afro-Costa Rican community, treating them with respect and paying attention to their concerns. Figueres travelled throughout Limón, “speaking English, kissing babies and dancing with black women.”70 The man whose first gesture to the community had been the passing of decree 836 brought conciliation and modern politics to the province in 1953. The efforts of leaders like Samuel Nation, Alex Curling, and others had finally resulted in acceptance of people of African descent by a Costa Rican politician. Figueres won the presidential elections of 1953, and his party obtained thirty-one of forty-five seats in Congress. A significant part of his support came from Costa Ricans who felt that they could contribute to the development of a new political culture in the country. The middle class, not the traditional oligarchy, were the power brokers in the pln. Consequently, they were more sympathetic to the concerns of the working class and the peasantry. Figueres and the people who formed the leadership of the pln knew that their fortunes depended on a broad base of support among the marginalized sectors of society. Two groups that owed much to Figueres were women and the Afro-Costa Rican community. As a result of Figueres’ efforts as the head of the Junta in 1949, women went to the polls for the first time in 1953. The New York Times reported that 70 per cent of eligible women voted in the election.71 Similarly, the significance of AfroCosta Rican participation in the political process was obvious. Alex

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182 The West Indians of Costa Rica

Curling and Stanley Britton became the first Costa Rican-born West Indians to assume elected office in the country. Curling was elected as a supplementary deputy to Congress while Britton was elected at the municipal level.72 Women and the Afro-Costa Rican community were finally given voices in electoral politics, and they voted for the man who had made it possible. The accomplishments of Curling and Britton have always been considered the first step toward the full participation of the AfroCosta Rican community in national politics, but, in truth, their election to office marked the culmination of a protracted struggle for recognition. For years younger members of the community had been attempting to integrate into mainstream Hispanic society. By 1950 over two thousand had opted for Costa Rican citizenship because they wanted to belong to something other than an isolated West Indian community. Their desire to belong created the first generation of Afro-Costa Ricans. Alex Curling was one of them, and he had long been an advocate of integration into Hispanic society. As a politician, Curling had to depend on people from his community who were eligible to vote. Therefore, he continued to push people to become Costa Ricans because the West Indian electorate was his. As a consequence of Curling’s efforts, most of the community embraced José Figueres and the Partido Liberación Nacional in the decades that followed the civil war. Charles Koch has noted that the “successors to Calderón and Picado receive[d] few votes from Negro villages.”73 Interviewees have consistently alluded to the debt they owed Figueres, and a 1965 study showed that 75 per cent of AfroCosta Rican voters supported the pln.74 There was, however, an ethnic division among voters in Limón. In the 1953 elections Figueres and the pln received their lowest levels of support in the banana zones of the province, where the Hispanic voters were concentrated.75 Ethnicity continued to play a significant role in the lives of the residents of Limón, but people of African descent were finally given a voice in national politics. Afro-Costa Ricans claimed a victory for people of African descent even though they had lost ground during two decades of detrimental government policies. The community’s West Indian identity had diminished in importance as a result of the integration and emigration of its members. Figueres was able to take advantage of the legacy of discriminatory policies to win the support of the community in 1948. Like the enfranchisement of women in 1949, Figueres’ recognition of the strong desire of some West Indians to be accepted as Costa Ricans was the inevitable outcome of a struggle for social justice. However, the extension of voting rights to women and the recognition

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183 Pounding at the Door

of Afro-Costa Ricans as part of the country’s populace were just the first steps in an as yet incomplete process of creating social equality. Afro-Costa Ricans may have rejoiced in the post-civil-war atmosphere of conciliation, but they were still a long way from being accorded recognition for their historic contribution to the development of the nation. Policies aimed at integration prevailed, and the children of West Indian immigrants attended public schools in increasing numbers. Between 1954 and 1958 forty-seven new schools were built in the province of Limón. Education facilities that were built by the government soon replaced the autonomous West Indian-run schools.76 After a decade of the new policies, the first significant numbers of university-educated Afro-Costa Rican professionals graduated and began taking up white-collar positions in society. For those who could move to San José to take advantage of educational and employment opportunities, life in Costa Rica seemed secure. However, the majority of West Indians continued to live in Limón, where they remained isolated from the rest of the country. The significance of their contributions to the nation could still be ignored after 1948 because as a community they were easily overlooked. Despite the achievements of the post-1948 generation of Afro-Costa Ricans, the community has remained a footnote in Costa Rican history and a forgotten part of the national heritage.

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Conclusion: The Evolution of an Afro-Costa Rican Subculture

The history of the West Indian community in Costa Rica can be seen as the continuous adaptation of a minority group to a new cultural environment. Individual immigrants came together in Limón to form a vibrant community with a common language and cultural heritage. The development and retention of communal bonds based on a West Indian identity was, in many ways, a response to the harsh realities of life in the Province of Limón. The West Indian community that developed in Limón was, like the province, an enclave. West Indians in Limón depended on their British and African cultural orientation to create space for themselves in an often hostile Hispanic environment. Together, West Indian immigrants to Limón created a society that reflected the British colonies that most of the sojourners came from. In addition to becoming a minor extension of the British Caribbean, the Atlantic coast of Costa Rica also served as a meeting place for all those West Indian immigrants who participated in frontier development. The constant movement of West Indians looking for employment and other opportunities along the coast of Central America meant the flow of ideas and the maintenance of ties with the broader Caribbean. West Indians from various parts of the Caribbean brought their collective experiences together on the streets, roadways, and paths of Limón. Issues in common like racism, colonialism, and imperialism combined with individual strategies for survival to create a dynamic social context. West Indians shared their concerns and laboured together in Limón to make the province one of the most significant agricultural regions of the country.

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185 An Afro-Costa Rican Subculture

However, West Indian contributions to the extension of the Costa Rican state’s presence and its control of the Atlantic coast region have yet to be appreciated because most academic treatments of the country’s history have focused on the highland region, where the majority of the population lives. As a result, much of the literature on Costa Rica since independence can benefit from an understanding of how the country’s largest immigrant group made space for itself and developed into a distinct entity in the modern state. A small number of recent studies have begun the exploration of the role of West Indians in Costa Rican history, but they have not illustrated a key feature: the evolution of the original immigrant community into an Afro-Costa Rican variant. By looking at the complex and conflictive process by which West Indians were integrated into Costa Rican society, a better understanding of the community’s politics and identity is possible. One of the most important aspects of the West Indian experience in Costa Rica is the challenge the Caribbean immigrants presented to the image of the state after Independence. Limón was a place where immigrants of African descent came into contact with an Hispanic society that had an enormous amount of pride in its European heritage. The encounter between the two cultures escalated into a clash as Limón evolved into a more integral part of the Costa Rican economy. At first few Hispanics ventured to the region, but gradually, as railway construction gave way to a dynamic banana industry, highland Costa Ricans began to drift into Limón in search of employment and investment opportunities. The highlanders soon discovered that the itinerant West Indian workers of the late nineteenth century had evolved into an immigrant community of significant size. A combination of xenophobia and misunderstanding resulted in a series of confrontations between Caribbean migrants who considered Limón their new home and those who regarded people of African descent as guests who had overstayed their welcome. The tension between West Indians and Hispanic society developed because of the circumstances surrounding the pragmatic attempts by a series of Costa Rican governments to exploit the country’s Atlantic coast region. Although ensuring Costa Rican sovereignty over Limón was a priority, the desire to gain more direct access to European markets and the need to maintain a labour reserve in the highlands for the coffee industry lead to the importation of West Indian workers. As a result, a West Indian community developed in Limón, providing railway construction and banana plantations with an inexpensive and reliable labour force. The importance of the railway and the banana industry to the country’s economy also meant that the West Indian presence was overlooked or ignored by Costa Rican

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186 The West Indians of Costa Rica

governments for the first decades of the twentieth century. As an immigrant labour force that had minimal contact with Costa Rican authority and society, West Indians, however, were eventually seen as a threat to the country’s supposed homogeneity. The plantation enclave with its large non-national workforce became an issue for some Hispanic Costa Ricans when population growth and changes in the country’s economy created higher levels of unemployment and landlessness in the highland regions. At the time, the United Fruit Company was Costa Rica’s largest employer, and its products accounted for a large share of the country’s exports. As a result, political pressure mounted on Costa Rican governments to do something about United Fruit’s absolute domination of the Atlantic seaboard and about the company’s apparent bias toward West Indian labour. The stage was set, therefore, for a confrontation between the competing interests of the Costa Rican government and the United Fruit Company, with the West Indian community caught in the fray. The fate of the West Indians in Limón was always tied to their functional relationship with the fruit company. As a result of the labour of thousands of West Indian workers, United Fruit turned Costa Rica into one of the most productive banana exporting countries in the world. The Caribbean migrants often obtained skilled positions within the company, and some were able to take advantage of other opportunities in Limón to become independent producers or the owners of small businesses. As the West Indian community matured and the banana industry spread, changes also occurred in the social composition of the Atlantic seaboard. The irony for the West Indians was that as their community developed into a source of security, it also became an identifiable target for the critics of non-white immigration to Costa Rica. Banana plantations were, by definition, constantly moving to new locations and dragging workers along with them. By the 1920s West Indian immigrants to Costa Rica, who had proved adept at meeting the needs of the industry during its early stages of development in the Atlantic coast region, were no longer as flexible as the multinational corporation and could not as easily abandon Limón. Ultimately, the West Indian culture and community became a victim of its own success, and United Fruit, as a corporate entity, moved on. Evidence of the West Indian community’s shifting security is found in the incidence of confrontation with the fruit company. During the height of banana production in Costa Rica, when the company found it difficult to maintain a comfortable labour surplus, West Indians were active in a number of significant struggles with United Fruit.

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187 An Afro-Costa Rican Subculture

Some were violent, the results were mixed, and, importantly, the West Indian community united against the largest employer in the region. With the decline of the banana industry after 1913, due to the spread of plant disease, and with the significant increase in the number of Hispanics in the plantation workforce, West Indian radicalism waned. A number of community members looked for opportunities outside of the company or country, while those who remained in Limón became even more dependent on United Fruit for their security. The 1934 banana strike, therefore, marks a watershed in the West Indian community’s relations with both United Fruit and Costa Rica. The dispute between the company and its Hispanic labourers became a flash point for ethnic, economic, and political tensions in Costa Rica. United Fruit, the one-time benefactor of the West Indian community, conspired with the Costa Rican government to abandon the people whose sacrifices had made the enterprise viable. Despite the successful efforts of the community élite to distance West Indians from the strike, the company agreed to a new contract with the Costa Rican government that discriminated against people of African descent. The company, aware of the devastation of plant disease in Limón, shifted all of its Costa Rican operations to the Pacific coast, where, in a companion law to the 1934 contract, people of African descent could not be employed by United Fruit. The 1934 contract served to destroy the West Indian community in Costa Rica and force the issue of cultural integration. Although the destruction of Costa Rica’s West Indian community was in some ways inevitable, the tacit complicity of some leading members in the acceleration of its demise must be noted. United Fruit was able to manipulate the leaders of the West Indian community because their loyalty was not to a Caribbean identity but to their personal interests. They were the businessmen and successful farmers who benefited from United Fruit’s presence in the province. Through the co-option of West Indian leaders, United Fruit succeeded in placing much of the burden of the decline of the banana industry in Limón on the shoulders of workers and petty producers. The net effect was the minimization of West Indian unity at a time of crisis for the community. Whereas the United Fruit Company represented an economic lifeline to West Indians, the community provided cultural and social security. The community and its institutions initially functioned as a refuge against the world of the plantation, but their roles changed under the pressures of the industry’s decline in Limón. With the complete failure of the banana industry during the 1930s and 1940s, the United Fruit Company abandoned its West Indian labourers to

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Costa Rican officials, who were predisposed to see people of African descent as a foreign element in a homogeneous society. Community leaders and organizations responded to the crisis that resulted from the changing power structure in Limón by encouraging an identification with the ideals of the Hispanic-Costa Rican mainstream. Once again, the interests of individuals were brought to bear on the community, and internal divisions were further profiled. The rise and decline of Garveyism in Limón offers one example of how a community organization that reflected a broad set of concerns was replaced by Afro-Costa Rican groups more inclined to focus on the immediate needs of a minority population in a hostile political and social environment. The unia was the single most influential vehicle by which individual West Indians could struggle against the universal oppression of racism and discrimination. Although Marcus Garvey based his financial schemes for independence on capitalist enterprise, the fundamental underpinnings of the unia were based on communal efforts for communal gain. A number of West Indians in Limón were attracted by the radical side of Garveyism, and they became a concern for conservative community leaders, who co-opted the organization in Costa Rica. Strife within the unia created the conditions for the rise of alternative organizations that sought the incorporation of West Indians into the Costa Rican mainstream. The unia , with its emphasis on African unity, gave way to groups that attempted to minimize the distance between Costa Ricans of African descent and the Hispanic mainstream. While the unia was gradually tamed and nudged out of the way by the changing interests of community leaders, more forceful methods were used in cases thought to be more harmful to the interests of those seeking to distance themselves from the stereotypes of African backwardness. For example, Altiman Dabney attracted a great deal of attention because of he focused his wrath on the crisis of West Indians in Costa Rica. Dabney was eliminated with the support of the West Indian community because he drew unflattering attention to people of African descent. His image so concerned West Indian leaders that they sanctioned the repression of several religious groups, the mentally ill, and anyone else who heightened Hispanic xenophobia toward the community. The net that was cast to catch people like Dabney spread throughout the province and entangled many innocent individuals. Community leaders lent their support to attacks on individuals who could not or would not conform to the ideals of highland Costa Rican society.

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189 An Afro-Costa Rican Subculture

On several occasions community leaders closed ranks with government officials to cement their political interests, and the foundation of West Indian culture in Costa Rica came under attack. As cultural institutions like English-language schools and churches became targets for Costa Rican authorities, the community underwent a transformation in its identity. A new generation of Costa Rican-born West Indians took the final step toward cultural integration by exercising their constitutional right to become citizens. The data concerning those who chose to become Costa Rican citizens between 1935 and 1950 clearly indicate the shift in cultural identity that occurred within the community. United Fruit’s abandonment n of the West Indian community on the Atlantic coast altered social relations among people of African descent. For some, the answer was to flee Costa Rica in search of opportunities elsewhere; for others, individual survival dictated the assumption of a new identity at the cost of the community’s heritage. The evolution of an Afro-Costa Rican subculture during the 1930s and 1940s predicated the response of people of African descent to the 1948 civil war. When the war occurred the community’s identity was already fully intertwined with that of Costa Rica, and its response to change showed all of the pragmatism that years of defeat had inculcated in individual members. As a group, West Indians avoided participating in the war, but after the victory they rallied to the winning side. The cultural transformation of the 1930s and 1940s found expression in the changes introduced by José Figueres. Afro-Costa Ricans supported Figueres because he showed a willingness to let them into the exclusive Costa Rican family. As a result, within a few years of the civil war, the vast majority of people of African descent in Costa Rica had forsaken their ties with the West Indies. Their future and that of their children pointed in the direction of assimilation. Rather than retain their distinct identity, people of West Indian descent became integrated as a cultural minority in Costa Rican society. As part of the price of “acceptance,” Afro-Costa Ricans had to endure the continued minimization of the role and sacrifices of early West Indian migrants to Limón in the history of Costa Rica. The failure to recognize the contributions of people of African descent in the development of modern Costa Rica highlights the problem posed by the current historiography. By ignoring the contributions of a number of non-European groups, historians have failed to challenge the underlying assumptions about Costa Rican nationalism. The “real Costa Rica” is much larger and more diverse than is evident in the current historiography. Regional and ethnic differences

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are treated as anomalies, when they should be the starting point of any discussion of Costa Rica’s development. A look at Costa Rican history in terms of diversity and not homogeneity can better explain the nature and role of nationalism in the development of the country’s current identity. The West Indian struggle to retain its separate identity followed by the community’s capitulation is one example of how twentieth-century Costa Rican nationalism functioned. The desire to perpetuate the perception of a homogenous identity among Costa Ricans also explains why Limón continues to be one of the poorest provinces in the country despite extensive agricultural development and why people of African descent continue to be discriminated against because of the colour of their skin.

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Notes

introduction 1 The author thanks Donald K. Gordon for the introduction to the poetry of Alderman Johnson Roden and for providing a copy of “The Outlaw.” For a thorough discussion of Roden’s work, see Gordon, “Alderman Johnson Roden.” 2 Shirley Campbell, Naciendo. 3 Gordon, El jamaiquino. 4 Quince Duncan, Los Quatro Espejos, (San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1973), 153. 5 See Steven Paul Palmer, “A Liberal Discipline,” for a full discussion of the development of Costa Rican identity and nationalism. 6 The “white-settler” model has recently been challenged by several authors, most notably Gudmundson, Costa Rica Before Coffee. 7 Biesanz, Costa Rican Life, 3. 8 See, for example, Chomsky, West Indian Workers; Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work; Conniff, Black Labor; Richardson, Panama Money; and Casey Gaspar, Limón. chapter one 1 The Province of Limón is a tropical lowland region that runs the length of Costa Rica’s Atlantic coast. In common parlance the region of Limón refers to the Atlantic coastal plain and extends beyond the provincial boundaries in certain areas to include parts of some neighbouring provinces.

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192 Notes to pages 4–7 2 Murdo J. Macleod, Spanish Central America: A Socioeconomic History, 1520–1720, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 331. 3 Apart from some ethnographic studies of the Bri Bri, no detailed history of either of these peoples exists. Both the Miskito and the Bri Bri inhabitants of Costa Rica await historical description and discussion. 4 Macleod, Spanish Central America, 330-40. 5 The region receives 300 centimetres or more of rainfall every year, with the most intense period of precipitation being between May and December. As a result of high annual precipitation and alluvial soil, the Atlantic coastal plain and adjacent hill sides were covered by dense tropical rain forest until the introduction of banana cultivation at the end of the nineteenth century. 6 For example, see Olien, “The Negro in Costa Rica,” 58–86. Meléndez Chaverri, “Los origenes,” 387–91. 7 Macleod, Spanish Central America, 333–4. 8 Gudmundson, Estratificación socio-racial. Gudmundson’s work demonstrates that by 1800 many of the slaves had already been freed through manumission. See also Lohse, “Slaves of the Virgin.” 9 Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 48. Slavery was abolished throughout Central America on 17 April 1825, two years after independence was declared. 10 For example, Samuel Stone states that the number of people of African descent decreased from 200 in 1741 to 30 in 1801. See Samuel Z. Stone, La dinastía de los conquistadores, (San Jose: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1976), 55. Similarly, Michael Olien argues that the “African Negro had just about disappeared from the scene by 1870, as a distinct cultural segment” (“The Negro in Costa Rica,” 86). 11 See Woodward, Central America, for a discussion of the numerous problems that confronted Central American governments after independence. 12 A popular joke has it that it took one month after independence was declared in Guatemala for Costa Ricans to find out about their new status. The story goes that because the messenger who was sent to tell Central Americans of their independence was held up by all of the celebrations his announcement generated, it took him one month to cross Honduras and Nicaragua. When he arrived in Costa Rica he was exhausted from the constant revelry and had to be sobered up before he could deliver his message. 13 See Monge Alfaro, Historia de Costa Rica, for a full discussion of the National Campaign and its aftermath. For a discussion of the symbolism of Juan Santa María and the efforts to deny his non-European appearance, refer to Stephen Paul Palmer, “A Liberal Discipline.” 14 Commander Bedford Pim, The Gate of the Pacific (London: Lowell Reeve and Co., 1863), cited in Petras, Jamaican Labor Migration, 104.

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193 Notes to pages 7–14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38 39 40

Pim cited in Petras, Jamaican Labor, 105. Archivo Nacional de Costa Rica (ancr ), Congreso Series, no. 5772. ancr , Congreso Series, no. 2692. ancr , Gobernación Series, no. 23.256. For a discussion of the place of Costa Rica’s Atlantic coast in the Caribbean networks of trade and commerce prior to 1900, see Leslie L. Jermyn, “Who Are The Locals?: The Political Economy of Community and Identity on Costa Rica’s Caribbean Coast,” Ph D dissertation, University of Toronto, 1995, 46–55. ancr , Fomento Series, no. 1853. Ibid. ancr , Fomento Series, no. 1854. Limistre Pujol Monografía histórica, 27–39. ancr , Municipal Series, no. 850. Government of Costa Rica, Censo de la República de Costa Rica, 1883, (San José: Tipografia Nacional, n.d.). Stewart, Keith y Costa Rica, 15–16. Kepner, Social Aspects 37. See also Schieps, “Gabriel Lafond.” ancr , Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 9829. Kepner, Social Aspects, 37. Although no mention was made in Thompson’s contract of the “race” of the colonists he was to provide, later efforts to develop the nation through colonization were very clearly aimed at European or North American settlers. For example, in 1891 the government granted Artilio Lazzaro Riatti one thousand hectares of land along the Matina River for the settlement of “honourable, hard working people who [did] not belong to a prohibited race” (ancr , Congreso Series, no. 2051). ancr , Congreso Series, no. 8285. Stewart, Keith y Costa Rica, 15–16. For a detailed account of Asian migration to Costa Rica during the nineteenth century, see Zaida M. Fonseca, “Los Chinos en Costa Rica en el siglo xix ,” Licenciatura thesis, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1979. Leon Azofeifa, “Chinese Immigrants,” 93–107. ancr , Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 9782. Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 22. See Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 63; Fallas Monge, El movimiento obrero, 220–31; and McCann, An American Company. Ernest Hamlin Baker, “The United Fruit Company,” Fortune Magazine (February 1933): 116. See Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 59–96. Michael Conniff, “The African Diaspora in Central America,” a paper presented at the International Seminar on Racism and Race Relations in Countries of the African Diaspora, Rio de Janeiro, 5–10 April 1992.

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194 Notes to pages 14–18

41

42 43 44 45 46 47

48 49 50 51 52 53 54

55

Conniff’s estimate is based on his work in Panama and on assessments of the labour requirements of construction projects and plantations elsewhere in the region. Elizabeth McLean Petras draws on British colonial records to report that 43,438 Jamaicans went to Costa Rica between 1891 and 1911 to work on the banana plantations (Jamaican Labor, 102). In addition, thousands of other West Indians also went to Costa Rica before, during, and after the period Petras focused on. My own research on the 1927 census reveals that the peak period for West Indian immigration to Costa Rica was between 1910 and 1915. Of the 12,875 contracted labourers working in 1885, 9,000 were from Jamaica. Gerstle Mack, La tierra dividida, (Panama: Editorial Universitaria, 1971), cited in Navas, El movimiento obrero, 61. The French failure to build a canal across Panama coincided with the first significant levels of banana production in Costa Rica. Stewart, Keith y Costa Rica, 46–59. ancr, Congreso Series, no. 8996. Wardlaw, The Panama Disease, 17. Caranholo, “Sobre la evolución,” 145–51. A wealth of information exists on the economic history of Costa Rica in the Northern Railway Company Archives, which are located in San José in a warehouse at the main railway station and yard. Approximately eighty linear metres of documents were transferred from Puerto Limón to the capital when the railway companies were merged. These documents are unindexed, but are in bound volumes and cover every aspect of the Northern Railway Company in Costa Rica from the late 1800s to about 1950. Casey Gaspar, Limón, 26–32, gives a good account of the extension of private railways throughout the region. Wardlaw, The Panama Disease, 18–19. See Jesse T. Palmer, “The Banana,” 263–4, for a summary of the spread of banana cultivation in the Caribbean region. Petras, Jamaican Labor, 102. Chomsky, West Indian Workers. Jesse T. Palmer, “The Banana,” 272. Baker, “United Fruit,” 30, and Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 63. According to Stacy May and Galo Plaza, three of Keith’s brothers died of yellow fever during the construction of the railway (The United Fruit Company, 8). For the best discussion of all aspects of United Fruit Company plantations, see Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 89–143. Chomsky’s study situates the health issues on the plantations in Costa Rica within a regional

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195 Notes to pages 18–25

56 57

58

59 60 61

62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74

framework. See also Kepner, Social Aspects, 109–23, for another account of the battle for sanitation and health. Kepner, Social Aspects, 118. The 1892 census showed that the majority of the population in Limón were men and women between the ages of twenty and forty, an age group that should have one of the lowest levels of mortality. United States Department of State, “Survey of labour conditions in the Port of Limón Consular District,” 18 March 1925, 818.504.3. Aviva Chomsky discusses the function of United Fruit commissaries in maintaining control over the labour force (West Indian Workers, 55–9). United States Department of State, “Survey of labor conditions in the Port of Limón Consular District,” 18 March 1925, 818.504.3. Nanne, The Costa Rica Railroad, 11. Government of Costa Rica, Censo de la República de Costa Rica, 1883, (San José: Tipografia Nacional, n.d.). See also Jeffrey Casey Gaspar, “La Población de Limón: 1880–1940,” Instituto de Estudios Sociales en Población, Universidad Nacional, Heredia, Costa Rica, 1977. Government of Costa Rica, Resúmenes estadísticos: años 1883 á 1910. Government of Costa Rica, Censo de población de Costa Rica (11 de mayo de 1927). For the purpose of consistency between the 1927 and 1950 censuses, all references to the size of the West Indian population include both “Negroes” and “mulattos” unless otherwise stated. Paula Palmer, “What Happen,” 75–7. Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 22. de Janvry, The Agrarian Question, offers an excellent discussion of the functional dualism of the family. Arugelli, “Costa Rica’s Frontier Legacy,” 10. Thiel, “La población,” See also Chester Lloyd Jones, Costa Rica and Civilization, for another ethnocentric and telling discussion of the “Negro” in Costa Rica. Thiel, “La población,” 36. Viquez, Miscelánea, 130–149. Casey Gaspar, Limón, 21–5. United States State Department, “Report from Consul Chester Donaldson to the Secretary of State,” 12 May 1914, 818.6156/1. ancr, Congreso Series, no. 10708. chapter two

1 For a good summary of the growth and decline of Costa Rica’s banana industry, see Caranholo, “Sobre la evolución,” and Wardlaw, The Panama Disease.

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196 Notes to pages 25–8 2 See Caranholo, “Sobre la evolución,” and Clarence F. Jones, “Evolution.” 3 See Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work, for a full discussion of United Fruit labour practices in the region. Bourgois’ study tends to be more contemporary, but he does touch on several of the issues contained in this section. 4 See Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 147–72; Hernandez, “Los inmigrantes;” and Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers,” for a more complete discussion of the events of 1910. 5 Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 154–5. 6 Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers,” 290. 7 Cox to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, 8 December 1910, FO 288/125/6175. 8 ancr, Contencioso-Administrativo Series, Juzgado Civil de Limón, no. 1116. Of note is the name of Samuel Nation in the application to disband the union in 1914. Nation, a Jamaican national, ran the Limón Times during the strike and testified on behalf of the United Fruit company against one of the “unofficial” strike leaders during an inquiry into the event. Samuel Nation is one of the most enduring figures of the period and appears at the centre of several controversies in the 1930s. 9 Another important issue that surfaced at the time was the passing of a restrictive immigration bill by the Costa Rican Congress. It was directed at people of Asian descent, but every West Indian in the country understood the precedence that was being established. See Collección de Decretos y Leyes de 1910, decreto no. 124 de 29 de junio de 1910. The union does not appear to have been crushed during the strike; rather, it lasted for five years and saw not only the implementation of the agreement but also the continued increase in the production of bananas in the region. 10 On several occasions governments of the Caribbean commissioned studies of working conditions for their nationals in the countries of Central America and elsewhere. By 1910 many governments were wary of permitting further migration to the banana plantations of the region. 11 FO 288/125, 170–1. 12 FO 288/125/6175. 13 Carlos Hernandez, “Los inmigrantes,” offers a more detailed and somewhat different view of these demonstrations. According to Hernandez, the whole affair was much more violent and widespread than the documentation used for this book shows. 14 See Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 190–3, for a discussion of the individuals behind the agitation. 15 For reports on the West Indian community’s concerns about Vice Consul McGrigor, see The Times, 22 November 1910, and FO 288/125, 243. 16 FO 288/125, 280, and FO 288/125, 247.

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197 Notes to pages 28–36 17 FO 288/125, 243. 18 The Compañia de Ferrocarril de Costa Rica was the Pacific coast equivalent to the Northern Railway, and Cox shared many of the same labour concerns as his Atlantic coast counterparts. 19 Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers,” 291. 20 FO 288/125, 255. 21 FO 288/125, 299. 22 FO 288/125, 276. 23 The Times, 2 December 1910. 24 FO 288/125, 279. 25 FO 288/125, 272. 26 FO 288/125, 282, 308. See also Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 167. 27 FO 288/125, 263, 264, 293. 28 CO 137/690/3729. Chomsky also mentions the animosity that continued to exist between the St. Kitts workers and other West Indians in the aftermath of the strike (West Indian Workers, 168–9). 29 FO 371/2643/6175. 30 United States Consular Report, from J.J. Meily, prepared 18 March 1925. United States Department of State, 818.5043. 31 The West Indian élite were not necessarily a different class, but they were a distinct social group. They were the more prominent members of the community who owned small businesses or farms, or held lower level management positions with United Fruit or its subsidiaries. They believed they were a class unto themselves and took advantage of their position within the community to assume a leadership role. 32 The Limón Times, 17 March 1911. 33 The Limón Times, 30 March 1911. 34 The Limón Times, 8 April 1911. 35 The Limón Times, 30 March 1911. 36 The Limón Times, 9 May 1911. 37 El Tiempo, 9 May 1911. 38 The Limón Times, 20 May 1911. 39 Garvey was also said to have been chased out of town because he had stolen the money he had raised for the coronation celebration. 40 The Limón Times, 9 March 1911. 41 Ibid. 42 The Limón Times, 10 June 1911. 43 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Blair, 7 December 1919. 44 For example, in 1901 British officials described Costa Rica as “not a desirable country for an uneducated negro to be stranded in” (CO 137/584/529). 45 Oliver to Anderson, 29 Oct. 1911, CO 137/690/3729. 46 Oliver, Jamaica, 301.

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198 Notes to pages 36–43 47 Oliver to Anderson, CO 137/690/3729, 24. 48 Claude Pierce to C.C. Mallet, 22 July 1910, FO 288/125; 153. See also 288/125, 224–7. 49 See us Department of State, 818.5043, for details. 50 Oliver to Anderson, 29 October 1911, CO 137/690/3729. 51 Sinclair to Colonial Secretary, FO 137/690/7912. 52 Robert Sinclair to Philip Cork, Colonial Secretary, 27 December 1911, CO 137/690/6239. 53 Robert Sinclair to Philip Cork, Colonial Secretary, 27 December 1911, CO 137/690/6239. 54 Pierce to the Chief Quarantine Officer at Panama, 27 November 1911, FO 371/1176/51706. 55 The community of Westfalia became the home of many of the South Asians who migrated to Costa Rica. 56 Wynter to Chalkley, 1 April 1913, FO 288/139, 300–13. 57 Jimenéz to Cox, 16 August 1913, FO/288/139, 422–3. 58 Wynter to Cox, 1 April 1913 FO/288/139, 306. chapter three 1 Charles Morrow Wilson, Empire, 194. 2 For a discussion of the effect of the First World War on the banana industry, see Thomas L. Karnes, Tropical Enterprise: The Standard Fruit and Steamship Company in Latin America, (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978), 53–69. 3 Jesse T. Palmer, “The Banana”, 265. 4 Karnes, Tropical Enterprise, 54. 5 Kepner, The Banana Empire, 182. 6 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Cutter, 9 July 1918. 7 Although United Fruit was concerned about problems with enemy sympathizers on its plantations, the company was also on guard against the pro-German activities of individuals who were not employees. For example, in July 1918 a company manager identified the governor of Limón, Antonio Castro, as a pro-German sympathizer involved in a scheme to distribute sugar produced by a blacklisted company through United Fruit (ufc correspondence, unknown manager to Chittenden, 13 July 1918). Similarly, the manager in Costa Rica sought information on the existence of wireless stations along the Pacific coast of Central America that could be used by people working for the enemy. Wartime correspondence between Limón and the head office in Boston also reveals how managers conspired to draw sympathizers out in order to deal with them (ufc files, Chittenden to Cutter, 9 July 1918).

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199 Notes to pages 44–53 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

44

J.R. Murray to Mallet, 3 February 1919, FO 371/3856, 426. J.R. Murray to Mallet, 3 February 1919, FO 371/3856, 405. ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Kyes, 14 February 1918. Chittenden to Kyes, 4 March 1918. Murray to McFarland, 16 May 1919, FO 371/3856, 518. us Department of State, J.J. Meily, 18 March 1925. See also Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work, 55–8, for a discussion of the strike. Elisavinda Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers,” 292–3. us Department of State, J.J. Meily, 18 March 1925. The fruit company had a history of using strikebreakers from ethnic groups other than that of the strikers. Clifton E. Richardson to War Office, 8 October 1919, FO 369/1191/4238. Ibid. ufc correspondence, O’Hearn to Kyes, 12 May 1919. W.F. Elkins, “Revolt.” Murray to Foreign Office, 15 May 1919, FO 371/3856/89479. Enclosure from McAdam to Murray, 26 April 1919, FO 371/3856, 515–6. Mallet to Foreign Office, 12 January 1919, FO 371/3856/16352. War Office to Mallet, 12 February 1919, FO 371/3856/31467. ufc correspondence, Coombs to J.M. Kyes, 28 April 1919. Ibid. Ibid. ufc correspondence, O’Hearn to Blair, 29 May 1919. See Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work, for a full discussion of the United Fruit Company strategy of encouraging ethnic divisions. ufc correspondence, Kyes to Coombs, 7 May 1919. The Workman, 10 May 1919, cited in Petras, Jamaican Labor, 216. Blair to Murray, 11 June 1919, FO 371/3865, 530–1. Ibid. Ibid. ufc correspondence, McFarland to Ernesto Lefebre, 21 September 1919. us Department of State, 20 September 1919, 818.4016. ufc correspondence, McFarland to Arias, 17 November 1919. ufc correspondence, Assistant Superintendent in Estrella to Chittenden, 6 October 1919. ufc correspondence, McFarland to Arias, 25 October 1919. ufc correspondence, letter to Chittenden from hkf, 15 December 1919. Ibid., 99. Martin, Race First, 96. Cited in Ibid., us Consul, Port Limón, to Secretary of State, 24 August 1919, and in ufc correspondence, letter to Chittenden from hkf, 15 December 1919. Martin, Race First, 16.

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200 Notes to pages 53–9 45 Ibid. 46 ufc correspondence, Garvey to Williams, 13 December 1919. 47 The Frederick Douglass is often referred to by its previous name, the Yarmouth. The Yarmouth had been used to transport passengers and freight between Boston and Nova Scotia. 48 ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 19 December 1919. 49 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Cutter, 21 December 1919. 50 Ibid. 51 ufc correspondence, O’Hearn to Blair, 31 December 1919. 52 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Cutter, 21 December 1919. 53 Ibid. 54 ufc correspondence, unknown manager to Cutter, 6 February 1920. 55 ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 9 April 1920. 56 Hugh Mulzac, A Star to Steer By, cited in Martin, Race First, 155. 57 ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 9 April 1920. 58 Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers.” 59 Ibid. 60 Ibid., 296. 61 This was a dispute in which the United Fruit Company was accused of manipulating the two governments over the border question. United Fruit also played a role as the transporter of troops to the region. The regular ship between Colon and Limón was used to haul both the Costa Rican and Panamanian army to the area. 62 Unknown author, Economic Report, Costa Rica, United States State Department, 16 April 1921, Hill, Marcus Garvey, and Universal Negro Improvement Association Papers, vol. 11, (forthcoming). 63 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Blair, 17 April 1921. 64 Hill, The Garvey Papers, vol. 3, 536. 65 Ibid. 66 Ibid. 67 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Cutter, 22 April 1922. 68 Ibid. 69 Hill, The Garvey Papers, vol. 3, 536, “Speech by Marcus Garvey,” Liberty Hall, New York, 20 July 1921. 70 Cited in Edmund D. Cronon, Black Moses: the story of Marcus Garvey and the Universal Negro Improvement Association, (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969), 88. 71 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Blair, 22 April 1921. 72 Hill, The Garvey Papers, vol. 3, 536. 73 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Blair, 22 April 1921. 74 ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 26 April 1921. 75 ufc correspondence, Chittenden to Blair, 17 April 1921. 76 ufc correspondence, Informant’s report to H.S. Blair, 28 April 1921.

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201 Notes to pages 60–5 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

Panama Star and Herald, 26 April 1921. ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 26 April 1921. ufc correspondence, Informant’s report to Blair, 28 April 1921. Ibid. Hill, The Garvey Papers, vol. 3, 391. Ibid., 392. Ibid. ufc correspondence, Blair to Chittenden, 26 April 1921. The unia’s financial schemes did not produce the returns expected by investors, and all of the projects failed within a few years of their inception. Despite the failures, the role of the organization as a community institution in the region remained important. The parent organization underwent significant change in 1922 when Marcus Garvey was arrested in the us for mail fraud in connection with the Black Star Line, and the unia declined in importance in the United States. However, the organization remained active in Costa Rica even after Garvey’s schemes began to unravel. The Negro World, 21 July 1921. Ibid. us Consular Report, 18 March 1925. Ibid. ufc correspondence, Adams to Blair, 8 August 1922. Ibid. Ibid. Central American Express, 12 August 1922. ufc correspondence, Adams to Blair, 8 August 1922. Ibid. Ibid. ufc correspondence, Blair to Cutter, 25 September 1922. ufc correspondence, president’s message attached to Blair to Cutter, 25 September 1922. chapter four

1 Wardlaw, The Panama Disease, 84. 2 Limón was the only place in Costa Rica where bananas were grown on a commercial basis until the 1930s. 3 Instituto de Estudios Sociales en Población, “La población de Limón 1880–1940,” Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1977, 5. 4 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 15031, and United States State Department, report from Consul Chester Donaldson to the Secretary of State, 12 May 1914, 818.6156/1. 5 Ibid.

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202 Notes to pages 66–72 6 Kepner, Banana Empire, 331. See also Lainez, “El enclave bananero,” for a good discussion of the banana industry in Honduras. 7 See de Janvry, The Agrarian Question, 81–93, for a discussion of the role of the family in the production of agricultural export crops. 8 The majority of the those who signed the petition were small producers, and, as indicated by their Anglo-Saxon names, West Indians. 9 Kepner, Banana Empire, 50–2. 10 Victor M. Cutter, “Caribbean Tropics in Commercial Transition,” Economic Geography 2, no. 4, (1926): 494–5. 11 Kenneth Bourne and D. Cameron Watt, British Documents on Foreign Affairs: Reports and Papers from the Foreign Office Confidential Print, vol. 2, Central America and Mexico, 1914–22, published by University Publications of America, A 2604/2604/32. 12 The banana industry remained in decline throughout the 1920s. According to Victor Bulmer-Thomas, the value of banana exports declined from 52 per cent in 1912 to 25 per cent in the mid-1920s. This despite a period of relative prosperity in the Costa Rican economy between 1924 and 1928 (The Political Economy, 8, 34). 13 Joaquín García Monge was also a prominent figure in the Liga Cívica de Costa Rica, a group founded in 1927 to study national problems. It was a nationalistic organization that struggled against foreign companies and their control over the country’s resources. La Liga Cívica was a precursor to the Centre for the Study of National Problems which rose to prominence in the 1940s. 14 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 15400. 15 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 15400. 16 La Gaceta Oficial, 1 February 1927. 17 Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, Indice completo de opciones. 18 Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 83. 19 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 15031. 20 Ibid. 21 José Guerrero, “Como quiere que sea Costa Rica, blanca or negra? El problema racial del negro y las actuales contrataciones bananeras,” Repertorio Americano, 13 August 1930, and Otilio Ulate’s La Tribuna. 22 It is estimated that over 16,000 hectares of land in the Province of Limón were handed over to the Costa Rican government between 1930 and 1950 (May, Costa Rica, 54). 23 La Tribuna, 30 August 1930. It was signed by Rafael Calderón Muñoz, Otilio Ulate Blanco, Adriano Urbina, Carlos Manuel Echandi, Ramón Bedoya, José Rafael Cascante Vargas, Juan Guido Matamoros, Manuel Antonio Cordero, Francisco Mayorga Rivas, Victor Manuel Villalobos B., Marcial Rodríguez Conejo, and J. Manuel Peralta. 24 The Searchlight, 28 June 1930.

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203 Notes to pages 72–8 25 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 16358. 26 For full details, see ancr, Congreso Series, nos 18674 and 16358. 27 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 18674. Only a few of the submissions to the commission indicate concern about West Indians in the labour force. 28 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 16753. 29 Of note with regard to the 1933 petition is the signature of José Guerrero on the document. His signature indicates which group was behind the petition and highlights the spurious tactics used by the Amigos del País. 30 United States State Department, J.J. Meily, American Consul, Limón, Costa Rica, to the Department of State, 23 March 1925, 818.5043. 31 Ibid. 32 ufc correspondence, to all Tropical Division Managers, 25 November 1927. 33 United Fruit did not have to worry about Garvey coming to Costa Rica as the government had banned him as a pernicious person because of his criminal record in the United States. 34 ufc correspondence, unknown correspondent to Chittenden, 13 December 1927. 35 The Searchlight, 30 November 1929. 36 The Searchlight, 4 January 1930. 37 Ibid. 38 Voodoo was a derogatory name given to all the African-based religious practices popular among Limón’s lower classes. Obeahmen were herbalists and spiritual healers, who relied on a knowledge of natural remedies for ailments and their ability to deal with the spirit world. 39 The Searchlight, 18 January 1930. 40 Ibid. 41 Philippe Bourgois notes that Garvey went so far as to praise United Fruit as an example of a good company in a 1933 editorial in the New Jamaican (Ethnicity at Work, 101). 42 The Searchlight, 17 May 1930. 43 An interview with the current president of the unia in Limón in 1989 revealed that the local organization was still torn between competing factions in the United States. 44 The Searchlight, 11 October 1930 and 15 November 1930. 45 Ibid. 46 The Searchlight, 15 August 1931. 47 Although some authors point to the events of 1934 as another example of labour radicalism on the part of West Indians, the available evidence does not indicate a high degree of participation on the part of people of African descent. See Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 284–9 and Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work, 106–9.

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204 Notes to pages 79–86 48 For a good summary of the strike, see Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 245–9. 49 Trabajo, 12 August 1934. 50 Diario de Costa Rica, 23 September 1934, and The Atlantic Voice, 13 October 1934. 51 Northern Railway Archives, memorandum for heads of divisions and departments of the United Fruit Company, 17 August 1934. This is an incriminating piece of evidence which indicates that the unia was also behind a newspaper campaign to threaten West Indians who participated in the strike. 52 The Communist Party considered The Atlantic Voice a United Fruit Company front, and there was speculation at the time that its emergence had coincided with the strike, but there is no proof that the company was anything but a good client. 53 The Atlantic Voice filled the gap left when The Searchlight ceased publication in 1931. Samuel Nation was also involved in the publication of The Atlantic Voice. 54 The Atlantic Voice, 25 August 1934. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Emel Sibaja Barrantes, “Ideología y protesta popular: la huelga bananera de 1934 en Costa Rica,” ma thesis, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1983. 58 Echeverri-Gent, “Forgotten Workers,” 297, mentions that West Indians outnumbered Hispanics in 1934. This is true in terms of the overall population in Limón, but the number of Hispanics employed by United Fruit exceeded that of West Indians. 59 Bourgois, Ethnicity at Work,. 108. 60 Several elderly members of the West Indian communities in Limón, San José, and Cahuita were interviewed in 1984 and 1990. Confidentiality was guaranteed by the author in order to facilitate full disclosure by the participants. 61 Sir John Crosby to Sir John Simon, 9 April 1934, CO 318/413/1. 62 Ibid. 63 Frank Cox to Sir John Crosby, 19 April 1934, CO 318/413/1. 64 ancr, Censo de población de Costa Rica, 1927, no. 281. 65 La Tribuna, 25 August 1934. 66 Costa Rican authorities violently ended the second strike, and United Fruit never signed the agreement. 67 Trabajo, 4 November 1934. 68 The Atlantic Voice, 3 November 1934. 69 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 17004.

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205 Notes to pages 87–93 70 Ibid. 71 Foreigners were allowed to vote in Costa Rican elections if they could meet property requirements. The people who signed the petition were eligible voters. 72 The Atlantic Voice, 22 December 1934. 73 Charles Morrow Wilson, Empire, 270–2. 74 On the Pacific coast, people of African descent could work for other employers, but generally that meant performing unskilled day labour. In Limón the company’s critics used the existence of article 5 as a platform from which to demand that United Fruit be required to hire a quota of Costa Rican workers. People of African descent, therefore, were unable to use their skills on the Pacific side and had their position challenged on the Atlantic coast. As English speakers and the first employees of the company, West Indians had worked themselves into skilled and semi-skilled positions within the organization. Indications are that West Indian employees were salaried workers, while Hispanics tended to be day workers with much less job security. United Fruit was the biggest employer on both coasts and controlled all of the postharvest positions, which were the jobs that required skills the West Indians possessed. chapter five 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10

Olien, “The Negro in Costa Rica.” Olien, “The Negro in Costa Rica,” 125. Seligson, El campesino, 100. Bozzoli de Wille, “Blacks of Costa Rica,” 25. See Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 87–9, and Seligson, El campesino, 100–1. It was common for people to distinguish between their province and the rest of the country by referring to everything outside of Limón as Costa Rica. The 1927 census showed that 55 per cent of the population of Limón was of African descent. See Lowenthal, West Indian Societies, for a good discussion of the composition of and divisions within West Indian communities. The Searchlight, 11 April 1931. Despite the publication of an editorial in English against the derogatory use of the term “Jamaican,” the Spanish half of the newspaper continued to refer to all West Indians in its reports as “Jamaiquinos.” The Spanish editor either ignored the complaints of the English editor or was unaware of what his West Indian colleagues were saying.

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206 Notes to pages 94–102 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42

43

Paula Palmer, “What Happen,” 142. Trabajo, 16 April 1933. The Atlantic Voice, 6 April 1935. La Gaceta Oficial, 16 October 1934. La Voz del Atlántico, 31 August 1935. Joseph, Tres relatos, 37. The Atlantic Voice, 28 November 1936. The Atlantic Voice, 3 May 1936. The Atlantic Voice, 24 July 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 31 May 1936. The Atlantic Voice, 13 June 1936 and 31 October 1936. On the Atlantic side of the country the climate is tropical with no definite dry season. The rainfall is heavy and distributed throughout the year. Crops such as corn, beans, and rice that require a dry period are not grown for this reason. Therefore, the choices of marketable crops were very limited in the 1930s and 1940s. Stouse, “Instability of Tropical Agriculture,” 46. The Atlantic Voice, 26 December 1936. The Atlantic Voice, 10 April 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 19 June 1937. The contract had given the government control over former United Fruit Company properties, where people were often already living. The Atlantic Voice, 26 June 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 21 August 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 10 October 1937. Caranholo, “Sobre La Evolución.” The Atlantic Voice, 21 November 1936. The Atlantic Voice, 11 November 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 20 November 1937. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. Ibid. On the police report, only three of the twenty-one identified individuals did not have homes, and they were in jail. The rest had homes, skills, or trades, and were merely eccentric. The Atlantic Voice, 22 August 1936. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1818 bis. Ibid. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. The British authorities in Costa Rica demonstrated their concern by asking the United Fruit Company to “come to the rescue” and grant several “old, sick indigent women” free passage to Jamaica (The Atlantic Voice, 22 May 1937). The Atlantic Voice, 26 September 1936.

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207 Notes to pages 103–7 chapter six 1 A modified version of this chapter appeared as “Ethnicity, Repression and Religion: The Denial of African Heritage in Costa Rica,” Canadian Journal of History 29, no. 1 (April, 1994): 95–112. 2 Diario de Costa Rica, 20 September 1936. 3 Ibid. 4 The terms cocomia and pocomania were often used by the religion’s detractors. Both terms reflect an effort to label pocomia insane and potentially violent. 5 The editor of The Atlantic Voice, Samuel Nation, had a history of attacking non-conformist religious practices. In the aftermath of a strike by West Indian workers in 1910, he gave testimony at an inquiry into the activities of strike leaders who were associated with the practice of “obeah.” See Chomsky, West Indian Workers, 173–206, for a discussion of Afro-Christian religions in Limón in 1910 and 1911. 6 Limón Times, Nov 22, 1910. 7 Aviva Chomsky states that Samuel Nation was the editor of the newspaper, whereas the editor was actually Angel Goronas. 8 Blair to Murray, 6 November 1919, F0 371/3856, 531. 9 ufc files, unknown manager to Blair, 16 April 1920. 10 Post, Arise Ye Starvelings, 164. 11 “Ethiopianism” was popular in Limón. The crowning of Ras Tafari as the Emperor of Haile Salassie in 1930 was noted in the local press, and the invasion of Ethiopia by Italy a few years later was followed closely by people in Limón. 12 Gray, “All’s Well,” 399–403. Gray’s article discusses the crisis of the Anglican Church in Central America and advocates the extension of the Episcopal Church into regions under the jurisdiction of the Church of England. 13 Nelson, “Protestantism in Costa Rica.” 14 Jamaica is the best example for comparative purposes. Although Pocomia had counterparts in other countries, such as Santeria in Cuba, Voodoo in Haiti, and Umbando in Brazil, Jamaica had the greatest influence on the people of Limón. The adherents to Pocomia in Limón were West Indian, and most would have had family ties to Jamaica. 15 Hogg, “Jamaican Religions.” 16 Post, Arise Ye Starvelings, 144–5. 17 The Atlantic Voice, 26 June 1937. 18 Post, Arise Ye Starvelings, 144–5. 19 For example, the phenomenal increase in religious cult activity and the dramatic events in northeast Brazil in the late nineteenth century occurred under circumstances not unlike those of Limón in the 1930s.

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208 Notes to pages 107–13

20 21 22

23 24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

43

Similarly, literature on the “cargo cults” of Melanesia reflects the same sorts of social dislocation present in Limón. For examples, see Hobsbawm, Primitive Rebels, or Adas, Prophets of Rebellion. Hogg, “Jamaican Religions” 286–8. For example, see Trompf, Cargo Cults, and Barkun, Disaster. Research on Pocomia in Jamaica by Donald Hogg found that women were more likely to become members because they were subjected to greater economic pressure than their male counterparts (“Jamaican Religions,” 286–7). The Jamaican press spelled his name as Altamont Dobney. La Voz del Atlántico, 7 November 1936. Altiman Dabney’s cult following has many parallels to that of Brazil’s Antonio Conselheiro in the 1890s. They both rejected the authority of governments in distant capitals that did not share their cultural identity. See da Cunha, Rebellion. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. The Atlantic Voice, 7 November 1936. Ibid. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. The Daily Gleaner, Kingston, Jamaica, 15 January 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 31 October 1936. Evidently, the Costa Rican authorities did not discuss or did not wish to discuss the deportation effort with the Jamaican government. If they had, Alti’s deportation, like the mass deportation attempt a few months earlier, would have been a problem because he was from Montserrat and should have been sent to that island instead. The Daily Gleaner, Kingston, Jamaica, 19 January 1937. La Voz del Atlántico, 7 November 1936. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. The Daily Gleaner, Kingston, Jamaica, 19 January 1937. La Voz del Atlántico, 7 November 1936. The Searchlight, 26 December 1931. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 1819 bis. The Atlantic Voice, 7 November 1936. In the late 1930s the Costa Rican and Panamanian governments were disputing the boundary between the two countries. United Fruit Company officials and Costa Rican authorities occasionally apprehended people they thought might be attempting to slip into Panama. Unofficial migration of West Indians from Costa Rica was a delicate subject for the Panamanian government. Ferdinand McIntosh may have been caught trying to enter Panama illegally. The Atlantic Voice, 3 April 1937.

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209 Notes to pages 114–23 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

63 64 65

The Atlantic Voice, 17 April 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 24 April 1937. The Searchlight, 26 December 1931. For one of many attacks against Davis, see The Atlantic Voice, 22 May 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 22 May 1937. The Atlantic Voice, 22 January 1938. The Atlantic Voice, 19 February 1938. El Diario de Costa Rica, 18 January 1938. ancr, Gobernación Series, no. 8866–3. The Atlantic Voice, 12 November 1938. The Atlantic Voice, 12 November 1938. La Voz del Atlántico, 1 April 1939. The editorial also added to the lexicon of the Spanish language by referring to the leaders of Pocomia cults as the “Altimen.” One interviewee has stated that people would remain on the ground for as long as three days without moving. The Atlantic Voice, 22 June 1940. The Atlantic Voice, 31 July 1937. Northern Railway Company files, letter from J.E. Rogers to Sheehy, 12 December 1929. The Atlantic Voice, 7 August 1937. Although Obeah was not strictly a form of what has become known as alternative medicine, its heightened profile in the 1930s might have resulted from the decline in medical services in the region occasioned by the withdrawal of United Fruit Company operations from Limón. The Atlantic Voice, 25 September 1937. Ibid. Fanon, Peau Noire. chapter seven

1 May, Costa Rica, 51. 2 Government of Costa Rica, Dirección General de Estadística, Boletín de Exportaciones 1947. 3 The Atlantic Voice, 17 February 1940. 4 Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to manager, 30 April 1937. 5 Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to Mai (May) and Sheehy to Eustace, 8 May 1937. 6 Ibid. 7 Northern Railway Company files, Gordon to Green, 2 December 1941. 8 The Atlantic Voice, 20 December 1941 9 Northern Railway Company files, Green to Gordon, 11 December 1941.

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210 Notes to pages 124–9 10 La Tribuna, 30 April 1930. 11 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 17747. 12 For an account of the effort to save the tramline, see Paula Palmer, “What Happen,” 186–8. 13 Government of Costa Rica, Censo urbano de edificios y viviendas: (noviembre y deciembre de 1949), 6. 14 The Atlantic Voice, 3 February 1940. See also Sole, Apuntes Demograficos, for a discussion of the state of the province in the mid 1940s. 15 According to the 1927 census, Limón enjoyed one of the highest levels of literacy in the country. 16 Kepner, Social Aspects, 166–8. 17 Government of Costa Rica, Memória de la Secretaría de Educación Pública, 1928. 18 There were at least thirty-three private schools in the province with a total enrolment of fifteen hundred students. No other province in the country had as many private schools as Limón. In addition, Limón had eleven public schools with a total of 1,254 students in 1930. However, Limón had the lowest number of public schools per capita and the lowest attendance levels at government run institutions in Costa Rica. Appeals were made on several occasions for the government to build more schools, but just one new school had been built by 1936 and only a few more added by 1951. The number of students officially registered in public schools increased only marginally during the 1930s. 19 ancr, Congreso Series, no. 19290. 20 The Atlantic Voice, 21 September 1940. 21 La Voz del Atlántico, 16 November 1940. 22 The Atlantic Voice, 30 November 1940. 23 The Atlantic Voice, 16 January 1943. 24 Ibid. 25 Trabajo, 28 August 1943. 26 The Atlantic Voice, 15 March 1944. 27 La Voz del Atlántica, 11 March 1944. 28 The Atlantic Voice, 3 August 1946. 29 The Atlantic Voice, 13 January 1945. 30 The Atlantic Voice, 14 July 1945. 31 Carlos Monge Alfaro, Geografía social y humana de Costa Rica, (San José: Universal, 1942), 126. 32 The secretary of education was appointed by the president and was in charge of all educational activities. According to John and Mavis Biesanz, at least until 1944 teachers had a percentage of their salaries deducted to cover the campaign expenses of the winning presidential candidate. Teachers who took an “active part in the campaign of a losing candidate” or were known to be “members of the Communist

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211 Notes to pages 129–33

33 34 35

36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51

52

Party” were not secure in their jobs (110–11). Any deviation from the curriculum to include a history of West Indians in Costa Rica would have been problematic. Therefore, even when West Indians were hired to teach at public schools in Limón, they were obliged to follow strict guidelines set by the secretary of education. For a definition of “the real Costa Rica,” see Biesanz, Costa Rican Life, 3. ancr, Fomento Series, no. 3387. One of the problems associated with the issue of colour in Costa Rica was that the perceptions of Hispanics differed from those of United Fruit. Company officials, who were mainly from the United States, considered many people from the province of Puntarenas to be as black as the West Indians in Limón. Costa Ricans, however, did not consider darker skinned residents of the Pacific coast to be black. ancr, Fomento Series, no. 3387. Ibid. Ibid. Northern Railway Company files, letter from Sheehy to Munch and Chittenden, 11 October 1939. Ibid. Northern Railway Company files, telegram to Pablo May from Milton Murillo, 19 September 1939. La Tribuna, 29 September 1939. Ibid. Diario de Costa Rica, 21 November 1939, and Northern Railway Company files, leaflet, n.d. Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to May, 11 October 1939. Northern Railway Company files, Mai (May) to Sheehy, 25 October 1939. Another important aspect of the exchange of correspondence between company officials was that in the aftermath of the 1934 contract, the superintendent noted that new Costa Rican employees were demanding promotions over West Indians who had been with the company for years. See also Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to Munch, 11 October 1939. La Tribuna, 29 October 1939. Diario de Costa Rica, 6 November 1939. Northern Railway Company files, letter to A. Martinez from Vicente de la Peña, 5 November 1939. Diario de Costa Rica, 21 November 1939. If the accusations are correct, then company policy was changing. Previously, the company had segregated West Indian and Hispanic workers. See Northern Railway Company files, letter from Sheehy to Munch and Chittenden, 5 June 1940. Northern Railway Company files, Góngora to Sheehy, 22 November 1939.

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212 Notes to pages 134–40 53 United States National Archives, 818.5041/10, August 1936, and 818.5041/11, March 1937. The author would like to thank Eugene D. Miller for providing documents from the us National Archives. 54 Ibid. 55 Northern Railway Company files, letter to R.F. Eustace from F. Sheehy, 8 May 1937. 56 Northern Railway Company files, report from T. Sandoval to Mr. W.N. Green, 2 December 1941. 57 An individuals’ colour was tied to his or her suspected nationality, which was given as either Costa Rican for Hispanics or British Negro for West Indians. The purpose was to distinguish between black and white workers. This is in contrast to the list of workers compiled in late 1939 when the company wanted to prove that its labour force was made up of Costa Rican citizens. In 1939 no mention was made of skin colour. 58 Northern Railway Company files, Sheehy to Brennan, 4 July 1940. 59 Ibid. 60 Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1943. 61 The Atlantic Voice, 12 February 1944 and 26 February 1944. chapter eight 1 Modified versions of this chapter appeared as “The Social and Political Integration of West Indians in Costa Rica: 1930–1950.” Journal of Latin American Studies 25, part 1, (February, 1993): 103–20, and as “Assimilate or Emigrate: West Indian Strategies for Cultural Survival in Costa Rica, 1930–1949.” SECOLAS ANNALS, Journal of the Southeastern Council on Latin American Studies, 23, (March, 1992): 97–109. 2 The Atlantic Voice regularly reminded readers that the majority of the West Indian community had been born in the country. By 1940 the paper used a figure of 75 per cent as an estimate of children “of the soil.” 3 Government of Costa Rica, Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927), 93. 4 A review of over 200 people identified as “black” and living in San José reveals that most had Hispanic surnames and were probably the descendants of slaves brought to Central America. 5 Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, Indice completo de opciones. 6 Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1930, no. 1 del 3 de setiembre 1930, and ancr, Gobernación Series, no. 7967, and Congreso Series, no. 16018. 7 The Atlantic Voice, 22 August 1936. 8 The Searchlight, 20 June 1931.

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213 Notes to pages 140–7 9 The Atlantic Voice, 1 December 1934. 10 “Polacos,” a derogatory term used in Costa Rica to refer to Jews, were eventually required to post 5,000-colon deposits to enter the country. 11 The Atlantic Voice, 29 August 1936. 12 The Atlantic Voice, 27 February 1937. 13 Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 294. 14 Ibid. 15 Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1942, decreto no. 4 de 26 abril, 1942, cited in Léon Azofeifa, “Chinese Immigrants,” 376–7. 16 Not until 1960 was a law finally passed that prohibited discrimination of any sort. 17 The Searchlight, 21 November 1931, advised its readers to do more than just obtain an identity card. West Indians were urged to “naturalize and learn the Spanish language so [they would] not be discriminated against.” 18 The Atlantic Voice, 3 October 1936. 19 The Atlantic Voice, 12 September 1936. 20 The Searchlight, 25 July 1931. 21 The Searchlight, 15 August 1931. 22 ufc correspondence, Munch to Chittenden, 16 July 1941. 23 The Atlantic Voice, 17 August 1940. 24 The Atlantic Voice, 16 November 1940. 25 See, for example, The Atlantic Voice, 13 January 1940, 22 March 1940, and 17 July 1941. 26 The Atlantic Voice, 1 June 1940 and 7 August 1940. 27 ufc correspondence, Stone to Myrick, 30 November 1940. 28 For example, West Indians had to provide proof of legal entry into Costa Rica in order to get a “residential certificate.” Without the certificate or some other document that attached the individual to a country, Panama refused them entry. 29 The Atlantic Voice, 7 June 1941. 30 A figure of thirty-four thousand is arrived at by applying the national average increase in population over the same period. 31 ufc correspondence, Munch to Chittenden, 16 July 1941. 32 The Atlantic Voice, 22 March 1940. 33 May, Costa Rica, 192. 34 Government of Costa Rica, Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927), and Government of Costa Rica, Censo de población de Costa Rica: (22 de mayo de 1950). 35 There was also a group of people of African descent who had migrated from southwestern Nicaragua or elsewhere, but they are not included in this study because they were not a part of the West Indian community.

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214 Notes to pages 148–51

36 37 38 39

40 41 42 43

44

45

46 47

48

Although they are difficult to identify, there may have been as many as five hundred people in this category. The Atlantic Voice, 11 March 1944. Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods.” Purcell, Banana Fallout. The option process, as opposed to naturalization, was open to people from other Central American countries. It was a reciprocal agreement in effect during the early twentieth century. Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1888, artículo 3 del decreto de 6 de julio. Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores, Indice completo de opciones. Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1930, no. 21, 27 October 1930. A record of each successful application was put into a bound volume for future reference. Individuals who died, or voluntarily gave up their citizenship, or had their citizenship revoked, as in the case of several suspected Nazi sympathizers during World War Two, had their entries amended to reflect their new status. The individuals were registered as foreigners from seventeen different countries, including Nicaragua, Colombia, France, Panama, Portugal, and the United States. All those not from the British or French West Indies were excluded in the final analysis. Government of Costa Rica, Libro de acuerdos del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, vol. 2 to vol. 8. Figures are drawn from a database of 2,155 individuals of African descent who opted for citizenship between 1935 and 1950. The subjects included in the study were selected from the 5,177 individuals who opted for citizenship between June 1935 and December 1949. Choices were made on the basis of the applicant’s own statement of his or her parents’ nationality, and the accompanying photos were used only in the case of individuals who identified themselves as being of English origin. Deaths and births within the group were not given. Therefore, a slight fluctuation may be expected in the numbers representing totals over time. The parents of children under the age of twenty-one had to apply on their behalf. A slight adjustment must be taken into account for the five months of applications that do not appear in the data collected at the Registro Civil; nevertheless, general trends would have remained the same. The original data for the 1950 census have been lost. The numbers given are summations from the published résumé. Data gathered at the Registro Civil indicate that a high proportion of individuals considered British or French were of African descent. In addition, some people

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215 Notes to pages 152–60

49 50 51

52 53

54

55 56 57 58 59

60

61 62 63 64 65 66 67

considered Panamanian, Colombian, and Nicaraguan citizens were also of African descent. For the purposes of this study, estimates have been made based on data collected at the Registro Civil. See Conniff, Black Labor, for a discussion of the West Indian experience in Panama. A sample from the 1927 census revealed that over 30 per cent of the West Indian population were employed as day workers. See Table 4.5. The 1950 census did not distinguish between “mulattos” and “Negroes.” Evidence suggests that many “mulattos” were citizens at birth. Therefore, the percentage of children of West Indians who opted for citizenship may have been even higher. See, for example, The Atlantic Voice, 13 January 1940, 6 July 1940, and 24 August 1940. An interviewee in Cahuita has confided that although he claimed Costa Rican citizenship, he was actually born in Panama and, even at the age of 83, worried about the consequences if the truth were discovered by the authorities. The interviewee also indicated that he and his neighbours were known locally as the “Panamanians” because they were all Panamanian West Indians who had arrived in Cahuita decades earlier. For an example of the divisions within the community, see a letter to The Searchlight, 18 January 1930, that referred to West Indians who accommodated and were used by the “white race.” ancr, Fomento Series, no. 3387. Ibid. Ibid. The Atlantic Voice, 6 July 1940. The estimated population of the West Indian community in 1940 was 16,500. In an editorial on 17 February 1940, The Atlantic Voice estimated that 75 per cent of the total had been born in Costa Rica. Government of Costa Rica, Libro de acuerdos. Figures are drawn from a database of 2,191 individuals of African descent who opted for citizenship between 1935 and 1950. Deaths and births within the group were not given. Therefore, a slight fluctuation may be expected in numbers representing totals over time. The Atlantic Voice, 14 December 1940. Diario de Costa Rica, 4 December 1940. La Tribuna, 8 January 1941. The Atlantic Voice, 14 December 1940. The Atlantic Voice, 11 January 1941. The Atlantic Voice, 22 July 1944. Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1944.

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216 Notes to pages 163–70 chapter nine 1 Eugene D. Miller, “The Rise and Fall of the Wartime Alliance: The Church, the Communist Party and the State in the Costa Rican Labor Movement, 1943–1948,” paper presented to the Seventh Annual Southern Labor Conference, Georgia State University, October 1991. 2 Ameringer, Democracy. 3 See Botey, La crisis de 1929, and Aguilar Bulgarielli, Costa Rica, 44–56. 4 United Fruit also grew cacao in Limón, but it was German companies that purchased the produce of private planters. 5 The Atlantic Voice, 9 August 1941, 30 August 1941, 20 September 1941, and 4 October 1941. 6 Paula Palmer, “What Happen,” 183–6. 7 For information about the production of abaca in Costa Rica during World War Two, see The Atlantic Voice, 28 March 1942 and 11 September 1943. Also see various internal United Fruit Company documents on labour unrest on the abaca plantations. 8 The Atlantic Voice, 4 July 1942. 9 Ameringer, Democracy, 17–21. 10 Ameringer, Don Pepe, 18–19. 11 Aguilar Bulgarielli, Costa Rica, 245–61. 12 Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 300. 13 Ibid., 299–301. 14 See also Olien, “The Negro in Costa Rica,” 122–8. 15 Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos, 1942, decreto no. 4 de 26 abril, 1942. 16 See Aguilar Bulgarielli, Costa Rica, 201–8, for a discussion of the period. 17 See Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 134–6, for the typical understanding of the role played by Figueres. 18 See Ameringer, Don Pepe, for a full discussion of the period. 19 John Patrick Bell, Guerra civil en Costa Rica: los succesos políticos de 1948, (San José: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1985), 164–5. 20 Ibid. 21 Ameringer, Don Pepe, 43–56. 22 Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 134. 23 Paula Palmer “What Happen,” 248. 24 Ibid., 249. 25 Diario de Costa Rica, 25 July 1947, cited in Bell, Guerra civil, 41. 26 Limistre Pujol, Monografía histórica, 144. 27 The name of the group was probably meant to honour Georgi Dimitrov, the Bulgarian communist leader who was acquitted of setting fire to the Reichstag building in Berlin. The struggle against Figueres was characterized by the communists as a battle against Nazism in Costa Rica.

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217 Notes to pages 170–8 28 Limistre Pujol, Monografía histórica, 144. 29 See The Atlantic Voice, 1 December 1945 and 8 December 1945. 30 Vanguardia Popular constantly sought West Indian support in organizing the working class in Limón. Special appeals were made to West Indians to join the labour movement, but few members of the community joined. 31 Ameringer, Don Pepe, 56. 32 Bell, Guerra civil, 192–5. 33 Ibid., 195–203. 34 James Dunkerley, Power in the Isthmus: A Political History of Modern Central America, (London: Verso, 1988), 131. 35 Thousands of people were imprisoned and exiled during the eighteen months that the Junta governed Costa Rica. 36 ufc correspondence, Hamer to Diebold, 12 November 1948. 37 The Atlantic Post, 10 April 1949. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 Rafael Calderón’s National Republican Party was not allowed to participate in the elections for the Constituent Assembly. 41 Ameringer, Don Pepe, 75. 42 The Atlantic Post, 21 May 1949. 43 Ibid. 44 Aguilar Bulgarielli, Costa Rica, 357–78. 45 Comité Cultural de Siquirres, “Biografias de destacados personajes Negroes de la província de Limón,” unpublished manuscript, 31 August 1985. 46 Curling obtained his option at the age of twenty-eight on 11 September 1935. At the time he was one of perhaps one hundred and fifty Costa Rican-born West Indians to seek citizenship. 47 See La Nación, 4 April 1949, 11 November 1949, and 20 August 1950. See also Diario de Costa Rica, 26 June 1949, 27 August 1950, and 22 October 1950. 48 Diario de Costa Rica, 26 June 1949. 49 Government of Costa Rica, Colección de leyes y decretos 1949. 50 Ibid. 51 La Nación, 8 November 1949. 52 El Atlántico, 12 November 1949. 53 The newspaper’s Spanish and English editor was Joseph Thomas, a Costa Rican-born West Indian who had led the fight against illegal English schools in the early 1940s. 54 The Atlantic, 18 February 1950. 55 May, Costa Rica, 38. 56 Ibid., 51.

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218 Notes to pages 178–83 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Ibid., 52. The Atlantic, 4 March 1950. Ibid. See the letter from Alex Curling to President Ulate, La Nación, 20 August 1950. The Atlantic, 18 February 1950. May, Costa Rica, 54. ufc correspondence, Confidential Merchandise Department List for Limón, Costa Rica, 2 September 1953. Atlantic Post, 8 July 1950. La Nación, 4 April 1949. The delay in processing applications for options was not the only example of bureaucrats practising discrimination. Even while the Junta Fundadora was in power, West Indians were targets of racism. For example, on 7 May 1949 the Atlantic Post reported that five mentally handicapped West Indians had been turned out of an asylum in San José, put on the train with one-way tickets, and left on the platform at Limón. Officials denied that there had been any discrimination involved and claimed that there was no longer enough room for the five in the San José facility. ancr, Relaciones Exteriores Series, no. 2340. Kathleen Sawyers Royal, “Participación política del negro Limónense,” cited in Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 222. Ameringer, Don Pepe, 99–103. Meléndez Chaverri, El Negro, 135. First-time voters had Figueres to thank for their enfranchisement and likely voted for him. New York Times, 29 July 1953. Sawyers Royal, “Participación política,” 222. Koch, “Ethnicity and Livelihoods,” 308. Mergener, “A Study,” 49. Ameringer, Don Pepe, 113. Purcell, “Conformity and Dissension,” 201.

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222 Bibliography Contreras Solis, Fernando. “La evolución del enclave bananero en Costa Rica.” Tésis de licenciatura, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1974. Cordoba Jaramillo, Teófilo. Estudio sobre los recursos sociales de la región cacaotera de Cahuita en la Zona Atlántica, Costa Rica. Turrialba: Instituto Interamericano de Ciencias Agrícolas, Tesis de Magistría, 1967. De La Cruz, Vladimir. Breve reseña histórica del movimiento obrero en Costa Rica. San José: Edición mimeografiada. Instituto de Estudios de Trabajo de la Universidad Nacional, 1977. – Las luchas sociales en Costa Rica: 1870–1930. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1980. – Los mártires de Chicago y el primer de mayo de 1913. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1985. da Cunha, Euclides. Rebellion in the Backlands. Trans. by Samuel Putnam. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1944. Damais, Gilles. “Historia agraria de la región Atlántica.” Produced for the Cooperación Francesa, Escuela de Ciencias Agrarias, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, n.d. Degler, Carl N. Neither Black Nor White: Slavery and Race Relations in Brazil and the United States. New York: Macmillan Publishers, 1971. Dobles, Fabían. Historias de Tata Mundo. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1978. Dozier, C.L. “Indigenous Tropical Agriculture in Central America: land use, systems and problems.” Publication 594. Washington, dc: National Academy of Sciences, National Research Council, October 1958. Duncan, Quince. Cultural negra y teología. San José: Editorial dei, 1986. – Hombres curtidos. San José: Cuadernos de arte popular, 1971. – El Negro en la literatura Costarricense. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1975. – La rebelión pocomía y otros relatos. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1976. Duncan Baretta, Silvio R., and John Markoff. “Civilization and Barbarism: Cattle Frontiers in Latin America.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 20, (October, 1978): 587–620. Durham, William H. Scarcity and Survival in Central America. Stanford: University of California Press, 1979. Echeverri-Gent, Elisavinda. “Forgotten Workers: British West Indians and the Early Days of the Banana Industry in Costa Rica and Honduras.” Journal of Latin American Studies 24 (1992): 275–308. Edelman, Marc, and Joanne Kenen, eds. The Costa Rica Reader. New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 1989. Editorial Ciencia. Los monopolios extranjeros en Cuba 1898–1958. Moscow: Editorial Ciencia, 1976. Elkins, W.F. “Revolt of the British West Indian Regiment.” The Jamaica Journal 11, nos 3, 4 (1977): 55–76. Ellis, Frank. Las transnacionales de banano en Centroamerica. San José: educa, 1983.

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223 Bibliography Erikson, Kai T. Everything in its Path: Destruction of Community in the Buffalo Creek Flood. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1976. Facio Brenes, Rodrigo. Estudio sobre la economía Costarricense. San José: Editorial Surco, 1942. Fallas, Carlos La gran huelga bananera del Atlántico de 1934. San José: Editorial Principios, 1966. – Mamita Yunai. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1986. Fallas Monge, Carlos Luis. El movimiento obrero en Costa Rica 1830–1902. San José: Editorial Universidad Estatal a Distancia, 1983. Fanon, Frantz. Peau noire, masques blancs. Paris: Editions de Seuil, 1952. Fax, Elton C. Garvey: the story of a pioneer Black nationalist. New York: Dodd Mead, 1972. Fernandez Esquivel, Franco, and Hector Luis Mendez Ruiz. “El Negro en la historia y en la política Costarricense.” Tésis de licenciatura, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1982. Ferreto, Arnaldo. La huelga bananera de 1934. San José: Partido Vanguardia Popular, n.d. Fonseca, Elizabeth. Costa Rica Colonial: la tierra y el hombre. San José: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1983. Fournier Facio, Arturo. “La United Fruit Company y las huelgas bananeras.” Tésis de licenciatura, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1974. García M. , Guillermo. Las minas de Abangares: historia de una doble explotación. San José: Editorial de la Universidad de Costa Rica, 1977. Gardner, George R. “Regional Inequality in Costa Rica.” Paper presented at the annual Meeting of the Rocky Mountain Council on Latin American Studies, Santa Fe, New Mexico, April 1980. Gordon, Donald K. “Alderman Johnson Roden: The Tailor-Poet.” AfroHispanic Review 2, no. 2 (1983): 15–18. – El jamaiquino y lo universal en la obra del Costarricense Quince Duncan. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1989. – “The Sociopolitical Thought and Literary Style of Quince Duncan.” AfroHispanic Review 7, no. 3 (1988): 27–31. Granados, Jaime Chacón, and Ligia Estrada Molina. Reseña histórica de Limón. San José: Asamblea Legislativa, 1967. Gray, Arthur R. “All’s Well that ends well, but–.” The Spirit of the Missions 82 (1917). Gudmundson, Lowell. Costa Rica Before Coffee: Society and Economy on the Eve of the Export Boom. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1986. – Estratificación socio-racial y económica de Costa Rica: 1700–1850. San José: Editorial Universidad Estatal a la Distancia, 1978. – Hacendados politícos y precaristas: la ganadería y el latifundismo Guanacasteco, 1800–1950. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1983.

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224 Bibliography – “Mestizaje y la población de procedencia africana en la Costa Rica colonial.” Paper presented at the Seminario Centroamericano de Historia Económica y Social, Ciudad Universitaria “Rodrigo Facio,” Costa Rica, 21– 3 de abril de 1977. – “Peasant, Farmer, Proletarian: Class Formation in a Smallholder Coffee Economy, 1850–1950.” Hispanic American Historical Review 69, no. 2 (1989): 221–57. Guitierrez, Joaquín. Puerto Limón. Santiago, Chile: Nascimento, 1967. Hall, Carolyn. El café y el desarrollo histórico-geográfico de Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1982. – Costa Rica: a Geographical Interpretation in Historical Perspective. Boulder: Westview Press, 1981. – “Regional Inequalities in Well-Being in Costa Rica.” The Geographical Review 74, no. 1 (1984). Hennessy, Alistair. The Frontier in Latin American History. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1978. Hernández, Carlos. “Los inmigrantes de Saint Kitts: 1910, un capítulo en la historia de los conflictos bananeros costarricenses.” Revista de Historia no. 23 (1992): 191–24. Herrick, Bruce, and Barclay Hudson. Urban Poverty and Economic Development: A Case Study of Costa Rica. New York: Macmillan Press, 1981. Hill, Robert, ed. The Garvey Papers. Volumes 1–5. Berkeley: University of Southern California Press, 1985. Hobsbawm, E. J. Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1959. Hogg, Donald William. “Jamaican Religions: A Study in Variations.” PhD dissertation, Yale University, 1964. ifam-aitec. Estudio de la region Atlántica de Costa Rica por cantones. San José: Unidad de Planificación, 1978. de Janvry, Alain. The Agrarian Question and Reformism in Latin America. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981. Jiménez Munoz, Dina. Liografía retrospectiva sobre política agraria en Costa Rica: 1948–1978. San José: Centro de Documentación. Instituto de Investigaciones Sociales, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1981. Jones, Chester Lloyd. Costa Rica and Civilization in the Caribbean. New York: Russell and Russell, 1935, revised in 1967. – “Loan Controls in the Caribbean.” Hispanic American Historical Review 14, no. 2 (1934): 141–62. Jones, Clarence F., and Paul C. Morrison. “Evolution of the Banana Industry of Costa Rica.” Economic Geography 28, no. 1 (1952): 1–19. Joseph, Dolores. Tres relatos de caribe Costarricense. San José: Ministerio de Cultura, Juventud y Deportes, 1984.

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225 Bibliography Kepner, Charles. Social Aspects of the Banana Industry. New York: Columbia University Press, 1936. Kepner, Charles, and Jay Soothill. The Banana Empire: A Case Study of Economic Imperialism. New York: Russell and Russell, 1935. Knight, Franklin W. The Caribbean: The Genesis of a Fragmented Nationalism. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978. Koch, Charles W. “Ethnicity and Livelihoods, a social geography of Costa Rica’s Atlantic Zone.” PhD dissertation, University of Kansas, 1975. – “Jamaican Blacks and their Decendants in Costa Rica.” Social and Economic Studies 26, no. 3 (1977): 339–61. LaBarge, Richard Allen. “A Study of United Fruit Company Operations in Isthmian America, 1946–1956.” PhD dissertation, Duke University, 1960. Lainez, Vilma, and Victor Meza. “El enclave bananero en la historia de Honduras,” Estudios Sociales Centroamericanos 2 (mayo-agosto, 1973): 115–56. Langley, Lester D. The Banana Wars: United States Intervention in the Caribbean 1898–1934. Chicago: Dorsey Press, 1985. Léon Azofeifa, Moises Guillermo. “Chinese Immigrants on the Atlantic coast of Costa Rica: The Economic Adaptation of an Asian Minority in a Pluralistic Society.” PhD dissertation, Tulane University, 1987. Lewis, Rupert. Marcus Garvey: Anti-Colonial Champion. Trenton, nj: Africa World Press, 1988. Limestre Pujol, Annie, and Mirian Mayela Acosta Vega. Monografía histórica de la provincia de Limón, (Costa Rica). San José: Editorial Ministerio de Educación Publica, 1983. Lobdell, Richard A. “Women In The Jamaican Labour Force, 1881–1921.” Social and Economic Studies 37, nos. 1, 2 (1988): 203–40. Lohse, Kent Russell. “Slaves of the Virgin: Colonial Afro-Costa Ricans in Slavery and Freedom.” ma thesis, University of Texas at Austin, 1997. Lopez, José Roberto. La economía del banano en Centroamerica. San José: Editorial dei, 1986. Lowenthal, David. West Indian Societies. London: Oxford University Press, 1972. Martin, Tony. Race First: the ideological and organizational struggles of Marcus Garvey and the Universal Negro Improvement Association. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1976. Mason, Philip. Patterns of Domination. New York: Oxford University Press, 1970. May, Stacy, et al. Costa Rica: A study in Economic Development. London: George Allen and Unwin Ltd, 1952. May, Stacy, and Galo Plaza. The United Fruit Company in Latin America. Washington dc: National Planning Association, 1958. McCain, William. The United States and The Republic of Panama. New York: Russell & Russell, 1965.

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226 Bibliography McCann, Thomas. An American Company: The Tragedy of United Fruit. New York: Crown, 1976. Meléndez Chaverri, Carlos. Historia de Costa Rica. 2nd. ed. San José: Editorial Universidad Estatal a la Distancia, 1989. – ”Los origenes de los escalvos africanos en Costa Rica.” Actas y Memorias. Seville: 46th Congresso Internacional de Americanistas, 1966. Meléndez Chaverri, Carlos, and Quince Duncan. El Negro en Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1989. Mendieta y Nunez, L. Introducción al estudio del derecho agrario. 2nd ed. Mexico: Editorial Porrua, 1966. Mergener, John W. “A Study of the Political Patterns of Behavior of the Chinese, White and Negro in Puerto Limón, Costa Rica.” Associated Colleges of the Midwest Central American Field Program, 1965. Minority Rights Group. Afro-Central Americans: Rediscovering the African Heritage. London: Minority Rights Publications, 1996. Mintz, Sidney W., and Sally Price. Caribbean Contours. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985. Monge Alfaro, Carlos. Historia de Costa Rica. 14th ed. San José: Librería Trejos, 1978. Montagu, Ashley. Man’s Most Dangerous Myth: The Fallacy of Race. New York: Oxford University Press, 1974. Morner, Magnus. Race Mixture in the History of Latin America. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1967. Mortzsohn de Andrade, F. “El problema de campesino y la concentración de la tierra en Costa Rica,” Cuadernos Centroamericanos de Ciencias Sociales. San Pedro: csuca-claso, 1979. Murillo Chaverri, Carmen. “Costa atlántica costarricense: cultura y dinámica regional.” Estudios Sociales Centroamericanos 48 (September-December, 1988). Nanne, Guillermo. The Costa Rica Railroad, November 1875. Panama: Star and Herald, 1876. Navarro Bolandi, Hugo. La generación del 48. San José: Ediciones Humanismo, 1957. Navas, Luis. El movimiento obrero en Panamá (1880–1914). San José: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1979. Nelson, Wilton M. “A History of Protestantism in Costa Rica.” PhD dissertation, Princeton Theological Seminary, 1958. – Protestantism in Central America. Grand Rapids, Michigan: W.B. Erdmans Pub. Co., 1984. Newton, Velma. The silver men: West Indian labour migration to Panama, 1850– 1914. Kingston, Jamaica: Institute of Social and Economic Research, University of the West Indies, 1984.

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227 Bibliography Niehoff, Arthur. “Rural Self-help in Costa Rica.” In A Casebook of Social Change. Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 1966. Nuhn, Helmut, et al., eds. Estudio geográfico regional de la Zona Atlántica Norte de Costa Rica. San José: Instituto de Tierras y Colonización, 1967. Olien, Michael D. “The Adaptation of West Indian Blacks to North American and Hospanic Culture in Costa Rica.” In Old Roots in New Lands: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on Black Experiences in the Americas, ed. Ann M. Pescatello. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1977. – “Black and Part-Black Populations in Colonial Costa Rica: Ethnohistorical Resources and Problems.” Ethnohistory 27, no. 1 (1980): 13–29. – Latin Americans: Contemporary peoples and their cultural traditions. New York: Holt Rinehart and Winston, 1973. – “The Negro in Costa Rica: The Ethnohistory of an Ethnic Minority in a Complex Society.” PhD dissertation, University of Oregon, 1967. – The Negro in Costa Rica: The Role of an Ethnic Minority in a Developing Society. Winston-Salem, North Carolina: Wake Forest University, Overseas Research Center, Developing Nations Monograph Series, no. 3. Oliver, Lord Sidney, Jamaica: The Blessed Island, London: Faber & Faber Ltd., 1936. Pacheco, Leon. Los pantanos de infierno. San José: Libreria Lehmann, 1974. Palmer, Jesse T. “The Banana in Caribbean Trade.” Economic Geography 8, no. 3 (1932). Palmer, Paula. “What Happen” a Folk History of Costa Rica’s Talamanca Coast. San José: Ecodesarrollos, 1977. – “The Process of Whitening and the Changing Definitions of Racial Groups in Costa Rica.” Creating A Paradigm And Research Agenda For Comparative Studies Of The Worldwide Dispersion Of African Peoples. Monograph no. 1. East Lansing: African Diaspora Research Project, Michigan State University, 1990. Palmer, Steven Paul. “A Liberal Discipline: Inventing Nations in Guatemala and Costa Rica, 1870–1900.” PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1990. Parsons, James. “English-speaking Settlements of the western Caribbean.” Yearbook of the Association of Pacific coast Geographers 16 (1954): 3–13. Pérez, S., and Helmut Nuhn. “Tenencia y uso de la tierra.” In Estudio geográfico regional de la Zona Atlántica Norte de Costa Rica, eds Helmut Nuhn, et al. San José: Instituto de Tierras y Colonización, 1967. Pérez Sanchez, María Beatriz, and Edgar Perlaza Guevara. “Los asentamientos campesinos dirigidos en la región Atlántica de Costa Rica: enfoque histórico-geográfico (1962 a 1980).” Tésis de licenciatura, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1981. Pescatello, Ann M., ed. The African in Latin America. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1975.

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228 Bibliography – Old Roots in New Lands: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on Black Experiences in the Americas. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1977. Petras, Elizabeth McLean. Jamaican Labor Migration: White Capital and Black Labor, 1850–1930. Boulder: Westview Press, 1988. Pitt-Rivers, Julian. “Race, Color, and Class in Central America and the Andes,” Daedalus Journal of the American Academy of Arts (Spring, 1967): 542–59. Pollan, A.A. The United Fruit Company in Middle America. New York: New York School for Social Research, 1944. Post, Ken. Arise Ye Starvelings: The Jamaican Labour Rebellion of 1938 and Its Aftermath. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1978. Purcell, Trevor. Banana Fallout: Class, Color, and Culture Among West Indians in Costa Rica. Los Angeles: Centre for African Studies, 1993. – “Conformity and Dissension: Social Inequality, Values and Mobility among West Indian Migrants in Limón, Costa Rica.” PhD dissertation, Johns Hopkins University, 1982. Quesada Camacho, Juan Rafael. “História económica del cacao en Costa Rica (1880–1930).” Tésis de Grado, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1977. Quijano Quesada, Alberto. Costa Rica, ayer y hoy 1800–1939. San José: Editorial Borrase Hermanos, 1939. Quintana, Emilio. Bananos: la vida de los peones en la Yunai. San José: Ediciones Distribuidora Cultural, 1979. Quiros, Tulia. Geografía de Costa Rica. San José: Instituto Geográfico de Costa Rica, 1954. Quiroz Martín, Teresa, et al. “La mujer en Costa Rica y su participación política-económica en el desarrollo del país.” Facultad de Ciencias Sociales, Universidad de Costa Rica. Avances de Investigación, no. 51, 1984. Richardson, Bonham. Panama Money in Barbados, 1900–1920. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1985. Rodriguez Bolanos, José, and Victor Borge Carvajal. “El ferrocarril al Atlántico en Costa Rica.” Tésis de Licenciatura, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1976. Rodriguez Vega, Eugenio. Biografía de Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1980. – Los días de Don Ricardo Jiménez. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1971. Rojas Bolaños, Manuel. Lucha social y guerra civil en Costa Rica 1940–1948. San José: Editorial Porvenir, 1979. Rout, Leslie B., Jr. The African Experience in Latin America, 1502 to the present day. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1976. Sáenz, Alfredo P. Contratos y actuaciones de las companías de ferrocarril de Costa Rica: La Northern Railway Company, y la United Fruit Company en Costa Rica. San José: Self-published, 1929. – “Informe y documentación legal presentado por don Alfredo Sáenz P., Inspector General de Ferrocarriles.” San José: Self-published, 1928.

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229 Bibliography – La Situación bananeras de los paises del Caribe. n.d. Sáenz, Carlos P., and C. Foster Knight. “Tenure Security, Land Titling, and Agricultural Development in Costa Rica.” University of Costa Rica School of Law, Agrarian Law Project, 1971. Sáenz Maroto, Alberto. Historia agrícola de Costa Rica. San José: Publicaciones de La Universidad de Costa Rica, 1970. Salazar, J. “Tierras y colonización en Costa Rica.” Tésis de Licenciatura, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1961. Salazar, Jorge Mario. Política y reforma en Costa Rica 1914–1958. San José: Editorial Porvenir, 1981. Salisbury, Richard V. “The Anti-Imperialist Career of Alejandro Alvarado Quirós.” Hispanic American Historical Review 57, no. 2 (1977): 587–612. – “Domestic Politics and Foreign Policy: Costa Rica’s Stand on Recognition, 1923–1934.” Hispanic American Historical Review 54, no. 3 (1974): 451–78. Sander, G. La colonización agrícola de Costa Rica. San José: Instituto Geográfico, 1962–64. Sawyers Royal, Kathleen. “Los mecanismos de despersonificación de Negro.” In La Identidad Cultural Afro-Costarricense: Sumatoria Antológica, eds Guillermo Joseph Wignal and Sherman Wheakley Salamon. Facultad de Ciencias Sociales, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1984. Schieps, Paul J. “Gabriel Lafond and Ambrose Thompson: Neglected Isthmanian Promoters.” Hispanic American Historical Review 36, no. 2 (1956): 211– 28. Schifter, Jacobo Sikora, Lowell Gudmundson, and Mario Solera Castro. La fase oculta de la guerra civil en Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Universitaria Centroamericana, 1981. – El Judío en Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Universidad Estatal a la Distancia, 1979. Schoonover, Thomas, and Ebba Schoonover. “Statistics for an Understanding of Foreign Intrusions into Central America from the 1820s to 1930.” Anuario de Estudios Centroamericanos 15, no. 1 (1989): 93–118. Scott, James. The Moral Economy of the Peasant. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. Seligson, Mitchell A. “Agrarian Policies in Dependent Societies.” Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 19, no. 2 (May, 1977): 201–32. – El campesino y el capitalismo agrario de Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1984. – “The Impact of Agrarian Reform: A Study of Costa Rica.” Journal of Developing Areas 13 (1978–79): 161–74. – Peasants of Costa Rica and the Development of Agrarian Capitalism. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1980. “La reforma agraria en Costa Rica, 1942–1976: evolución de un programa.” Estudios Sociales Centroamericanos 6, no. 19 (1978).

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230 Bibliography Sewastynowicz, James. “Community Power Brokers and National Political Parties in Rural Costa Rica.” Anthropological Quarterly 56 (1983): 107–15. Shkilnyk, Anastasia M. A Poison Stronger Than Love: The Destruction of an Ojibwa Community. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985. Sibaja Barrantes, Emel. “Ideología y protesta popular: la huelga bananera de 1934 en Costa Rica.” Tésis de Licenciatura, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1983. Simpson, George Eaton. Religious Cults of the Caribbean: Trinidad, Jamaica, and Haiti. Rio Pedras: Institute of Caribbean Studies, University of Puerto Rico, 1970. Sobrado Chaves, Miguel. Characterización histórica-social de la Provincia de Limón. Heredia: Escuela de Planificación y Promoción Social, Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, 1976. Sole, Alfonso L. Apuntes Demográficos para la província de Limón. San José: Imprenta Nacional, 1946. Soley Guell, T. Historia económica y hacendaria de Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Universitaria, 1947. Stewart, Watt. Keith y Costa Rica. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1967. Stouse, Pierre A. “Agricultural Settlement in Former Costa Rican Banana Regions.” PhD dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1965. – Cambios en el uso de la tierra en regiones Ex-Bananeras de Costa Rica. San José: Instituto Geográfico de Costa Rica, 1967. – “Cambio en el uso de suelo en regiones de Costa Rica Dedicadas Anteriormente al Cultivo del Banano.” En Conferencia Regional Latinoamericana de la Unión Geográfica Internacional: Temas Geográficos Económicos. México: Sociedad Mexicana de Geografía y Estadística, 1966. – “Efectivo fomento agrícola de antiguas tierras plataneras: litoral occidental de Costa Rica.” Revista Geográfica, no. 66 (junio, 1967): 39–46. – “Instability of Tropical Agriculture: The Atlantic Lowlands of Costa Rica.” Economic Geography 46 (1970): 78–97. Taylor, Edward J. “Peripheral Capitalism and Rural-Urban Migration: A Study of Population Movements in Costa Rica.” Latin American Perspectives 7, nos. 2, 3 (Spring and Summer, 1980): 75–90. Thiel, Bernardo Augusto. “La población de Costa Rica en el siglo XIX.” In Revista de Costa Rica en el siglo XIX. San José: Tipografia Nacional, 1902. Trompf, G.W., ed. Cargo Cults and Millenarian Movements. New York: Mouton de Ruyter, 1990. Valades, Edmundo. Los contratos de diablo: las concesiones bananeras en Honduras y Centroamérica. Mexico: Editores Asociados, 1975. Valencia Chala, Santiago. El Negro en Centro América. Quito: Centro cultural Afro-Ecuatoriano, 1986. Vialez Hurtado, Ronny José. ALa Region Atlantica Costarricense y el Enclave Bananaero: Del Esplendor a la Crisis, 1927–1950.” Tésis de Maestria, Universidad de Costa Rica, 1993.

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231 Bibliography Vincent, Theodore G. Black Power and the Garvey Movement. Berkeley: Ramparts Press, 1971. Viquez, Pio. Miscelánea: prosa y verso. San José: Editorial Borrase Hermanos, 1903. Volio Jiménez, Fernando. Apartheid: prototipo de discriminación racial. San José: Editorial Costa Rica, 1971. Waibel, L. “White Settlement in Costa Rica.” The Geographical Review 29 (October, 1939): 528–60. Wallace, Anthony F.C. The Death and Rebirth of the Seneca. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1970. Wallerstein, Immanuel. The Modern World-System I: Capitalist agriculture and the origins of the European world-economy in the sixteenth century. New York: Academic Press Inc., 1974. Wardlaw, Claude W., and Laurence P. McGuire. The Panama Disease of Bananas. London: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1929. Whitman, Edmund S. Those Wild West Indies. London: Jarrolds Publishers, 1939. Williams, Robert G. Export Agriculture and the Crisis in Central America. Chapel Hill: Universiy of North Carolina Press, 1987. Wilson, Bruce M. Costa Rica: Politics, Economics and Democracy. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1998. Wilson, Charles Morrow. Empire in Green and Gold: The Story of the American Banana Trade. New York: Greenwood Press, 1968. Winson, Anthony. Coffee and Democracy in Modern Costa Rica. Toronto: Between the Lines, 1989. Woodward, Ralph Lee, Jr. Central America: A Nation Divided. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1985. Worsley, Peter. The Trumpet Shall Sound: A Study of “Cargo” Cults in Melanesia. New York: Schocken Books, 1968.

archival sources Archivo Legislativo. Various documents. Archivo Nacional de Costa Rica. Protocolos. Serie Avaluos – Hacienda Serie Congreso Serie Contencioso Administrativo Serie Fomento Serie Gobernación Serie Juzgado Civil Serie Mortuales Serie Municipal Serie Relaciones Exteriores

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232 Bibliography Municipalidad de Limón. Libros y Actas. Various volumes. Limón, Costa Rica. Northern Railway Company Archives. Various documents. Registro Civil de Costa Rica . Libro de acuerdos del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, vols 2–8. Libro de acuerdos del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, 1889–1949. United Fruit Company. Various files procured by Philippe Bourgois and Rafael Bolaños.

newspapers The Atlantic – El Atlántico. Limón, 1950–52. El Correo del Atlántico – The Atlantic Post. Limón, 1907–17 and 1949. The Daily Gleaner. Kingston, 1936–38. Diario de Costa Rica. San José, various year). La Gaceta Oficial. San José, various years. El Heraldo de Limón – The Atlantic Herald. Limón, 1909–14. El Limonense. Limón, 1914. El Limonense – The Limón Citizen. Limón, 1959. Limón Weekly News. Limón, 1903–06. The New York Times. New York, various years. El País. Limón, 1919. El Pueblo Limonense. Limón, 1915. Repertorio Americano. San José, 1929–31. The Searchlight – La Linterna. Limón, 1929–31. The Times-El Tiempo. Limón, 1910–13. Trabajo. San José, various years. La Tribuna. San José, various years. La Voz del Atlántico – The Atlantic Voice. Limón, 1934–46.

published government documents Costa Rica. Instituto de Tierras y Colonización, “Estudio de tenencia de la tierra en la provincia de Limón.” San José: Departamento de Planificación Agraria, 1972. – “Proyecto de Colonización de Bataan.” San José: Departamento de Planificación Agraria, 1968. – “Tenencia y uso de la tierra.” San José: Departamento de Planificación Agraria, 1965. – Ministerio de Agricultura y Ganadería. “Boletín de Exportaciones, 1947.” San José: Imprenta Nacional, 1948. – “Estudio económico de la administración rural de la Zona Atlántica.” San José: Borrase, 1954.

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233 Bibliography – – – – – – – – – – –

Ministerio de Fomento. Memoria. Various years. Ministerio de Gobernación. Anuarios Estadísticos. Various years. Boletín de exportaciones 1947. San José: Imprenta Nacional, 1948. Censo agropecurario de 1950. San José: Ministerio de Economía y Hacienda, 1963. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (11 de mayo de 1927). San José: Ministerio de Economía y Hacienda, 1928. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (22 de mayo de 1950). San José: Ministerio de Economía y Hacienda, 1953. Censo de población de Costa Rica: (1963). San José: Ministerio de Economía y Hacienda, 1966. Censo urbano de edificios y viviendas: (noviembre y deciembre de 1949). San José: Sección Publicaciones, 1954. Memoria. Various years. Resumenes estadísticos: años 1883 á 1910. San José: Tipografia Nacional, n.d. Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores. Indice completo por orden alfabético de las opciones, inscripciones y naturalizaciones practicadas desde el año de 1829 hasta setiembre de 1927. San José: Imprenta Nacional, 1927.

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Index

aboriginal Costa Ricans, xiv, 3–4, 9, 192n3 African Communities League, 60, 74–5. See also unia Afro-Christian religious beliefs, 103–5, 107–8, 207n11, 207n14, 207n19 Afro–Costarrican Youth Uplift Association, 160 Afro-Costa Rican organization, 159–60, 170 Artisans and Labourers’ Union, 26–9, 75, 196n8, 196n9 Atlantic Voice, 204n52, 204n53; and 1934 strike, 80–1, 86–7; and defence of community interests, 96, 98–100; and religious sects, 101, 104, 112, 116–17. See also Nation, Samuel; Roden, Alderman Johnson Balneario Municpal, 95–6 banana contract: 1910, 23–4, 67; 1926, 67–8; 1930, 70–3, 133; 1934,

Article 5, 84–6, 91–2, 98, 130, 158, 176; ratification of and impact on West Indians, 85–6, 92–4, 95, 97, 99; and Costa Rican citizenship, 158, 175–6; and Northern Railway, 133; and unia , 80–1 banana cultivation, 15–16; by private producers, 19–20, 40, 65–7, 97, 124 banana exports, 25, 43, 64, 202n12, 121–2, 165, 178; tax on, 15, 2, 26, 68, 71 Black Star Line, 54, 55–6, 58–60, 74 Blair, H.S., 51, 54 Bocas del Toro, 37, 39–40, 105, 145; 1918–19 strike, 46–7; unia in, 52–6. See also Garvey, Marcus Boston Fruit Company, 16, 23 Bourgois, Philippe, xv–xvi Britton, Stanely, 182

cacao, 4–5, 9, 20, 68, 98–9, 135, 164 Calderón Guardia, Rafael Angel, and 1942 decree on immigration, 141 Cahuita, 82–4, 98, 124, 156, 169, 215n53 carnet de extranjero, 142 Cédula de Identidad, 141 Chinese immigration. See railway construction Chittenden, G.P., United Fruit Company superintendent, 54–5, 57, 74, 87 Chomsky, Aviva, 17, 26, 194n55, 196n4, 196n14, 197n28, 207n7 citizenship, and naturalization, 139–40, 142–3, 148–9; options by Costa Rican-born West Indians, 149–55, 160–1, 166 colonization schemes, 9–11, 92–3, 170–1, 179, 193n30 Comité Dimitou. See Vanguardia Popular

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236 Index Comité Pro-costaricenses Blancos, 132–3, 135 Communist Party of Costa Rica. See Vanguardia Popular Confederación General de Trabajadores, 56, 58 Conniff, Michael, xv–xvi, 193n40 Cortés, Léon, 92, 97, 98–9, 100, 103, 110, 130–1, 167; and repeal of Article 5, 158–9; and documentation of foreigners, 142–3; and immigration laws, 141 Cortés-Chittenden contract, 87 Cox, Frank Nutter, British consul general, 26, 28–30, 38, 52 Curling Delisser, Alex, 159, 175–82, 217n46 Curling De Lisser, Jorge, 158–9 Dabney, Altiman, cult leader, 108–13 Davis, George, 113–15 debt peonage, 18, 56, 195n58 discrimination, in Limón, 94–6, 100–1, 115–16, 135; against religious groups, 117–18; in the workforce, 84, 134 documentation of West Indians. See registration of foreigners. Duncan, Feresford, 160–1 education in Limón, 125– 9, 183, 210n18, 210n32 Ethiopian Coptic Faith. See Hibbert, Joseph expulsion of immigrants, 145. See also repatriation attempts Figueres, José, in civil war, 167–9, 171; after civil war victory, 173, 174, 175; and decree

836, 176–7; in exile, 92, 165–6; and 1953 election, 180–2; proGerman sympathies during wwii, 172 García Monge, Joaquín, 69, 71, 202n13 Garvey, Marcus, 74, 105, 203n33; first visit to Limón, 32–5, 197n39; return to Costa Rica, 52, 56–60; in San José, 57; in Bocas del Toro, 59–60 Generation of 88. See Guardia, Tomás government control, in Limón, 8, 9, 17–18, 23, 36, 67, 69–70, 91, 93; of land, 97–100, 107; of education, 125–30, Great White Fleet, 23, 43, 45, 65, 68, 122; sinking of San Pablo, 165 Guardia, Tomás, 11, 14–16 Guerrero, José, 71, 202n21, 203n29 Hibbert, Joseph, 105 Hispanic workers, 78–9 Huelga de Brazos Caídos, 169 immigration of West Indians, 13–14, 16, 194n40; efforts to prohibit, 69, 72–3; prohibition of, 7, 141, 166–7 infant mortality, 124 Jiménez, Ricardo, 23–4, 26, 68–9, 73, 87, 97, 159, 162 Joseph, Dolores, 96 Keith, Minor Cooper, 14–16, 57, 73, 86–7, 168 Koch, Charles, 19, 148, 166–7, 182 land tenure in Limón, West Indian farmers and, 96–100

Leys de Bases y Colonización, 7–8, 12, 167 Liga Cívica de Costa Rica, 131, 202n13; and documentation of foreigners, 142 malnutrition in Limón, 124–9 Maritime Mile. See land tenure in Limón McGrigor, C.G., 28–9 Meiggs, Henry, 1 de Mena, M.L.T., 76 Mora, Juan Rafael, 6 Mora, Manuel, 79 morality crimes, 115–16 Nation, Samuel, 196n8, 72, 75–7, 204n53, 81, 98, 207n5, 105, 112, 13–16, 118, 128, 142–3, 170, 181 National Association for the Advancement of Costarricans of Colour, 170 National Association for the Advancement of Young Coloured People, 159–60 National Association for the Progress of Coloured Costa Ricans, 160 National Campaign, 5–6, 192n13 Negro World, 52–3, 107 “Negroes and mulattos,” 195n63, 146, 151, 215n51; in San José, 70, 154 Nesbeth, Alfredo. See Vanguardia Popular Nicaraguan workers, 49, 82–3, 146 Nichols, Harold, 86 non-West Indian AfroCosta Ricans, 139 Northern Railway, 194n31, 34, 47, 57, 95, 114, 129–30, 178; and Soto-Keith contract, 133; campaign against

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237 Index West Indian workers, 131–4; discrimination against West Indians, 123, 129; percentage of West Indian employees, 130 Obeah, 105, 118 Old Harbour, 98, 156 Oliver, Sir Sydney, 35–7 Olien, Michael, 92 Operación Legión del Caribe, 171 Panama Canal Zone, 14, 31, 39, 47–9, 50, 53–5, 105–6, 144–6 Partido Union Nacional. See Ulate Blanco, Otilio Partido Liberación Nacional, and AfroCosta Rican support, 169, 181 Penshurst, 97 Picado Micholiski, Teodoro, 160, 167–9, 170 plant disease, 63–4, 67–8, 73, 76, 87–8, 98, 100, 121–3, 164 Pocomia. See AfroChristian religious beliefs population census: 1892, 70; 1927, 70–1, 82–4, 129, 139, 154; 1950, 150–1, 153, 156–7 position of West Indians in labour force, 25, 82–4, 123, 132–4, 144–5, 205n74 prohibition against West Indian settlement in the highlands, 92 prostitution, 36–7 Province of Limón, population of, 16–17; number of “Negroes and mulattos,” 195n63, 146, 151; number of West Indians, 215n59, 146–7

Puerto Viejo. See Old Harbour Purcell, Trevor, 148 railway construction, 11–13, 14–15, and Chinese immigration, 12, 193n33; Costa Rican government desires for, 10–11; deaths in, 18 Rastafarianism. See Hibbert, Joseph; Afro-Christian religious beliefs registration of foreigners, 43–4, 53, 139, 142–3, 173–4 repatriation attempts, 109, 140; of mentally ill West Indians, 100–3; of Altiman Dabney, 109–10, 208n32; threat of, 81, 84, 115 Repertorio Americano. See García Monge, Joaquín residential certificates, 179–80, 213n28 Revivalism. See AfroChristian religious beliefs Roden, Alderman Johnson, xi–xii, 191n1, 142 St. Kitts, 27–30, 31, 105 Santa María, Juan. See National Campaign Searchlight, 72, 75, 76 segregation, in local establishments, 94–6; of workforce, 25, 85. See also Balneario Municpal; White Zone Sigatoka. See plant disease slavery and emancipation, in Costa Rica, 5, 8; in the British Caribbean, 13, 17, 80 Smith, Theodore, 75–7 Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País, 68–71, 203n29

Soto-Keith contract, 15, 23, 133 South Asians, 38, 198n55 Standard Oil Company, 45–6 strike action, 49–50, 51, 56; of 1910, 26–9; of 1913, 40–1; of 1918–19, 45–7; of 1934, 78–81, 85–6 Sutherland Polson, Roberto, 158–9 The Nation, 32–4. See also Garvey, Marcus Todopoderoso, Nelson, 118 Tres Hermanos mine, murder of West Indians at, 37–8 The Limón Times, 29, 196n8; attacks on Marcus Garvey, 32–4. See also Nation, Samuel Tropical Trading and Transportation Company, 15, 16; amalgamation with Boston Fruit, 23 Ulate Blanco, Otilio, 71, 72, 202n23, 173, 174, 180; as president, 178– 9; and 1948 election, 168–9 United Fruit, and 1918–19 strike, 26–9; and 1934 strike, 78–80; and Article 5, 85; and independent West Indian producers, 66–7, 123–4; and Marcus Garvey, 32–4, 56–60, 74; and prostitution, 37; and unia support, 55, 75, 76, 81; and wwi, 42–5; early development of in Costa Rica, 16; manipulation of workers by, 18, 25–6, 31, 36; place in Costa Rican economy, 23, 68, 120–1, 125; spy network of, 51, 61

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238 Index Universal African Legions, 61 Universal Negro Improvement Association (unia), 53–63, 201n85; and Limon Division, 74–7; and 1934 strike, 80–1; and 1929 international convention, 75–6 urban census: 1949, 124 Vanguardia Popular, 163–4, 165; and 1934 strike, 78–9, 86–7, 204n53; appeal to people of African descent,

78–9, 217n30; and Comité Dimitou, 170 Vinton Davis, Henrietta, 54–6 West India Regiment, 47–9, 61 West Indian élite, 32, 197n3, 60, 75, 94, 102, 104, 112– 13, 119, 155, 157, 160, 180 West Indian emigration, 123, 145–6 West Indian farmers, 66–7, 84, 123–4 West Indian Immigration and Protection Club, 40–1

white-settler society, xvi, 7, 71, 92, 175 White Zone, 85, 94 women, 13–14, 195n57, 19, 35, 36, 66, 101, 206n42, 141, 145, 146–7; and citizenship, 152–3; and Pocomia, 104, 107–8, 208n22; enfranchisement of, 181–3 World War One, 43–6, 122 World War Two, 122, 214n43, 144, 155, 162, 164–5, 172, 216n7