From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions: Tourism, Cultural Heritage, and Afro-Antillean Identities in Panama 9780817320614, 081732061X

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Panameñismo and Panameñidad: Converging Ideologies in the Construction of Panamanian National Identity
2. Panama’s Temporary Migrants: The Afro-Antillean Presence in the National Narrative
3. “Panama Is More Than a Canal”: The Twenty-First Century and the Panamanian Tourism Industry
4. Touring the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro
5. Afro-Antilleanness Represented: Museums, Theme Parks, and the Manufacturing of History
6. The Permanent Attractions: Music and Cuisine as Malleable “Ethnic Commodities”
7. Conclusions: Afro-Antillean Identity Construction, International Tourism, and the New Symbols of Panameñidad
Glossary
Notes
References
Index

Citation preview

From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions

From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions Tourism, Cultural Heritage, and Afro-­Antillean Identities in Panama CARLA GUERRÓN MONTERO

The University of Alabama Press  Tuscaloosa

The University of Alabama Press Tuscaloosa, Alabama 35487-­0380 uapress.ua.edu Copyright © 2020 by the University of Alabama Press All rights reserved. Inquiries about reproducing material from this work should be addressed to the University of Alabama Press. Typeface: Minion Pro Cover image: Robert Lerich © 123RF.COM Cover design: Michele Myatt Quinn Cataloging-­in-­Publication data is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: 978-­0-­8173-­2061-­4 E-­ISBN: 978-­0-­8173-­9297-­0

To my father, Luis Hernán, for holding my hand through many forests

Contents List of Illustrations  ix Acknowledgments xi Introduction 1 1P  anameñismo and Panameñidad: Converging Ideologies in the Construction of Panamanian National Identity  23 2 Panama’s Temporary Migrants: The Afro-­Antillean Presence in the National Narrative  44 3 “Panama Is More Than a Canal”: The Twenty-­First Century and the Panamanian Tourism Industry  59 4 Touring the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro  74 5 Afro-­Antilleanness Represented: Museums, Theme Parks, and the Manufacturing of History  93 6 The Permanent Attractions: Music and Cuisine as Malleable “Ethnic Commodities”  107 7 Conclusions: Afro-­Antillean Identity Construction, International Tourism, and the New Symbols of Panameñidad 129 Glossary 153 Notes 157 References 173 Index 195

Illustrations Figures I.1. Map of the Bocas del Toro Archipelago  xvi I.2. Marta at her home garden  2 I.3. Map of the Republic of Panama  6 4.1. Luke, Afro-­Antillean coal maker  76 4.2. Possible former Mechanics Lodge in Colón Island  77 4.3. Typical Bocatorenean restaurant in the 1990s  79 4.4. Calypso Kev singing at a local restaurant  81 4.5. Tourists sunbathing on Red Frog Beach  88 4.6. Transforming aesthetics of Colón Island  89 4.7. Handicraft store in Colón Island  90 7.1. Bocas for sale  132 7.2. Marta and the author at the Bocas airport  135 7.3. Bocatorenean tour guide and tourists on boat ride  142

Table 3.1. Panama’s tourism zones and number of attractions  65

Acknowledgments I have been thinking about this project for many years. It has morphed, transformed, grown, and accompanied me in many phases of my life. I see it as a collaborative project because I owe its completion to countless family members, friends, colleagues, and institutions. First, I must express my deepest gratitude to the inhabitants of the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, Panama. I thank immensely my dearest friends Patricia Whitaker, Jackqueline Vásquez, the late Zaida Warren, Patricia Samms, Maritza West, Esperanza Vargas, Adira Culiolis, Angarita Mitchell, Víctor Herrera, Rubén Rodríguez, Clanrod Bilanfante, Orlando Cargill, Virgilio Porta, and their respective families. I thank especially all the members of the Vásquez family, in particular the late Joanne and Chicho Vásquez, Virginia, Toyo, Diana, and Cris. In Panama City, I received wonderful encouragement from colleagues and friends, who supported my initial research project and have continued to follow my work throughout the years. I thank Stanley Heckadon Moreno, senior researcher at the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, for his outstanding support, interest, and guidance. I express my gratitude to Anthony Coates, Olga Linares, Gloria Maggiori, and Celideth León at the same institution. I am deeply thankful to Gloria Rudolf, Coralia Hassan de Llorente, Melva Lowe de Goodin, William Harp, Francisco Herrera, Osvaldo Jordán, and Clyde Stephens, for their constant reminders that my work needed to be disseminated and shown to Panamanian audiences. I also thank these organizations: the Association for the Conservation of Nature (ANCON) (Iván Valdespinos, Eligio Binns, and Marissa Brown); the Panamanian Bureau of Tourism (IPAT) (César Tribaldos, Cecilia Pérez Balladares, Anita Shaffer, Anabella Andrade, José Thomas, Mauricio Lopez, Julia Culiolis, and Maria Quiel); ANCON Expeditions (Marco Gandásegui, Jonathan Parris, Patricia Samms, and Orlando Segura); the Afro-­Antillean Museum (Romualda Lombardo, Melva Lowe de Goodin, and Verónica Forte); the Simón Bolívar Library at the National University of Panama as well as the Department of History; the National Institute of Culture (Elvia Crespo);

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the National Office of Statistics and Census; the Rogelio Josué Ibarra High School (Harold Callender and Dora Reina, and the English Department); the Catholic, Methodist, and Saint Jude International Baptist Churches in Bocas del Toro; and the governor of Bocas (1999–2004), Luis Nuque, and his family. I am also deeply grateful to the Dávalos and Shaffer families in Panama City for their hospitality during my frequent visits. In 1996, the late Philip D. Young, my advisor and mentor, introduced me to a breathtaking archipelago and a fascinating country. I fell in love with Bocas del Toro at first sight and embarked on this long voyage with great curiosity. Philip endlessly and generously supported my development from a fledgling anthropologist to a scholar. I thank him for his exemplary mentorship and teachings, for encouraging me to keep my ethnographic eyes wide open, and for believing in my abilities as an anthropologist. I thank the numerous colleagues who have read and enhanced my scholarly writings throughout the years. I am particularly indebted to colleagues and dear friends Kathleen Adams, Peter Sánchez, and Florence Babb. I am also thankful to Geraldine Moreno-­Black and Carlos Aguirre for their constant support throughout the years. At the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture—where I was a fellow-­in-­residence in 2009—I am grateful to the late Colin Miller, director of the Scholars-­in-­Residence Program; Diana Lachatanere, former assistant director for Collections and Services; my research assistant Peter Hobbes; and the fellow members of my research cohort, Carolyn Brown, Johanna Fernández, Nicole Fleetwood, Anthony Foy, Jerry Gershenhorn, Venus Green, Carther Mathes, Eve Shockley, and Laurie Woodard. Similarly, I thank my colleagues of the Catalan Institute for Research on Cultural Patrimony (ICRPC) (especially Gabriel Alcalde, Gemma Domènech, Nina Kammerer, Antoni Rojas, and Sophia Vackimes) and the Centre for Latin American Research and Documentation (CEDLA) (especially Mihiel Baud, Fabio DeCastro, Christin Klaufus, and Annelou Ypeij) for their kind welcome as visiting scholar and for their comments and enthusiasm about my research. In addition to the aforementioned institutions, I conducted archival and bibliographic research in Panama and the United States. I thank the Catholic Church (Monsignor Agustín Ganuza), the Judicial Power Notary Archives of Bocas del Toro, the Archives of the Province Governance, and the private archival collection of Governor Luis Nuque. I also thank the staff of the Panamanian Bureau of Tourism, the Bocas Town Municipal Library, and the Library of the University of Panama in Changuinola. In the United States, I am grateful to the staff at the Knight Library of the University of Oregon, the Benson Collection at the Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American

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Studies and the Perry-­Castañeda Library at the University of Texas, and the Morris Library at the University of Delaware. My warmest and special gratitude goes to the colleagues who read earlier versions of this book. Margaret Stetz and Aletta Biersack commented on several chapters. They are both giants in their fields and outstanding feminist role models, and I am honored that they gave me their vote of confidence. Rafael Estrada Mejía read every word of this book and provided invaluable feedback and generous encouragement throughout the writing process. I am also very thankful to the anonymous reviewers who made the book a much better final product with their comments. At the University of Delaware, my colleagues in the Department of Anthropology have been extremely collaborative and supportive. I am particularly thankful to Karen Rosenberg, Thomas Rocek, Lu Ann DeCunzo, Jessica Schiffman, Peter Weil, and Ken Ackerman, who were there for me at all times. Sandy Wenner, office coordinator extraordinaire, helped with all the administrative work for several fellowships and grants I received to continue my research. I also thank the Hemispheric Dialogues Research Cluster at the University of Delaware; Mónica Domínguez Torres, Rosalie Rolón-­Dow, Pascha Bueno-­Hansen, Alvina Quintana, and Gladys Ilarregui were highly supportive. I am deeply indebted to Margaret Andersen, who in her role as associate provost for Academic Affairs, gave me the opportunity to participate in the National Center for Faculty Development and Diversity Success Program (NCFDD). I thank faculty facilitator Badia Ahad for the valuable skills she instilled in our small group training. My former student Scarlett Schaffer, now an accomplished university instructor in Mexico, accompanied me in the field in summer 2007 and provided great insights on the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro with her natural ethnographic curiosity. I am very grateful to Carol Lyell from the Department of Geography, who generously created the maps that appear in this book. I am also very thankful to my University of Alabama Press editor, Wendi Schnaufer, who took on my project with great enthusiasm and with whom it has been an absolute joy to work. Likewise, my editors Dorothy Ross and Christopher Lura worked with me throughout the entire writing process and were not only incredibly professional but also enthusiastically supportive. Numerous granting agencies have sustained the research that was necessary to write this book. The Inter-­American Foundation, the Nippon Foundation, and several grants at the University of Oregon made my initial research possible. I also thank the Ford Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, Regis University (Sponsored Projects and Academic Research Council grants), and the University of Delaware (General University Research grants and several grants from the Center for Global and Area

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Studies). Finally, I thank the Center for Material Cultural Studies at the University of Delaware for providing generous support for editorial review of the manuscript. Additionally, I would like to thank the following for allowing me to use material originally published in these sources: Carla Guerrón Montero, “Tourism, Cuisine, and the Consumption of Culture in the Antilles,” in The Routledge History of Food, edited by Carol Helstosky (London: Routledge, 2015), 291–312, reproduced with permission of Informa UK Limited through PLSclear; Carla Guerrón Montero, “Building ‘The Way’: Creating a Successful Tourism Brand for Panama and Its Consequences,” in Tourism in Latin America: Cases of Success, edited by Alexandre Panosso Netto and Luiz Gonzaga Godoi Trigo (New York: Springer, 2015), 191–205, reprinted by permission from Springer; Carla Guerrón Montero, “All in One Pot: The Place of Rice and Beans in Panama’s Regional and National Cuisine,” in Rice and Beans: A Unique Dish in a Hundred Places, edited by Livia Barbosa and Richard Wilk (London: Berg Publishers, 2012), 161–80, used by permission of Bloomsbury Publishing PLC; Carla Guerrón Montero, “‘Can’t Beat Me Own Drum in Me Own Native Land’: Calypso Music and Tourism in the Panamanian Atlantic Coast,” Anthropological Quarterly 79, no. 4 (2006): 633–63, used by permission of Anthropological Quarterly. The family I love have made this possible. My father Luis Hernán, mother Sonia, siblings María Alejandra and Pablo Esteban, brother-­in-­law Iván, beloved niece Juliana, and four-­legged companion Gino were there for me always. My dearest friends Valetta, Dora, Janet, and María Gloria accompanied me in this journey in multiple ways. Last, I apologize and offer appreciative gratitude for anyone whose name and help I have neglected or omitted.

From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions

Figure I.1. Map of the Bocas del Toro Archipelago (Carol Lyell)

Introduction One could hear her laughing from a mile away. Marta1 announced her arrival to any place with a boisterous laugh and the expression “Hi, papacito” (“daddy”). I met Marta during my first prospective visit to the Bocas del Toro Archipelago in Panama in 1997 when I was beginning my research into Afro-­ Antillean history and cultures. Like many others, I was immediately attracted to Marta’s spirited personality. Marta had a captivating spontaneity and a boundless desire to learn and experiment. While most Afro-­Antilleans apologized to me for their “broken English”—actually, a local variant of Creole English known as Wari-­wari2 and a full-­blown language in its own right— and immediately switched to Spanish when they learned I was South American, Marta slowed down the pace of her Wari-­wari and avoided certain words to make sure I would understand her. I came to associate the archipelago and my life there with the melodic cadence of this endangered language. The Bocas del Toro Archipelago (figure I.1), where Marta lives, is located in the northwestern coast of Panama and consists of nine islands peopled by approximately 13,000 Afro-­Antilleans, indigenous peoples (mostly Ngöbe), Chinese Panamanians, Panamanian mestizos, and since the mid-­1990s and because of the tourism industry, permanent and semipermanent lifestyle migrants mostly from the United States, Canada, and western Europe. The archipelago is part of the province of Bocas del Toro, with an area of 4,643.9 km² (2,885 mi²) and 125,461 inhabitants (Dirección Nacional de Estadísticas y Censos 2010).3 Among the archipelago’s cultural and ethnic diversity, Afro-­ Antilleans have long been one of the most prominent populations. Since our first encounter, Marta became my reference for all things Bocatorenean (figure I.2). She immediately took me under her wing, introduced me to her friends, showed me the archipelago, and especially, taught me how to cook Antillean food. She was my student in two English night courses for adults I taught, and my classmate in several tourism workshops I attended as part of my research. Marta took me to Sunday picnics, church services, dance

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Figure I.2. Marta at her home garden (Carla Guerrón Montero)

parties, and burials. She received me in her small home, where we sat on her porch for countless afternoons, sipping tea and learning about each other. I welcomed her in the many places I called home during my fieldwork—from the basement of the Catholic curial house to a comfortable room in an apart-­ hotel. I met her mother, sisters, children, and grandchildren. She met my mother, sister, niece, and students. Marta arrived in Bocas del Toro from the Archipelago of San Andrés and Providencia, Colombia, in the 1970s, following her mother who had settled in the archipelago a few years earlier to find better job opportunities. After her arrival, Marta quickly learned to navigate life in the archipelago, as there are many historical and cultural similarities between the island environments of Bocas del Toro and her native Providencia. “The soil is just like in Providencia,” she once described to me. “I could plant, feel the breeze, enjoy the ocean. And people were kind to me, in Bocas and Bastimentos” (interview M. S., October 5, 1999). She fell in love and married a man from Bastimentos, the love of her life, and had four beautiful daughters. In our many conversations, Marta shared with me the passion she had for the father of her daughters, and the pain it caused her to see him leave some years later. After

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her divorce, she met another Bocatorenean with whom she had her only son. Marta distinguished herself for her great cooking abilities and found work at several restaurants in Bocas and Bastimentos to support her family. Her main source of concern, however, was her legal status in Panama. In spite of having married a Panamanian and having lived in Panama for decades, she feared being deported to Colombia because she was not a documented resident and thus was not legally permitted to work. Over the years, and despite her legal status, Marta worked as assistant to a cook and then as a cook, perfecting her skills, learning new dishes, and always keeping the dream to open her own restaurant. Then, in the mid-­1990s, a tourism boom shook the archipelago with an impact that was as powerful as the actual 7.4 magnitude earthquake that rocked the foundations of Bocas del Toro only a few years earlier on April 22, 1991.4 Many Bocatoreneans link the opening up of Bocas to world tourism to the information that appeared about the archipelago and the massive sale of properties immediately after the earthquake. As Julia Robinson, an Afro-­Antillean woman from Bastimentos, describes it: “After the earthquake, there was a fall; this became almost a desert; most people sold [their properties] very inexpensively and left, because they were afraid that a similar phenomenon would happen” (interview J. R., July 24, 1999). Today, however, people no longer see Bocas through the lens of the “before and after the earthquake.” In 2019, “before and after the earthquake” had been replaced by “before and after tourism” in the eyes of many Bocatoreneans. When tourism first exploded in Bocas del Toro in the 1990s, some Bocatoreneans were adamantly against it; others looked suspiciously at the many foreigners arriving from Europe and the United States; still others saw tourists as their salvation. Marta, in the latter group, embraced tourism and the arrival of tourists wholeheartedly. She quickly learned that her Creole English gave her the perfect means to communicate with the tourists. She also learned that her warm and lively personality and her love for dancing and general joie de vivre were well received. She became a cultural broker not only for tourists but also for the numerous foreigners interested in investing in small-­scale tourism enterprises or wishing to relocate to the archipelago.5 Marta has now worked in tourism-­related activities for twenty years; she first worked as a maid, cook, and administrator in a small hostel in Bocas del Toro, then as administrator and cook at a larger hostel in Carenero. A few years later, she was the main cook for a study-­abroad program in Bocas. Currently, Marta—now in her sixties—mostly prepares meals by request, continues to produce her hot sauce from home, and has become a devoted member of her Baptist church. All her children are grown and have formed families of their own. Her son became a nurse and lives in Panama City.

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When looking back over her life, Marta thinks tourism brought her positive changes. Even though she is critical of some of the highly irregular situations surrounding tourism in Bocas, such as land speculation, irregular work permits, or environmental degradation, and even though her own economic condition did not improve radically (the dream of running her own restaurant never materialized), for Marta, tourism brought a personal transformation and opportunities to grow. Her US friends, those she helped to settle in Bocas, made some of her dreams come true: She returned twice to her native Providencia to see her family; she also traveled to San Andrés for vacations and several times to Panama City; she hired a lawyer to help her become a documented resident of Panama. Finally, she expanded her horizons through her most enduring passion: cooking. Marta is fearless in experimenting with flavors that very few Bocatoreneans dare to try. She manipulates ingredients to create meals with a “Caribbean kick” and yet that are attractive to the Western palate. She cooks gluten-­free food and has learned to substitute olive oil for milk or butter for lactose intolerant tourists; she uses her knowledge of Colombian food and has become an expert on desserts. Marta prepares her own hot sauce (“I Be a Bitch”) at home and sells it to friends and in markets that mostly cater to tourists and resident expatriates. For Marta, her foreign friends, acquaintances, and the internet are always sources of information, ideas, and exchange. Marta embraces rather than rejects these challenges. In some ways, Marta’s broader life story is emblematic of the process of Afro-­Antillean populations in the African diaspora. Racial solidarity and civic participation, a constant among peoples of Afro-­Antillean descent in the Americas, flourished significantly in Panama. In fact, Panama has played a substantial role in the fortunes of Afro-­Antilleans in Central America, as a refuge in conflictual political and social moments in the Antillean region. As Nathaniel Samuel Murrell wrote in 2010, it “became a marketplace for a cross-­fertilization of ideas among immigrant workers who were en route to industrial cities as well as the social climate for seeding religious dreams” (Murrell 2010, 289). Panama is the southernmost country of Central America (75,416 km² or 29,118 mi²). It is divided into nine provinces and three indigenous regions (comarcas) and has a population of 4,246,439 inhabitants (UN Data 2019). Its dollar-­based economy is estimated to be No. 92 in the world and third in Central America, with a GDP per capita of US$15,088 in 2017. It has been one of the fastest growing economies in Latin America over the past decade, with real GDP expanding an average of 7.2 percent between 2001 and 2013, and 5.5 percent in 2018 (World Bank 2019). In recent years, it has been called “The Singapore of Central America” by analysts in Panama and worldwide (The Economist, July 14, 2011). The political and social history of

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Panama is highly complex, and although Afro-­Antilleans today are recognized as a central ethnic group within the country, it is only recently that this has been the case. Although Marta was born in Colombia, once she moved to Panama, she was always considered an Afro-­Antillean, but one with a triple condition of marginality: being black, a woman, and a Colombian citizen. As an Afro-­ Antillean, Marta was not the “right” kind of migrant (white, European) welcomed by the Panamanian authorities. Not surprisingly, Marta’s “legal” limbo was a constant source of anguish and distress. Marta and I have been friends for twenty-­three years, the same number of years she has worked in tourism and the same number of years I have followed the lives of Afro-­Antilleans and their relations with other ethnic groups. On arriving in Panama in 1996 to initiate what turned out to be long-­ term research, I was pleasantly surprised with the way racial relations were manifested in Panama on the surface. I was used to the very rigid, almost caste-­like, racial conventions of my home country, Ecuador. I am a mestiza with a light complexion and belong to the Ecuadorian middle class; I did not experience racial discrimination while growing up in Ecuador, although I did encounter it on my arrival in the United States. I knew that Panama was an unquestionably complex society in terms of racial and ethnic diversity, but I found it profoundly refreshing to be able to hear an informal, colloquial greeting from an indigenous-­looking taxi driver, or to be treated as equal by the black man who sold juice in the street. Beyond the surface, however, I realized early on that Panama faced deep inequalities and that racial relations—despite my many amicable encounters—were far more complicated and problematic (Guerrón Montero 2006c).6 In my research, I have explored how Afro-­Antilleans have constructed gendered and racialized identities in the context of unplanned and unorganized tourism development. From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions focuses on how tourism, as a transnational device, has provided an avenue for reinterpreting Panama’s complex history, where the struggles of marginalized groups (such as Afro-­Antillean populations and indigenous groups) are occluded with a rhetoric of multiculturalism, now eagerly espoused by the Panamanian government. Following world trends that started in the 1990s and which viewed “cultural diversity” as a resource for development (Kymlicka 2007), Panama is now a country proud of its great ethnic diversity (figure I.3). In addition to mestizos, there are eight indigenous groups (Ngöbe, Buglé, Naso, Bokotá, Guna, Emberá, Wounaan, and Bri-­Bri), five waves of migration of peoples of African descent with different characteristics and from different areas,7 as well as large numbers of immigrants from China, Greece, Spain, and India, among others. Panama has been frequently defined as a place of transit, “more as a path

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Figure I.3. Map of the Republic of Panama (Carol Lyell)

or a route and less as a destination, a place where people settle and create community” (Siu 2005, 37). During colonial times, Panama was a strategic route for the Spanish empire: it was a communication nodule between the empire and its American colonies, and a barrier between the Caribbean and the Pacific Oceans. In the twentieth and twenty-­first centuries, its position as a commercial link for the Americas has determined its social, political, and economic processes as well as its international relations. However, since the 1990s, with the advent of aggressive policies toward the development of tourism, Panama has conjured itself otherwise: as a place worthy of being an international tourism destination, and a place to settle. This book tells the story of Marta and many other Panamanian Afro-­ Antillean men and women who have spent their lives in Panama and Bocas del Toro forging diaspora. I developed strong friendships with some of them, and I certainly learned from all of them. As a historical ethnography,8 this book draws from the experiences of people living in Panama and Bocas del Toro to give an account of how a nation that has based itself on the notion of racial mixing and racial democracy—on a strong, heartfelt reaction toward

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a marginal position as a province of Colombia for eighty-­two years and the imperial imposition of inequality and apartheid instituted by US authorities in the Canal Zone for almost ninety-­five years—responds to race and racism. I show how Panama has constructed specific conceptions of nationalism, and what happens when certain groups of people living in that nation are left “unimagined” within these conceptions (Anderson 2006)—either left out or incorporated into the nation as mere cosmetic accessories. In the chapters that follow, I discuss in particular how one of these unimagined groups— Afro-­Antilleans—negotiates, and in some ways, resists the onslaught of neoliberalism exemplified by the tourism industry, creating, producing, and living their diasporic identities in the process (Hall 1990; Wilson 2008).

Panama and Transnational Tourism The history of Afro-­Antillean populations in Panama is tightly connected to the complex global and regional social histories that intersect in the region. Terminology that is often used to refer to Afro-­Antilleans include West Indian (the most common), Antillean, Caribbean, or Afro-­Caribbean. The term “West Indian” refers exclusively to the descendants of people of Anglophone societies. In Panama, and in other parts of the Caribbean, Afro-­ Antilleans are not only descendants of Anglophone societies but also of the Francophone Caribbean (e.g., Martinique) and the Hispanophone Caribbean (e.g., Cuba). Furthermore, it is not uncommon for Panamanian Afro-­ Antilleans—especially in Bocas del Toro—to have Chinese, mestizo, or indigenous ancestors, in addition to European ancestry. Consequently, I believe the term “Afro-­Antillean” is a cover term for this wide and hybrid ancestry as well as for the multiplicity of origins, mixtures, and colors, albeit with blackness predominating over others. Examining this extraordinary history of Afro-­ Antillean populations within the context of the Panamanian nation, my aim in From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions is to provide a new reading of Panama’s nation-­building process, using the transnational phenomenon of tourism as a lens to interpret it. My understanding of the term transnational has been shaped by the writings of Renato Ortiz (1994a, 1994b) and Jesús Martín-­ Barbero (1994). For Ortiz, transnationalism is connected to a deterritorializing production process that transcends national territories and thus national identities. Ortiz distinguishes between globalization (the global spread of economic and technological matters) and mundialização or globalism (the global reach of cultural issues) (1994b). For Martín-­Barbero, the transnational refers to a new phase of capitalism characterized by profound economic and political transformations in the nature and functions of nation-­ states (1994, 86).

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Research on transnationalism has focused on the actions carried out by both migrants and states in the process of a deterritorialized nation building (Bloemraad, Korteweg, and Yurdakul 2008). In the case of Panama, there are two competing—somewhat mutually exclusive—narratives as to how the nation-­state was built. According to one, the nation was built by affirming claims to a localized and specific historic and cultural origin (Panama’s Hispanic foundational myth); according to the other, the nation was built on a foundation of deterritorialized connections (Afro-­Antillean connections to the Caribbean and beyond). The latter connects with the concept of diaspora, essential for our understanding of the production of Afro-­Antillean identities. In line with Gilroy (1993), Hall (1990) and, more recently, Hintzen and Rahier (2010), I understand the concept of African diaspora as decentered and acknowledge the constant movement of peoples of African descent historically, and the exchange of ideas, goods, and cultural capital that ensued. As Stuart Hall (1990) aptly asserted, the African diaspora refers us back to similarities and continuities as well as difference and rupture. The collective “one true self ” of Caribbean peoples reflects their common historical experiences and shared cultural codes and supersedes superficial differences and divisions. “This ‘oneness’ . . . is the truth, the essence, of ‘Caribbeanness’ of the black experience” (223). Meanwhile, the discontinuities and ruptures characteristic of the Caribbean are also crucial pieces to understand its uniqueness (Hall 1990, 225). From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions delves into some of the hidden histories—to use Hall’s term—of the production of the African diaspora in Panama. In the last several decades, Panama has built on a long history of national identity formation projects in ways that have directly intersected with the place of Afro-­Antilleans in the tourism industry. Since the 1990s, tourism has become a vehicle for the promotion of a specific institutionalized multiculturalism as Panama projects itself as a country that takes pride in being a multiethnic, racially democratic nation forged in a complex process of miscegenation. Multiculturalist contexts offer ideal ground for analyzing the political economy of heritage because of the clear imbrications of economy and culture they entail. In Panama, tourism, multiculturalism, and nation building intersect to create a myth of origin based on “three roots” (Latino/ mestizo,9 indigenous, black). In this book, I discuss how this nation—which, apart from the Panama Canal, has been rendered almost invisible—is represented in that context, and also how Afro-­Antilleans have struggled historically to become part of Panama’s “master narrative of nationhood” (Wade 2000) in this context. In connection with Afro-­Antilleans as a Pan-­Caribbean population, the book also addresses Panama’s realization of the appeal of being geographically and historically linked with the Caribbean, and how this

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relates to the persistent continuities of inequalities and consumption that permeate this region (Sheller 2003; cf. Mintz and Price 1985). Panamanian tourism is increasingly complicit in the process of reinventing cultural heritage and patrimony and producing new patterns of social existence (Adams 2006; Babb 2011; Hollinshead, Ateljevic, and Ali 2009; Salazar 2010; Tribe 2006). This book illustrates how, in the context of this national reinvention, Afro-­Antillean communities have sought to present their own heritage for touristic consumption within cultural and ethnic narratives that engage directly with global trends, and by doing so elevate their own place within Panama’s national identity formation. In the new climate of official tolerance that the emphasis on tourism has engendered, Afro-­ Antilleans—with a history that is African and British rather than Latino— have seized the moment to improve their status within Panamanian society and offer alternatives to the “non-­recognition or misrecognition” (Taylor 1994) they have endured since their arrival in Panama in the mid-­nineteenth century. During virtually all of Panama’s history, the country has long sought to maintain its identity as an independent Latin American nation with Spanish ancestry, so mestizos have been culturally and politically dominant. The support Panama has given to Afro-­Antilleans and other marginalized minorities since the 1990s can only be understood within the broader context of a country historically in quest of an independent, “national” identity, a prevalent preoccupation of Panamanian intellectuals since the formation of the nation. Throughout this book, I explore these multiple, sometimes discordant and contested meanings of “nation,” particularly as it relates to the Afro-­Antilleans and their evolution from plantation workers for the United Fruit Company in the late nineteenth century to tourism workers in the mid-­ twentieth century—and how their political capital has risen in the course of this evolution. Consequently, this book shines a light on the way distinctive ethnic and racial identities have been constructed within Panama’s national and transnational history. Since their arrival in Panama in the 1820s, Afro-­Antilleans were primarily concentrated in two areas—the Canal Zone, where they were hired to work on construction projects, and in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago, where they worked for the United Fruit Company. In both of these locations, they lived largely segregated from other ethnic groups—partly because of geography, but mostly because of institutional discrimination. Because of this segregation, however, they were thus able to maintain many of their customs and traditions (language, religion, architecture, cultural practices). Until the 1990s and in spite of its recurrent periods of boom and bust, Bocas del Toro was a forgotten place in the history of Panama, “a rose that fell from the bouquet of flowers” of the Panamanian provinces (interview M. F., September 7,

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1998; cf. Smith Lance 1990; Zetner 1962, 24). Similar to the ways in which coastal regions mostly populated by Afro-­Latin American and indigenous populations have been constructed as hazardous and unsafe throughout Central America (Anderson 2009; Duncan 2001; Pineda 2006), the Bocas del Toro Archipelago has been portrayed as a dangerous, unappealing, and unwelcoming place due to its geographic isolation and its primarily Afro-­ Antillean and indigenous populations. Although the Afro-­Antilleans living in Bocas del Toro have created deeply local lives in the archipelago, their lives have not been exclusively local. They have an ambivalent relationship with their cultural practices: while on the one hand, tradition is respected and taught, on the other hand modernity is highly desired.10 In contrast to other populations in Latin America (particularly indigenous or mestizo groups), Afro-­Antilleans in Panama have as their points of reference not only Panama City and Colón but also the circum-­ Caribbean region: the Atlantic Coast of Costa Rica, the Archipelago of San Andrés and Santa Catalina in Colombia, the West Indies (Jamaica and Barbados in particular), and the United States.11 Thus, Bocas del Toro is an archipelago that is both cosmopolitan and international but also provincial and remote. These simultaneous and apparently contradicting connections are evidenced through alliances—whether explicit, as with many Afro-­Antillean intellectuals, or implicit, as with Afro-­Antillean laypersons—with black internationalism (Gilroy 1993), cosmopolitism (Costa 2006), and black cosmopolitism (Nwankwo 2014). The multifaceted phenomenon of globalization and the flow of people, capital, and technology produce transnational complexities that can be analyzed through the lens of tourism and heritage. At times, globalization fosters homogenization and the commodification of so-­called authentic cultural identities, and at times it nurtures heterogeneity: countervailing tendencies toward resurgent or entirely novel particularisms and their relationship to these homogenizing forces, as well as conflicting options for entrepreneurial development (Adams 2006; Bruner 2005; Comaroff and Comaroff 2009; Martín-­Barbero 2002; Sánchez and Adams 2008; Smith and Brent 2001). In Bocas del Toro, transnational processes have resulted in a complex and contested production of difference (cultural, racial, economic, and social) rather than in homogeneity. Afro-­Antilleans have customarily been a migratory population, in search of upward mobility and better living conditions. In the course of this search, they have developed as a culturally ambiguous, hybrid population demanding the right to cultural citizenship (Rosaldo 1997). Hybridity in ancestry and in cultural, political, and religious experiences, as well as gendered experiences, is a fundamental aspect of Afro-­Antillean diasporic ethnic identities. As Hall has pointed out, the African diaspora experience

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in the Americas is, in fact, defined and lived with and through hybridity (Hall 1990, 235). This hybridity is partly the result of the multiple migratory movements of Afro-­Antilleans: from Jamaica, Barbados, Martinique, and other West Indian Islands to Panama, other Latin American countries, and the United States; and in Panama, and from Panama City and Colón to Bocas Town, Almirante, and Changuinola. They have distinguished themselves for their ability to adapt to changing circumstances in their attempts to capture resources for their families’ sustenance. The most recent adaptation that Afro-­Antilleans have encountered has to do with the development of Bocas del Toro as a worldwide tourism destination since the 1990s. Despised and marginalized for many decades, Afro-­Antilleans were surprised to find themselves ultimately valued by a government determined to develop heritage-­and diversity-­based tourism. Afro-­Antilleans are now represented as the “third root” of Panamanian identity (along with Latino and indigenous groups). This is manifested in the attention the Panamanian government gives to the Bocas del Toro Archipelago as well as in the development of tourist attractions along Afro-­Antillean lines in Panama City (Guerrón Montero 2006a, 2006b, 2006c; 2009; 2014a, 2014b; 2015a, 2015b).12 Bocas del Toro and its environment and population are highlighted in every touristic brochure, article, or TV ad on Panama’s tourism; the archipelago (as well as Colón, the other important area that has a large concentration of Afro-­ Antilleans) is recognized as one of the ten tourism zones in the country. As a result, the government now spends more on infrastructure development in the region than ever before. However, despite this attention—and reflective of the deep consequences of the long-­term discrimination they faced within Panama—this official interest and touristic boom has not translated into better economic, social, or educational opportunities for Afro-­Antilleans. While the government has appropriated Afro-­Antillean heritage to promote Panama as an international tourism destination, Afro-­Antilleans themselves have continued to identify with the Caribbean and their heritage in ways that conflict with their Panamanian national identity. Until recently, this ethnic group was rendered invisible, and at times erased from the country’s imaginary—that is, the narrative imaginary in which Panamanians see themselves as members of a nation-­state, and also the imaginary for how the country is viewed from outside its borders. Frequently marginalized, Afro-­ Antilleans have always existed in Panama in a constant struggle to claim belonging.

Tourism, the World’s Largest Service Sector Industry Social science scholarship has stressed that tourism is a complex cultural phenomenon resulting from a dialogue among hosts, guests, and tourism

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mediators—including local and national governments (Bruner 2005; Chambers 2009; Graburn 1989; Picard and Wood 1997). Tourism is also a creating agent, fabricating places and, ultimately, worlds (Hollinshead, Ateljevic, and Ali 2009; Pretes 2003). The study of the tourism industry in Latin America and the Caribbean is of particular importance because the region has been characterized by a global economic and cultural orientation since the colonial era, and because most countries in the region have turned to tourism as a means to produce positive images about them and access capital to execute a broader nation-­ building agenda. In recent years, scholars have done significant work investigating the way tourism in Latin America is tied to social and political concerns, including sex tourism, nation building, cultural identity and racial and ethnic identity, and globalization (Babb 2011; Brennan 2004; Cabezas 2009; Frohlick 2008; Hellier-­Tinoco 2011; Little 2004; Padilla 2007; Roland 2011; Scarpaci 2004; Simoni 2015). From Temporary Migrants to Permanent Attractions contributes to this body of work by addressing the roles of tourism and cultural heritage in the convergence of transnational Afro-­Latin American diasporic processes and nation-­building processes. It is difficult to conceive of tourism without heritage. Heritage is processed and packaged for tourists in selective and controversial ways (Robinson et al. 2000), and it has become a powerful resource of the entertainment industry (Mondejar Jiménez and Gómez Borja 2009). As numerous scholars have pointed out, the tourism industry has “long capitalized upon the public appeal of the past, its rootedness in, and across, cultures, its interpretative flexibility, its apparent capacity for perpetual reinvention, and the contagion of nostalgia” (Robinson et al. 2000, v). In line with Haidy Geismar’s argument about heritage (2015), I propose that tourism is better understood as “tourism regimes.” This concept encompasses two ways of looking at tourist activities. The first one looks at tourism as a social phenomenon that is constantly being constructed, contested, and constituted. The second relates to the commonsense view of tourism, generally applied through policies and practices by nation-­states, where tourism is used to promote economic development and boost a country’s international stature. But within these two regimes, the idea of “heritage” remains a central component, in terms of attracting tourists but also in the way representations of tourism are presented to tourists, and how those representations are used and understood by the people living in that nation. As Geismar has noted, the representations of heritage are “usually invested in more singular notions of the past .  .  . often actively committed to suppressing multiple constituencies or narratives” (Geismar 2015, 72). In this way, heritage has the ability to “guide and cement national identities” (Gammon 2007, 1), something that is critical to

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understand when looking at the ways a country uses heritage in its touristic narratives. Constructing rituals and traditions contributes to an imagined and celebrated heritage of the nation-­state (cf. Byrne and Herzfeld 2011; Comaroff 1996; García García 1998; Hobsbawn and Ranger 1983; McCain and Ray 2003; Mitchell 2001; Prats 1998; Ray and McCain 2009; Spillman 1997; Thomas 2004). Heritage, as Gregory J. Ashworth and Peter J. Larkham (1994) have noted, is not only situated in the past, but it is often based on discourses of the present. That is the case, for instance, of the construction of both elite/ official heritage and popular/quotidian nationalisms (Bonikowski 2016) in the ceremony marking the return of the Panama Canal to Panamanian hands on December 31, 1999. For this event, against the background of the monumental Canal Zone Administration Building, world-­famous singer, actor, politician, and Latin American icon Rubén Blades and his copresenters provided a musical account of Panama’s histories of colonialism, dictatorship, and democratization (Zien 2014, 412, 422). At the concert, titled “Patria Entera” (“Whole Country”), Blades used his music to represent “(afro)latinidad, panameñidad, masculinity, marginalization, anti-­coloniality, hope and empowerment” (Zien 2014, 423).13 The concert incorporated the audience into a discourse of collective national belonging, inviting a reflection on the achievements of and challenges faced by the young nation, while also interrogating the limits of Panama’s sovereignty and its place within Latin American history. This discourse is in line with Blades’s broader musical and political trajectory where he has strived to place Panamanian problems within a larger historical Latin American context (Shaw 2013, 171). The concert also contributed to the development of a narrative of democratic and sovereign heritage, which was then packaged and sold to the world through the tourism industry. Meanwhile, on that same day marking the return of the Panama Canal to Panamanian hands, in the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, Marta and her guests from Spain and France danced the night away at their New Year’s Eve party. Illustrating the way the global, the local, and the national converge within tourism encounters, Marta and her guests walked around the streets of Bocas at midnight while drinking champagne and whisky and shouting: “The Canal Is Ours!” Tourism and heritage are suitable frameworks for studying transnational complexities because they involve the manufacturing and performance of “local” and “national” identities in a transnational setting.

Building a Nation out of a Melting Pot The last fifteen years have seen the emergence of a “mobilities turn,” or “new mobilities paradigm,” in the social sciences, with increased attention to the

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mobilities and immobilities of people, capital, technologies, commodities, and images (Burns and Novelli 2008; Cresswell 2006; Hannam, Sheller, and Urry 2006; Sheller and Urry 2004). This approach emphasizes interconnections between the physical movement of people and the virtual movement achieved through the circulation of images and information; it also studies the official representations of these movements and places in the tourism context (Dürr and Jaffe 2012; Salazar 2010; Sheller and Urry 2004). The politics of mobility allow us to recognize the inequalities inherent in the tourism experience, where the mobilities of some (the cosmopolitan tourist) rely on the immobilities of others (the tourism workers) (Cresswell 2001). More recently, lifestyle mobilities (McIntyre 2013; Cohen, Duncan, and Thulemark 2013) and extreme mobilities (Kannisto 2015) have emerged as research topics. These studies emphasize the intersections of travel, tourism, and migration and the ways in which “global nomads”14 challenge the conventions of the dichotomy of home and away-­from-­home, one of the cornerstones of the tourism phenomenon (Kannisto 2015, 2016). While the mobilities paradigm has widened our horizons on the complexities of tourism studies, it tends to ignore the participation of the nation-­state as a site of identities negotiation in the context of tourism.15 But it is important to recognize that the state plays a central role in the construction of heritages, places, and imaginaries (Arnold 2004; Brubaker 1996; Cresswell 2013). For example, in Panama, Afro-­Antilleans do not seek detachment from geographical locations or discourses of territoriality as global nomads do. Quite the contrary, they seek to affirm their ties to the Panamanian nation-­state while also proclaiming their cosmopolitan transnational ties to a larger region. Although many Afro-­Antilleans (particularly male) are individuals on the move with strong Pan-­Caribbean connections, the Afro-­Antilleans of Panama see themselves as rooted in this Central American nation. They seek to take advantage of the nation-­state’s tourism-­driven multiculturalism discourses (where Afro-­Antilleans are presented as one of the three roots of the Panamanian nation) to engage in altering relations of power. They engage with what M. Bianet Castellanos (2010) calls “alternative modernities,” the process by which people, “as they actively engage with modernization projects and globalization, generate new ways of understanding and constructing what it means to be modern within local contexts” (xxiv). By the 1990s, several scholars and businesspeople were predicting the end of the nation-­state—especially in regards to its economic relevance in a globalized world (Ōhmae 1995)—and the evolution of the world into one collective identity based on electronic interdependence (McLuhan 1962). But this has not turned out to be the case, and the nation-­state continues to be a politically relevant cultural construct (Bonikowski 2016). Despite the

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eminent failure of some world nation-­states (Rotberg 2002) and the weak nature of others, the “borderless world” predicted in the 1990s remains contained by many borders. Thus, studying the nation-­state in the context of a global phenomenon such as tourism provides an important lens for understanding both the contested nature of tourism within national and transnational settings and the ways in which ethnic groups experience, challenge, and accommodate transnational capitalism. Although Panama has used the discourse of being a crisol de razas (melting pot) throughout its history, in practice, the Panamanian state has centered mostly on homogenization and integration (Brenes 2003, 26). It is in the present tourism era—understood as the era in which tourism was institutionalized and developed since the early to mid-­1990s—that we witness a marked discourse of appropriation of specific cultural traits of different cultures for tourism purposes. That is the case, for instance, of the portrayal of images of Guna indigenous women or Congo dancers16 in tourism brochures to represent the “exotic” nature of Panama’s cultures. Following the multiculturalism model grants Panama “a cosmopolitan, sophisticated, and multiracial” image (Walsh 2014, 287).17 Charles Hale (2002) calls this official multiculturalism “neoliberal” multiculturalism, “whereby proponents of the neoliberal doctrine pro-­actively endorse a substantive, if limited, version of indigenous cultural rights, as a means to resolve their own problems and advance their own political agenda” (2002, 487; cf. Bastos and Camus 2004; Hale 2005; Otero and Jugenitz 2003; Otero 2004; Díaz Polanco 2006). Official multiculturalism attempts to create a unified community even while recognizing and fostering—albeit often at a discursive or diverting level—its differences. Official multiculturalism also deems some members of the nation (whether they are recent migrants, descendants of waves of migration, or indigenous to the territory) acceptable and even desirable, and others threatening. The distinction depends in many ways on how a particular population is defined, whether as loyal “patriots” and accommodating, or as “cosmopolitan” and with brittle ties to the nation (Carruthers 2013, 215– 16). As I explore in this book, the historical experience of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama fits very well as an example of the latter—a group whose cosmopolitan ties have long been considered a threat to national identity projects. It is only in recent years, within the era of multiculturalism, where they have suddenly been embraced as a key component of Panama’s social history. The new official appropriation of a neoliberal concept of multiculturalism is part of a larger trend that spread throughout Latin America starting in the 1990s. This trend was partially the result of the extraordinary pressure placed on the state by ethnic groups for state recognition; it was also the result of the stress placed—not without internal friction—by multilateral

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institutions such as the World Bank and the Inter-­American Development Bank (IDB) toward the recognition of collective indigenous land rights—a concrete outcome of multicultural acknowledgment. By the beginning of the twenty-­first century, the trend had reached most Latin American states, which went from nationalist projects of homogenization and racial and ethnic exclusion to official multiculturalism and some degree of constitutional recognition and political representation. However, it should be emphasized that this movement toward multiculturalism has not ended the violence experienced by marginalized communities composed of Afro-­Latin Americans or indigenous peoples throughout the region (Goett 2016). In Panama, the current project follows a previous attempt to institutionalize multiculturalism from a corporatist perspective. In the 1960s, the country’s leader, General Omar Torrijos (1969–81), endeavored to establish a nationalist-­populist ideology based on an assumed Panamanian national identity (Horton 2006). Since the 1990s, however, as the state has pushed for economic development through tourism, the embrace of multiculturalism has remained mostly at the level of discourse. Unlike several other countries in Central and South America, Panama’s constitution has not recognized its multiculturalism or special rights for ethnic groups with a few exceptions.18 As Osvaldo Jordán (2010) aptly asks, if Panama’s myth of origin situates openness to ethnic, religious, and ideological diversity as part of its “nature,” why would it be necessary to declare the country multicultural? (515). While state discourse and practices toward indigenous peoples and peoples of African descent have become less openly racist, indigenous peoples, in particular, continue to lag behind in concrete measures of well-­being (Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo 2015, 12).19 One step forward has to do with the constitutional granting of cultural rights to indigenous peoples, including bilingual education, cultural practices, management of resources, and semiautonomous territories or comarcas instituted in the 1930s (Herlihy 1989; Howe 1998, 2009), which effectively gives the Guna and indigenous peoples limited control of 20 percent of Panama’s territory (Horton 2006, 843).20 Another move toward concrete transformations is shown in the fact that the state has made an effort to identify and quantify its diverse populations by including a nonindigenous ethnic category for the first time in the 2010 census, and more specifically, by requesting information about self-­ ascription to African ancestry by Panamanian citizens.21 The term “multiculturalism” can be applied differently when we discuss issues as diverse as education, social welfare, policy, or nation building.22 For instance, multiculturalism may refer to the demand by a given group to have the right to difference or by another to recognize difference. It may also refer to the development of measures to manage diversity, such as the

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implementation of affirmative action policies (Harris 2001, 14). The challenge of multiculturalism is that the original center (the core of what is assumed to be the foundations of any nation-­state) historically has become decentered in most nations, and as Clive Harris has noted, “this decentred centre [has] to define a particularistic citizenship and national identity consonant with its deuniversalization” (Harris 2001, 15). In Panama today, what is at stake, in other words, is the politics of belonging (Kim 2012). Multicultural identities and citizenship are lived in dissimilar ways. For instance, as Lynn Horton (2006) argues, the Guna experience in Panama is one where this remarkably well-­organized indigenous group reveals the constraints of state multiculturalism through the use of “ethnically specific forms of governance and mobilization to advance land and cultural claims” (831). The Guna have resisted acculturation since their first contact with diverse Western populations, from missionaries to tourists (Howe 2009). Nevertheless, they have also sought ways to benefit from tourism. For instance, they have adapted one of their most representative art forms, the mola (appliqué-­based panels made out of cloth and sewn by hand) (Marks 2016), to suit the desires of world tourists, thus transforming it into the quintessential Panamanian souvenir and helping the Guna gain political bargaining power in the process. The multiculturalism that is recognized in Panama mostly focuses on differences among cultural groups. What stems from the ethnic groups is a claim for recognition, but what stems from the government is what Stanley Fish has appropriately termed (1997) “boutique multiculturalism.” This term applies to those locations where the “exotic” nature of a given group is consumed and exploited. This is the kind of multiculturalism that the Panamanian nation-­state is using for tourism purposes. It is, as Peter Wade (2010) states, “an official acceptance of postmodern celebrations of diversity.” These celebrations tend to be presented as “enriching,” when in fact, a closer look would uncover de-­historicized cultural forms (Harris 2001, 17). The ultimate result of this approach is that difference becomes domesticated, “ordinary,” “staged,” and available for consumption. The Other is tolerated and exoticized and used merely to spice up the melting pot. In the case of Panama, the country has recently embraced a de-­historicized and typified version of specific cultures within its national multiculturalism initiatives. For example, so-­called extraordinary individuals (Afro-­Antilleans among them) are now recognized at public ceremonies or acknowledged by having their names placed on streets or plazas.23 But this focus on cultural aspects of Afro-­Antilleans as tourism attractions and embracing them into this new multicultural era also serves to erase from view that, for much of Panama’s national history, Afro-­Antilleans have been officially discriminated

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against—consistently thought of as an alien population within the country’s national narratives. Multiculturalism in Panama has become merely a discourse to signal a vague notion of inclusion of the marginalized, thus erasing its oppressive, discriminatory past. Since the founding of Panama in 1903, regulations concerning immigrants’ arrival, presence, and incorporation have been fundamental aspects of nation building and citizen making. What Panama is encountering in its tourism era is a move from the politics of refusal and the politics of difference to the politics of recognition, but always within a neoliberal context. Multiculturalism is a new way to signal an ideology of racial harmony, something that—despite being largely unsupported—has been one of the founding myths of Panama. Now, this official multiculturalism has morphed into a strategy to make the country more attractive for investors and tourists. Several scholars have argued for the clear linkages between global capitalism, cultural branding, commodification, and multiculturalism (Mitchell 1993; Melamed 2006; Walsh 2014). In the case of Panama, there are very few policies developed by successive governments that aim to generate what James Walsh (2014) calls “productive diversity” initiatives, supporting the idea that diverse immigration could produce significant economic returns. The large waves of migration that occurred during the country’s history (particularly during the nineteenth and twentieth century), were chiefly the result of large specific infrastructural projects. In general, Panama’s government and ruling classes sought to control the impact of these migrations on the country’s racial and ethnic makeup through a series of laws and policies. These regulations conflated race and ethnicity with nationalism and gave priority to certain nationalities and so-­called races while denying opportunities to others. Until recently, state regulations sought to incorporate migration to the country around industries central to nation building, such as the infrastructural projects of the Panamanian Railroad, the Panama Canal, or even the banana or cacao industries. Beyond that, there has been a limited degree of assimilationist policies and their accompanying programs24 in terms of expecting all migrant or even original ethnic groups to assimilate to the mainstream model of the “ideal Panamanian,” namely, the rural peasant from the central provinces,25 Hispanic in origin and culture. Nation building is a wide-­ranging project that includes not only economic goals but also political, social, and ideological ones, where national identities and national interests are interrelated (Amit 2009; Bowman 2013; Merrill 2009; Ortiz 2006). But, for a modern nation-­state to safely affirm its place in the world, it needs to demonstrate it has a past. In the case of Panama, the tourism and heritage industries have been used to create and consolidate a past in the mind of its citizens and outside visitors, something that

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has partly been achieved by a reinvention of cultural heritage and patrimony, and the production of new patterns of social existence (Adams 2006; Babb 2011; Hollinshead, Ateljevic, and Ali 2009; Salazar 2010; Tribe 2006). Nation building and “nation branding” are intricately connected. In Panama, as elsewhere, both are part of official discourses that aim to appropriate marketing strategies for the development of nationalist stories that sell. Leanne White (2016) calls this approach to nationalism “commercial nationalism” to differentiate it from both official nationalism and popular nationalism. Official nationalism emerges from the nation-­state, and commercial and popular nationalisms are its extension and contribute to the total discourse of nationalism (White 2004, 28). Commercial nationalism refers to consumer-­related uses of national symbols, and popular nationalism refers to nationalist messages and images as depicted in popular culture. In Panama, official and commercial nationalism converge in multiculturalism; commercial nationalism makes use of the idea of diversity to sell the country to the world. Meanwhile and in many ways, popular nationalism continues to underscore a homogenous nation-­state with Hispanic origins, where the proper “national culture” is of Spanish origin and is best represented in Panama’s central provinces. Nations have engaged in nation branding throughout history.26 In doing so, nation branding extends the nation as a legitimate global entity while contributing to its transformation; it is another means to legitimize the nation at the juncture when many scholars have stressed its decaying relevance in the context of globalization (Aronczyk 2008, 43). In postmilitary Panama, nation branding originated from the state and focused on erasing Panama’s opaque and dangerous image as a transshipment point for drugs; it was a way to repair the country’s damaged reputation after one of the most enduring dictatorships of Latin America (Torrijos followed by Noriega, 1968 to 1989) accompanied by corruption scandals. In other words, the state went from using the “hard power” of military rule to maintain order and homogeneity, to using the “soft power”27 (Metzl 1999; Nye 2004; Merrill 2009) of publicity campaigns to maintain order and embrace official diversity. Branding campaigns included slogans such as “Panama Is More Than a Canal,” “Oh, How Beautiful Is Panama!,” “Panama, a Place Like This, Stays Within You,” and lately, “Panama, the Way.” In 2016, the Panamanian Tourism Authority (ATP, Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá) launched the slogan, “Paradise without Papers,” to allude to the scandal that unfolded in 2016 known as the “Panama Papers” and that clouded the country’s reputation.28 These kinds of images aim to highlight some of the positive characteristics that make the country attractive to tourists and investors: a stable dollar economy, modern facilities, cosmopolitan attitude, relatively affordable prices, lack of a military

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force, and even a spin on Panama’s fiscal paradise reputation. Added to these aspects of Panama’s history, now the branding also includes its ecological and cultural diversity, its proximity to ecotourism mecca Costa Rica, and its assumed condition of “undiscovered, off-­the-­beaten-­track” location where “diverse” communities and ethnic groups are living in a multicultural paradise.

A Few Words about Methodology This book is based on in-­depth ethnographic, archival, and historic research with Panamanian Afro-­Antillean populations. I conducted intensive, long-­ term fieldwork for two years (1999–2000) and short-­term fieldwork (one to three months at a time) between 1996 and 2014 on the islands of Colón, Bastimentos, Carenero, and Solarte in the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro and in Panama City. I combined quantitative (census survey, surveys to tourists and hotel owners) with qualitative methods (ethnographic research and in-­depth interviews). I lived on the island of Colón, in Bocas Town (7,366 inhabitants in 2010), where I conducted most of my research.29 As my research was focused on tourism, I regularly frequented its contact zones: hotels, restaurants, bars, businesses, and streets. I interacted with tourists in numerous tours with different tour agencies and at water sports facilities, including taking three scuba-­diving certification courses and several specialty diving trips. I participated in six training seminars organized by then-­Panamanian Bureau of Tourism (Instituto Panameño de Turismo, IPAT), now known as the Tourism Authority of Panama (Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá, ATP) focused on tourism culture, tour guiding and ecological tour guiding, gastronomy, and small businesses development. In total, I conducted one hundred open-­ended and unstructured interviews. I selected my collaborators based on nonprobability purposive sampling (Bernard 2000, 2011) around age, gender, racial ascription, and level of participation in tourism.30 These interviews were conducted with Bocatoreneans involved in the tourism industry, Bocatoreneans not working on tourism, bureaucrats, shop owners, lodge and travel agency owners, community leaders, people who run environmental and cultural/social nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), and resident expatriates. In addition, I carried out four group interviews on issues of tourism and identity (Bernard 2011; Krueger 1994; Morgan and Krueger 1998). Furthermore, I conducted twenty semistructured interviews with religious and indigenous leaders as well as with political authorities. I also conducted two surveys during fieldwork. In 1999–2000, I administered one survey for tourists in twenty different locations: hotels, hostels, boarding houses, restaurants, tour agencies, commercial establishments, an airport airline office, and water sports centers. One-­hundred eighty tourists

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answered my survey.31 Finally, I administered a survey for hotel and restaurant administrators in 2000 in Bocas Town, Bastimentos, and Carenero with the assistance of then-­IPAT. Eleven hotel and restaurant administrators responded to the survey. The survey included questions regarding the level of satisfaction of hotel and restaurant operators with the infrastructure, transportation services, publicity, and IPAT’s work in the archipelago. Additionally, I carried out archival research in the archives of the Catholic Church, the Judicial Power Notary Archives of Bocas del Toro, the Archives of the Province Governance (Bocas Town); the library of the University of Panama in Changuinola; the libraries of the Afro-­Antillean Museum, Panamanian Bureau of Tourism and Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, the Hemeroteca and Special Collections at the Simón Bolívar Library of the National University of Panama between 1996 and 2013, and the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in 2009 (New York). I complemented this work with library research at the Centre for Latin American Research and Documentation (CEDLA) in Amsterdam (Netherlands) in 2010 and 2013, and the Catalan Institute for Research in Cultural Patrimony (ICRCP) in Girona (Spain) in 2011.32

Book Organization In the chapters that follow, I discuss how nation building has developed in Panama within the context of tourism, and the role of Afro-­Antillean populations in this construction. Chapter 1 tells the story of the anguish expressed by Panamanian politicians, intellectuals, and artists in their efforts to define the nature of lo panameño (“what it means to be Panamanian”). Using archival and bibliographic sources, this chapter provides a history of the construction of the idea of “Panama” over the centuries to the present era. Chapter 2 gives particular attention to the history of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama and their relationship to the construction of the nation-­state. Chapter 3 provides a summary of the setting for touristic encounters between Afro-­Antilleans and national and international tourists. I discuss the transformation of Panama from a place often imagined as a transportation point for drugs and a corrupt, unsafe nation to one of the primary tourism destinations for Western tourists in the twenty-­first century (New York Times 2012; Peddicord 2014). Chapter 4 centers on the tourism industry specifically in the archipelago. In chapter 5, I discuss cultural projects that were designed to emphasize the history of Afro-­Antilleans and their relationship with Panama’s master nationhood narrative. Chapter 6 addresses Panamanian Afro-­Antillean constructions of identity within the touristic context. I focus on Afro-­Antillean heritage and two ethnic commodities, music and cuisine, showing how

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Afro-­Antillean marketing strategies and product development are inextricable from national and diasporic cultural politics and the cultural industry (Martín-­Barbero 2002). The concluding chapter focuses on gendered and racialized Afro-­ Antillean identity construction in relationship to other Panamanian ethnic groups and resident expatriates. I discuss how the Afro-­Antilleans have labored (physically and metaphorically) to become recognized socially, economically, politically, and culturally as a group that has both Pan-­African and Pan-­Caribbean legacies while maintaining loyalty to and contributing to the development of the nation that has become their home.

1 Panameñismo and Panameñidad Converging Ideologies in the Construction of Panamanian National Identity

A country situated between the two oceans, and separated from its neighbors by mountains, unpopulated; a country so different from any other because of its location, necessities and customs; a large and very rich country . . . is visibly destined by nature to become a great state someday. —Justo Arosemena (in Soler 1971, 92) Fernando Powell was born in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago in 1937. Raised in a well-­established Afro-­Antillean family, Mr. Powell—as he was commonly known even among his friends—had a comfortable upbringing. He was born and spent his childhood in Bocas Town, but his ancestors were from several parts of the world. Fernando’s father was born in Nicaragua to a Nicaraguan Afro-­Antillean woman and an English man, a doctor who had moved from England to the Archipelago of San Andrés in Colombia and then to Bocas. “My grandfather was a doctor and a horse breeder; he was an adventurer,” Fernando said. “He came to Bocas from San Andrés with his horses to visit—because there was an important horse race here in Bocas— and decided to stay and breed horses here. Eventually he also practiced medicine” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000). Fernando’s grandfather told him that if he were to look, he would find relatives with the last name Powell in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and San Andrés. His maternal grandmother was the daughter of a Spanish man and a Ngöbe indigenous woman. “I have a picture of my grandmother. She was a Guaymí [Ngöbe] Indian; she looked Indian, all her facial features were Indian. So, I am the result of a great mix!” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000). Fernando learned Creole English and Spanish at home and went to an all-­ English school for the first few years of elementary school. Like most families

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with Afro-­Antillean ancestry in Panama, Fernando’s parents believed that the best education could only be obtained in private schools run by Afro-­ Antillean teachers. He recalls learning a great deal about mathematics and English but very little about Panamanian history or geography. As an adolescent, he worked at one of the largest stores in Bocas, which was owned by a German merchant. German migrants arrived in the archipelago in the nineteenth century, many working in the expanding banana business sector and also in the growing market due to the commercialization of ginger, sarsaparilla, and nutmeg. The business where Fernando worked was an all-­purpose store that sold food and construction materials; it also housed a branch office of the National Bank, and even had a sawmill. “I worked at the sawmill. They also had a cacao drier and a few boats to transport merchandise. In those days, the Germans ruled businesses. All the Germans built their houses in the northeastern end of the island, which today is called German Point” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000). He recalls that his family, and his friends’ families, had large, impeccably clean houses, with pianos and other musical instruments featured prominently in elegant living rooms. For several decades, cacao production provided comfortable lives to Bocatoreneans. “Something that always caught my attention was the fact that in most houses there was always music playing. Select music; not raucous music like today. In most houses there was at least one musical instrument—a piano, a violin, a trumpet—and parents taught their children how to play, because almost everyone played an instrument. This was a demonstration of culture that you could not find in Panama City” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000). For Fernando, the archipelago was as an attractive place where he could go on a fishing trip one day and practice his piano lessons the next. He recalls that every house had a garden with flowers and trees, with doors and windows perpetually open. There was even an informal competition as to which neighborhood (out of the three that composed the town) had the most manicured garden and cleanest streets. When it was time for Fernando to go to high school, his parents decided to send him to a boarding school in Panama City. But in Panama City he was looked down on by his classmates from the capital and the central provinces, something that remained a poignant memory of his life in the school. “We were not connected at all to Panama, and everyone thought we were ignorant, lived in a jungle, and were of inferior stock. As a young adolescent, my defense was to tell people that they lived in thatched houses while our homes were made out of wood, and that they could only manage to walk on cutarras (hand-­made leather sandals) while we had pianos in our home. This was my childish way to defend myself, but I still think that life in Bocas del Toro,

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which stemmed from Caribbean customs, was much more cultured than life in the rest of Panama” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000). Fernando’s family background and life are an illustration of the intensely cosmopolitan background typical of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama. Despite the sense of home Fernando felt in Bocas del Toro, however, his background as an Afro-­Antillean was not always one that was widely embraced into the Panamanian cultural identity, and his experiences in high school in Panama City are reflective of that complicated history of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama. Historically, for Afro-­Antilleans, Panama has been at times both welcoming and discriminatory, and for a long time, non-­Afro-­Antillean Panamanians considered Afro-­Antilleans to have historic and cultural characteristics that placed them outside the official narrative of the nation-­state. As is common throughout Latin America (Ortiz 1994b, 127), Panamanian intellectuals, politicians, and artists have shared a persistent obsession with constructing a convincing, even patriotic, collective national identity. Most intellectuals have perpetuated the leyenda dorada (golden legend) or leyenda blanca (white legend), driven by the main actors of the independence movement,1 which states that Panama became independent from Colombia because of its patriotic desire to be its own nation and that it had a long history of uprisings and revolutions long before the annexation to Colombia (Araúz 2004; Castillero Reyes 1978; Porcell 1986).2 This perspective insists that the counternarrative, commonly known as the leyenda negra (black legend)— which holds the idea of Panama as an “invented nation” resulting from the economic interests of Wall Street, France, or the Panamanian upper classes— is simply inaccurate and merely the product of a colonialist perspective (Porras 2002, 2005). The leyenda negra asserts that the governments of France and the United States aided Panamanian politicians to proclaim independent status from Colombia, specifically because the French engineer Phillippe Bunau-­Varilla had to recover his investments at the Compagnie Nouvelle, and also because the United States urgently needed to build, maintain, control, and defend the interoceanic Canal to consolidate its growing military and economic expansion (Araúz 1994; cf. Beluche 1999, 2003, 2004).3 This legend of the founding of the nation largely suggests that Panama is an invention of Wall Street “and that—in the best of circumstances—we are just a road, a pathway, or a canal” (Porras 2002, 188).4 Tracing the complex lines of the efforts to create national Panamanian identity through the lives and experiences of Afro-­Antillean individuals and communities, this book looks at the ways local, regional, and national identities of Afro-­Panamanians have been constructed, specifically through the context of tourism in Panama, particularly in the contemporary era. Why

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tourism? The promotion of tourism in Panama has long developed around specific and evolving definitions of Panamanian identity. It is a history that is deeply connected to the fact that the country has been a protectorate of the United States for most of its time as an independent nation—something that has played a key role both in the tourism projects and broader conversations of identity. Looking at the way tourism choices were made by local and governmental authorities, as well as by everyday citizens, offers a powerful lens into the debates and narratives surrounding identity in Panama. Before discussing the specific experiences of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama and Bocas del Toro, and the way their historical evolution from plantation workers to tourism workers has become part of the country’s newest efforts at national identity formation, it is necessary to provide a basic overview of the ways in which the nature of lo panameño (what it means to be Panamanian) has been defined by Panamanian politicians, intellectuals, and artists in the past. With this in mind, this chapter discusses how Panama’s intelligentsia, beginning in the nineteenth century, approached the idea of the “Panamanian character.” The concepts of panameñismo and panameñidad have a preeminent place in the long debates and discussions about Panamanian identity. But in general, these two concepts have not been studied in close association with each other, despite their shared importance to this history. Using a combination of primary-­source materials from the George Westerman Papers at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture and key works of Panamanian intellectuals, I provide below a basic overview of how these two concepts came to prominence in Panama, and how Panama’s intellectuals and politicians have sought to use these concepts to produce a dominant narrative of the nation.

The Nature of Lo Panameño Panamanian intellectuals, scholars, and artists have often used geographic and racial arguments to explain their preoccupation with establishing an understanding of the character of lo panameño—of what it means to be Panamanian. Panama represents a unique case in Latin America because the dominant definition of national identity is marked not only by the country’s geography but also by its remarkably cosmopolitan character (Menton 2001, 399). As diplomat Juan Antonio Tack (2009) stated, “it is worthwhile remembering and having in mind that Panama, because of its very particular conditions, because of its geographic, economic and historic factors, which have determined our national configuration, has been one of the countries in Latin America, and perhaps one of the countries in the world for which the battle to configure its own personality as an independent and sovereign

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nation has been more difficult” (90). Consequently, some aspects of the history of Panama have been highlighted and emphasized over others, producing what Panamanian scholars and artists call “the nature of lo panameño.” Throughout the twentieth century, Panamanian intellectuals have stressed the fundamental role played by geography in the construction of lo panameño. Panama’s history has been affected by its condition of a place of transit, of what Octavio Méndez Pereira (1946) calls “territorial spirit,” Carlos Malgrat (1969) calls transitoriedad, Alfredo Castillero Calvo (1973) describes as transitismo,5 and Alfredo Figueroa Navarro (1982) as cosmopolitismo liberal or pensamiento transitista. Its geographic condition has generated three levels of transitismo: the narrowness of its boundaries, which connects two continents; the construction of the Panama Canal, which produced an interoceanic pathway (Porras 2002; Tapia 2008); and its condition of “biological bridge of the Americas” (Heckadon 1994).6 Panama’s history as a biological bridge for over three million years, and as a cultural and political bridge since 1904, has caused some intellectuals to consider its population part of a “floating culture”7 (Soler 1964; Porras n.d. [1953]; Pereira Jiménez 1963). This “floating culture,” known as the cultura de la interoceanidad or “culture of interoceanity,” gives value to a few important characteristics that were seen as quintessentially Panamanian: cosmopolitanism, globalization, independence, internationalization of political relations, and Panama’s transitist function. Moreover, according to this perspective, this geographic position has produced cultural and racial diversity and generated cultural change toward commerce, syncretism, and mestizaje (Porras 2005, 39; cf. García Aponte 1999, 55; Domínguez Caballero 2004). Panama’s slogan, “Pro Mundi Beneficio” (For the good of the world), proudly displayed in the country’s coat of arms, was also suggestive of an “internationalist condition” for Panama’s intelligentsia (Soler 1976).8 But this condition as well as the strong presence of the United States in the life of Panama were not necessarily viewed positively, and instead were seen by many with a double degree of disenchantment. In the face of the United States’ imperialistic policies in Latin America in general, and because of its strong presence in Panama specifically—which made nationalist claims difficult (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 160)—Panamanians felt compelled to develop a new way of defining the country’s identity, to “imagine and construct new symbolic references . . . to define [Panama’s] identity collectively” (Tapia 2008, 9).9 A number of scholars argued that these symbolic references should involve embracing Panama’s multiple identities, which were based on geographic location and social, cultural, economic, and political standing within the nation-­state. The argument proposed the existence of one dominant identity and three secondary identities coexisting in Panama’s territory. The

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dominant identity, according to this argument, consisted of a cosmopolitan and developed place of transit in the cities of Panama and Colón. This dominant identity was said to coexist with three secondary identities: an agrarian one, represented by the central provinces Coclé, Herrera, Los Santos, Veraguas, and Chiriquí; another of these secondary identities consisted of the nation’s peripheries, represented by the provinces of Darién and Bocas del Toro with its ethnically diverse populations (Afro-­Antilleans, Afro-­Colonials or Afro-­Hispanics10); and a third, which was represented by indigenous peoples as original inhabitants of Panama (Rivera Ortega 2009; cf. Tapia 2008; Porras 2005). These different identities ultimately produced a nation with multiple and pluricultural codes, but where those placed in the marginal category were not part of the dominant identity, which was focused on the country as a place of transit (Tapia 2008, 42; Porras 2005, 31–34; cf. Bonamico and Espino 1998).11 This effort to determine a national identity along these lines is directly related to Panama’s unique social and economic history. Three historical periods have been fundamental to the construction of Panama’s national identity (García Aponte 1999): the first one is Panama’s independence from Spain and adhesion to Colombia in 1821. The second one refers to the separation from Colombia and the creation of an independent republic in 1903, which lasted until the creation of the Colón Free Zone in 1948. The third is the consolidation of Panama’s financial sector in the 1970s, something that continues to the present day (García Aponte 1999, 47).12 During each of these periods, there were corresponding projects that brought about massive and successive migrations to Panama. During the first period, this included the construction of the Panamanian Railroad (1850–55) and the French efforts to build a canal (1880–88); in the second, the construction of the Panama Canal by the US government (1903–14), the relocation of the Panama Railroad (1906–14) and the creation of the Colón Free Zone (1948); and in the third, the formation of the financial center in Panama City (1972) and the development of the tourism industry (1990s). Each of these major historical events has played a critical role in the construction of Panama’s national identity. During the mid-­twentieth century, as part of their efforts to define a national identity, a number of members of the country’s intellectual and political class, such as Isaías García Aponte and Ricardo Miró, began to argue that this history shaped migratory patterns in such a way that they engendered what scholars have termed a crisol de razas (melting pot of races), a metaphor for when racial diversity and integration collide (Porras 2005, 259).13 This metaphor is widely cited by scholars and writers when discussing Panama. Along with the US domination in Panama, the presence of this melting

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pot has generated a pressing need for some intellectuals and politicians to establish the imagined social boundaries of the Panamanian nation. As Isaías García Aponte, a prominent twentieth-­ century Panamanian intellectual and politician noted, “It was urgent to affirm and consecrate panameñidad through the eradication of the antinational mentality. This need was even more urgent among us because of the presence in our own territory of a foreign power, of a strange culture that could easily absorb the most valuable elements of our nationality” (García Aponte 1999, 71). The function of a crisol (crucible or melting pot) is to heat, fuse, and burn materials, eventually producing new substances. In metaphorical terms, it is assumed that a cultural melting pot facilitates the blending of characteristics of a heterogeneous society to produce a more homogenous, harmonious community. It is also assumed that one of the outcomes of a society based on cultural and racial diversity expressed in a melting pot is the lack of racial discrimination. Advocates of this perspective have presumed that Panama’s crisol de razas has produced precisely this result. But not everyone agrees that the melting pot is the right metaphor for the social history of Panama, especially when considering its ideals of racial harmony. For example, rejecting the metaphor and its symbolism of racial harmony, the Afro-­Panamanian intellectual Armando Fortune argued that rather than a melting pot, Panama was, more accurately, a sancocho. A sancocho is a traditional soup in several Latin American cuisines, made with tubers, meat, and other ingredients, depending on the region. The reference to Panama as a social sancocho emphasizes the mixture of elements rather than their fusion. In this way, peoples of different descent are not simply homogenized into a single group. For example, peoples of African descent would maintain a unique presence as essential ingredients in this social sancocho (Guerrón Montero 2014a). Indeed, the racial harmony that those advocating for the melting pot metaphor have held up as a unifying symbol of national identity has several problems related to it, particularly—as has happened throughout Latin America—the way it draws on several social myths associated with a “whitening project,” something that has been widespread in the region and that was fomented by numerous Panamanian scholars, social scientists, and writers. This kind of racial-­harmony project, which I discuss in more detail further on, has roots in racial theories common in Latin America from the mid-­nineteenth century until well into the twentieth century that aimed to attract white European migrants to “whiten” and thus “enhance” its populations (Graham 1990; Westerman 1950).

Lo Panameño and the Defining Nineteenth Century Panama was the first Spanish colony on the continent, and from the sixteenth

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to the mid-­nineteenth centuries it was the center of transportation for the wealth sent to Europe. Two trans-­isthmic roads, the Camino de Cruces (terrestrial and fluvial) and the Camino de Portobelo (terrestrial) were used for this purpose. In fact, it is estimated that 50 percent of all the gold and 60 percent of all the silver extracted from Central and South American mines passed through Portobelo before going to Europe and Asia between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries (De la Rosa 1993, 234). During the nineteenth century, however, Panama experienced substantial transformations that would come to redefine the country’s future. In addition to gaining independence from Spain in this century, it was also the time when Panama became exposed to European liberal revolutions and socialist thought as well as notable commercial, industrial, technological, and cultural development. It was the century when North America made efforts to expand economic control over the region (Tapia 2008, 16). Additionally, among the key political changes during this century was Panama’s decision to embark on a national project by choosing to become a province of Colombia in 1821 (Porras 2005). In the years following this political arrangement with Colombia, Panama’s political and merchant classes sought to develop a “Hanseatic identity,” a vision of a prosperous region, something that would motivate its leaders to also look for ties to another country— other than Colombia—that could “lend its protection” in response to what was viewed as Colombia’s neglect (Szok 2001, 4; Soler 1964).14 Likewise, it was the century when the Panamanian elite constructed an intellectual identity for the country’s nation-­building project based on a liberal vision of its writings, literature, art, folk music, education, theater, paintings, linguistic dictionaries, newspapers, diplomatic correspondence, travel books, and photos (Szok 2001, 5).15 The dream of Panama’s elite was to produce an affluent business enclave, protected by world powers and attractive to Europeans who could “civilize” the Isthmus (Szok 2001, 7), and where its black, mulatto, and mestizo majority would be restrained. With few exceptions (see Watson 2014), this vision was celebrated and reproduced in Panamanian scholarly and literary works. This approach was primarily put forth by the white merchant oligarchy, which realized that they needed guaranteed resources while also consenting to the urge for Panama’s ethnic groups to feel a sense of belonging within the region (Guillén 1975, 6, 18). The nineteenth century was also when Panama realized one of the first manifestations of its nationality—an administrative and territorial division of Colombia—the Estado Federal (Soberano) de Panamá (García Aponte 1999, 51; Guillén 1975; Soler 1971, 2004). Justo Arosemena, a politician, historian, and diplomat, first officially put forth the idea of a statehood to the congress of New Grenada (as Colombia was known at the time), and on

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February 27, 1855, the proposition was approved. Arosemena is regarded as “the great analyst and prophet of the Panamanian nation” (Ricord 1991, 18), whose positivist thought replaced colonial and feudal ideologies (Soler 1971, 50; 2004).16 However, Arosemena was not the only political figure to call for Panama’s independence; many members of Panama’s intelligentsia at that time shared his views. By the end of the nineteenth century, however, newspapers in Colombia and Panama were filled with calls for a full separation (Ricord 1991, 19). Meanwhile, there were large migrations of people during this century from different ethnic groups and nationalities to Panama’s shores, including Afro-­Antilleans, Asians, Europeans, and North Americans. This migration to the region—much of it due to people arriving to work in several infrastructural projects and businesses—motivated the merchant and intellectual classes of Panama to settle on a clear sense of identity to avoid being engulfed in what they considered the cosmopolitanism that surrounded the country, for fear of becoming a country without a cohesive national or ethnic narrative. In service to this goal, a new social actor emerged in the discourse around this time: the criollo—a term that referred to the merchant, industrial worker, lawyer, professional, and bureaucrat who espoused a liberal ideology and who believed in the virtues of progress associated with industrial and technological development (Soler 1964, 33). It was an identity construction that emphasized a modernist paradigm, and that reflected the broader social goals the country’s leading classes hoped Panama would move toward in the coming decades.

Twentieth-­C entury Modernism and Ruralism Right around the time when Fernando Powell’s grandparents moved to Bocas in the early part of the twentieth century, a notable shift was occurring within the prevailing social ideas in Panama. The first years of the twentieth century were rooted in the discourses of Hispanismo or Hispanoamericanismo that spread through Latin America at this time. Hispanismo—also known as hispanoamericanismo, panhispanismo o iberoamericanismo—was an ideology and movement that projected “whitened” mestizo identities as national projects during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as well as the cultural unity of the Spanish-­speaking world in opposition to indigenismo, “signaling a literary, cultural or historical privileging of the Spanish heritage over the indigenous one” (Faber 2005, 66). In Panama, there had been great hopes for wealth and growth tied to the construction of the Panama Canal. However, when this great wealth was not realized, Panamanians became disenchanted with US policies and treatment. In response, a movement emerged to replace the main paradigm of the

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country—that of a country of transit—with another elite nationalist project that searched for national identity in a romanticized past tied to the Panamanian countryside, the ruralismo (ruralism). The economic and intellectual elites were concerned about the cosmopolitan nature of Panama City and the Canal Zone and looked toward the central provinces in search of an assumed immaculate type, uncontaminated by cosmopolitan forces, that could be held up to solidly represent a new idealized national identity. The “national type” that was identified to become representative of Panama’s “idiosyncrasy” was the peasant of the central provinces. Accompanying this new nationalist project were a number of activities, including founding associations and educational organizations that promoted a specific notion of Hispanidad, particularly in regard to the Spanish language (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 166). Away from the Canal Zone, the peasant in the countryside was represented as “healthy, without vices, hardworking, Spanish-­speaking, white, or slightly mestizo with a high percentage of Hispanic blood and free from black blood” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 167–68). But this vision, as Patricia Pizzurno Gelós has noted, and that developed from the 1920s until the 1950s, was discriminatory both racially and geographically; indigenous peoples, peoples of African descent, and urbanites were placed outside this imaginary creation. People like Fernando Powell, who were born into Afro-­Antillean communities during this time, and whose family background comprised numerous ethnicities and countries, were not included in this idealized national identity. Ultimately, this kind of discrimination would underpin the struggles that Fernando experienced in Panama as an adolescent. The romantic and unrealistic picture of Panamanian peasants also overlooked the fact that many of the people from the rural regions lived in poverty (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 168). Moreover, there was a clear denial of the existence of heterogeneity in the nation-­state, except for the presence of mestizos, who were viewed as redeemable after sufficient interactions with Europeans. This vision, influenced by Hispanismo, “attempted to break with the Europeanizing and Anglo-­Saxon stereotypes and paradigms of the elites [adopting] a model of the Panamanian that emerged from the imaginary of the educated and intellectual middle classes in the central provinces.” At the same time, it was the first time that a Panamanian type—one found within the country’s borders rather than outside—was used in an effort to construct the nation’s identity (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 168). The vision was also part of a larger ideological process that deemed the presence of migrants from undesired countries as a threat. The very famous La Raza Cósmica (The Cosmic Race) written by Mexican writer, philosopher, and politician José Vasconcelos in 1925 became a blueprint in identifying

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the type that would bring the best of Europe (the Spanish and the English) to the lives of peoples of African descent and indigenous peoples to carry these groups to a so-­called higher standard of living and assumed civilization (Vasconcelos [1925] 1997). This new narrative also rationalized character traits said to result from the effects of the country’s national projects with Colombia and the United States. According to Panamanian intellectuals, Colombia, and later the United States, left Panama in a state of abandonment. This desertion, it was said, thoroughly influenced Panamanians’ thought and behavior, producing in them characteristics such as “low self-­esteem, feelings of adversity and pessimism, lack of trust, individualism, subsistence, satisfaction over the circumstantial . . . whatever is easy and venturesome, susceptibility to magic” (Tapia 2008, 16–17). The project of Hispanidad in Panama also drew from literary-­artistic movements, specifically represented by the use of romantic themes with modernist devices; these were expressed in literature, music, and even architecture (Szok 2001). Literary works in particular provide clues into the construction of lo panameño by Panama’s intelligentsia in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Gil Colunje’s (1831–1889) short novel La Virtud Triunfante (The Triumphant Virtue) (1901), considered the first romantic novel in Panama, discusses as one of its themes the origin of the presence of the United States in Panama. Years later, with the arrival of the French to begin construction of the Canal, French literature became influential. French became the language commonly used among the intellectual elite, and there were trilingual presses in the country (Miró 1948, 20). Common topics in this period included nostalgia for lives lived in Europe, such as the novel Josefina (Julio Ardila, 1865–1918), published in 1903, considered the first modernist novel in Panama (Ardila [1903] 2003). This genre sustained the Hispanic origins of Panama in literary and scholarly works (Miró 1948, 28– 29) but also represented Panama as mostly European: “Among Panamanian artists and writers, there was rising sympathy for the Spanish colony as intellectuals gave importance to Hispanidad, to refute the censure of the isthmus and to force the West Indians and other newcomers behind their social class and government. . . . [Panamanian intellectuals] sought to protect their traditional interests while ignoring and sometimes denigrating what the republic had actually become: one of the most ethnically complex societies then emerging on the continent” (Szok 2001, 9–10). This trend continued well into the twentieth century. For example, in 1913, Ricardo Miró’s Las Noches de Babel (Babel’s Nights) introduced a cosmopolitan reading of Panama, particularly urban Panama. However, Afro-­ Antilleans are only marginally referenced in this work (Miró [1913] 2002).

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Overall, what were termed the immigrant or the indigenous “problems” were not addressed in literary works up until the 1930s. There was a lack of interest—perhaps there was disdain—for the study of indigenous peoples through anthropology, archaeology, psychology, or linguistics (Araúz 1926, 11). Araúz (1926) contrasts this neglect toward Panama’s indigenous populations with the regular study of indigenous peoples in other parts of Central and South America (1926, 11). By the 1950s, intellectuals argued that Panamanians needed to embrace their diverse history without looking for foreign models, as the “nation in scraps” (Fábrega in Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 230) could only be consolidated if those who were marginalized (indigenous peoples, Afro-­Antilleans, peasants) were incorporated into the nation through social justice. It is likely that the concept of Panama as a crisol de razas mentioned previously in the introduction was inaugurated in 1909 by poet Federico Escobar, who described Panama as such in his poem “3 de noviembre,” written to celebrate the country’s independence from Colombia (Watson 2014, 22). Better known is the novel Crisol, written by José Isaac Fábrega in 1936. In this novel, the universal Panamanian man is the result of the union of a Spanish man and a Guaraní (not Panamanian) woman. The man’s most prominent traits were his dedication to the land and honesty, something that contrasted with the characters of African descent who were presented as thieves and outsiders (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 172). This novel differs from others of the time because of its depiction of the universal, bilingual character of the country; however, in this universe, only the Spanish and American traits were presented as worthy, whereas indigenous peoples were cleansed of their inferiority by intermarrying with those who were superior. Peoples of African or Chinese descent were frequently viewed as unworthy of attention, and they were fully erased from the nation’s imaginary (Pulido Ritter 2010, 3). One of the first attempts to represent the complex social history and ethnic diversity within the Panamanian nation in a literary work would not come until much later, in 1993, with the collection of short stories written by Pedro Rivera Ortega, Las Huellas de Mis Pasos (The Footprints of My Steps) (1994; cf. Menton 2001). In this collection, Rivera Ortega covers multiple aspects of Panama’s history as a nation, including the arrival of Christopher Columbus to the Isthmus; indigenous and black resistance to the Spanish conquest; and the daily life of the marginalized rural peasant (Rivera Ortega 1994).

Lo Panameño and the Construction of the Canal The efforts to build a canal in Panama to connect the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans were first begun in 1880, led by the Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interocéanique de Panama. When these efforts failed, however, the United

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States took over the project of construction of the Panama Canal in 1904. This marked the beginning of a major historical epoch in Panama, and one that had powerful reverberations for national identity projects during the twentieth century. The construction of the Panama Canal after 1904 and the “constant, omnipresent and decisive” presence (Aparicio 2004, 22) of the United States in Panama’s national life were two key factors that determined the course of the nation-­state. The contempt that privileged white Zonians living within the “Canal Zone” under US jurisdiction expressed for nonprivileged, nonwhite Panamanians living both inside and outside the Canal Zone contributed to creating a notion of nationality that incorporated both a rejection of and a fascination with US-­based cultures and policies (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 198). Xenophobia and xenophilia went hand in hand in the definition of Panama’s nationality. From 1904 until the 1960s, the US government implemented laws in the Canal Zone similar to the Jim Crow system. Peoples of African descent living in the Canal Zone were paid under a different regime, were required to attend separate schools, live in separate housing arrangements, and use separate social spaces. This treatment and these ideas spread beyond the confines of the 553 square miles of this territory. The Isthmian Canal Commission instituted an elaborate system of job classification that became the basis for Panama Canal Zone society and economy. The system divided workers into those belonging to the “gold roll” (white US citizens) and those belonging to the “silver roll” (black US citizens and Afro-­Antilleans). Those on the silver roll did not receive the same benefits or pay as those on the gold roll, even if engaging equal work responsibilities.17 Panamanian citizens were viewed as indolent, prone to vices, and untrustworthy and were placed along with peoples of African descent in the silver roll (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 188). This system was presented as being based on skills, but in reality, it was a caste system based on race (Westerman 1950). The system included separate housing and service facilities, schools, post offices, and public trains (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Denationalization Law, 8; Guerrón Montero 2014a). The living conditions of silver employees were regarded as “pathetic” by US secretary of war Newton Baker during his visit to the Canal Zone in December 1919 (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Denationalization Law, 9). Hector Connor, in the Panama Tribune, observed that workers on the silver roll could not survive on the meager pensions they received on retirement: “The ‘ex-­silver’ employees .  .  . upon being retired, receive such small amounts as pensions that unless they are fortunate enough to find refuge among their children or grand-­children,” they are not able to carry on (Connor 1948, 8).18

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One major episode that condensed and symbolized the nationalist struggles of Panamanians to reach full sovereignty over their territory took place between January 9 and 11 in 1964.19 US president John F. Kennedy and Panama president Roberto Chiari signed an agreement allowing the Panamanian flag to fly over public spaces in the Canal Zone. On January  9, 1964, two hundred students from the National Institute went to the Balboa School in Canal territory to raise the Panamanian flag. The students were allowed to do so but were received unenthusiastically by Balboa School students. Discouraged by the Zone Police, the Panamanian students had to withdraw from the Zone. This motivated Panamanian citizens to support the students in their attempts to reenter. They were prohibited from doing so and “brutally repressed by the Zone police and the military” (Araúz and Pizzurno Gelós 2002, 9). The incident ended with dozens of deaths and hundreds of wounded individuals and temporarily closed relationships between the United States and Panama.20 This event is one of the most discussed episodes in the history of relationships between the United States and Panama; it has become symbolic of Panamanian sovereignty efforts. A dialogue about the events is also part of the obligatory curriculum in schools and universities, and its anniversary is marked as a national holiday. The episode is even part of more recent touristic narratives, such as the Panama City Sightseeing Hop-­On, Hop-­Off Bus Tours, which I discuss in chapter 3. After the creation of Panama in 1903, successive governments searched for ways to consolidate the nation-­state.21 The project has not been without tension and contradictions, stemming from the concrete limitation of Panama’s sovereignty resulting from its tangible economic, political, and military dependency on the United States, as well as its challenges within the nation, such as the continued and successful resistance of the Guna indigenous peoples— and the less successful but important resistance of Afro-­Antillean groups—to this exclusionary nationalist project (Horton 2006; Guerrón Montero 2012). Panamanian struggle for sovereignty over the Panama Canal was, in the words of Pedro Rivera Ortega (in Lewis 2017), a “religion” that guaranteed a degree of cohesiveness among Panamanians. Once the transfer of the Canal to Panama was achieved in 1999, according to this idea, no other common cause has replaced it. Like other Panamanian scholars and intellectuals, Rivera Ortega hoped that the struggle against poverty would become a new cause, something that has not, however, materialized. “The idea we had was that the fight against social inequalities was going to be the new religion for Panamanians,” as he wrote. “And that every effort in society was going to be made to erase those differences, but this has not happened. What we see is dispersion. Panamanians lost the opportunity to construct a unified project to create a viable nation” (in Lewis 2017).

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In the following chapters, I discuss some of the important ways that the tourism industry in Panama has grown up alongside these national narratives, and how this industry has played a fundamental role in the way the Panamanian government has sought to redefine its national identity through multicultural and diversity narratives, particularly in the context of Afro-­ Antillean history and the Bocas del Toro Archipelago. Alongside the major economic and cultural changes that occurred over the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the lives of individuals like Fernando Powell—whose families and personal experiences reflect the profoundly complicated social history of Panama—were directly affected by the many furious political debates about how the master narrative of nationhood would be written. In the twentieth century, many Afro-­Antilleans like Fernando experienced various kinds of discrimination, while also developing strong connections to their Afro-­ Antillean communities in Bocas del Toro and Panama more generally. Before I turn to the history of Afro-­Antillean communities in Panama in the next chapter, in the final section of this chapter, I bring into focus the ways these political ideological initiatives took shape, and how the narratives they proposed became intertwined with Panamanian governmental policies, leaving vast proportions of the country’s populace, particularly Afro-­Antilleans, underrepresented and discriminated against within these national identity projects.

Panameñismo and Panameñidad Two specific ideologies developed over the course of Panama’s history in the efforts to edify the Panamanian nation. These are the ideologies of panameñismo and panameñidad. Panameñismo was formed by the middle classes mostly in the provinces of Panama and Colón and resulted in part from the resentment felt by Panamanians about the hiring of international workers from the mid-­nineteenth century on for the construction of the Panamanian Railroad. Among those hired to work on the railroad were Afro-­Antilleans, who became targets of this resentment. They had a reputation as dedicated workers who, because of being British subjects and having knowledge of shared language and cultural codes, could communicate easily with US white supervisors. This resentment grew over many decades, and it eventually took on political strength in the twentieth century, culminating in the creation in 1923 of the political party Movimiento de Acción Comunal (Movement of Communal Action) and later the Partido Nacional Revolucionario (National Revolutionary Party) in 1934, both based on Panameñismo ideology (Brown Araúz 2009, 27).22 The Panameñista movement was at the same time an attempt “to instill in Panamanians national pride, dignity and self-­respect for their culture, and a populist and sensationalist movement based on racial

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discrimination” (Paz 1977, 97). The movement and its ideology had its precedent in the brand of populism proposed by Getulio Vargas in Brazil and Lázaro Cárdenas in Mexico (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 175), and it was the result of widespread nativist ideas that swept Latin America in the 1920s.23 While the movement lacked a single, coherent ideology, it attracted members who were dissatisfied with the constant intervention of the United States into Panamanian policy (Brown Araúz 2009, 27; Bell Escobar 1984). The movement combined economic incentives and nationalistic perspectives in foreign affairs, severing the formerly friendly relations of the Panamanian government with the United States (Moncada Vargas 1990). The ideals of the movement were transposed into the Coalición Nacional Revolucionaria (National Revolutionary Coalition, CNR), formed by Arnulfo Arias Madrid, a Harvard-­trained physician, in 1934. This coalition became the foundation for the Partido Nacional Revolucionario (National Revolutionary Party, PNR). In alliance with other parties, the PNR proposed Arias Madrid as their chosen candidate for the presidency of the republic for the period 1940–44. Arias Madrid had been minister of agriculture and public works during his brother Harmodio Arias Madrid’s administration (1931, 1932–36). Influenced by German fascism, Arias Madrid proclaimed his support for the Nazi axis powers (Germany, Italy, and Japan) during World War II and applied nationalist ideals to the governmental policies he implemented. According to Arias Madrid, panameñismo was born to “create the concept of nationality and .  .  . defend the rights of [Panama’s] citizens and the country’s dignity” (in Bell Escobar 1984, 12). He further defined Panameñista doctrine as follows: “Here in Panama only one creed can exist, germinate, and develop; only one doctrine, only one directing force: our panameñismo. Healthy and serene panameñismo, based on research, on the study of our flora, our fauna, our history and our ethnic components” (in Brown Araúz 2009, 29). Essentially, Arias Madrid inaugurated his own brand of xenophobic nationalism with characteristics of tropical fascism. He abhorred the precarious conditions of Panama City, with its densely populated neighborhoods, and particularly, with the large number of Afro-­Antilleans in its streets (from 30,000 to 50,000 people in the 1940s), who—he argued—produced a “dislocation of the nationality” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 176). Arias Madrid was concerned with the fact that Afro-­Antilleans, as well as the successful Chinese community, were eligible to vote for public officers. In the eyes of Arias Madrid this was unacceptable, as they were not Spanish speakers and not truly Panamanians. Following similar racial theories that prevailed in Europe, North America, and Latin America from the mid-­nineteenth century until

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the 1940s and that profoundly shaped public policies in these regions, Arias Madrid toppled the Constitution of 1940, instituting a new constitution in 1941 known as the Constitución Panameñista (Panameñista Constitution). In this document, he eliminated articles 3 and 136 of the Constitution of 1904 that allowed US intervention in the country, the concession of land for US military bases, and the use of Panamanian flags on non-­Panamanian ships. Additionally, he developed the idea of “races of prohibited migration.” The linkages between nationalism and racism were fully expressed in this constitution and in Arias Madrid’s regime.24 He manifested into policy and a political program the romantic nostalgic notions of Hispanidad. The Constitution of 1941 prohibited immigration of black and Chinese individuals and denied them residency, citizenship, or property rights unless they could demonstrate a command of Spanish and knowledge of Panamanian history. Article 23 of Title II reads, “The State will ensure the immigration of healthy and working individuals, adaptable to national living conditions and able to contribute to the ethnic, economic and demographic improvement of the country. Immigration is prohibited to: the black race whose mother tongue is not Spanish, the yellow race and the races native to India, Asia Minor and the North of Africa” (Asamblea Nacional de Panamá 1941, 7). The Constitution of 1941 was an instrument to welcome immigrants who were considered able to contribute to the “improvement of the race.” In addition, it proposed the de-­nationalization of those Panamanians whose grandparents and parents belonged to “races of prohibited migration” (Wilson 1998, 41). Article 13 stated that it was necessary for persons born in Panama of parents of restricted migration after 1903 (that is, retroactively) to request to the president of the republic to determine whether they would be recognized as Panamanians, provided they “furnish evidence of having lived . . . in homes established under the jurisdiction of the Republic and whose common language is Spanish” (GWC, SCRBC, 63/14, n.d., 3). They needed to apply for the right to stay within three months from the date the law became effective; Arias Madrid reserved the right to give recognition to each case.25 For George Westerman, a prominent Afro-­Antillean intellectual heavily engaged in Panamanian political debates during the middle of the twentieth century, this law “sprang from the dark and primitive residues easily found in the spirit of fascism.” Westerman was a notable integrationist who spent his career fighting against ideologies like those espoused by Madrid, working tirelessly in efforts to incorporate Afro-­Antilleans within the Panamanian nation-­state. Born in 1910 in the Panamanian city of Colón, Westerman’s father had been born in Barbados and his mother in Saint Lucia (GWC, SCRBC, 3/10). Westerman’s own family’s history in Panama is a good

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illustration of the Pan-­Caribbean lives of Afro-­Antilleans, embodied in the Isthmus of Panama. Westerman was largely a self-­taught intellectual, and although he had limited formal education, from a young age he read avidly, ultimately becoming what his peers considered a well-­educated gentleman, courteous and very well respected. He favored classic operas and Western “high culture” (GWC, SCRBC, 4/4). During his life, he became a Mason and joined a lodge (GWC, SCRBC, 4/5). A prolific writer, he wrote numerous newspaper and journal articles and books discussing racial discrimination against peoples of African descent in Panama—particularly in the Canal Zone—and the United States.26 Westerman was also an accomplished journalist and protégé of Sidney Young (1898–1959), the founder of the Panama Tribune, which was considered the voice of the Afro-­Antillean community on the Isthmus of Panama. After Young’s death, Westerman took over the newspaper’s editorship. Westerman’s recognition of the racial problems that plagued the Panamanian nation led him to be nationally and internationally recognized for his work in support of the causes of the Afro-­Antillean community between the 1940s until his death in 1988 (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Denationalization Law, 17). Westerman’s contributions to Afro-­Antillean activism in Panama can hardly be understated. In 1953 he received the Order Vasco Núñez de Balboa in the grade of Gentleman (Caballero), the Citizen Golden Jubilee Award, and in 1959 the Justice Louis D. Brandeis Gold Medal Award of the Jewish Forum for Service to Humanity (GWC, SCRBC, 73/25). He was the first Afro-­Antillean to serve Panama in a diplomatic capacity and was Panama’s delegate to the Fourth Committee of the United Nations General Assembly in the 1960s, which dealt, among other issues, with the self-­determination of nascent African and Caribbean nations. His main campaign, his “one-­man fight” in the words of columnist and commentator Guillermo Rodolfo Valdés, focused on “purg[ing] Panama’s immigration system of its prejudicial practices” (GWC, SCRBC, 63/9; Villiers 1963, 2). He argued that the discriminatory practices that took place in the Canal Zone completely ignored the “essential dignity of human beings” (GWC, SCRBC, 63/10; Westerman 1950, 1). Throughout his life, Westerman called for “a more unified Panamanian nation.” A passage in the eulogy given by a representative of Club Rosario, Luis H. Moreno, at Westerman’s funeral on September  5, 1988, reads, “Passionate singer for a race, not with discriminatory accents, but with defining and laudable accents about its vital and profound contribution to that which is authentically Panamanian” (GWC, SCRBC, Box 1/5, 1988). Indeed, throughout his life Westerman called for a unification of all Panamanians under one inclusive, nondiscriminatory flag. In his writings, he predicted that groups who were part of so-­called races

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of prohibited migration were destined to become pariahs in their own birth country, simply because of their racial origin and language (GWC, SCRBC, 63/14, n.d., 1, 6). Later, once policies like Madrid’s were overturned and the country began to embrace notions of multiculturalism and diversity, Westerman’s ideas were incorporated in the development of touristic sites that would enhance and revise historical and national narratives, such as the Afro-­Antillean Museum in Panama City, a museum I discuss in more detail in chapter 5. The Constitution of 1941 deepened already existing differences between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Colonial blacks (Guerrón Montero 2014a) but called for the incorporation via acculturation of indigenous peoples in Panamanian territory (Asamblea Nacional de Panamá 1941, Art.  56). For the Afro-­Antilleans more generally, however, the Constitution of 1941 robbed them of their Panamanian nationality (GWC, SCRBC, 63/14, n.d., 7). Arias Madrid proposed that “in order to be authentically Panamanian and to love Panama, one needed to reject foreigners in general, and Antilleans and Chinese in particular” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 174). The Caribbean obsession with whitening was evidently expressed in Panama and became the cornerstone of the Panameñista movement. Following his goal of “perfecting” Panama’s nationality by whitening its population, Arias Madrid promoted additional laws such as Law 48 of May 13, 1941, justifying sterilizations. These beliefs were also manifested in laws relating to cultural traits attached to Hispanic components of the Panamanian nation. For example, Law No. 49 of May 13, 1941, stipulated that any place and landmark within the territory of the republic that was designated with a name in any language other than Spanish was to be referred to by its Spanish or indigenous name. If the place lacked a denomination in these languages, the Municipal Councils were responsible for providing a name. This law also emphasized the maintenance of the Spanish language as official (Article 10 of the Constitution of 1941, Asamblea Nacional de Panamá, 4; Cedeño Cenci 1962, 27, 38–39).27 Arias Madrid’s discourse was compelling because he was the first politician who translated nationalist policies into action. These actions, such as limiting the power of the United States in Panama and giving advantages for Panamanian workers, explain the success of Arias Madrid throughout his political career. For peoples of Afro-­Antillean and Chinese descent, these actions motivated them to nationalize and become Panamanians, learn Spanish, and find ways to assimilate into mainstream Panamanian culture (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 180). Arias Madrid’s regime was overthrown in October 1941, partly because of his conflicts with the US government, and the 1941 Constitution was

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revoked in 1946 by then President Enrique Jiménez (Quintero 1990). This revoking effectively reinstated full citizenship to peoples of Afro-­Antillean and Chinese descent born in Panama. The new constitution guaranteed that those who had been born in Panama and had been denied citizenship could acquire it and set forth other nondiscriminatory principles. These principles were enforced in 1948 by First Vice President Ernesto De la Guardia and expanded in the constitution of 1972 (Guerrón Montero 2014a). However, some of Arias Madrid’s ideas continued to cast shadows over rights to nationality, particularly through the Nationality Law (Connor 1953). Indeed, as George Westerman noted, Panamanian Afro-­Antilleans never fully recovered from the restraining terms of the 1941 Constitution (Westerman 1961, 346).

Panameñidad: The Rise of the Panamanian Peasant The other major ideological movement during the twentieth century that had a profound influence on the country’s national identity narratives was Panameñidad. Panameñidad developed in the 1950s and established that the symbols of Panamanian identity were to be those of the peasant of the central provinces, el interior. According to representatives of this ideology, Panamanian culture was composed of the cultural characteristics of the Hispanic-­indigenous (mestizo or Latino) groups, and all other ethnic groups (indigenous, black, or of European or Asian origin) were slowly acculturating into Latino groups (Malgrat 1969, 391). Likewise, the source for “real Panamanian folklore” (el folklore propiamente panameño) was considered to be found in the central provinces of Panama (Porras n.d. [1953], 21). As indicated in the introduction, when General Omar Torrijos came to power in 1968, his nationalist government took this ideology to the policy level by establishing a creolization campaign that enforced using some assumed characteristics of the peasants of the central provinces (cuisine, music, literature, solitude, among others) as representatives of the nation (Aparicio 2004).28 This campaign focused on accentuating and mandating the Spanish language and the “authentic folk representations” of the country.29 Torrijos’s militaristic and tropical brand of populism inaugurated the ideology of racial democracy in the country by expanding the participation of previously excluded minorities. At the ideological level, Torrijos—in a process of “popular reengineering of the nation”—transformed figures of different ethnicities that were part of the history of Panama into mythical icons (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 246).30 At the same time, Torrijos supported the development of transversal identities, such as those that merged Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­ Colonials, by sustaining organizations such as the Unión Afro-­Panameña (Afro-­Panamanian Union) in Colón, the Afro-­Panamanian Association in

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Panama,31 and the Asociación de Profesionales, Obreros y Dirigentes de Ascendencia Negra, APODAN (Association of Professionals, Workers, and Leaders of Black Ancestry).32 If Arnulfo Arias Madrid will be remembered for the Constitution of 1941, Omar Torrijos will be remembered for the Constitution of 1972. This constitution embodied Torrijos’s creolizing campaign and the corporatist multiculturalist ideology of his regime. Many of the constitution’s articles directly reflected this project. For example, Articles 84 and 86 highlighted the need to respect and preserve the linguistic and social practices of indigenous peoples. Article 104 indicated the responsibility of the state to create specific educational programs for indigenous groups because they have their own cultural patterns. Article 120 designated the responsibility of the state to provide special attention to peasants and indigenous peoples, to promote their economic, social, and political participation in national life; Article 122 spelled out the governmental responsibilities toward agricultural producers and indigenous peoples; Article 123 recognized the right of indigenous peoples to collective property of their territories (República de Panamá 1996; cf. Horton 2006, 838). The debates and arguments developed by intellectuals and politicians about the nature of lo panameño were not produced in isolation from the lay Panamanian citizen. A commonsense view of Panama’s unifying identity merged with the perspective of the intelligentsia to create an official narrative that was reproduced and disseminated through the educational system, public statements, monuments, festivals, and print and social media. A review of the history curriculum for Panama’s schools reveals an emphasis on the country’s separatist and nationalist movements, with the objective of strengthening “feelings of nationalism and cultivating attitudes and civic values of love and compromise to the Homeland” (Dirección Nacional de Currículo y Tecnología Educativa 2014, 33). These feelings apply mostly to the complex relationship between Panama and the United States, but they also extend to the relationship between Panama and Colombia. This latter tension is manifested in the reluctance of the public to recognize Colombian influences in Panamanian literature, music, and gastronomy. The broader history of the movements and ideologies used to create identity narratives for Panama at this time is tightly connected to Panama’s long and complex history of immigration. Like other ethnic groups in Panama, the history of the Afro-­Antilleans intersected with these movements in significant ways. In the next chapter, I discuss more specifically how the Afro-­ Antillean presence in Panama contributed, and has been formed by, the longer trajectory of nationalist identity projects throughout the country’s history to the present day.

2 Panama’s Temporary Migrants The Afro-­Antillean Presence in the National Narrative

Assimilation is not a short-­time process and it cannot be forced. The question still remains whether it will not be more fruitful for Panama to recognize the diversity of West Indian culture and foster it by furnishing the conditions under which it can bloom again and fuse into the broad stream of national life. —George Westerman (1950, 28) Despite the struggles that Fernando Powell experienced with his classmates at the boarding school where his parents had sent him, Fernando finished his schooling in Panama City. He then remained in the city and went on to become an engineer, building a successful career and raising a family. Notwithstanding his efforts to develop a professional life in Panama, he had always planned to return at the first opportunity to Bocas del Toro where he had spent his childhood. He remembered his earlier years in Bocas del Toro as idyllic, and he wanted his children to appreciate and live the kind of life that he had experienced growing up in the archipelago. This opportunity came unexpectedly as a result of the 1968 coup d’état. “I was forced to leave Panama City due to my political views on the military,” he said. “I came back to Bocas in 1970 with my four children. I wanted them to enjoy life here, which was so different from life in the capital. There, I had to keep them at home, and I wanted them to have the opportunity to be free and develop their personalities. And here they learned to swim, to ride a bike, horseback riding, boating. They did everything I did when I was a young boy. None of them were born in Bocas, but they all dreamed about coming to Bocas because they spent part of their childhood here. In fact, one of my children moved permanently to Bocas and works with me now” (interview F. P., May 10, 2000).

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Fernando eventually returned to Panama City where he stayed for several years working until his retirement, then returning again to Bocas to settle in the late 1990s to run a well-­established hotel at a time when the tourism industry in Panama was growing. This was right around the time the country was beginning to change its official narratives regarding the place of Afro-­ Antillean cultures within a multicultural Panamanian nation as a means to promote its touristic identity. I first met Fernando in 1999, and since then, I visited him every time I conducted research in the archipelago. During my visits, he reminisced on the past, about the way Afro-­Antillean cultures had changed over his life, and the way he saw them changing in the future. Like the other Afro-­Antilleans whose life stories I discuss in the second half of this book, Fernando’s life experiences relate directly to the history of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama for many of the reasons I will address in detail in this chapter. This history— marked by discrimination and marginalization—remains a central element in Panama’s broader social and ethnic past. Throughout the history of Panama, there have been five main migrations of peoples of African descent, which have produced two distinctive populations commonly known as Afro-­Colonials and Afro-­Antilleans. The first migration brought Afro-­Colonials to the country, whereas the next four contributed to a large influx of Afro-­Antilleans. Historically, the relationship between these groups has been strained at times, while at others, important intraethnic alliances have emerged. At the dawn of the colonial period, Afro-­ Antilleans were viewed with suspicion by Afro-­Colonials as well as mestizos. On the one hand, by 1850 Afro-­Colonial populations in Panama and Colón based their economy on agriculture, hunting, and fishing; they practiced Catholicism and spoke Spanish and were established within Panamanian society—albeit as descendants of enslaved populations. On the other hand, Afro-­ Antilleans and other recent migrants were viewed as mere labor force (Lewis 1980, 14; cf. Drolet 1980). Mestizos and Afro-­Colonials perceived Afro-­ Antilleans as a menace, because they brought with them “a different culture, a different language, a different religion, and different character and personality” (Lewis 1980, 12). They were considered a group in transit with little connection to the country, apathetic toward Panama’s development, and with more attachments to the United Kingdom and the Caribbean (Marrero Lobinot 1984, 24; De la Rosa 1993, 283; Lowe de Goodin 2012). The first of the aforementioned five main migrations of peoples of African descent—now generally called Afro-­Colonials—occurred in the beginning of the sixteenth century, when enslaved peoples accompanied the expedition of the governor of Castilla de Oro, Diego de Nicuesa, to Panama

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in 1509 (Diez Castillo 1981). Several other expeditions followed. Enslaved peoples were brought from West Africa (Congo, Guinea, Angola) and Spain to work in the mining industry, by far the most important economic venture for colonial Panama during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They were also employed as labor to found cities and towns and in construction projects (Lewis 1980). Panamanian slavery was characterized by a large number of rebellions that formed numerous palenques or maroon (runaway enslaved) towns. For Luis A. Diez Castillo, the history of Panama during the nineteenth century is, in fact, the history of the maroons (1981; cf. Smith 1976; Lowe de Goodin 2012). Afro-­Antilleans were at the center of the other four main migrations of peoples of African descent to Panama. These migrations took place because of the need for a labor force associated with the major events in Panamanian economic history, specifically the construction of the Panamanian Railroad, the French efforts to build the Canal, the Panama Canal, and the Panama Railroad relocation project. As a result of these large migrations, Panama (like Costa Rica and the Dominican Republic) experienced what George Reid Andrews (2004) calls a “blackening period,” which brought thousands of Afro-­Antilleans from the British and French West Indies (10). During these four major migratory events between 1850 and 1950, it is estimated that as many as two hundred thousand Afro-­Antilleans arrived to work on infrastructural projects. Along with doctors, professors, engineers, and other professionals came thousands of other Afro-­Antilleans from various islands in the British West Indies to work in manual labor.1 Attracted by the increase of foreign capital in the country, they were also escaping high levels of unemployment and underemployment as a result of the declining sugar cane industry in the British West Indies starting in 1846, which resulted in a radical regional emigration pattern (Newton 1977).2 In Panama, this produced resentment and—in the case of Afro-­Antilleans—racist rejection of the newcomers. This situation not only aggravated the hostility of the Panamanian middle class (Szok 2004, 64) but also of the lower socioeconomic classes, who viewed Afro-­Antilleans both as direct labor competition and as the enemies of Panamanian workers (Westerman 1950, 6, 10).3 The first major migration took place around the 1849 gold rush in California. Because the journey across the United States proved extremely difficult and dangerous, a system that facilitated communication and transportation between the coasts of the United States was needed. A railroad across the Isthmus of Panama was a welcomed option, and construction of the Panamanian Railroad started in May 1850 at Manzanillo Island in Limón Bay.4 The Panamanian Railroad Company hired workers from different countries, but mostly from the Greater Antilles (Newton 1977). When construction

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ended in 1855, thousands of Afro-­Antilleans remained in Panama City, while many migrated to the provinces of Colón and Bocas del Toro (Lewis 1980, 19) and others returned to their island of origin (Newton 1977). The second large migration of Afro-­Antilleans resulted from French efforts to build a canal from 1880 to 1889, under the leadership of Count Ferdinand de Lesseps. By 1884, there were more than 26,000 workers on the project, most of them Afro-­Antilleans from Jamaica, Barbados, Saint Lucia, Martinique, and Haiti (Westerman 1980; Gaskin 1984). During this period, the majority of these workers (an estimate of 22,000) died because of hunger, malaria, and yellow fever (Diez Castillo 1981). As Ana Elena Porras (2005) aptly states, the Panama Canal is both the contribution of Afro-­Antilleans to Panama and the grave of thousands of Afro-­Antilleans (180). When the project failed, some workers returned to the Antilles while others “remained in this territory, formed families and became integrated into the life of the Isthmus, fundamentally because of the cultural contacts that existed” (Westerman 1980, 22). The third and fourth migratory waves of Afro-­Antilleans took place during the first decade of the twentieth century when the United States took charge of the construction of the Panama Canal (1904–14). The third wave—and the largest—took place between 1904 and 1913. The Panama Canal Company brought 31,000 Afro-­Antillean men and 9,000 Afro-­Antillean women to Panama, most from Barbados (Diez Castillo 1981, 75; Westerman 1980, 27). Workers also came from Grenada, Dominica, Saint Kitts, Nevis, Anguila, Montserrat, and Trinidad and Tobago (Newton 1977). To continue construction of the Canal, the 1855 route that the Panamanian Railroad had followed needed to be modified. Starting in 1904, the railroad route was changed and upgraded, generating a fourth wave of Afro-­Antillean labor force. When the Canal was finished, some Afro-­Antilleans were repatriated to their island states, but many stayed in Panama City and Colón, or traveled to the Bocas del Toro Archipelago to work on banana and cacao plantations (Westerman 1950).5 As a result of these migrations, Afro-­Antilleans became key actors in “the most voluminous trans-­Caribbean movement of people ever” (Conniff 1995, 147). Workers from countries such as New Grenada (Colombia), England, France, Germany, India, Austria, and China were also hired to work on the construction of the Panamanian Railroad and the Canal (Greene 2009). However, many of them died after a few months of exposure to the strenuous working conditions,6 and Afro-­Antilleans replaced them as the most numerous workers on these projects. They were known for being committed workers and were assumed to be able to withstand the inclement weather conditions and to outlast workers from other countries because of their

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“stamina and physical resistance” (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 2). They were also recognized as loyal, faithful, and industrious (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 16). As Joseph Bishop, secretary of the Isthmian Canal Commission between 1905 and 1914, once wrote: “They were found to be a quiet, generally honest, soft-­ spoken and respectful body, as a rule, showing aptitude in learning essentials in the various branches of work in which they were engaged, and acquiring a kind of automatic regularity in the performance of duties” (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 7). Afro-­Antilleans were the largest labor force in both canal projects, an estimated 84 percent for the French Canal and 77 percent for the US Canal (Newton 1977, 17). The peak year of employment of Afro-­Antilleans was 1913, with 44,711 workers employed on the silver rolls of the Panama Canal and Panamanian Railroad (Westerman 1961, 345). The majority of Afro-­Antilleans working in both canal projects were unskilled laborers on excavations in conditions of neoslavery or semislavery (Conniff 1995; Diez Castillo 1981, 11, 67–68, 113; cf. Westerman 1980, 27).7 However, some Afro-­Antilleans were professionals hired as blacksmiths, carpenters, masons, plumbers, shipbuilders, crane operators, powdermen, or cabinetmakers, and a few formally educated Afro-­Antilleans worked in supervisory activities on both projects, such as engineers, managers, clerks, and policemen (Newton 1977, 10; Gaskin 1984, 8). Ironically, it was after the construction of the Canal when racism took a stronger form and forced the removal of some of these individuals from these positions (Gaskin 1984, 8). During the early 1800s, when Panama belonged to Spain, and then also after 1821, when it became a province of Colombia, Afro-­Antilleans perceived themselves and were perceived by other Panamanians as temporary migrants. For approximately sixty-­four years since the arrival of Afro-­ Antilleans to Panama for the various construction projects (1850 to 1914), and with few exceptions, most men migrated alone because their residence was considered temporary by the companies in charge of the projects, by Panamanian society, and by Afro-­Antilleans themselves (Ríos 1995, 4). The first black women to arrive to the Isthmus in the late nineteenth century were from Martinique and worked as washers (McCullough in Ríos 1995, 5). When women and families of the male workers were allowed to travel to Panama, the companies had to provide housing and schooling. In 1905, the first segregated schools were opened in the Canal Zone (Sealy 1999, 16–17). Because of the isolation they endured—both inside and outside the Canal Zone and in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago—Afro-­Antilleans maintained many distinguishing customs and traditions: language, religious traditions, and architecture, among others. They developed institutions to sustain

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themselves, including schools, lodges, benevolent societies, and churches (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 22). Like the story of Fernando illustrates, it was the norm for Afro-­Antillean children to study in private schools where they learned about the history and geography of the United Kingdom. In fact, a characteristic of Afro-­Antillean migrants throughout Central America was their high level of literacy. For instance, during the 1920s and 1930s more than 90 percent of Afro-­Antilleans in the Panama Canal Zone were literate (Putnam 2013, 128). This was partly the result of the high level of education that Afro-­Antilleans received in the segregated schools in the Canal Zone (Westerman 1961, 344). Raúl Collins, an eighty-­five-­year-­old Afro-­Antillean man who was born and raised in Bocas and whom I interviewed during one of my trips to Bocas, remembers that his parents did not want him to attend public school in Bocas. He went to a private school run by an Afro-­Antillean teacher. He noted, “I remember that when we were forced to go to public schools [in the 1940s under Arnulfo Arias’s regime] with everyone else [meaning Latinos from other provinces and a few indigenous peoples], we were the best in mathematics and English, but of course we had problems with other subjects such as history of Panama, geography, Spanish” (interview R. C., April 9, 1999). This separation was viewed by mainstream Panamanian society as a problem, particularly since many Afro-­Antilleans were determined to maintain their British way of life, sometimes despite the neglect shown by the government of Great Britain (Lewis 1980; Panama Tribune 1947). An illustration of this neglect is evidenced by Alberto Alwood, a Jamaican worker, who wrote to the consul of Great Britain in Panama in 1891: “I am writing to ask you if it is fair that we, poor Jamaicans, should pay a personal contribution and also give three working days free to the Colombian government if we do not even have land, or dogs, or poultry, or cats, or houses, or anything, only because the Canal is finished, which made us come to La Chorrera to work for 10 and 15 cents per day, to avoid becoming thieves or dying of hunger. . . . Sir, it is very embarrassing that some natives say that this is wrong; we try to live in peace with the natives, but I do not know why they hate us so much” (F. O. 288, Vol. 44, No. 164 in D. M. McNeil 1982, 9). The fact that most Afro-­Antilleans were descendants of British subjects and remained loyal to the British Crown (Westerman 1950) was viewed as a problem for Panamanians, as loyalty to the British Empire seemingly contradicted the possibility of a concurrent allegiance to Panama (Marrero Lobinot, 1984, 34; De la Rosa 1993, 282–83). For example, Alphonso Innis, an Afro-­Antillean who worked on the Panama Canal, once noted, “I cannot stop thinking about the way in which the [Colombian] authorities take advantage of the British subjects. I am very sorry to say this, but that is the way

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it is. The British subjects are hated by the natives” (F. O. 288, Vol. 44, No. 294 in D. M. McNeil 1982, 36). Adding fuel to the problem, Afro-­Antilleans frequently considered themselves superior to Panamanians.8 As noted in an article in the Panama Tribune in 1947, “The West Indian [or Afro-­Antillean] learned the language, religion, standards, likes, and dislikes of the British to which he clings with pride. It has often been said that the West Indian of the petit bourgeoisie is more English than the English himself ” (Panama Tribune 1947, 16). For instance, pictures of the English royal family adorned almost every Afro-­ Antillean home (Westerman 1950, 27). The British West Indian Committee received the then Duke of York in Panama in January 1927 with the following words: “We feel proud that the many years of residence in these parts have not caused our national sentiments to diminish or our patriotism to wane” (Westerman 1961, 342). In addition, the majority of Afro-­Antilleans were not Catholic but Anglican, another source of alienation. Although the Baptist, Methodist Episcopal, and several nondenominational churches were also influential, there were thirteen Afro-­Antillean Anglican Church congregations in the mid-­ 1900s (Panama Tribune 1947; Westerman 1961).9 In a country whose dominant majority defined the national character in regard to a Spanish-­speaking, Hispanic, Catholic community, Afro-­Antilleans spoke English or French, were largely Methodist, shared pride for the United Kingdom, and refused to associate with Spanish-­speaking Panamanians or migrants from other countries (Lowe 1975, 44–45). Older residents of the Bocas del Toro Archipelago remember these times well. For example, Raúl Collins told me, “My generation was still raised with our West Indian customs. Our homes made from wood had shining floors, clean furniture, elegant curtains; we learned to iron our clothes and look sharp every day. My mother taught me how to play the piano at home; I remember she practiced every day and even played at church sometimes. We listened to [Western] classical music; we sang hymns [from the Methodist Church] in English and drank tea in the afternoon. I thought that was what every Panamanian did until I went to the province of Santos for high school. . . . When my classmates insulted me calling me a chombo,10 I used to tell them: I might be black, but I am more cultured than any of you!” (interview R. C., April 9, 1999). Moreover, Afro-­Antilleans were assumed to be temporary migrants who did not fit into the trope of the nation. Discriminatory remarks were common in regard to Afro-­Antilleans. Mestizos and colonial blacks disapproved of the immigration of Afro-­Antilleans, for “these blacks from the Caribbean world brought with them a different culture, language, religion, character, and personality” (Lewis 1980, 12). Colonial blacks were viewed as the proud

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descendants of “historically rebellious Negroes,” whereas Afro-­Antilleans were perceived as servile and indolent (Paz 1977, 91–92). According to the Afro-­Antillean novelist and poet Carlos Guillermo Wilson, also known as “Cubena”11 (1998): “Many Panamanians hate the chombos because they are not all Catholics (since their grandparents were originally from the West Indies, many of them practice other religions); because they prefer to speak French and English in their homes; and finally because, according to racist Panamanians, too many chombos have failed to participate sufficiently in the process of ethnic whitening in order to ‘better the race’—or to put it more frankly, to erase all that is African. As a result, all traces of an African gene or phenotype is hated and rejected: the woolen hair; the flat, broad nose; the thick lips; and above all, the black skin of the chombos” (Wilson 1998, 41). Yet, it should be highlighted that it is common for Panamanian Afro-­Antilleans, particularly in Bocas del Toro, to have clearly mixed backgrounds. Fernando’s story of tracing his ancestry to Nicaragua, England, Colombia, Spain, and indigenous America, all the way to Africa, is not unique. While marginalization and discrimination came from the elite and middle class in Panama, the United Kingdom was also neglectful of the Afro-­ Antillean population. As Putnam (2013) states, the British government transformed its policies from full support of all its citizens regardless of race in the mid-­nineteenth century to complete neglect a few decades later. British consular officers were more concerned with the problems endured by whites “in coping with exotic people of color than they [were with] their own subjects’ concerns” (Zieger 2010, 518). In spite of their allegiance to the British Commonwealth, the Afro-­ Antillean populations in Panama strove to contribute to the life of their new nation and to improve their conditions. The desire to preserve their distinctive history and heritage went hand in hand with a commitment to demonstrate a connection to the land that had received them. In other words, Afro-­ Antillean intellectuals and workers strove to assert their cultural citizenship (Rosaldo 1994).12 While some Afro-­Antilleans became successful professionals in diverse fields, most worked as unskilled wage earners, becoming the backbone of Panama’s industries for at least one hundred years. On their back, the middle class that despised them was built (Westerman 1961, 346). Regardless of their economic activities, they were proud of being recognized as an industrious group by Panamanian authorities, as Westerman notes: “No less than 12 of Panama’s Presidents have spoken in glowing terms of the worth of West Indians and figures of public standing have concurred with this appraisal” (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 23). Subsequent generations of Afro-­ Antilleans continued the connection to the British motherland by highlighting their exceptionality in terms of

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language, customs, fashion, and moral attributes (Maloney 1981; Westerman 1950, 1980). Those Afro-­Antilleans living in the Canal Zone also were influenced by the United States in their lifestyle, cultural outlook, and economic characteristics (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 11). For Westerman (1961), the cultural and linguistic characteristics of Afro-­Antilleans were adaptable to US culture (340). Meanwhile, they nurtured the ambition of integrating fully into Panama’s political life by participating in local elections or commenting regularly about politics on the media. As Leo G. Colleymore noted in 1977, “with the achievement of some power and growing self-­consciousness, blacks [insisted] on a larger share of identification with the national concept” (Colleymore 1977). Nevertheless, the Afro-­Antillean community was not a unified entity. In Panama City, Colón, and Bocas del Toro, Afro-­Antilleans belonged to what El Panamá América (1971) denominates “distinctive castes.” These groups included the conservatives (those who were first-­generation migrants from the West Indies), the society (those who were well educated and had access to privileges), the Zonians (those who worked for the Panama Canal and found their affiliations closer to the United States), and the integrated (those who were perceived as being incorporated into Panamanian society and its norms and practices). In Bocas del Toro, for example, a thriving rural bourgeoisie developed at the end of the banana export boom of the 1920s. Because of previous working experiences, Afro-­Antilleans were considered hard and responsible workers—although racism and stereotyping against them was present. In addition, their command of the English language deeply facilitated communication between North American chiefs and workers (Andrews 1997, 16). When outbreaks of the Panama disease in the banana plantations and the Great Depression led the United Fruit Company to cut back and in due course close its Atlantic Coast plantations, the company reduced its payroll and sold part of its properties. Many Afro-­Antilleans were promoted to replace US citizens as clerks and supervisors and became landowners and small-­scale producers. As George Reid Andrews (1997) noted, “As the plantations closed down in the 1930s, West Indians who had worked or grown bananas for the company took advantage of its withdrawal to buy parcels of land and establish small-­and medium-­sized family farms. The result was the creation by mid-­century of a black rural middle class in the old banana zones, a complete reversal of the impact of the export boom elsewhere” (17).13 This is the rural bourgeoisie about which Fernando spoke when he shared his childhood experiences. Thus, Afro-­Antilleans were a bicultural group, sharing major aspects of the national cultural code with the dominant class, and sharing the (Afro-­ Antillean) code with other Afro-­Antilleans. This dual competence varied

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from individual to individual and probably differed markedly between urban blacks and those living as peasants. Nonetheless, it guaranteed a space and a degree of power for Afro-­Antillean populations.

Racism against Afro-­Antilleans and the Search for a National Identity Narrative Today, Afro-­Antilleans are recognized as an intrinsic component of Panama’s social history as well as of the country’s broader movement toward multicultural narratives. These narratives have been particularly used to promote tourism, something I discuss in detail in the next chapter. However, this emphasis on multiculturalism—rather than on the melting pot metaphor—is a relatively new idea within the evolution of Panama’s national accounts. Although Afro-­Antilleans—especially those living in Bocas del Toro—experienced a relatively privileged position in the past compared to other groups of African descent, this did not prevent them from being the target of racism. In the twentieth century, the presence of the United States encouraged a focus on power and growth of the Panamanian state, “while [it] also limited its ideological evolution and its movement toward a pluralist structure” (Szok 2004, 52), both in terms of political beliefs and racial relations. Racist sentiments were present in the relations between the United States and black populations in Panama, who were not considered worthy or able to be proper citizens (Szok 2004, 53). Westerman (1950) spoke of an “indissoluble bond” between Panama and the United States, which was used as an excuse for the presence of racial inequalities in Panamanian society (GWC, SCRBC, Box 63, Folder 10; Westerman 1950, 1). As Westerman (1955) stated, “We are not saying that [racism] was not lived or felt before, but we emphasize the fact that . . . under North American influence, it has impressed upon a seal that marks the relationships among Panamanians” (GWC, SCRBC, 73/25; Westerman 1955, 3). Panamanian elites created a world composed of whites, almost whites, and the rest. They propagated an unequal system, and segregation existed for specific minorities, including Afro-­Antilleans. There were, nevertheless, efforts made by some Panamanian governments to support the struggle of Afro-­Antilleans. The regimes of Enrique A. Jiménez (1945–48) and Ernesto De la Guardia (1956–60) were two such cases.14 Overall, however, until recent years when the Panamanian government began to use tourism to boost the economy, Afro-­Antilleans were placed outside the construction of the notions of national identity. The Hispanoamericanist and ruralist movements of the 1920s, the Panameñista movement of the 1930s, and the relatively more progressive panameñidad movement of the 1950s, as discussed in chapter 1, either explicitly argued against an inclusion or completely ignored their presence in the nation.

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Afro-­Antilleans were regarded as “breaking the ethnic unity” of Panama (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 201). In 1925, Olmedo Alfaro published the second edition of his influential work El Peligro Antillano en la América Central: La Defensa de la Raza (1925) (The Antillean Danger in Central America: The Defense of Race). This work offered a contradictory argument, strongly defending racist theories while at the same time arguing for the presence of a racial democracy in Panama. Alfaro argued that Afro-­Antilleans were a menace because of their cultural, social, historical, and racial differences, and that although the “problem” was common to all Central America and the Caribbean, it was particularly acute in Panama as a result of the infrastructural projects that brought Afro-­ Antilleans to the country (Alfaro 1925, 13–14). An often-­cited paragraph in his text is a citation from the newspaper Gráfico of August 30, 1925: “One of the most serious problems that the country needs to resolve is that of the Antilleans that infest our cities . . . depress our living standards and with their strange customs, give to Panama, Colón and Bocas del Toro the appearance of African villages” (in Alfaro 1925, 14). For some Panamanian scholars, Alfaro presented his argument not as a racist point of view but as a “national, economic, cultural, linguistic, and religious necessity” (Milazzo 2013, 71). Alfaro was alarmed about the large number of Afro-­Antillean Protestant immigrants in Panama. He argued that Afro-­Antilleans were distinctively different from Latino Panamanians and were always willing to side with Anglo-­Saxons (Alfaro 1925, 18). This general antipathy toward Afro-­Antilleans was present among prominent Panamanians and translated into racist migratory laws. Panamanian workers considered Afro-­Antilleans strong competition, and the legal system aimed to prevent them from taking positions of power (Guerrón Montero 2014a). Negative sentiments against Afro-­Antilleans were especially forceful once the construction of the Panama Canal ended15 and were translated into law. For example, Laws No. 13 of 1926 and No. 6 of 1928, put forth before Arias Madrid’s panameñista regime, imposed restrictions on those who were permitted to enter the country from the Antilles and the Guyanas whose native language was not Spanish, and only allowed the entrance of ten non-­ Spanish-­speaking black persons per year (Westerman 1980, 93, 95; GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Denationalization Law, 21).16 The following year, the law was revised to allow the migration of “resident expatriates native to the Antilles” under certain restrictions, which included a special permit from the Ministry of Foreign Relations through a Panamanian consul. In the 1930s, as an economic crisis hit Panama and other countries around the globe, Panama began blaming all social ills on Afro-­Antilleans, enhancing an economic, ethnic, and cultural discrimination through policy

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(Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 203). For instance, Article 17 of Law No. 54 of 1938 established that persons of “prohibited” immigration needed to make a deposit of US$500 to enter the country, and for a maximum of thirty days. Those individuals in the “prohibited” category included a very disparate group: “English-­speaking Negroes, Chinese, Armenians, Arabs, Turks, Hindus, Syrians, Lebanese, Palestinians and North Africans of the Turkish race” (GWC, SCRBC, 63/9; Villiers 1963, 1–2).17 A 1948 opinion article in the Panama Tribune accuses landlords and real estate agencies of perpetuating “poor housing conditions for non-­white people through a form of restrictive covenant by which homes and apartments . . . can only be rented or sold to members of the Caucasian race” (Panama Tribune, September 26, 1949, 8). Afro-­Antilleans and their descendants “occupied the last step in the social esteem, and the first place in the desires for racial segregation of the groups in power and the middle class” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 250). Racial discrimination was present in every place that Afro-­ Antilleans accessed, including entrance in schools and job opportunities. Some argued that discrimination was due to language differences, but this was only one aspect of this situation. In the 1950s, being patriotic in Panama meant rejecting learning English in school, because “loving Panama was in direct proportion to rejecting [the United States]” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 238). Being patriotic meant refusing anything that was viewed as “yanki,” to respond to the accusations of the rest of Latin American countries that Panama was merely a colony of the United States. In this context, Afro-­ Antilleans suffered tremendously because they were seen as natural allies of the United States and anything “English.” Although Afro-­Antillean intellectuals such as Westerman emphasized race as the major source of discrimination, in fact, arguments against Afro-­ Antilleans were both racial and cultural. Afro-­Antilleans were distinguished not only from other ethnic groups but also from Afro-­Colonials. Out of these arguments came the commonsense justification that Afro-­Colonials were easily “woven into the fabric of the national life . . . and cannot now be distinguished from the descendants of colonial days” (Westerman 1950, 10). The eugenic ideas that permeated Latin America in the first half of the twentieth century (Stepan 1996) were evident in Panama as well, where the hope and expectation was to attract European migrants to the country to “purify the race” and achieve progress. Meanwhile, the mixture of people (particularly women) from the central provinces with persons of Afro-­Antillean or Chinese descent was viewed as the worst potential outcome of Panama’s diversity. The anti-­Afro-­Antillean campaign wanted Afro-­Antilleans out of Panama’s national identity for they were considered biologically inferior and

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culturally incompatible. Afro-­ Antilleans were believed to release a foul smell and practice witchcraft, and their neighborhoods were assumed to be plagued with “misery, gossip, illnesses, sex and colorful clothing” (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 211). Additionally, very few spoke Spanish or were familiar with Panama’s “national culture”; many did not feel an attachment toward Panama but were despised for enjoying electoral and labor rights as Panamanian nationals (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 206). Afro-­Antilleans have contributed to almost every facet of Panamanian life, actively participating “in helping to make this cosmopolitan crossroads of the Americas a healthier, richer, happier and vibrantly self-­fulfilling place” (Gaskin 1984, 34). And yet, their participation has been marginalized and devalued throughout the history of Panama. “When an entire group is forced to play an inferior role in any society, be it in terms of living conditions, working opportunities, recreational facilities, health norms, educational privileges, that is, in all the prerequisites to maintain the dignity of a group, then the individuals who form that entity tend to acquire feelings of inferiority” (GWC, SCRBC, 73/25; Westerman 1955, 3). The social place of Afro-­Antilleans in Panamanian society during the nineteenth century and throughout most of the twentieth century has been uncertain (Guerrón Montero 2014a). They have defended their identities through their ethnicity and their nationality as Panamanians. Some Afro-­ Antilleans responded to the discrimination they endured by isolating themselves from Panamanian national life. Others responded by working toward transforming the existing legal, social, and economic structures. One such example is Law No. 25, a law proposed on February 9, 1956, by Westerman, as a member of the National Patriotic Coalition Party. The law was intended to address the discriminatory Constitution of 1941 and the development of the concept of “races of prohibited migration.” Westerman’s Law No. 25 also sought to prohibit discrimination resulting from birth, race, social class, sex, religion, and political ideas.18 The law, specifically barring discrimination in public places, educational centers, bureaucratic jobs, and the police force, and which was approved by the government in 1956, was a crucial step toward the achievement of legal equality in Panama, and it became known as the Huertematte or Hurtemate Law (Human Rights Everywhere 2012, 5).19 The Heurtematte Law illustrates the constant efforts of Afro-­Antilleans in their struggle against discrimination and quest for equality in a country that had rejected them since their arrival. Westerman himself played an important role in the evolution of the place of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama. Other efforts to fight Afro-­ Antillean discrimination include the creation of the National Civic League (a collective founded in 1944 to defend the citizen rights of Afro-­Antillean, Jewish, and Chinese populations) and

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the formation—earlier than in the rest of Latin American countries—of unequivocally black organizations such as the Movimiento Afro-­Panameño (Afro-­Panamanian Movement) in the late 1960s, influenced by the civil rights movement in the United States (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 154; Andrews 1997). Additional examples are the Congreso del Negro Panameño (Congress of Black Panamanians) in 1981, 1983, and 1988, and the Comité Panameño contra el Racismo (Panamanian Committee against Racism) in 1999; the approval of Law 11 eliminating labor discrimination in 2005 (Priestly and Barrow 2010);20 the creation of the Office for Equality and Tolerance in 2001 (El Siglo, June 1, 2001, 10); the establishment of the Comisión Nacional Contra la Discriminación (National Commission against Discrimination) in 2002; the formation by the Panamanian government of the Consejo Nacional de la Etnia Negra (National Council of Black Ethnicity) in 2007; and the creation of institutions such as the Afro-­Antillean Museum and the Center for Afro-­Panamanian Studies in the 1980s, and the George Washington Westerman Center in 2000. All highlight the endeavors of Afro-­Panamanian activists and scholars to mitigate the damning effects of the Constitution of 1941 and its preceding laws and to shape unified diasporic identities. More recently, Afro-­Panamanians have worked at forging larger movements of race consciousness, fostered or endorsed particularly by Afro-­Antilleans abroad (Maloney 2010) as well as Pan-­African movements in Colombia, Cuba, and Brazil (Guerrón Montero 2014a). Despite this complex social history that has included centuries of discrimination and marginalization, a homogenizing discourse of the Panamanian government has recently emerged, reflecting a change to becoming more open in a complex, multiracial and socioculturally diverse society (Porras 2005, 38). In 2001—while celebrating the Day of the Black Ethnicity and the formation of the Office for Equality and Tolerance—Panama City mayor Juan Carlos Navarro stated, “Panama is a country with an ethnic, racial, cultural and religious physiognomy unlike any in the world, which makes us richer as Panamanians and as a nation” (El Siglo, June 1, 2001, 10). Panama now embraces a master narrative of nationhood that incorporates multiethnic and multicultural elements. One of the primary reasons that this change in the homogenizing discourse—a change that reflects a significant shift in official identity narratives of the previous centuries—has come about is due to the way the tourism industry has developed in Panama. As it happened in several Latin American countries throughout the 1990s, the elites appropriated this homogenizing discourse by waving the multicultural flag to essentialize otherness and transform it into an attractive tourism product (cf. Briones 2005). The interoceanic, interior, and marginal cultures have merged in the tourism era

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of Panama and in the construction of the country as a destination. Panama is now branded as a cosmopolitan, multicultural nation, with excellent services and economic development, a perfect place for cosmopolitan citizens of the world to settle. Panama is also a nation of traditions and customs that have been preserved and that make the country attractive to tourists and to permanent and semipermanent residents. Thus, Panama’s tourism regimes highlight cultural heritage and multiculturalism as fundamental attractions. The ethnic groups that were viewed as unacceptable, marginal, and outside the confines of the nation (indigenous peoples, Afro-­Antilleans, certain practices from Afro-­Colonial groups) are now welcomed and incorporated for tourism purposes in today’s postmodern neoliberal multiculturalism, which defines the nation in terms of its multiculturality rather than an idealized homogenous culture. Ethnic differentiation is recognized in Panama, if not constitutionally, discursively, and as I have argued before, for the purpose of making tourism “the way” toward prosperity (Guerrón Montero 2015a). Evidently, this integration is asymmetric and unequal, with the culture of interoceanity dominating over any potential “dissonant heritage” (Ashworth and Larkham 1994). Afro-­Antillean histories of migration to Central and South America, and the United States, are a clear example of their transnational experience and networks. But these complex multicultural histories were neglected in Panama’s pretourism history, and thus, it has been left to this ethnic group to counter the official discourse of heritage through political activism and partly through the practice of tourism, something I discuss in detail in the next chapter.

3 “Panama Is More Than a Canal” The Twenty-­First Century and the Panamanian Tourism Industry

Why not go to a paradise where people are warm and gentle? —Instructor at Instituto Panameño de Turismo seminar on ecological tourism, 1999 In a story set in the 1850s and published in the US magazine Overland Monthly in 1870, two young white American men sailed from New York to the California goldfields. During their journey, one of them fell ill with “Isthmus fever” in Chagres, Panama, and a young woman took care of him. The young woman was described in the article as “dark-­skinned . . . being made up of the usual diverse bloods of the Isthmus—Spanish, Indian, and Negro— mingled in such manner and through so many generations that the true proportion of each could not be ascertained with any approach to correctness” (Kip 1870, 166). Surviving his illness, the white man fell in love with his caregiver and decided rather spontaneously to stay in Panama. Soon after, however, in an effort to escape the ire of the young woman’s actual husband, the American continued his trip to California. In the story, the man goes on to imagine how his life might have been if he had stayed with the woman— filled with “the fruits of the ground”—and how “in such an oasis of pleasant days their lives would gently glide along” (171). This nineteenth-­century story illustrates not only the way the racial diversity that characterized Panama might be described by a white traveler at this time but also the health risks of the tropics—the malaises that affected the region included yellow fever and malaria1—as well as its attractions and promises for plenty (Cocks 2007). Travel, movements, and migrations, much of it connected to the history of the Canal, have marked Panama’s history; with it, an image of danger mixed with attraction has emerged. In 2012, Panama launched a large-­scale country branding and advertising campaign in

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an effort to attract additional tourism and investment to the country. Although this campaign, which was called “Panama, the way,” still made use of the country’s history as a place of transit and the home of the renowned Panama Canal, it also tried to go past the Canal and present the country as having many other opportunities for short-­term tourists and long-­term investors. Similar to earlier ad campaigns (such as the one called “Panama Is More Than a Canal”), the 2012 campaign sought to move away from the suggestion that Panama’s economy, history, and cultures are exclusively connected to the Canal. Both of these campaigns—which included a specific turn to highlighting “multiculturalism,” and involved the merging of elements of nationalism and consumer culture in an effort to reinvent the national narrative (Sanín 2016)—represent a noteworthy turn in the politics of the nation. Both campaigns have been recognized as successful commercially in the Latin American context (Future Brand 2013, 39).2 But Panama’s effort to rebrand the country as a multicultural nation with plenty to offer tourists needs to be understood in the context of the role the Panama Canal has played in the construction of this young nation-­state. In great measure, Panama’s remarkable cultural diversity results from the presence of the Canal in its territory, because the economy and industry surrounding the Canal’s construction involved the importation of workers from around the world, ultimately resulting in a mixed ethnic population unlike anywhere else in Latin America. Meanwhile, since it was constituted as a republic in 1903, Panamanian scholars have stressed the country’s struggle to assert its sovereignty over the Canal Zone due to its political, economic, and military dependency on the United States (Gandásegui 1993, 2000; Sánchez 2002). As Néstor Porcell (1986) has noted, “the problems related to the Canal were always the barometer of Panama’s international policies” (29). But recent decades have seen numerous efforts to rebrand the country’s national narrative. Ever since Panama entered a democratic period after General Manuel Noriega was deposed in 1989, Panamanian governments have made resolute efforts to represent Panama as a country of many offerings beyond the Canal and to move resources away from it by encouraging investment in other aspects of the service industry. As a result of vigorous advertising campaigns starting in the mid-­1990s, Panama transformed its reputation from being a country long assumed to be dangerous and mostly beyond the tourism radar (with the exception of the Canal, the Colón Duty-­Free Trade Zone, and the Archipelago of Guna Yala) into what the New York Times would eventually call in 2012 the “best destination to visit” and what has been named the first out of “eight best places to retire in the world” (Guerrón Montero 2015a). When Fernando Powell moved back to Bocas del Toro in the late 1990s to run his hotel after living in Panama City for many years, tourism in Panama

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and in Bocas del Toro had exploded. Fernando had long ago moved to Panama City in order to find work, but by the late 1990s, the tourism industry began to offer significant employment and income options in certain destinations around the country. Fernando’s son, Gabriel, also moved to Bocas to assist his father in running the family hotel. Fernando, Gabriel, and many others—several of whom I discuss in later chapters of this book—were able to make a living off tourism in the 1990s and 2000s. By and large, this development of the tourism sector was a direct result of the rebranding and tourism promotional governmental campaigns and Panama’s Tourism Development Master Plan, first put into motion in 1993, and which I discuss in more detail further on in this chapter. Despite this success in the rebranding and tourism campaigns, the Panama Canal continues to have great symbolic significance and touristic appeal. The notion of Panama being the “bridge of the world, heart of the universe” remains permanently attached to Panamanians’ ideas about their own country and in the government’s views of Panama as a nation-­state. Moreover, the Canal continues to be one of the most visited sites in the country. Even though it is not considered a world heritage site and does not receive multilateral support, it was named one of the seven modern wonders of the world in 1994 by the American Society of Civil Engineers. In 2014, the Panama Canal had almost a million visitors, representing an increase of 9.6 percent from 2013, and although more visitors were expected due to its one-­ hundred-­year anniversary, that amount of growth in tourism is substantial (El Comercio, October 28, 2014, 16).3 Despite this healthy tourism to the Canal, Panama has long recognized that it cannot rely on the Canal alone to remain competitive within the global tourism industry. The turn toward promoting multiculturalism as part of Panama’s national narrative in recent decades has been an important part of the country’s efforts to diversify its touristic offerings, particularly through what Laurajane Smith (2006) calls an “authorized heritage discourse.”

The Beginnings of Tourism in Panama: “Go for the Canal; Stay for Everything Else” Tourism has come to occupy a central place in the economies of many Latin American countries since the early twentieth century, replacing traditional colonial staples like sugar, tobacco, and coffee (Fields 1984; Guerrón Montero 2018; Spoor 2000). Given the relevance of the tourism industry for Latin American economic and cultural capital, studying the role of the state in managing tourism provides a way to understand not only how it manages the larger issue of development (Bowman 2013), but also how it produces national narratives that are then negotiated by its social and ethnic groups.

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The case of tourism in Panama is unusual in the region in that governmental efforts to develop tourism in a systematic way emerged later than in most Latin American countries, most notably during the mid to late 1990s (Guerrón Montero 2006a). Nevertheless, there were some previous efforts to increase tourism as early as the first decade of the twentieth century. For example, once it became an independent republic in 1903, the Panamanian government attempted to develop measures to attract tourists. Additionally, in June 1904 the US and Panamanian governments signed an agreement through which the Panamanian currency, the balboa, acquired parity with the US dollar. This greatly facilitated commerce and travel. Organizations were also founded to promote investment at this time, and as early as 1915, the first president of the Association of Commerce of Panama, Horacio Alfaro, stated that one of the most important objectives of the association was the presentation of the republic to the world as an “attractive place to live and do business,” promoting the organization of conventions and national and international conferences and cultivating commercial and social relations with the world (Araúz 1994, 42–43). Many of these efforts were successful, and conventions and congresses became relatively common in Panama.4 In the 1940s, President Enrique A. Jiménez (1945–48) developed governmental policies to increase tourism. These involved the improvement of public infrastructure, including the Tocumen International Airport—the country’s first international airport—in 1947, and creating a free port focused on reexporting merchandise to Latin America and the Caribbean, known as the Colón Duty-­Free Trade Zone in 1948 (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 236; Ahumada 2009). Other examples of governmental efforts to develop business and investment via tourism include the corporatist measures taken by Omar Torrijos’s government in the 1970s. He expanded the Duty-­Free Trade Zone in Colón and created an international bank center with more than 110 banks. Additionally, he developed tourism infrastructure in Contadora Island, restored specific structures in Panamá La Vieja (Old Panama) and the historic center (Casco Viejo), increasing tourism earnings by 100 percent (Barletta 2009, 74). Although in recent years Panama has used tourism to promote national narratives of multiculturalism, the tourism efforts in Panama in the past were sometimes used to justify prior national narratives, ones that institutionalized ethnic and racial hierarchies within the country. One such example, which has long been important for economic and symbolic reasons, has been carnival, an established event in Panama for more than a century. Carnival started as a festivity of the working classes and was quickly appropriated and institutionalized by the elites and the first Republican governments in the beginning of the twentieth century. As an emblematic event that signaled unity

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and the celebration of Panama’s nationality, it incorporated Panamanians into a process of Panameñization, forcing ethnic groups such as indigenous peoples to celebrate it. For instance, the imposition of the celebration of carnival among the Guna indigenous peoples was one of the factors that motivated them to rise up against the Panamanian government in 1925 (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 221–22). Carnival justified using elaborate and expensive pollera dresses—associated with the Hispanic peasant of the central provinces—by elite women (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 221–22), thus reinforcing the centrality of this figure in the national Panamanian narrative. At the level of national institutions, tourism organizations date back to the 1930s. The Comisión Nacional de Turismo (National Commission of Tourism) was formed in 1934; in 1960, it became the Instituto Panameño de Turismo, IPAT (Panamanian Bureau of Tourism). Since its origins, its main functions were to establish the areas of touristic attraction (at the historical, archaeological, and environmental level), to propose a national tourism policy in relationship to governmental policies, and to develop investment and financing plans nationally and abroad (Smith 2005).5 In 2008, and due to the significance of the tourism industry, IPAT became the Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá, ATP (Panamanian Tourism Authority), an entity with ministerial status. Governmental focus on tourism development through policies, infrastructure, and institutionalization brought more visitors. However, not all tourists were equally welcome in the Isthmus. The racist beliefs that were pervasive in Panama for decades hindered the arrival of English-­speaking black tourists as late as the 1960s. Demonstrating the enduring ethnic and racial discrimination against Afro-­ Antilleans in Panama, potential visitors coming from the same regions from where large migrations of Afro-­ Antillean workers had arrived were not welcomed (GWC, SCRBC, 63/9; Villiers 1963, 1–2). Thus, an Afro-­Antillean from Jamaica or Barbados with the desire to travel to Panama—perhaps to visit his extended family in the neighborhood of El Marañón in Panama City, perhaps to see relatives in Colón and marvel at the Panama Canal—was required to apply to the Ministry of Foreign Relations for a visa to enter the country. He also needed to make a deposit of US$500 and could only stay for thirty days (Westerman 1950, 18). In 1963, Westerman—then editor of the Panama Tribune—denounced discriminatory practices toward Afro-­Antillean tourists (particularly those from Jamaica and Barbados), not to mention that such practices were largely against Law No.  16 of June  30, 1960, which established that there should not be any restriction or discrimination toward visitors of friendly nations (GWC, SCRBC, 63/9; Villiers 1963, 2). Up until the early 1990s, tourism in Panama centered on three main sites:

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the Panama Canal, the Duty-­Free Zone in the city of Colón, and the Comarca Guna Yala in the Archipelago of San Blas. Within these sites, eight types of tours were offered: cruises through the Panama Canal and observations of the Canal; wildlife tours to Barro Colorado Island in Gatun Lake; tours to the province of Darién; beach tours to islands, particularly Taboga, Contadora, and San Blas; tours to the highland towns of Boquete, Antón Valley, and Cerro Punta; deep-­sea fishing tours to Bahía Piña and Contadora; sports diving tours to Portobelo; convention offerings in Panama City; and shopping tours in Panama City and Colón. As the success of tourism depends on government stability and an assurance of personal safety, the political instability after the 1989 US invasion led to a great disruption in tourism (Lankford, Grybovych, and Lankford 2008; Guerrón Montero 2014b; Zimbalist and Weeks 1991; Sánchez 2007). In the early 1990s, Panama recorded an all-­time low number of tourists, with only 187,307 tourists (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 20), compared with the high of 380,000 tourists in 1980 and 383,000 in 1983 (Yoshida, Yachiyo Engineering Company, and Pacific Consultants International 1995, II-­3; Casado 2001, 89). It took ten years for the number of tourists to reach this mark again. Despite the efforts of IPAT to strengthen the image of Panama in the world tourism market, particularly since 1990, “the events of previous years that led to one of the worst sociopolitical crises and culminated in 1989, practically severed Panama from its major sources of tourists in the world” (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 30). At the time, Panama either had a negative image or none at all in the world’s tourism circuit. With the onset of democracy at the end of 1989 and the departure of about seven thousand US troops from the Panama Canal in 1999—and consistent with the neoliberal view of most Latin American countries (Baud and Ypeij 2009)—the governments of Guillermo Endara (1989–94) and Ernesto Pérez Balladares (1994–99) concentrated on tourism as the most viable alternative for economic development and focused on transforming Panama into an appealing destination. In 1993, Pérez Balladares signed a US$685 million technical agreement between the Secretariat of Planning and Economic Policy (MIPPE) and the Department of Regional Development and Environment of the Organization of American States (OAS) to formulate a Tourism Development Master Plan (TDMP), commonly called Master Plan, that would divide the country into nine tourism zones (later revised to ten zones), provide the framework for the industry’s future growth (Anicetti 1998c, 70), and be fully implemented by 2002 by IPAT (table 3.1). The goal of the Master Plan was to support domestic tourism and increase

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Table 3.1. Panama’s tourism zones and number of attractions Zone no.

Zone name

No. attractions

Zone 1

La Amistad

61

4.4

Zone 2

Bastimentos

78

5.6

Zone 3

Arco Seco

127

9.1

Zone 4

Farallón

20

1.4

Zone 5

Metropolitana

126

9.0

Zone 6

Portobelo

80

5.7

Zone 7

San Blas

290

20.7

Zone 8

Las Perlas

136

9.7

Zone 9

Darién

72

5.2

No zone

Outside Tourism Zones

408

29.2

1,398

100

Total

Percentage

Source: Data from International Technical Cooperation Agreement (1993).

international tourism “to boost regional development and employment creation” (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 33–36). The two main markets were Europe and the United States, and public relations efforts were developed to strengthen the image of Panama worldwide. At this point, the master national narrative of Panama as a melting pot with predominant Hispanic origins morphed into one where multiculturalism took primacy. In parallel, the national narrative of progress and modernity took a back seat to the portrait of Panama as an “almost-­virgin environment,” a culturally diverse destination framed within democracy and “away from the militaristic polity that [had] plagued the country for several decades” (Casado 2001, 93). Also in 1993, the same year that he signed the agreement to create the Master Plan, Pérez Balladares instituted Law No. 8 to promote tourism activities and establish special tax incentives for investors (Anicetti 1998a, 55).6 This law defined tourism activities as those that contribute to the increase of foreign visitors and the diversification of investments. It provided special

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tax incentives for construction and development of tourism facilities as well as investments for historic sites (Smith 2005, 34–35). The objective of these agreements and legal measures was “to make Panama a ‘brand name’ in the tourist market, and [for] each of its nine zones [to] be a ‘model’ to make this brand competitive” (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 33). A secondary aspect of the Master Plan was providing low-­interest loans to travel agents and small hospitality operators to improve their businesses; likewise, tour operators were given technical assistance to develop special tourism packages for target markets, such as the diving, surfing, trekking, and rafting industries (Casado 2001, 90). The plan also called for the development of recreational tourism (beaches and adventure sports in particular), and the maintenance of convention and shopping tourism. In addition to the economic aspects of the plan, a fundamental goal was transforming the outlook of Panama’s citizens toward their national imaginary—specifically toward one that would embrace a new vision of Panama, one that was historically and ecologically rich, but also multiculturally and ethnically diverse—and to spread the awareness “among all sectors concerned .  .  . that tourism is a necessary component of Panama’s economy” (Casado 2001, 90).

Destination Panama: A Cosmopolitan, Tropical Paradise The way tourism destinations become part of a country’s imaginary tends to be through cultural and ideological representations, particularly those depicted in popular culture and the global entertainment industry. As Noel Salazar has noted, this imaginary then gets reproduced in a sort of “representational loop” in media such as literature, film, and the fine arts, which “give ‘authenticity’ to peoples and places” (Salazar 2010, 43). This representational loop in Panama tends to navigate between depictions of the country as a cosmopolitan nation that has overcome great hardships in order to become modern, developed, and independent, and that of a tropical paradise, the true “banana republic,” where people engage in stereotypical behavior ascribed to warm, welcoming, and relaxed locations. Together, they present Panama as a cosmopolitan, tropical paradise. Due to Panama’s ecological wealth and significant ethnic and multicultural diversity, governmental focus was placed on two types of tourism: high-­end heritage tourism (including sociocultural tourism) and ecotourism (Pérez Balladares 1998, 4), in addition to the already existing business and recreational tourism (Smith 2005, 36). To accomplish this, the Action Plan for the Development of the Tourism-­Conservation-­Research Strategic Alliance (TCR Action Plan) was created. The plan’s goal was to transform Panama into a model heritage destination with conservation and ecological research as key aspects. Another important objective was to mark a clear

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distinction between the tourism offerings of Costa Rica, Panama’s neighbor and long-­established ecotourism mecca, and those available in Panama. Tourism was to be seamlessly integrated within the context of sites such as Old Panama and Casco Viejo (Ayala 1998a),7 in what Crespi Vallbona and Planells Costa (2003) call “tourism with identity.” The main characteristic of this type of tourism is that it aims to connect a touristic product with a country’s heritage and to make this heritage relevant not only for its citizens but also for visitors worldwide (Peacock and Rizzo 2008, 8).8 In Panama, this approach centered on preserving particular aspects of the country’s past in connection with the growth of nationalism and the preservation of a presumed multicultural national identity. Heritage tourism was one of IPAT’s primary initial foci for increasing tourism. Because of its history, Panama and its almost eight hundred islands were “traveled, settled, and endowed with a rich cultural legacy by a number of distinctive ethnic groups” (Ayala 1998a, 1–2). With this in mind, IPAT’s intention was to develop “intellectual heritage routes” that highlighted indigenous peoples and peoples of African descent. Bocas del Toro, which I discuss in more detail below, figured as one of the most prominent routes. In terms of ecotourism, an exuberantly rich environment was marketed as an essential component of Panama’s uniqueness, as the land bridge of the Americas and as a presumed natural ecotourism destination (Anicetti 1998b, 32).9 Unquestionably, Panama has an astonishing megadiversity. For instance, in Barro Colorado, an island in Gatún Lake where a Smithsonian station operates, more species of plants can be found than in the whole of Europe. According to Hana Ayala, IPAT international consultant, “the Isthmus of Panama has become a migration route along which the species of two distinct worlds have intermingled—producing an extraordinary biodiversity. In the number of species of flowering plants, Panama compares to all of Europe; it has more species of insects, reptiles, birds and mammals than Canada and the United States combined” (Ayala 1998a, 1–2). In the biological studies put forth by IPAT as part of their proposed Master Plan, the biodiversity of the country’s fauna and flora was reported as having more than 900 species of birds, 1,300 species of orchids, plus more than 220 species of mammals (including six species of wild cats), almost 400 of amphibians and reptiles, 1,500 species of diurnal butterflies, 678 species of ferns, and 1,500 varieties of trees (Ayala 1998a; Casado 2001). This averaged almost eight different species per square kilometer. Approximately 38 percent of Panama’s land area is protected in twenty-­five areas and fifty-­ seven Key Biodiversity Areas (KBAs) that include fourteen national parks, two cultural heritage sites, three natural heritage sites, one biosphere reserve, five marine parks, more than a dozen forest reserves, and ten wildlife

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refuges (Endara 1998; Ayala 1998b; Casado 2001; United Nations Environment 2018). Although relatively small, Panama has 2,800 kilometers of coast, coral reefs on both Atlantic and Pacific Coasts, and 170,800 hectares of mangroves—the largest extent in Central America. Taken as a whole, Panama is truly “a colossal ecosystem” (Endara 1998). Other types of tourism offered included ethnic tourism. Although ethnic tourism received less administrative focus than heritage tourism, it remained one of the government’s primary ideas for increasing touristic development. Ethnic tourism, “motivated primarily by the visitor’s search for exotic cultural experiences through interaction with distinctive ethnic groups” (Yang and Wall 2009, 235), had been practiced in Panama for decades, but had not been instituted as part of a governmental policy. The Guna indigenous peoples were the first to practice indigenous tourism in Panama, which differs from ethnic tourism in that it is run by the indigenous group itself rather than outside mediators. Due to their long history of independent organizing and autonomy, the Guna have run the tourism industry within the Archipelago of Guna Yala since the 1990s. The governments of Mireya Moscoso (1999–2004), Martín Torrijos (2004–9), Ricardo Martinelli (2009–14), and Juan Carlos Varela (2014–19) have continued the tourism policies of their predecessors, with the significant addition of international residential tourism since 2000 as a path to economic growth heavily promoted by the government for the nation-­state and its elites (Instituto Panameño de Turismo 2008b; Klytchnikova and Dorosh 2009; McWatters 2009; Rudolf 2013, 2014).10 This type of tourism generally refers to Western tourists who move—temporarily or permanently—to another location, do not stay at conventional lodging facilities, and who own, rent, or timeshare their accommodations.11 The Panamanian government encourages residential tourism by promoting laws providing special tax incentives and ownership rights to residential tourists. The inclusion of international residential tourism within Panama’s legislation makes it one of the first countries in Latin America to recognize this niche officially. When IPAT was elevated to the category of a ministry under the name Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá, ATP (Panamanian Tourism Authority), its first minister was Rubén Blades, who directed the ministry between 2004 and 2009. In an interview with Lauren Shaw (2013), Blades noted that in this position of authority he promoted both ecotourism and cultural tourism and a policy of zero growth with the objective of protecting Panama’s ecosystems (177). Detractors of Blades’s administration disagree. Environmental organizations accused him of a very poor performance in terms of defending Panama’s environmental rights. For instance, Blades promoted Law 2 of June 7, 2006, which sanctions the sale, titling, and long-­term concession of insular

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and coastal territories with generous tax incentives. Bocatoreneans and some residential tourists also accused him of promoting the concession of marine territories with coral reefs to build marinas and piers. This law caused great controversies, and the government was frequently accused of using it inappropriately. For example, not all territories have been used for tourism purposes; many are reserved for private use by resident expatriates and others even for illicit purposes.12 As journalist Luis González González (2006, n.p.) stated, “apparently, in Panama anyone with economic power can buy his own beach, or one or two paradisiacal islands, or three if he wants, which will not be used necessarily for tourism purposes.”

Panama’s Master Plan for Tourism The original Master Plan divided the country into nine tourism zones. These are shown in table 3.1 as well as the number of attractions identified by the Master Plan. Zone No.  10 (added years later) is the province of Veraguas. The Master Plan highlighted several tourism trends in Panama in the 1990s. For instance, it stated that only about 20 percent of visitors to the country were “genuine tourists,” meaning tourists that fit the definition established by the World Tourism Organization (WTO) of “any foreigner or local traveling within a country during his leisure time, for periods of more than 24 hours with at least one overnight stay.” The remaining 80 percent were people on business or commercial shopping trips, or who went to Panama to visit relatives and who were not considered tourists for the purpose of the plan. The plan acknowledged the limited destination offerings available at the time, as a result of which very few tourists left the metropolitan area during their visits. In the initial stages of tourism development in the early 1990s and after Panama became a democratic nation, IPAT embarked on a campaign to strengthen the image of the country in the world tourism market beyond Latin America. The outcome was modest at first (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 30). The main tourism market of Panama until 1993 included the Latin American region (Colombia, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Nicaragua, and Venezuela), mostly because of proximity, costs, and common language, and it produced 71.9 percent of the demand. The second market identified was the United States, with 15.5 percent of the demand. This market included business tourists and special interest tourists, such as sports fishermen or bird watchers. Finally, the European market provided only 7.3 percent of the total of international arrivals to the country. The plan pointed out that promotion in Europe was weak: “When compared to their flow into neighboring Costa Rica, the number of European visitors coming to Panama is very low” (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 23–24, 29–30).

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IPAT’s efforts, however, began to come to fruition in the mid-­1990s, and by 1998, with an investment in infrastructure of US$200 million, tourism was the third-­highest contributor to Panama’s gross domestic product (Guillén 2000, 2A). In 1998, tourism accounted for 4 to 5 percent of the GDP, about the same as exports of bananas, shrimp, sugar, and coffee, and it employed thirty thousand people directly or indirectly. In 2003, tourism generated more earnings (US$805 million) than the Panama Canal (US$690.3 million) and the Canal Zone (US$487.7 million) (IPAT 2003, 1, 9), the two main contributors to the country’s GDP in previous decades. By 2006, tourism accounted for 20 percent of the goods and services sector, and annual expenditures by foreign tourists reached US$960 million, or 6 percent of the country’s GDP (Klytchnikova and Dorosh 2009). According to government statistics, tourism today is the first industry of Panama, followed by the Panama Canal and the Duty-­Free Zone in Colón, and it represented 76 percent of internal income between 2001 and 2010 (ATP 2012). Today, Panama has undergone a complete transformation from being perceived as an obscure and unusual location, considered undesirable for tourism development, to a major tourism destination. Recognizing the charm the idea of the “Caribbean” holds as a tourist destination, in the last twenty years, the tourism industry has rediscovered the label “Caribbean” for Panama, a historical and cultural connection that, as a matter of fact, had already been present in Panama for centuries. In general, tourists traveling to Panama visit all ten tourism zones, with Bocas del Toro being among the most popular. Panama continues to attract “genuine” tourists as well as visitors identified in the Tourism Plan in 1993: business tourists, tourists searching for shopping opportunities, recreational tourists, and tourists exclusively interested in Panama City and its surroundings. In addition, Panama has developed a profitable ecotourism market that attracts international tourists looking to explore its rain forests (whether through luxurious accommodations or in the most adventurous conditions) or participate in bird watching and sea sports expeditions. Educational and historical tours take visitors not only through the Panama Canal but also to Portobelo, Colón, the Camino de Cruces, and Camino Real de Panamá (Strassnig 2010), or the recently renovated and mostly gentrified historical center or Casco Antiguo in Panama City (Espino 2008; Sandoval 2001). Those tourists looking for either ethnic or indigenous tourism visit Guna Yala in the Archipelago of San Blas, the Ngöbe indigenous peoples in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago, or Emberá and Wounaan territory in the Darién region. The tourists interested in escaping the tropical heat visit the province of Chiriquí, where they are offered encounters with Panama’s “traditional” peasant culture.

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Panama City is also a popular destination among tourists who are short on time or not interested in doing all the traveling around the country. In addition to being the country’s major urban center and capital, one notable tourist draw in Panama City is the theme park Mis Pueblitos (discussed more in chapter 5), which contains a dramatized sample of Panama’s cultural diversity in the constructed small towns representing the three cultural roots (indigenous, Spanish, and African) that have formed the nation (Guerrón Montero 2009).13 Panama has also boosted medical tourism by offering medical vacations with bilingual and board-­certified doctors “accustomed to working with the same technology and standards used in the United States and Europe” at a fraction of the cost of medical care in those regions (Panama Medical Tourism 2014). Agritourism or agrotourism has also developed as a nascent niche (Inter-­American Institute for Cooperation in Agriculture 2010). Historical tourism, epitomized in visits to Casco Antiguo, is also increasingly popular.14 Casco Antiguo has become an area with many fashionable restaurants, art galleries, and stores, following international trends where tourism becomes a key tool in efforts to regenerate historic cities (Orbasli and Shaw 2004, 93), but also of an undeniable gentrification (Gotham 2005). Culinary, gastronomic, or food tourism is yet another tourism niche recently exploited (Guerrón Montero 2015b), which I discuss in chapter 4. The revised Master Tourism Plan for 2007–20 identifies twenty tourism attractions for future development in addition to the ten tourism zones (Instituto Panameño de Turismo 2008a, 194). As a brochure promoting tourism investment in the country reads, “Panama is a tourist’s delight. It is old. It is new. It is mountains. It is beaches. It is lush tropical forests. It is sophisticated, cosmopolitan cities. It is excitement. It is serenity and solitude. In whatever manner one wishes to spend a day, a week, or an extended vacation—Panama has it all!” (Panama Government Investment Development Center n.d., 3). Since 2012, Panama has joined dozens of countries worldwide offering specialized tourism transport in its major cities through the hop-­on hop-­off tour bus system. This specialized mode of transportation specifically developed for tourists allows people to experience quick overviews of the major tourism attractions in thousands of cities. At the same time, however, and like any packaged tour, it also “leads to limited intercultural contact [and] little opportunity to learn about the destination” (Weightman 1987, 228). This system also constrains the tourists’ choices by preselecting the routes, stops, and scripts, thus constructing specific imaginaries of a destination (Lew and McKercher 2006). In this sense, these packaged tours also participate in the existing representational loops that contribute to the production of specific national narratives in Panama. The company that runs these tours, the Panama City Sightseeing Tours, is

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part of the franchise City Sightseeing Worldwide, with headquarters in Spain and a presence in more than 130 countries around the world. The tours they offer in Panama highlight very specific narratives of the country. They are geared toward maximizing those elements of the national narrative that the Master Plan largely called for in its attempt to define the country as a historic, cosmopolitan, tropical paradise. Panama City Sightseeing Tours competes with more traditional tour offerings such as hiring taxi drivers as unofficial guides. In general, the tourism policies espoused by the ATP are centered on sponsoring large tourism investments, with very little support for small and medium businesses. In effect, this means that international corporations are mostly in charge of the tourism industry in the country and that the benefits of tourism development have not reached most Panamanians. The World Bank identifies Panama as one of the fastest-­growing economies in the Western Hemisphere, with an average economic annual growth rate of 2.78 percent between 2014 and 2018 (World Bank 2018b). Yet approximately 30 percent of Panama’s population lives below the poverty level, and 19 percent lives in extreme poverty (World Bank 2018a). While Panama has had one of the highest per capita income levels in the developing world, its wealth distribution was the second worst in the hemisphere in 2008 (Buckman 2012, 313). As a result of this need for income, although the government has attempted to develop an extensive infrastructure to manage touristic growth, in fact, the tourism economy sometimes develops in unexpected ways, and it is often mediated through unofficial guides and services. One day in July 2014, I took a plane from Panama City to Bocas del Toro on a research trip. As I stepped out of the airport’s front doors, a young man rapidly approached me speaking in a mix of Spanish and limited English. He was trying to suggest to me where I should go to find the best hotel and restaurants, and he was offering to take me there. He was wearing a T-­shirt and jeans. He seemed to be in his early twenties and of indigenous origin. Speaking in Spanish, I tried several times to politely decline his services, indicating to him that a friend of mine had already found accommodations for me. My friend Marta arrived at that moment and, in her customary no-­ nonsense approach, told the young man to leave me alone. I was not, after all, the usual tourist. However, this young man was part of a phenomenon that is common in certain touristic destinations around the world, but relatively new in Panama, first starting to emerge in the mid-­2000s: the presence of young men of Afro-­Antillean or indigenous descent who wait for tourists at the airport or water taxi terminal and follow them while they walk around the town’s streets, offering to take them to the best hotel, travel agency, or restaurant in town. Locally known as llevo-­llevo (literally, “I take you–I take

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you”), they are paid by the offering business and do not always speak English or Wari-­wari. Many of these informal guides venture a few words in English before switching to Spanish with relief if the tourist understands. Malcolm Crick (1992) calls this apparently carefree “hanging about” of informal guides indispensable for the businesses that hire them. Nonetheless, Sergio Galvez, interim director of the ATP, in 2014 told me that llevo-­llevos were primarily viewed as a nuisance by tourists in Bocas, and his office received multiple complaints about them. It was partly because of them that the ATP office opened on Saturdays and sometimes even Sundays to serve the needs of tourists who did not feel comfortable being in the hands of these young men for their tourism options. The anthropology of tourism has established in no uncertain terms that tourism mediators—tour guides, travel agencies, airlines, among others—are essential contributors to the tourism enterprise, in many ways creating experiences themselves (Chambers 2009). Panama is no exception, and the tourism industry has generally sought to produce tourism mediators with specific scripts. In the case of tour guides, the official institution charged with training tourism personnel is the ATP, which conducts occasional training workshops throughout the country. Additionally, universities and institutes, particularly in Panama City, offer approximately fourteen tourism-­related programs. One major problem that permeates tourism and all service-­related industries in Panama is that in spite of its connections with the United States and the English language for more than a century, English language instruction is minimal (Bellini 2014).15 In addition, many guides are somewhat inexperienced due to limited opportunities to practice; for example, tour guide students participate in internships at different museums in the city for a few days and generally do not know specifics of the museum where they intern.16 However, in Bocas del Toro, one of the country’s primary tourism destinations and which I discuss in detail in chapter 4, such training is mostly informal, although the ATP offers occasional courses, including tourism culture, restaurant and hotel management and services, cooking, ecological tourism, and tour guiding.17 But the prevalence of individuals looking to make money from tourists like the llevo-llevo is also an indication of the ways in which people living in popular tourist destinations in Panama like Bocas del Toro have adapted in response to the rapidly changing economic conditions over the last twenty-­five years.

4 Touring the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro Tourism fantasies are always situated within wider sociocultural frameworks. They emerge not from the realm of concrete, everyday experience but in the circulation of more collectively held imaginaries. —Noel Salazar (2013, 35) In the late 1960s, Manuel Simmons, an Afro-­Antillean architect and entrepreneur, built the first hotel on the island and began promoting the archipelago by organizing charter flights from Panama City to Bocas for weekend excursions. The target population for Manuel was the Panamanian middle class, representatives of bird and flower clubs, scuba diving and yacht clubs, among others. “We organized about nine trips in total and they were very successful. . . . We provided food and entertainment; on some occasions, we had musical presentations by indigenous peoples, in others quadrille dances by Afro-Antillean groups” (interview M. S., April 2, 2000). Likewise, members of the Peace Corps and the Lions Club organized similar excursions, bringing Panamanian tourists to enjoy Bocas’ beaches and lively cultural events; national fairs were also popular and well attended. Manuel, however, would turn out to be ahead of his time. “We were so unlucky that the coup d’état of 1968 occurred just a bit after we opened the hotel,” Manuel noted to me during an interview, underscoring the long, historic complications of Panamanian politics and economic development. Nevertheless, Manuel would still be around to see the area become a major tourism destination. Now fully retired, he continues to run his hotel and to be wholly involved in local civic society associations as a means to contribute to monitoring irregular tourism development on the island. Despite Manuel’s efforts to build a functioning tourism business in Bocas del Toro in the 1960s, it would not be until the policy and social changes in the 1990s that his commercial vision for the region would become a reality. During the last thirty years, for a number of reasons, Bocas del Toro has

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become one of the most popular tourism destinations in Panama. For one thing, its natural landscape is extraordinary. If one can afford it, arriving to the Bocas del Toro Archipelago by air offers gorgeous, panoramic views of the islands. The small planes that travel the 197 miles between Panama City and the archipelago provide a close look at the turquoise water that contrasts with the numerous and capricious land formations.1 After all, the archipelago, in addition to its nine inhabited islands, has fifty-­one island reefs and more than two hundred uninhabited islets. I still recall the first time I traveled to the archipelago by plane. Looking through the window at the landscape during the forty-­five-­minute flight, I understood why so many visitors had become fascinated with it. I assume many visitors who take this route have the same feeling. On the multiple times I have traveled to Bocas by air since, tourists invariably take out their cameras as soon as the archipelago appears in view. My first few voyages to the archipelago were by bus, taking a twelve-­hour bus ride from Panama City to Almirante and then a thirty-­minute water taxi to Bocas. The cost of this trip is much less than by air (in 2017, travel by bus and water taxi was about US$55—by air, approximately US$255). Today, these two options for traveling to the islands mark a distinction between self-­proclaimed adventurous backpackers and the more established tourists or lifestyle migrants, as only backpackers and Panamanians who cannot afford the cost of a round-­trip airplane ticket tend to choose the bus and water taxi route. Nevertheless, this evolution in transportation to the islands is representative of the broader economic development of the area. For eighty-­ year-­old Clay Robinson—a former foreman at the United Fruit Company, born and raised in Bastimentos—even the twelve-­hour bus ride can be considered luxurious compared to the transportation means to which he was accustomed when he was a young boy. Clay recalls, “Boats were not like they are today; there were no motors and we used paddles to move our sailing boats. Boats with motors came to Bocas around 1952 and only the rich ones could buy them. For us, sailing boats and paddles. [But] in the 1940s and 1950s, there was [only] one ship per week from the city of Colón to Bocas” (interview C. R., June 20, 2000). The estimated thirteen thousand inhabitants of the Bocas del Toro Archipelago represent a microcosm of the multicultural elements found in Panama: they include Afro-­Antilleans, Chinese, indigenous groups (particularly Ngöbe and some Buglé and Guna), Panamanian Latinos (the term used in Panama to refer to mestizos), and resident expatriates, mostly from Europe and North America. Among these groups, Afro-­Antilleans have the largest population in the archipelago and also the largest political and cultural influence (figure 4.1).

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Figure 4.1. Luke, Afro-Antillean coal maker (Carla Guerrón Montero)

Afro-­Antilleans are descendants of enslaved peoples brought by the English, Scottish, and Irish settlers who, starting in the 1820s, left the Antilles (particularly Jamaica and Barbados) in search of better economic opportunities. After the abolition of slavery in Panama in 1852, Afro-­Antilleans became a society of independent peasants in small villages on the islands and along the coast. There were subsequent voluntary migrations of Afro-­ Antilleans to plantations located in the archipelago. Their economic system, prevalent throughout the nineteenth century, was based on subsistence agriculture and turtle fishing (Heckadon Moreno 1980, 12). However, the economy in the area was altered in 1890 when the United Fruit Company (UFC) arrived in the archipelago. Before its arrival, there were only small, privately owned banana plantations. The largest plantations were sixty hectares, and the smallest were only five hectares. Workers were mostly Afro-­Antilleans, and the plantations typically belonged to families

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Figure 4.2. Possible former Mechanics Lodge in Colón Island (Carla Guerrón Montero)

whose ancestors had arrived from Jamaica, San Andrés, and Providencia (Smith Lance 1990, 87). The UFC’s settlement in the archipelago generated an economic boom, and Bocas Town developed into a prosperous and cosmopolitan city with an international presence and promising growth (figure 4.2). Merchants commercialized cacao and banana as well as coconuts, ginger, nutmeg, and sarsaparilla (Smilax ornata). There were German and Chinese colonies; Italian, English, and French immigrants also married into the Afro-­Antillean and indigenous populations. Bocas boasted consulates, banks, factories, newspapers such as the Central American Express (Putnam 2009), and even a horse race. However, life again changed dramatically in the 1910s when UFC moved the majority of its operations from the island of Bocas del Toro to Almirante. As a result, Bocas del Toro was no longer the center of the province’s commercial activities and had to share its prosperity with the city of Almirante, located on the mainland (Carles 1952, 140). From then until the beginning of the 1990s, life in the archipelago was mostly characterized by a stagnant economy, limited banana growing, small-­scale agriculture and fishing, and service-­oriented jobs such as bureaucratic, medical, and educational options. Although there were some prosperous families in the archipelago who profited from cacao production or had stable bureaucratic jobs in the 1960s, for the most part Bocas del Toro became known as a “punishment zone” where unruly bureaucrats or government workers were sent.

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In spite of the dormant economy of Bocas del Toro prior to tourism development in the 1990s, Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago had the upper hand over indigenous and Latino or mestizo groups. Because of their previous work reputation working in Panama in the construction of the Panamanian Railroad and Canal, Afro-­Antilleans had been considered by those responsible for the operations of small and large banana companies in the region as hard and responsible workers, although they still experienced racism and stereotyping (Conniff 1995). In addition, their command of the English language greatly facilitated communication between North American business owners and workers (Andrews 1997, 16). This dual competence guaranteed an economic space and a degree of power for the Afro-­Antillean populations. Additionally, once the economic stagnation in the 1930s in Bocas del Toro caused the UFC to finally close its operations there in 1936, largely due to the outbreak of the Panama disease in the banana plantations2 and the broader economic impacts of the Great Depression, many of the Afro-­ Antilleans who had either worked for the UFC or grown bananas for it had the opportunity to buy land. This would lead to many Afro-­Antilleans becoming part of the rural middle class, something that was in contrast to the rest of Central America where peoples of African descent rarely had the opportunity to become land owners (Andrews 1997). Despite this opportunity to gain economic and social status in Bocas del Toro, Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago nevertheless endured geographical and social isolation for most of their history. The province of Bocas del Toro, mostly composed of Afro-­Antilleans and indigenous peoples, has historically been “the victim of indifference and oblivion” (Quintero in Smith Lance 1990, 90; cf. De Peralta 1890). Panamanian scholars mostly have described it as a region lacking significance within the nation’s broader history with short periods of prosperity and activity (mostly tied to banana production) without a unified regional center.3 Occupied by indigenous peoples since the sixteenth century, and the site of ethnic feuds in the seventeenth century, Bocas del Toro was a de facto autonomous region for centuries (Jaén Suárez 1998, 161–62; 1991). In fact, Bocas was long neglected by successive Panamanian governments, and—most importantly—it was portrayed as a dangerous, unappealing, and unwelcoming place due to its geographic isolation and primarily Afro-­Antillean and indigenous populations. In spite of this grim portrait, members of the Afro-­Antillean middle classes in the archipelago—such as Manuel Simmons, who opened the first hotel in the region—had begun to bet on its tourism potential as early as the 1960s. However, as Manuel described above, the coup d’état of 1968 brought to a standstill all attempts to develop tourism in the archipelago and, aside from these efforts by Simmons and a few other development projects,

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Figure 4.3. Typical Bocatorenean restaurant in the 1990s (Carla Guerrón Montero)

the archipelago’s economic configuration remained relatively stagnant until the mid-­1990s, when the tourism industry suddenly became an important economic and cultural force in the region (Guerrón Montero 2006a, 2006b, 2006c). In effect, the archipelago has experienced a cyclical history of boom and bust, and its most recent boom has revolved around tourism development. The Master Tourism Plan of 1993 recognized the archipelago as one of ten tourism development zones (Zone No. 2) (International Technical Cooperation Agreement 1993, 40). Since the late 1990s, tourism has become a permanent fixture in the region. The Archipelago of Bocas del Toro is one of the most visited tourism areas in the country, appearing constantly on all tourism guides and advertisements about Panama. Since 1995, the archipelago has been the setting for a considerable number of nature documentaries, reports, and articles in the national and international media. For instance, a version of the US TV series Survivor (Survivor: Panama) was filmed in the archipelago, and broadcast in 2006. Tourism facilities (including hotels, hostels, boarding houses, restaurants, travel agencies, tour operators, transportation services, and rental services) have grown exponentially. Unlike most islands of the Caribbean or iconic sites such as Cancún (Mexico) with their classic tourism model (Castellanos 2010), most tourism facilities in the archipelago, such as hotels and restaurants, continue to be low-­and medium-­priced, with the exception of a few high-­end resorts (figure 4.3). While Bocatoreneans have built hotels and restaurants, foreigners own most of these facilities. In any case, every aspect of the life of the

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Archipelago of Bocas del Toro has been transformed as a result of the emergence and expansion of the tourism industry.

Island Tourism, “Bocas Way” The transformation of Bocas del Toro, and the changes from the country’s historic and official discrimination and stereotyping of Afro-­Antilleans and the region to a more discursive acceptance, has been extraordinary. Although such economic development has allowed some Afro-­Antilleans in Bocas del Toro to gain relative economic status, and therefore develop a degree of political strength in the archipelago, tourism has also brought about serious challenges. Paradoxically, at the same time as the surge of investment and tourism into the archipelago has resulted in the raising of the Afro-­Antillean population’s status within Panama’s social fabric more generally, it has also resulted in a complex but ever-­growing risk of displacement and even marginalization within their own communities as a result of foreign-­owned developments, increased cost of living, and rapid transformation of some of the cultural norms and lifestyle in the area. The Bocas del Toro Archipelago was once a region that was both feared and ignored by Panamanians because of its geographic and social isolation and its demographic configuration. Now it is considered one of the most attractive destinations in the nation. Among the numerous kinds of tourism to the region, ecotourism, in particular, is one of the most consistently promoted. The ATP has marketed the archipelago as the finest destination for ecotourism. In Bocas del Toro, ecotourism is understood as touristic activities centered on exploring the flora and fauna of the islands. National parks and reserves, pristine beaches, and water sports such as water skiing, scuba diving, and snorkeling are highlighted as major attractions. Additionally, one of the biggest ecological draws to the archipelago is its unusually and highly evolved flora and fauna (Camarena Medina 1991, 4b). In ecological terms, scientists agree that Bocas del Toro is one of the most important regions of Panama. Its flora and fauna have been of special scientific interest for decades, and research has been conducted at least since the 1970s, especially through the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI), in Bocas since 1998. Biodiversity is high, with 68 percent of the territory of the province of Bocas del Toro covered with natural vegetation. Of the 8,744 species of plants reported in Panama, 1,738 (20 percent) can be found in the province of Bocas del Toro. In 1993, the Master Plan identified seventy-­eight natural attractions in Bocas. A reevaluation in 1998 reduced this number to seventy-­two attractions, finding that some of the previous attractions were no longer interesting because of inaccessibility or because of environmental degradation (OEA 1998, 25). In spite

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Figure 4.4. Calypso Kev singing at a local restaurant (Carla Guerrón Montero)

of the relatively good health of Bocas’ coral reefs, large sections have been devastated by residue materials from the operations of banana companies and by more recent demographic pressure (Collin 2005). Still, Charles Handley, a STRI researcher who has studied biological diversity in the archipelago since the 1970s, considered Bocas del Toro in the early 1990s to be “the Galápagos of the Twenty-­First Century” (Heckadon Moreno 1993, 5). Afro-­Antillean culture is also presented as part of the appeal to tourists. Although promoted less prominently than ecotourism, traditional Caribbean architecture, a Caribbean “flair” and “carefree lifestyle” (represented by Afro-­Antillean culture) are also advertised (figure 4.4). As the governor of Bocas in 2000 commented to me, “this is an island, with all its advantages and disadvantages, and its beauty. . . . You know that this island has a special charm, its beaches, its sea, its environment, its climate, always refreshing in the afternoons. And the people, the islanders have a way of being that is typical—always smiling, always happy, very interested in music, very interested in being happy, because that is a characteristic of the Caribbean” (interview L. N., October 22, 2000). Although a newfound appreciation for Afro-­Antilleans’ place in the relatively recent Panamanian national multicultural narrative has been essential

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for the expansion of tourism in the region, and despite presenting the archipelago as having a “Caribbean” culture that includes the “relaxed and quaint nature” of Afro-­Antilleans, ecotourism remains as the primary angle for tourism promotion in the region. Within the context of Panama’s tourism regimes, the archipelago is advertised as an ecotourism paradise that has an “almost virgin environment.” Bocas del Toro, where Afro-­Antilleans make up the majority of the population, is depicted by tourism mediators as a timeless and unchanged area, as a paradise where people have been engaging in the same activities for centuries, and where tourists’ presence has not provoked dramatic changes to this off-the-beaten-track place. A widespread comment among tourists and resident expatriates is their desire to maintain Bocas del Toro as such, in contrast with so-­called spoiled places, such as Costa Rica and most of the Caribbean. With this narrative, Bocas del Toro has attracted backpackers and adventurers from around the world. Many tourists who eventually settle in the archipelago have done so after island hopping. They settle in Bocas for a while, taking advantage of lax regulations and government incentives. However, when they believe the place has become “spoiled” because it has transformed to adapt to tourism demands, they move somewhere else in their search. But this kind of economic activity also has an impact on how Afro-­Antilleans see themselves within the region. A widespread view among Afro-­Antilleans in response to this pattern was expressed by Clarence Lewis, an Afro-­Antillean who worked on one of the airlines that served Bocas del Toro. He stated, “This is how San Andrés and other islands in the Caribbean started, and now I see that the character of the Bocatorenean is less and less present and active” (interview July 16, 2004). At the same time as Afro-­Antilleans gain some prominence within the national Panamanian narrative, they also find their communities and cultures increasingly neglected. Lewis’s comment is also reflective of the way local and national governments, who rely on the income from tourism, begin to cater their development initiatives away from the needs of the Afro-­Antillean population and more toward the needs of resident expatriates and tourists. Often, foreign residents who are critical of the changes taking place in Bocas del Toro do not recognize their involvement in these changes. The collective desire for an untimely past never actually experienced and for the most “remote and authentic” locations is a common pattern found among Western tourists and has been explored by tourism scholar Dean MacCannell (1973, 1992). For MacCannell, Western tourists seek authenticity outside their alienated, modern lives, and local populations stage this authenticity for their entertainment. Although ideally Western tourists and locals engage in the negotiation of

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expectations (Tucker 2001), in Bocas del Toro the desire has been to maintain the archipelago as “untouched.” But this has translated into a sort of neglect on the part of local and national governments to care for Bocas’ public spaces, particularly those that are used prominently by Bocatoreneans. Even though most streets in town have been paved, they do not resist the constant tropical rain. The central park and other public areas for children are completely neglected. The library has a very small and outdated collection, and its computer room, during the years of my visits, was frequently not available to the public due to malfunctions. Despite the vast investment in tourism by the Panamanian government, and the efforts to redefine Panama through a “multicultural” or “cosmopolitan” lens, the development programs nevertheless neglect the needs of local populations, the very people who are promoted as part of the country’s development schemes. Sometimes the broader promotional narratives used to attract tourists are not even accurate. For example, a common advertisement strategy has been to sell Bocas del Toro as a beach tourism destination, as the ultimate tropical and sunny location. One travel agency sells tourism packages called Always Summer (Paquete Turístico Siempre Verano). In fact, Bocas del Toro is a humid tropical region with a large rain forest, with an abundance of large trees and forests with lianas, mangroves, and coconut trees, and an annual precipitation of 2,000 to 7,000 mm (80 to 275 inches), resulting from the influence of the Caribbean Sea. Because Bocas is sold as a tropical paradise, many tourists arrive off season unaware of the possibility of spending their entire vacation in rainy weather. Aníbal Reid, an Afro-­Antillean working in the tourism industry, felt the ATP should correct this problem by providing accurate information about what Bocas del Toro offers to the tourists: “I would like that there be quality tourism here without it being elitist—decent people, people that come to enjoy the environment. I want us to maintain the tropical humid forest we have. This is not a desert island, and we are not the Mediterranean. We don’t have sun 24 hours a day. We are a humid tropical region, and that is what we have [to offer]” (interview A. R., April 12, 2000). This misrepresentation is less prevalent nowadays, because the web provides tourists a way to access information and make decisions beyond the confines of official advertisements and travel guidebooks (Santana Talavera et al. 2012). Internet blogs now warn tourists about Bocas’ weather and inform them of its seasons. The tourism season in Bocas del Toro officially starts in September and ends in December; other dates apply for specialized tourism such as bird watching (May) or educational tourism (language schools, scientific work, university courses—May until August); carnival or Easter. According to Luis Almeida from the ATP in Bocas, the effects of climate change were evident in the archipelago in 2014, with an unexpectedly

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heavy rainy summer welcomed by local Bocatoreneans because of water scarcity, but that was not well received by the tourism industry (interview L. A., July 22, 2014). Beyond Afro-­Antilleans, the broader diversity narratives that the government and the tourism industry have sought to take advantage of in their development efforts can be seen in several ways in Bocas del Toro, including numerous types of “ethnic tourism” that have sprung up in the region. This ethnic tourism includes visits to the largest indigenous group in the country, the Ngöbe, who inhabit some of the islands in the archipelago (Bastimentos, San Cristóbal, Isla Popa, Shark Hole, and Solarte, among others). Many Ngöbe have gone to Colón or Bastimentos islands to work, generally under substandard conditions and meager payment as workers for Chinese and Afro-­Antillean business owners. Some Ngöbe communities have received assistance from the Peace Corps to develop interpretive paths in their communities. These paths entail predetermined routes throughout these communities, where local guides take tourists to observe small gardens or the process of handicraft production. In addition, the Naso indigenous peoples—who inhabit the margins of the Teribe River in the mainland (province of Bocas del Toro)—offer handicrafts and dance performances to occasional tourists. Like in many touristic destinations, however, the grievances among many locals are numerous. In the mid-­1990s, many Afro-­Antilleans, despite participating in tourism-­related activities for income, were unhappy with the by-­products of tourism, particularly in the way it brought on rapid social changes. For example, they complained about what they perceived as the tourists’ lack of decency; bare-­chested men and bikini-­clad women walking around the streets of Colón island were considered scandalous. Tourism was a new and uncertain industry that promised economic and social growth, but it also became seen as accompanied by undesired social ills. One of the changes relates to a social system in the region that was practiced alongside the decades of economic stagnation and that consisted of social and economic reciprocity largely anchored in gossip (bochinche). This social system—which involved beliefs in supernatural deities that had the power to control people’s behavior and prevented them from accumulating wealth without sharing and limited any attempt to engage in activities perceived as extravagant—was rooted in the communities’ local traditions. The tourism industry, with its accompanying alterations to local beliefs, unsettled that system and the social balance that came from it. As a result of these kinds of social shifts, today Bocas Town has changed significantly. Unplanned neighborhoods have sprawled, mainly because those Bocatoreneans who had sold their properties throughout the archipelago have moved to Bocas Town in hopes to find work opportunities. The mingling of resident

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expatriates, tourists, and Afro-­Antilleans transformed its interethnic atmosphere and made it into a more standard and commonplace “any Caribbean destination.” Today, even the most traditional families in town—who resisted becoming directly involved in tourism for years—are squarely positioned within the tourism industry. Even though cultures are not main tourism attractions in Bocas, Afro-­Antilleans—who were considered merely temporary migrants for most of the history of their lives in Panama—have become a sort of permanent attraction. As I discuss in the next chapter, this has largely been by design; Panama has pursued a broad revisionary history regarding the status and position of Afro-­Antilleans within Panama’s ethnic and social history. But Afro-­Antilleans, although proud of their own history—despite their historic marginalization—express ambivalence about how that history is now evolving. For example, Víctor, a resident of Bocas del Toro, whom I met soon after I arrived for the second time in Bocas del Toro for fieldwork in 1998, held a very critical view of the rapid changes that were occurring as a result of the uncontrolled tourism growth. Víctor is a soft-­spoken, extremely polite, and kind man who worked at the small airport on the island in several capacities: dispatcher, salesperson, sometimes even luggage carrier when needed. His perspective on racial and ethnic relations derived from his upbringing. Víctor was the son of an Afro-­Antillean man and a Naso woman. He was fiercely proud of his heritage and attributed his calm demeanor and genuineness to his indigenous upbringing. One of the things he shared with me when I interviewed him for the first time was that the Naso indigenous community was the only indigenous monarchy in Latin America.4 Contrary to most young men, who were constantly in search of female conquests, Víctor cherished his solitude. He enjoyed his time fishing by himself on the open sea and going to church on Sundays. He told me he planned to marry a woman with a similar background and morals; he hoped to find her among the members of the Adventist Church to which he belonged. In 2014, Víctor had found his ideal wife; they had agreed to wait for a while before having children. Víctor had dreams of studying at the university level. Like almost every Bocatorenean I met, Víctor was hungry for knowledge and took every opportunity he had to expand his awareness. When he heard I was teaching English courses while I lived in Bocas, Víctor took two of the two-­month courses I taught between 1999 and 2000. Although he was not able to fulfill the dream of having a university degree, he kept his secure job at the airport for years. In 2014, he was still working diligently for the same airline company where he worked when we met. Víctor disagreed with the way in which tourism was developing on the

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island. He was not critical of the industry itself, but of the many irregularities perpetrated by pseudoinvestors and local authorities. In fact, he hoped to profit from the tourism boom and was saving laboriously to build a few rooms for rent next to his family’s house. Víctor worried that soon neither he nor most Bocatoreneans on the island were going to be able to afford to live in town. “This island has always been expensive, more expensive than Changuinola and Almirante. Now it is even more expensive; locals run the risk of having to pay tourist prices” (interview V. M., June 10, 2007). Because of the notably high cost of living in the area, Panama’s minimum wage, which varies depending on region and activity, is not always enough. Víctor’s position on this issue was a common one among Afro-­Antilleans, and it goes to the heart of the structural inequalities involved in the broader changes to Panama’s development projects where foreigners were encouraged to visit the country and invest, while Panamanians of different ethnicities— so central within Panama’s broader “nation rebranding campaign” during the 1990s—experienced a series of new economic and social complications. The cost of living was not the only issue that concerned Víctor; he feared that the lifestyle to which he was accustomed—where he could go fishing or ask a neighbor for a plate of food if needed—was no longer possible in a place that he did not recognize as his own. In 2004, he described with amazement a company planning to build “400 houses US style, with a golf course and its own airport. They have had three of four charter flights with our airline, but they also have their own private jet. The flights have come full of people who want to see the place, all paid by this company” (interview V. M., July 16, 2004). The company had bought an undisclosed amount of land in the island of Bastimentos in 2004, on Red Frog Beach, and had ambitious plans for their real estate project, the Red Frog Beach Club later renamed Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa and owned by Oceans Group International. Although it was sold as a tourism development project, 95 percent of the land was reserved for real estate purposes. Víctor told me he had heard the homes to be built were going to resemble those in California and that the main asset of the project was its oceanfront. Víctor thought a development like this was completely outside the imagination of most Bocatoreneans. But it was real. In 2006, the company ran two public forums to discuss the feasibility of the project and its implementation in two phases. No workshops, organized plan for local participation, or other means to consult and involve the population were presented. Although most people who attended the forums (both locals and resident expatriates) had reservations about the project, construction started nonetheless. In 2007, I witnessed the devastation the project was creating on land dangerously close to the protected area surrounding the Bastimentos Island National Marine Park and its area of

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influence—Salt Creek, Old Bank, Solarte, Bahía Honda, and Colón Island. The project was conceived in the park’s buffer zone. National environmental groups forced the project on hold for several months, arguing the lack of scientific validity of the study of environmental impact, the absence of discussion of the ecological, social, and cultural impacts of the project, and the minimal involvement of the local community in the process. Additionally, they noted that a plan of integral territorial regulation was underway at the time the project was proposed. In 2008, Panamanian courts annulled Phase II of the project. A downscaled version of Phase I was finished in 2010 (Spalding 2013a, 194). Today, the largest real estate project in the archipelago has changed configuration to some degree, but its overall scale continues to be significant. The company has one-­half-­acre villas; one-­third-­acre island lots; ocean condos; private suites; jungle lodges; a private residence club; and marina slips, all ranging from US$187,000 to US$800,000. The developers boast that “there is no other island property in the world that includes so much adventure, so much beauty with endless tropical forests, hidden beaches and investment potential” (http://redfrogbeach.com). The company website states that 60 percent of the property is a natural reserve, and that they have supported reforestation as well as environmental stability. Spalding (2013a) states that, factually, the area where the complex is built had experienced a degree of deforestation before the arrival of Oceans Group International, and that today it exhibits an increase rather than a decrease of forest growth. However, the negative perceptions of the local population toward this project remain. Perhaps one of the reasons why the project has become a symbol of all that is wrong with foreign investments in the archipelago is that the company privatized one its most iconic beaches, Red Frog Beach (figure 4.5), which now requires tourists to pay US$8 and locals US$5 to visit (cf. Baldwin 2005). Aside from economic and ecological concerns, Víctor also worried about the social effects of projects like Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa. These and other construction projects brought migrant workers from other provinces to Bocas del Toro. Víctor wondered aloud, “How is the archipelago going to sustain all these people, the workers who come with their families and settle, the people from the US who move to Bocas, the tourists who visit us? How is the archipelago going to sustain us all?” (interview V. M., July 16, 2004). Afro-­Antilleans continue to maintain well-­honed strategies to access economic and social capital among Afro-­Antilleans, but they have morphed with tourism growth (Rogerson 2004). For instance, some hotels owned or administered by Afro-­Antilleans rent their swimming pool to local families to celebrate birthdays, thus guaranteeing access to resources during the low

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Figure 4.5. Tourists sunbathing on Red Frog Beach (Carla Guerrón Montero)

season. This strategy also grants Afro-­Antilleans the opportunity to connect with tourists, whether it is by being at a facility that serves tourists or by interacting with the occasional tourist at the hotel. Despite Víctor’s concerns of cultural or political marginalization, and underlining the complex and sometimes paradoxical social cost and benefits of tourism, many Afro-­Antilleans are able to take advantage of the development of the tourism industry in Panama to reap windfalls of political and cultural capital. For example, those Afro-­Antilleans who develop lasting relationships with recurrent tourists or semipermanent lifestyle migrants also take advantage of the opportunity to engage with the tourist world while their friends are in town. When I returned to Bocas in July 2014, I stayed at a small hotel that had a swimming pool. One of the first things my friend Marta—who I discussed in the introduction—told me when she accompanied me to the hotel from the airport was that she planned to use the swimming pool while I was staying there, and to invite some of her friends to join us. There has been a radical transformation in the external appearance of the archipelago. In some instances, what results is an engulfing of previous practices and a replacement with Western practices. While the resident expatriates who own restaurants and stores have kept the Caribbean flair of the town, it is clearly a place that would appeal to a certain Western aesthetics

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Figure 4.6. Transforming aesthetics of Colón Island (Carla Guerrón Montero)

(MacCannell 1999; Barretto 2013) (figure 4.6). Businesses have adopted an exterior and interior design that combines bright colors, elaborate wooden latticework known as gingerbread, and other characteristics of Caribbean architecture with the organization of a typical US beach town. When I conducted fieldwork in 1999 and 2000, this kind of aesthetic was rare, and it generated a great deal of comments and curiosity. Visiting a restaurant that catered to tourists and one that catered to locals was like being in two different worlds: different music, service, menu, and, certainly, different flavors. Many of my friends welcomed the opportunity I afforded them to share an occasional meal with them at these restaurants. During my fieldwork in 2002 and 2004, there were still only a few businesses owned by lifestyle migrants that displayed this aesthetic. By then, the Guna had employed the Ecuadorian Otavalo to make textiles, hammocks, and bags Otavalo-­style, but with the words “Bocas del Toro” knitted on each piece. However, by 2014, a Western visual display was the norm, creating the appearance of a fantasy town struggling to fulfill its promise to be a paradise. Currently, there are numerous tourist stores that sell reggae clothes and bikinis, tattoo parlors, items for surfing, and two handicraft markets with Panamanian handicrafts as well as handicrafts from the global market. While fifteen years ago finding a souvenir token of Bocas del Toro for purchase was impossible, nowadays postcards and mass-­produced souvenirs are ubiquitous and sold by the Guna or the Otavalo as well as by Lebanese Panamanians in small handicraft markets (figure 4.7). Artisanal fair-­trade chocolate

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Figure 4.7. Handicraft store in Colón Island (Carla Guerrón Montero)

can be found easily in supermarkets and specialty stores. In the Panamanian tourism regime order of the twenty-­first century, the appeal of a stereotypical Caribbean town in terms of its offerings, aesthetics, and “feel” needs to be part of the package. Bocas del Toro is one clear example of an “old story” told in a “new place.”5 Tourism has created an informal and clearly marked two-­tier economy: prices for the locals and prices for the tourists are present in every aspect of Bocas life, from the cost of a cab to the price of vegetables, rent, tour offerings, and even handicrafts. For instance, in 2014 a short cab ride that costs one dollar for a local resident could go for up to three dollars for a tourist. My friend Alicia booked a boat tour for me for US$30, while the price advertised for tourists was US$50. There are restaurants for tourists and restaurants for Bocatoreneans, and even some items at the supermarkets are sold at different prices depending on the customer. Tourism has also caused basic service problems, such as water rationing. Water is rationed daily for family homes in Bocas del Toro with specific times in the day when it is available.6 A common practice in the past, collecting rain water, has resurfaced. Hotels are not suffering from this rationing because they have large water tanks, and when water becomes available they fill them quickly, leaving family homes without water.

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Finding resourceful ways to get by has been a characteristic of inhabitants of the archipelago. While I was there in the late 1990s, I noted with admiration how common it was for men and women to have worked for diverse periods of time in significantly different jobs, every time seemingly reinventing themselves. When tourism became the most substantial economic activity available, Bocatoreneans used these skills to open small restaurants or pensions. Many of these small restaurants came and went, sometimes in a manner of weeks. Some Bocatoreneans chose to become formal and informal tour guides, taxi or boat drivers, or to work for lifestyle migrants and international investors in larger restaurants and hotels. Others bet on renting bicycles or snorkeling and water sports equipment. Yet others profited from selling business rights to dispense liquor or food. With this dramatic growth, the role of the ATP switched from one that concentrated on organizing lectures and events about the ecological and cultural history of the archipelago and training courses and workshops to one that centered on policing tourism services. ATP’s interim director in 2014 told me that “the ATP has become a place where tourists turn for questions about what to do in Bocas and which businesses to patronize. There is a great deal of speculation, so they come to us, the ATP, with these questions because they see it as a safe place. On a bad day, I talk to at least twelve tourists and answer their questions. On some good days, I talk to at least seventy-­five tourists. That is why we are open even on Saturdays and Sundays” (interview S. G., Friday, July 24, 2014). Although in some instances it continued to be advertised as such, Bocas del Toro is no longer an off-­the-­beaten-­track destination. In a short promenade through Bocas’ main street (Calle Tercera), one can hear the voices of North American, Dutch, Spanish, Chilean, Argentinean, Brazilian, Israeli, or Belgian tourists, just to name a few. Many Bocatoreneans prefer the archipelago not to be considered a destination out of the ordinary because this suggests lack of services and relative obscurity. This is what they view as one of the fulfilled promises of tourism: a liberation from such conditions through modernization, advancement, and cosmopolitanism. Tourism offers the long-­anticipated opportunity to access neglected resources, and to create and re-create concealed gendered, ethnic, and racial identities represented in certain cultural traits, most noticeably in the areas of music and cuisine, which are markedly Caribbean. Just as the nation of Panama has struggled with constructing a suitable narrative for its origins, Afro-­Antilleans have labored to assert a distinctively Pan-­Caribbean cultural identity and at the same time demonstrate their central place within Panama’s history. The tourism development projects that became a vehicle to reinterpret Panama’s most recent nation-­building project, begun in the 1990s, assert that Panama’s multicultural and multiethnic nature is at the core of the

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nation-­state. However, the tourism that is at the forefront of this nation-­ building project also reduces culture to performance with the objective of attracting tourists and investment, and thus effectively transforms ethnic groups’ historic struggles to innocuous representations (Kipp 1993). Despite the multiculturalist narratives, tourism is perceived by the national authorities as a way to tame the presumed “backward” archipelago composed of indigenous peoples and black populations with “backward” pasts. These so-­ called backward populations are labeled as safe to tour, while their agency is in effect impeded and their opportunities to benefit from the tourism industry restricted. The benefits of tourism continue to be circumscribed, and ethnic minorities such as Afro-­Antilleans and indigenous peoples profit to a significantly less degree than others, while paying a heavy price for their cultural and social customs. Moreover, although Afro-­Antilleans—particularly those with more economic resources—have benefited to a degree from tourism, both in terms of economic and cultural capital expressed in jobs and infrastructural improvements as well as greater awareness of the world and pride of cultural heritage, the tourism industry has only offered Afro-­Antilleans a limited opportunity to become part of the mainstream of Panamanian society on the basis of their unique heritage, a heritage that is both commoditized and reinvented for touristic purposes. Additionally, the tourism industry has also brought land speculation, social and economic polarization not present prior to tourism development, drug trafficking, and corruption, in addition to conflicts resulting from the increase in foreign residents. In Panama, the narrative representational loop that is present is that of a nation that has overcome great hardships to become a modern, developed, and independent nation. The script navigates between presenting Panama as an advanced nation—much more developed than most nations in Latin America—and that of a tropical paradise, the true “banana republic” in many ways, where people engage in behavior appropriate for tropical paradises and are warm, welcoming, relaxed, and uncomplicated. Moreover, it is a cosmopolitan tropical paradise, where minoritized ethnic groups formerly ignored now have a central place in the national narrative. But Panama’s path toward embracing Afro-­Antilleans as part of the national multicultural narrative in the tourism industry did not happen overnight. Important governmental and activist projects also helped provide the conditions in which Afro-­Antillean cultures were brought to the surface as tourism attractions. One way to trace this broader evolution toward political and social acceptance within Panamanian society can be seen in the way Afro-­Antilleanness is represented in tourism settings in Panama City, particularly in museums and theme parks, a subject to which I turn in the next chapter.

5 Afro-­Antilleanness Represented Museums, Theme Parks, and the Manufacturing of History

When the traveling public learns the truth, as it soon will, Bocas del Toro, Panama will become one of the favorite summer resorts. —Frederick Upham Adams (1914, 127–28) In 1914 US inventor, writer, editor, and political organizer Frederick Upham Adams predicted the future popularity of Bocas del Toro. In his work about the United Fruit Company’s presence in Central America and its role in birthing the banana industry, he described Bocas del Toro as an ideal destination because of its natural beauty and temperate tropical climate (1914, 127–28). Although he was a bit premature, he would turn out to be correct. In the mid-­1990s the Bocas del Toro Archipelago did become one of the favorite vacation spots for Europeans, North Americans, South Americans, and Panamanians. As discussed in the previous chapter, the Bocas del Toro Archipelago is now one of the most visited areas in Panama, and tourism has become a permanent fixture in the region. National parks and reserves, pristine beaches, water sports, rare flora and fauna, and traditional Caribbean architecture are highlighted as major attractions of the islands. A Caribbean “flair” and “carefree lifestyle,” represented by Afro-­Antillean culture, are also publicized. These efforts to create new tourism possibilities have revolved around the conscious development of specific narratives, and like with any destination experiencing the kind of tourism growth that Panama has had since the mid-­ 1990s, this development has required the creation of multiple attractions for tourists to explore. Panama decided to focus on its multicultural potential as a touristic site, and to achieve this, groups who had been neglected were suddenly brought to the forefront as tourism attractions. That is the case of Afro-­ Antilleans, an ethnic and cultural group who had once been marginalized

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and discriminated against, but whose ethnic and cultural characteristics later became valued by a government determined to develop heritage-­and diversity-­based tourism. This is manifested in the attention given by the Panamanian government to the Bocas del Toro Archipelago as well as by the development of touristic attractions along Afro-­Antillean lines in Panama City (Guerrón Montero 2006a, 2006b, 2006c, 2009). Ironically, a group who had been previously considered outside the confines of the nation-­state was suddenly recognized as an important component of the nation’s construction. With the nominal recognition of multiculturalism in the country’s national narrative, Panama has sought to develop a few tourism options that center exclusively on highlighting its “black roots.” In addition to the initiatives in Bocas del Toro, these include tours that provide lectures on black and indigenous heritage, tours to cities with specific ethnic histories such as the city of Portobelo where people can learn about the Congo and former runaway enslaved communities or palenques, or a trip to Bocas del Toro to learn about the visit of Marcus Garvey to the islands in 1911 and 1919. They also include cultural projects designed to emphasize the history of Afro-­ Antilleans in Panama, including a theme park with theater-­like re-creations of “authentic communities,” and a heritage museum—the Afro-­Antillean Museum located in Panama City. These projects—many of which have also been supported by the Afro-­Antillean community in an effort to bolster an appreciation for the historic contributions of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama— are all examples of the changes that have occurred within Panama’s national narrative over the last several decades.

The Preservation of Afro-­Antilleanness Cultural heritage projects, and museums in particular, have long been used for the purposes of manufacturing and defining historical narratives (Teague 1995). Panama has been no exception to this. Historically, there are several instances where the country has created museums to accompany political transformations as a means of elevating specific national narratives, such as during the period of military dictatorship (1968–81), and then also later after the return to democracy in 1989 (Sánchez Laws 2011). An official effort to use museums in Panama to establish national narratives occurred in the 1970s and 1980s during the military dictatorship. At that time, Reina Torres de Araúz, one of the most prominent anthropologists and public intellectuals in Panama, was named director of the Office of Historical Patrimony. In this role, she conceived the country’s museum policy as a means to preserve its historical patrimony. This policy marked the beginning of concerted public and private efforts to use museums as nation-­ building tools, “with an interest in emphasizing the mix of diverse ethnic

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elements as a central marker” of Panama’s identity (Sánchez Laws 2011, 6). The trend continued after the return to democracy, when museums that represented Panama’s image of a prosperous, diverse, and exceptional nation were created or expanded. First opened in 1980, the Afro-­Antillean Museum in Panama City is an example of the country’s broader efforts to use museums to address specific historical narratives. The museum is dedicated to prominently highlight the Afro-­Antillean presence in Panamanian history. This historic and ethnographic museum is located in the neighborhood of El Marañón. It is housed in a small wooden structure built in 1910 by Barbadian Canal workers to hold the Christian Mission Church. Afro-­Antilleans had lived in the neighborhood since the beginning of the twentieth century but were forced to relocate or migrate as a result of the expansion of the banking center at the end of the 1970s.1 Conceived as a tribute to the Afro-­Antillean workers, the museum was initially created by Torres de Araúz after she became director of historical patrimony in the 1970s. According to architect Katti Osorio (2013, 147)— who studied the building to determine if it should be declared a national historical monument—the Christian Mission Church was built by Barbadian volunteers on a piece of land obtained with the assistance of the Panama Railroad Company.2 Eventually, the Christian Mission moved to the outskirts of the city, and Torres de Araúz transformed the former church into a museum in the 1970s. Romualda Lombardo, who has directed the museum since 1996, describes it as follows: “The Afro-­Antillean Museum developed as a proposal from Historical Patrimony for the Afro-­Antillean community as a way to celebrate the Afro-­Antillean worker who had labored in the construction of the Canal and who had contributed in so many ways. . . . The Housing and Urbanism Institute [Instituto de Vivienda y Urbanismo (IVU)] asked Historical Patrimony if they wanted to keep this structure and Dr. Reina Torres de Araúz took the opportunity to create the museum” (interview R. L, July 30, 2002). The museum’s building, as Osorio has described it, is a unique remnant of a type of religious architecture “based on Barbadian artisanal building techniques implemented in Panama and adapted with success in its surroundings” common in El Marañón at the time of the construction of the Panama Canal (Osorio 2013, 147). The building is in fact the only remnant of Caribbean architecture in its block: “With its 103 years of existence, it constitutes a unit of great historical, architectonic, and aesthetic value, not because of the integrity of its materials, but because of the integrity of its form, internal space, volume and area, which conserve its design after it was abandoned approximately in the second third of the twentieth century” (Osorio 2013, 148).

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The museum was inaugurated on December 22, 1980, and its first director was Coralia Hassan de Llorente. The museum was part of Historical Patrimony until 2010, when it became part of the patrimony of the National Institute of Culture (Instituto Nacional de Cultura, INAC) through Law No. 43 (Osorio 2013). Currently, it appears on the list of museums of the Central American Museums Network as well as on official lists of museums in the country and worldwide. The museum regularly receives Panamanian and international tourists, particularly from the United States, France, England, Japan, and throughout Latin America. The museum’s staff consists of a director, a secretary, a clerk, and two custodians. As part of my research, I visited the museum six times between 1997 and 2014.3 In addition to interviewing its director, I also conducted research at the museum’s small library. On arrival at the museum, visitors encounter a small desk where tickets, books related to black cultures, and souvenirs are sold. They are free to wander around the small exhibition, or view it with a guide if one is available. The museum offers guided and self-­guided tours, the latter being much more common. Originally, the museum was expected to have two permanent bilingual (English-­Spanish) tour guides. In effect, the presence of museum guides has been very sporadic and dependent on available funds; only occasionally has there been a bilingual guide. When guides have been available, the focus has been not only on guiding the occasional tourists but also on enticing groups of children or the elderly to the museum. There are private tourism schools that send their students to practice their skills. However, according to Lombardo, this is a hindrance rather than an advantage, because these guides need to be trained rather quickly on Afro-­Antillean history and culture. Lombardo makes every tour guide apprentice read what she calls “the bible of Afro-­Antillean culture,” George Westerman’s book published in 1980 in Spanish, Afro-­Antillean Immigrants (Westerman 1980), before leading tours. The museum has a collection of objects largely obtained through donations from people who lived in El Marañón.4 It was envisioned as having both permanent and temporary exhibits; in actuality, temporary exhibits are rare.5 The permanent exhibit is divided into sections and includes descriptions in English and Spanish. The first section addresses the work of Afro-­ Antilleans in the efforts by France and the United States to build the Panama Canal. It also includes photographs and information about the numbers of Afro-­Antilleans who worked on the Canal, showing that 85 percent of the Canal workers between 1904 and 1914 were Afro-­Antillean.6 The exhibit includes a diorama with machines and a male mannequin representing the prototypical Canal worker. This mannequin illustrates an Afro-­Antillean man who—merely because of the color of his skin—was part of the “silver

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roll” and received less money than those who belonged to the “gold roll.” The museum also has information about the educational system implemented by the Canal Commission, which followed the Jim Crow laws of the southern United States.7 The center of the museum consists of panels with historical photographs, mannequins representing Afro-­Antillean men and women, machinery, and a model of the wood houses that were characteristic in the area from the end of the nineteenth century until the mid-­twentieth century. The exhibit incorporates furniture commonly used during the time of the construction of the Panama Canal. It also displays information about religious practices, including references to Christian churches and their role in the lives of Afro-­ Antilleans. The wall text in this section of the museum indicates that these churches were important not only culturally but also because there was no other institution that could replace it as social center, social club, or stage for playing out the potentialities and capabilities of Afro-­Antilleans. In the same section, there is a passing reference to syncretic religions.8 The exhibit includes text descriptions on the wall that note this broader history—that there were thirteen congregations of Afro-­Antilleans belonging to the Anglican Church, in addition to Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, and Episcopal Churches, and the Salvation Army. The section is completed with portraits of Arthur Francis Nightingale (Episcopal Church priest, teacher, and writer), Elda James W. Burke (Christian Mission), Marcus Garvey (Messiah of the African Diaspora), and Bishop Ephraim Alphonse (born in Bocas del Toro and writer of the first Ngöbe grammar). The museum also has a strong focus on presenting a narrative of the domestic lives of “typical” Afro-­Antilleans, and various aspects of their culture from Canal days (1903–79). In one area of the exhibit, there is a section illustrating an emblematic Afro-­Antillean household. It contains a kitchen and a bedroom with an ironing board and a washboard. It also includes photographs of a woman taking care of a child and an Afro-­Antillean wedding. There is also a section discussing medicinal herbs in daily life. The next section addresses division of labor at the time of the Canal: men’s work included construction, fumigation to keep tropical diseases under control, and mail service; while women washed clothes at the Chagres River, made hats, and sold candy and cakes in the streets of Panama City. The section is completed with photographs illustrating Afro-­Antillean musical instruments, dances and activities, the Franco-­Antillean celebration, the May pole, and the Wesleyan Methodist Ladies’ sewing circle. Anthropologists and other social scientists and intellectuals—including George Westerman—contributed to the construction of the imaginaries of the Afro-­Antillean Museum’s exhibits. For the most part, the exhibits at the

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museum focus on three themes: first and foremost, the contributions (particularly economic) of Afro-­Antilleans to the construction of the Panama Canal; second, the larger cultural, social, and religious participation of the population in the development of the Panamanian nation; third, the cosmopolitan nature of Afro-­Antillean history. In these cultural narratives, the past is highlighted and somewhat fossilized. The focus is on how things were done and lived by Afro-­Antilleans, with little reference to the situation of Afro-­ Antilleans today or to other ethnic groups, past or present. Because temporary exhibits are very rare, their information in the permanent exhibit is seldom supplemented. Lombardo explains this focus: “We try to conserve the era’s spirit, and I think we have achieved that. Because when people come, they like it very much. They think this is a different museum, and people say: ‘Oh, this reminds me of my grandmother; and that is how we used to do this or that’; or, ‘this is how my mother told me we used to do things.’ People get very emotional when they see the objects we have on display, most donated by Afro-­Antilleans. I think we have been able to maintain the Afro-­Antillean culture in their past” (interview R. L, July 30, 2002; emphasis added). As Ken Teague has noted, tourism, anthropology, and museums are “journeys” intended to transform images and symbols; they share a common gaze toward cultures and are engaged in the consumption of the exotic, whether foreign or historic (Teague 1995, 41). Although the Afro-­Antillean Museum has sought to provide a new narrative on Panamanian history, it too must contend with this inevitable exoticization of the past. Despite the concrete steps that the government has taken to expand projects like that of the Afro-­Antillean Museum to emphasize diversity, Panama retains a complex relationship to its past ethnic inheritance, and the multicultural narrative still competes with older national narratives. Although Panama has made efforts to move from having the Canal as the centerpiece of the country’s economy and its main national trope, in effect the Canal continues to be very prevalent in people’s lives—partly because it still represents Panama’s efforts to become a sovereign society, and partly because the Canal continues to be a major touristic attraction for thousands of visitors. One museum, in particular—which is an example of a nation-­building museum par excellence and that opened several years after the return to democracy—maintains this older vision of the Canal’s place in Panama’s history. The Museum of the Canal—located in Casco Viejo—first opened its doors in 1997. It is located in a building that had been built in 1874 and previously housed the Grand Hotel, the offices of the Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interocéanique de Panama, Panama’s post office (1915), and other governmental offices. Today, the museum contains both permanent and temporary exhibits and offers lectures and events throughout the year. The

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permanent exhibits highlight the history of the interoceanic route and the construction of the Panama Canal. Its exhibits discuss both the work of engineers from France and the United States who built the Canal and the Panamanian experts who are currently running it. There are also exhibits that address the economic impact of the Canal in Panama and the significance of January 9, 1964, for Panama’s national identity. The exhibits at the museum stress over and over the relevance of the Canal in the history of the world as well as the technological advancements characterizing the history of Panama. A wall text in one of the exhibits indicates that the Panamanian Isthmus “revealed its dimension and potential at a world scale” once the Pacific Ocean was established as a trade route in 1513 by Vasco Núñez de Balboa.9 It also points out that, even though the Isthmus was a “frontier town” in the nineteenth century, it achieved a great deal of cosmopolitanism by having hotels, bakeries, ice cream factories, social and sport clubs, lodges, women’s associations, restaurants offering international cuisine,10 and many other amenities. Like the narrative of the hop-­on, hop-­off bus tour, the Canal Museum’s exhibit reinforces the very kind of historical narrative that the Afro-­Antillean Museum and Afro-­Antillean activists have spent decades fighting against— that Zonians were a superior social community within Panama, celebrating the influence of the North American culture and ethos in their lives and downplaying the country’s diversity so tightly connected with the Panama Canal. The focus of the museum is to highlight the significance of this infrastructural project for Panama and the world. In spite of the documented relevance of Afro-­Antillean labor for the construction of the Canal, the museum only refers to Afro-­Antilleans marginally. To learn about Afro-­Antillean contributions to the history of Panama, the visitor needs to look elsewhere.

Afro-­Antillean Communities and Heritage Development Although the government’s efforts to embrace a multicultural narrative for economic growth has underpinned the broader official efforts to support Afro-­Antillean heritage projects in Panama, the Afro-­Antillean communities are also heavily involved. The Afro-­Antillean Museum is, for the most part, a top-­down enterprise; the National Institute of Culture has curatorial rights over the exhibits at the museum (interview R. L, July 30, 2002). Nonetheless, efforts to keep it alive have been the initiative of the Afro-­Antillean community. In 1981, Afro-­Antilleans in Panama and abroad funded SAMAAP, which stands for the Society of Friends of the West Indian Museum of Panama. SAMAAP is a civic nonprofit organization whose objectives are to support and raise funds for the maintenance and extension of the museum’s work and to foster the social and cultural development of Afro-­Antillean

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culture. The organization started with fifteen members, and it now has two hundred members who reside in Panama and 121 who live abroad (Melva Lowe de Goodin, personal communication). Most of the members of SAMAAP are Afro-­Antillean. SAMAAP collaborates with the museum in organizing events, although curatorial decisions remain in the hands of the National Institute of Culture. SAMAAP organizes annual events promoting a particular vision of Afro-­ Antillean cultures that highlights their relationship with the African diaspora. One of these is the Great Afro-­Antillean Fair, lasting two days (generally Saturday and Sunday) and organized during carnival time in February for the last thirty-­three years. This date was selected to coincide with a vacation period in Panama, the United States, and the Antilles. The fair used to take place on the patio of the museum; however, since 2014, it has been at the ATLAPA Conventions Center, located in the prosperous San Francisco neighborhood. The fair attracts Afro-­Antilleans from Panama and abroad, particularly from the United States and the Antilles.11 Additionally, national tourists and occasionally some international tourists attend the fair. The profits are used to maintain the museum and SAMAAP and to carry out cultural activities throughout the year. The fair includes stands that sell jewelry, clothing with African motifs such as West African dashiki suits and kufi hats, and, the main highlight, Afro-­Antillean food. Any person of Afro-­Antillean origin who wishes to participate in the fair can rent a stand. Additional attractions at the fair include Afro-­Antillean music, dances, occasional beauty contests or African-­themed fashion shows, and raffles. Another event organized by SAMAAP at the Afro-­Antillean Museum is Easter Sunday mass, which is a formal occasion celebrated following “Antillean” customs (that is, a service based on Protestantism). As Lombardo describes it, for this celebration, “older ladies come very well dressed, as it was the tradition in the past to dress very well for mass” (interview R. L., July 30, 2002). They also hold celebrations based on the Baptist Church ceremonies and educational events discussing the history of the Panama Canal. The human and economic connections that developed between the museum and SAMAAP since its origins have provided concrete venues for enhancing the role of the museum far beyond its original intent as well as for addressing the current needs of the Afro-­Antillean population. Within the constraints of limited funding and national cultural policies, the museum has offered its space for multiple uses, becoming a meeting ground for SAMAAP activities. Both the museum and SAMAAP have served the purpose of bringing awareness of the multiple contributions of Afro-­Antilleans to Panama. This relationship, though, is not without problems. For instance, there is no discussion in the museum about the contentious historical differences

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between Afro-­Antilleans and colonial blacks or about the alliances that both groups have formed more recently against racial discrimination in Panama, both issues that have been addressed by SAMAAP. Thus, the permanent exhibit at the museum does not reflect the view of SAMAAP about a coalition of black minorities and Panamanian society against discrimination (Sánchez Laws 2011, 95). Ultimately, in Panama’s representational loop, this museum adds to rather than challenges the kind of neoliberal multicultural narrative of the nation that would firmly take hold in the 1990s. Afro-­Antilleans are also active in developing other kinds of tourism projects that help promote the history of Afro-­Antillean cultures in Panama. For instance, another museum-­like tourism destination where Afro-­Antilleans play a central role is the Centro Turístico Municipal Mi Pueblito (My Little Town Municipal Tourism Center), commonly referred as Mis Pueblitos (“my small towns”) and composed of a replica of an indigenous, Spanish colonial, and Afro-­Antillean town.12 This center offers a window on the ways the local government represents black populations in Panama. Moreover, it illustrates how Panama’s national narrative of unity in diversity is enacted, by highlighting the assumed “three roots” of Panamanian heritage. As with SAMAAP, the indefatigable efforts of Afro-­Antillean intellectuals and community leaders have made it possible for Afro-­Antilleans to figure prominently—albeit as tourist attractions—in this project (Guerrón Montero 2009, 47). Mis Pueblitos are both a theme park and a historical museum that aims to entertain and also promulgate a specific representation of the origins of the Panamanian nation. The center was created by the city’s government and is located in Avenida de los Mártires at the foot of Cerro Ancón, a location with significant historic symbolism for anti-­US struggles in the twentieth century.13 Mis Pueblitos depend administratively on the subdivision of municipal enterprises of the municipality of Panama City. An administrator and a subadministrator, appointed by the major of the city, head the Pueblitos. Aided by anthropologists, historians, folklorists, and architects, Mis Pueblitos aim to offer “faithful and genuine” replicas of a Spanish colonial rural town of the interior of the country, an Afro-­Antillean town (representing sectors of Panama City, Colón, and Bocas del Toro), and indigenous houses of the following ethnic groups: Guna Yala, Ngöbe, Buglé, Emberá, and Wounaan. In addition to renting the site for private activities such as weddings and concerts, the complex offers guided tours and a series of activities. It has guides for each specific town: women dressed in polleras for the Spanish colonial rural town (Hegenbarth de Testa 2000); women dressed in colorful clothes with African motifs and turbans for the Afro-­Antillean town; and indigenous women dressed in their typical attire of the Guna, Ngöbe, Emberá, or Wounaan ethnicities for the indigenous towns. Each guide is trained

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to provide a tour of any one of the towns if necessary. The Spanish colonial and Afro-­Antillean towns also have restaurants and handicraft shops that are operated as concessions. It is noteworthy that, in spite of the significant ethnic diversity found in Panama, these are the only three social histories—the Spanish Colonial, the Afro-­Antillean, and that of indigenous groups—that have been selected as the “three roots” of Panamanian identity.14 The first of the three Pueblitos, Mi Pueblito Interiorano, is a depiction of a rural, Spanish-­colonial town. Opened in 1993, Mi Pueblito Interiorano was inspired by Pueblito Paisa, a similar project located in Medellín, Colombia, that lies on top of Cerro Nutibara. Pueblito Paisa in Colombia was built in 1978 to represent a prototypical Antioquian town. After viewing Pueblito Paisa during an official visit to Medellin, Panama City’s mayor Mayín Correa initiated the process to build a tourist attraction with a similar structure in Panama City, resulting in Mi Pueblito Interiorano. Mi Pueblito Interiorano offers a romanticized version of a small, rural, colonial peasant town by combining elements of the central provinces of Los Santos, Herrera, Veraguas, and Coclé in the town’s architecture. The buildings are exact replicas of houses in the central provinces. Mi Pueblito Interiorano displays what is assumed to be “real” Panamanian food and music—the food and music of the Spanish-­derived peasant culture of Panama’s central provinces. These are the regional music and cuisine patterns that have become elevated to national symbols (Guerrón Montero 2009, 54). Two other Pueblitos were built next to Mi Pueblito Interiorano between June and November 1998. They opened on November 26, 1998, as part of the celebrations of the independence of Panama from Colombia. Mi Pueblito Indígena contains representations of presumed typical indigenous villages that correspond to three indigenous groups in Panama: the Guna, the Emberá, and the Wounaan. The Guna village is the largest of the three, and it includes replicas of a Guna congress house, an emblematic Guna house and adjacent kitchen, and several replicas of Guna shops. The section that corresponds to the Emberá and Wounaan ethnic groups contains representations of three houses and a cascade within a tropical rainforest environment. The original project also included a section for the Ngöbe and the Buglé, two other Panamanian indigenous groups. However, this section was the least developed and contained only two houses (Guerrón Montero 2009). When the houses were damaged due to heavy rains in 2000, and because the administration did not provide the means to fix them, they were closed down permanently. The last Pueblito is called Mi Pueblito Afro-­Antillano and was designed to highlight the Afro-­Antilleans’ lifestyle and contributions to Panama, particularly during the construction of the Canal. The town includes an Episcopal church, which is a replica of the church in El Marañón that houses

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the Afro-­Antillean Museum, and a replica of the Müller House, a three-­ story wooden house built in the shape of a ship. This house was used for different purposes at different times, including as offices for the railroad, as a jail, and as a seventy-­six-­room house for Afro-­Antilleans working for the Canal Company. A replica of a house from the province of Bocas del Toro represents typical Caribbean architecture. There is also a replica of a lodge, characterizing the traditional communitarian support system found among Afro-­Antilleans in Panama. The lodge operates as an art gallery and has housed the Centro de Estudios Afro-­Panameños Armando Fortune (CEDEAP) (Armando Fortune Centre for Afro-­Panamanian Studies).15 Mi Pueblito Afro-­Antillano displays many of the most evident customs and traditions of Afro-­Antillean populations, including religious traditions, musical practices, and architecture. It creates the impression that the Panamanian government chose Afro-­Antilleans—and not Afro-­Colonials who are perceived as being fully assimilated into Panamanian culture due to their presence in Panama since the sixteenth century—to represent the black ancestry of Panamanians to the world. At Mis Pueblitos, they become the “third root” of the Panamanian racial and ethnic mosaic (Guerrón Montero 2009, 58). The work of Latino and Afro-­Antillean intellectuals has been used to sanction the “authenticity” of this project. Research conducted by Reina Torres de Araúz, among other intellectuals, has legitimized the careful attention placed on details at the Pueblito Interiorano. The work of Afro-­Panamanian intellectuals such as George Westerman, Gerardo Maloney, or George Priestly has granted validity to the Pueblito Afro-­Antillano. This information becomes the “official history,” morphed into a redefined collective memory of multiculturalism and ethnic harmony (Guerrón Montero 2009, 62). Only Mi Pueblito Indígena was built by indigenous peoples belonging to the represented groups and without the mediation of a designated “expert.” The Pueblitos are entrenched in nostalgia (Cunningham Bissell 2005). Colonial nostalgia is embedded in the Pueblito Interiorano; neocolonial nostalgia is addressed in the Pueblito Afro-­Antillano, with its multiple references to the construction of the Panama Canal, and precolonial nostalgia marks the Pueblito Indígena, with its emphasis on ancestral times and customs (Guerrón Montero 2009). Nostalgia also accompanies the references made by the tour guides in the three different towns, thus following a common global trend. As Salazar (2010) notes, “many guides in developing countries rely on widely fashionable discourses such as nostalgia-­talk or ecobabble as a way of capitalizing on their own background and signaling their authenticity as truly ‘local’—pretending to be living an imagined immobile life far away from the western world of capitalism and modernity” (49).

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Although the guides at each Pueblito present themselves as representatives of the specific ethnic group highlighted at that Pueblito, in fact this is not always the case. They are trained to provide information about all of the exhibits, and they go back and forth through the spaces representing the different ethnicities. Therefore, a tourist might receive a guided tour of Mi Pueblito Interiorano led by the Afro-­Antillean guide dressed in Afro-­ Caribbean attire. This lack of strict boundaries between guides insinuates the idea that the center wishes to underscore unity in a culturally diverse nation, thus erasing any problematic or contradictory view about Panama’s racial and ethnic history. During my visits to the area while researching the center, I interviewed several guides and workers, some of whom described how certain inequalities present in Panamanian society are also reproduced at Mis Pueblitos. For example, Ukupa, a Guna who worked at the center as an informal guide and sold handicrafts there, described how the administration favors Mi Pueblito Interiorano. Although all three Pueblitos are presented as key components of Panamanian history, in fact, as Ukupa pointed out, resources and publicity are poured into this Pueblito to the detriment of the other two, and particularly Mi Pueblito Indígena, where twenty families (between guides, workers, and handicraft sellers) struggle to get by and attract visitors. The museums, theme parks, and offerings of the Afro-­Antillean culture tell us that there is a very particular way to manufacture history in Panama through tourism. They represent what successive national governments and the tourism industry have branded “the authentic side of the Panamanians.” While the Afro-­Antillean Museum emphasizes the specific contributions of a group to the construction of one of the most iconic symbols of Panamanianness, the Panama Canal, Mis Pueblitos offer a representation of cultural diversity and national unity at the same time: a condensed and revised experience of Panama’s diversity. Thus, while they highlight the unifying project of creating one Panamanian nation that derives from three distinct roots, many aspects of this diversity are erased. For instance, the enslaving process of Afro-­Colonials from the sixteenth to the mid-­nineteenth centuries is obliterated. Likewise, the conditions of semislavery endured by Afro-­ Antilleans during the construction of the Canal are ignored. Moreover, the contributions of other ethnic minorities such as diasporic Chinese or Indian become invisible. At Mis Pueblitos, these aspects of Panamanian history are markedly expunged from the official narrative. Afro-­Antilleans are highlighted more than Afro-­Colonials because there are tangible characteristics of their culture that can be featured prominently and that are distinctive. Yet in both cases, the unpleasant facts about their historical and current minoritized

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position are ignored. The project of Afro-­Panamanian intellectuals and centers such as CEDEAP—which operates from Mi Pueblito Afro-­Antillano—is to instill in their fellow Afro-­Panamanians the desire to view their resistance to racism and inequality as unifying, in spite of a long history of antagonism. Other important efforts in this unification endeavor take place at Mis Pueblitos. For instance, the Black Queen of Panama Beauty Contest (Panameñísima Reina Negra), which started in 1977, has been held at the Pueblito Afro-­Antillano on several occasions. Temporary art exhibits, book releases, and projects connected to Afro-­Panamanian history at large have also taken place there.16 Mis Pueblitos attempt to break with the myth of the Hispanic origin of the nation in an official manner. Outside the orbit of official representations, this has taken place for decades through the presence of black—many of them Afro-­Antillean—self-­taught artists, who have added to the construction of the nation outside its margins. For instance, most artists responsible for painting the mass transportation buses for which Panama City was known until 2013 (the infamous Diablos Rojos or Red Devils) are Afro-­Antillean. Visitors frequently commented on these artists’ presence in the city, and as Peter Szok (2012) has argued, they contributed to the development of nationalism as they were specific sources of touristic appeal. In this way artists—as part of a larger movement that includes religion, sports, music, education, and politics—have “re-­Africanized” the country, countering the myth of origin of Panama as purely Hispanic and mestizo (Szok 2012, 7). Other important areas where efforts of re-­Africanization by Afro-­Panamanians themselves are visible include music, sports, politics, and a series of black civil organizations stemming from both minority cultures and middle-­class black intellectuals. These representations have contributed to “the expansion of what is considered Panamanian beyond the Hispanophile notions of the lettered city” (Szok 2012, 140). The tourism industry, both through government support of multicultural narratives and the efforts by communities of African descent to draw attention to their presence, have played an important role in this re-­Africanization, by recognizing and appropriating the touristic appeal of a diverse, multicultural nation. Through this recognition and appropriation, a process of objectification, of “becom[ing] ‘culture,’” has emerged (Sansi 2007, 2). Heritage (both natural and cultural) has been touristified in postmilitary Panama. The governments that succeeded the toppling of General Manuel Noriega made concerted efforts to transform Panama into a multicultural, diverse, peaceful, and democratic nation. In other words, identity and cultural patrimony have become politically entangled in this new reading of Panama. Recognizing that identity and cultural patrimony are social and

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cultural productions with economic and political dimensions (Sama Acedo 2006), there are some parts of this heritage that are more attractive than others in the tourism-­heritage relationship. As Crespi Vallbona and Planells Costa (2003) have stated, “even though cultural value cannot be measured, it is evident that among the most visited places those that have some sort of seal of quality become more attractive.” That seal is given, for instance, by UNESCO when it designates a particular monument, celebration, museum, or natural landscape worthy of national and international interest or, better yet, intangible heritage or a World Heritage Site (Crespi Vallbona and Planells Costa 2003, 14). Although it is true that tourism has become a concrete means for Afro-­ Antilleans to promote their culture within the Panamanian nation narrative, it is also true that Afro-­Antilleans as a group have sought greater recognition in the country ever since they arrived in Panama. Their Pan-­Caribbean connection has never been lost, in the arguments of the Afro-­Antillean intellectuals who have led a political movement toward recognition, and in the lives of the Afro-­Antillean layperson. The narratives have been there for centuries, but tourism has brought them to the fore. As Lara Putnam (2013) has stated, in the 1920s as hostilities against islanders from the British West Indies intensified, “voices from Panama in particular urged unity among [all] West Indians” (201). Today, it is common for Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago to have relatives who have traveled as part of a cruise ship crew throughout the Caribbean and beyond; or to have family in Limón (Costa Rica), the Antilles, or New York City, where the largest numbers of Afro-­Antilleans in the United States reside. It is the norm for Afro-­Antilleans to be familiar with Pan-­Caribbean musical genres such as calypso, soca or soka, and reggae. The narratives of Pan-­Caribbean cosmopolitanism have defined Afro-­Antilleans as such, but they have been brought to the forefront and heightened with tourism development.17

6 The Permanent Attractions Music and Cuisine as Malleable “Ethnic Commodities”

In black popular culture, strictly speaking, ethnographically speaking, there are no pure forms at all. Always these forms are the product of partial synchronization, of engagement across cultural boundaries, of the confluence of more than one cultural tradition, of the negotiations of dominant and subordinate positions, of the subterranean strategies of recoding and transcoding, of critical signification, of signifying. —Stuart Hall (1996, 471) It is 6:00 p.m. on a Friday night in Bocas Town. The party mood can be felt on the streets. Men and women, young and old, prepare for a night of celebration. Some enjoy a heavy meal; others iron their clothes, wash and style their hair, or agonize over which outfit to wear or which discotheque to visit first. At around 10:00 p.m., music plays loudly at La Candelita, a popular bar-­ discotheque built out over the water. The party has not started yet, but some men are already in the bar ordering beers, Herrerano rum, Caballito Dry Gin, or triple sec with milk, the most popular drink in Bocas. A few women properly order a “lady’s drink”: Sansón red wine with milk (Guerrón Montero 2006a). La Candelita is filling up quickly, and a few cisgender couples venture onto the dance floor. Arthur, an Afro-­Antillean DJ, plays a set of soca, calypso, and merengue, preparing the bar for a presentation by the Beach Boys, a local calypso band that regularly plays in bars and clubs around Bocas and that is one of the most popular bands in a recent revival of the calypso music in the archipelago. Jeannette, a North American woman who has lived in Bocas for about two years, arrives at La Candelita with a friend. She loves Panamanian music but feels very self-­conscious about her dancing skills. “For me, I love it, but I always wish I could dance as well as everybody from here,

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so it’s a mixture of like enjoying and wishing I could participate more, and I think that’s how tourists feel, probably” (interview J. B., June 16, 2000). Arthur is happy to see Jeannette and everyone else in the bar dancing and having a good time. “When you have a full dance floor, you feel good; that is being a good DJ. You are doing your job well, because if you play music and only two or three couples dance and everyone else sits, I don’t feel well” (interview A. B., April 26, 2000) (Guerrón Montero 2006a). Meanwhile, the Beach Boys are tuning their guitars and preparing for a night of calypso. As soon as the Beach Boys start playing, Bocatoreneans grab their partners and initiate beautiful rhythmic dances. Beatriz—an Afro-­ Antillean woman who manages a popular hostel—loves calypso, so she invited her dear friend Mike, a US resident expatriate, and María, a Panamanian tourist who is staying at the hostel. They pay the one-­dollar per person entrance fee and find a table. The place is already almost full, and people are dancing and enjoying the music. One of the players from the Beach Boys is Beatriz’s friend, so he invites her table to a round of beers. Beatriz also found old friends of hers at another table. They were there to remember their youth parties and “night-­a-­funs.”1 Tonight, the Beach Boys are truly enjoying themselves and playing with gusto. María dances a few pieces with men from different tables, and Beatriz enjoys her time with Mike and her old friends. María and the many tourists who pack the bar are taking pleasure in the music and the scene. One tourist is particularly captivated by the calypso and is dancing in front of the Beach Boys by herself. The Beach Boys notice that, in addition to tourists, there are also many “old-­timers” in the bar, and they want to please them. An Afro-­ Antillean old man with white hair and his wife dominate the floor. He is elegantly dressed with white shirt and pants. She is wearing a beautiful sequin top and a white skirt. They look harmonious and elegant, and Bocatoreneans and tourists admire and cheer their dance. Everyone stops dancing for a while to watch this couple’s skillful performance (Guerrón Montero 2006a). The energy that the Beach Boys are able to create with their music, and the enthusiasm among the mix of tourists and Bocatoreneans who are there this evening, is emblematic of some of the ways that long-­held cultural practices in Bocas intersect with and become changed by the growth of tourism. Although the calypso music that the Beach Boys play has a long history in the archipelago and in the Caribbean in general, it had fallen out of popularity. But with the growth of tourism in the archipelago, calypso made a strong comeback, and Afro-­Antilleans not only found a new audience for a cherished cultural practice; they also found an opportunity to reinvent it. As scholars have noted, the subjects of the tourist gaze create, construct,

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and practice the tourism encounter (Crouch 2000). In general, tourism emphasizes numerous kinds of representations in its practices. Music is a powerful example of an “ethnic commodity” or cultural product that is intimately linked to everyday life but also to the entertainment industry. Another important example of this kind of “ethnic commodity”—and which I also discuss in this chapter—is cuisine. Cuisine, like music, has been similarly embraced but also altered as a result of tourism in the region. Cultural products that arise from tourism are frequently viewed through a lens of “authentic” or “inauthentic.” But I align with the view that rejects this kind of binary lens and instead view them as “authentic tourism productions,” and in this way, they are worthy of serious anthropological inquiry (Bruner 2005, 5). These products are fashioned by Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago for tourist consumption and used symbolically to produce a particular type of tourism environment. Because of the way these commodities are tightly connected to the complex ethnic and political history of Bocas del Toro and Panama, their use in tourism illustrates how Afro-­Antillean “marketing strategies” and “product development” are inextricably entwined with national and diasporic cultural politics. Because of the distinctive history of their arrival in the region, including their long marginalization and convergent preservation of ethnic and cultural traditions, Afro-­Antillean communities have certain cultural characteristics that are desired within modern tourism. Paradoxically, tourism allowed a population that had been considered outside the confines of the construction of the nation-­state to become an important component in Panama’s master narratives of ethnic diversity and geopolitical importance. In the current tourism climate, Afro-­Antilleans’ historic reputation has been transformed from temporary migrants to permanent attractions. How did this happen? The short answer is that Afro-­Antilleans in Panama City and Bocas del Toro produced cultural and ethnic narratives that concurrently engaged with global tendencies. Afro-­Antillean culinary and musical traditions represent two elements of ethnic heritage that have been notably represented within the tourism boom in Bocas del Toro. They are two of the most evident cultural characteristics that distinguish Afro-­Antilleans from the rest of the Panamanian population, and they both have deep historical roots within Afro-­Antillean cultures, even if they are in constant transformation. During the tourism boom, however, particularly during the 1990s and early 2000s, music and cuisine became notable examples for the way Afro-­Antilleans construct, re-­create, invent, and suppress aspects of their culture in light of tourism development. In the first part of this chapter, I discuss the way music has been incorporated into the

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representations of Afro-­Antilleans in Panama and Bocas del Toro. In the second half of this chapter, I discuss the ways cuisine also participates in that same mode of representation within a touristic narrative.

Music as Malleable “Ethnic Commodity” Afro-­Antilleans in Panama stress that their cosmopolitan cultural heritage is as rich and dynamic as any other in the world (Guerrón Montero 2010, 1329). Music for Afro-­Antilleans has always been central in that heritage. At the end of the nineteenth century, religious music was used to inspire enthusiasm among church audiences. Afro-­Antilleans recall that their grandparents and parents were experienced musicians who commonly played in church and at home. Music connoisseurs in Bocas take pride that internationally famous jazz musician Luis Russell (1902–1963) was born on Carenero in a family of Afro-­Antillean musicians. While Russell’s degree of fame is certainly unique, his upbringing in Bocas del Toro, where he was surrounded by classical music and an ample musical culture, is not (Guerrón Montero 2006a). Panamanian Afro-­Antillean identities are closely associated with numerous musical genres, including calypso, soca or soka, DJ sounds, típico, and reggae. All have been transformed and appropriated in connection with tourism development. Calypso is a musical genre instantly associated with the Caribbean. Although the cradle of calypso is the island of Trinidad, different styles of this musical genre proliferate throughout the region. The precursors of modern calypso are the calinda songs of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, string-­band music, and other West Indian Creole song types (Manuel 1995, 186). Calypso music was historically concerned with the idea of battle and the courage and skill of men in moments of physical encounter (Rohlehr 1999, 223). Calypso blends African, Caribbean, French, Spanish, English, North and South American, and Gregorian rhythms into its own form of expression. Other influences include the calinda, which is a form of martial art that incorporates stick fighting, accompanied by music and dance of the same name, the belair (a kind of French Creole song and dance), the lavway (masquerade procession song), and neo-­African rhythms like juba and bamboula, British ballads, Venezuelan string bands, and pasillo (Dudley 2008, 164; cf. Baron, Patterson, and Belasco 1943; Manuel 1995). Traditionally, calypso has been a musical terrain dominated by males, known as “chantwells” or leading singers. Some of the most distinguished calypsonians from 1860 to 1920 were singers by the stage names of Lord Executor, the Duke of Marlborough, Norman le Blanc, and Senior Inventor.2 They engaged in the form sans humanité 3 or old minor, a standard chord progression in the minor mode (Dudley 2008; Manuel 1995, 188). Although there

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were female stick fighters and female banter songs (carisoes) between stick fights in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, “the world of the batonnier was predominantly male, and its songs were a celebration of heroic conflict which was essentially male” (Rohlehr 1999, 223; cf. Manuel 1995). Famous singers acquired great status as “men of words.” Calypso emerged as text-­oriented song performed for seated audiences in large tents. From 1900 to 1930, there was a “rapid refinement, institutionalization and commercialization of this new form of entertainment” (Manuel 1995, 186). Play with words became increasingly important in this form of music, the subjects ranging from commentary on current events, picaresque stories, double entendres, to boasts and insults. From the 1920s to the 1940s, calypso lyrics experienced a transformation, for “to the delight in a purely verbal self-­ inflation were added two elements: a growing concern for social and political issues and the calypsonian’s self-­celebration as a ‘sweet man,’ a macho man in ‘control’ of several women” (Rohlehr 1999, 224). As it had developed in Trinidad and consequently spread among Afro-­ Antilleans around the region and Panama, the ballad calypso became a vehicle for narratives about people’s everyday lives. Very few songs exhibited positive racial consciousness. Quite the contrary; they ridiculed peoples of African descent and reinforced negative stereotypes about syncretic religions and women (Manuel 1995, 190). Only a few calypsonians (such as Raymond Quevedo, known as Attila the Hun [1892–1962]) challenged the norm and voiced their political views, although they did not transcend the sexism of their era. Calypso songs had recurrent themes, but they tended to develop differently depending on the struggles in people’s lives where the particular songs were written. For instance, out of the concept of hunger came the calypso axioms that everything (including love, power, status, and desire) required an economic base, and that without money love, power, status, and desire could not be achieved. Another recurrent theme was the desperation felt by men who were unable to tend to their families as they were expected to do as breadwinners; in Panama, this plight connected directly to the arduous work at the Bocatorenean banana plantations. Over the years, these themes have softened somewhat, although calypso lyrics continue to retain erotic puns, euphemisms, and sexual double entendres. Although less known than in other areas of the Caribbean, Panama also produced important calypso representatives. The best known and respected calypsonians are the now deceased Wilfred M. Berry Gonin, Lord Cobra (born in Almirante, Bocas del Toro in 1926); Alberto Allen Bryan, Lord Kon Tiki (born in Calidonia in 1934); Lord Panama; and Lord Byron. These calypsonians were popular musicians in Bocas del Toro, Colón, and Panama

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City; they gained considerable fame and traveled to the United States to record their songs. The city of Colón was an important hub for calypsonians from the mid-­1950s until the 1970s. For instance, the famous Grenada-­born Trinidadian chantwell Mighty Sparrow, known as “the calypso king of the world,” and other calypsonians of his stature participated in calypso contests in the city. Lord Cobra and Lord Panama sang in English as well as in Spanish; in some of their songs, they included both languages in the lyrics. In doing so, as Luis Pulido Ritter (2010) asserts, they constructed a transgressing and alternative diasporic cosmopolitanism, with urban and transnational roots (11). He notes, “Through his texts, sung in English and some of them in Spanish, the calypsonian reminds the romantic nation [of Panama] of its Caribbean migration, a migration that then journeyed again to Central America and the United States, thus establishing a network, an identity beyond the romantic frontiers of the nation state, and which at the same time claims its space of representation within the frontiers of the nation-­state” (Pulido Ritter 2010, 20). The ascendance of General Omar Torrijos to power in 1968 marked the beginning of a “creolization” or “Panameñization” campaign, enforcing the presence of symbols of the Panamanian peasant of the central provinces of Panama, as the symbol of panameñidad, or the essence of national Panamanian identity. For the most part and as noted in chapter 1, this project was gendered, racialized, and class-­specific: the future of the country was seen to lie in Hispanic (Spanish-­Indian) male middle-­class intellectuals and their cultural, musical, and gastronomic practices. The symbols chosen to represent the Panamanian nation derived directly from a Spanish or mestizo heritage. This was done to identify the country as having its roots in Latin America in opposition to the US presence in the country. It was also a result of “internal hegemonic struggles that influence definitions of who are legitimate Panamanians,” under the premise that “the problem of culture is . . . one of freedom” (Moncada Vargas 1990, 12, 76).4 Music was a very important component of this Panamanian national imaginary, and the musical expressions of the central provinces (such as the cantaderas, mejoranas, murgas, and the típico) were aggressively marketed within the country as a unifying symbol of a Hispanic identity.5 In this context, music that represented the Caribbean was downplayed. According to Pulido Ritter (2010), the work by Panamanian musician and folklorist Narciso Garay titled Tradiciones y Cantares de Panamá (Traditions and Songs of Panama), first published in 1930, marked the origin of the assumption (widely accepted even today) that the cradle of lo panameño lies in the rhythms, musical genres, and folklore of Panama’s central provinces (5). For Garay ([1930] 1999), the cosmopolitan populations (such as Afro-­Antilleans)

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were dangerous to the true cultural and music spirit of Panama, which lay in its central provinces and secondarily in its indigenous populations (6). In somewhat similar fashion, during the 1970 carnival, Torrijos prohibited hiring international orchestras, thereby motivating people in the music business to hire Panamanian combos nacionales (live bands) or típico bands (INAC 1990, 9). In Bocas del Toro, efforts to transform Panama into a Hispanic nation were not completely successful. However, these efforts did lead to a diminishment in certain cultural practices, and although people continued to listen to the tunes of Harry Belafonte, Lord Cobra, and other popular singers on tape, calypso music lost its preeminence at this time in the musical taste of Bocatoreneans. The tourism boom in Panama and Bocas del Toro, however, and as I discuss below, helped resurrect the genre at the end of the twentieth century. As calypso music lost some of its stature in Panama and Bocas del Toro, combos gained in prominence particularly during the 1960s and 1970s. Combos fused Afro-­Cuban rhythms with rhythms from Colombian and Panamanian musical repertoires as well as with Caribbean calypso (Garrido Pérez 2014). They played at high school celebrations, US military bases, birthdays, beach parties, boat rides, school beauty contests, Afro-­Antillean lodges, boîtes, and dance halls. Among the many combos throughout the country were groups like Los Superiores (Panama City), the Fabulous Festivals (Panama City), the Soul Fantastics (Panama City), Los Dinámicos Exciters (Panama City), The Silverstones (Colón), and Los Mozambiques (Panama City) (INAC 1990, 9). Many of these combos were undoubtedly influenced by US groups and singers such as The Temptations and James Brown. Some of the live bands from Bocas del Toro, such as Los Beachers, gained popularity outside the province. Los Beachers’ repertoire included romantic ballads by Latin American and Spanish singers, boleros, salsas, US blues and jazz, occasional calypsos, and to some extent, típico music (Guerrón Montero 2006a). Around the time when tourism was developing in the region during the 1990s, groups of musicians started to get together to revive calypso music in Bocas del Toro. One of these groups of Afro-­Antillean musicians was called Reencarnación. The group’s goal was to recover traditional musical styles of Bocas del Toro for the younger generations. It was received with enthusiasm and was occasionally invited to participate in celebrations and festivities.6 Reencarnación reintroduced “classical” calypso and other Antillean tunes, with particular attention to musical virtuosity. However, although Reencarnación was well received in the region, by far the most famous and talked-­ about calypso group in Bocas del Toro became a group known as the Beach Boys (Guerrón Montero 2006a). The Beach Boys was formed by five male musicians from Bastimentos

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who worked for the Chiriquí Land Company and who had started playing in the mid-­1990s for their own enjoyment. They were all musicians “by nature” and formed the group Los Antillanos (The Antilleans), with only a guitar, a drum, and a coconut grater. According to Christian Powell, one of the group members, “there have always been [musical] instruments all over the island; so, we gathered a guitar here, and a drum there, and started playing” (interview C. P., July 7, 2000). At a beach picnic in 1995 in Bastimentos, the group was playing for their friends and relatives and decided to change their name to the Beach Boys.7 People liked their music and hired them for birthday parties and other celebrations; they also continued playing at beach parties, on boat rides, and occasionally at bars in Bastimentos. The group did not form with the intention of attracting tourists. They never thought they were going to be popular among tourists and only formed the band “to have a good time, a change of air” (interview C. P., July 7, 2000). In fact, US lifestyle migrant Matt Allen remembers the time “when you could go to Bastimentos and you would buy them a beer and they would quit playing” (interview M. A., June 1, 2000). However, because of the way the tourism industry sought out elements of “authenticity” in the region—notably the elements of Afro-­Antillean heritage—the Beach Boys were quickly noticed for their appeal to this audience. Holly Hahn, a Canadian businesswoman who moved to Bocas in 1994 and stayed for several years, heard one of their performances and thought tourists would enjoy their calypso music. In 1996, she invited them to play at her bar, the Red Bone, in Bocas del Toro, proposing a business deal: she would lend them the money to buy instruments, and they would pay it off gradually by playing at her bar, initially twice a week, later every fifteen days and then monthly. The arrangement worked out well for both parties, although they never finished paying the initial loan. Hahn recalls telling the band that she was interested in what she called “natural” calypso music, that is, without amplifiers. But the group did, in fact, bring amplifiers to all their performances (interview H. H., February 24, 2000). Hahn’s bar became well known for the Beach Boys, and she said that tourists and Bocatoreneans mixed and danced together, and had “a wonderful time.” Although tourists enjoyed calypso music, the local Bocatoreneans were her best customers. They not only came in larger numbers to listen and dance to calypso music, but they also spent more money on alcohol. Although the Red Bone is now closed, during the initial tourism boom, it was an institution in Bocas del Toro, and Hahn’s instincts of thinking that tourism could help sustain a tradition of calypso led her to provide an important outlet for the development and growth of the Beach Boys in Bocas del Toro and Panama in general. During the 1990s, other bars and tour companies also followed Hahn’s lead and booked them.

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They were a hot commodity in the archipelago for several years, playing at local social events, inaugurations, and fairs. They also performed at national fairs in Panama City, Colón, David, and even made international appearances at fairs in Costa Rica. On May 6, 2000, the Beach Boys presented their show at the International Fair of Azuero (province of Los Santos) and received a certificate of achievement from the organizers. The regional director of then-­IPAT, Mauricio López, noted that the Beach Boys were a “clear success” and exhorted his fellow Bocatoreneans to support “these men that you see in town every day and bring part of our Bocatorenean culture to the rest of the country.” In their acknowledgment, drummer Andrés Bryan replied, “We are trying to recover the rhythm that calypso music has always had, we want to ask you for your support so we can . . . represent all of you and all of us very well. We want your support so our group can grow and we can have good musicians.” The calypso music played by the Beach Boys, unlike the calypso found in Trinidad and the calypso of Lord Cobra or Lord Panama, was not text-­ centered. The Beach Boys did not compose calypso songs. Although the group sang songs also played by Lord Cobra, Lord Panama, and other calypsonians, their innovative musical technique was to interpret popular salsa, bolero, reggae, vallenato, or típico songs in the calypso tempo. Consequently, along with “Banana,” “Water the Garden,” “Under the Almond Tree,” or “Fiesta”—calypso songs immortalized by Lord Cobra and Lord Panama—the Beach Boys also sang “Sé que Llorarás,” by the famous típico group of accordion virtuoso Victorio Vergara, or “Por Mujeres como Tú,” by Tito Rojas. While the music of the Beach Boys was to some extent an invented tradition, it was also a recasting of symbols of Caribbeanness and the remembrance of a musical past along with the use of the symbols of panameñidad that have been so eagerly enforced by Panamanian society. The Beach Boys transformed calypso music by “localizing” a Pan-­Caribbean musical style and adapting it to their musical preference, thus making it attractive to Bocatoreneans and tourists alike. Benjamín León, avid music aficionado and DJ from Bocas del Toro, told me, “I don’t know if this is a denaturalization of the calypso, but the truth is that they have transformed the rhythm of calypso and people really like it” (in Guerrón Montero 2006a, 649). According to Luis, an Argentinean foreign expatriate who had lived in Bocas for eight years at the time of my interview, “tourists are very interested in calypso because it is an exotic and outlandish music, and it tries to create a different sensation in tourists. This music has a contagious rhythm . . . very similar to the rhythms of other Caribbean islands” (interview L. P., April 16, 1999). Although the calypso of the Beach Boys was not created to convey a message through its lyrics, it sent a message of creativity and innovation by

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fusing calypso with other musical genres in a fresh and appealing manner. This fusion provoked increased interest in older and younger generations in calypso, which had been dormant for several decades and had been replaced by more popular musical styles like reggaetón (Marshall 2009). Benjamín had a different perspective and believed that tourists were keeping the genre alive, while, unfortunately, many Bocatoreneans had let it decline: “I have seen how tourists are the happiest people when they listen to live calypso. They enjoy it, they dance it, if they have a video camera, they film it, and they can dance to it all night long. However, the islander no; we sometimes get tired of our own music, and that makes the music fade away. Somebody told me that it’s a disgrace that we need to wait until people from outside come to tell us that they appreciate our traditional music, which is calypso. We listen to two calypsos; when the third one comes we are already bored and we want the band to step off the platform” (interview B. J., February 22, 2000). Over time, the Beach Boys evolved into a more organized, less informal band, partly because a large portion of their family income derived from this activity. During formal concerts, the band wore matching Hawaiian-­style shirts, introduced every song with a small joke or commentary, made constant references to the Caribbean quality of their music, and encouraged audiences to enjoy their contagious tunes by shouting words such as “¡Sabor!” or “¡Azuquita!”8 In spite of a higher degree of formality, their musical style remained fluid. The band regularly invited other musicians from Bocas or Bastimentos to play the guitar, the bass, the sax, or the drums. At times, they changed words in a song to suit the rhythm of the music they were playing, or simply because they forgot the lyrics. Christian, a chorus singer, tended to be the focus of attention of the group with his movements and dance steps. The band usually took requests from the public; when the audience was composed of a large portion of tourists, they sang occasional soul reggae and more “traditional” calypso songs (Guerrón Montero 2006a). José Thomas, director of then-­IPAT in the late 1990s, believed that calypso bands like the Beach Boys were a direct result of the growth in tourism. He stated, “The people that now sing calypso used to play music from [romantic balladists] ‘Los Angeles Negros.’ Now they play calypso because of the presence of so many tourists who want to listen to something Caribbean” (interview J. T., July 30, 1999). Not long after the Beach Boys grew popular, Reencarnación began to also play more often, and the owner of the most popular bar in Bocas at the time, La Candelita, gathered calypso musicians from Limón, Costa Rica, to play at his bar under the name Roddy and His Quintet. For most Bocatoreneans, this group was “just a bunch of crazy guys that gathered to play and enjoy” (interview M. G., May 8, 1999). A Bocatorenean who grew up in Costa

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Rica formed Los Mixtos in Bastimentos in 1999. However, the Beach Boys remained the most popular and sought-­after entertainment group into the early 2000s. Ultimately mixing calypso traditions in with musical innovations from the twentieth century, the Beach Boys represented a calypso group in the tradition of the combos of the past. While the combos played different musical genres following their rhythm and tempo, the Beach Boys accommodated every musical genre to the rhythm and tempo of calypso. They represented the Caribbeanness of Bocas del Toro not only to young and old Bocatoreneans but also to national and international audiences. Inevitably, as tourists sought out what they thought was authentic Afro-­Antillean heritage culture in Bocas del Toro, the Beach Boys, Reencarnación, and other calypso groups repackaged Afro-­Antillean heritage for touristic consumption, ultimately bringing into a contemporary context what had been previously a declining musical tradition. Similar to the way the Afro-­Antillean Museum presented Afro-­Antillean heritage, their success also pushed the narrative that their calypso was as Panamanian as the típico and that the contribution of Afro-­Antilleans should be as respected as the contributions of other sectors of society to the Panamanian musical collective heritage. Afro-­Antillean musical genres, while used as deliberate venues to attract tourists, have provided this ethnic group, and especially men, with ways to assert distinctive identities in the country’s cultural mosaic. Bocatorenean musical genres in the context of tourism are simultaneously national, diasporic, and tied to blackness. Afro-­Antilleans appropriated the music that the government and national elites had portrayed as representative of the entire nation, but they did it on their own terms: they either blended it with their own rhythms or accepted it only when it was quick, spicy, and rhythmic enough for their particular musical taste. Afro-­Antilleans were consequently assuming, transforming, and replacing an ethnic commodity for their own consumption as much as for tourists’ consumption. Regardless, whether calypso music was kept “traditional” or was transformed for tourism’s sake, Afro-­Antillean musicians and DJs were marking their blackness with their musical choices. Thus, whether it was calypso or reggae that they were playing, listening to, or dancing to, Afro-­Antilleans were making a public display of a Pan-­Caribbean connection with the African diaspora. Live calypso music bands had not been heard in Bocas del Toro for decades, although people listened to calypso records occasionally. Nonetheless, tourism provided the outlet for calypso music to flourish. By resurfacing live calypso, Afro-­Antilleans portrayed and displayed their Caribbean identity for tourism consumption. In the process, they reasserted and reaffirmed their Caribbeanness to themselves and represented their identities

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to the Panamanian nation-­state as a distinct group. By playing típico, vallenato, or salsa music in the calypso tempo, the Beach Boys of Bocas del Toro transformed calypso into a unique genre that combined an intrinsically Caribbean rhythm with rhythms defined and understood as Hispanic (Guerrón Montero 2006a). Calypso was thus reinvented, using new lyrics, a new tempo, and a new thematic, and became—albeit temporarily—another symbol of panameñidad. Not surprisingly, this unfolding reinvention caused tension. The resulting fusion from the Beach Boys’ experiments was perceived in different ways by different sectors of society. On the one hand, many Bocatoreneans viewed these shifts and transformations as strengthening and enriching. On the other hand, some Afro-­Antillean intellectuals regarded these innovations as “cultural contamination” and as a loss of “authenticity.” They emphasized and appreciated the more traditional roots of the calypso rather than the novelty sounds developed by the Beach Boys, and thus criticized the group for not maintaining those roots.9 Because of the cultural value given to music and dancing by Afro-­ Antilleans, they dominated the music scene in Bocas del Toro during the initial stages of the tourism boom and for years to come. Afro-­Antilleans reigned supreme in discotheques and bars; they marked the beat of the nightlife. Despite the resurgence of calypso pride that appeared during the initial wave of the tourism boom in the 1990s and early 2000s, it has nearly disappeared in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago in the present. While visiting in 2014, the only allusions to calypso I found in Colón Island were in the names of a hotel, a restaurant, and a real estate agency. Another reference to calypso is the occasional song played at the Afro-­Caribbean Festival, which has been held since 2012 in Bocas del Toro in honor of the Day of the Black Ethnicity. Currently, after decades of change from this long onslaught of tourism, the nightly entertainment in Bocas del Toro is ruled by tourist regimes that demand a globalized nightlife experience. With practically all “traditional” local bars gone, the party scene is now dominated by about eight bars that cater to very similar musical tastes and offer comparable overall experiences. The Beach Boys have disbanded and the only member of the group who remains working in the entertainment industry is Calypso Kev, who played the guitar and was part of the group’s chorus. Calypso Kev is now a permanent fixture in some restaurants in Bastimentos and Colón Island, where he plays a few melodies with a raspy voice and receives tips from clients. But in general, the new bars play US top-­40 playlists mixed with the occasional hip-­ hop, while others play reggae and dance hall music, or house and electronic dance music.10 One bar advertises the “genuine Caribbean experience,” with

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genres ranging from bachata to soca and Panamanian plena.11 Some of these bars organize theme parties, and all offer inexpensive drinks and very generous happy hours. Travel websites and blogs advertise the special character of each bar and recommend certain days of the week to visit them; they also recommend specific circuits to follow for barhopping. Although, at the present time, the calypso bands in Bocas del Toro have been replaced by a globalized tourism regime, the energetic interplay between revitalization and localization of a Pan-­Caribbean musical genre in the early twenty-­first century gave Afro-­Antillean musicians an opportunity to assert a specific ethnic identification, something that was largely accomplished within tourism narratives.

Afro-­Antillean Cuisine and the Consumption of Ethnic Tradition On a hot day in late March, Lawrence—a Bocatorenean who makes a living selling food to tourists and locals—prepares chicken soup and a bolsita from scratch for Fred, a German backpacker who cannot wait to hit the waves in Bluff Beach. A bolsita is a snack that includes a piece of fried chicken with approximately three pieces of fried plantain (patacones), three pieces of fried yucca, or a few French fries. These items are sold in a small paper bag (hence the name—bolsita means a small bag) for one or two dollars and are considered very appetizing snacks throughout Panama. In Bocas del Toro, the preferred side order for the locals is fried plantain. Fred, who had tried plantains before, requests French fries for his bolsita. Fred considers trying one of the famous janny or journey cakes (baked bread made out of flour and coconut milk) he has heard so much about from his fellow travelers, but settles for a plantintat or plantain tart, a turnover with filling of ripe banana, and a patí, a spicy meat turnover. These quintessentially Afro-­Antillean pastries were made by Lawrence’s wife, Elena, known for her baking abilities and for the fact that she does not cut corners when preparing these delicacies. Fred is happy he found an inexpensive restaurant with decent food, so he can have money left for a drink or two at the tourist bars after a day at the beach. He is not concerned with the appearance of Lawrence’s restaurant (which is small and devoid of decorations) and cares more about saving funds to continue his trip. He is proud of his perceived open-­mindedness by choosing a place that few tourists would go to; even eating in Bocas del Toro can become an adventure. For the following day, he plans to buy a falafel from the food truck parked on Main Street, owned by Spanish lifestyle migrants and managed by a young Argentinean woman. Although he chose to be adventurous today, Fred misses the comfort food offered at the food truck: pizza, falafels, and

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sandwiches, promised to be ready in forty seconds or less. In their encounter, Lawrence and Fred do not learn each other’s names or exchange more than a few words. This exchange between Fred and Lawrence is illustrative of the way a number of social and historical trends coalesce today in Bocas del Toro, where foods that are strongly associated with Afro-­Antillean life are now served in new ways depending on the tendencies and impact of tourism. The study of food and cuisine in Panama has been addressed only sparingly. Panama’s history of cuisine tourism offers an interesting case in which “national” cuisine along with indigenous and Afro-­Antillean cuisine has only recently been at the center of the touristic encounter. This situation has fostered governmental efforts to standardize offerings and procedures. In these instances, such as the case of the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro, the phenomenon that results can be described as the internationalization of local food (e.g., the modification of hearty food to appeal to the tourists in Afro-­Antillean restaurants) and the localization of international food (e.g., the incorporation of “Caribbean” drinks into Afro-­Antillean restaurants). Scholars of tourism studies suggest that it is important to recognize the difference between how tourists and locals interact with food in the context of the touristic experience—something they call culinary tourism—and what they call food tourism, an activity that can be understood as the intentional visit to primary and secondary food producers, food festivals, gourmet classes, and restaurants (Everett 2009; Hall et al. 2003; Richards 2002; Long 2004, 2013; Wight 2008). Culinary tourism is less about people wanting to go on trips to intentionally visit food producers, and instead refers to eating and cooking food considered to be from a culinary system that is different from one’s own. Thus, culinary tourism refers to geographical travel to sample foods of foreign lands and to any venture into the realm of the “exotic other” through food consumption. This approach sees culinary tourists as adventurers or explorers, and the consumption of food (whether abroad, at home learning to cook dishes from other countries, or exploring international cuisine at restaurants) becomes an expedition (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 292; Wilk 2006). In Panama today, there is an impressive diversity of international cuisine offered alongside Panamanian cuisine. A culinary tourist can experience Argentinean, Australian, Brazilian, Chilean, Chinese, Colombian, French, Greek, Indian, Indonesian, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Mexican, Middle Eastern, North American (United States and Canada), Peruvian, Portuguese, and Vietnamese cuisine, just to name some. There are also new millennium fusion restaurants as well as vegetarian, vegan, and macrobiotic restaurants. Panama has capitalized on the visibility of its culinary diversity to some

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degree, by suggesting its status of a cosmopolitan culinary place in tourism guides since the 1990s (Guerrón Montero 2015b). However, only recently has Panama begun to sell itself as a gastronomic destination. Public events and festivals where food is a central theme are not organized, and tourism that includes specific gastronomic routes has only been offered as such in the last few years. The first gastronomic column in a newspaper appeared in 1998, and the first International Gastronomy Fair (Panamá Gastronómica) did not happen until 2010 in Panama City. In 2001, entrepreneurs with five-­star hotels and prime restaurant offerings in a prominent part of the city (from Marbella Street to Calle Uruguay, including El Cangrejo, Via Argentina, and Obarrio) examined the possibility of creating the special zone, “Zona Viva,” following international trends such as Greenwich Village in New York City or the Zona Rosa in Mexico City. While this zone had been born spontaneously, the proposal was to organize it and to “transform [it] in a product that can be sold internationally as a center of entertainment, and what better place than one that is already developed” (Sandoval 2001, D-­5). Today, the Zona Viva is located in Panama City’s Causeway and includes more than twenty discotheques and bars (Irvine 2011). As Nilsa Lasso-­von Lang and Jiwanda Gale Rogers (2012, 20) note, “Panama is a melting pot of ethnicities, and its cuisine is accordingly influenced by its diverse population.” Because of this, there is a multiplicity of foodways as well as some dishes that are generally viewed as prototypical, emblematic of the “national cuisine,” such as sancocho (soup made with meat, tubers, and vegetables), arroz con pollo (rice with chicken), and arroz con frijoles (rice and beans), tamales, or guacho,12 all with common regional variations (Guerrón Montero 2004, 2011). In spite of Panama’s diversity, only dishes from this one type of cuisine, that of the rural countryside of Panama’s central provinces, has been raised to the status of national cuisine. This cuisine has been influenced not only by Spanish and Colombian cuisines but also by indigenous and African gastronomies. The influence of Latin American countries (particularly Mexico, Costa Rica, and Puerto Rico) can also be observed in dishes such as patacones (fried plantains), saril chicha or sorrel drink (Hibiscus sabdariffa), and corn tortillas (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 296). The main ingredients of the typical Panamanian diet today are similar to the food that Lawrence offered at his restaurant in Bocas del Toro—rice, beans, meat (especially beef and chicken), and bananas (Musa acuminate) and plantains (Musa paradisiaca), consumed in a variety of ways, as well as tubers such as yucca, ñame, ñampi, otoe (Xanthosoma), and potatoes (Castillero Calvo 2010, 383). Food and tourism are intimately entangled. Food is ubiquitous in tourism, whether the tourist is actively looking for a culinary experience or simply

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seeing food as fuel. Thus, food provides a wide window through which to understand tourism consumptive patterns. In Panama, by studying the ways in which gastronomy is produced and offered to tourists, we get a glimpse of the way identity is constructed there, as well as memory and otherness (Guerrón Montero 2015b). In previous works, I have discussed how in Bocas del Toro, Afro-­Antillean cuisine has certain features that link it to Jamaican cuisine in particular and Caribbean cuisine in general, from its preparation methods to its ingredients and consumption etiquette. In addition to being spicy, Afro-­Antillean food is hearty, thick, and filling. A robust meat-­and-­ tubers soup is a good example of a traditional, nourishing food. Soups are considered ideal meals in Bocas del Toro, for they contain all these characteristics. For many people in Bocas, especially those with limited economic resources, a dish of a thick soup with meat and tubers represents a very good lunch, and local restaurants offer these soups for a few dollars. Soups are also served at parties to provide stamina to enjoy the long party evening (Guerrón Montero 2004). The main Afro-­Antillean products in Bocas del Toro include coconut (Cocos nucifera), breadfruit (Artocarpus altilis), banana, plantain, rice, along with garlic, onions, curry, cilantro (Coriandrum sativum), coconut milk, ginger, and hot peppers such as ají chombo (bull nose). Although some people in Bocas del Toro believe that ginger was introduced by the Chinese into Bocatorenean cuisine in the late nineteenth century, in fact, ginger has been a common ingredient in the region for centuries, particularly for the preparation of sweet dishes such as gingerbread or drinks such as saril chicha. Garlic holds a particularly important role in Afro-­Antillean food. According to a famous Bocatorenean chef, every dish that contains seafood cooked with garlic (al ajillo) should be considered Caribbean food (interview M. L.; March 25, 2000). These seasonings assist the masterful cooks in making dishes such as rice and beans with coconut milk, rondón (fish soup with coconut milk and tubers),13 bragadá (fried codfish cake made with flour), ackee with codfish14 and coconut milk—described as “a dish for a king” by George Westerman (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 15), ackee with eggs, pig’s tail, sauce or souse (pig’s feet cooked with cucumber and vinegar), pescado en escabeche (pickled fish), patí (turnover of spicy meat), cucú (corn flour prepared with okra), Janny cake, and vieks (wheat flower dumplings). Among the most desired desserts are coconut pies; plantintat (plantain tart), which is a turnover filled with ripe banana; yucca; uyama (a type of squash) or otoe (Xanthosoma sp.) pudding; and Bastimentos or Bocas sweet bon (sweet bread) (Guerrón Montero 2004, 34–35). The most well-­known beverages are icing glass (an alcoholic drink made with seaweed, condensed milk, evaporated milk, cinnamon, ice, and an alcoholic beverage such as vodka,

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rum, brandy, or wine); michilá (boiled ripe plantain with coconut milk); chicheme (boiled hominy with coconut milk, condensed milk, and spices); muogó (green banana with coconut milk); and saril chicha, which is generally made with ginger. For the most part, cooking is a gendered activity in the purview of women. Being a woman in Bocas del Toro involves being able to cook. For most Bocatorenean women, knowing how to cook grants them power and prestige; thus, some choose to keep their recipes a secret; others choose to learn as much as possible about cooking from their relatives and take courses whenever available to perfect their knowledge. Knowing the secret ingredient for a perfect sauce or a particularly elaborate Afro-­Antillean dish might mean the difference between being respected in the community or not, and, more importantly, being employed or not. Many women have learned cooking strategies from the waves of expatriates and tourists who visit Bocas or from cooking courses taught by the ATP. Interestingly, some local women have taken advantage of these courses and now teach cooking courses themselves, using some of the standard international practices they learned and adding their own Afro-­Antillean taste to the courses (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 301). Afro-­Antillean cuisine is used as a distinct marker of identity, specifically as a way to signal important identity differences from Latinos, indigenous peoples, and more recently, tourists and resident expatriates. Bocatoreneans point out that one can easily distinguish between Afro-­Antillean food and indigenous food (“Indians don’t eat with hot peppers or ginger; they only boil their fish and plantains.” “Make sure you choose your ñampies well; don’t buy the purple ñampi; that’s Indian ñampi and it doesn’t taste as good”);15 Pania food (“Pania food has no flavor; it’s white and bland, without spices”); or tourists’ food (“Tourists and foreigners prefer fruits and vegetables; they don’t like fat or fried foods”). Bocatoreneans, thus, differentiate between mountain food, by implication cooked and consumed by indigenous peoples (simple, without any condiments other than salt), Afro-­Antillean food (thick, spicy, heavy, and complete), and tourist food (more complex than mountain food in the use of condiments, but lighter than Afro-­ Antillean food). They also differentiate between food prepared in the private sphere and food consumed in public. This separation is important because nostalgia and longing for a pretouristic Caribbean—a time when food was obtained through fishing and agriculture—is also part of the touristic experience. From the mid-­1990s and lasting for around ten years, Afro-­Antilleans experienced some level of cultural revival of their “traditional” cuisine in the context of tourism development. In this way, tourism regimes have become venues for Afro-­Antilleans to emphasize and reinvent certain cultural particularities and to reconstruct their social memory in ways that not only refer

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back to a Pan-­Caribbean cosmopolitan past but also to a Bocatorenean past of coastal tranquility. The quintessential rice and beans provides an excellent example of food as a marker of identity (Wilk 2012). The way in which this apparently simple dish is prepared signals either membership in a “national” Panamanian cuisine or loyalty to a regional ethnic identity. When rice and beans are made in local restaurants as a menestra (a kind of vegetable stew), they are considered a simple, daily meal typical of Panama. When the same dish is made with coconut milk and offered to national and international tourists and locals alike, it becomes what Afro-­Antilleans call “the natural dish” and a treasured symbol of Afro-­Antillean’s complex identities as Panamanian and Caribbean Antilleans. Because of its versatility, rice and beans in Bocas del Toro is both an everyday dish and a special dish because it signals Afro-­Antillean culture for Bocatoreneans and other Panamanians; therefore, it is habitually selected as a special meal for national and international guests. A dish of rice and beans is so quintessential that it is widely accepted as appropriate for any occasion, even within the very elaborate cuisine etiquette of Bocatoreneans (Guerrón Montero 2012, 168). Preparing rice and beans is an involved process, but its cost is minimal. In 2019, an approximate cost might be around US$5 for the ingredients ($1.25 for 2 pounds of rice; $1.25 for 1 pound of beans; $0.50 for a coconut, and $2 for seasonings) and US$5 for labor, and serve about six persons. Despite its low cost, until the onset of tourism in the archipelago, rice and beans was not considered a dish of the poor. Socioeconomic classes were not sharply marked in the pretourist past, and rice and beans was considered a meal for all social classes in Bocas. Moreover, obligations to share and to return favors through food were honored, and thus, distances between the upper, middle, and lower classes regarding food produced and consumed were not marked. When tourism arrived in the islands in the 1990s, it had a transformative impact on Bocatorenean cuisine (Guerrón Montero 2012). When it first developed, overexploitation of resources ensued, “tourist food” became available, international cuisine became a consumption option, and the inequalities of social classes in regard to consumption patterns flourished. Dishes that were considered commonplace are now delicacies. That is the case of lobster and seafood, which now mark social differences. Overfishing has depleted marine resources considerably and this, combined with inflation (partly due to tourism), has made seafood expensive and a sign of status. In fact, most seafood served in Bocatorenean restaurants today comes from the Pacific Ocean rather than from the Caribbean. Restaurants serving Afro-­Antillean dishes in Bocas del Toro compete with those providing international offerings as varied as a raw sushi and martini

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bar, fusion, French, Greek, Indian, Italian, Lebanese, Mediterranean, Mexican, Moroccan, Salvadoran, Spanish, Thai, and US American. Additionally, like in Panama City, now there are vegetarian and organic options at several businesses in Bocas. For Bocatoreneans, who were not accustomed to these varied options, a visit to these restaurants is a mark of social distinction. There are around five restaurants specifically aimed at serving Afro-­ Antillean fare in the archipelago today, and all of them are owned by Bocatoreneans. Most of these restaurants cater to tourists, and thus they create an atmosphere and a menu as an extension of the private sphere, as home or comfort food (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 304). Some of these restaurants have chosen to diversify their offerings by adding dishes that would be considered sophisticated and appealing to international culinary tourists. For instance, clams with ginger and wine sauce are offered side by side with rondón soup, fried fish, rice with beans, or guandú with coconut milk, thus proposing a menu where Afro-­Antillean cuisine becomes as cosmopolitan as any international dish without much modification (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 305). Despite the extensive changes to cuisine in Bocas del Toro, rice and beans for Afro-­Antilleans continues to represent a way to balance economic inequalities by sharing food preferences and tastes that are economically available to all classes. Denoting an everyday, inexpensive meal such as rice and beans as a delicacy and a marker of identity represents an economic leveling in the context of rapid and dramatic changes in this society, where there are no longer solid balances among social classes, and where social boundaries are increasingly demarcated because of changes produced mostly by tourism. Thus, in the context of rapid transformations and growth of inequalities, rice and beans and rondón—dishes that are considered representative of Afro-­ Antillean identity but that are not delicacies and that can be cooked with few economic resources—continue to override class distinctions within Afro-­ Antillean society while also being used to represent the identity of Afro-­ Antilleans to national and international tourists (Guerrón Montero 2012). Limited agricultural production has characterized the islands in the archipelago for most of their history, and the tourism industry brought about a higher demand for produce, meat, and seafood than could be met internally. Contrary to world trends toward the consumption and support of local produce and cuisines and, more generally, of “local food,” in Bocas del Toro today, the food that is consumed is mostly shipped to the island and prepared as international cuisine (Guerrón Montero 2015b, 305). Despite the varied and cosmopolitan history of Afro-­Antilleans (Guerrón Montero 2006a), food has remained a largely unchanging system of communication, and there has been little desire to develop new approaches to Afro-­Antillean food itself. Although some pragmatic changes have occurred

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to cater to the needs of the tourists, no notable movement toward experimentation or intent to produce fusions has emerged. Ingredients are substituted, and ingenuity in moments of scarcity leads to the creation of new dishes that, even though improvised, still fit the occasion.16 Yet, overall there is an emphasis on maintaining the Afro-­Antillean flavors and rules of preparation, although as indicated above, there is more flexibility when it comes to consumption. Rice and beans are now paired with lobster, fish, or occasionally red meat in addition to chicken and salad. Any sign of sophistication or cosmopolitanism is evidenced in accepting the variations in food preferences of tourists, and in occasional visits to restaurants that offer international cuisine, but not in transforming the traditional gastronomic fare. Afro-­Antillean cuisine has also been influenced by the efforts of IPAT to develop what they call “a tourism culture.” In the late 1990s and early 2000s, IPAT offered a series of training seminars for cooks, tour guides, bartenders, maids, and people working in tourism-­related activities in general. These courses had a lasting effect on a population eager to learn. The primary goal of these seminars was to encourage participants to find ways to please tourists and run businesses. For instance, during a seminar on gastronomy (Basic International Cuisine) I attended in June 1999, the instructor of the seminar, a Panamanian chef, pointed out that the course was intended to provide information on how to manage a restaurant as a small enterprise. He strongly advised the participants to have faith in tourism as Panama’s salvation. The instructor also pointed out that IPAT administrators hoped that Bocatoreneans would exploit their culinary traditions and present them to the tourists. “I think it is ridiculous and sad that in Bocas del Toro tourists have more choices of Italian food than Bocatorenean food.” He also discussed the contrasting eating habits of Panamanians and foreigners. Whereas Panamanians tend to eat a hearty breakfast with fish or other types of meat, fried dough, patacón, and fried rice, foreigners prefer a light breakfast with fruits, eggs, and ham. Consequently, in the seminar students learned how to make Spanish tortilla, omelets, pancakes, waffles, and hash brown potatoes for breakfast. Students learned how to make many other foods that might appeal to international tourists, such as different types of sandwiches (Cuban, club, sub), salads and dressings (Russian dressing, tartar dressing), spaghetti, chicken, ceviche, paella, and ice cream syrups. While teaching students to make a club sandwich, the instructor commented on the number of products that were not available on the island (large pieces of bread, decorated toothpicks, pickled cucumbers), and indicated that the final product was not going to have the proper appearance because of the substitutions made. But he still encouraged the participants to offer them (Guerrón Montero 2004). In many ways, IPAT’s efforts to push new culinary workers to learn new

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cuisines and run restaurants for tourists offered contradictory messages to cooks in Bocas del Toro. On the one hand, IPAT encouraged the development of a distinctively Bocatorenean cuisine, with the use of “local” products and ingenuity. Students were encouraged to realize the great potential of coconut, ginger, seafood, and other ingredients commonly used in Afro-­ Antillean cuisine. On the other hand, students learned that mostly international dishes and rules were the ideals. This is the result of the interest of IPAT in developing uniform norms, regulations, and standards throughout the nation regarding a “tourism culture.” Although this could be seen as a positive step toward standardization of service, it also sent a confusing message to the women and the few men who attended these classes. Instructors in these seminars urged the development of a cuisine that was principally international, but with a “Caribbean flair.” They did not encourage the hearty and heavily spiced Afro-­Antillean Caribbean fare. In other words, they invited a Caribbeanization of international cuisine and not an internationalization of Caribbean fare. For instance, rather than encouraging students to offer an icing glass cocktail (punch made of seaweed and rum, dry gin, or triple sec, and believed to be an aphrodisiac), an instructor suggested that students make the famous, internationally recognized piña colada, served in a conspicuously Caribbean coconut, adorned with local flowers and a straw or perhaps a little crepe paper umbrella (Guerrón Montero 2004).17 The influence of the IPAT seminars in Bocas del Toro was felt in different arenas. Bocatorenean women who attended these seminaries did so to obtain a certificate that would allow them to work at a restaurant or to open their own small enterprise. In regard to changes in culinary traditions, women only cooked the dishes learned in the seminars occasionally, both at home and in the restaurants where they worked. The dishes did not replace Bocatorenean cuisine. Despite the teacher’s encouragement, these seminars did not lead to notable trends of fusion cuisine in Bocas del Toro today. Like Afro-­Antillean music, over the last two decades, Afro-­Antillean cuisine has become a commodity for tourist consumption and a site for the recasting of former cultural traits. Both music and cuisine serve these purposes in the Bocas of the twenty-­first century where tourism is a site of subnational cultural politics. Presented for tourism consumption, they also became sites for reassigning former cultural traditions and inventing new ones, and in the process became fundamental elements of an assertion of an Afro-­Antillean identity. In many ways, tourism has contributed to the essentialization of Afro-­Antillean cuisine—producing minimal changes in its production and only a few in its consumption. Panama has developed what most Panamanians would consider a typical, national cuisine based on involvement from a variety of ethnic groups, but it has also retained and refined dishes that are

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considered representative of a specific region or an ethnic group. In contrast to other Latin American and Caribbean nations, Panama has capitalized on the visibility of its culinary diversity. Esteem for Afro-­Antillean cuisine is not the result of tourism, current governmental support, or immigration, but of the historic role that Afro-­Antillean cuisine has played for Afro-­Antillean identity constructions. Resistance to modifying Afro-­Antillean cuisine represents a way to assert group identities within the context of a rigid and clearly delineated national identity (Guerrón Montero 2012, 172); however, this insistence on the local is in and of itself a response to globalization.

7 Conclusions Afro-­Antillean Identity Construction, International Tourism, and the New Symbols of Panameñidad

The Other in our geography is a sight of disgust; the Other in their geography is a source of pleasure. In our place, the Other is a pollution; in their place, the Other is romantic, beautiful, exotic. —Edward Bruner (1996, 160) Tourism does not necessarily invent new narratives, but, as Edward Bruner put it, it certainly seeks “new locations in which to tell old stories, possibly because those stories are the ones that the tourist consumer is willing to buy” (Bruner 2005, 22). In Panama, the tourism industry has become a major force through which local, national, and global representations of Panamanian identities connect. As discussed in chapter 1, the master narrative of nationhood produced in the early twentieth century in Panama was Spanish-­Indian and rural in nature. A racially, ethnically, and culturally diverse nation became represented almost exclusively by specific cultural and social values, all presumably inherited from the “motherland” (i.e., Spain) and more deeply manifested in the central provinces of Panama. For the most part, Panama’s nation-­ building project was gendered, racialized, and class-­specific: the future of the country was seen to lie in Hispanic male middle-­class intellectuals. The cultural symbols chosen to represent the Panamanian nation derived directly from a Spanish or mestizo heritage, including romanticized rural traditions exemplified in Panama’s folklore, music, and cuisine. This was partly because of the need to identify Panama as a country with roots in Latin America in evident opposition to the United States’ presence. This selection was also a result of internal struggles that influenced definitions of legitimacy. Even though, in essence, all nation-­states are constructed on the basis of guiding

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fictions (Shumway 1991), the case of Panama is noteworthy for several reasons discussed throughout this book. Panama has struggled to become real in its broader sense, not only in opposition to the United States but also in contrast to Colombia, the nation from which Panama gained independence in the early 1900s (Ropp 2005). Even though the cultural distance identified between Panama and the United States is much larger, in practice, popular nationalism motivates many Panamanians to deny acknowledging Colombia’s multiple cultural influences. Throughout this book, I have examined how multiculturalism has been expressed and appropriated by marginalized groups in the context of tourism development. Similar to some Latin American countries such as Colombia (Guevara 2007), but unlike other countries like Nicaragua—where tourism narratives represent the nation as homogenous and consequently dispense with its indigenous and black minorities (Babb 2011)—Panamanian tourism has opened up the door for the recognition and development of a nominal multicultural state, albeit one where neoliberalism reigns. A key goal for this book has been to trace the evolution of a marginalized ethnic group—Afro-­ Antilleans in Bocas del Toro—from plantation workers for the United Fruit Company to tourism workers, mostly for foreign investors, within that nominally multicultural state. In the final chapter of this book, I turn to some of the ways that tourism and its related identity constructions within a changing Panama and Bocas del Toro have encouraged specific kinds of cultural capital to develop in the archipelago, and also how tourism has intersected with gender and race and has affected long-­standing social norms.

Unequal Opportunities and New Cultural Capital in a Globalized Archipelago An inventory of the aftereffects of tourism development in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago requires analyzing the economic, cultural, social, and political outcomes of this development. For the most part, the tourism economic outcomes are limited and have minimally benefited Bocatoreneans. There have been additional job opportunities, more access to resources, and infrastructural improvements. Yet, overall and in a period of twenty years, the archipelago was transformed from a place with vaguely delimited social classes and extensive sharing of resources due to well-­developed reciprocity networks, to a place where some resident expatriates and a few Afro-­ Antilleans have profited from unregulated tourism development, while the majority of the population—including most Afro-­Antilleans and especially the Ngöbe indigenous peoples—have encountered a substantial decline in their standard of living (Guerrón Montero 2014b, 420). In macroeconomic terms, Panama has experienced substantial economic

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growth as a result of tourism. At the local level, though, the effects of the tourism industry are less clear. What is clear is that tourism has brought documented misfortunes. In the case of Bocas del Toro, the most relevant include land speculation, social and economic polarization not present prior to tourism development, drug trafficking, corruption, endemic species trafficking, and profiteering directly resulting from unregulated tourism. Over the years in Bocas del Toro, one of the most common comments I heard from friends and collaborators as well as from residents and lifestyle migrants was that the archipelago was not prepared for the tourism boom that developed in the mid-­1990s. Because tourism planning was just emerging and centralized in the country’s capital, local authorities in Bocas could not cope with rapid and disorganized growth. This was true at the economic, social, and judicial level. But governmental abandon, which Bocas del Toro has suffered for centuries, continues to this day—albeit in a different form than in the past. Prior to tourism development, Afro-­Antilleans endured neglect by the national government, but they had some opportunities for negotiating internal political and social conflicts “by having direct access to and some leverage with local authorities, particularly corregidores [political authority of subdivisions of Panamanian municipalities]” 1 (Guerrón Montero 2014b, 429). After the tourism industry developed, these mechanisms diminished while local and national authorities mostly supported foreign investors in an unplanned and often illegal manner. These practices are connected with visa, immigration, and investment policies provided to foreign investors. However, at the local level they are translated into a series of irregularities benefiting foreigners and local elites to the detriment of the majority of Panamanians. In the case of Bocas del Toro, where foreign entrepreneurs or large multinational firms have not taken hold, foreign investors have financed small-­scale enterprises such as restaurants, hostels, bars, and tour agencies, which become profitable quickly. Moreover, they compete unfairly with Bocatoreneans for a slice of the tourism market by the common practice of providing job opportunities to foreigners with tourist visas, who are technically prohibited from working as per Article 8, Chapter I of the Legislation on Tourism and Migration.2 Young world travelers in search of experiences are easily hired to work as waiters, waitresses, or bartenders. Some who have more specialized skills work as dive masters and Castilian Spanish or English teachers, but regardless of these proficiencies they tend to have the cultural and symbolic capital that makes them appealing tourism workers. However temporary their presence in Bocas is, they are a source of distress for some Bocatoreneans who believe the job opportunities of the local population are taken by them, or that their morals are discordant with the local community. Conversely, they

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Figure 7.1. Bocas for sale (Carla Guerrón Montero)

are also a source of attraction for many young Bocatoreneans who tend to gravitate toward these visitors and to aspire to acquire some of their cultural capital. Land speculation and irregularities in real estate transactions are also sources of discontent for Bocatoreneans. There is consensus among local Bocatoreneans and resident expatriates or lifestyle migrants that these irregularities are due to negligence by local authorities, who are unwilling to serve either population unless bribes are involved. For Marcelo, a Bocatorenean business owner, born and raised in Bocas del Toro, “everything in Bocas del Toro—land, titles, licenses—is for sale. I remember that one of the first Italian expatriates who settled here in the early ’90s used to say: ‘Everything in Panama is for sale to the highest bidder.’ Sadly, I have to agree with him” (interview M. L., July 20, 2007) (figure 7.1). However, the upper hand that Afro-­Antilleans have had in the archipelago among the ethnic groups historically residing in Bocas del Toro largely remains today; thus, in spite of the aforementioned irregularities, Afro-­ Antilleans have been able to benefit more consistently from tourism than their Latino or indigenous counterparts because of their knowledge of English and ability to interact with international visitors. This is something that Bocatoreneans are aware of. As Fabián, the son of an indigenous woman and an Afro-­Antillean man, told me, “Indigenous peoples in Bocas del Toro have

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benefited the least from tourism. If they grew up in Bocas Town, they might have a chance to work as receptionists, maids, perhaps as waiters. If they did not grow up in Bocas, the best job they can get is as land cleaners; normally, they would work taking care of a piece of land or cattle. Bocatoreneans and foreigners think the only thing an Indian can do is use a machete” (interview F. M., July 16, 2004). However, one notable exception to this rule is the Chinese Panamanian community, long present and strong in the archipelago, but nowadays even stronger in terms of the many businesses it manages. Today, Chinese Panamanian families operate not only all-­purpose convenience stores, micromarkets, and large supermarkets, which had been common in the past, but also bakeries and popular restaurants and cafeterias that cater to tourists. In general, beyond direct economic opportunities, the cultural and social outcomes of tourism regimes in Bocas del Toro are diverse. For example, many people in the archipelago emphasized the cultural capital they believed they acquired as a result of their interactions with tourists and lifestyle migrants Those men and women who were recognized as outstanding boat drivers, tour guides, cooks, or hosts achieved status, something that could sometimes lead to envy or criticism because of their perceived allegiances. Tourism has also brought cultural capital to Afro-­Antilleans in the process of constructing difference and cosmopolitan identities. The tourism industry created the space for other globalizing processes to expand in Bocas del Toro. For more than two years, Alicia, for example, an Afro-­Antillean woman who worked as a cook in one of the hotels in Bocas del Toro, had a virtual boyfriend from Mexico, whom she met on an international chat line. Alicia regularly spoke about this relationship to me and also with Janice, a US citizen who owns a spa that offers massages, reiki, and psychic leveling in Bocas del Toro and who commutes between Florida and Panama. Janice is part of the group of relatively affluent individuals who live in the area part time; she is thought of by locals as a wealthy and sophisticated lifestyle migrant. Both Alicia and Janice assisted each other in fulfilling fantasies about Bocas del Toro as a paradise: friendly and accommodating locals, as well as affluent, worldly, and generous foreigners. Through her friendship with Janice, Alicia was able to connect to global trends by interacting with a worldly foreigner without leaving her small island. By requesting constant assistance from Alicia to decipher life in Bocas, Janice was able to maintain a selective “globalized romantic perception of island living” (Spalding 2013b, 71), a perception that motivated her to uproot to Bocas on the first place. Although the possibility of this interaction was very much the result of increased integration of Bocas del Toro into Panama and the world through transportation

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changes and greater access to technological networks and communication, it is also an example of the way the confluence of technology and friendship takes a different air in the context of tourism. The sense of developing cultural capital through interactions and friendships with people from specific foreign cultures can also be seen in the pleasure that many Afro-­Antilleans felt from learning to incorporate elements of those other cultures into their own. For example, one day in October all the way back in 2000, not long after the initial tourism boom had taken off, my friend Marta—who I discussed in the introduction of this book—invited me to her home for a cooking lesson. Because she had previously worked in the local Chinese restaurant, she was teaching me how to make chop suey. Once we finished our meal, Marta gave me a taste of one of her dearest possessions: Argentinean mate (Ilex paraguariensis) herbs. An Argentinean tourist, Darío, had given her the mate herbs before leaving the hostel where Marta worked and had promised he would send her two mate sets (composed of a gourd and a bombilla) to make mate “the real way.” Although Marta was eager to receive the two sets so she could share her “real” mate with her closest friends, she informed me that because she had not received the sets yet, we could only have mate tea in cups. In addition to her relationship with her Argentinean friend, it was clear that her friendship with me, an Ecuadorian anthropologist who was also her English teacher, was a source of pride. Marta’s work in the tourism industry—selling her homemade hot sauce at markets catering to tourists, regularly welcoming international visitors into her home, and helping lifestyle migrants find their way in Bocas del Toro—have been key ways for her to develop her lifestyle and sense of self over the last couple of decades. Because of the extraordinary transformations that have occurred in Bocas del Toro, such encounters across cultures are now frequent, and the kinds of pleasures that Marta described drawing from her interactions with international visitors in Bocas del Toro are common among Afro-­Antilleans (figure 7.2). Not all Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago, however, experienced similar kinds of exposure or interactions with other cultures. Some Afro-­Antilleans were exposed to different cultural and social behaviors while maintaining a critical outlook. For instance, Marlon, an Afro-­Antillean who worked as a bartender, had trouble accepting that Western cisgender couples pay for their meals individually rather than letting the man take care of their expenses as is the common practice in Bocas. He had noticed this behavior at the small restaurant where he worked, in other restaurants he visited occasionally, and at one of the local cybercafes. He commented on it to me with surprise and perplexity. He found it puzzling that a man and a woman would choose to travel together for an extended period of time without being a couple and

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Figure 7.2. Marta and the author at the Bocas airport (Scarlett Shaffer)

was scandalized by seeing two women dancing together at a discotheque. For Marlon, these behaviors were unacceptable and created undesirable changes in Bocas’ youth. In 2014, he had recently become a husband and a father and was stern in his beliefs that different behaviors and practices from the ones he had learned as a child were negative outcomes of tourism development. For lifestyle migrants, the beliefs espoused by Marlon might be the reason why many claim they have difficulty in developing genuine friendships with Afro-­Antilleans.

Gender, Race, and Changing Social Conventions Among the many changes that tourism in Bocas del Toro has led to, tourism has provided a space for reinforcing the clear-­cut distinctions between masculinity and femininity. In the areas of music and cuisine as discussed in the previous chapter, for example, it has fostered women’s knowledge and abilities as cooks and housekeepers, and men as guides and musicians. Among Afro-­Antilleans, music is predominantly, but not exclusively, a male activity. Cuisine is predominantly, but not exclusively, a female activity. Men sing calypso and manage DJ sound systems; young boys dream about developing Panamanian reggae singing careers. Women participate in quadrille and May pole dances. These are both considered beautiful demonstrations of Afro-­Antillean folklore, although they are seldom performed today except

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during special ceremonies and events. The majority of cooks in restaurants in Bocas del Toro are female; yet, there are some Afro-­Antillean men who cook for their own restaurants or who are hired as cooks. Even if men cook for a living, their female partners are in charge of everyday cooking at home, where these men cook only infrequently and only on special occasions. To a certain degree, tourism has reinforced women’s economic and social independence by providing a market where they can find some job opportunities and even, on occasions, further develop their entrepreneurial skills. In the past, women who may have found it difficult to work as cooks or maids in the few restaurants or family houses that could afford these services in Bocas now have more opportunities; therefore, migration to the country’s capital or main cities is less frequent. Both race and gender play a role in the way Bocatoreneans perceive foreigners. For example, white women are, in general, the target of more insidious gossip than white men or even local women. Since many lifestyle migrants do not follow or understand Afro-­Antillean cultural norms, there is commonly a great divide between them, and regardless of the reasons for their presence, most lifestyle migrants are the source of gossip with the same enthusiasm placed on and by Bocatoreneans. Gossip in the archipelago has far-­reaching consequences. Marriages have been broken, friendships have ended, and employees have lost their jobs due to it. Even though I was placed in a different category from other temporary foreign residents due to the nature of my encounters and my ethnic background, I followed the local conventions by going out at night accompanied by a female friend, by interviewing men in public places, and by always receiving visitors (men or women) in the garden outside my small room. In fact, acting in this manner was a public demonstration of my acquired intimacy with Afro-­Antillean customs. Sonya Watson (2014) notes that the trope of the oversexualized white woman has been presented in some Afro-­Panamanian novels, stories, and poems as a means to reverse the stereotype of black sexuality and promiscuity commonly found in early twentieth-­century negrista literature and to denounce US imperialism (Watson 2014, 50). In Bocas del Toro, the white female corpus is portrayed as both a forbidden and irresistible fruit. White women (gringas) from Europe or the United States who arrive in Bocas without a partner are assumed to have loose morals and to be in a constant search for a sexual companion. Accepting that women travel on their own worldwide for leisure without assuming that they are looking for sexual enjoyment is simply inconceivable. Ann-­Marie, a woman from the United States who moved to Bocas to set up a small hostel, told me in 2000 that she was amazed at the things people said about her. “I wish I had the exciting life that locals say I do. I share the stories with my friends and they laugh at it. . . . I don’t

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mind living a public life here, but only if it were public and true. If it’s public and not true, then I have a problem with it” (interview A. M. S., May 16, 2000). There are much higher expectations among Afro-­Antilleans for the proper behavior of Afro-­Antillean women. The experiences of Lucía, an Afro-­ Antillean woman born and raised in Colón Island, offers an example. Lucía belongs to one of the most traditional families on Colón Island, known for its entrepreneurial abilities and traditional values. Lucía’s mother, Cedella, was a woman from Bastimentos Island with very little resources but a great spirit and outstanding cooking abilities. Although Bastimentos is only a ten-­ minute boat ride from Colón Island, it is worlds apart. While Colón Island is characterized historically for its multiethnic composition to which resident expatriates and tourists added more ethnic and cultural diversity, Bastimentos was—until only recently—almost entirely composed of Afro-­Antillean families who maintained their Wari-­wari language intact. While Bastimentos now has several hotels and small hostels, restaurants, and water sports renting places (it is where the Bastimentos Island National Marine Park is located and is also the site of controversial Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa discussed in chapter 4), visiting Bastimentos Island still evokes the sensation of being in a different time. Old Bank, the main town in Bastimentos, is composed of one main street and a few adjacent pathways. Most houses are made out of wood following the conventions of Caribbean architecture. As Emma, a Canadian lifestyle migrant commented to me in one interview, “When I first visited Bastimentos Island I thought I had landed in Haiti” (interview E. P., July 15, 2007). Emma opted for opening her bed and breakfast in Colón Island but was happy to take a boat ride to Bastimentos to attend events and parties. Lucía’s mother, Cedella, first moved from Bastimentos to Colón Island when she was twenty and started selling her delicious sweets in the streets. Bastimentos is known for being the place where one can get the best and most traditionally made Afro-­Antillean sweets and snacks, and Cedella took advantage of all her knowledge to make the most appealing desserts. Soon, people in Bocas Town were asking Cedella to prepare tasty Journey cakes, Bastimentos bons, plantintats, and cakes for breakfast, parties, and celebrations, and with time, Cedella opened a tiny restaurant. At twenty-­ five, Cedella married a handsome man from the central provinces, and together with their five children, they built their tiny cafeteria into a full-­blown restaurant that operated more than fourteen hours per day offering breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks at affordable prices. Anyone visiting Colón Island would probably visit the restaurant at least once. Lucía grew up assisting her mother in her business, but only during her

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free time because her parents made sure their children were focused on school. When Lucía completed her high school studies, she moved to Panama City to study accounting at the University of Panama. Later, when Lucía returned to the archipelago, she married and had three children. Although she accepted occasional contracts as an accountant, her focus became her family and entrepreneurial projects. Lucía followed Cedella’s footsteps and became a businesswoman, setting up numerous businesses, including a boutique, a laundry facility, an internet café, and more recently, a hotel, all the while continuing to work at the family restaurant. My friendship with Lucía developed slowly. I frequented her family restaurant habitually, sometimes for breakfast, sometimes for lunch, and sometimes to buy snacks. It was the place to observe interactions and the place to meet people for an interview or a conversation. Lucía and Cedella would greet me with a smile every time. One day, Cedella asked me what I was doing in the archipelago and where I was from. When I told her I was from Ecuador, Cedella told me that she used to listen to a Christian radio program, HCJB, that broadcast from Quito—her closest relation with my home country. Lucía was very interested in my work, and since she had attended university, we started to talk about our common experiences as students. Since then, Cedella and Lucía were endlessly supportive of my research and adopted me into their family. Cedella called me an arriera (Atta), a type of ant that cuts leaves, because, like the ant, I worked tirelessly. She also jokingly called me vidajena, which could be translated as “interested in the lives of others.” I thought that this was a fitting—although perhaps a bit negative—way to describe the work that anthropologists do. While Bocatoreneans do not take the idea lightly of inviting people into their homes—normally receiving people outside their homes until a strong sense of trust develops—Lucía invited me to her home all the time: for meals, to watch her prepare the food she sold at the restaurant (rice pudding, hamburgers, ceviche, patíes, and carimañolas [yucca fritter stuffed with meat and sometimes cheese]), to learn the process of hair straightening, to play with her children, or to prepare costumes for her children’s plays at church. We talked about marriage, family, work, and the difficulties she had growing up in the spotlight in a society where it was common to know everything about everyone, and sometimes to invent things about someone. Lucía used to say she thought there were people in town who never slept, because they seemed to know (or to make up) stories about what everyone did at every hour of the day. She believed that the high prestige of her family was a blessing, but that it also caused difficulties in their lives. They were judged by higher standards and criticized often for their choices. For Lucía, running the family restaurant was a challenging venture because the family was

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evaluated by different standards than anyone else on the island, locals or lifestyle migrants. In 2007, for example, Lucía shared with frustration that her family had been highly criticized for raising prices in the restaurant for the first time in eight years, when in contrast lifestyle migrants who owned restaurants charged US prices without missing a beat—and tourists willingly paid those prices. For example, whereas a meal composed of rice, chicken, and a salad would cost US$4.50 at her restaurant, the same dish would be US$6 at another local restaurant. At a restaurant that catered to tourists, the dish would cost US$7. A dish of whole fish with a side of shrimp or lobster at one of these restaurants could go up to US$18. In contrast with most restaurants, at Lucía’s restaurant side dishes of rice, chicken, or salad were available at lower prices to facilitate purchase by Bocatoreneans with less resources. Lucía thought that her mother’s generous nature was problematic because so many local families depended on the restaurant for subsistence: the restaurant employed twenty people, an extraordinary number for the archipelago. Lucía taught me the importance that Bocatorenean society places on women’s assigned activities and responsibilities. Afro-­Antillean women evidenced their worth by showing their ability to take care of their household and their children, but also through their demonstrable entrepreneurial skills. In addition to cooking, cleaning, managing a household, and raising children, Lucía explained to me that it was essential for women to join domino and card clubs or susús (informal savings cooperatives), or to participate in committees to gather funds for their children’s schools and even to work for transnational companies such as Avon and Amway. Through her daily routines, I understood how the Afro-­Antillean women lived and experience the belief that women “conquer” and maintain their partners—or even attract other women’s partners—by focusing on the man’s food and personal appearance and overall household tasks. I accompanied numerous women while they spent hours embroidering their babies’ diapers, sheets, and clothes; ironing perfectly their children’s uniforms or their husbands’ shirts, or waxing wood floors by hand. For Christmas, women took great efforts to redecorate their homes: with the extra salary and bonuses received for the holidays, they painted the exterior in bright colors, changed floors to wood if funds were available, linoleum if they were not. Women commissioned or made themselves curtains for their homes, usually using bright materials and colors, with edgings, lace, tulle, and sequins. Homes and patios were decorated with nativity scenes but also with Christmas trees, large figures of Santa Claus, reindeers, candy canes, and even snow made out of cotton. Some women took pride in manufacturing these items themselves (after taking a few craft courses, learning from more skilled friends, or by reading craft magazines), while others traveled to Changuinola or even Panama City

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to purchase them. Lucía and the other members of her family were especially careful and detailed, partly because their lives were more closely scrutinized; however, every Bocatorenean household, from the ones with less economic resources to the ones with plenty, transformed their homes for the holidays between early December and January 6. Lucía took on these activities and then some. She was deeply concerned about her children’s education, behavior in the streets, and appearance. Her children never left home without looking well-­groomed, with carefully pressed clothes and perfectly made hairstyles, even if they were only planning to go for a walk on the plaza. They participated in the chorus of the Methodist Church, run by Lucía and her aunt. Lucía and the women in her family took on both official and informal leadership roles and were considered pillars of the church. This concern with personal appearance, household cleanliness, and spiritual virtuousness was replicated in the attention Lucía paid to her businesses, the family restaurant, and their hotel. In fact, the care that Afro-­Antillean women give to their family and households is often reproduced in the attention that female maids, cooks, or managers give to their hosts in hotels, hostels, boardinghouses, or restaurants. Lucía’s traditional upbringing and relatively conventional lifestyle has rapidly overlapped both entrepreneurially and socially within the transformations that the archipelago has witnessed in the last twenty years. Lucía’s way of life and entrepreneurial approach will continue to adapt, partly due to economic changes—such as those affecting the pricing at her restaurant and the complaints among her Bocatorenean customers—but also due to the shifting social norms and ever-­increasing touristic encounters that will play a role in how Lucía and other Afro-­Antilleans in Bocas del Toro understand and enact their cultural practices.

The Cultural Appeal of Racially Marked Permanent Attractions “I feel Afro-­Antillean,” Marcelo once told me. “I always say that I was born in Africa, traveled to England, and was sold in Cuba, and they brought me here to Panama” (interview M.  G., May  8, 1999). Marcelo is an Afro-­Antillean man born in Bastimentos and raised in Colón Island; he is now in his fifties. Marcelo’s statement about his ancestors sums up one perspective on the transnational identities of Afro-­Antilleans: culturally ambiguous and hybrid on the one hand, local and firmly established in one territory on the other. Marcelo’s argument responds directly to Hall’s invitation to all members of the African diaspora to take on symbolic journeys, but “by another route”: to explore and understand what peoples of African descent have made of Africa, “what Africa has become in the New World” (Hall 1990, 232). Although

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Marcelo is somewhat unusual in his transparent allegiance to the African diaspora and his own blackness, Afro-­Antilleans in general contribute to the production of diaspora through their distinct way to understand racial formation and cultural practices. In Bocas del Toro the intersection of gender, race, and class is historically specific, changes over time, and defines the relationship between Bocatorenean men and women to the global economy and to political forces at work within that context. At the same time, ethnicity becomes a marketing tool, part of an entrepreneurial market (Comaroff and Comaroff 2009). A mercantile strategy sells the “authentic” Caribbean experience to tourists; there is a dialectical relationship between the persistence of tradition and the continuous process of change found in the presentation of “traditional” activities. For several years after the initial boost of tourism development, Afro-­ Antilleans experienced a cultural revivalism of their Antillean identity through the process of tourism consumption. Cultural revivalism points to the importance of rhythm, performance, and spice in the ethnicized commodities, and results in the construction of Afro-­Antillean identities. Calypso music, catchy típico music, and spicy and hearty Bocatorenean cuisine share these characteristics. Afro-­Antillean men and women project identities as hot, spicy, fun-­loving people who enjoy life. This image clearly coincides with the stereotypical portrait of Caribbean people. Beyond this superficial perspective, Afro-­Antilleans emphasize to themselves and to other Panamanians that they also have a musical culture and a culinary tradition that has survived several centuries. In fact, it remains as the repository of one of the many roots of Panamanian culture. Although many things are changing for Afro-­Antillean populations in the tourism era of neoliberal multiculturalism, Afro-­Antilleans continue to use dominant stereotypes about their “Caribbeanness”: carefree lifestyle, tranquility, leisurely pace of life, virile and insatiable black men, beautiful and exuberant black women; this is in contrast with assumed innocent and asexual indigenous men and women, the apparent lack of morality of Western white women, and the perceived inability of Western white men to fulfill their women’s desires. The images of Afro-­Antilleans, however, are not confined to their historical connections with the Caribbean. They have been reproduced at the national level by Panamanian intellectuals since the nineteenth century. They have constructed “idealized yet prejudiced tropes—plagued with exoticism resulting from racial mixing—of black and mulatto men and women” (Watson 2014,146). In previous works, I noted that Afro-­Antillean men working in tourism played what I call a seduction game. Seducation (Salazar 2010)—or the process by which tourism operators learn alluring localized tourism tales with

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Figure 7.3. Bocatorenean tour guide and tourists on boat ride (Carla Guerrón Montero)

global appeal—for some Afro-­Antillean tour guides was less about using words and more about displaying blackness through their cisgender bodies (figure 7.3). For instance, Marco, a young Afro-­Antillean scuba diving assistant working in one of the local diving places, “carelessly” flexed his muscles in front of young female tourists during the dive classes. He obviously conveyed a message of availability by showing them his body and knowing that they enjoyed this interaction. He also tried to attract female attention by laughing loudly or moving from one side of the boat to the other, always making sure his body was on display and demonstrating his abilities as a seaman. Marco sat close to female tourists during the boat rides, noticed their reactions, and then decided which woman he could woo. In another case, Jorge, captain of a tour boat, would regularly take off his shirt, to show the tourists his tattooed dark body. This action often provoked excited responses from male and female tourists. Working in tourism-­related activities is the perfect opportunity for these Bocatorenean men to interact with foreign women, to invite them to dance at a local discotheque or party, and to possibly develop relationships with them. The story of Miguel and Janet is illustrative of the way racially marked encounters produced through tourism unfold. Born in Bastimentos, Miguel was an assistant diving instructor dreaming of becoming a dive master.

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Miguel was a tall, athletic, twenty-­something culiso: a person with African and indigenous ancestry with a small or medium-­size mouth, a small nose, cinnamon-­colored skin, and straight or wavy hair. Miguel was known in town for his womanizing talents. Janet was a blond, thin nineteen-­year-­old from England. I interacted with both during my rescue diving certification course in May 2000. Miguel and Janet had been in a romantic relationship for five weeks, as long as Janet had been in Bocas del Toro. They lived together in Bastimentos while Janet took the open water, advanced open water, and rescue diver courses. Neither Janet nor Miguel had any illusion that their relationship was going to last beyond a few weeks. In fact, Janet was about to travel to Panama, then Los Angeles and New York, and finally the Cook Islands, where she planned to stay for a month with a friend. Janet was on her “gap year,” traveling the world before she returned to England to study psychology at the university. She also hoped to become a divemaster to have a second profession and travel in the future. Janet felt at ease inviting Miguel for drinks or dinner at restaurants catering to tourists in Bocas del Toro. She also felt at ease demonstrating her worldliness by engaging in a short-­term relationship with a local. Miguel, however, was not as comfortable with the arrangement and made efforts to display publicly his dominance over Janet. While we were stationed in open water preparing for our training and revising our diving cylinders, Miguel threw a plastic bag into the ocean. One of the tourists was scandalized and shouted: “Plastic in the ocean!” Miguel ordered Janet to retrieve the bag by saying: “You go get it.” Janet responded that he should recover it since he threw it out, but Miguel insisted, “You go get it.” After numerous discussions and looking defeated, Janet jumped into the ocean to retrieve the bag. Deborah Pruitt and Suzanne LaFont’s (1995) now-­classic article about romantic/sexual encounters between white female tourists and black men in Jamaica illustrates well the way Miguel responded to his arrangement with Janet. As the authors indicate, Jamaican men often need to assert their manhood by acquiring the status of a “big man,” which involves three elements: moral character, respectability, and reputation. Moral character is achieved through generosity, respectability through an ability to maintain a household, and reputation through a public display of virility based on sexual conquests. Jamaican men engaged in sexual or romantic relations with foreign women can develop a reputation of “big men” without having to provide economic resources. Yet, this places them in a position of subordination, which is in conflict with their own gender ideals of male dominance. Within the social context of Bocas del Toro, by exhibiting control over Janet, Miguel sought a way to maintain his reputation as a big man and to express and embody blackness and racial identities in a changing archipelago.

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Another example of gendered and racial negotiations through tourism is expressed in the efforts of a group of younger men to approach their Antillean and, more specifically, their Jamaican ancestry as an important component of their identity for tourism appeal. They did this by styling their hair in dreadlocks by using the gel that comes from the cacao seed to tangle their hair, wearing small hats with the colors of the Rastafarian movement, consuming marihuana, listening to roots reggae music, and presenting an overall Rastafarian image, all without the philosophy that accompanies the movement. Some of these men learned about this lifestyle on their trips to Limón, Costa Rica, where there is an important Rasta population and where many Bocatoreneans have family. Most ignore that Panama was in fact part of the axis of development of Rastafarianism along with Jamaica and the United States (Murrell 2010). According to my collaborators, these young men were part of mainstream society before their reconnaissance trips to Limón. Bocas del Toro is a society extremely conscious of public appearance and manners. One of the first things I did to distinguish myself from the many tourists, investors, and lifestyle migrants populating Bocas in the early twenty-­first century was to wear carefully ironed dresses, pants, and skirts, along with sandals or shoes—but never shorts and flip flops—in public. While Afro-­Antilleans could afford to avoid this firm etiquette on occasions, I found that I needed to be particularly watchful about signaling my understanding of Bocatorenean norms at all times. In contrast, the young men embracing a “light” version of Rastafarianism dressed informally and presented an untidy image. Several Afro-­Antillean women I interviewed commented with sadness that Ernesto Wilson, a young man with an Afro-­Antillean father and a Ngöbe mother, used to have beautiful, wavy hair and dress nicely: “He was a handsome young man until he traveled to Limón and started entangling his hair, and dressing with sloppy clothes.” For John Stephenson, a fifty-­year-­old Afro-­Antillean bar owner, the changes in these men were influenced by tourism. “I have noticed that the gringos don’t dress like we do. When they travel, they wear simple clothes, not their best clothes like we do. I think that has had an influence on people here” (interview J. S., October 6, 1999). With their dress and appearance choices, these young men were making a rebellious statement against the norms of their own society. They also represented an alternative response to tourism, by embracing rather than shunning the backpacking tourists and lifestyle migrants who shared a similar clothing style, and presumably, a like-­minded outlook on life. In Bocas del Toro, tourism commoditizes Afro-­Antilleanness as difference. But this difference is constructed and reconstructed in the very course of its commoditization. Afro-­Antilleans have dealt with commodification through accommodation. The ethnic identities portrayed by Afro-­Antilleans

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are based on creolization and hybridization, but also on Eurocentric dominant regimes of representation of the black subject (Hall 1990). They negotiate their lives within the perceptions of being relaxed, contented people with very little to do except have fun, with hard-­working women and lazy, handsome men showing off muscles as they speak, dance, and sing for the tourists. They negotiate their identities as peoples with a carefree, “traditional” lifestyle, of peacefully cohabitating with other ethnic groups, all the while exploiting them. An activist sense of black autonomy, race pride, territoriality, or self-­determination (as discussed by Goett [2016, 3] about Afro-­ descendants in the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua) is absent, although there is a strong attachment to specific symbols of diasporic connections—including embracing Caribbean musical genres such as soca, roots reggae, and Haitiano, or acknowledging links with a long-­held Rastafarian tradition. Afro-­Antillean intellectuals have approached their own hybrid, creole identities in their work in different ways (Watson 2014). In some (such as in Carlos Wilson’s oeuvre), they resolve their hybrid status by embracing their Pan-­Caribbean identities; in others (such as Carlos Russell’s writings), they remain enraged by the lack of recognition of Afro-­Antillean cultures by the Panamanian nation-­state, arguing from a black nationalist perspective for blackness over Panameñization (Watson 2014, 121). The anguish experienced by Afro-­Antillean and non-­Afro-­Antillean intellectuals over the homogenizing construction of the Panamanian nation-­state that I discussed in chapter 1 is not articulated among the Afro-­Antilleans with whom I interacted in the archipelago. In fact, and with a few exceptions, Afro-­Antilleans in the archipelago celebrate their hybridity. Overall, Afro-­Antilleans emphasize their mixed origins, at times highlighting their blackness (such as in specific events like the Day of Black Ethnicity or carnival), and at times downplaying it. As I noted in previous writings (Guerrón Montero 2006b, 2006c), Bocatoreneans underscore their German or French ancestry to identify as mixed, not as white, even though the phenotypical characteristics associated with whiteness are preferred. By acknowledging this biological mixture, they recognize that passing as white is simply not possible, yet being conspicuously black is viewed negatively. Blackness, therefore, is experienced situationally (Guerrón Montero 2006b, 219–20). As scholars have noted, transnational practices can be constructed and maintained without crossing national boundaries, and where existing inequalities are reproduced (Castellanos 2010). In Bocas del Toro, identity formation is molded both by ideologies of mestizaje and ideologies of blackness. Afro-­Antilleans evidence pride precisely of the fact that the only way to understand their history and their cultural meaning-­making is by recognizing

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their condition of hybrid members of the African diaspora—this includes the anguish over displacement, activism, display of behavioral characteristics stereotypically attributed to the Caribbean and in the tourism era, sale of self. Afro-­Antilleans see themselves as cosmopolitan individuals with extensive networks and worldly knowledge, but also with high morals and resilient customs, which prevent them from assimilating fully into the now predominant Bocatorenean lifestyle, where the tourism industry reigns. Afro-­Antillean men and women live their condition of Pan-­Caribbean cosmopolitan black citizens—they live diaspora—through their quotidian activities. Their ordinary lives forge diaspora, and as Lara Putnam (2013) indicates, these ordinary lives also forged black internationalism, outside the realm of the political and within the context of their lived experiences (cf. Flores 2009; Jiménez Román and Flores 2010). They turn to distinctive, proven, symbols of Afro-­Antilleanness, such as listening to calypso music, joining a quadrille dance group for adults, or signing their children up for these classes. They learn to prepare, consume, and highly value the gastronomy that is unequivocally considered Afro-­Antillean. These identities are partly created by the Panamanian government, the media, lifestyle migrant groups, and a global image of the Caribbean, and partly by Afro-­Antilleans and other ethnic groups. In contrast, Bocas del Toro is portrayed by the government as a timeless, unmoved, unchanged area, where people have been engaging in the same activities for centuries, and where tourists’ presence does not provoke any changes to this “off the beaten track” place.

Multiculturalism and the Rediscovery of Afro-­ Panamanian Blackness Latin American countries embraced multiculturalism in the 1990s. With varying degrees of institutionalization and success, almost all countries in the region proclaimed the essential presence of cultural diversity within their borders. In Panama, the turn took place when it became a democratic nation, after twenty-­one years of military rule (1968–89) and the notorious Operation Just Cause led by the US government on December 20, 1989. State or official multiculturalism can produce diverging outcomes for ethnic populations. Some scholars have posited that an official, neoliberal, form of multiculturalism can produce a redesigning of racial hierarchies, but it can also counteract political efforts developed by ethnic groups (Hale 2005). Others have argued that these outcomes can be placed on a continuum, from those that “serve to reinforce dominant political and economic structures and racial inequalities, to transformative and empowering consequences” (Horton 2006, 832). On one end of the continuum, state multiculturalism disempowers ethnic groups, reinforces dominant structures, and

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limits participation in political and economic terms. Additionally, the actual political participation of ethnic groups is largely symbolic and constrained, while material welfare is undermined and subsistence security nonexistent. At the other end of the continuum, state multiculturalism empowers ethnic groups; transforms dominant institutions and structures; increases involvement and democracy; and consolidates the rights to land, governance, and a legal system and material well-­being (Horton 2006, 833). If we apply this continuum to Afro-­Antillean populations in Panama, we observe that they have not reached the transformative side of the continuum. In some ways, official multiculturalism has opened up the door for opportunities for Afro-­Panamanian and Afro-­Antillean populations, but it has also rendered Afro-­Antillean participation largely symbolic, primarily when it comes to economic development and sustenance security. This is especially the case among Afro-­Antillean populations in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago. As Lynn Horton states, “a more cautious view of the new state multiculturalism, however, characterizes it as a top-­down project whose content has been largely co-­opted by governing elites and whose specific, constrained forms limit a more profound indigenous empowerment and thus help to reinforce neoliberalism as an economic and cultural project” (Horton 2006, 834). Horton argues that at the disempowering end of the continuum, the state might sanction certain ways of being and acting that remain harmless to the state or the neoliberal interests of the state. These include a precise kind of political involvement, action, and mobilization (Horton 2006, 834). I suggest that this is the kind of state-­sponsored multiculturalism espoused by the Panamanian government. Afro-­Antilleans are permitted to be “the third root” and to display their “culture” because it is convenient to the state; beyond that, recognition is partial. By “creating state” (Zibechi 2006) through neoliberal multiculturalism and top-­down tourism, the Panamanian government deters the flourishing of “creating movement” within Afro-­Panamanians or across ethnic lines. The recognition that has taken place is, in my view, the result of successes achieved by Afro-­Antilleans as a consequence of endless political and cultural battles, many of which I have discussed in this book. The transition from an assumed innate multiculturalism to state multiculturalism has opened up some opportunities; tourism has reinforced the appeal of a nascent official policy that was also pressured by grassroots multiculturalism. State and grassroots multiculturalism are processes that interact in complex ways, at times reinforcing and at times excluding each other. I agree with Horton that “the content and processes of state multiculturalism are shaped by the mutual engagement of top-­down and grassroots multiculturalism” (Horton 2006, 835, 847). The tangible achievements obtained by Afro-­Antilleans in

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Panama are largely the result of the persistent efforts of Afro-­Antillean leaders, politicians, academics, and artists. In contrast with populations of Afro-­ Antillean descent in Colombia (Paschel 2016), Panamanian Afro-­Antilleans have historically strived to be political subjects through their alliances with national and transnational black movements and through their newfound status within a proclaimed multicultural destination. It is also true that opportunities have arisen from official multiculturalism. For instance, a notable example is the appointment in 2006 of Grace Josefina Dixon as the first Afro-­Antillean president of the highest Panamanian court, the Corte Suprema de Justicia.3 Another instance is the highly publicized National Day of the Black Ethnicity. The government of President Mireya Moscoso (1999–2004) declared in 2000 that May 30 is the National Day of the Black Ethnicity through Law No. 9. This date was chosen to coincide with May 30, 1820, when the king of Spain, Ferdinand VII, abolished slave trade in Spain and its colonies (Pita Pico 2015). In 2005, President Martín Torrijos (2004–9) expanded the reach of Law No.  9 by appointing (through Executive Decree No. 124 of May 27) a special commission to create an inclusive government policy to incorporate Afro-­Panamanians fully into Panamanian society. Afro-­Panamanian groups were recognized because “for more than five hundred years, the black ethnicity has constituted an important part of the population of the Isthmus.” This decree was followed by one in 2006 (Executive Decree No. 89 on May 8) that created a commission to organize cultural activities for the Day of the Black Ethnicity. The following year, Executive Decree No. 116, on May 29, created the National Council of the Black Ethnicity (http://educapanama.edu.pa). These declarations were developed from the recommendations of the United Nations World Conference against Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia, and Related Intolerance in 2001. They were also based on similar laws developed in the 1990s throughout Latin America.4 In this case, official and grassroots multiculturalism were mutually reinforced, resulting in the creation of the commission, the council, and the organizing committee. A more recent example is the crystallization of the previous decrees through the creation of the Secretaría Nacional para el Desarrollo de los Afro-­Panameños, SENADAP (National Department for the Development of Afro-­Panamanians) by Law No. 64 enacted on December 6, 2016. The Panamanian National Assembly created this department as part of the Ministry of Social Development to advance social inclusion of Afro-­Panamanians. It is a department that includes the ministries of Social Development, Foreign Affairs, Government, Health, university authorities, and representatives of Afro-­Panamanian social movements. It remains to be seen whether this

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department will improve social inclusion for Afro-­Panamanians, or if it will neutralize the efforts of grassroots organizations. As noted in chapter 2, in Panamanian history, the populations known as Afro-­Antillean and Afro-­Colonial rarely acted as one consolidated ethnic group organized around the concept of blackness. Resulting from various diasporas, the relationship between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Colonials has been punctuated by episodes of conflict but also by official and grassroots solidarity. Afro-­Colonials in Panama have represented and asserted themselves within ideologies of mestizaje that assumed their complete “assimilation” into Panama’s melting pot (Craft 2015). In an effort to present a mestizo identity as part of Panama’s official nationalist project, the focus on a Hispanic past effectively erased blackness from the history of Panama. Instead, it is equated almost exclusively with Afro-­Antilleans (Szok 2012) and, therefore, rendered foreign. Blackness became a synonym for Afro-­Antilleanness, particularly during the first half of the twentieth century. This situation was exacerbated by Arnulfo Arias Madrid’s policies in the 1940s. There were several responses to these policies, including the formation of the collective composed of Afro-­Antillean, Chinese, and Jewish populations that formed the National Civil League in 1944, the passing of the Hurtemate Law in 1956, and the formation of the Movimiento Afro-­Panameño in the late 1960s. Likewise, Omar Torrijos developed a corporatist approach toward multiculturalism. During his administration, Torrijos supported the development of transversal identities, such as those that summoned Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Colonials, by sustaining organizations such as the Unión Afro-­Panameña (Afro-­Panamanian Union) in Colón, the Afro-­ Panamanian Association in Panama,5 and the Asociación de Profesionales, Obreros y Dirigentes de Ascendencia Negra, APODAN (Association of Professionals, Workers, and Leaders of Black Ancestry).6 Since the 1990s, official multiculturalism has cemented the coalition between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Colonials as Afro-­Panamanians. George Priestly and Alberto Barrow (2010) state that the black movement in Panama (mostly led by middle-­class Afro-­Panamanians) has gained visibility and momentum with the creation of the Panamanian Committee against Racism in 1999, which carries out “a crucial role in the struggle for the rights of black populations” (Priestly and Barrow 2010, 138; cf. Barrow 2012). Currently, the Coordinadora Nacional de Organizaciones Negras Panameñas (National Coordinator for Black Panamanian Organizations)—formed by twenty-­four social and cultural groups, lodges, civic and community groups—consolidates the efforts of these groups, especially because “it has overcome partially the old abyss that separates blacks with Antillean background from

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Afro-­Colonials” (Priestly and Barrow 2010, 130, 139, 147). It operates in the provinces of Colón, Panama, Bocas del Toro, and Darién.7 The Day of the Black Ethnicity is worth discussing as an illustration of the relationships between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Hispanics. For Renée A. Craft (2015), the Day of the Black Ethnicity has allowed Afro-­Antillean populations to signal Panamanianness. I contend that signaling Panamanianness has been part of the history of Afro-­Antillean populations since their arrival in the nineteenth century. The Day of the Black Ethnicity is relevant because it is the result of an official decree recognizing blackness in Panama for the first time at the national level; it is a highly visible instance, but not the first experience of Panamanianness for Afro-­Antilleans. The selection of Afro-­Antillean cultural symbols to represent the “third root” on which Panamanianness is founded at Mis Pueblitos (discussed in chapter 5) is but one example. However, in some ways Afro-­Antilleans and their locality have emerged as representatives of Panamanian identity, particularly within a globalized tourism regime. This is ironic, given the fact that in the 1926 constitution they were prohibited from migrating to Panama, in the 1941constitution they were denied the right to citizenship, and throughout the history of their presence in Panama they have been perceived as outsiders. Yet tourism in Bocas has given Afro-­Antilleans the right to present and represent identities that have been otherwise, within the national context, suppressed. Men and women in Bocas acquired a “space” for cultural-­political autonomy. Paradoxically, a phenomenon that ostensibly promotes so-­called globalization provided opportunities for cultural revitalization in the name of difference. Afro-­Antilleans typify the primary symbols of Panama as a constructed nation: cosmopolitan, transnational ties, and the bridge of the world. In fact, Afro-­Antilleans have a history anchored in these elements because they have a history of transnational, Pan-­Caribbean connections and because they were the main labor force building the Canal. However, their recognition as such has taken time, and it is still not fully embraced. A partial recognition is the result of years of struggle and organization by Afro-­Antillean workers and intellectuals, and it is also the result of the development of tourism— which looks for diversity in its offerings. The acknowledgment that Afro-­ Antilleans have achieved alliances with Afro-­Colonials are the result of years of work and dedication, and not a generous concession of the Panamanian state. These alliances speak to the efforts of both groups to surpass the confines imposed by the national apparatus and the one-­dimensional assumptions about divisiveness due to cultural and historical differences. The profit-­seeking international tourism industry has contributed to a discursive acceptance of Panama’s ethnic complexity, producing “inoffensive”

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multiculturalism and reducing ethnic cultures to performance within delimited contexts. The main objective of all democratic administrations since 1990 has been to highlight Panama’s many tourism alternatives other than the Canal. They have done this by specifically promoting tourism as a viable economic industry mainly based on the country’s rich multiculturalism and by recasting certain ethnic groups and the regions they inhabit as safe and tourism-­friendly. In addition, Panama diversifies its offerings by embracing heritage tourism, while also highlighting that, like Costa Rica, Panama is ecologically diverse and a peaceful country without a military system. Panama underscores these marketing strategies in advertisements and so do national and international tourism mediators. The Panamanian government and tourism mediators have created a successful and recognizable tourism brand by developing destinations and desirable products and by attracting considerable revenues and international investments through generous incentives. Panamanian elites promote images of nationhood that valorize diversity, thus apparently undermining the ethnic stratification of an earlier time. Nevertheless, these images remain demarcated within the tourism realm. In Panama, racial and ethnic stratification go hand in hand with economic stratification, and tourism development has created few tangible improvements in the lives of Afro-­Antilleans, indigenous peoples, and members of the lower socioeconomic classes. Likewise, official multiculturalism in the tourism era has not contributed to changes in the profound unequal distribution of resources based on class, race, and ethnicity that have prevailed in Panama. If anything, these inequalities have been merely masked. Tourism has provided the context for a renewal of the historical geopolitical importance of Bocas del Toro and Afro-­Antilleans within Panama. There is a degree of vindication in the fact that Afro-­Antillean cultural practices are recognized both officially and through tourism. At the same time, Afro-­Antilleans are also asserting their identity as a cosmopolitan group, with enough transnational connections to access worlds that elude other ethnic groups in the country. And still, Afro-­Antillean populations in Bocas del Toro and Panama continue to experience marginalization and discrimination. The time of the gold and silver rolls is gone, the time of a discriminatory constitution is gone. However, Marta, Alicia, Lucía, Fernando, Manuel, Marcelo, Víctor, and the Afro-­Antilleans with whom I worked are not fully integrated into the Panamanian nation their peoples have called home for almost two centuries.

Glossary Ackee with codfish: Dish that combines the ackee flower with codfish and coconut milk. Ackee is the flower of a tree brought from Jamaica to Bocas del Toro and a very common ingredient in Jamaican and Bocatorenean dishes. Arroz con frijoles: Panamanian dish made out of rice and beans. In Bocas del Toro, it is prepared with coconut milk. Belair: French Caribbean dance accompanied by drums and shakers. Bochinche: Gossip, mostly malicious and spread deliberately. Bolsita: Common Panamanian snack that includes a piece of fried chicken with either fried plantain, fried yucca, or French fries, and placed in a small brown paper bag. Bragadá: Fried codfish cake made with flour. Calinda: Form of martial art that incorporates stick fighting, accompanied by music and dance of the same name. It arose in the Caribbean in the eighteenth century. Calypso: Musical genre originating in Trinidad that is associated with the Caribbean and emphasizes lyrics. Ceviche: Seafood dish typically made from fresh raw fish cured in citrus juices and spiced with chili peppers or other items including chopped onions, salt, and cilantro. Chicheme: Porridge-­like drink made with boiled hominy, coconut milk, condensed milk, and spices. Chombo: Colloquial pejorative expression used by Panamanians to designate Afro-­ Antilleans and differentiate them from Afro-­Colonials. Comarca: Semiautonomous indigenous territory. There are three official comarcas in Panama: Emberá-­Wounaan, Guna Yala, and Ngöbe-­Buglé. Corregidores: Authorities who represent corregimientos (divisions of a district) to the Municipal Council. Typically, corregidores are elected by popular vote for a five-­year period. Criollo: Merchant, industrial worker, lawyer, professional, or bureaucrat who espouses a liberal ideology and who believes in the virtues of progress associated with industrial and technological development.

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Crisol de razas: Melting pot. Heterogenous societies (culture, ethnicity, religion) presumably transformed gradually into homogeneous societies, where differences are integrated to form a multiethnic society. Cucú: Corn flour prepared with okra. Cultura de la interoceanidad: Floating culture; Panama’s presumed overarching culture resulting from its geographic and historic position. Cutarra: Hand-­made leather sandal commonly used in the central provinces of Panama. Hispanismo: Ideology and movement that projected “whitened” mestizo identities as national projects during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as well as the cultural unity of the Spanish-­speaking world (also referred as Hispanoamericanismo, panhispanismo, or iberoamericanismo). Icing glass: Alcoholic drink made with seaweed, condensed milk, evaporated milk, cinnamon, ice, and an alcoholic beverage such as vodka, rum, brandy, or wine. Janny cakes: Also known as journey cake or johnny cake, a baked bread made out of flour and coconut milk. Leyenda blanca (leyenda dorada): White or golden legend; narrative that states that Panama became independent from Colombia because of its patriotic desire to be its own nation. Leyenda negra: Black legend; narrative that states that Panama is a nation created as a result of international economic interests or the Panamanian upper classes. Michilá: Porridge-­like drink made with boiled ripe plantain with coconut milk. Muogó: Porridge-­like drink made with green banana with coconut milk. Palenques: Communities formed by peoples of African descent who banded together as a collective outside the plantation system. Panameñidad: Ideology and movement that proposed that the symbols of Panamanian identity were to be those of the peasants of the central provinces, and that Panamanian culture was composed of the cultural characteristics of the Hispanic-­ indigenous (mestizo or Latino) groups. Panameñismo: Populist ideology and movement based on racial discrimination and formed by Panama’s middle classes to foster national pride, dignity, and self-­ respect in response to the presence of international workers in the country. Patacón: Fried plantain (Musa paradisiaca). Patí: Spicy meat turnover. Pescado en escabeche: Pickled fish. Rondón: Fish soup with coconut milk and tubers. Ruralismo: Ideology and movement that searches for Panama’s national identity in a romanticized past tied to its countryside. Sancocho: Soup made with meat, tubers, and vegetables.

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Saril chicha: Juice made with water and the sorrel flower (Hibiscus sabdariffa). Soca or soka: Musical genre derived from Trinidadian calypso. Soka refers to modern calypso, or more specifically to dance music, whereas calypso proper is used to refer to the calypso songs, emphasizing the text rather than the dance. Típico: One of the musical genres viewed by the majority of Panamanians as representative of their national folklore and characteristic of the central provinces. Típico is inspired by the Colombian musical genres vallenato and cumbia as well as the Panamanian genre tamborito. Vieks: Wheat flour dumplings. Wari-­wari: Creole English variant spoken in the Bocas del Toro Archipelago. Wari-­ wari derives from English spoken by several Afro-­Antillean migration groups in the nineteenth and early twentieth century; it has an English base and includes Spanish, French, and Ngöbere words.

Notes Translations from Spanish and Portuguese to English are mine. Introduction 1. With the exception of public figures and authorities, I use pseudonyms to refer to all the people with whom I interacted during my long-­term ethnographic research in Panama. 2. Afro-­Antillean populations speak a local variant of Creole English known as Wari-­wari. Wari-­wari derives from English spoken by several Afro-­Antillean migration groups in the nineteenth and early twentieth century; it has an English base, and includes Spanish, French, and Ngöbere words (Aceto 1996). Most Afro-­Antilleans also speak Spanish and English; some have a rudimentary knowledge of Ngöbere or Teribe. Currently, Wari-­wari is more commonly spoken on the island of Bastimentos. 3. The province is bounded to the north by the Atlantic Ocean, to the south by the province of Chiriquí, to the east by Veraguas, and to the west by Costa Rica. 4. The epicenter of the earthquake was localized 40 km to the southwest of Puerto Limón, Costa Rica, in the Valley of La Estrella, and it lasted approximately 1 minute, 30 seconds. 5. Spalding (2013b) proposes that there are three main kinds of foreign residents in Bocas del Toro: second-­home or residential tourists, entrepreneurs or economically active migrants, and retirees (72). 6. In a similar fashion to Brazil (De Sousa and Nascimento 2008), one of Panama’s founding myths refers to the assumption that centuries of racial mixing purified the country from racism. 7. They provided labor as (1) colonial slaves, (2) as workers for the construction of the Panamanian Railroad, (3) as workers on the banana plantations in the province of Bocas del Toro, (4) as workers for the French attempt to construct a canal, and (5) as workers on the US construction of the Panama Canal. 8. A historical ethnography involves combining ethnographic and historical methods and approaches to understand linkages between the past and the present. 9. In Panama, the common term to refer to mestizo populations is Latino. I use these terms interchangeably in this work. 10. For Martin-­Barbero, modernity for Latin American nations is a complex state to achieve because it is contradictory: on the one hand, Latin American nation-­states

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strived to reach modernity to become independent and with their own identity; on the other hand, their modernity could only be validated within the context of the discourses of the hegemonic countries that dominated them. These contradictions are covered up by a nationalist discourse (1994, 89). For Ortiz (1994a), modernity in the periphery refers to modernism (a movement) occurring without modernization. This movement is merely an aspiration, a project to be built in the future (1994a, 186). 11. While conducting archival research at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in 2009, my interactions with members of the Afro-­Antillean community in New York City confirmed that Afro-­Antilleans in the diaspora value their attachment to the nation-­state and the cosmopolitan and mobile nature of their experience, which transcends its boundaries (see Hintzen 2001). 12. For instance, a theme park run by the municipality of Panama City highlights the “three roots” of Panamanian national heritage as being indigenous, Spanish/peasant, and Afro-­Antillean. The park thus contains three little towns (pueblitos) to represent these roots: Mi Pueblito Colonial; Mi Pueblito Indígena; and Mi Pueblito Antillano. I discuss the Pueblitos in chapter 5. 13. Rubén Blades is a Panamanian singer, songwriter, and actor who is also active as a lawyer and politician. The son of Cuban and Colombian parents, Blades’s paternal grandfather was born in Saint Lucia and migrated to Panama. Blades graduated from Harvard Law School in 1985. In 2004, he was appointed Minister of Tourism by then-­president Martín Torrijos (2004–9) for a five-­year term. Blades is known around the world for his musical compositions with sociopolitical content—which have earned him four Grammys—as well as for his extensive film career. He was also a presidential candidate in 1994, and in the year 2000 he was named World Ambassador against Racism by the United Nations. In addition to his professional credentials, I contend that he was selected for the position of first Minister of Tourism because of his international appeal and legendary status. 14. The term extreme mobilities refers to the phenomenon of location-­independence practiced by global nomads (Kannisto 2015). Kannisto (2016) defines global nomads as “homeless travelers” who “aim to live location-­independently, seeking detachment not only from particular geographical locations but also from discourses of territorial belonging.” 15. Benedict Anderson’s (2006) seminal work, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, originally published in 1983, fostered a complete reconceptualization of the way scholars thought about the nation, its symbols, and nationalism. For Anderson, a nation’s symbols are reproduced on a daily basis, through the media, the educational system, cultural institutions, and material culture. 16. The Congo tradition is the practice of the Afro-­descended community of Portobelo carried out during Carnival. The tradition enacts and celebrates the resistance to Spanish enslavement of cimarrones (maroons), formerly enslaved Africans who escaped from slavery in the Americas to form independent communities. 17. The issue of formal citizenship is less relevant in this discussion, as the current constitution of Panama grants citizenship rights to individuals born in the country, to those born outside Panama of Panamanian parents (whether born in the country or naturalized), or foreigners naturalized through different dispositions.

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18. This contrasts with other countries in the Americas that proclaimed multiculturalism and pluriethnicity in their constitutions in the following years: Bolivia (1994), Brazil (1988), Colombia (1991), Ecuador (1998), Mexico (1992), Nicaragua (1986), Paraguay (1992), Peru (1993), and Venezuela (1999) (Wade 2010). 19. Panama has a medium-­average Human Development Index (HDI). However, there are marked differences among provinces, and particularly within territories where indigenous peoples live. For example, using the Multidimensional Poverty Index (MPI), which identifies multiple individual deprivations in education, health, and standard of living, the MPI national average is 14.1. However, the index fluctuates greatly within the country: from 4.2 percent in Panama to 89.5 percent in the Ngöbe-­Buglé community (Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo 2015, 13). The MPI index “helps visualize the persistence of inequality and the fact that there are people and communities who are unable to benefit equally from the progress the country enjoys” (13). 20. The approval of comarca status for the Guna indigenous peoples started in 1934 with the Guna community of Alto Bayano and the Ngöbe communities of Cricamola and Cusapin-­Bluefield. The first communities to receive autonomous comarca status were the Guna communities of Barú and San Blas in 1938. They became symbols for resistance and successful indigenous struggles throughout Latin America (Jordán 2010, 518). After a long period of minimal attention to comarca issues, in 1996, the Guna comarca Madungandi was formed, followed by the comarca Ngöbe-­Buglé in 1997 and the Guna comarca of Wargandi in 2000. These territories extend over a total of 600,000 hectares and formalize indigenous peoples’ control of 20 percent of Panama’s national territory (Horton 2006, 843). The Emberá have also received semiautonomous collective rights over part of their claimed territory. The Naso struggled for years with the state for their cultural and political autonomy but have not been able to receive this recognition until the present time. 21. The census accounted for Afro-­Antillean Panamanians, recording 65,300 Afro-­ Antilleans throughout the country; of these, 12,300 live in the province of Bocas del Toro, 15,000 in Colón, and 42,000 in the province of Panama (Dirección Nacional de Estadísticas y Censos 2010). Note that the numbers indicated by the National Census do not add up correctly. 22. Here I do not offer a comprehensive view of the multiple understandings of the term multiculturalism or the politics of multiculturalism. I make specific references to the approaches that best suit the Panamanian case. 23. For example, there is a street in Panama City named after Ephraim Alphonse, Methodist bishop, writer, and translator. Alphonse was an Afro-­Antillean born in Carenero, Bocas del Toro. There is also a street in Panama City named George Westerman, after one of the most prominent Afro-­Panamanian intellectuals. 24. For instance, historically there has been a demand for migrants to learn Panama’s mainstream culture and the Castilian Spanish language, but there have not been any programs to facilitate this incorporation. 25. The provinces considered part of el interior in Panama are Veraguas, Coclé, Chiriquí, Los Santos, and Herrera. 26. According to Dinnie (2012), nation branding refers to “the unique, multidimensional blend of elements that provide the nation with culturally grounded

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differentiation and relevance for all of its target audiences” (15) for different purposes. In the tourism industry, competition reigns; therefore, branding plays a fundamental role in producing desirable destinations. For Silverman (2015), nation branding connects national identity with economy, tourism, heritage, and culture. For Aronczyk (2008), nation branding refers to the use of symbolic resources of nationalist discourses to perpetuate the nation-­state “as a necessary frame of identity, allegiance, and affiliation” (43). 27. Merrill (2009) defines “soft power” as an “intrusive influence wielded wherever global and local cultures meet by agents that often operate outside the purview of the state” (12). 28. The scandal ensued because the Panamanian law firm Mossack Fonseca disclosed information about the regular creation of what has been termed fiscal paradises: offshore companies designed to avoid taxes, hide valuables and property, and launder capital (Rodríguez Reyes 2016). 29. Examples of participant observation in my research included accompanying men and women who were involved in tourism, as well as those who were not, as they performed their daily tasks. I also attended and participated in religious activities at different churches, in political rallies, social gatherings, and community celebrations. I was an active participant in the sessions and meetings of the development of the management plan of the Parque Nacional Marino Isla Bastimentos, PNMIB (Bastimentos Island National Marine Park) and documented the process (Guerrón Montero 2005). I participated in the initial stages of the organization of the Bastimentos Educational and Organizational Center (BEDOC); a management tourism plan developed by the Consejo Consultivo (Bocatorenean Consulting Assembly); the Cooperativa Bocatoreña de Servicios Turísticos, COBOSETUR (Bocatorenean Cooperative of Tourism Services); the Asociación de Pequeños y Microempresarios Turísticos de Bocas, AMIPETAB (Association of Small and Micro Tourism Enterprises of Bocas); the Asociación Para el Desarrollo Pesquero y Conservacionista de Bocas del Toro, ADEPESCO (Association for the Development of Fisheries and Conservation of Bocas del Toro); and the Association of Tourism Guides. In addition, I engaged in several volunteer activities: I volunteered at the local high school and taught English classes; I taught three two-­month English courses to adults in Bocas del Toro, and one one-­month English course for children in Carenero (737 inhabitants in 2000) at the Carenero Elementary School. In Old Bank, Bastimentos (1,954 inhabitants in 2010), I taught one one-­month English course for children and adolescents as part of the Methodist Summer School program. I also was an international observer of the 2000 Population and Housing Census in the archipelago. 30. In this type of sampling, the ethnographer selects specific topics to cover and purposefully finds places or respondents who would be able and willing to address those topics. 31. Although I have interacted consistently with tourists throughout my ethnographic fieldwork, the focus of my research has centered on the “hosts” in the tourism encounter. 32. Additionally, I conducted research at the Knight Library of the University of

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Oregon, the Benson Collection at the Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies and the Perry-­Castañeda Library of the University of Texas at Austin, and the Morris Library at the University of Delaware. Chapter 1 1. Some of these actors include the conservatives José Agustín Arango, Manuel Amador Guerrero, Tomás Arias, and Nicanor A. de Obarrio, and the liberals Federico Boyd, Carlos Constantino Arosemena, and Guillermo Andrev (Araúz 2004). 2. Ernesto Castillero Reyes (1978) states that Panamanian patriots worked tirelessly toward independence of Panama from Spain; thereafter, there were sixty-­six uprisings against the Colombian regime in less than seventy-­five years (19), including secessionist movements in 1830, 1831, and 1840 (Soler 1971, 91). 3. The presence of the Panama Canal has been viewed as both an asset and a problem. It has been viewed as an asset because of the many resources that it brings to the nation, but also as a problem because of the political and diplomatic intervention of the United States in Panama, the excessive reliance of Panamanians on the economic benefits of the Canal, and the condition of Panama as a place of transit, which has provoked limited attention paid to other potential industries. 4. An important aspect of this historiography refers to the fact that then-­US-­ president Theodore Roosevelt quickly recognized Panama as an independent nation in 1903 (Howarth 1966). 5. In the nineteenth century, Camacho Roldán ([1897] 1973) had made a similar argument in his work Notas de Viaje. 6. Some Panamanian scholars have placed the origin of the Panamanian territory as such in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries as a Spanish colony, where Panama was the first Spanish colony on the continent and belonged to the Real Audiencia de Panamá (until 1751). According to Figueroa Navarro (1991), this is where Panama’s nationality starts (21). From the sixteenth to the mid-­nineteenth centuries, Panama was the center of transportation of wealth sent to Europe. Two transisthmic roads, the Camino de Cruces (terrestrial and fluvial) and the Camino de Portobelo (terrestrial) were used for this purpose; in fact, it is estimated that 50 percent of all the gold and 60 percent of all the silver extracted from Central and South American mines passed through Portobelo before going to Europe and Asia. These roads linked the Pacific and the Atlantic and opened up Portobelo’s opportunity to host the well-­known Portobelo Fairs for two centuries (De la Rosa 1993, 234). 7. For some Panamanian historians and social scientists, Panama’s origins as a nation date back from the sixteenth century resulting from the foundation of Santa María la Antigua del Darién by Vasco Núñez de Balboa in 1510 or the first foundation of Panama City by Pedro Arias Dávila (also known as Pedrarias Dávila) in 1519, and later as part of the Real Audiencia de Panamá (Porras 2009, 100). Instead of elaborating on this discussion, I focus on the construction of national identities starting in the nineteenth century. 8. In 1904, the original coat of arms suffered modifications, including the elimination of the images of a cannon, a sickle, and a machete. The cornucopia was simplified

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and a winged wheel replaced the railroad. In 1941, the slogan “Peace, Liberty, Union, Progress” was changed by “Pro Mundi Beneficio” (“For the Benefit of the World”). The shield of arms includes the sun coming down at 6:00 p.m., the exact time when Panama became independent from Colombia on November 3, 1903. In 1941, Arnulfo Arias changed the slogan to “Honor, Justice, and Liberty.” 9. This emphasis of Panama’s “destiny” as an economy of service to the world was in detriment to the development of a solid and sustainable agricultural industry. 10. I use the terms Afro-­Colonial or Afro-­Hispanic to refer to the descendants of the enslaved black populations that were brought to Panama during the sixteenth century. I concur with Watson (2014) that the term Afro-­Hispanic refers specifically to populations in Panama who speak Spanish, as opposed to Afro-­Latino or Afro-­Antillean populations. In Panama, the common term used to refer to this group is negro colonial or colonial black. 11. Within the culture of interoceanity, Porras proposed ten essential metaphors in the construction of the Panamanian nation: Panama as a banana republic, as a profound country, Pro Mundi Beneficio, commercial emporium, bridge of the world, heart of the universe, cosmopolitan Panama, melting pot, sovereign Panama, and Panama 2000 (2005, 52). Of these, the metaphor of a banana republic is considered negative, while the metaphor of Panama as a profound country refers to the cultural, historic, and economic wealth of the central provinces and in opposition to the other metaphors. Jordán (2015) connects the motto Pro Mundi Beneficio to the emphasis Panamanian intellectuals placed on a peaceful commercial destiny over a warlike spirit (3). 12. Although the author does not clarify this, I argue that the “Panama of today” refers to the beginnings of the twenty-­first century, after Panama received the Canal from North American hands. 13. Executive Decree No. 574 of July 25, 2012, also known as the Melting Pot Project (Proyecto Crisol de Razas), offered extraordinary regularization processes for migrants to Panama. The controversial decree was abolished on June 3, 2016. 14. According to Szok (2001), this identity is one of the ways in which Panamanians explain their controversial independence from Colombia. 15. The Hanseatic identity in Panama was not an exception. It coincided with wider Latin American tendencies in the nineteenth century. The concepts “progress” and “civilization” were not unique to Panama; they were part of Latin America’s brand of nationalism, characterized by a rejection of the Church’s views and other colonial institutions that were deemed outdated. The pursuit of modernity in Panama’s case was crossed by its geographic position of trade zone since colonial times (Szok 2001, 7). 16. Arosemena argued that only a federal system could maintain Panama’s sovereignty within the context of the Colombian state, guaranteeing an independent administration (García Aponte 1999, 56). Likewise, the Convention of the State of the Isthmus in 1841 stated in its second article, “If the organization that were given to New Granada would be federal and convenient to the people of the Isthmus, it will form a State of the Federation. . . . By no means the Isthmus will become incorporated to the Republic of New Granada under the central system” (Ley Fundamental del Estado del Istmo, March 20, 1841, in Soler 1988, 38–40).

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17. Examples of categories in which there was unequal pay for equal work include the work of butchers, clerks, cashiers, chauffeurs, carpenters, foremen, painters, salespersons, typists, and teachers (GWC, SCRBC, 72/2; Westerman n.d. Material Compiled, 8). 18. Gaskin (1984) reminds us that although there were a few Afro-­Antillean skilled workers who belonged to the gold roll, they were paid less than their US counterparts (7). 19. A precursor of this uprising took place in May 1958, when members of the Federación de Estudiantes de Panamá (Student Federation of Panama, FEP), planted Panamanian flags in the Canal Zone, in response to the refusal of the United States to fly Panamanian flags in the Zone (Araúz and Pizzurno Gelós 2002; Von Seidlitz 2010). 20. In 2000, I took a course on the history of Panama at the Bocas branch of the University of Panama. There were two episodes of Panama’s history that all students easily recalled from their school years: the event known as “the incident of the slice of watermelon” (April 15, 1856; McGuinness 2008), a precursor to the first US invasion of Panama on September 19, 1856, and the aforementioned flying of the Panamanian flag. Both are illustrative of the perpetuation of patriotic sentiments against the United States as part of the national curriculum. 21. Belisario Porras was among the first presidents to work toward consolidation. During his three administrations (1912–16, 1918–20, 1920–24), Porras attempted to reinforce the development of a national identity through institutional, political, economic, and cultural reforms (Aparicio 2004, 22). He did this by focusing on infrastructural improvements, including hospitals and schools. This enterprise was not isolated and was determined in large part by US interests in the region, which coincided with local aspirations of “progress and civilization.” This pattern aligns with the model the United States implemented in other Latin American countries, including Haiti, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic, of equating infrastructural improvements with governing (cf. Szok 2004). 22. The party was called Partido Panameñista Auténtico (Authentic Panameñista Party) in 1983; in 1989, it became the Partido Arnulfista, and in 2005 it changed its name to Partido Panameñista (Brown Araúz 2009, 31, 33). 23. According to Martín-­Barbero (1994), the political approach taken by Getulio Vargas in Brazil, Lázaro Cárdenas in Mexico, or Juan Domingo Perón in Argentina are not “mere modulations of fascism,” but specific kinds of Latin American populisms (87). 24. Another organization that supported these beliefs is the ultranationalist organization Panama for the Panamanians (Panamá para los Panameños), founded in 1933 by the ex-­chief of the National Police Nicolas Ardito Barletta. This organization was inspired in the model of racial hatred of the German national socialism and zoomed in on Afro-­Antilleans. A multitudinous popular manifestation in 1933 demanded the repatriation of Afro-­Antilleans to their islands of origin, after which the National Movement for the Repatriation of Unemployed Foreigners was founded (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 208). 25. Those individuals who failed to comply were to be considered people of

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“unproven nationality.” In fact, from three thousand petitions submitted on time, only seven hundred were granted (GWC, SCRBC, 63/14, n.d., 5, 8). 26. Some of his works include Toward a Better Understanding (1946); A Minority Group in Panama (1950); The West Indian Worker on the Canal Zone (1951); and Blocking Them at the Canal (Failure of the Red Attempt to Control Local Workers in the Panama Canal Area) (1952). 27. A Spanish-­only campaign took place in Bocas del Toro through the development of the Council for the Maintenance of the Spanish Language, and the Commission for the Conservation of the Spanish Language of the Lions Club. These groups placed signs that highlighted that Spanish was the official language of the republic and that “Panamanians Speak in Spanish” (Cedeño Cenci 1962, 39). 28. Torrijos focused his administration on protecting historical patrimony, creating museums such as the Museum of National History; of Religious Art; of the Nationality in Los Santos; and of the Panamanian Man. He also supported the strengthening of institutions such as the Symphonic Orchestra, National Ballet, Folkloric Ballet, and the participation of everyday citizens in the arts and sports (Barletta 2009). 29. Under Torrijos’s leadership, registration for students in public schools grew 90 percent and university students 180 percent. The number of schools grew 43 percent. Likewise, infant mortality went down from fifty-­nine to twenty-­one for every thousand individuals. The number of doctors grew 60 percent, and more than three hundred rural health centers were built (Ahumada 2009, 27). Additionally, Torrijos promoted a modest agrarian reform and built infrastructure that facilitated communication among all provinces (Barletta 2009). 30. Some of these figures include Urracá (indigenous), Felipillo and Bayano (Afro-­ Colonial maroons), Victoriano Lorenzo (cholo), Pedro Prestán (Colombian mestizo), and Rufina Alfaro (mestiza) (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 245–46). 31. This organization was founded in 1968. Two years later the organizations fused in the Association for the Vindication of the Panamanian Black (AHENEP). 32. The precursors of these organizations were created in the 1950s by intellectuals in search of a definition of what it meant to be Panamanian, which were then translated into practices such as the development of literary contests, folkloric events, and the formation of the Foundation of the Society for the Friends of Folklore. These intellectuals included Isaías García, Diego Domínguez Caballero, Octavio Méndez Pereira, José Isaac Fábrega, Roque Javier Laurenza, Diógenes de la Rosa, Rodrigo Miró, Carlos Manuel Gasteanzoro, and Ricaurte Soler, among others (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 228–29). Chapter 2 1. Afro-­Antilleans migrated to several Central American nations at the time, but the greatest number settled in Panama. They came from islands such as Grenada, Saint Lucia, and Antigua but mostly from Jamaica and Barbados. They also came from Haiti, Martinique, and Cuba (Diez Castillo 1981, 70; Lowe 1975, 15; cf. Wilson 1998, 40). 2. Newton (1977) estimates that the movement, which started in 1850 and ended in 1914, resulted in a population loss of at least 130,000 British Afro-­Antilleans,

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particularly from Jamaica and Barbados (ii). Thomas (2004, 43) states that prior to 1911, 62 percent of all Jamaican emigrants arrived in Panama. 3. Several laws were enacted at the conclusion of the Panama Canal in 1914 in order to protect national against international labor (more specifically, Afro-­Antillean labor that retired from the Canal construction). For example, Labor Law No. 6 was enacted on October 29, 1914, superseded by Law No. 6 in October 13, 1926, and followed by Law No. 9 of January 5, 1935. These laws permitted only 50 percent and later 25 percent of Afro-­Antillean labor on any given business. In 1941, Decree 38 of July 28, 1941, withdrew any possibility of Afro-­Antilleans working in businesses or owning a business, and established that “persons of prohibited migration” could only work on agriculture, aviculture, apiculture, laundering, domestic and artisanal work, and as industrial employees, laborers, mechanical operators, and chauffeurs (Westerman 1950, 18). 4. At this time in history, Panama had four provinces: Chiriquí (created in 1849); Azuero (created in 1850); Panama; and Veraguas. 5. Afro-­Antilleans also arrived for Canal expansion and maintenance projects. In 1939, more workers came for the construction of the third locks of the Canal Zone (Westerman 1961, 341). 6. For example, eight hundred Chinese came to the Isthmus in late 1850 to work on the railroad project. Many of them died after a few months of exposure to the tropical climate. Suicidal acts and refusal to accept medical treatment also diminished the Chinese population (Lewis 1980, 17–18). Likewise, workers from Ireland and France suffered severely, and many were sent back to their countries (Waisome, Priestly, and Maloney 1981). 7. For example, they conducted several strikes to protest these injustices in 1881 and 1904. 8. This supposition of superiority was not exclusive to Afro-­Antilleans in Panama; a similar phenomenon occurred in the United States between Afro-­Antilleans and African Americans after large numbers of Afro-­Antilleans entered the country in the 1920s (Model 1995). 9. There are six Christian religious denominations in Bocas del Toro: Catholic, Baptist, Adventist, Methodist, Episcopal, and the Church of Christ. There is also one spiritual revivalist church, the St. Jude International Baptist Church. 10. Terms such as chombo and jumeco were colloquial pejorative expressions used by Panamanians to designate Afro-Antilleans and differentiate them from Afro-­ Colonials. There are several unproven stories around the origin of the word chombo. One story indicates that Christopher Columbus called indigenous peoples chombos, and that the term became an insult later used to refer to Afro-Antilleans pejoratively (Panama Tribune 1948c, 13). 11. The nickname “Cubena” is a Hispanized form of the word “kwabena,” which means “born on a Tuesday” in Akan language. Wilson chose this nickname because he was born on a Tuesday (April 1, 1941). 12. For instance, a news article in the Panama Tribune of March  21, 1948, states that British subjects who wanted to participate in local municipal elections were free to do so without fear of losing their British nationality.

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13. The presence of a black rural bourgeoisie is a characteristic of the Atlantic Coast of Central America. 14. For instance, prior to taking office in 1956, De la Guardia underscored that Afro-­Antilleans had been central in producing economic development in Panama, and that their offspring “are now participating fully in the life of our country without let or hindrance” (in Westerman 1961, 350). 15. In fact, the National Constitution of 1904 was a progressive document based on liberal political thinking, which granted citizenship to every person born on Panamanian soil regardless of his or her parents’ country of origin (Article 6). In addition, “naturalization was granted to those who, after residing in the country for more than ten years, wished to become citizens,” regardless of race (Paz 1977, 63). 16. It also limited entrance of people from China, Japan, Syria, and Turkey, among others. 17. In contrast, Anglo-­Saxons could enter the country paying a deposit of US$150 and could prolong their stay without much difficulty (GWC, SCRBC, 63/9; Villiers 1963, 1–2). Westerman (1950) noted that this law was in flagrant violation of the principles established in the 1946 Constitution (15) and “a travesty upon the democracy for which this country stands” (Westerman in Black Dispatch 1947). 18. This proposal had already been put forth by President Enrique A. Jiménez in Article 21 of the National Constitution of 1946. 19. The law was named after Max Heurtematte, minister of government and justice at the time, and with whom Westerman had a positive working relationship (GWC, SCRBC, 4/6, 1958). This law reversed the Constitution of 1941, put forth by Arnulfo Arias Madrid. However, it is important to note that it was circumvented in many ways after it was implemented. For instance, social clubs only welcomed white clients, under the facade that they were “members-­only” facilities (Young, personal communication). 20. Law 11 prohibits labor discrimination due to age, race, gender, social class, religion, or physical limitations (Priestly and Barrow 2010, 148). According to Priestly and Barrow (2010), Law 11 pales in comparison with the law proposed as part of the campaign “Do not ask me for my picture.” This law aimed to make illegal the requirement for any job application to include a picture of the applicant. In effect, this practice discriminated directly against black populations, particularly women. Chapter 3 1. Catherine Cocks states that for many white people in the United States, the fact that US doctors almost eliminated yellow fever from Havana, Cuba, and the Panama Canal Zone confirmed this nation’s imperial benevolence and their own racial superior (2007, 219). 2. Another brand worth mentioning is the slogan “Panama, a Place Like This, Stays Within You” (Panamá, un lugar así, se queda en tí). The slogan emerged during Martín Torrijos’s government (2004–9). 3. Seventy percent of the tourists who visited the Panama Canal in 2014 were foreigners. 4. For instance, the Tourist and Immigration Conference held in Panama City in August 1947 attracted national and international visitors to the city. The Convention

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Center ATLAPA was built in 1974 under the leadership of Torrijos at a cost of US$48 million; it has nineteen rooms and capacity for 10,500 people. 5. IPAT joined the World Tourism Organization in 1976. 6. This law has not been followed properly, as many investments that are not directly related to tourism activities still receive tax incentives. 7. In 1995, the government of Panama endorsed the passing of a wildlife law that promotes biodiversity. In July 1998, environmental legislation was passed to legalize the National Protected Areas System (NPAS) that incorporates local authorities, organizations, and the private sector into managing and protecting unique areas (Endara 1998). 8. The common tourism typologies that result include historic, archaeological, artistic, museographic, literary, gastronomic, enological, or based on popular and industrial architecture, handicrafts, or folklore (Crespi Vallbona and Planells Costa 2003, 7). 9. With the possible exception of the Canopy Tower (located in the vicinity of Panama City), it is my perspective that the tourism projects carried out, sponsored, or advertised by the Panamanian Bureau of Tourism are not ecotourism-­related projects. These are mostly chain hotels, cruise lines, and high-­end enterprises. 10. Panama defines permanent residents who are not citizens as “resident tourists,” an interesting skillful deception that serves to inflate tourism numbers and earnings (Young, personal communication). The official name for the type of visa that the Panamanian government issues to most permanent residents who have migrated to Panama in the last decade is “pensioned tourist visa” (turista pensionado) (McWatters 2009). 11. The first project of its kind in Panama was Valle Escondido Residential Resort Community in Boquete, Chiriquí, which opened its doors in 2001. 12. For instance, in May 2006 the Drug Public Prosecuting Office of Panama along with DEA dismantled an international drug network that transported more than fifty-­ two tons of cocaine to the United States. Its leader, Pablo Joaquín Rayo Montaño, had acquired three islands (Las Tres Marías) on the coast of Colón as private property, taking advantage of this law. The network had a large fleet focused on drug traffic, but used sport-­fishing tournaments as a facade for its real operatives (González González 2006). 13. A less-­known reference to Panama’s cultural diversity is the Plaza de la Cultura y de las Etnias (Ethnic and Cultural Groups Plaza) inaugurated in 2003 and located in Amador Fort. The plaza contains monoliths that represent nine major ethnic and national groups in Panama: Afro-­Antillean, Chinese, French, Greek, Hindu, Italian, Jewish, Spanish, and American (United States). The plaza is mentioned in the hop-­on hop-­off tour. 14. One of the most popular galleries is called Galería Diablo Rosso. This gallery was named after the diablos rojos or “red devils,” the buses that were the main transportation system in the cities of Panama and Colón for decades (and continue to do so in Colón). The gallery served as venue for the transition of street artists who were no longer hired to paint diablos rojos when several Panamanian administrations worked toward transforming the transportation system (Szok 2012, 143–44). At the time of my visit to this gallery in August 2014 an exhibit titled “Los Turistas” by Io Carrión and José Lerma was on display.

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15. Panama was placed in position fifty-­six out of sixty countries analyzed by the company Education First in their knowledge of English in 2014. It also placed in the last three places in 2009 in the evaluation carried out by the International Program PISA, which evaluates proficiency in English related to mathematics, reading, and sciences to fifteen-­year-­old students (Bellini 2014). 16. Following a common tourism practice, groups go with their guide but they ask for a “museum guide” at the specific museum they are visiting. 17. When I lived in the archipelago in 1999 and 2000, I offered three free conversational English courses for tourism operators through then-­IPAT. Gratifyingly, most of my former students still remember the course and some of the material after fifteen years. During fieldwork in July 2014, one of them told me that English courses such as the ones I taught were sorely needed in Bocas del Toro, and even more so now that the lives of Bocatoreneans revolve around tourism. Chapter 4 1. Another popular option includes the route San José, Costa Rica, to Bocas del Toro. 2. The Panama disease was the term used to refer to a fungal disease of the roots of banana plants that started in 1906. 3. This is due to the fact that Bocas Town is the province’s political center, while Almirante and Changuinola are its economic centers. 4. The Naso (also known as Teribe) indigenous peoples are governed by a king or a queen, elected democratically from within the Santana dynasty. In addition, a council and general assembly govern the Naso. The council is formed by representatives of the eleven official Naso communities. The assembly is formed by all adult Naso members. The current Naso king is Reynaldo Alexis Santana, elected in 2011. 5. New approaches to tourism have developed considerably. That is the case of volunteer and educational tourism. Spanish-­language schools abound; university students and researchers study the flora and fauna (and less often the cultures) of the archipelago or engage in surf tourism while earning college credits through several educational institutes and NGOs, including the renowned STRI. For North American tourists, organizing a beach wedding at a hotel, with a professional photographer included, has become commonplace, much like in Hawai‘i or any of the Caribbean islands. More recently, residential tourism has become the niche of choice in Bocas, as part of a larger national trend reaching urban and rural areas of the country (Spalding 2013b; Rudolf 2014). Residential tourism is based on the practice, more common in today’s mobile world, carried out by “lifestyle migrants.” In Bocas del Toro, most lifestyle migrants are from the United States (Spalding 2013b). 6. The schedule of water availability for family houses in 2014 was from 6:00 to 8:00 a.m., from 12:00 to 1:00 a.m., and from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m. Chapter 5 1. Río Abajo was founded first as a caserío (small neighborhood) in 1914 and then as an established corregimiento (small village) on June 18, 1937, as one of the nineteen corregimientos of Panama City. It was formed due to the spontaneous urban settlement

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of Afro-­Antilleans in the area. Since its foundation, it has been a well-­known region with a lively informal sector (El Universal 2001). 2. The Panama Railroad Company was formed in 1845 by New York businessmen William Henry Aspinwall, John L. Stephens, and Henry Chauncy. They obtained rights to build a railroad across the isthmus from the government of New Granada (now Colombia). The railroad was completed in 1855. 3. Additionally, I have been a member of SAMAAP since 1999. 4. The exhibit includes information about this neighborhood, which had the reputation of being dangerous only because its inhabitants are mostly Afro-­Antilleans. 5. In recent years, Melva Lowe de Goodin on behalf of SAMAAP curated an exhibit of the photos taken by Rose Cromwell of the Afro-­Antillean community in Panama. In 2012 there was a temporary exhibit of the Canal Expansion Project. 6. The chart shown in the museum indicated that of the number of workers hired in the United States’ construction of the Canal between 1904 and 1914, 11,873 were European and 31,071 were Afro-­Antilleans, mostly coming from Barbados, Martinica, and Trinidad (in that order), but also originating from Saint Kitts, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent, Grenada, Isla Fortuna, Guadeloupe, Jamaica, and Curaçao. 7. The information indicates that in 1909 there were thirty-­two white teachers for 640 white students in a school reserved for white students, in contrast with twenty-­one black teachers for 2,241 students in a school reserved for black students. 8. Syncretic religions are those that blend two or more religious belief systems into a new system. This section of the museum includes an attractive altar with not only the head mannequin of a woman wearing a headscarf but also bread, apples, Christian bibles, Agua Florida, candles, a plant, a crystal container with black beans, and incense. No information is offered about the meaning of this altar. 9. The wall text also underlines how the Panama Pacific International Exposition in 1915 in San Francisco, California, was dedicated to the opening of the Canal. 10. Foreign expatriates owned these restaurants and offered the international cuisine (French and Italian, for the most part) of their countries of origin (Castillero Calvo 2010, 378–80). 11. The role of members who live outside Panama is powerful; in 2000, the fair took place during carnival and in November because of a major airline strike that took place in the United States early in the year, which prevented Afro-­Antilleans from attending the regular fair. 12. I conducted ethnographic research on the Pueblitos and published my findings in a book chapter titled “The Three Roots of Panama’s Cultural Heritage” in 2009. This chapter was based on ethnographic research conducted in the summer of 2002 at the Pueblitos. I made a preliminary visit in 2000, a short follow-­up visit in 2003, follow-­­up interviews in 2004, and another visit in 2014. I participated in various artistic events at the center, interviewed administrative personnel, guides, and prominent Afro-­Antillean figures, and tourists. Additionally, I conducted research in the archives of the municipality of Panama from 2000 to 2002, and in the Simón Bolívar Library of the University of Panama, the Revista Lotería Library, and the Ernesto Castillero Calvo Municipal Library.

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13. Cerro Ancón was one of the first territories returned to Panamanian hands and is currently a national reserve and protected area. 14. Panama is formed by seven different indigenous groups; two distinct migrations of peoples of African descent (sixteenth and nineteenth centuries); Europeans from Spain (sixteenth century), England, France, Italy, and Greece, among others (nineteenth century); and peoples of Jewish descent from European countries under the Nazi regime (twentieth century). Other important minorities include peoples from China and Japan (nineteenth and twentieth centuries); India (twentieth century); and Israel (twentieth century) (Romen and Serrano Rehués 1979, 409). 15. CEDEAP was established in the 1980s in order to bring together all Afro-­ Panamanian organizations in one center. When the Pueblito Antillano was built, the center moved there, and its goal was “to develop [it] as a center for ongoing activities and encounters with the culture and manifestations of Afro-­Panamanians.” The center included plans for an interdisciplinary center for the study of “the culture and socio-­ economic reality” of Afro-­Panamanians and a documentation center to offer specialized information about the Afro-­Panamanians to the public (Guerrón Montero 2009, 57). According to Gerardo Maloney, director of CEDEAP, the goal was to make the Pueblito Afro-­Antillano a place that will bring together specialists in Afro-­Antillean culture from the community (Guerrón Montero 2009, 67). 16. For instance, the opening of the Vanderbilt University Voices from Our America Project (June 2010) took place at Mi Pueblito Antillano. 17. Afro-­Antilleans have developed, since their arrival in Panama, strong worker movements. Their struggle to be recognized as valuable contributors to the nation-­state is lasting (Priestly and Barrow 2010). Chapter 6 1. “Night-­a-­fun” or “night of fun” were parties celebrated by young and old in Bocas del Toro approximately thirty years ago. 2. Some of the most famous calypsonians include (in alphabetic order), the aforementioned Attila the Hun, Beginner, Calypso Rose, David Rudder, Executor, Explainer, King Radio, Lord Kitchener, Mighty Sparrow, Railway Douglas, Roaring Lion, Tiger, Spoiler, and Valentino. In addition, calypsonians particularly from Trinidad and Tobago, Grenada, and Barbados abound. 3. The term derives from santimanitay, which punctuated calypso verses (Manuel 1995). 4. In fact, Juan Materno Vásquez, a black Panamanian of colonial ancestry, known politician, and supporter of Torrijos’s regime, asserted, “West Indians, speaking English, practicing Protestantism and adhering to ‘strange’ cultural norms, impede the perfection of the Panamanian man (Hombre-­nacional) and hence of national identity” (in Priestly 1990, 227). In the words of García, a proponent of the panameñidad ideology in the 1950s, the three main groups that formed the Panamanian nation (peasants, urban dwellers, and Creoles) shared two characteristics: solitude and immaturity (see Paz 1977, 90). García concluded that solitude was the trait on which to base a Hispanic identity because it represented both indigenous and Spanish cultures (in Moncada Vargas 1990, 75).

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5. Another important element was language. With the constitution of 1941, the government of Arnulfo Arias established that Castilian Spanish was the national language of the country. According to Aníbal Reid, “people had to speak Spanish, all the signs that were posted in Bocas had to be translated to Spanish, and every foreigner who wanted to get involved in minor commerce had to register the business in the name of a Panamanian, or sell it to Panamanians” (interview A. R., April 12, 2000). In the 1970s, Castilian Spanish was again formalized in private and public institutions and schools in Bocas del Toro. For Javier Johnson, Afro-­Antillean lawyer, “thirty years ago people only spoke English in Bocas, but in the 1970s there were restrictions in schools, it was prohibited to speak English in schools. This has provoked a very high rate of school droppings from students who come from Bastimentos to Bocas to study at the local high school” (interview J. J., August 14, 1997) (cf. Young, personal conversation). Javier pointed out that people were returning to speaking English more often because of tourism. 6. In fact, Reencarnación was invited to play for the visit of the internationally famous Don Francisco, host of the variety program Sábado Gigante, to the province of Bocas del Toro in 1995. 7. The Beach Boys is also the name of a famous 1960s and 1970s pop music group in the United States. The Bocatorenean Beach Boys were not emulating the US artists when they chose their name; the name resembles the famous Bocatorenean combo Los Beachers. 8. “Sabor” (literally, flavor) and “Azuquita” (literally, a little bit of sugar) are words used by salsa and other tropical music singers to emphasize the sweetness and spiciness of their music and the feelings that accompany it. The word “¡Azúcar!” has been immortalized by the famous Cuban tropical music singer Celia Cruz. 9. Similar arguments are made in regard to rural and urban blues, “authentic” jazz and “fusion” styles, or the issue of real instruments and digital emulators (Gilroy 1993, 99). 10. For a few years, there were two large party activities for tourists and locals in Bocas del Toro: Casa Animal and Paradaze Labs’ Electronic Music Festivals. 11. Bachata is a genre originating in the Dominican Republic in the first half of the twentieth century with African, European, and indigenous musical elements. Plena is the name given to reggae music in Spanish derived from Jamaican dance hall and more linked to Jamaican reggae than to hip-­hop (as compared to reggaetón). Plena originated in Panama. 12. Guacho is a thick soup made with ñame [yam, Dioscorea spp.], yucca, culantro (Eryngium foetidun L.), rice, vegetables, and meat such as beef, pig’s tail, or chicharrón (pork cracklings). 13. The Bocatorenean rondón is called fufú in Colón, tapao in the Darién region, bao in the Archipelago of San Blas, and tulemaci in the coastal areas adjacent to the Archipelago of Bocas del Toro. It refers to a fish soup with coconut milk (interview P. W., October 9, 2013). 14. Ackee is the flower of a tree brought from Jamaica to Bocas del Toro and a common ingredient in Jamaican and Bocatorenean dishes. It has become very scarce because the flower is only edible once it is picked up after it has opened up by itself. 15. Actually, the Ngöbe do use ginger and hot pepper on occasions, but certainly

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not as often and not in the quantities used by Afro-­Antilleans (Young, personal communication). 16. For example, many women have substituted processed bouillon sold in the stores for the traditional mixture of tomato and annatto seed to give color to the food. Plantintats did not include food coloring in the past; the red color of the filling was obtained by smashing ripe red bananas. The majority of women cook their janny cake and pies in ovens rather than in fogones (hearths or small homemade ovens). Others continue to be faithful to former cooking ways when time and resources permit. Many women experience nostalgia for the cooking ways of the past and have some shame and guilt because they use modern devices, such as electric ovens and kitchen aids, justifying their use in terms of being too busy or too lazy (Guerrón Montero 2004). 17. In the exclusive restaurant Gigas’ Place, owned by a Bocatorenean and located in Panama City, all the menu items were indeed what could be termed “traditional Bocatorenean dishes.” Icing glass was part of the menu. In the early 2000s, Gigas’ Place was the only high-­end restaurant that offered Afro-­Antillean food in Panama City. According to Focus Panama Magazine, “Antillean influence is strong in Panama but this is the only restaurant currently offering Caribbean-­style fare. . . . Good seafood cooked island-­style crowds the tables for lunch and dinner. Salt fish, rice and peas and ‘run down’ or ‘rondón,’ the delicious mackerel and coconut dish, are also on the menu” (Focus Panama 1997, 61). Chapter 7 1. Corregidores are the authorities that represent corregimientos (divisions of a district) to the municipal council. Typically, corregidores are elected by popular vote for a five-­year period. 2. Article 8 states, “Tourists are not allowed to work or engage in lucrative activities of any kind in the national territory” (in Fábrega 1986, 25). 3. It should be noted that, even though she was raised in Colón and is of Grenadian descent, during her service Dixon actually emphasized her Afro-­Panamanian ancestry more so than specifically her Afro-­Antilleanness. 4. These laws include Colombia’s Law of Black Communities, 1993; Brazil’s body of laws against racial discrimination, 1998; Nicaragua’s Law of Autonomy of the Black Atlantic Coast, 1996; and Peru’s Anti-­Discriminatory Laws, 1997. 5. This organization was founded in 1968. Two years later the organizations fused to form the Association for the Vindication of the Panamanian Black (AHENEP). 6. The precursors of these organizations were created in the 1950s by intellectuals in search of a definition of what it means to be Panamanian, which were then translated into practices such as the development of literary contests, folkloric events, and the formation of the Foundation of the Society for the Friends of Folklore. Some of these intellectuals were Isaías García, Diego Domínguez Caballero, Octavio Méndez Pereira, José Isaac Fábrega, Roque Javier Laurenza, Diógenes de la Rosa, Rodrigo Miró, Carlos Manuel Gasteanzoro, and Ricaurte Soler, among others (Pizzurno Gelós 2011, 228–29). 7. Likewise, the Observatorio Panamá Afro (Observatory Afro Panama) has played an important role in the process.

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Index Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations ackee with codfish, 122, 153, 171n14 Action Plan for the Development of the Tourism-­­Conservation-­­Research Strategic Alliance (TCR Action Plan), 66–67 Adams, Frederick Upham, 93 African diaspora: as decentered and involving exchange of ideas, goods, and culture, 8; and hybridity in the Americas, 10–11; solidarity and civic participation of Afro-­ Antilleans in, 4, 8, 141, 146, 148 Afro-­Antillean Museum, Panama City, 41, 57, 94; Easter Sunday mass, 100; efforts of Afro-­Antillean community to support and sustain, 99–100; focus on cultural narratives of past, 98; lack of discussion of relations between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­­Colonials, 100–101; location in former Christian Mission Church in El Marañón neighborhood, 95; narrative presentation of domestic lives of Afro-­Antilleans, 97; and work of Afro-­ Antilleans in building Canal, 96–97 Afro-­Antilleans, and tourism, 92, 142; and Afro-­Antilleans as representatives of Panamanian identity, 150; authentic tourism productions, 109; cultural revivalism through, 141, 150; evolution from plantation workers to tourism workers, 9, 26; gendered and racialized identity construction, 5, 22, 25; government commodification and reinvention of heritage for tourism purposes, 92, 93–94; little

effect of tourism on social, economic, and educational opportunities, 11, 132– 33, 147; negative effects of rapid social changes and structural inequalities of development projects, 82–83, 85–87, 92; represented as “third root” of Panamanian identity, 5, 8, 11, 14, 71, 101–2, 147; and seducation, 141–44; strategies for economic and social capital from tourism, 87–88, 92, 132–33, 144–45. See also Bocas del Toro Archipelago, tourism in Afro-­Antilleans, in Bocas del Toro Archipelago: celebrations of hybridity, 145; economic system based on subsistence agriculture and fishing, 76–77; employment by United Fruit Company from 1890 to 1910s, 9, 76–77; first settlers brought as slaves by English, Scottish, and Irish settlers in 1820s, 9, 76; geographical and social isolation, 9, 48, 78; land ownership and development of rural bourgeoisie, 52, 78, 166n13; largest and most prominent population, 1, 75; Luke, Afro-­Antillean coal maker, 76. See also Bocas del Toro Archipelago, tourism in Afro-­Antilleans, in Panama: commitment to political life of Panama, 52; damning effects of the Constitution of 1941 on, 57; death of many Canal workers from hunger, malaria, and yellow fever, 47; discrimination against, and exclusion from national identity, 17–18, 37, 46, 53–57,

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166n20; distinctive communities (first-­ generation, society, Zonians, and integrated), 52; English-­­ or French-­­speaking, and self-­­segregated, 50; high level of literacy as result of segregated private schools, 48–49, 169n7; housing discrimination against, in form of restrictive covenant, 55; as hybrid and migratory population, 7, 10, 11, 14, 140, 145–46; islands migrated from, 164n1; lack of support from British government, 49–50, 51; maintenance of British way of life and loyalty to Crown, 9, 49–50, 51–52; migration as labor force for construction and relocation of Panamanian Railroad, 46–47; migration as labor force for French and US construction of Canal and Canal maintenance, 9, 46–47, 48, 96, 150, 157n7, 165n5; Pan-­­Caribbean cultural identity and efforts to establish place within national narratives, 8, 10, 11, 14, 22, 25, 36, 51, 52, 91, 106, 140, 146, 150; population statistics, 38, 159n21; racial solidarity and civic participation in African diaspora, 4, 8, 141, 146, 148; recognition as industrious people by Panamanian authorities, 47–48, 51; relations with Afro-­Colonials, 45, 50–51, 149, 150; stripped of national identity by Constitución Panameñista of 1941, 41; supposition of superiority, 50, 165n8; targets of blame for social ills in 1930s, 54–55; terminology used to refer to, 7; view of, as temporary labor force, 45, 48; women, and entrepreneurial skills, 139–40; worker movements, 170n17. See also Afro-­Antilleans, in Bocas del Toro Archipelago; cuisine, Afro-­Antillean; music, Afro-­Antillean Afro-­Antilleans, in the United States, 106, 158n11 Afro-­Caribbean Festival, 118 Afro-­Colonials: Catholic and Spanish-­ speaking peoples, 45; economy based on agriculture, hunting, and fishing by 1850, 45; first immigrants of African descent

brought as slaves to work in mining industry, 45–46, 162n10; ideologies of mestizaje, 149; relations with Afro-­Antilleans, 45, 50–51, 149 Afro-­Panamanian Association, 42, 149 agritourism or agrotourism, 71 Alfaro, Horacio, 62 Alfaro, Olmedo, El Peligro Antillano en la América Central (The Antillean Danger in Central America), 54 Alfaro, Rufina, 164n30 Allen, Matt, 114 Almeida, Luis, 83–84 Almirante, 11, 77, 168n3 Alphonse, Ephraim, 97, 159n23 Anderson, Benedict, Imagined Communities, 158n15 Andrev, Guillermo, 161n1 Antón Valley, tours of, 64 Arango, José Agustín, 161n1 Ardila, Julio, Josefina, 33 Argentinean mate, 134 Arias, Tomás, 161n1 Arias Dávila, Pedro, 161n7 Arias Madrid, Arnulfo: and Constitución Panameñista of 1941, 39, 43, 166n19, 171n5; establishment of Castilian Spanish as national language, 171n5; law justifying sterilization, 41; limitations on power of US in Panama, 41; Nationality Law, 42; and notions of Hispanidad, 39; Panameñista doctrine, 38; policies for “improvement of the race,” 39; racist migratory laws, 39, 54–55, 149; xenophobia nationalism combined with fascism, 38 Arias Madrid, Harmodio, 38 Aronczyk, Melissa, 159n26 Arosemena, Carlos Constantino, 161n1 Arosemena, Justo, 30–31, 162n16 arroz con frijoles, 121, 153 Asociación de Profesionales, Obreros y Dirigentes de Ascendencia Negra, APODAN (Association of Professionals, Workers, and Leaders of Black Ancestry), 43, 149

index Aspinwall, William Henry, 169n2 Association for the Vindication of the Panamanian Black (AHENEP), 164n31, 172n5 Association of Commerce of Panama, 62 Atwood, Alberto, 49 Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá, ATP (Panamanian Tourism Authority), 19–20, 63, 68, 72, 73, 91 Ayala, Hana, 67 bachata, 119, 171n11 Bahía Piña fishing tours, 64 Baker, Newton, 35 balboa (Panamanian currency), 62 Balboa, Vasco Núñez de, 98, 161n7 bamboula, 110 banana industry: and environmental degradation in Bocas del Toro Archipelago, 81; and export boom of 1920s, 52; immigration policies central to, 18 Barbados, 10 Barletta, Nicolas Ardito, 163n24 Barro Colorado Island, Gatún Lake, 64, 67 Barrow, Alberto, 166n20 Bastimentos, 20, 84; and Afro-­Antillean families, 137; Bastimentos bons, 137; Old Bank, 137; and Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa, 86–87, 137 Bastimentos Island National Marine Park, 86–87, 137 Bayano (Afro-­Colonial maroon), 164n30 Beach Boys: creation of unique genre by interpreting popular songs in calypso tempo, 107–8, 113–18; and Los Beachers, 113, 171n7 Belafonte, Harry, 113 belair, 110, 153 Berry Gonin, Wilfred M., 111 Bishop, Joseph, 48 “blackening period,” reference to migration of Afro-­Antilleans from the British and French West Indies, 46 Black Queen of Panama Beauty Contest (Panameñísima Reina Negra), 104–5

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Blades, Rubén, 13, 158n13; and environmental rights, 68–69 Bocas del Toro Archipelago, 28; as both cosmopolitan and provincial, 10; environmental degradation due to operations of banana companies and demographic pressure, 81; excluded from official history of Panama and portrayal as dangerous, 9–10, 78; highly evolved flora and fauna and biodiversity, 80–81; importance of public appearance and manners in, 144; 1991 earthquake, 3; populated by Afro-­Antilleans, indigenous peoples, Chinese Panamanians, and Panamanian Latinos, 1, 75; reputation as “punishment zone” from 1910s to 1990s, 77; social system of reciprocity anchored in gossip (bochinche), 84; Spanish-­­only campaign in, 164n27. See also Afro-­Antilleans, in Bocas del Toro Archipelago; Bocas del Toro Archipelago, tourism in; cuisine, Afro-­Antillean Bocas del Toro Archipelago, tourism in: Afro-­Antillean culture and Caribbean architecture, 81–82, 93; Bocas for sale, 132; Calypso Kev singing at local restaurant, 81; Casa Animal and Paradaze Labs’ Electronic Music Festivals, 171n10; Chinese Panamanian community, operation of convenience stores, markets, bakeries, and restaurants, 133; and climate change, 83–84; creation of two-­­tier economy, 90; cultural capital through interactions with people from foreign cultures, 133–34; depiction as timeless and unchanged area, 82, 146; designated as one of ten tourism development zones in Master Tourism Plan, 79, 80; ecotourism, 80–81, 82; educational and volunteer tourism, 168n5; ethnic tourism, 84, 141; filming of Survivor episode in, 79; as “Galápagos of the Twenty-­­First Century,” 81; gender, race, and changing social conventions, 135–41; interpretative paths, 84; land speculation, drug and species trafficking, and

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profiteering and corruption as result of, 4, 92, 131–32, 167n12; and lifestyle migrants, 131, 132, 133, 134–35; limited economic benefits to locals, 130; local criticism over rapid social changes and structural inequalities of development projects, 84–87, 108–9; local efforts to profit from tourism, 91; misrepresentation of area in promotional narratives, 83; and race and gender in perception of foreigners, 136; Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa, 86–87, 88; revival of calypso in, 113–19; specialized tourism, 83; and tourism mediators, 133; transition to Western aesthetics, 88–90; travel to, by air or bus and water taxi, 75; and water rationing, 90, 168n6; and white females, 136–37; worldwide tourism destination since the 1990s, 3–4, 11, 70, 73, 79, 93 Bocas Town, 11, 20, 77, 84–85 bochinche, 84, 153 Bokotá indigenous peoples, 5 bolsita, 119, 153 Boquete, tours of, 64 boutique multiculturalism, 17 Boyd, Federico, 161n1 bragadá, 122, 153 Bri-­­Bri indigenous peoples, 5 British West Indian Committee, 50 British West Indies, decline in sugar cane industry and regional emigration, 46 Brown, James, 113 Bruner, Edward, 129 Bryan, Alberto Allen, 111 Bryan, Andrés, 115 Buglé indigenous peoples, 5, 75, 102 Bunau-­­Varilla, Phillippe, 25 Burke, Elda James W., 97 California Gold Rush, and Panamanian Railroad, 46 calinda, 110, 153 calypso, 107–8, 110–16, 141, 146, 153; ballad calypso, 111; “chantwells,” 110; female banter songs (carisoes), 111; influences

on, 110; origin as text-­oriented songs, 111; Panamanian calypsonians, 111–12, 170n2; and Reencarnación, 113, 116; and reinvention by Beach Boys in Bocas del Toro, 107–8, 113–18; santimanitay, 170n3 Calypso Kev, 81, 118 Camacho Roldán, Salvador, Notas de Viaje, 161n5 Camino de Cruces, 30, 70, 161n6 Camino de Portobelo, 30, 161n6 Camino Real de Panamá, 70 Cancún, Mexico, 79–80 Canopy Tower, Panama City, 167n9 cantaderas, 112 Cárdenas, Lázaro, 38, 163n23 Carenero, 20 Caribbean architecture, 81–82, 93 Caribbean peoples, collective “one true self,” 8 carimañolas, 138 Carnival, government imposition of, on ethnic groups, 62–63 Carrión, Io, 167n14 Casco Antiguo, 70, 71 Casco Viejo, 62, 67 Castellanos, M. Bianet, 14 Castillero Reyes, Ernesto, 161n2 Central American Express, 77 Centro de Estudios Afro-­Panameños Armando Fortune (CEDEAP) (Armando Fortune Centre for Afro-­Panamanian Studies), 57, 103, 105, 170n15 Centro Turístico Municipal Mi Pueblito (My Little Town Municipal Tourism Center), Mis Pueblitos, 71, 100–105, 150, 158n12, 170nn15–16; administrative resources and publicity for Spanish display, 104; invisibility of ethnic minorities other than the three “roots,” 104; invisibility of unpleasant facts about historical and current conditions, 104–5; replicas of indigenous, Spanish, and Afro-­Antillean towns, 101–3; representation of cultural diversity and national unity, 104; sanctioned by intellectuals as authentic, 103

index Cerro Ancón, 170n13 Cerro Punta, tours of, 64 ceviche, 126, 138, 153 Changuinola, 11, 168n3 chantwells, 110 Chauncy, Henry, 169n2 Chiari, Roberto, 36 Chinese Panamanian community: operation of convenience stores, markets, bakeries, and restaurants, 133; suffering of migrants who worked on railroad project, 165n6 Chiriquí province, 28, 70 chombo, 50, 51, 153, 165n10 Christian Mission Church, El Marañón, Barbadian artisanal building techniques, 95 cimarrones (maroons), 158n16 City Sightseeing Worldwide, 72 Club Rosario, 40 Coalición Nacional Revolucionaria (National Revolutionary Coalition, CNR), 38 Cocks, Catherine, 166n1 Coclé province, 28 Colleymore, Leo G., 52 Collins, Raúl, 50 Colombia: Law of Black Communities, 172n4; separation of Panama from, 28, 30–31, 161n2 Colón (city), 10, 11, 28, 39, 52, 54, 70, 75, 101; calypsonians in, 111–12 Colón Duty-­Free Trade Zone, 28, 60, 62, 64, 70 Colón Island, 20, 84, 87, 118; and Afro-­ Antillean families, 137; former Mechanics Lodge in, 77; handicraft store in, 90; transforming aesthetics of, 89 Colón province, 37, 47 Colunje, Gil, La Virtud Triunfante (The Triumphant Virtue), 33 comarca, 16, 153, 159n20 combos, fusion of Afro-­Cuban and Latin American rhythms with Caribbean calypso, 113 Comisión Nacional Contra la

199

Discriminación (National Commission against Discrimination), 57 Comisión Nacional de Turismo (National Commission of Tourism), 63 Comité Panameño contra el Racismo (Panamanian Committee against Racism), 57 commercial nationalism, 19 Compagnie Nouvelle, 25 Compagnie Universelle du Canal Interocéanique de Panama, 34, 98 Congo dancers, portrayal of, in tourism brochures, 15 Congreso del Negro Panameño (Congress of Black Panamanians), 57 Connor, Hector, 35 Consejo Nacional de la Etnia Negra (National Council of Black Ethnicity), 57 Constitución Panameñista of 1941, 43, 166n19, 171n5; revocation of, in 1946, 41–42; and stripping of national identity from Afro-­Antilleans, 41–42, 150 Constitution of 1904, 166n15 Constitution of 1940, 39 Constitution of 1946, 41–42, 166nn17–18 Constitution of 1972, 43 Contadora Island, 62, 64 Convention Center ATLAPA, 100, 166n4 Convention of the State of the Isthmus, 162n16 Coordinadora Nacional de Organizaciones Negras Panameñas (National Coordinator for Black Panamanian Organizations), 149 corregidores, 131, 153, 172n1 corregimientos, 168n1, 172n1 Costa Rica, 10, 46, 69, 151; ecotourism, 20; 1991 earthquake, 157n4 Craft, Renée A., 150 Crick, Malcolm, 73 criollo, 31, 153 crisol de razas (melting pot of races): and assumption of lack of racial discrimination, 29; discourse of, in relation to Panama, 15, 28–29, 53, 154; introduction of concept of, in literary works, 34

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Cruz, Celia, 171n8 cucú, 122, 154 cuisine, Afro-­Antillean, 119–28, 141, 146; acceptance of variations in tourist food preferences, 125, 172n16; beverages, 122–23; cooking as gendered activity, 123, 135–36, 138–40; cuisine as marker of identity, 123, 124, 128, 172n16; differentiation between food prepared in private and food consumed in public, 123; effect of limited agricultural production and higher demand, 125; effect of overfishing on seafood, 124; internationalization of, 120, 127; main products and dishes, 122– 23; maintenance of traditional flavors and cooking methods, 125–26; rice and beans, 124, 125; traditional obligations to share and return favors through food, 124; transformative impact of tourism on cuisine, 124–25 cuisine, of Panama: influence of Latin America, 121; main ingredients of typical diet, 121; and visibility of culinary diversity, 128 cuisine tourism, Panama, 71, 120–22 culiso, 143 cultura de la interoceanidad (culture of interoceanity), 27, 154, 162n11 cutarra, 24, 154 Darién province, 28, 64, 70 Day of the Black Ethnicity, 118, 145, 148 De la Guardia, Ernesto, 42, 53, 166n14 Department of Regional Development and Environment of the Organization of American States (OAS), 64 Diablos Rojos, 105, 167n14 Diez Castillo, Luis A., 46 Dinnie, Keith, 159n26 Dixon, Grace Josefina, 148, 172n3 Domínguez Caballero, Diego, 164n32 Dominican Republic, 46 domino and card clubs (susús), 139–40 Don Francisco, 170n6 Duke of Marlborough, 110

ecotourism: Bocas del Toro Archipelago, 80–81, 82; Panama, 66, 67–68, 70, 167n9 Ecuador, 5 el folklore propiamente panameño (“real Panamanian folklore”), 42 El Marañón, Panama City, 63, 95, 102 El Panamá América, 52 Emberá indigenous peoples, 5, 70, 102; comarca status, 159n20 Endara, Guillermo, 64 English: knowledge of, in Panama, 168n15, 168n17; prohibition against speaking, in schools in 1970s, 171n5 environmental protection laws, 167n7 Escobar, Federico, “3 de noviembre,” 34 Estado Federal (Soberano) de Panamá, 30 ethnic tourism, versus indigenous tourism, 68 extreme mobilities, 14, 158n14 Fábrega, José Isaac, 34, 164n32 Fabulous Festivals, 113 Federación de Estudiantes de Panamá (Student Federation of Panama, FEP), 163n19 Felipillo, 164n30 Ferdinand VII, 148 Figueroa Navarro, Alfredo, 27 fiscal paradises, 160n28 fogones, 172n16 food tourism, 71, 120 Fortune, Armando, 29 Foundation of the Society for the Friends of Folklore, 164n32, 172n6 France, efforts to build Canal, and migration of Afro-­Antillean workers, 28, 33, 46, 47 French literature, and representation of Panama, 33 Galería Diablo Rossi, 167n14 Galvez, Sergio, 73 Garay, Narciso, Tradiciones y Cantares de Panamá, 112–13 García Aponte, Isaías, 27–30, 162n16 García, Isaías, 164n32, 170n4

index Garvey, Marcus, 94, 97 Gaskin, Edward A., 163n18 Gasteanzoro, Carlos Manuel, 164n32 Geismar, Haidy, 12 geography: and lo panameño, 27; and social isolation of Afro-­Antilleans, 9, 48, 78 George Washington Westerman Center, 57 Gigas’ Place, 172n17 Gilroy, Paul, 8 global nomads, 14 Goett, Jennifer, 145 “gold roll” (white US citizens), employees in Canal Zone, 35, 96–97, 151, 163n18 González González, Luis, 69 Gráfico, 54 Great Afro-­Antillean Fair, 100, 169n11 Great Depression, 52, 78 guacho, 121, 171n12 Guerrón Montero, Carla, “The Three Roots of Panama’s Cultural Heritage,” 169n12 Guna indigenous peoples, 75, 102; comarca status, 159n20; mola, 17; resistance to acculturation, 17; resistance to exclusionary nationalist project, 36; resistance to imposition of Carnival on, 63; and tourism, 15, 17, 89 Guna Yala, Archipelago of San Blas, 60, 68, 70 Hahn, Holly, 114 Haitiano, 145 Hale, Charles, 15 Hall, Stuart, 8, 10–11, 107, 140 Handley, Charles, 81 Hanseatic identity, 28, 30, 162n15 Harris, Clive, 17 Hassan de Llorente, Coralia, 96 heritage: and national identities, 12–13; as resource of entertainment industry, 12 heritage development, Afro-­Antilleans and, 99–106, 105; Afro-­Antillean Museum, Panama City, 41, 57, 94, 95–100; attempts to re-­Africanize Panama beyond the official myth of purely Hispanic origin, 105; and Mis Pueblitos, 100–105; works of

201

self-­taught artists, 105 heritage tourism: and Bocas del Toro, 67; Panama, 9, 14, 18–19, 61, 66, 92, 151 Herrera province, 28 Hintzen, Percy C., 8 Hispanidad: associations and educational organizations promoting, 32; and literary-­ artistic movements, 33–34 Hispanismo or Hispanoamericanismo, 31– 32, 154 historical ethnography, 6, 157n8, 160n30 historical tourism, 71 Horton, Lynn, 17 housing discrimination, against Afro-­ Antilleans in form of restrictive covenant, 55 Huertematte, Max, 166n19 Huertematte or Hurtemate Law, 56, 149, 166n19 icing glass, 122–23, 127, 154, 172n17 immigration and immigrants, Panama: “blackening period,” reference to migration of Afro-­Antilleans from the British and French West Indies, 46; demand for immigrants to learn Castilian Spanish language, 159n24; diverse groups of peoples comprising, 170n14; failure to address immigrants and indigenous peoples in literary works, 34; five main migrations of peoples of African descent, 5, 45–48; incorporation of migrations around industries, 18; laws to protect national against international labor, 165n3; migrations of laborers from New Grenada, England, France, Germany, India, Austria, and China, 5, 47; “races of prohibited migration,” 39, 55; and racist migratory laws of Arias Madrid, 39, 54–55, 149; view of migrants from undesired countries as threat, 7, 32–33. See also Afro-­Antilleans, in Panama indigenous groups of Panama: disdain for study of, in anthropology, archaeology, psychology, or linguistics, 34; granting of

202

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constitutional rights to, in 1930s, 16; as one of secondary identities, 5; and pressure of multilateral groups for state recognition of indigenous land rights, 15–16. See also specific indigenous groups Innis, Alphonso, 49–50 Instituto Panameño de Turismo, IPAT (Panamanian Bureau of Tourism), 63, 64, 68, 69–70, 73, 167n5; contradiction between efforts to develop “tourism culture” and encouragement of distinctively local cuisine, 126–27 Inter-­American Development Bank (IDB), 16 International Gastronomy Fair (Panama Gastronómica), 121 Isla Popa, 64 Isthmian Canal Commission, 35, 48 “Isthmus fever,” 59 Jamaica, 10 Janny cake, 119, 122, 137, 154, 172n16 Jiménez, Enrique A., 42, 53, 62, 166n18 Johnson, Javier, 171n5 Jordán, Osvaldo, 16, 162n11 juba, 110 Kennedy, John F., 36 Key Biodiversity Areas (KBAs), 67–68 La Candelita, Bocas Town, 107–8 LaFont, Suzanne, 143 Lasso-­von Lang, Nilsa, 121 Latin America: eugenic ideas in first half of twentieth century, 55; ideas of 1920s, 38; modernity and, 157n10; and multiculturalism, 146, 159n18; and neoliberal multiculturalism, 15–16, 64; study of indigenous groups in, 34; and tourism, 61 Laurenza, Roque Javier, 164n32 lavway, 110 Law 11, Panama (prohibiting labor discrimination), 57, 166n20 Lebanese Panamanians, 89 León, Benjamín, 115 Lerma, José, 167n14

Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 47 Lewis, Clarence, 82 leyenda dorada or leyenda blanca (golden or white legend), 25, 154 leyenda negra (black legend), 25, 154 lifestyle migrants, 1, 75, 88, 89, 91, 114, 119, 131, 132, 133, 144, 168n5 lifestyle mobilities, 14 literary works: and concept of Panama as crisol de razas (melting pot of races), 34; failure to address immigrants and indigenous peoples until the 1930s, 34; first attempt to represent ethnic diversity of Panama, 34; and Hispanidad, 33–34 llevo-­llevo, 72–73 Lombardo, Romualda, 95, 96, 98, 100 lo panameño: and construction of the Canal, 34–37; and the defining nineteenth century, 29–31; nature of, 26–29. See also Panameñidad; Panameñista movement López, Mauricio, 115 Lord Byron, 111 Lord Cobra, 111, 113, 115 Lord Executor, 110 Lord Kon Tiki, 111 Lord Panama, 115 Lorenzo, Victoriano, 164n30 Los Antillanos. See Beach Boys Los Beachers, 113, 171n7 Los Dinámicos Exciters, 113 Los Mixtos, 117 Los Mozambiques, 113 Los Santos province, 28 Los Superiores, 113 Lowe de Goodin, Melva, 169n5 Lucía (pseud.), Afro-­Antillean woman of Colón Island, 137–40 malaria, 59 Maloney, Gerardo, 103, 170n15 mangroves, 68 maroons, 46 Marta (pseud.), 1–6, 2, 88, 134, 135 Martín-­Barbero, Jesús, 7, 157n10, 163n23 Martinelli, Ricardo, 68 medical tourism, 71

index mejoranas, 112 Melting Pot Project (Proyecto Crisol de Razas), 162n13 Méndez Pereira, Octavio, 27, 164n32 Merrill, Dennis, 160n27 mestizos, 5; culturally and politically dominant in Panama, 9; and Panameñidad, 42, 112, 154; and “whitening project,” 31 michilá, 123, 154 Miró, Ricardo: Las Noches de Babel (Babel’s Nights), 33; and melting pot metaphor, 28 Miró, Rodrigo, 164n32 Mis Pueblitos. See Centro Turístico Municipal Mi Pueblito mobilities paradigm, in social sciences, 13–14 mola, 17 Moreno, Luis H., 40 Moscoso, Mireya, 68, 148 Movimiento Afro-­Panameño (Afro-­ Panamanian Movement), 57, 149 Movimiento de Acción Comunal (Movement of Communal Action), 37 Müller House, 103 multiculturalism, official: “boutique multiculturalism,” 17; and coalition between Afro-­Antilleans and Afro-­Colonials as Afro-­Panamanians, 149; and effects on ethnic groups, 146–47; as master narrative of Panamanian government, 5, 18, 58, 60, 61, 62–63, 65, 72, 91–92, 93–94, 105–6, 130, 150–51; neoliberal, 15–16, 58, 141, 146; and rediscovery of Afro-­ Panamanian blackness, 146–51; rhetoric of, in tourism era, 5, 8, 15–16; various applications for, 16–17. See also tourism industry, Panama Multidimensional Poverty Index (MPI), 159n19 multilateral institutions, and pressure for state recognition of indigenous land rights, 15–16 muogó, 123, 154 murgas, 112 Murrell, Nathaniel Samuel, 4

203

Museum of the Canal, Casco Viejo, 98–99 music, Afro-­Antillean: calinda songs, 110, 153; criticism of innovations by Afro-­ Antillean intellectuals, 118; DJ sounds, 110; domination of music in Bocas del Toro, 118; as “ethnic commodity,” 109–19; as male activity, 135; merengue, 107; reggae, 110; soca or soka, 107, 110; string-­ band music, 110. See also Beach Boys; calypso music, of central provinces, 112–13 Naso indigenous peoples, 5, 84, 85, 159n20, 168n4 National Civil League, 56, 149 National Council of the Black Ethnicity, 148 national identity formation, Panama: Afro-­ Antillean intellectuals and, 145; converging ideologies in the construction of, 23–26; and crisol de razas (melting pot of races) metaphor, 15, 28–29, 53, 154; and de-­historicized version of specific cultures, 17; and emphasis on music of central provinces and indigenous populations, 112–13; founding myth of racial harmony, 18, 157n6; gendered, racialized, and class-­specific, 129; identity constructed in scholarly and literary works, 30, 33–34; importance of three historical periods in construction of, 28; leyenda dorada or leyenda blanca versus leyenda negra, 25; and linkage to Caribbean, 8–9; and metaphors, 162n11; national narrative as Spanish-­Indian and rural, 9, 16, 32, 129; notion of one dominant and three secondary identities, 27–28; in opposition to ties to the US and Colombia, 33, 129– 30; and origin myth based on three roots, 8, 71, 101–2; postmilitary-­era nation branding, 19; sancocho (soup), as metaphor for, 29; and view of migrants from undesired countries as threat, 7, 32–33. See also lo panameño; Panameñidad; Panameñista movement; tourism industry, Panama

204

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National Institute of Culture (Instituto Nacional de Cultura, INAC), 96 nationalism, commercial versus official and popular nationalism, 19 Nationality Law, 42 National Movement for the Repatriation of Unemployed Foreigners, 163n24 National Patriotic Coalition Party, 56 National Protected Areas System (NPAS), 167n7 nation branding: campaigns, 19–20, 166n2; definitions of, 159n26 nation-­state, as politically relevant construct, 14–15 negrista literature, 136 neoliberal multiculturalism, 15–16, 58, 141, 146 New Grenada, Colombia, 30 Newton, Velma, 164n2 Ngöbe indigenous peoples, 1, 5, 23, 70, 75, 84, 102, 159n19; and Bocas del Toro tourism, 84; comarca status, 159n20; cuisine, 171n15 Nicaragua: Afro-­descendants in Atlantic coast, 145; Law of Autonomy of the Black Atlantic Coast, 172n4; tourism narratives, 130 Nicuesa, Diego de, 45 Nightingale, Arthur Francis, 97 Noriega, Manuel, 19, 60, 105 Norman le Blanc, 110 Obarrio, Nicanor A. de, 161n1 Observatorio Panamá Afro (Observatory Afro Panama), 172n7 Oceans Group International, 86–87 Office for Equity and Tolerance, 57 Ortiz, Renato, 157n10 Osorio, Katti, 95 Otavalo, Ecuadorian indigenous peoples, 89 palenques, 46, 94, 154 Pan-­African movements, 57 Panama: biodiversity of fauna and flora, 67–68; diverse groups of peoples

comprising, 170n14; and el interior provinces, 28, 32, 154, 159n25; Human Development Index (HDI), 159n19; inequalities of racial relations, 5; map of the republic, 6; one of fastest growing economies in Latin America, 4 Panama, history: as “biological bridge of the Americas,” 27; center of transportation to Europe, 30; consolidation of financial sector, 28; coup d’état of 1968, 74, 78; and the criollo, 31; discourses of Hispanismo or Hispanoamericanismo, 31–32; discourses of homogenization and integration, 15, 57; eugenic ideas in first half of twentieth century, 55; exposure to European liberal revolutions and socialist thought in nineteenth century, 30; as first Spanish colony on the continent, 6, 29; historical view of Afro-­Antilleans as threat to national identity, 15; imperialist and apartheid policies of US in, 7, 27, 163n17; independence from Spain, 28; intellectual identity constructed in scholarly and literary works, 30, 33–34; 1989 invasion of, by US, 64, 146; origin of territory, 161n6; as place of transit, 6, 27–28, 161n3; as province of Colombia and efforts to develop “Hanseatic identity,” 28, 30, 162n15; separation from Colombia and creation of independent republic, 28, 30–31, 161n2; as “Singapore of Central America,” 4; slogan of “Pro Mundi Beneficio” (For the good of the world), 27, 161n8, 162n9, 162n11; trans-­isthmic roads, 30, 161n6; twentieth-­century modernism and ruralism, 31–37. See also immigration and immigrants, Panama; Panama Canal Panama Canal: construction of, by US government, 28; hopes for wealth and growth tied to, 31, 161n3; immigration policies central to, 18; named one of seven modern wonders of the world by the American Society of Civil Engineers, 61; number and origin of workers hired in US

index construction of, between 1904 and 1914, 169n6; and political intervention of US government, 161n3; role in construction of Panamanian nation-­state, 60; transfer to Panama in 1999, 13, 36 Panama Canal Zone: contempt of white Zonians for nonwhite Panamanians, 35; incident initiated by agreement to allow Panamanian flag to fly over public spaces, 36, 163n20; Jim Crow laws of Canal Commission, 97; society and economy based on race-­based caste system of job classification, 35–36, 96–97 Panama City, 20; formation of financial center in, 28; as tourism destination, 71 Panama City Sightseeing Tours, Hop-­On, Hop-­Off Bus Tours, 36, 71–72, 99 Panama disease, banana industry, 52, 78, 168n2 “Panama for the Panamanians” (Panamá para los Panameños), 163n24 Panamá La Vieja (Old Panama), 62, 67 Panamanian Railroad: Afro-­Antillean labor force for construction and relocation of, 46–47; and California Gold Rush, 46; Chinese workers and, 165n6; relocation of, beginning in 1904, 28, 46 Panamanian Tourism Authority (ATP). See Autoridad de Turismo de Panamá Panama Railroad Company, 169n2 Panama Tribune, 35, 40, 50, 55 Panameñidad, 53, 118; el folklore propiamente panameño (“real Panamanian folklore”), 42; focus on cultural characteristics of Hispanic-­indigenous (mestizo or Latino) groups, 42, 112, 154; and rise of Panamanian peasant, 42–43 Panameñista movement: and Afro-­ Antilleans, 53; initiated by middle-­class resentment of international workers hired to work on Panamanian Railroad, 37; obsession with whitening of population, 41; populist movement based on racial discrimination, 37–38. See also Arias Madrid, Arnulfo

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participant observation, 160n29 Partido Nacional Revolucionario (National Revolutionary Party, PNR), 37, 38 Partido Panameñista, 163n22 pasillo, 110 patacón, 119, 121, 126, 154 patí, 119, 122, 138, 154 Pérez Balladares, Ernesto, 64, 65–66 peripheral Panamanian identity, represented by provinces of Darién and Bocas del Toro, 28 Perón, Juan Domingo, 163n23 Peru, Anti-­Discriminatory Laws, 172n4 pescado en escabeche, 122, 154 Pizzurno Gelós, Patricia, 32 Planells Costa, Margarita, 67, 106 plantintat (plantain tart), 119, 122, 137, 172n16 Plaza de la Cultura y de las Etnias (Ethnic and Cultural Groups Plaza), 167n13 plena, 171n11 pollera dresses, 63 popular nationalism, 19 Porcell, Néstor, 60 Porras, Ana Elena, 47, 162n11 Porras, Belisario, 163n21 Portobelo, 64, 70, 94, 158n16 poverty level, in Panama, 72 Powell, Fernando, 23–25, 31, 32, 37, 44–45, 51, 52, 60 Powell, Gabriel, 60 Prestán, Pedro, 164n30 Priestly, George, 103, 166n20 “Pro Mundi Beneficio” (For the good of the world), 27, 161n8, 162n9, 162n11 Pruitt, Deborah, 143 Pulido Ritter, Luis, 112 Putnam, Lara, 51, 106, 146 Quevedo, Raymond (Attila the Hun), 111 “races of prohibited migration,” 39, 55 racial discrimination: against Afro-­ Antilleans, 17–18, 37, 46, 53–57, 63, 166n20; discouragement of

206

index

English-­speaking black tourists, 63; influence of US on, 53; and migratory laws of Arias Madrid, 39, 54–55, 149; and Panameñista movement, 37–38 Rahier, Jean, 8 rain forests, 70 Rastafarianism, 144, 145 Rayo Montaño, Pablo Joaquín, 167n12 Real Audiencia de Panamá, 161n7 Red Bone, Bocas del Toro, 114 Red Frog Beach Island Resort and Spa, Bastimentos, 86–87 Reencarnación, 113, 116, 117, 171n6 reggae, 145 reggaetón, 116 Reid, Aníbal, 83, 171n5 representational loops, 66, 72, 92, 101 residential tourism, 68, 167n10, 168n5 Río Abajo, 168n1 Rivera Ortega, Pedro: on lack of Panamanian unity over struggle against poverty, 36; Las Huellas de Mis Pasos (The Footprints of My Steps), 34 Robinson, Clay, 75 Robinson, Julia, 3 Roddy and His Quintet, 116 Rodolfo Valdés, Guillermo, 40 Rogers, Jiwanda Gale, 121 Rojas, Tito, 115 rondón, 122, 125, 154, 171n13 Roosevelt, Theodore, 161n4 Rosa, Diógenes de la, 164n32 ruralismo: and new idealized identity in peasants of the central provinces, 32, 154; and rejection of heterogeneity, 32, 53 Russell, Carlos, 145 Sábado Gigante, 170n6 Salazar, Noel, 66, 103 salsa music, 15, 118, 171n8 San Andrés Archipelago, Providencia, Colombia, 2, 10 San Blas, tours of, 64 sancocho (soup), 29, 121, 154 San Cristóbal, 64

sans humanité, 110 Santa Catalina, Colombia, 10 Santana, Reynaldo Alexis, 168n4 saril chicha, 121, 122, 123, 155 Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, George Westerman Papers, 26 Secretaría Nacional para el Desarrollo de los Afro-­Panameños, SENADAP (National Department for the Development of Afro-­Panamanians), 148–49 Secretariat of Planning and Economic Policy (MIPPE), 64 seducation, 141–44 Senior Inventor, 110 Shark Hole, 64 Shaw, Lauren, 68 Sheller, Mimi, 74 Silverman, Helaine, 159n26 “silver roll” (black US citizens and Afro-­ Antilleans), employees in Canal Zone, 35, 96–97, 151 Silverstones, The, 113 Simmons, Manuel, 74, 78 slavery, abolition of, in Panama in 1852, 76 slave trade, abolishment in Spain and its colonies, 148 Smith, Laurajane, 61 Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI), 80 soca or soka music, 107, 110, 119, 145, 155 Society of Friends of the Afro-­Caribbean Museum of Panama (SAMAAP), 99–100, 169n5 “soft power,” 19, 160n27 Solarte, 20, 64 Soler, Ricaurte, 164n32 Soul Fantastics, 113 Spain, independence from, 28 Spalding, Ana K., 87, 157n5 Stephens, John L., 169n2 Stephenson, John, 144 string-­band music, 110 syncretic religions, 97, 111, 169n8 Szok, Peter, 162n14

index Taboga, tours of, 64 Tack, Juan Antonio, 26–27 Teague, Ken, 98 Temptations, The, 113 Teribe River, 84 Thomas, José, 116 típico, 110, 112, 115, 117, 118, 141, 155 Tocumen International Airport, 62 Torres de Araúz, Reina, and Panamanian museum policy, 94–95 Torrijos, Martín, 68, 148, 158n13, 166n2 Torrijos, Omar, 16, 19; and Constitution of 1972, 43; corporatist approach to multiculturalism, 62, 149; creolization campaign, 42, 112–13; protection of historical patrimony and reforms in education and health care, 164nn28–29 tourism: anthropology of, 73; authentic tourism productions, 109; classic model, 79; common typologies, 167n8; effects of search for authenticity by Western tourists, 82; and “ethnic commodities,” 109; and food, 121–22; and heritage, 12–13; as “tourist regimes,” 12; as world’s largest service sector industry, 11–13. See also Tourism Development Master Plan of Panama; tourism industry, Panama Tourism Development Master Plan of Panama, 61, 64, 69–73; Bocas del Toro Archipelago as one of ten tourism development zones, 79; and development of recreational tourism and convention and shopping tourism, 66; division of country into nine tourism zones, 64–65, 65, 69; goal of, 64–65; low-­interest loans to travel agents and small hospitality operators, 66; tourism trends of 1990s, 69; for 2007–2020, 71. See also tourism industry, Panama tourism industry, Panama: agritourism or agrotourism, 71; beginnings of, 61–66; and “boutique multiculturalism,” 17; and changing definitions of Panamanian identity, 26, 37; controlled by international corporations, 72; cuisine tourism, 71, 120–22; development of tourist

207

attractions in Panama City and Bocas del Toro based on Afro-­Antillean lines, 11, 17–18, 28, 85, 94; and distinction between acceptable and threatening members of nation, 15, 58; early efforts to organize conventions and conferences, 62; and economic growth, 70, 130–31; ecotourism, 66, 167n9; educational and historical tours, 70; governmental efforts to develop business and investment through tourism, 62; heritage tourism, 9, 14, 18–19, 61, 66, 92, 151; historical tourism, 71; Law No. 8 promoting tourism and establishing special tax incentives for investors, 65–66; little economic benefit for most Panamanians, 72, 92; main tourism markets until 1993, 69; and manufacturing of history, 104; medical tourism, 71; and multiculturalism as master narrative of Panama, 5, 8, 15–16, 18, 58, 60, 61, 62–63, 65, 72, 91–92, 93–94, 105–6, 130, 150–51; “Panama, the Way,” advertising campaign of 2012, 59–60; and Panama as cosmopolitan, tropical paradise, 66–69, 92, 93; and the Panama Canal, 60, 61; “Panama Is More Than a Canal” advertising campaign, 60; residential tourism, 68, 167n10; three main sites until early 1990s, 63–64; and tourism mediators, 73; transnational tourism, 7–11; unofficial guides and services (llevo-­llevo), 72–73. See also ecotourism; ethnic tourism; heritage tourism; Tourism Development Master Plan of Panama trans-­isthmic roads, 30 transitismo: and dominant identity of Panama, 28; three levels of, 27 transnationalism, defined, 7, 8 Unión Afro-­Panameña (Afro-­Panamanian Union), Colón, 42, 149 United Fruit Company, 9; closure of operations in 1936, 78; generation of economic boom in Bocas del Toro, 76–77; move of operations to Almirante, 52, 77

208

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United Nations World Conference against Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia, and Related Intolerance, 148 United States, and construction of the Panama Canal: implementation of apartheid laws in Canal Zone, 35, 53, 97; 1989 invasion of Panama, 64, 146 Urracá, 164n30 Urry, John, 74 Vallbona Crespi, Montserrat, 67, 106 Valle Escondido Residential Resort Community, Boquete, Chiriquí, 167n11 vallenato, 118 Varela, Juan Carlos, 68 Vargas, Getulio, 38, 163n23 Vasconcelos, José, La Raza Cósmica (The Cosmic Race), 32–33 Vásquez, Juan Materno, 170n4 Veraguas province, 28, 69 Vergara, Victorio, 115 vieks, 122, 155 Wade, Peter, 17 Walsh, James, 18 Wargandi, comarca status, 159n20 Wari-­wari, 1, 73, 137, 155, 157n2, 173 Watson, Sonya, 136 Wesleyan Methodist Ladies’ sewing circle, 97 Westerman, George, 159n23; Afro-­Antillean Immigrants, 96; on Constitution of 1941, 42; and construction of Afro-­Antillean Museum exhibits, 97; on discriminatory practices toward Afro-­Antillean tourists,

63, 166n17; efforts to incorporate Afro-­ Antilleans into nation-­state, 39–41, 56; influence of ideas on development of tourist sites in Panama, 41; on influence of US on Panamanian racism, 53; as journalist and author, 40; and Law No. 25 (Huertematte or Hurtemate Law), 56; and Mis Pueblitos, 103; national and international awards for work in support of Afro-­Antillean community, 40; Panamanian delegate to Fourth Committee on the United Nations General Assembly, 40; on racial discrimination against Afro-­ Antilleans, 55; on recognition of Afro-­ Antilleans by Panamanian Presidents, 51 “West Indian,” reference to descendants of people of Anglophone societies, 7 West Indies, 10, 11 White, Leanne, 19 “whitening project”: and cultural unity of Spanish-­speaking world in opposition to indigenismo, 31; and mestizo identities as national projects, 31; rooted in racial theories of Latin America, 29 Wilson, Carlos Guillermo (“Cubena”), 51, 145, 165n11 Wilson, Ernesto, 144 World Bank, 16, 72 World Tourism Organization (WTO), 69 Wounaan indigenous peoples, 5, 70, 102 yellow fever, 59, 166n1 Young, Sidney, 40 Zona Viva, Panama City Causeway, 121