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Transculturation
 Critical Studies
Vol. 27

General Editor
Myriam Diocaretz
European Centre for Digital Communication/Infonomics

Editorial Board
Anne E. Berger, Cornell University
Ivan Callus, University of Malta
Stefan Herbrechter, Trinity and All Saints, University of Leeds
Marta Segarra, Universitat de Barcelona

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2005

 Transculturation
Cities, Spaces and
Architectures in Latin America

Edited by
Felipe Hernández,
Mark Millington and
Iain Borden
Cover photograph:
Title: National Archive of Colombia
Architect: Rogelio Salmona.
Photographer and Year: Ricardo L. Castro ©1998

Cover design: Pier Post

The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of “ISO
9706:1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents -
Requirements for permanence”.

ISBN: 90-420-1628-0
©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam - New York, NY 2005
Printed in the Netherlands
 Contents

Foreword v

Felipe Hernández ix
Introduction: Transcultural Architectures in Latin
America

Section One: Space, Place and Identity 1

Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer 2

Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place:
From Fixed Identity to Fluid Hybridity

Peter Kellett 22
The Construction of Home in the Informal City

Jane Rendell 43
From Austin, Texas to Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala
and Back Again

Michael Asbury 59
Changing Perceptions of National Identity in Brazilian
Art and Modern Architecture

Section Two: Re-Viewing the City 77

Luis Carranza 78
Chopin to the Electric Chair!:
The Mexican Avant-Garde and the Revolutionised City

Anny Brooksbank-Jones 92
Landscapes of Confusion:
The Urban Imaginaries of Néstor García Canclini and
Kevin Lynch
Helen Thomas 109
Colonising the Land:
Heimat and the Constructed Landscapes of Mexico’s
Ciudad Universitaria (1943–1953)

Section Three: Theorising Architectures 125

Felipe Hernández 126

Translation Theory and Translational Architectures:
Reading between History, Architecture and Cultural
Theory

Adrian Forty 144

Cement and Multiculturalism

Ricardo L. Castro 155

Syncretism, Wonder and Memory in the Work of
Rogelio Salmona

Carlos Eduardo Dias Comas 169

Niemeyer’s Casino and the Misdeeds of Brazilian
Architecture

Sandra Vivanco 189

Trope of the Tropics: The Baroque in Modern Brazilian
Architecture, 1940–1950

Conclusion 203

Mark Millington 204

Transculturation: Taking Stock

Contributors 235

Index 239
 Foreword

Most of essays collected in this volume were presented at the Transcultural

Architecture in Latin America conference, which was held in Senate House,
University of London, on the 9th and 10th of November 2001. The conference
was organised by the Bartlett School of Architecture (UCL) and the
Department of Hispanic and Latin America Studies of the University of
Nottingham with the support of the Institute of Romance Studies (University
of London).
Transcultural Architecture in Latin America was an interdisciplinary
conference that focused on the way inevitable processes of transculturation
have affected, and continue to affect, Latin American cities, their urban
spaces, and their architectures. The conference engaged with a broad range of
cultural and architectural theory in order to embrace the whole spectrum of
politics and social practices intrinsic to the development of cities and
buildings in globalising culture.
Despite the growing academic interest in issues related to Latin
American culture, which has increased significantly during the last thirty
years both within and outside Latin America, architecture has not received
the same attention as other disciplinary areas. Not only has there been a lack
of scholarship on Latin American architecture in general but it is also the case
that research is carried out in a multitude of centres around the globe without
appropriate outlets to disseminate the findings, with the result that those
efforts remain isolated and largely inaccessible. Transcultural Architecture in
Latin America was, therefore, an unprecedented attempt to congregate people
from Latin America itself, the United States and Europe to discuss in one
single forum the outcome of their work. The conference attracted scholars
and practitioners from as diverse disciplines as architecture —history, theory
and practice—, art history, cultural theory, urban studies and literature. All of
whom gathered together for two very intense but stimulating days at Senate
House, University of London, to present and scrutinise their most recent
work.
Although a large number of speakers and delegates were unable to
attend the conference due to the unfortunate tragedy of September 11th in
New York City, the breadth and depth of the papers that were presented made
vi
it clear that there are currently numerous people working on issues related to
Latin American cities, their urban culture and their architectures. Not only are
there many people carrying out research on Latin American architecture, but
the quality of their work is also outstanding.
As the essays collected in this volume demonstrate, current
approaches to Latin American cities and architecture no longer focus
exclusively on the work of paradigmatic architects, nor do they use
traditional architectural narratives to theorise and historicise architecture, but
develop new methods of analysis that bring to light issues that had never
been explored before. The very notion of transculturation, for example —as
well as the use of terms such as hybridisation and translation—, which has
been used by Latin Americanists for several years, but which has not
permeated into architectural debates, seems to promote engagement with a
new range of questions while facilitating interdisciplinary interaction
between architecture and other areas of cultural theory. Thus, this book
introduces new readings and interpretations of the work of well known
architects, new analyses regarding the use of architectural materials and
languages, new questions to do with minority architectures, gender and travel,
and, from beginning to end, it engages with important political debates that
are so rarely discussed within Latin American architectural circles.
Since the majority of papers here included were presented at the
Transcultural Architecture in Latin America conference, we feel that this is
an appropriate place to thank the UCL and The University of Nottingham for
the financial support which they gave to the event as well as to acknowledge
the Institute of Romance Studies for their logistic and administrative
assistance. In particular, we are grateful to Jo Labanyi and Sarah Wykes who
were director and administrative assistant, respectively, at the IRS at the time
of the conference.
We are also indebted to Professor Mark Millington who, with the
two of us, sat on the organising committee and Dr Jane Rendell who was on
the Advisory Panel. We would like to extend our gratitude to the keynote
speakers: Professor Román de la Campa, Professor Luis E Carranza and
Enrique Browne, and to all the speakers and delegates who came from all
over the world. Although we wrote these words together, I find it appropriate
to also thank Professor Iain Borden for his enthusiastic support throughout
the organisation and during the conference itself, as well as for his advice and
assistance during the process of editing the book.
There were also numerous other people who have always remained
anonymous but whose work helped to make both the conference and this
book possible. Therefore, we are also grateful to the audiovisual technicians
who managed to prepare all the equipment for what was a flawless aspect of
the conference and to the anonymous referees who read the abstracts for the
conference and the final papers during the preparation of this book.
 vii
For permission to re-publish some of the essays we would like to
thank Gill Rye, Managing Editor of the Journal of Romance Studies and
Berghahn Journals. Last, but by no means least, we are grateful to Rodopi for
their interest in publishing this book from the outset and for their patience in
seeing it finished.

Felipe Hernández
Iain Borden
This page intentionally left blank
 Introduction:
Transcultural Architectures in Latin America

Felipe Hernández

The term transculturation, coined by the Cuban anthropologist Fernando

Ortiz in the early 1940s, has been used in order to explore in a critical manner
the dynamics of interaction between Latin American and other cultures
around the world.1 Particular attention has been paid to the effects that such a
dynamic interaction has had in literature and other arts. However, the notion
of transculturation has also been used in order to examine complex socio-
political issues regarding processes of identity formation in Latin America.
Despite its significance across so many disciplines, the term has not had a
major impact on the study of Latin American architectures. Although the
word itself has appeared within architectural discourses, it has never fully
connected architecture with a broader range of cultural issues. Architects
have used the notion of transculturation —and other terms such as
hybridisation, syncretism, creolisation, etc.— only to describe the formal
transformations that certain types of architecture undergo when they are
translated to a new geographical context: Latin America. In so doing,
architects ignore the complex social and political content implicit in terms
such as transculturation.
Architectural studies in Latin America have traditionally relied
heavily on the exclusive selection of paradigmatic buildings and their
architects, in order to construct coherent, linear and homogenous
architectural theories and histories. Thus, we find that architectural theorists
and historians have focused their analyses mainly on the work of architects
like Luis Barragán in Mexico, Oscar Niemeyer in Brazil, or Rogelio Salmona
in Colombia. It is not a coincidence that, while the buildings designed by
these architects are taken to represent Latin American architecture, they also
comply with the parameters of modernist Euro-American architectural
narratives. The work of these architects is celebrated because it reaches a
high degree of refinement in comparison with that of other paradigmatic
architects that are taken as referents. Such a generalisation offers only a
partial view of the multiplicity and heterogeneity of the architectural
practices that take place in Latin America. The fact that most of the projects

1
We would like to thank the editors of the Journal of Romance Studies for permission to
reproduce some sections of the article ‘The Transcultural Phenomenon and the Transculturation
of Architecture’, originally published in Journal of Romance Studies (2002) 2.3, 1-15.
x Felipe Hernández

designed by the above-mentioned architects (Barragán and Salmona, in

particular) were/are private houses or large institutional buildings implies that
their work might not correspond to the conditions of poverty, unemployment
and lack of education of the so-called minorities 2 and the less dominant
members of the society.
It is clear that there is a lack of scholarship —and, therefore, of
literature— on the architectures produced by minority groups in spontaneous
settlements such as the ‘favelas’ or ‘invasiones’ that have developed in most
Latin American cities. These architectures have been radically dismissed for
not complying with hegemonic architectural narratives and, consequently, for
disrupting the homogeneous growth of cities as imagined by architects. The
paradox lies in the fact that the buildings produced by minority groups
represent an average 70% of the fabric of Latin American cities. The fact that
most architects and architectural theorists in the continent have refused to
deal with such an overwhelming reality for the sake of constructing a
coherent and homogeneous narrative renders the majority of existing
architectural theories, and histories, inadequate and incomplete.
Considering that the notion of transculturation is intrinsically
concerned with more complex socio-political processes, it is therefore
paradoxical that the term has occasionally been used to support such a
reductive view of Latin American architecture(s). Precisely because the term
transculturation is loaded with an enormous socio-political content, it offers
numerous possibilities to connect architecture with a broader range of
cultural issues thus covering the entirety of architectural practices that take
place in Latin American cities and not only those that comply with
hegemonic narratives and exclusive referential structures. In other words, the
use of the notion of transculturation within architecture requires us to
challenge foundational, homogenising and hierarchical methods of
architectural analysis. In this way, architectural practices that have so far
been almost completely neglected, and whose values have been dismissed,
such as the architecture(s) of the minorities, would be endowed with socio-
political and architectural validity in the same way the work of paradigmatic
architects such as Barragán, Niemeyer or Salmona is.
However, considering that the notion of transculturation has proved
to be exceedingly polemical amongst cultural theorists in and outside Latin
America, and that the term has not yet been properly introduced into
architectural debates, it is necessary to examine the origin and development
of the term itself before further architectural analyses can be developed.
As mentioned above, the term transculturation was coined by the
Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortiz, and was created in order to explore the

2
The term ‘minorities’, in this case, refers to those sections of the society that do not have easy
access to the institutions of power. Consequently, it transpires that the minorities, in Latin
America, exceed in numbers the so-called ‘majorities’.
 Introduction xi
cultural dynamics in operation between Cuba and metropolitan centres. Since
then the concept has been applied to the whole of Latin America, and latterly,
it has also been used as a generic term in order to examine issues relating to
the cultural economy between peripheries and centres. Given the complexity
of the various processes of cultural formation constantly at work in Latin
America, the notion of transculturation is used in order to defy the
assumption that cultures develop taxonomically and unidirectionally.
Transculturation refers to a multi-directional and endless interactive process
between various cultural systems that is in opposition to unidirectional and
hierarchical structures determined by the principle of origin that is always
associated with claims for cultural authority. Thus, the term ‘transculturation’
places the theorisation of processes of cultural exchange between peripheries
and centres on a more democratic basis. Moreover, transculturation is the
antithesis of the notion of acculturation, which implies the supremacy of one
cultural system over another, hence the ultimate elimination of non-dominant
cultures.
In theory, the term ‘acculturation’ was supposed to ‘comprehend
those phenomena which result when groups of individuals having different
cultures come into continuous first-hand contact, with subsequent changes in
the original cultural patterns of either or both groups’ (Spitta 1995: 3).
Although it has been defined as a process that connotes a certain mutuality,
acculturation, as Ortiz understood it, was rather different: it was a culturally
motivated misunderstanding of the term in the sense that, for him,
acculturation implied the unidirectional imposition of one dominant culture
upon another. His interpretation derives from the fact that, in practice,
anthropologists generally studied the impact of acculturation on the colonised,
and not on the coloniser. Thus, acculturation actually signifies the loss of
culture of the subaltern group. In other words, acculturation is seen here to
correspond to modern Euro-American cultural and political homogenising
agendas, and to be reductive in its approach to cross-cultural encounters,
whereas transculturation is offered as a more dynamic theoretical model in
keeping with the reality of such encounters. Transculturation is held to
overcome the hierarchical implications of the previous term. By
‘transculturation’, then, Ortiz means that a process of mutual interaction
exists between cultures, despite the unequal distribution of power
characteristic of transcultural relations (Hernández 2002: 1-15).
In sum, the main theoretical value of the concept of transculturation
in Ortiz’s work lies in the fact that it creates a new form of cultural dynamics
that understands cultural productivity not in binary terms but as a fluid
complex operation among differing and contesting cultural sites. In addition,
transculturation has a powerful political potential that undermines hegemonic
and homogenising claims the aim of which is the ultimate elimination of
cultural difference. Transculturation is therefore a primary theoretical tool
xii Felipe Hernández

with which to examine the complex dynamic implicit in the interaction

between cultures and the continual redefinition of cultural contexts that it
brings about. It follows that transculturation is particularly relevant to
discussions of Latin American architecture, for it opens up a whole new area
of inquiry about the nature and characteristics of Latin American cities and
buildings.

Transculturation and the Development of Andean Cities

The Peruvian ethnographer and novelist José María Arguedas appropriated

Ortiz’s notion of transculturation in an insightful analysis of the fragmented
nature of Peruvian culture (Arguedas 1975). Arguedas pays particular
attention to the multiplicity of practices that have allowed indigenous groups
to survive, and even to thrive, after years of brutal miscegenation. His
examples show how those groups, which kept themselves isolated from the
influence of the coloniser, disintegrated with the arrival of a new social order
and new technologies. On the other hand, groups that maintained close
contact with European cultures after colonisation developed ‘antibodies’, as
he calls them, that allowed their survival and further development. Among
these latter groups are the rural indigenes that migrate to the cities. Arguedas
maintains that rural immigrants regrouped themselves in the cities according
to origin, which permitted them to continue to live similarly to the way they
had lived in their original communities although in a displaced space,
translated from the rural to the urban. In the cities, the space of mass culture,
indigenous groups had nonetheless to reconfigure their identities in order to
survive.3 Instead of being a tool to construct a coherent history, in his account
of the development of urban cultures on the coast of Peru, transculturation
appears as a non-essentialising and non-foundational term that responds to
the multiple and convoluted historical experiences of the people who inhabit
Peruvian cities. Through his comparative ethnographic studies Arguedas
attempts to prove that sustained close contact between cultures has permitted
indigenous groups to survive and to reinforce their cultural identities.
In another aspect of his inquiry, Arguedas sees the configuration of
Andean cities as being substantially determined by the various and
continuous processes of transculturation that had taken place throughout their
history. In what can be seen as an archaeological study of coastal Peruvian
cities, Arguedas examines how the colonial city that was conceived as a
homogenous symbol of European superiority —a centre of absolute power—
mutated dramatically with the arrival of a multiplicity of minority groups.

3
Arguedas (1975: 139) discusses the way Peruvian indigenous peoples have adapted to the urban
spaces of the city, carrying with them their traditions and social practices.
 Introduction xiii
Cities became culturally and socially heterogeneous, the urban fabric became
fragmented, and the whole image of cities like Lima or Chimbote became
‘Andeanised’, to use Arguedas’s own term. The latter city, Chimbote, was
the location for Arguedas posthumous novel El zorro de arriba y el zorro de
abajo. He was particularly interested in the case of Chimbote due to all the
changes it has undergone throughout its history. Initially, Chimbote was an
Inca settlement. After colonisation it became a small colonial beach town
with strong remnants of the previous indigenous culture. Later, due to the
development of the fishing industry, the town grew to become a city of
several thousand inhabitants where indigenous groups still coexist with the
mestizo population and also with foreigners —fishermen, sailors and tourists.
These characteristics, and the emergence of a precarious industrialisation in
the early twentieth century, fascinated Arguedas who saw Chimbote as a
prime example of transculturation, yet one that confronted him with a
dramatic reality that led him away from the optimistic approach of other and
previous texts.4 For, in Chimbote, Arguedas discovered the impossibility for
transculturation to be a harmonious fusion, or even coexistence, of differing
and antagonistic socio-cultural groups. On the contrary, most processes of
transculturation are conflictive, determined by situations of social inequality
and imbalances in the distribution of power. Such conditions do not imply, as
many critics suggest, 5 that transculturation is altogether unachievable. The
problem lies in the fact that in Arguedas’s earlier work transculturation was
understood as a teleological term, as something that could be accomplished
and therefore reach an end. For this reason, it is necessary to reassess the
notion of transculturation to overcome Arguedas’s theoretical shortcomings.
In fact, from an architectural point of view, Chimbote is an interesting case to
drive forward this initiative. In Chimbote there are still some remains of Inca
architecture and urban infrastructure in dialogue —although not necessarily
in harmony— with colonial buildings organised on an orthogonal grid as well
as with various modernist buildings. In addition, there is evidence of a major
unrealised master plan designed by the firm Town Planning Associates
(whose main partners were Josep Lluís Sert and Paul Lester Wiener) in the
1950s, in which the posture of the government of Peru, as well as the
homogenising modernist agenda of the planners, with regard to Chimbote’s
cultural multiplicity appears to be clear: the forceful elimination of
differences using architecture as a vehicle. For all these reasons, Chimbote
offers plenty of extraordinary potential for an enhanced and continued
architectural analysis; that is, the city in relation with the whole range of
issues brought forward by Arguedas in his ethnographic studies.

4
See Arguedas (1975) where he talks about a future of harmonious integration between
indigenous groups and the mestizo elites.
5
See Moreiras (2001).
xiv Felipe Hernández

Surprisingly, neither architects nor architectural theorists have

addressed these questions critically in any of the major theoretical projects
produced during the second half of the twentieth century in Latin America.
Social heterogeneity and mass migration into the main cities have always
been seen negatively from an architectural perspective as they obfuscate
architects’ and planners’ projects to keep cities free from contrasting spatial
and aesthetic differences. Yet, from a different perspective, the fact that
numerous socio-cultural differences coexist in the urban space of Latin
American cities is a condition pregnant with opportunities for architectural
exploration.
Arguedas’s most important contribution is that he scrutinises the
univocal authority of the mestizo elites —the so-called majority— by
highlighting the fact that cultural subjectivity and identity have to be
‘understood as historical and cultural constructs that are always in flux, split
between two or more worlds, cultures, and languages’ (Spitta 1995: 8).
Arguedas’s work, carried out in the 1950s and 1960s, can therefore be taken
as a prelude not only to García Canclini’s work on Latin American hybrid
urban cultures (1995), but also to that of other theorists such as Bhabha (1994)
whose work refers to other peripheries.
Like Arguedas, the Uruguayan theorist Angel Rama also elaborated
extensively on the notion of transculturation in the Andean region. Although
his approach is mainly literary —he uses transculturation in order to analyse
Latin American literatures, which, for him, are situated in a liminal space
between various ethnicities and different linguistic traditions—, he also
studied the effects of transculturation on the development of Latin American
cities.
In his posthumous book La ciudad letrada [The Lettered City]
Rama explores the way in which imbalances of power between the coloniser
and the colonised became a decisive factor in the shaping of most Latin
American cities. Rama finds a close relationship between the creation of a
hierarchically designed urban space, materialised through the use of an
orthogonal grid, and the forceful imposition of a hierarchical society. In fact,
Rama demonstrates, in a Foucaultian fashion, that colonial cities were created
as part of a strategy of control and domination that would soon clash with
those pre-existing structures, which did not disappear completely. On the
contrary, the antagonistic urban and social structures have coexisted in a
conflictive relation that continues today and which also defies foundational
and essentialist approaches to both cultural and urban development.
Despite the fact that Rama does not arrive at a critical conclusion
with regard to the city as an architectural construct (this was clearly not his
intention as he was not an architect) he does engage with important debates
that require the attention of architects and architectural theorists in Latin
America. In the same way that Rama looks at the constant interaction
 Introduction xv
between various sociocultural groups that stand in different positions of
power, architects ought to engage with the whole range of architectural
practices that take place in Latin American cities instead of trying to occlude
them for the sake of creating a coherent canon. It stands to reason that
processes of transculturation have also occurred within architecture giving
rise to a kind of ‘transarchitecturation’ that has affected buildings as well as
cities. Therefore, it is clear that the use of the notion of transculturation
within architectural debates urges engagement with issues beyond the limits
of the merely formal.
In the work of Ortiz, Arguedas and Rama the term ‘transculturation’
was employed to unveil the interactive reality of cultural relations. Contrary
to the concept of acculturation, which implies the imposition of superior
cultures over those considered inferior, transculturation makes visible how
cultures become mutually affected as a result of their interaction. Thus these
theorists attempt to dismantle genealogical and hierarchical structures that
underpin the hierarchical claims to cultural authority. However, their work is
unable to eliminate such structures completely, perhaps because their
criticism remains attached to structural and positivist methods of critique.
Ortiz’s, Arguedas’s and Rama’s work on transculturation represents an
important breakthrough for Latin American cultural and literary theory in the
analysis of the nature of differential cultural identities. Nonetheless, it is
necessary to reassess the notion of transculturation not only in order to
respond to the new realities of Latin American cultures, but also in order to
return to the term the critical and political values that it has lost. In an attempt
to carry out this task, I propose to approach the concept of transculturation
via the work of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, paying particular attention
to the notion of the rhizome.

Becoming Transcultural: a Post-Structuralist Approach

Contemporary cultural theory finds its most powerful method of critique in

the legacy of post-structuralism. Post-structuralism offers ample opportunity
to dismantle and transgress structural methods of theoretical analysis for it is
understood that natural systems, such as social systems, do not evolve along
premeditated orderly lines. On the contrary, they manifest multiple and often
unpredictable patterns of becoming. An illuminating way to model those
patterns of becoming is to draw on the notion of the rhizome as elaborated by
Deleuze and Guattari. The rhizome is a figure appropriated from biology but
used within philosophical discourses in opposition to traditional tree-like
structures of analysis. The latter are determined by the principle of origin and
follow a certain linearity. If the tree represents a foundational, linear and
highly hierarchical structure, the rhizome represents a dynamic structure that
xvi Felipe Hernández

has no point of origin and is capable of establishing multiple connections

with any other kind of system while at the same time avoiding stratification.
Thus, the notion of the rhizome serves to place under scrutiny notions like
origin, foundation, centralism and hierarchy.
I explained above how the notion of transculturation brings to the
fore the dynamism that characterises cultural contacts and how such contacts
affect all cultures involved in the process to a similar extent. Transculturation
is therefore conceived as a multidirectional phenomenon constantly at work
in our globalising culture and not only within colonial situations. For this
reason, the notion of the rhizome appears to be appropriate in re-examining
the term.
According to Deleuze and Guattari, rhizomes are characterised by
certain approximate features. Among those features is the principle of
asignifying rupture according to which a rhizome cannot be destroyed.
Wherever a rhizome is broken or shattered, it starts up again. Its capacity to
connect unrestrictedly at any point with other systems allows it to restart
every time that it is disrupted. Rhizomes are also characterised by the
principles of cartography and decalcomania, which imply that, due to their
dynamism, there is no way in which it is possible to trace rhizomes. Since
rhizomes are anti-genealogical, they can be mapped, but not traced. For ‘what
distinguishes the map from the tracing is that it is entirely oriented toward an
experimentation in contact with the real. […] The map is open and
connectable in all its dimensions; it is detachable, reversible, susceptible to
constant modification’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1998: 12). In other words, the
map differs from the tracing because the latter suggests a linearity of
evolution always based upon a number of certainties.
Three features of this argument become central to our inquiry
because they help understand the relation between the rhizome and socio-
cultural apparatuses. They are the principles of connection, heterogeneity and
multiplicity. The first two principles examined by Deleuze and Guattari are
connection and heterogeneity. These two principles imply that rhizomes can
be connected to anything other, and, in fact, must be. Rhizomes are capable
of connecting to other systems different from rhizomes; they can change in
nature in order to make connections with ‘anything other’. In addition, due to
their heterogeneity, they are capable of establishing multiple connections
simultaneously. Therefore, rhizomes are diametrically different from tree-like
or root-like structures. In these latter structures, there is a clear origin that
sets the rule for possible future developments. Deleuze and Guattari criticise
binary logics not because they are too abstract, but because they are not
abstract enough. They affirm that such binary tree-like systems ‘do not reach
the abstract machine that connects a language to the semantic and pragmatic
contents of statements, to collective assemblages of enunciation, to a whole
micropolitics of the social field’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1998: 7). Here, it is
 Introduction xvii
implied that binary logics are not capable of representing the dynamism,
heterogeneity and unpredictability with which socio-cultural formations
establish connections within themselves and with others. The reason why
rhizomes achieve a higher degree of abstraction is because they are alien to
any idea of genealogical axiality. Binary logics are abstract, yet they
represent an idealised natural order that does not adequately respond to the
real complexity of natural systems. In other words, although they are abstract
they also reduce the potential to multiple connectability inherent in all living
systems. They belong to the order of a totalising macropolitics that is
opposite to the differential specificity of rhizomatic micropolitics. The
rhizome, for its part, does not fix represented systems to foundational
structures, and maintains a dynamic middle point of permanent becoming.
An important political component appears with the principle of
multiplicity: power. According to this principle, it is argued that unity does
not exist and that all we have are multiplicities which remain in permanent
transformation. Only a power takeover can disrupt the heterogeneity and
connectability of a rhizome in order to impose apparent unity. Otherwise, a
rhizome would ceaselessly establish connections between ‘semiotic chains,
organisations of power, and circumstances relative to arts, sciences and social
struggles’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1998: 7). Because multiplicity is the
primary condition of all systems, unity is only achieved when it is imposed.
Deleuze and Guattari maintain that:

The notion of unity (unités) appears only when there is a power

takeover in the multiplicity by the signifier or a corresponding
subjectification proceeding: this is the case for a pivot-unity
forming the basis for a set of bi-univocal relationships between
objective elements or points, or for the One that divides following
the law of binary logic of differentiation in the subject. Unity
always operates in an empty dimension supplementary to that of
the system considered (overcoding). (Deleuze and Guattari 1998:
8-9)

Multiplicity, as a principle of the rhizome, is what saves it from

overcoding. In other words, a rhizome never becomes overcoded or saturated
because it is always being recoded. The above paragraph also reinforces the
notion that power influences the connection-making process of all systems,
primarily in the case of social systems.
Power is an important component that conditions the notion of
rhizomatic becoming. In this sense, it is my contention that cultures have
rhizomatic characteristics: they are assemblages of multiplicities that are
always in a middle, always in a process of becoming. In their process of
becoming, cultures establish simultaneous multiple connections with other
cultural formations. As a result, cultures regenerate, change in nature, and
xviii Felipe Hernández

recreate themselves constantly. However, these processes are conditioned by

institutions of power. Such institutions have a great impact on the way
connections are established, and the very notion of unrestricted connectability
can be jeopardised by power formations that tend to construct a model of
order by stratifying everything. This is what occurs in the majority of
transcultural relations: a power takeover disrupts the rhizomatic nature of
processes of cultural becoming by stratifying everything within foundational
and totalising systems.
Although the notion of the ‘rhizome’ implies that all cultural systems
are connected —and, in fact, always have been— it does not suggest a fusion
nor does it deny the existence of differences between interconnected cultures.
In other words, despite being rhizomatically connected, cultures may remain
and evolve separately. Deleuze and Guattari use an analogy between orchids
and wasps whose existence is possible due to their constant interaction yet, at
no point, do they cease to exist as separate organisms. Quite the opposite: by
means of their rhizomatic relation, they reaffirm their identity as separate
beings, and contribute to their individual processes of permanent rhizomatic
becoming, because being is not considered a fixed given condition, but a
dynamic process of permanent becoming. More importantly, in spite of being
independent living organisms, neither the orchid nor the wasp is here seen as
a complete system in itself, but as systems existing through interaction with
other systems in a process of constant becoming. The model of rhizomatic
becoming can, by the same token, be extended to the relation between
cultures, which, as living social systems, remain in constant flux, in a process
of permanent becoming.6
Thus, it is clear that the notion of the rhizome, developed by Deleuze
and Guattari, appears to offer ample opportunity to rethink the term
transculturation and also to introduce a renewed and, possibly, more effective
critical capacity. It is not my contention to replace one term with the other or
to equate transculturation with the rhizome for each term belongs to a
different sphere. It is clear in the work of Ortiz, for example, that
transculturation belongs, and is tightly connected to, a social sphere; that is,
the conflictive historical realities of different sociocultural groups which
were forcefully brought into contact by the coloniser. On the other hand,
Deleuze and Guattari’s rhizome is much more abstract in its approach to
society and culture. Therefore, by associating the notion of the rhizome with
transculturation I am not attempting to jump the abyss between philosophy
and sociological/anthropological work and so, misleadingly to correct the
theoretical shortcomings found in transculturation. However, the (rhizomatic)
connection between these two terms allows us to recast transculturation as an

6
For a more elaborate interpretation of the analogy between the orchid and the wasp and its
relation to transcultural architectural debates in Latin America see Hernández (2002).
 Introduction xix
endless process that is necessary for cultures in order to evolve while being
impossible to achieve, at least in teleological terms. The main issue lies in the
fact that the notion of rhizome provides an alternative to replace the
finaliseability found in the term transculturation as used by Ortiz, Arguedas
and Rama. 7 In many of the examples used by these theorists there is a
tendency to equate transculturation with fusion of elements which, when
achieved, implies the end of the process. Thus, by analogy, the rhizome
introduces major dynamism thereby removing the limits to processes of
cultural connectability. As shown above, the rhizome does not have a clear
origin nor does it need to point towards a certain destination. It constantly
establishes connections with other systems, even if they are of a different
kind. The rhizome also benefits from those connections, and so do the
structures to which it is connected. In this way the rhizome constantly
regenerates itself but never loses its independent identity. The rhizome is
never finished in itself but always in a process of becoming. More
importantly, the notion of the rhizome illustrates the way in which different
cultures can maintain their separate identities despite existing in a permanent
relation with one another. In sum, understanding transculturation as a process
of cultural rhizomatic becoming allows us to overcome some of the
limitations found in Ortiz, Arguedas and Rama. This is by no means an
unproblematic process of mutual interillumination between cultures. On the
contrary, this approach brings to the fore the existence of a variety of
structures of power —especially economic and technological— that prevent
the fluent interaction between cultures from happening harmoniously and on
a horizontal ground. Consequently, the notion of transculturation within
architecture cannot be understood as an innocuous, exclusively descriptive,
term but as a link between architecture and broader, as well as more complex,
socio-political issues. Thus, the notion of architectural transculturation would
reveal areas of architecture that have never been studied properly, it would
also open doors for the study of minority architectural practices that have
never received adequate attention and would encourage the continued
exploration in search for alternative architectures that respond more
appropriately to the socio-political realities of Latin American peoples.

The Transculturation of Architecture

Despite the significance of the notion of transculturation and the impact it has
had, and continues to have, amongst scholars who study Latin American

7
See, for example, the analogy with the parents and the child that Ortiz uses to illustrate the
process of transculturation in his book Cuban Counterpoint. Tobacco and Sugar (Ortiz 1995),
103.
xx Felipe Hernández

cultures, transculturation has not had a great effect on the development of

either architectural theory or its different practices.
The term transculturation alone has been used occasionally in order
to describe the coexistence of different socio-cultural groups within the space
of the Latin American nations but not in order to theorise the effect that such
coexistence has had on cities and architectural practices. It is possible that,
due to a lack of rigour in their critical approach, architects and architectural
theorists tend to understand notions such as transculturation, hybridisation
and other similar terms in a negative way.8 For this reason, none of the main
architectural theories produced in Latin America during the second half of
the twentieth century has seriously engaged with these notions as a way to
analyse the complex social, cultural or political circumstances that affect the
development of its cities and buildings. Neither do they engage with the work
of Latin American cultural theorists such as Ortiz, Arguedas or Rama, nor
with that of more contemporary scholars such as Román de la Campa, who
has explored the impact of Latin American citizens on the main cities of the
USA (Davies and de la Campa 2001).
Instead, Latin American architectural history and theory still rely
heavily on essentialist and genealogical structures that allow architects to
create systems of referentiality with which to judge architectural production.
Although, admittedly, the general attitude towards architectural practices is
currently changing —and this volume is testimony of that change—, I refer
mainly to the work carried out in the twenty years between 1975 and 1995,
which had a great deal of impact on the way we analyse Latin American
architecture today. Take, for example, the work of Enrique Browne with his
theory La otra arquitectura latinoamericana or Cristián Fernández Cox with
his thesis on La modernidad apropiada. Both architects make an exclusive
selection of buildings whose main value is found in the fact that their roots
can be traced to the buildings produced by some of the great masters of
modern architecture while responding to the climatic, telluric and
technological conditions of Latin America.
It seems as if architects felt compelled to construct a univocal
architectural narrative, which has generally depended only upon the features
of a few paradigmatic buildings, those comparable with hegemonic
architectural Euro-American models. However, this approach runs the risk of
positing the architectural value of the buildings that have been chosen as
referents on the basis of their similarity to others. In other words, the values
of the so-called ‘other Latin American architecture’ are not inherent in the
buildings themselves and in the relation they establish with the sociocultural
context where they exist but in their compliance with pedagogically devised

8
In fact, it seems that in the whole of the Andean region transculturation and hybridisation are
understood as negative processes that threaten the homogeneity of the nation and the
achievement of modernisation.
 Introduction xxi
architectural narratives. Consequently, this reconstitutes a binary logic that
categorises Latin American architectures as an inferior other.
Besides, and more importantly, such an approach to Latin American
architecture overlooks and, in fact, occludes the numerous architectural
practices that do not comply with the system. This is seen, for example, in the
way some critics deny the architectural validity of buildings produced by the
less privileged members of the society.9 In a study carried out in the early
1980s about spontaneous settlements in Medellín, Colombia, the Colombian
critic Fernando Viviescas found

considerable expressive potential, which might form the basis for a

genuine architectural position. However, the circumstances under
which these ‘barrios’ are established prohibit a reference to
architecture. Rather, we are referring to the basic, immediate and
desperate need for shelter. [...] The spatial configuration of these
barrios responded not so much to any authentic development
initiating from within, but rather to an inevitable (given the
material conditions) impoverished superimposition of ideological,
aesthetic and environmental values originating in other more
affluent parts of the city. [...] The result tends inevitably towards a
penurious kitsch. (Viviescas in Kellett in this volume: 29)

Viviescas dismisses minority architectural practices with the

argument that they are ‘derivative’. This assumption confirms my view that
architects and theorists tend to produce architectural hegemonic narratives
that are detached from the sociocultural realities of the contexts where they
exist (Colombia, in this case), thus avoiding engagement with the complex,
fragmented nature of Latin American cultures. Here, Viviescas elevates the
architectures of higher social classes, or more affluent parts of the city, to use
his own words, to the level of originals. Consequently, he tacitly reassembles
a genealogical and hierarchical architectural structure that gives authority to
the architectures of certain Colombian social classes. Viviescas seems not to
realise the risk of attempting to recreate a referential system with which to
judge the validity of non-dominant architectures. As a result of the
reconstruction of such hierarchical structures, the totality of Colombian
architecture could be seen as derivative, hence inferior, with regard to Euro-
American architectures that would reappear as the originals. This is because
the architectures of those more affluent parts of the city, which Viviescas
takes as an allegedly homogeneous referent, are also superimpositions of
ideological, aesthetic, and environmental values originating in other more
affluent sociocultural, and economic, contexts outside the nation. In
consequence, the same argument used to disqualify minority practices as
9
See Peter Kellett’s essay ‘The Construction of Home in the Informal City’ included in this
volume.
xxii Felipe Hernández

architecture also challenges the authority of the assumed architectural system

considered referential. What is more, governmental statistics prove that the
number of architectural solutions produced by rural and other migrants in
Latin American cities —people who move to the city due to economic
fluctuations or those displaced by violence as in the case of Colombia, for
example— greatly exceeds those that have been produced by architects.
Consequently, the effect that so-called informal architectures have on the
image and morphology of Latin American cities is considerably larger than
that of main-stream architecture. It thus follows that popular, or informal,
architectures are a much representative example of the dynamic realities of
Latin American cities.
The notion of architectural transculturation itself does not provide a
solution for the dilemmas with which Latin American architecture is now
faced. What is important about the use of this term within architectural
debates is its enormous potential to connect such debates with other aspects
of our cultures that require attention if we are to respond architecturally to the
realities of Latin American people in more accurate ways. Due to the great
number of different issues with which transculturation is intrinsically
connected, it appears a useful tool in order to dismantle the essentialist,
genealogical and hierarchical structures with which Latin American
architectural practices have been approached. Consequently, the use of the
term transculturation within architecture would open up doors to study and
understand main-stream architectures in alternative ways while engaging
with the whole range of architectural practices that give shape to Latin
American cities.
The essays collected in this volume unveil the potential of
interdisciplinary collaboration and show alternative, as well as traditional,
ways to analyse Latin American architectures, spaces and urban realities
transgressing the limits of merely formal analyses of buildings. This volume
covers a wide spectrum of issues that range from cultural theory to the
materiality of cities and buildings. Some essays engage with issues that have
never been fully examined before, or at least not to the same extent as in this
book, while others reveal aspects of paradigmatic Latin American
architectures that had never been analysed at all. In general, the arguments
put forward in this volume are situated at the interface between architecture,
history, politics and social and cultural theory.
Essays are organised according to thematic areas of interest. The first
section, ‘Space, Place and Identity’, focuses primarily on the processes
through which spaces and places are produced physically and conceived
psychologically as a result of people’s daily life and experiences. The
concept of identity, both individual and collective, is also examined in this
section. Here authors engage with a wide range of cultural theories in order to
challenge traditional ways of approaching Latin America. Monika Kaup and
 Introduction xxiii
Robert Mugerauer, for example, use the extraordinarily suggestive concept of
‘fluid hybridity’ in order to study processes of identity formation in the
Caribbean. Peter Kellett adopts a more sociological approach in his analysis
of informal domestic architecture in Colombia. He also uses the concepts of
hybridity and hybridisation this time in order to endow the architectures
produced by rural migrants in Colombian cities with political and
architectural validity. Jane Rendell works on the notion of identity in an
intriguing piece that is, at the same time, autobiographical, critical and
architectural. Like Kaup and Mugerauer, Rendell elaborates on spaces of
liminality and fluidity, understanding identity as identification rather than as
something fixed. A similar trend is picked up by Michael Asbury who
presents a comprehensive historical and critical account of the development
of modern art and architecture in Brazil during the twentieth century. Section
two, ‘Re-Viewing the City’, focuses on the way cities such as Mexico City
have been imagined and represented by artists, architects, planners and
cultural theorists. It also explores some of the ideologies and hidden political
agendas behind the development of significant areas of the city such as El
Pedregal in Mexico City. In this section, Luis Carranza revisits the Mexican
avant-garde of the early twentieth century and examines critically the way in
which members of the Estridentista movement envisioned, almost
prophetically, the future of the city. Anny Brooksbank-Jones explores the
place of visuality in the construction of contemporary cities. In so doing, she
connects two different —and, according to many, also antagonistic—
methods for the analysis of the way cities are perceived by their inhabitants.
She elaborates mainly on the work of Kevin Lynch and Néstor García
Canclini so as to reveal the shortcomings that exist in both their approaches.
Helen Thomas concludes this section with an essay that compares the radical
political connotations of the term Heimat in Germany with the homogenising
political agenda behind the construction of modern Mexico. Thomas looks at
the construction of the ‘Ciudad Universitaria de Mexico’ in great detail. Her
analysis uncovers the historical tensions between socio-cultural groups in
Mexico. The final section of this volume, ‘Theorising Architectures’,
presents us with a series of innovative methods to analyse Latin American
architectures. This section engages directly with history and cultural theory,
and is abundant in linguistic and literary analogies that serve not only to
interpret Latin American architectures in different ways but, also, to reveal
aspects that have remained understudied for many years. The first essay in
this section, for example, uses the notion of translation as a vehicle to bridge
the gap between architecture and other aspects of cultural theory. By this
means, this essay discloses a range of political questions that need to be
addressed by architects and architectural theorists in Latin America. In the
second essay, Adrian Forty also uses a linguistic analogy in order to examine
the role played by concrete —a material generally linked with universalising
xxiv Felipe Hernández

aspirations and the elimination of cultural difference— in the formation of

Brazil’s modern architectural identity. Carlos Comas, for his part, contributes
with a sophisticated analysis of Niemeyer’s casino at Lake Pampulha. Comas
demonstrates that the architectural values of the casino lay not in its
similarities with other Euro-American modernist buildings, but in its
differences. Sandra Vivanco also elaborates on modern Brazilian architecture
and the work of Oscar Niemeyer. However, she prefers to explore the critical
potential offered by the notion of the baroque as a postmodern avenue to
inquire into modern Latin American architectural production. Finally, at the
end of the volume, Mark Millington resumes the debate about the term
transculturation opened in this introduction. While his essay does not engage
directly with any of the architectural issues explored by other contributors,
his thoroughgoing analysis of the concept of transculturation itself proves to
be fundamental in order to understand the critical potential inherent in the
term. Nonetheless, Millington is keen to emphasise that there exist a series of
theoretical shortcomings also inherent in the concept of transculturation. He
reminds us that no single term can be expected adequately to deal with the
range of cultural processes in play in our contemporary world. Consequently,
he recommends caution and warns against the facile appropriation of the term
transculturation not only in architecture but also in other disciplinary areas.
Geographically, this volume covers most of Latin America: from
Argentina to Mexico, Brazil to Peru and also the Caribbean. The authors
whose kind contribution made this volume possible share an interest in Latin
America, yet not all of them are Latin American nor do they live or practise
in the continent. During the various years that we worked on this project, we
communicated in different languages and our communication bridged the
gaps between different disciplines and modes of practising architecture as
well as between different continents.
In sum, the essays collected in this volume prove that there exist
numerous ways to approach, theorise and analyse Latin American
architectures. In place of essentialist, genealogical and hierarchical methods
of analysis and critique that occlude the realities of Latin American cities and
cultures, the contributors to this volume have directed their efforts at
revealing those areas of conflict where the very fractures of Latin American
cultures can be found, and where diverse and often antagonistic sociocultural
groups clash and negotiate their differences. For the contributors to this
volume, the complex reality of Latin American cultures is not seen as a
negative feature that requires resolution. On the contrary, the articles
assembled here show that the complexity of Latin American socio-cultural
dynamics is pregnant with opportunities for architectural exploration both in
theory and in practice.
 Introduction xxv
Works Cited

Arguedas, José María (1975) Formación de una cultura nacional

indoamericana (Mexico DF: Siglo Veintiuno Editores).
Bhabha, Homi (1994) The Location of Culture (London and New York:
Routledge).
Davies, Mike and Román de la Campa (2001) Magical Urbanism: Latinos
Reinvent the US Big City (New York: Verso).
Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari (1988) A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism
and Schizophrenia (London: Athlone Press).
García Canclini, Néstor (1995 [1989]) Hybrid Cultures: Strategies for
Entering and Leaving Modernity, trans. Christopher L. Chiappari
and Silvia L. López (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press).
Hernández, Felipe (2002) ‘The Transcultural Phenomenon and the
Transculturation of Architecture’, in Journal of Romance Studies 2.3,
1-15.
Kellet, Peter (2005) ‘The Construction of Home in the Informal City’, in
Felipe Hernández and Mark Millington (eds), Transculturation:
Cities, Sapce and Architecture in Latin America (Amsterdam and
Atlanta: Rodopi).
Moreiras, Alberto (2001) The Exhaustion of Difference: The Politics of Latin
American Cultural Studies (Durham NC and London: Duke
University Press).
Ortiz, Fernando (1995) Cuban Counterpoint. Tobacco and Sugar, trans.
Harriet de Onís (Durham NC and London: Duke University Press).
Rama, Angel (1996) The Lettered City, trans. John Charles Chasteen
(Durham NC and London: Duke University Press).
Spitta, Silvia (1995) Between Two Waters: Narratives of Transculturation in
Latin America (Houston: Rice University Press).
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 Section One:

Space, Place and Identity

 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place: From Fixed
Identity to Fluid Hybridity

Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

Abstract

In contrast to the traditional understanding of the Caribbean (and most other places) as
having a stable (even if contested) essential identity, current re-theorisations are
newly articulating the region in terms of fluid processes and hybrid characteristics.
These alternative configurations provide a way to avoid the exclusionary and
confrontational emphases typical of the usual contrast of global activities such as
tourism and local ‘senses of place’; instead, the new perspective shows how the
Caribbean’s ‘marine spaces’ provide changing sites of pluralism and exchange.

***

Introduction

Understanding the Caribbean’s sense of place is especially difficult, not only

because of its complex historical constitution from the colonial past and post-
colonial struggles, but because of current trends of globalisation and post-
structural, post-colonial retheorising of the built environment. The borders
within this region and between the Caribbean basin and the rest of the world
are especially tensed in the current political and economic situation. Here
globalised tourism provides an especially fruitful lens for exploring the
dynamics of the forces attempting to maintain or unbind traditional identities.
Tourism does offer the possibility of new modes of exchange; but, at the
same time, it requires critique because many of its commodifications and
objectifications genuinely threaten the Caribbean’s distinctive sense of place.
In addition, current shifts in theory provide a strategy through which the
Caribbean Sea is being reinterpreted as offering a new mode of compromise
with and resistance to globalised tourism, actually disrupting the dominant
understanding of sense of place —as centred and with a stable identity. This
currently dominant view, especially as presented in the phenomenological
research literature on ‘authentic’ places such as the New Mexican Pueblos
(Saile 1989), Mediterranean coastal villages (Violich 1989), or Khartoum
(Norberg-Schultz 1979), is being contested by post-structuralist, post-
colonial approaches that would replace the ‘fixed’ with fluid spaces, language
and architecture that are decentred and hybrid.
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 3
Methodologically, this essay will contrast two interpretations of the
Caribbean’s sense of place by comparing the ‘classic’ phenomenological
approach (Tuan 1977, Relph 1978, Norberg-Schultz 1985) to the alternative,
emerging post-structuralist, post-colonial counterpoetics of creolisation
developed by Francophone Caribbean writers such as Édouard Glissant
(Glissant and Dash 1992 and Glissant 1997) and Patrick Chamoiseau (1997).
The planning and architectural evidence shows how globalisation in the form
of tourism is double-edged: both threatening the local sense of place and
providing the economic basis for local hosts to carry out their own
autonomous agendas. The Francophone postcolonial theorists make clear that
effective strategies for liberating the oppressed voice of the Caribbean other
are to stay where and who they are, not to travel to a better place elsewhere,
and to dissolve the solid ground of dominant identity through the central
trope of the sea and fluid alterity.

Alternative Senses of Place: A Phenomenology of the Caribbean as

Tropical Paradise

Phenomenology provides the dominant approach to sense of place. It has

been a major achievement since the 1970s for phenomenologists to turn their
attention to the built and natural environments, thus providing a non-arbitrary
description and interpretation of person-world patterns. By applying the
methodology, especially as developed by Martin Heidegger (1962 and 1971)
and Maurice Merleau-Ponty (1962), cultural geographers, anthropologists
and sociologists, historians, and planning and architecture critics have begun
to explore empirically the ways in which physical, social and often spiritual
phenomena form coherent patterns. It appears that when these dimensions
exhibit a high degree of ‘mutual responsiveness’, both inhabitants and
visitors experience a strong sense of place; congruently, when the coherence
is absent, the environment is experienced as placeless. The character of the
particular material, cultural and sometimes sacred features, as well as the
distinctive mode of ‘gathering together’ as Heidegger calls it, amounts to
what we call sense of place (Mugerauer 1994 and 1998, Seamon 1979).
Given the variety and complexity of places and the method’s stress
on the every-day life-world, phenomenologies of place have focused on
describing small, especially coherent and often traditional or ordinary places:
villages, market places, and houses (Seamon and Norden 1980, Richardson
1982, Mugerauer 1985 and 1992). Because of the difficulties of the project,
the inherent focus of phenomenology and the character of the places chosen,
the places described are seen and interpreted as relatively stable or timeless.
As to the first of these aspects, it is very difficult to describe anything as
complex as a natural or built environment, the person-world dynamic that
4 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

constitutes a place. Not surprisingly, then, the first phenomenologies of place

properly engaged a modest range of simple places. Beyond this, of course, it
needs to be noted that phenomenology does seek the essential features of the
things it would describe. Many phenomenologists, along with most
traditional philosophers, understand these essential features to be stable or
timeless; others, especially Heidegger (1977), have developed a very
sophisticated interpretation of time and history which allows an explanation
of both how things have an essential character as they appear within each
historical epoch or ‘world’ and yet how that essential character changes from
one major epoch to another.
Further, the essential features of phenomena obviously vary
according to the phenomena themselves, where all places may not be the
same. In the cases of the Zuni ‘cosmic’ landscape (Saile 1989) or Irish Holy
Wells (Brenneman 1989), for example, it would appear that they have
remained substantially as they are for a long time. That is not to deny that
traditional environments change, but only to note that they have at least an
extraordinary continuity. The most ambitious phenomenologies of place,
such as Christian Norberg-Schultz’s (1979), do consider places such as
Rome, Khartoum or Budapest that have changed over time or as the result of
different cultural groups or historical epochs that can be correlated with
distinctive built environments in the same location. Frances Violich (1998)
elaborated his initial, basic phenomenology of Dalmatian coastal villages into
a more comprehensive description of the region’s historical identity and
changes under political duress. Mugerauer has worked on a continuing series
of analyses of the multiple and contested senses of place of Austin, Texas
(1988; 1989; 1996; Mugerauer and Branch 1996: 4, 5, 12; Mugerauer and
Thorsheim 2004). These projects amount to a more elaborate hermeneutical
phenomenology, where the hermeneutical dimension traces changes over
varying temporal or spatial horizons, thus complementing the more atemporal
phenomenological orientation.
In addition, given the background, experiences and interests of
active researchers, it is not surprising that the earlier descriptions emphasised
places in Europe, the Mediterranean and North America; more recently, no
doubt as part of the trend toward pluralism or diversity of all the
environmental disciplines, increased attention has been given to tropical
environments, with arguments being developed that hot and humid
landscapes constitute a distinctive type and descriptions made of dwelling
forms and behaviours (Richardson 1980 and 1982; Devakula 1998;
Mugerauer 1995; Mugerauer and Rimby 1994).
In any case, it is clear that a relatively fixed set of ‘essential’
features of the Caribbean have long been experienced, implicitly and
explicitly recognised, and appreciated-exploited by many Europeans and
North Americans. Ever since ‘Cuba, the pearl of the Antilles, had startled
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 5
Christopher Columbus with its lush tropical beauty and sweetly scented air,
the Caribbean has been and still is interpreted by explorers, investors,
tourists, and researchers alike as a Tropical Paradise’ (Schwartz 1997: 42).
To note one paradigmatic case or sub-area, Cuba has consistently been seen
as ‘a paradise on earth’ (Gibson, cited in Pérez 1999: 17) or, as Rosalie
Schwartz wonderfully documents it, as a ‘Pleasure Island’ (1997), a
description supported by a large body of popular media and academic
research literature (Blednick 1988; Judd and Fainstein 1999; Ryan 1997;
Pérez 1999).

Figure 1: Tropical Paradise

The Caribbean’s Stable Sense of Place and Identity
(Península de Ancón, Cuba)
©Robert Mugerauer & Monika Kaup

Given the Caribbean’s identity as a tropical paradise, since that is

the dominant sense of place as the phenomenon is currently constructed, two
aspects are worth special attention (both of which could be generalised
beyond the Caribbean with little effort). First, the stable image of the
Caribbean is highly selective given the full range of phenomena that present
themselves. Second, the basic, distinctive sense of place is a dimension of
the Caribbean’s human-natural dynamic that would seemingly be the very
opposite of the homogeneity and placelessness of international modernity;
yet, simultaneously, this very sense of place is also promoted, utilised and
even consumed by global tourism.
6 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

As noted, phenomenologists of place and identity often describe

traditional environments such as the New Mexican pueblos, Italian hill towns
and Mediterranean coastal villages. In the Caribbean, attention is turned to
centred and stable features such as the coasts’ or islands’ white sanded
beaches with palm trees and coral reefs; or, in urban settings, to memorable,
romantic places such as Cuba’s La Habana Vieja or the Malecón. When the
Mexican government developed Cancún and nearby sites such as Chichén
Itzá, Tulum, Isla Mujeres, Cozumel and Xel-ha, the area was chosen in part
because of local economic needs, but largely because of the wonderful long
stretch of beaches with brilliant sand (95-97% calcium carbonate, the rest
silicates and carbon), 243 days of sun a year, cooling breezes to mitigate the
heat, with wonderful water and coral reefs (as well as Nichupté Lagoon) alive
with tropical fish, and, finally, Maya ruins (Bosselman 1978, Heirnaux-
Nicolas 1999, Wong 1993: 55-65). Similarly, Cuba has 289 beaches as well
as a tradition of sport fishing associated with the romantic name of Ernest
Hemingway; in addition it has historic sites and a rich Spanish colonial
heritage (Barclay 1990). It also is commonly remarked that since the U.S.
trade embargo of 1962, which prohibited U.S. citizens from travelling to
Cuba, the enticement of the ‘forbidden’ has enhanced the Island’s allure for
many. As to individual and social experiences, suffice it to say that tourism in
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries has revolved around the perception of
the Caribbean as a source of pleasure, an image in which the essential sensual
and exotic dimensions have been carefully cultivated (Schwartz 1997;
Blednick 1988; Judd and Fainstein 1999; Ryan 1997; Espino 1993).
Against this background, it is not surprising that for the early
revolutionary society ‘tourism was perceived as too closely associated with
capitalist evils of prostitution, drugs, gambling and organised crime’ to be
encouraged (Espino 1993: 110). Yet, even under Cuban governmental
authority today, the ‘come-on’ remains the same, acknowledging and
exploiting the old essential characteristics. Visitors are still lured with the
reputation of a permissive paradise. The pitch is low —but effective,
effective enough to require the paternalistic protection of the moral character
of local residents from the influences of tourists and their preferred activities.
As noted by travel writer Pico Iyer, the basic message on Cubatur brochures
remains: ‘Ven a vivir una tentación!’ (Come to live out a temptation!) (Iyer
1997: 380).
Clearly, throughout the Caribbean, the ‘hosts’ to tourism are neither
silent nor passive in relation to global economic forces. In fact, there are
usually multiple hosts with differing agendas: national public leaders and
population by extension, local government authorities, local residents,
immigrating workers and international capital partners. To simplify, it
appears that the initial motivation and power for tourism development comes
from capital systems and central governments. While the latter explicitly
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 7
intend to serve tourists in order to benefit local populations, as noted, they
also sacrifice some dimensions of the local for the greater regional and
national good, which requires a complex series of changes in order to
distribute justly the goods and harms at all levels. The Mexican governmental
goals, articulated by politicians and institutions (National Council for
Tourism, 1961; National Tourism Development Plan, 1962) include
increasing currency flow into Mexico as a whole, generating new jobs
outside urban centres, countering patterns of regional inequality and political
instability (Hiernaux-Nicolas 1999; Enriquez Savignac 1972; Bosselman
1978). Cuba’s leadership has stated similar goals, explicitly dedicating the
effort to ‘achieve socialist values’, through the ‘equal distribution of goods,
services, opportunities’; to ‘enhance visitors’ cultural and ideological
awareness by […] convincing them of the superiority of socialism;’ and to
‘avoid introducing “anti-socialist”, “revisionist” or “capitalist” influences to
“turn the heads” of the indigenous population working in the tourist industry
and coming into contact with foreign tourists’ (Hall 1992). National
governments, then, obviously promote their own value systems.
That is not to say that the visitors’ and hosts’ often different interests
and ways of life seamlessly blend together in the same spaces. The agreement
on the essential identity of the region occurs even while its desirability is
contested —while tolerated and exploited for visitors, many dimensions of a
permissive paradise are not seen by national governments as good or
desirable for local peoples. Given the power of tourists’ preferences and
desires, the need to preserve, or at least foster, the prospect of an experience
of tropical paradise, unspoiled by the realities of actual tourism and current
economic and social disparities, may largely be the source of the
phenomenon of ghettoisation. ‘Much criticism is made of [these] exclusive
tourist “bubbles” or “ghettoes”, such as [in Jamaica, the Yucatan Peninsula,
or] Antigua’s Mill Reef […] on the grounds that they appropriate the choicest
sites, exclude non-elite locals (except as menial employees) and fail to
contribute to the well-being of adjacent settlements’ (Weaver 1988: 319; cf.
Weaver 1998; Judd 1999: 35-53; Blednick 1988; Britton 1980; Freitag 1994).
Inversely, host powers may act paternalistically to separate locals from
tourists as a ‘means of protecting the traditional way of life from
“contamination” by tourists’, as happens in the Maldives (Domroes 1985)
and Cuba, where the government’s controversial policy intends to protect
Cubans from the social-moral harms of tourists by prohibiting those not
working at the enclave resorts (especially Varadero and Cayo Largo) and
urban facilities (especially in Old Havana) from having access to many
beaches, hotels, restaurants, clubs and tourist taxis (Espino 1993: 107; Gebler
1987; Gibson 1987; GWR 1990; Hall 1992: 116-18; Iyer 1997; Schwartz
1997: 210; Suckling 1999: 119).
8 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

Given these shifts in power and the replacement of local systems

with those of international capitalism, it is not surprising that many critics
argue that tourism is a new neo-colonialism (Gayle and Goodrich 1993: 11).
In the worst cases, it is claimed, tourism amounts to an imperialism that may
result in ‘the hatred of the rich, the arrogance and the neo-colonialist
appearance of the tourists’ (Negi 1990; Nash, 1989). Tourism in the
Caribbean during the dependency period of the 1970s, complicated by the
dominance of tourists from North America and Europe who were served by
darker-skinned locals, generated what became known as Black servility
theory (Erisman 1983; Pérez 1973-74; Harrigan 1974; Finney and Watson
1975; Weaver 1988; Shivji 1973; Tabb 1988; Lea 1988; Pleumarom 1992;
Plog 1987; Nash 1996; Freitag 1994) and attendant local anger (as articulated
by Jamaica Kincaid in A Small Place [1988]).
The Caribbean’s unspoiled islands and waters and its sensuous cities
are perceived and experienced by many tourists and others as ‘authentic’,
indeed as persisting despite the pressures to change. But, precisely this
aesthetic of the ‘authentic’ or the ‘indigenous’ is brought into the service of
global tourism, which seeks and promotes exotic realms such as the
Caribbean. The natural environments focused upon by the international
environmental community as well as global tourism are often uncritically
constituted by ‘aesthetic’ and ‘exoticising’ filters. The Caribbean’s fragile
coral reefs, colourful marine life, barrier islands, water exchange systems and
tropical forests that form the fantastic image of ‘paradise’ are important to the
westernised consciousness of tourists and researchers alike; but there is little
or no touristic concern for the ordinary agricultural land in any of these areas,
nor for everyday rural life. Thus, the dominant sense of place, which amounts
to a centred and fixed bio-cultural-regional (or local) identity, apparently will
not hold against globalisation’s reductive processes.
Tourism has emerged as a major circuitry in the global flows of
capitalism partly because earlier processes have been refined, making fuller
use of the imagery of desire and virtual as well as physical environments in
vertically integrated systems that transform historical and newly exotic
locations, producing astonishing profits. Clearly, tourists, Caribbean
governments, international corporations and local businesses do appropriate
features of the environments by using stereotyped concepts and images of the
‘tropical’ and ‘exotic pleasures’, with little concern for the existing
environmental or cultural traditions. The public-sector partners in these
developments sacrifice the sites, severing them from the continuous fabric of
everyday life. The tourists visiting these destinations have little interest in
connections with the fine-grained natural and social patterns and do indeed
colonise them through their aggressive expectations for specific types of
accommodations, services and entertainment.
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 9
Since the often differing values and agendas of host areas, tourists,
and the international systems allow for both mutual self-interested
interactions and exploitation, and since the globalised flows of capitalism do
appropriate marketable aesthetic factors, it is not surprising that the
Caribbean’s stable sense of place and identity, which conceptually has been
seen as opposite to global homogenisation, is itself used by —is in danger of
being co-opted by— tourism.
Of course, a full phenomenology of the Caribbean, complete with
variations, remains to be done. The project would involve a detailed
discussion of the ways indigenous peoples, successive waves of outsiders
(Spanish, French, English, Dutch, German, Chinese, Indian, Muriaco,
Loango, Real, Carabali, Arará, Mandinga, Lucumí, North American, to begin
a list), and professional practitioners of international modernism and eclectic
post-modernism have responded to the various micro-climates and natural
features. Responses to light and colour, variable humidity and rainfall, plant,
animal and fish life, and diverse building materials need to be registered.
Attention would have to be given to the multiple bio-regions that range from
the usually emphasised rainforest to the arid areas such as Bonaire or the
exposed environments resulting from deforestation; it would have to
elaborate the differing cultural built forms, the agricultural, fishing and
production practices (from plantations to manufacturing), the religious
observations and social customs-behaviour patterns (from clothing, sexuality,
music, daily routines to diet and the use of tobacco and rum).
Transcultural dynamics would have to be traced out. Obviously
transculturation in the Caribbean is not the same as that for all of Latin
America, but the Caribbean does combine aspects of Mediterranean and local
cultures in the marketplace, for example, or in the baroque architecture and
literature that runs from European origins to the New World Baroque, or in
the retention of preferred forms such as dense urban settlements. Then too,
there are rich connections from the plantation tradition to the Levant, Asia
and Europe. We would expect that such a full phenomenological description
would belie the understanding of the Caribbean as having but one identity,
much less a fixed one. Whether there might be a deeper set of essential
features, perhaps epochally varying, that would adequately describe this
complex region over the last five hundred years remains to be seen.
Interpreting the Caribbean’s complex sense of place, of course, need
not be limited to the phenomenological approach. This is especially
important since it turns out that, though many factions agree that the
Caribbean has an essential identity and that it largely consists of the place’s
manifestation as a tropical paradise, their symbiotic relations are paired with
what appear to be unavoidable exclusions and oppositions concerning
fundamental values and practices. A further question thus presents itself: is
there a way in which international and local systems may open up to each
10 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

other, but in which new, alternative languages and modes of building might
articulate a sense of place that is unlike traditional centred sites of fixed
identity, and that, by emphasising differences, might better be able to resist
globalisation’s homogenisation and, perhaps, even its oppositions and
exclusions?

The Post-Structuralist Articulation of the Caribbean as Fluid Resistance

Instead of attempting to opt out of the flows of global capital (which is self-
defeating in today’s globalised economy), or to oppose them through hostile
confrontation (which cuts off tourism and exchange, as is seen by the
exclusions of Haiti and Cuba from the systems of flow or from Jamaica’s
difficulty in again becoming a desirable destination after attacks on tourists),
more subtle forms of coexistence and resistance appear to be emerging in the
Caribbean. In agreement with current trajectories of politicised theory, the
Caribbean theorists of creolisation conceptualise an indirect ‘dissolution’
rather than a direct confrontation or deconstruction. Specifically, this line of
force is found in Édouard Glissant and Michel Dash’s Caribbean Discourse
(1992) and Poetics of Relation (1997) and Patrick Chamoiseau’s novel,
Texaco (1997). Since the 1960s, postcolonial and feminist intellectuals have
become more sceptical about the possibility of radical opposition to the
dominant colonial or patriarchal power, as advocated by Negritude and
Fanonism, and more perceptive about the ways that such radical opposition
actually mimics that which it opposes. Thus, tactics of opposition named by
Glissant, in the absence of a ‘proper’ space and language of resistance, are
ruses and detours. Glissant in his theories of creolisation and hybridity and
Chamoiseau in his novel Texaco outline borderlands between binary
opposites, a mode of resistance that is a third term between the absolutes of
coloniser and colonised. By halting the escalation of challenge and counter-
challenge, these theorists and writers eschew the logic of dominance and
authority; originating from ‘below’ rather than imposing themselves from
‘above’, this counterpoetics of difference operates by acceptance and
inclusion, rather than rejection and exclusion.
These postmodern writers and theorists of Caribbean culture, ranging
from Glissant and the creolists from Martinique to Antonio Benítez-Rojo
from Cuba, articulate the Caribbean Sea as ex-centric and limitless (Kaup
2004). According to the creole poetics of cross-cultural relations, the
Caribbean Sea is a space of encounter, a site of a localised poetics of the
between that itself remains unaffected even as it lets the many forms of
‘passing through’ occur. Those who would interrupt the place that is the
Caribbean, on voyages of discovery or conquest —in our case, to visit or
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 11
profit as part of global tourism— pass by, but neither experience nor inhabit
the sea as place. In the words of Luce Irigaray,

Their passage leaves no permanent trace. Once they are gone, she
returns to her rhythm and her measure. Even as the ships cross over
her, she remains. The same. Incorruptible. And she laughs as they
move onward, seeking the secret of their truth. (Irigaray 1991: 48)

The sea cannot be conquered by linear passage. She cannot be forced

to surrender to a quest for knowledge and projections from afar that avoid
entering into reciprocal relation between self and other. Instead, the sea as
place (rather than passage-to-somewhere or to-something else) is excess,
rapture, an inclusive vastness that contains and ‘undoes all perspectives’
(Irigaray 1991: 47), including those of tourism. Here linear-appropriative
passage is negated and the singularity of place affirmed, with a new and
positive order immanent in relationships, without fixing its identity in terms
of transcendent goals or projects. With the structures of distance and one-
directional knowledge cleared away, all parties need to risk abandoning
themselves to the closeness and touch required for non-reductive encounters
—a border zone of mutual and multi-dimensional exchanges.
Just as outsiders’ attempts to ‘overcome’ the fluid sea by
universalising linear passages are resisted and outlasted by the place that is
the sea, Glissant and Chamoiseau say that the non-western other is opaque,
that creolisation is opposed to Manichean oppositions, and that its language is
fluid, in other words, its mode of speaking is orality. The argument of
Glissant and Chamoiseau is made at two levels, the level of (Caribbean)
space and identity and (creole) language.
Why posit a borderland poetics of cross-cultural relations rather than
a doctrine of, say, insurgent and univocal ‘blackness’? One answer is that the
non-western Other is ‘opaque’. Glissant writes, ‘We demand the right to
opacity’; but, ‘The opaque is not the same as the obscure […]. It is that which
cannot be reduced […]’ (Glissant 1997: 189, 191). Directed against the
‘requirement for transparency’, which Glissant notices is the basis of
‘“understanding” people and ideas from the perspective of Western thought’,
opacity affirms the right to difference, and thus a right to not being wholly
understood. If Glissant opposes Western universalisation, he is also
consistent in opposing non-western modes of nationalist mono-culturalism.
Thus, ‘the right to opacity […] is not enclosure within an impenetrable
autarchy but subsistence within an irreducible singularity’ (Glissant 1997:
190).
12 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

Figure 2: Fluidity and Inclusion

Hybrid Encounters and Environments in Cienfuegos, Cuba
©Robert Mugerauer & Monika Kaup
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 13
This equation of creolisation with process, inclusion and the
rejection of closure is the core of Glissant’s disagreement not only with the
‘male warrior’ doctrine of Negritude, but also with his students, the
Creolistes Jean Bernabé, Patrick Chamoiseau and Raphael Confiant, so
named for their (in)famous 1989 manifesto, Eloge de la créolité (In Praise of
Creoleness), in which they assert the closure of Creole identity by exclusion:
‘Neither Europeans, nor Africans, nor Asians, we proclaim ourselves
Creoles’ (Bernabé et al. 1989: 13). In Poetics of Relation, published a year
after the Creoliste manifesto, Glissant clarifies his dissent from Creolity,
affirming cross-culturalism as process (not product) and capturing it through
the progressive and plural term, ‘creolisations’. He argues that ‘creolisation,
one of the ways of forming a complex mix —and not merely a linguistic
result— is only exemplified by its processes and certainty, not by the
“contents” on which these operate’ (Glissant 1997: 89).
Glissant calls his non-reductive concept of cultural hybridity
‘relation-identity’, as distinct from the so-called ‘root-identity’. Root-identity
derives from a single place of origin, for example, Africa or Europe. In
contrast, ‘relation-identity’ cannot construct linear, transoceanic passages
between a singular (African) past and a (Caribbean) present and future. The
constitution of creole ‘relation’ works like the marine currents of the
Caribbean Sea, connecting diverse places and people in multiple directions.
(This move is part of the deployment of a new sense of place as ‘always
becoming’ as Deleuze and Guattari would put it, distinct from what can be
seen as a fixed and essential or ‘root’ identity as described in the
phenomenological approach. For the latter, there generally would be
agreement that the Caribbean has a fixed essential identity that may be
understood in terms of oppositions but disagreement about whether it is
‘europeanness’ or ‘blackness’ or some other privileged pole of a binary set
that is the positive term matching up with ‘place’ in the ‘place’-
‘placelessness’ pair.
In Texaco, a historical novel celebrating the creole Caribbean,
Chamoiseau traces the creolisation of Martinique’s black majority
population, spanning two centuries from slavery to the late twentieth century.
Opacity in Texaco is operative as black Martinicans, ex-slaves and
descendants of slaves, are cut off from their African roots. Neither African
nor French, uprooted from their African lineage, black Martinicans had to
embark on a trajectory of relation-identity in a cultural no-man’s land. This
void becomes a fertile interval of creolisation between the French culture of
Martinique’s white settlers and the lost or opaque cultures and languages of
their African ancestors. Creole, the Martinican vernacular, embodies the
complex and makeshift nature of the speakers’ identity. Originated as a
contact language between African slaves and white slave-owners, Creole
does not offer blacks a self-enclosing space of autonomy because the creole
14 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

vernacular is too familiar or ‘transparent’ to Martinique’s white upper classes

to engender black separatism. At the same time, its ‘openness to otherness’ is
an asset, enabling the assertion of lived difference.
Texaco recreates the dialogics of the Creole world through a multi-
layered narrative voice. Following the convention of testimonial narrative,
the story of the shantytown Texaco, as told by its female founder (Marie-
Sophie Laborieux) to ‘the Christ’ (an urban planner), is narrated by two
fictional editors (the Haitian Ti-Cirique and the Martinican Oiseau de Cham,
called ‘The Word Scratcher’). Fictional editors Ti-Cirique and Oiseau de
Cham embody the battle over the hybrid vernacular of Martinique. Ti-
Cirique, humanistic intellectual and advocate of high culture, wants
Caribbean literary French to live up to a universal standard, ‘a French more
French than the French’ (Chamoiseau 1997: 9). Oiseau de Cham, in contrast,
believes in creole as a home-made vernacular for a homemade world. His
doctrine, ‘literature in a place that breathes is to be taken in alive’, affirms a
living language on the borders of standard French, whose ‘excesses should be
preserved in literature. Here creole space and creole language are consistent:
just as the residents of Texaco are squatting on the fringes of oil giant
Texaco’s land and the city, Fort-de-France, so the Creole vernacular is
squatting on the fringes of the French language. Against the view of the
hierarchical powers, the minority of the Word Scratcher, and by extension,
Chamoiseau, view the squatting as positive —as a creole poetics of relation.
This returns us to the idea of place as between versus that of
passage-through by the rest of the world. The most striking description in
Texaco of the shantytown as a border site on the creole fringe of the French
colonial world comes from the urban planner. Converted from his initial
mission of razing the shantytown for urban renewal, the urban planner now
writes as the ‘saviour’ of Texaco, describing the preservation of vernacular
architecture in terms of fluid, de-centred differences:

I understood that Texaco was not what Westerners call a

shantytown, but a mangrove swamp, an urban mangrove swamp.
The swamp seems initially hostile to life. It’s difficult to admit that
this anxiety of roots, of mossy shades, of veiled waters, could be
such a cradle of life for crabs, fish, crayfish, the marine ecosystem.
It seems to belong to neither land nor sea, somewhat like Texaco is
neither City nor country. Yet City draws strength from Texaco’s
urban mangroves, as it does from those of other urban quarters,
exactly like the sea repeoples itself with that vital tongue which ties
it to the mangroves’ chemistry. Swamps need the regular caress of
the waves; to reach its potential and its function as renaissance,
Texaco needs City to caress it; meaning: it needs consideration.
(Chamoiseau 1997: 263)
 Reconfiguring the Caribbean’s Sense of Place 15
Neither land nor sea, neither the Martiniquan capital city nor the
hinterland of historical maroonage, neither French nor African, Texaco yet
needs to contact and be nourished by both dimensions. Texaco incarnates
Glissant’s relation-identity —an intermediate and fertile site. Over the thirty
years during which Texaco has been razed and rebuilt countless times, the
squatter’s collective battle against the city has forged a common creole
identity and memory. But the most climactic feat of creolisation is the
conversion of the ‘Western urban planner’. Whereas formerly he saw
‘shantytowns as a tumour on the urban order, […] [as] a threat’, after his
creolisation, he comes to believe that ‘we must dismiss the West and re-learn
to read: learn to reinvent the city. Here the urban planner must think Creole
before he even thinks’ (Chamoiseau 1997: 269-70).

Figure 3: The Mangrove Manifests Relation-Identity:

A Fertile Site Intermediate between Sea and Land (South Coast of Cuba).
© Robert Mugerauer & Monika Kaup

So, we have in the literature, just as in the physical realm,

environments that are characterised by multiple places and multiple
languages, side by side, with each one generated out of, sustained by and
porous to the others. Here continuing encounter is crucial. Along with global
capitalism’s company towns (and a few remaining plantations), we have the
tourism enclaves that exist as parallel universes to —and co-generators
with— local urban and rural backstages. We have emphasised the Caribbean
16 Monika Kaup and Robert Mugerauer

poetics of resistance and hybridity, which clearly plays out as a poetics of

fluid, ex-centric space in architecture and urban development. Thus we
arrive again at the distinctive character of the Caribbean. The Caribbean
sense of place is not one; the myriad forms, including the ‘colonial’ ones, are
not mere representations, but continuously renewed and fruitful hybrid
productions.
Given the possibility of a fluid sea that resists globalisation insofar
as it is an ex-centric place in itself that allows the passage of the tourist-
others across it, without recourse to opposition or hiding, we have the
emergence of a new type of place, so that the encounters that occur through
tourism in the Caribbean need not be exploitative, though they often are.
They may occur, as Deleuze and Guattari would put it, in the almost
unavoidable stratified systems of the dominant or major culture, architecture
and language (as centred and fixed places in global space); but, they also
involve becoming other —continually generated by differences still
becoming as minor variations, specifically as Creole languages and the
Caribbean’s hybrid built environment. In the Caribbean Sea there are
apparently two worlds, two symbiotic universes: the spaces of globalised,
homogenising international tourism with their fixed sense of place as exotic
paradise and the fluid local places that may host, but not succumb to tourism,
that manage to elude and resist the globalisation whose structures play across
the Caribbean’s fluid surfaces. Thus, in addition to the traditional tropical
paradise, in the Caribbean Sea we find a submarine and eccentric place,
where a new line of force is underway, always becoming minority, always
keeping its differences dynamically alive.
Other documents randomly have
different content
 – No azt megnézd. Ez leányoknak való. Annyi úri asszonyság van
ott olyankor, mint valami komédián.
– Jaj csak már lenne mentül hamarébb. Nem lesz mostanában?
Úgy-e bár azt a generalis úr rendeli el? Ha én generális volnék,
mindennap reggel vesszőztetnék, este muzsikáltatnék.
– Az nagyon jó lenne. Gyere ide hát, majd megsúgom.
– Igazán? kérdé a leány a katona felé fordítva fél képét. De nem
kiált a fülembe?
Mikor azután olyan közel volt a katonához, hogy az a fülébe
súghatott, az egyszerre kegyetlen mérges csókot czuppantott a piros
pofájára.
A leány az ajtóig ugrott ijedtében, de ott megállt, kék kötényével
dörzsölve orczáját.
– Maga ugyan rossz ember, ordináncz bácsi. Aztán még csak azt
sem mondta meg, hogy mikor lesz hát vesszőzés?
– Ne búsulj hugám. Lesz annál is szebb. Főbelövés lesz nem
sokára.
– Főbelövés? No ez derék. Kit lőnek főbe?
– Katonát, hugám.
– Talán épen kelmed lövi meg?
– Az bizony meglehet, hugám.
– Jaj katona bácsi.
A tömpe leányzó el is pusztult abból a szobából, a hol olyan
kegyetlen ember áll, a ki még az eleven embert is meglövi s odakinn
a konyhában azután sokáig eltanakodott a szakácsnéval, hogy
milyen mulatság lehet az, mikor valakit főbe lőnek. Akkor majd korán
fel kell kelni, mert bizonyosan hajnalban történik meg; bár csak el ne
aludnák az időt, bárcsak ki volna már téve a főbelövendő a
siralomházba, vajjon mit véthetett? Hátha meg találnak neki
kegyelmezni? De iszen az nem fog megtörténni, a tábornok nem ad
kegyelmet senkinek; ha tulajdon fia volna, sem kegyelmezne meg
neki, a ki vétett; mert az «vas ember».
A vas ember pedig odabenn ül neje szobájában, egy kis hímzett
kartalan székecskén; átellenben egy magas emelvényes dívánon
neje foglal helyet, egy kis, finom, átlátszó asszonyka, olyan arczczal,
mint az alabastrom, s kezecskékkel, a mikkel egy tíz éves gyermek is
meg volna csalva, ha osztályképen jutott volna neki. Apró, epernyi
szája alig látszik beszédre alkotva lenni, annál többet tudnak beszélni
nagy, sötétkék szemei, mik e pillanatban arról beszélnek, hogy a ki
szeret, az nagyon boldog.
A vas ember ott ül előtte, két könyökét térdeire téve, s két karját
előre tartva. Ezen a két karján van egy tekercs czérna kifeszítve, a
mit a finom asszonyka nagy gyorsasággal gombolyít le onnan.
Csak egy kissé kellene a karjait szétfeszítenie s az egész tekercs
szétszakadna róla, de tud vigyázni, hogy a szál el ne akadjon s
nagyokat kaczag fölötte, ha ügyetlenül hordozta karjait, hanem
azután bocsánatot kér s igéri, hogy jobban fog ügyelni.
– Kedves édes. Van nekem egy régi kardom a franczia háborúból,
nem tudná valami hasznát venni?
Az asszonyka elneveté magát, olyan kedvesen tudott nevetni.
Mintha az üvegharmonika harangjai ütődnének egymáshoz.
– Értem a czélzást. Ha gazdáját tudom gombolyításra használni,
a kardját használhatnám olló gyanánt.
– Igazán mondom.
– Nem használ semmit. Önnek el kell várni, míg a fonal lejár.
– Természetes, azt én igen helyesnek találom. Nem is engedném
másnak. A czérna tartásához nagy lelki erő kell, azt nem minden
ember állja ki; a kinek szédelgős a feje, az megbukik vele. Ez
tudomány. Aztán én meg is esküdtem a pap előtt, hogy «vele tűrök,
vele szenvedek». Ime tanusítom. Ahol ni. A fonal megint bogra
akadt. Már most ha ezt a szobalány tartaná, ön boszankodnék, az én
kedves kis feleségemnek pedig nem szabad boszankodnia. Tudja?
Nem szabad boszankodnia.
Az asszonyka kibontá a bogot, a férj gyöngéden megcsókolá a
közeljutott kezet; az asszonyka úgy tett, mintha észre sem vette
volna, pedig tudta azt igen jól.
– Lássa édes kedves, engemet ön tanított meg arra, hogy én
enmagamat rendkívül derék embernek tartsam. Azelőtt ha mondták,
hogy Vértessy tábornok ilyen meg amolyan ember, én csak
hallgattam magamban: beszéljetek, beszéljetek; én tudom, hogy
Vértessy tábornok olyan félénk, mint egy gyermek; van egy dolog, a
mitől úgy fél, mint akármelyik iskolás gyerek: – a
czérnagombolyítástól. Mikor kis diák voltam, kétszer szöktem el
hazulról emiatt. És lám, az én kis feleségem felvilágosított engem,
hogy Vértessy tábornok ettől sem fél! Tisztelet! Vértessy tábornok
bátor ember.
– Persze, Hercules is a tizenharmadik munkája által lett
leghíresebb, mikor Omphale asszonyságnál tartotta a fonalat karjain.
– Ez volt legnagyobb hőstette. Önök delnők nem képzelik,
mekkora zsarnokságot gyakorolnak a férfi-nemen, mikor e rettenetes
rabszolgaságra kényszerítik. Lánczot viselni tréfaság, de mikor
megkötik az embert szál czérnával, egy vékony fonalkával s azt
modják, hogy azt elszakítani nem szabad: ez kegyetlenség. Miért is
nem találnak fel az angolok valami gépet erre a czélra; törték a
fejöket a gőzhajón, a nő-emancipatión, a négerek felszabadításán,
hanem ettől a bilincstől, ettől!…
– Ügyeljen a czérnámra!
Valóban a veszélyes bilincsek nagy veszélyben forogtak, hogy a
tábornok egy mozdulatával igen apróra fogja őket szakítani.
 – Mindjárt elveszem öntől, ha szépen nem viseli magát. Ki látta
azt: ennyit lamentálni egy kis czérnagombolyítás miatt!
– Oh én nem magamért beszélek. Én szokva vagyok
mindennemű strapácziákhoz. De különösen sajnálom a szegény
ártatlan gyermekeket, a kik e természet elleni járom alatt nyögnek.
Csak vegye fel kedves édes: egy olyan ártatlan nyolcz-kilencz
esztendős fiucska, a kiben még olyan elevenen pezsg a vér, a ki látja
az ablakon besütni a napvilágot, hallja a pajtások lármáját odakinn,
a mint lapdáznak, a ki szeretne maga is futni, hajigálózni és
kurjongatni, szeretne birkózni és bukfenczeket hányni, és azután ott
kell neki állnia a szoba közepén, megkötve egy szál pamuttal és
jártatni a kezeit, mint valami igen együgyű gépnek és egyik lábáról a
másikra állani és várni a véghetetlen czérnának végét. Csodálom,
hogy a fiuk mind buták nem lesznek emiatt. Csodálom, hogy ezt a
tanárok be nem tiltják. Ha énnekem gyermekem volna, annak nem
lenne szabad czérnát tartani. Nem, az én fiam nem fog gombolyító
gép lenni soha…
S úgy látszik, hogy már ez több volt a tréfánál, mert a derék
hadfi egészen elfeledkezék a karjaira bízott tekercsről s gyöngéd
elragadtatással ölelé magához piruló kis nejét.
Az asszonyka türelmesen bontogatá ki a zavarba jött fonal-
tekercs labyrinthjait s azután nagyot sohajtva monda:
– A között még az élet és halál van…
Ők tudják, hogy miről beszélnek.
A félbeszakadt munka ismét újra kezdődött; a vas ember most
már egészen elhallgatott, csak arcza öntudatlan derüjén látszott,
hogy lelkét valami kedves eszme foglalta el, s most mulat legjobban,
észre sem veszi, hogy a fonal lejárt.
Akkor azután azt mondja, hogy:
– Kezdjünk másikat.
 Nagy mulatságát találhatja benne.
Az asszonykának most már gombolyítandó selyme is van. Ez
magasabb jele a gyöngédségnek. A népdal is megbecsüli vele a
szerelem rabját, midőn foglyul selyemszálra köti.
– Hanem kedves édes, mikor én kis gyerek voltam, s aztán
czérnatekercset kellett tartanom, nekem akkor a nénéim meséket
szoktak mondani, azzal kárpótoltak.
– Szivesen.
– Tehát: «hol volt, hol nem volt».
– Volt egyszer egy leány, a ki mindig halni készült.
– Aha! Ez aligha az operenczián túl volt.
– Szüntelen sápadt volt és bóknak vette, ha azt mondták, hogy
olyan fehér, mint a halál.
– Sok nyers kávét és krétát evett bizonyosan.
– Kérem, én mesét akarok mondani, nem emberszólást.
– Hallgatok.
– Néha annyira mentek bizarr eszméi, hogy tánczvigalmakban
fekete szegélyű fehér ruhában jelent meg, fején myrtusz koszorúval,
a hogy a halottakat szokták öltöztetni; melltű gyanánt halálfőt viselt
egy gyöngyszemből faragva, s dicsekedett, hogy keztyűje egy
megholt barátnéja koporsójából való.
– Nem követek el gyöngédtelenséget, ha mosolyogni találok?
– Nagyon kérem, hogy ne tegye azt; igen meg fogná bánni egy
percz mulva.
– Ah, ah. Én ismertem egy embert, a ki abba a hölgybe
szerelmes volt.
 – Annál inkább.
– És azután nagyon kiszeretett belőle.
– Ne siessen ön itéletével.
– Dehogy sietek; négy évig tanulmányoztam ezt a pert.
– Mint alperes?
– Hol felperes, hol alperes. Azt a lánykát nekem kellett volna nőül
vennem. – Oh még akkor ön kicsike volt; ilyen piczi leány, mint az
ujjam, akkor tanult tánczolni; fel sem tünt.
– Ön az esküvő előtti napon hagyta oda ezt a leányt.
– E tettem okait, úgy hiszem, soha sem tudta meg senki.
– Azt mondták, hogy ön megtudta, miszerint Hétfalusy Benő, a
leány atyja, sokkal adós, s azért lépett vissza.
– Én rá hagytam a hírt; Vértessy tábornokra olyan jól illett az a
vád, hogy pénzért akart nősülni.
– Önnek azután nagy ellensége lett a Hétfalusy család.
– Sértettek, de nem sebesítettek.
– Ön megbocsátott nekik érte.
– Nem törődtem velök.
– Mondja, hogy megbocsátott.
– Nem akarok magamnak hízelegni. Elfeledtem őket.
– Már most folytassuk a mesét. Ezt a szegény családot nagyon
súlyos csapások érték ez időkben.
Vértessy arcza nagyon elkomorult.
 – Kedves édes, attól tartok, hogy elszakad karomon ez a fonal,
ha ilyen meséket mond. Ne szóljon nekem Hétfalusyék bajáról. Ha
örömük van, engem nem érdekel; ha bánatuk van, arról se tudjak.
Örökké keresve keresték a fátumot, nem csodálom, ha megtalálták;
de nem akarok róla tudni; arra, hogy balsorsukat szánjam, nem
vagyok elég jó; arra, hogy rajta örüljek, nem vagyok elég rossz. Ne
erről, kedves Kornéliám.
Kornélia letette kezecskéiből a gombolyagot, levette férje karjairól
a tekercset s azután mellé ülve a kis zsámolyra, addig könyörge neki
azokkal a kis kezecskékkel, addig simogatá velök arczát, míg az
ismét felderült s megadta magát, mint a jó gyermek, hogy nem
bánja hát, hallgatja a mesemondást.
– Szegény Eliz, igen boldogtalan volt házas életében.
– Pedig vágyai czélját érte el benne.
– Nem értem. Ön, úgy látszik, mesémből többet tud, mint
magam.
– Én csak a boldogságig tudom. Férje volt ifjukori ideálja.
– Ezen csodálkozom. Valahányszor újabb időkben összejött
velem, mindig tele volt panaszszal, hogy minő szerencsétlen; én azt
hittem, hogy Széphalmihoz csak daczból ment hozzá, midőn ön
elhagyta.
– Megsúgok neked valamit, édes kedves, a mit kívülem csak egy
lélek tud még. Te nem fogsz szólani felőle senkinek, mert jó vagy, az
az egy pedig hallgat, mert fél. Az a halvány delnő, a ki úgy szerette
a halált emlegetni, a ki myrtusz-koszorúval járt a dalidóba, s fehér
ruhát viselt fekete szegélylyel, egy vén asszony házában, egy rossz
faluvégi viskóban szokott találkozni egy ifjuval, a ki nem más, mint
Széphalmi, mostani férje. A dolog oly titokban ment, hogy senki sem
tudott róla semmit. A megbizott vén, nem tudom mi okból, épen
azon a napon, midőn a hétfalvi kastélyban voltam már a menyegzőre
készen, elárulá előttem e titkot. Úgy volt, a hogy mondá; az én
halavány holdsugárom, midőn mindenki aludt a kastélyban,
pórleány-ruhában, fejét virágos kendővel bekötve, egyedül suhan át
a kert ösvényein a faluvégi házhoz, hol a kapuajtóban fiatal
juhásznak öltözve várt reá kedvese. Oh az régi, régi viszony volt. Én
hallottam őket beszélni. Az első düh tanácsadására oda akartam
rohanni és meggyilkolni mind a kettőt; hanem lassankint eszemre
tértem, elgondolva, hogy nem nagyobb gyalázat-e az rám, egy
katonára, hogy egy nő után leskelődtem, mint azon nőre, hogy
engemet megcsalt? Azután mit tehetett arról, ha mást szeretett?
Igaz, hogy akkor nem kellett volna nekem igérnie kezét. Kezet szív
nélkül, – és becsület nélkül… Nem szóltam semmit, senkinek egy
szót sem. Visszamentem a kastélyba, másnap a leány atyja előtt
olyan anyagi követelésekkel léptem fel, miket tudtam, hogy az zavart
pénzviszonyai mellett nem teljesíthet. Ezen összevesztünk. A
házasság elmaradt. A vendégek szélylyel mentek. A világ kaczagott.
Engem kikiáltottak nyerészkedőnek és sokáig olyan hírben álltam,
hogy ha egy tisztességes leányt nőül kérek, koczkáztatom, miszerint
annak rokonai ajtót mutatnak. Az én kedves kis Kornéliám bizony
nagy lélekerőt tanusított, a mikor hozzám mert jőni, a ki arról voltam
híres, hogy a menyasszonyom elől megszököm.
– És önnek emiatt tömérdek üldözést kellett kiállania.
– Igen sokat. A Hétfalusyaknak hatalmas rokonai vannak, a kik
mindent elkövettek, hogy az életet kellemetlenné tegyék rám nézve.
Egy unokaöcscse Benőnek a testőrségtől nyilt utczán megsértett.
Ellenem felsőbb helyekre a leggyűlöletesebb sugdosásokat tették;
intézkedéseimben nyiltan gáncsoskodtak; a megyét összeütközésbe
akarták velem hozni, bevádoltak fent és alant. Én védtem magamat
és hallgattam. Megvívtam, megfeleltem, türtem és el nem árultam
azon hölgy titkát. Tartogasd azt szivedben kedves édesem, a hogy
én tartogattam eddig.
Kornélia megcsókolta férje nyilt, magas homlokát.
– Tehát ez is büntetés volt szegény Elizen, hogy a kiért epedett,
midőn megnyerte, az által lett boldogtalan. Széphalmi csapodár volt.
 – Kedves Kornéliám, a szerelemhez becsülés is kell. Mikor
Széphalmi elvette nejét, már akkor csak a nő kétségbeesése
kényszerítette rá. Sokszor beszélték, hogy Eliz úgy tánczol a
dalidókban, mint a ki el akarja magát ölni, s mikor leghevültebb
állapotban van, jéghideg vizet iszik. Az akkor már nem volt színlés
többé. Minő jelenetek történtek otthon közte és atyja között, azt én
nem fürkésztem, hanem azt jól tudom, hogy a leány egy napon
egyenesen Széphalmi házához ment és valami borzasztó dologgal
fenyegette, azon esetben, ha őt nőül nem veszi. Azt, hogy mivel
fenyegette Eliz egykori kedvesét, én te neked soha meg nem
mondom, mert az a te tiszta szép kedélyedet nagyon feldulná, arra a
te szivedben nincsen eszme; hanem annyi bizonyos, hogy
Széphalminál erősebb ok volt a félelem, mint a szerelem, mely őt
oltárhoz vezette. Hanem én mégis úgy tudom, hogy a házasság nem
maradt áldás nélkül: két gyermekök van.
– Csak volt.
– Ah. Meghaltak?
– Borzasztó sors nehezült az egész családra. A kis leány, atyjának
kedvencze, egyszer minden nyom nélkül eltünt s a másik gyermeket,
midőn anyja betegágyánál virasztott, a villám megütötte anyjával
együtt.
A tábornok megrendült e szóra. A vasember szíve reszketett.
– Boldogságos Isten…
– Az öreg Hétfalusyt félig megütötte a szél, a mint e csapások
érték.
– Nem, nem érdemelt ennyi szenvedést. A sors szigorúbb hozzá,
mint a hogy érdemelte.
– És még ez nem volt elég, te ismerted Hétfalusynak azt a fiát, a
kit katonaságra adott?
– Ismertem. Heves fiu volt. Háborúban talán jó katona lett volna.
 – Ez Lengyelországban összeveszett kapitányával és rajta ment s
pisztolylyal rálőtt.
– Ez nagy baj, igen nagy baj, szólt a tábornok, olyan erősen
összeszorítva ökleit, hogy ha akármi lett volna bennök, csakugyan
összetörött volna.
– E tény után azonban a fiu megszökött.
– Ez még gonoszabb, mormogá a tábornok s még erősebben
szorítá össze azokat a vasöklöket.
– S ha jól tudom, ez már harmadik szökése.
A tábornok homloka izzadni látszott, kezével végig akarta azt
törülni, de nem lehetett, mert öklei nagyon össze voltak szorítva s az
nem jutott eszébe, hogy azokat ki is lehetne nyitni.
– Kérem önt, kedves Kornélia, ha tud ön valamit arról, hogy ez a
fiu hol van, arról nekem ne szóljon semmit. Tudja, hogy ezt nekem
nem szabad hallanom.
– Pedig nagyon hamar meg fogja ön tudni: a szerencsétlen fiu
épen azon a napon, a midőn testvére és annak fia koporsóban
feküdtek, jelent meg az apai háznál.
– Akkor már el van fogva, kiálta sebesen a tábornok.
– Hogyan gondolja ön ezt?
– Mert akkor tulajdon apja szolgáltatta kézhez!
Kornélia bámulva nézett férjére.
– Nemde úgy van, a hogy mondom? szólt ez indulatosan, felállva
helyéről; Hétfalusy kiadta szökevény fiát, erre esküdni merek, mielőtt
valaki tudtomra adná.
Kornélia csüggedten mondá:
– Valóban úgy történt.
 – S hogy tudhatod te ezt elébb, mint nekem jelentve lenne?
– Szolgabiró nagybátyám mondá, ki kocsin jött onnan, míg a
szökevényt gyalog kisérik fel.
– Ide, ide, én hozzám; hörgé nyugtalanul a tábornok és
elsáppadt bele. Nekem fogják átadni. Nekem kell itéletet mondanom
rá!
Úgy félt, úgy irtózott attól a gondolattól.
– Rosszabb mesét nem mondhattál volna nekem, mondá a
tábornok, visszatérve nejéhez s annak szelíd fejecskéjét ölébe véve.
Ez nagyon szomorú mese volt.
– De a vége még hátra van.
– És az a legszomorúbb benne, hogy a vége az én kezemben
van.
– Én azt hiszem, jó helyen van.
– Hogy mondhatod ezt? Nem személyes ellenségem-e az egész
Hétfalusy család? Nem kell-e emlékeznem arra, ha mindent
elfelejtettem is, hogy bántalmaztak téged: maga ez a szeles fiu nyilt
mulatságban megsérte, mint nőmet, és most őt, a család utolsó
ivadékát, a sors úgy veti elém, mint birája elé, a kinek halált kell
mondani rá! Az egész világ azt fogja hinni, hogy örültem a szomorú
alkalomnak, melyben magamért véres, példás boszút állhattam
ellenségemen. Hogy bitófára itéltem ellenségem fiát, mert
szomjaztam vérét! S te azt mondod, hogy ez jól történt így.
– Azt mondom. Én meg vagyok abban nyugodva, hogy te meg
fogod őt menteni.
– Én? kérdé a tábornok, s bámulva nyitá fel nagy kerek szemeit.
Az lehetetlen.
– Én azt hiszem, hogy Vértessy tábornok, a szigorú, hajthatlan
férfi, a kit tisztelői és haragosai vas-embernek hínak, a ki soha
semmi rokonáért, barátjáért a fegyelem szabályaiban kedvezést nem
tanusított, mindent el fog követni, hogy egyszer életében kivételt
tegyen a törvény szigora alól, hogy megmentse ellensége fiát. Oh én
ismerem ezt az urat jól: bizonyosan tudom, hogy így fog cselekedni.
– Az lehetetlen, az lehetetlen. Ha testvérem volna, sem
menthetném meg ily balhelyzetben.
– Testvéredet nem; de ezt igen. Én meg vagyok abban nyugodva,
hogy te addig meg nem nyugszol, a míg a szerencsétlen ifju
megmentésére valami módot ki nem gondolsz.
És a midőn ezt mondta, olyan jól tudott olvasni annak a vas-
embernek a szíve, lelke mélyében.
A tábornok nyugtalan kedélylyel hagyta el neje szobáját; de a
mint kilépett abból, már akkor arcza e nyugtalanságról nem
tanúskodott.
Az ordonnance ott állt az előszobában akkor is és sarkon fordulva
tábornoka felé, átnyújtá neki a keblébe dugott pecsétes levelet.
Az volt a hivatalos tudósítás a szökevény elfogatásáról.
A tábornok inte a katonának, hogy elmehet.
Azután szobájába vonult, kiteríté maga elé az iratot, hozzá ült,
fejét két tenyerébe hajtá, és sokáig, sokáig küzdött nehéz,
lélekfárasztó gondolataival.
 VIII. A LENGYEL NŐ.
– Ki van itthon? kérdé egy erős csengő hang a hóhér lakában,
mialatt egy szürke köpenyegbe burkolt alak lépett be a konyhaajtón.
A tűzhely mellett Iván és az asszony ültek, odakünn sötét
zivataros éjszaka volt; az idő tíz óra körül és minden ajtó zárva.
A férfi és a nő csak bámult az idegenre és nem felelt neki.
– Ki van ide haza? kérdé ez újra, közelebb lépve a tűzhöz,
melynek lobogó fényénél szép ifju, síma arcza látható lőn, élesen
rajzolt szemöldeivel, vékony, de erőteljes ajkaival s bátor
sasszemeivel, a mik merészen tekintének az emberek arczaiba.
A nő és a férfi egymás szemeibe néztek. Iván szinte kérdezé
felelet helyett:
– De hogy jöhet ide be valaki?
– A keritésen szöktem be; válaszolt az idegen, minden kinálás
nélkül leülve a tűzhely mellé. Zárva volt az ajtó. Kétszer, háromszor
zörgettem, nem nyitotta ki senki; kénytelen voltam vele.
– Hát a kutyák? kérdé hüledezve a házi nő.
– Nem bántottak. Én tudok az ebekkel beszélni. Van valami
módom. Gonosz zivataros idő van, az eső csak úgy szakad. Nem
várhattam odakünn sokáig.
– De hallja, mit akar itt? Kérdé a nő csaknem félelmesen tekintve
az idegen arczába.
 – Azt majd megmondom kedvesem. Előbb adjon egy pohár vizet;
erősen szomjazom.
A nő önkénytelenül kényszerítve érzé magát engedelmeskedni.
– Te meg barátom, terítsd le addig a köpenyemet ide a tűzhely
mellé; szólt Ivánhoz fordulva s leteríté nyakából a bő köpenyt,
melyről csurgott a víz.
A nő és a férfi mintegy megigézve teljesíté parancsait.
Köpenyét letéve, karcsú, idomzatos termetet láttatott az idegen,
mely férfinak nagyon is gyöngédnek tetszett, kezei finomak és
fehéreknek látszottak, a mint a nyújtott poharat elvette.
– Ez valami asszony, suttogá a hóhér neje Ivánnak, gyanusan
összevont sűrű szemöldei alól kémlelve az ismeretlent.
Azután közelebb lépett hozzá s jól szemei közé nézve, mondá
neki:
– Galambom. Maga úgy látszik, hogy nem jó járatban van. Kit
keres?
– A gazdát, felelt az idegen röviden, s a tűzhelyre könyökölt.
– Maga tán azt gondolja, hogy ez a ház vendégfogadó, hogy úgy
a város végére esik.
– Nem gondolom, szép asszony. Itt Zudár gazda lakik, a
becsületes révészmester.
– Révészmester?
– No igen; a ki ebből a világból a másikba átszállítja az
embereket.
– Honnan ismeri a gazdát?
– Én soha sem láttam, hanem azért jól ismerem. Most nem lehet
vele beszélni ugy-e bár, mert már imádkozni ment s rendesen egy
óráig szokott imádkozni, s azalatt nem jó őt háborgatni. Önök is
azért húzódtak ki ide a konyhába. Ön szép asszony Zudár uram
felesége, nemde, s ez a fiatal ember itt a legénye. Én jól ismerem
önöket is.
– De hát maga kicsoda? Szóljon. Mit akar? kérdé a nő szorongva.
– Azt majd megmondom a gazdának odabenn, ha elvégezte
ájtatoskodását. Mielőtt lefeküdnék, ki szokta sütni puskáit; akkor
majd bemegyek hozzá. Üljön le addig mellém. Nézze, elférünk ketten
is a lóczán, beszélgessünk egyről, másról.
Az idegen leemelte kerek kucsmáját fejéről, s hosszú fekete haja
tömött fürtökben göndörült alá vállaira.
– Ez nő. Ez nő. Suttogá egymásnak Iván és a házi asszony.
Az utóbbi most már merészebben közelíte a rejtélyes alakhoz, s
helyet foglalva mellette, elkezde vele beszédbe elegyedni.
– Mi dolga lehet magának az én urammal?
– Ej, kedves jó asszony. Maga is mindig mást kérdezget, mint a
mit kellene. A helyett, hogy azt kérdezné tőlem, nem vagyok-e éhes,
vacsoráltam-e már? Pedig erre igen hamar tudnék felelni.
A nő fölkelt nagy duzzogva s valami fali szekrényből egy tál
lepényt vett elő, s az idegen elé hozta.
– Ha nem utál a bakó tányéráról enni, uram!
– Ejh, hagyja azt. Hátha én magam is az vagyok.
– Ah, persze. Ezekkel a fehér, puha kezecskékkel; nem is olyanok,
mintha férfi kezei volnának.
De a mint e szavakat kimondta, egyszerre el is sikoltotta magát a
némber, mert a tapogatott fehér kacsók egyike úgy megszorítá
vastag, húsos tenyerét, hogy csontjai is ropogtak bele.
 – Ez férfi, hogy a sátán vigye el, férfi; suttogá a nő sziszegve
Ivánnak. Olyan a keze, mint a vasfogó.
Az ismeretlennek igen jó étvágya volt. Hagyott is, nem is a tányér
fenekén valamit.
– Ejnye, pedig ezt tán nem is kellett volna mind elfogyasztanom.
Alkalmasint valaki számára volt eltéve, a ki még nincsen itthon.
– Oh csak tessék. Mi már mind vacsoráltunk.
– Tehát senki sem hiányzik a családból? Vannak önnek
gyermekei?
– Igen, felelt a nő, de szemeit nem merte az idegenre emelni.
Van egy leányom.
– Tulajdon, saját gyermeke?
A nő tétovázva kétszer is az idegenre tekintett, a szó kétszer is
megakadt a torkán:
– Igen, saját gyermekem.
– Hát több legénye nincs Zudár gazdának, csak ez az egy?
– Nincs. Minek volna?
– Hogy győzheti másod magával a mesterségét? Hisz az annyi
mindenféle dolgot ad.
– Lelkem! ne beszéljen a hóhér mesterségéről.
– Miért nem? Üzlet az is, mint a többi. Csak olyan tisztességes,
mint akármi más. Sőt annál jövedelmesebb, minthogy olyan kevés
ember adja rá magát. Látja, én nekem épen ez a szenvedélyem. Én
most csak azért jöttem, hogy ha megegyezhetem Zudár gazdával,
megveszem tőle mesterségét, a mit ön úgy utál, szép asszony.
A hóhér neje bámulva és kétkedve nézett a beszélőre s
gyanakodva hebegé:
 – De ilyen fiatal ember létére?
– Oh, galambom, ne gondolja ám, hogy én minden a
mesterséggel járó alkalmatlanságban gyönyörűségemet akarom
találni; én tartani fogok több segédet, magam benn a városban
lakom, ott ülök az első vendéglőkben, kávéházakban; ki mondja
rólam, hogy mi vagyok? Gavallér vagyok. Csak akkor lépek
hivatalomba, ha megillető végrehajtás vár reám: valami csinos
nyakazás s más efféle. Oh én nagyon vígan fogok élni mellette.
Zudárné úgy érzé, hogy testét borzongatja valami. Nem mert az
idegenre többet pillantani.
– Hanem ez baj, hogy nincs több most egy legényöknél. Úgy
látszik, önök nagyon elhanyagolták ez üzletet. Azt restelem. Nehéz
lesz újra jó lábra állítani. Nem is volt több ez egynél?
– Volt. Igen. Rebegé önkénytelen kényszerítve Zudárné.
– Hát azt miért eresztették el? kérdé az ismeretlen, mialatt a
tűzből egy parazsat rántott ki finom mutatóujjával, azt puha
tenyerébe felkapta, megrázogatta, s kisded pipájába helyezé.
A nő és Iván egymás szeme közé néztek, mintha
összeszólalkoznának adandó feleletért, azután a nő sebesen
válaszolt:
– Elment maga jó szántából, megutálta a szép mesterséget.
– Hm. Bohó ember lehetett. Hát azután jobb dolga van most?
– Azt nem tudom, felelt durczásan a némber, én csak nem
járhatok valamennyi elment legényem után, hogy mi lett belőle?
Megunta s mást kezdett.
– Önnek tökéletesen igaza van, szép asszony. Nem minden
ember való erre a mesterségre. Kell már arra valami hajlamnak lenni
az emberben. Én például soha sem fogadnék meg olyan embert, a ki
valami börtönben nem ült még, a ki úgy öt-hat évet két-három izben
ki nem töltött a hüvösben; mert a többi mind visszakivánkozik a szép
társaságokba, mindjárt a városban akar lakni. Mindjárt azon
sóhajtozik, hogy ő érte kár, hogy ő nagyon jó ehhez az állapothoz.
Az ilyen embereket nem szeretem.
– A ki erre a mesterségre való, az már korán kimutatja a foga
fehérit; azok a gyerekek, a kik a verebek szemeit kiszúrják, a kik a
denevéreket szétfeszítik, a kik a kis kutyákat szeretik nyíllal
lövöldözni, azokból lehetne jó legényeket nevelni nekünk.
– Az való igaz.
– Hallja, maga valami hóhér fia lehet, hogy úgy ismeri az
állapotokat.
– Eltalálta, bizony az vagyok; az apám is az volt, az öreg apám is;
firól-fira szállt nálunk a mesterség.
– Hová való?
– Lengyelországba, Rochowban lakik az apám. Ugy-e venni észre
beszédemen, hogy lengyel vagyok?
– De az arczán is.
– Megosztoztunk a bátyámmal; ő a rochowi mesterséget kapta,
engem pedig készpénzzel kifizetett, hogy keressek magamnak
másutt állomást. Én azt hallottam, hogy a hétfalusi gyepmester már
megunta a hivatalát; öreg ember ugy-e bár? No no, maga bohó
menyecske, azért ne fortyanjon fel. Elég öreg embernek van szép
fiatal felesége. Aztán nem baj az. Csak azért kérdeztem, hogy öreg
ember-e? mert akkor valószinűbb, hogy inkább kiván nyugalomra
térni.
– Biz ifj’úr, annyira utálja az a mesterségét, mint a hogy csak
valaki méltán utálhatja azt.
– Pedig az nagyon mulatságos. Én sokszor bementem
Lembergbe, gavallérosan felöltözve, melltűvel nyakkendőmben,
arany óralánczczal, kis halhéj pálczikával a kezemben,
elbolondítottam két-három asszonyt, bevezettettem magamat a
legfényesebb társaságokba; s az volt azután a mulatság, mikor
megtudták, hogy ki vagyok? Hahaha! Mint sápadtak el az emberek,
hogy álltak hajok szálai az ég felé.
– Nem ugratták meg azután?
– De biz egyszer egy fiatal kadét párbajra is kihívott. Magasabb
rangú tisztnek nem illett ilyen emberrel megvívni, azok legfeljebb
kiugrattak az ablakon. Ez egy magyar fiu volt, a kinek meg is
igértem, hogy megjelenek a kitüzött helyen. De biz az várhatott rám
sokáig. Szeretek vért bocsátani, de csak úgy, ha engem nem
bánthatnak.
Mind a hárman kaczagtak ez ötleten.
– De hallják csak, még folytatása is van ennek a mesének. Az én
apámnak az a jó szokása volt, hogy senkit sem szeretett úgy
legényül fogadni, mint szökött katonát. Tudta, hogy az ilyen fajta
ember nem kivánkozik a világba. Hát egyszer ki toppan be hozzá,
este későn, sárosan, rongyosan? Az én hadapródom, a ki velem
párbajt akart vívni. A szeretője miatt rálőtt a kapitányára s e miatt
szökni kellett szegénynek.
A nő és Iván önkénytelen rezzenéssel néztek egymás szeme
közé.
– Képzelhetik, hogy kaczagtam szegény fiun, a hogy
megismerém. Valahányszor elém került azután, mindig azt kérdezém
tőle: «no hát vívunk-e párbajt?» Nem is állhatta sokáig a vexát,
megszökött harmadnapra, s nem tudom, hová lett szegény?
Bizonyosan főbelőtték azóta.
– Ha még nem tették is, de aligha van messze tőle, szólt Iván.
– Sz-sz-sz! sziszegett a némber feddő figyelmeztetéssel.
Az ismeretlen nem látszott ezt észrevenni.
É
 E perczben hangzottak a bakó ablakából a lövések. Éjszakára
mindig ki szokta lőni fegyvereit, hogy azokat újra megtöltse. Attól
tart, hogy nappal valaki hozzájok férhetett s vagy a golyókat szedte
ki, vagy a lőport nedvesítette meg. Nem érzi magát biztosságban
saját házánál, s szobája ajtaját be szokta zárni, mielőtt lefekszik.
– No most beszélhet vele, ha akar, mondá a némber. Majd
mindjárt kijön a leánya, szokás szerint vizet visz be neki éjszakára,
attól beizenhet, hogy itt van, és szólni akar vele.
Nemsokára nyilt az ajtó, egyik kezében égő mécsessel, másikban
üveg-korsóval kilépett rajta a holdfehér leányka; olyan csendesen,
mintha félne zajt költeni; szép szőke fürtei le voltak már bontva
éjszakára s szabadon tévedeztek sima hóvállain, apró, mezítelen
lábacskái csak csókolni látszottak a földet, nem rajta járni.
Az ismeretlen bámuló gyönyörrel nézte a szende gyermeket, ki őt
nem látszott észrevenni a félhomályban, midőn mellette elsuhant, a
tornáczon keresztül sietve a kútra.
– Ez a kegyed tulajdon gyermeke, szép asszony? kérdé az
ismeretlen, bátor sasszemeit a nő szemeibe villantva.
– Igen, tulajdon gyermekem.
– Milyen szőke és milyen halavány.
A némber kaczagott.
– Én pedig milyen barna és milyen piros vagyok.
És azután újra kaczagott.
Az ismeretlen arcza mélyen elpirult. Esküdni lehet rá, hogy nő! Ez
a szemérem pírja az arczon.
Nehány percz mulva visszatért a gyermek, a telt korsóval
kezében.
 – Kedves leánykám, szólítá meg őt az idegen, nyájas szeretetteli
hangon.
A gyermek összerezzent.
– No! mit ijedezel? förmedt rá a némber. Nem hallod, hogy ez az
úr beszélni akar veled? Jól félj, leharapja az orrodat.
Azzal durván megkapta a gyermek kezét s oda rántá őt az
idegenhez.
Az gyöngéden megsimogatta a leányka fejecskéjét.
– Ne félj tőlem kis leánykám, semmit se félj. Hogy hívnak?
A némber felelt:
– Böske.
– Ah; minek Böske? Ilyen durva nevet választani ilyen gyöngéd
gyermekhez. Elizke, én úgy foglak hívni, hogy Elizke. Egy névből van
mind a kettő.
– No no, csak bolondítsa az úr is, nem eleget bolondítja már az
apja? Paraszt ember leányát Erzsunak hívják, meg Böskének; úri
kisasszonyok neve Eliz, Lizinka. No erre ne hallgass te! Hanem eredj
be és mondd meg az apádnak, hogy egy úr van itt Lengyelországból,
a ki mindjárt akar vele beszélni, hát addig le ne feküdjék.
A gyermek félve csúszott ki az idegen kezéből, ki alig akarta
elereszteni apró kezecskéit és sietett apja szobájába.
Az idegen rendbeszedte öltözetét, haját két felől lesimítá
halántékaira, miáltal arcza szelid, nyájas küllemet vőn fel, s halkan
bekoczogtatott az ajtón.
– Szabad; hangzék belülről a mély, melancholikus hang.
Az ifju ismeretlen benyitott s gondosan becsukta maga után az
ajtót.
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