The Veneer of Modernity : Tourism and Cultural Transformation on Isla Margarita, Venezuela
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THE VENEER OF MODERNITY: TOURISM AND CULTURAL TRANSFORMATION ON ISLA MARGARITA, VENEZUELA By KATHI R. KITNER A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 1996 I would like to dedicate this study to working, single mothers, wherever they may be. And, as promised, to the Virgen del Valle. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I suppose that every researcher, when writing up their results of months or years of study, is at one time beset by regrets of what they did not do. They did not get that one interview, or perhaps did not have time to peruse all the archives in whatever the church. And like a thorn embedded in your flesh, this nagging annoyance of what could have been and what could still be never seems to diminish. But in order to present the data, one must eventually come to grips with the inadequacies and put on the face of an optimist and cheerfully say, "Well, at least there is always more work to be done, more questions to be answered!" This is the feeling I have had ever since I left Isla Margarita in the late summer of 1994. Even staying in contact with Venezuelan friends familiar with my research can be no substitute for learning of events on the island firsthand. Unfortunately, one person cannot physically live in two places at one time. And so there must be, even temporarily, an end to the research and a time to make the best of what you have and begin to write. There are many, many people who helped me bring this dissertation from its reluctant beginning to its final stage. But there are some who deserve special mention and warm, sincere thanks. They are: The warm and giving people of Isla Margarita, but especially Omar Salazar, Chico Salazar, Lidia and Chuchu Figueroa, Senora Hilaria, La Negra, and my compadres, Iraima and Cheo Andrade; in Paul Doughty, who has stuck by me for over a decade, and believed I could do all this. He was right; Josmir Fernandez, who, in her wisdom of a seventeen year old woman, told me, "Mejor andar sola que mal acompanada." If not for that, this dissertation may never have been finished; Ann Marked, my sister, who lent emotional, financial and intellectual support when I was in desperate need of each, and my brother Jon Kitner, who helped my get back on my feet; My parents, Joyce and Harold Kitner, to whom I will never be able to adequately thank for everything they have done; And to Gabriela del Valle Salazar Kitner, my daughter, a Margaritena, who has helped me keep life in perspective throughout this whole ordeal. I would also like to thank my co-workers in the Law School at the University of Florida, especially Sherry, Ellen, Susan, and my boss, Gail. A very special abrazo goes to Wendy Cousino, who was literally a savior at crucial times. My thanks are also due to Phoebe Conta, who made my return to Gainesville more pleasurable than painful; to Tim Aydt and the University of Florida Football Team (1989-1996), to Denzil Weitz, and to La Red de Atarraya and Los Recontracojidos, especially Luis, David, and Nesto, for all their moral support during some difficult times. I would also like to acknowledge the financial support in the form of a grant from the Tinker Foundation and the Center for Latin American Studies to carry out preliminary doctoral research in Venezuela in 1989. Fieldwork was made possible in the form of a Fulbright doctoral dissertation research grant from the Institute for International Education. Institutional affiliation was given by Dra. Maria Matilde Suarez at the Instituto Venezolano de Investigaciones Cientificas in Caracas, and by the Instituto de Antropologia, at IV La Fundacion La Salle through Dr. Werner Wilbert. Logistical support was offered innumerable times by the wonderful and competent staff of La Fundacion La Salle, Punta de Piedras, and I will always be indebted to them. v PREFACE I sat on the back stoop bathed in the softer afternoon sun of the island. Lazily I gazed upon Francisca's conuco of bananas, papaya, coconuts, and the cautious and stupid movements of the chickens pecking for morsels in the dry earth. There was the concrete washstand that the family hardly ever used now that they had a washing machine. Next to it was the wooden, roughly hewn table where Victor Luis, Toyota and Patricia cleaned fish or chopped up fresh island goat, and closer by, an old metate lay abandoned. A few plastic chairs and a table splayed themselves out after being used for one of Victor Luis' regular Sunday scotch-drinking get-togethers (Chivas Regal preferred) after the cockfights. My view lengthened, and the green grey of cacti on the mountains of El Copey fuzzed the horizon, meeting the brilliant blue of the Caribbean sky. Scanning those mountains I thought of the places in front of and beyond them: Punta de Piedras, San Juan, El Valle, Juan Griego, Manzanillo, Paraguachi and Porlamar. Was Chico Salazar walking those hills, combing the beaches, playing truco in the shade, beguiling a new lover, or dreaming up a new business venture? Or was he just cold in the ground over in the cemetery of Las Hernandez? Where was Chico Salazar? Chico's funeral had taken place yesterday afternoon. Still I could feel the intense heat generated from more than one hundred humans crowding the room that afternoon, pushing politely, determined to catch a last glimpse of the body vi before it was born away. Old women beat the coffin's glass covering, imploring the dead man to rise, questioning him why he left them, loudly wailing of his goodness, crying for his salvation. Young children peeked into the wooden sepulcher, silent and wide-eyed. Men, red-eyed yet stoic, helped the bereft women outside to the fresh air. The physicalness of the event could not be avoided; hugs and pats on the back or arm were constant, and the surge of mourners left no one untouched, their sweat and tears annointing one and all. Outside the widow and her daughter sat in the rented white plastic chairs brought from the Virgen del Valle funeral home. The widow appeared emotionally exhausted, dry, and had no more tears for this last moment. Her daughter wailed and writhed in her seat, imploring "Why? Why? My father, my father! Why have you left us, my father?" Her daughters tried to console her, to restrain her heaving body, but the strength of her grief was stronger than their love or fear. Chico's coffin was lifted onto the shoulders of six men and borne out of the house and dowm the "calle principal" to the chapel in Las Hernandez. The mourners followed in cars and on foot, chatting softly among themselves as they accompanied Chico Salazar on his last earthly journey. Assembling in the modern chapel, the closest family members filled the first rows while the coffin rested in the center aisle. I remembered how Chico many times swore to me that when he died, he never wanted to pass through the church, any church. Well Chico, they beat you at your own game this time. The young priest began to pray, and I remembered how he too could expertly toss down whiskey and talk of the women he'd known from Porlamar's discotheques. The sermon in the chapel would be the first, and perhaps last time many gathered here would ever see the man in his formal role as shepherd of District Tubores' souls. vn Lifted again onto the shoulders of men who had been closest to him, Chico Salazar was carried through Las Hernandez to the small walled cemetery at it's outskirts. The burial ground was a large plot of dried earth, empty except for about 25 tombs weighing down its northeast corner. Although late in the afternoon and in December, the sun drenched the the mourners in sweat. Late in the night before and in the early morning, workers from the family’s business had prepared the burial site, digging the deep hole, pouring the cement platform and readying the slabs that would cover the coffin. The crowd now surged again up to the tomb, jostling gently their neighbors so they could be afforded a good view of the last ceremony. After all, this part of the funeral would be special, for Chico was a Mason, and the local brotherhood would perform his very last rites. Seven men in dark suits and red waist-sashes encircled the hole in which the coffin had been placed. One, older than most of the others, stood at the head of the circle and said a brief eulogy. Then with great secrecy, and with all straining to hear and see, the older man leaned to the man on his right and whispered something in his ear. This man then whispered the words to his right, and so on, until the circle had been completed. Then all the Masons joined hands, lifted them high overhead, and shouted "Paz, salud, union !" (peace, health, union). The Masons somberly shuffled away, and now people began to file by the grave to toss in a flower or two, or to just say goodbye to a man so well-known to so many Margaritenos. Within a matter of minutes the cemetery was empty again. Only the workers who laid the two layers of slabs upon the coffin, sealing the tomb forever with cement, remained.