global culture chapter analysis

Chapter Title: Aluminium: Globalizing Caribbean Mobilities, Caribbeanizing Global Mobilities

Chapter Author(s): Mimi Sheller Book Title: Caribbean Globalizations, 1492 to the Present Day

Book Editor(s): Eva Sansavior and Richard Scholar

Published by: Liverpool University Press

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1g0b8p8.13

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The Caribbean is a region formed out of multiple intersecting and contested mobilities. On the human side this encompasses the movements of indigenous settlers of the premodern era, colonists and buccaneers of the early-modern era, those who made the middle passage into slavery, naval flotillas and privateers, indentured labourers and Maroons, and eventually tourists and diasporic migrants. On the non-human side it includes invasive plants and animals, viral and bacterial diseases, plantation commodity crops, ships and aeroplanes, maps and travel narratives, newspapers and archives, music and dances, etc. These Caribbean mobilities were central to the initial theorizations of mobile diasporas and transnationality (Gilroy, 1993; Basch, et al., 1994; Clifford, 1997); debates concerning creolization (Benítez Rojo, 1996; Glissant, 1989; 1997; Shepherd and Richards, 2002); as well as empirical studies of phenomenon such as ‘transnational families’ (Bauer and Thompson, 2006) and ‘long-distance nationalism’ (Schiller and Fouran, 2001). Thus Caribbean theorists and the field of Caribbean studies have been founda- tional to thinking about globalization as a situated process unfolding over a long period of time, generative of complex local negotiations.

Today, furthermore, there is also an emerging approach to critical mobilities research (Sheller and Urry, 2006; Urry, 2007; Sheller, 2011), which I want to suggest can help us to envision an even wider and more dynamic transnational (and transhuman) Caribbean studies. New approaches to global mobilities loosely allied under the rubric of the ‘new mobilities paradigm’ or ‘critical mobilities studies’ (Adey, 2010a; 2010b; Cresswell, 2006) combine analysis of elements such as urban form, migration, transportation, communication infrastructure,

8

Aluminium: Globalizing Caribbean Mobilities, Caribbeanizing Global Mobilities

Mimi Sheller

Aluminium

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Caribbean Globalizations190

mobile technology, imaginative travel, financial flows, and tourism, in order better to highlight the relation between local and global ‘power- geometries’ (Massey, 1993), especially in regions like the Caribbean. By Caribbeanizing our approach to global mobilities, and globalizing our approach to Caribbean mobilities, I aim to generate alternative ways of thinking about and empirically researching globalization historically and today.

A good way to think about Caribbean mobilities is in terms of ‘tidalectics’ as described by Elizabeth DeLoughrey (2007) in her interpre- tation of the concept first developed by Caribbean poet and theorist Kamau Brathwaite. In her book Routes and Roots, DeLoughrey (2007: 51) points out that ‘[w]hile western scholars are increasingly turning to the Atlantic as a paradigm of transnational crossings and flows, the conceptual implications of this oceanic model have been deeply explored in the Caribbean, where tidalectics reconceptualizes diaspora historiography’. She points towards the Caribbean antecedents of recent theoretical projects, which reveal the transoceanic spaces of African, Asian, European, and indigenous island crossing. ‘This dynamic model’, with its emphasis on movements and oceanic connections, she argues, ‘is an important counter-narrative to discourses of filial rootedness and narrow visions of ethnic nationalism’. Oceanic tidalectics has thus often served as a model or metaphor for the mobilities of Caribbean culture.

As historian Dan Rodgers notes in his introduction to Cultures in Motion, ‘contemporary anthropology has spawned an uprooted vocabulary of diasporas, transculturations, entanglements, and zones of cultural friction’ (Rodgers, 2014: 2; e.g., Clifford, 1997). Caribbean anthropology in particular played a crucial part in putting cultures in motion. ‘In contemporary historical writing, older implicit historical geographies are increasingly being challenged by models of worlds in motion’, argues Rodgers, because ‘“transnational” is [now] an agenda and a buzzword. Borderlands studies, diaspora studies, Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Ocean studies, studies of cultural transfer, and studies of interwoven histories have loosened many of the assumptions of stable, place-grounded tradition or localized social character that were common not long ago’ (see, e.g., Gupta and Ferguson, 1992; Hannerz, 1996; Kearney, 1995).

Globalization is now theorized as an uneven process, one that has different tempos and rhythms in different regions, and affects variously groups differently, while putting into play objects, images, and media that circulate around the world. Anthropologists have deeply explored the

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disjunctures, divergences, and frictions produced across various ‘scapes’, as Arjun Appadurai (1996) influentially theorized global mobilities, and the ways in which people also dwell in mobility, putting down roots along their routes. This sensitivity to power differences and located experiences of globalization grows out of an earlier wave of anthropo- logical studies of migration, diasporas, and transnational citizenship in the 1990s (e.g., Basch, et al., 1994; Clifford, 1997; Ong, 1998). It also draws on postcolonial feminist critiques of colonial masculine mobilities on the one hand (Kaplan, 1996; Pratt, 1992) and of the bounded and static categories of race, nation, ethnicity, community, and state on the other (e.g., Kaplan and Grewal, 1994; Ifekwunigwe, 1999).

In my own work, for example, I consider how the modern Caribbean region was initially formed out of the global mobilities of the colonial era, including the flows of plants, people, ships, foodstuffs, technologies, travel narratives, visual images, and venture capital (Sheller, 2003a), creating a transatlantic world. I have further analysed how the Caribbean region today is enmeshed in the multiple intersecting global mobilities and immobilities generated by shipping routes, airline networks, communications infrastructures, tourism, migration, offshore financial flows, and diasporic cultures on the move (Sheller, 2004; 2009b; 2010; 2012b). In relation to tourism and offshoring, I argue that neo-liberalizing processes are rescaling Caribbean islands as sites for transnational infrastructures of metropolitan mobility and capital flow, while excluding local populations (and even governments) from control over and access to their own territories (Sheller, 2009a). My recent work adds a new historical dimension to this understanding of transatlantic and global mobilities by tracking a single material—aluminium— through its production, circulation, representation and consumption (Sheller, 2014).

The idea of ‘following the thing’ has been used by geographers, complementing a recent anthropological emphasis on circulation, to trace how things that travel also connect and constitute transnational networks—especially edible crops like sugar (Mintz, 1996), papaya (Cook, et al., 2004), bananas (Trouillot, 1988; Sheller, 2013), or other foods like cod (Kurlansky, 1998), each of which was crucial to the Caribbean region. Tracing commodity chains such as these can help reveal connections between places that are not only economic, but also visceral, affective, and materialized in everyday life; the global is always with us, not far away. In what follows, I offer a brief introduction to the global histories of bauxite mining and aluminium production, showing

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how the Caribbean played a central role in producing and contesting contemporary global modernities. My aim is to reconnect Caribbean globalizations to ongoing processes that continue to shape the world today through globally produced and circulating material cultures, and to remind us of the political struggles that have taken place in the Caribbean in the face of environmental injustice and human rights violations associated with global industrial modernization.

The tidalectics of aluminium

Aluminium, which is made from bauxite ore, one of the most abundant minerals on earth, and the most commonly occurring metal, but it is economically recoverable only in limited forms and limited locations. One of those locations is the Caribbean, with a particularly prominent history of mining bauxite and refining alumina in Jamaica, Guyana, and Suriname, plus some production in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Just as anthropologist Sidney Mintz argued in Sweetness and Power (1986) that the modern Atlantic world was built upon sugar consumption in the age of slavery, we could say that aluminium offers a successor to that story: a late (and light) modernity built upon the production and consumption of aluminium and all that it enabled, including speed and mobility itself. In both cases, the Caribbean region plays an important yet overlooked part in producing and contesting this global world economy. The transatlantic circulations of the sugar plantation and associated slavery system created certain constellations of mobility (of ships, capital, the commodity itself, goods to support the plantations, anti-slavery texts, and runaways) and immobility (of the enslaved and indentured, plantation land and sunk capital, forts to keep colonial control of islands, and racial ideologies). These were eventually overthrown by revolution or gradually superceded by other mobility regimes, such as the coffee plantation system or the international banana trade, and later the circulations of tourism, or offshore banking, or free trade zones.

One could say that the transnational study of sugar circuits in the age of slavery produces one mapping of the Caribbean and Atlantic worlds (emphasizing the French Antilles, Haiti, Jamaica, Cuba, Brazil, and the triangular trade with North America, Europe, and of course certain parts of Africa, along with the international anti-slavery movement and the various sites of rebellion and revolution), while a transnational study of banana growing and the global banana trade would include

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different nodes and networks (including, for example, Jamaica, Saint Lucia, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Central America, the Canary Islands, the UK supermarkets, the World Trade Organization). The transnational study of bauxite mining and aluminium takes us through different networks connecting the USA with Suriname, Guyana, Haiti, and Jamaica, and carries us right into the present where we would have to follow those networks to Brazil and Guinea, Australia and India. And another map would emerge if we were to study the circuits of global finance and offshore banking, taking us to nodes such as Antigua, the Cayman Islands, or the Turks and Caicos. The complex geographies of the Caribbean are not only politically fragmented, but are also fragments caught in and contesting different global circuits of power, each with different actors, events, and turning points.

In the larger project, Aluminum Dreams (which I can only partially present here), I make the case that aluminium (first electrochemically produced in large quantities in 1886) transformed vehicles and the infrastructures that support the movement of people and goods, whether cars and trains, tankers and trucks, shipping and freight movement, aeroplanes and airports, and eventually space ships, rockets, and satellite communications systems. The industry’s design and publicity departments also played a crucial part in circulating images and representations of mobility, instigating a wider culture of speed and positive valuation of mobility. However, the aluminium industry also played a crucial part in the control, regulation, and locking in of certain kinds of immobilities, demobilizations, or unequal mobilities of the modern world. Aluminium has been dubbed ‘packaged electricity’ or ‘solidified electricity’ because smelting demands so much power, but it might equally be called solidified power because it tends towards such an uncompetitive industrial structure. Through the use of patents, cartels, international trade regimes, anti-trust battles, negotiations with various states, and the benefits of military power, the industry tried to set the terms for control over the global movement of bauxite, electricity, and aluminium, and thus control over the price of commodities and labour around the world.

During the First World War, about 90 per cent of all aluminium produced was consumed by the military, whose requirements for 1917 and 1918 totalled 128,867 tons (Davis, 1989: 49–50). During the Second World War, US government investment drove aluminium production to grow by more than 600 per cent between 1939 and 1943, outpacing the increase in all other crucial metals (Doordan 1993: 46). During the war,

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the USA produced 304,000 military aeroplanes in total, using 1.6 billion kilos of aluminium, claiming more than 85 per cent of Alcoa’s (Aluminum Corporation of America) output. At the war’s end, the government had $672 million invested in fifty wholly state-owned aluminium production and fabrication plants, which were disposed of after the war through the Surplus Property Act (Carr, 1952: 257, 263–64). Subsidies to favour Alcoa’s competitors, stockpiling after the war, and the outbreak of the Korean War led to even greater government participation in the industry. The system of Allied collaboration known as ‘Lend-Lease’, along with the September 1940 destroyers-for-bases agreement, enabled the USA to provide aluminium to British wartime industries (whose European sources of bauxite and power had been seized by Germany) in exchange for air bases in British colonies, including Jamaica, Trinidad, and British Guiana (Carr, 1952: 54; Bolland 2001: 443). These new military bases embodied the waning of Britain’s power in the region and gave the USA a valuable military foothold just as the US multinationals were engaging in bargaining with Caribbean states over access to resources, preferential tariffs, and deals for low taxation.

The increased demand for aluminium during the Second World War, the emergence of the USA as the world’s largest aluminium producer, and the dangers of wartime shipping all led to the emergence of Jamaica as the primary supplier of bauxite to the US aluminium companies (Davis, 1989). The power of transnational corporations (TNCs) such as the Alcoa, which operated throughout the Caribbean and later globally, was closely allied with the emerging economic, military, and regulatory power of the USA. The growth of US regional power in the Americas initially built on the colonial relations that shaped the Caribbean in the early to mid-twentieth century; it later took a direct military form as the USA exercised direct interventions and occupations throughout the region. Through control over the bauxite-mining and aluminium industries, the USA indirectly shaped the degree of independence that postcolonial Caribbean states could exercise by limiting their self-determination and resource sovereignty. As I shall discuss in the next section, this struggle for control of their own resources drove West Indian ideological critiques of dependent development. Caribbean moves to nationalize bauxite mines and form a bauxite producer’s cartel flew in the face of US control of this strategic war material. As the USA moved to control the sea lanes and air space that allowed for movement through the region, we could think of this as an undertow of tidalectic mobilities pulling the region in other directions.

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Caribbean mobilities, global mobilities

The Caribbean region claimed one of the most mobile working classes in the world in the mid-nineteenth to early twentieth centuries, including the arrival of indentured workers from Asia, the movements of labourers to work on the sugar plantations of other islands, the banana plantations of Central America, or in the building of a trans-isthmus railway and later the Panama Canal. This mobile working class was at times highly politicized, cosmopolitan, and critical of the world economic system. Ideologies such as Garveyism, pan-Africanism, socialism, and communism circulated among them, and between the Caribbean and its US outposts in places like Harlem (Robinson, 2000). The most organized workers in the region were the stevedores and other port workers who, along with sugar plantation workers, led major strikes and the ‘labour rebellion’ of 1937–38 (Post, 1978). As Jamaica adopted universal enfranchisement in the 1940s and moved towards self-government in the 1950s, thanks in part to this major labour uprising, there was ‘an increasing sense of nationalism and concern for the protection of national resources’, especially among the labour parties of the left (Davis, 1989: 135). Out of the labour movement arose a generation of nationalist leaders who pushed the British West Indies towards independence, and towards democratic socialism.

Bauxite played a crucial part in these movements, or counter- mobilities of the transnational global economy, even though there were few strikes or unrest associated with the Jamaican bauxite mines, largely because they employed a relatively small number of workers, these workers were relatively well paid compared to other local industries, especially agriculture, and were thus easily replaceable (Bolland, 2001; Stephens and Stephens, 1986: 27). Following negotiations with the Canadian and US aluminium multinationals, Jamaica’s British colonial government enacted The Minerals (Vesting) Act and The Mining Act in 1947, which set a very low royalty payment of only one shilling (5p) per ton of bauxite mined, equivalent to about US 20 cents, and also set a very low level of assumed profit on which taxation would be based. Kaiser Aluminum based its new mining operations in Jamaica and the American mining companies acquired up to 142,000 acres of agricultural land for mining exploration, while Reynolds Metals gained exclusive access to 206,000 acres of Crown Land in British Guiana (Horne, 2007: 160). Reynolds Metals also expanded mining operations into Haiti in 1941, and from 1956 to 1982 exported 13.3 million tons of bauxite from Haiti to its alumina refinery in Corpus Christi, Texas. Haitian bauxite

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accounted for almost one-fifth of Reynolds’ bauxite acquisition in that period, and Reynolds was given access to 150,000 hectares, expelling thousands of Haitian families (Doura, 2001; Dupuy, 1989).

However, in Jamaica a major renegotiation of the terms of bauxite royalty payments and taxes was undertaken by People’s National Party (PNP) Chief Minister Norman Washington Manley (one of the founding fathers of Jamaican independence) in 1956–57, based on the principle that ‘Countries in the early stages of economic development ought to derive the largest possible benefits from their natural resources. They ought not to be regarded merely as sources of cheap raw materials for metropolitan enterprises’ (cited in Davis, 1989: 189–90). Following his tough negotiations, the 1957 agreement reset the royalty, which led to a substantial increase in revenues to the Jamaican government, eventually contributing more than 45 per cent of the country’s export earnings by 1959 (Davis, 1989: 229, 251). During the Korean War, Jamaica moved from supplying about one-quarter of all US bauxite imports in 1953 to over one-half in 1959 (Davis, 1989: 251). Jamaica achieved independence in 1962 when it ‘was the world’s largest producer of bauxite’ according to historical sociologists Evelyn Huber Stephens and John Stephens (1986: 26): ‘In 1965, the country supplied 28 per cent of the bauxite used in the market economies of the world […] [and] bauxite along with tourism fueled post-war Jamaican development and the two provided the country with most of her gross foreign exchange earnings’.

While the bauxite industry was understood as a means of economic development, it also became increasingly clear that Jamaica and other bauxite producers were not benefiting from the industry (which was also having significant detrimental environmental impacts). In 1973, Michael Manley’s PNP government ‘opened negotiations with the aluminium TNCs on acquisition of 51 per cent equity in their bauxite mining operations […] acquisition of all the land owned by the companies in order to gain control over the bauxite reserves, and a bauxite levy tied to the price of aluminium ingot on the U.S. market’ (Stephens, 1987: 63–64). In March 1974, inspired by the success of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), a bauxite producer’s cartel known as the International Bauxite Association (IBA) was set up and was quickly able to double the price of bauxite on world markets. Meanwhile, the socialist government of newly independent Guyana nationalized the Demerara Bauxite Company in 1970 and took a 51 per cent stake in Alcan’s DEMBA subsidiary. In other words, there was a global movement, with key advocates in the Caribbean, to seize control of

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natural resources, especially minerals and metals, which were benefiting foreign corporations and supporting modernization in the Global North while producing ‘underdevelopment’ in the ‘Third World’ (Rodney, 1972).

The New World Group of economists at the University of the West Indies (including Lloyd Best and Norman Girvan, leading members of the Caribbean ‘dependency school’ of economic theorists) began to publish critiques of foreign capital and the economic underdevelopment of Jamaica and also called for the nationalization of the Jamaican bauxite industry in the early 1970s (Girvan, 1971; 1976; Meeks and Girvan, 2010). It is in the context of the bauxite industry that these radical Caribbean economists first elaborated theories of ‘dependent development’, and socialist post-independence nationalist leaders such as Prime Minister Forbes Burnham of Guyana and Michael Manley of Jamaica tried to stand up to the multinationals and the International Monetary Fund by nationalizing the bauxite industry in the 1970s (Stephens and Stephens, 1985). This was the beginning of a truly global movement to reign in the unbridled power of transnational corporations, which entailed challenging the military predominance of the USA, which sought to control and influence ‘friendly’ neighbours.

Michael Manley’s socialist rhetoric, friendship with Fidel Castro, and support for African liberation movements such as the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) did not endear him to the USA, nor to the multinationals. In response, American aluminium companies ‘doubled their bauxite imports from Guinea in 1975, [and] they reduced their Jamaican imports by 30 per cent […] Jamaica’s share of the world market for bauxite plummeted’ (Thomas, 1974: 83). The corporate powers that controlled the global aluminium industry would never allow ‘Third World’ countries, especially socialist ones, to wrest control over their own resources. The bauxite taken from the Caribbean allowed the USA to build a material culture of light aluminium, unques- tionable military air power, and space-age mobility. At the same time, the terms of oligopolistic international trade and market governance that allowed this transfer of resources to take place helped to lock in place structures of global inequality that prevented Caribbean countries from exercising true sovereignty or benefiting from their own resources.

This kind of underdevelopment contributed to the rise of labour migration as a survival strategy, which in turn produced the transnational patterns of life that became the signature of the Caribbean diaspora in the late twentieth century. Thus one circuit of mobility is linked to another, and all have had effects on reconfiguring natural systems and material

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cultures across the entire region, as well as patterns of racialization and ethno-political identity-formation that connect people in the Caribbean to wider global diasporas. These transnational dynamics of resource extraction, capital flow, labour migration, border control regimes, and mobilizations of both military power and resistance movements continue to drive political relations and conflicts between the northern and southern parts of the Americas today, as well as more globally.

Conclusion

My aim has been to show how even a brief cultural history that foregrounds global material histories—and relational processes involving far-reaching mobilities of people and objects, rather than national histories or sedentary regions—can help us to recognize (and to create) a more global approach to Caribbean studies, but also a more Caribbean approach to thinking about global mobilities. My method still depends on knowledge of national histories, as well as industrial history, military history, international relations, labour history, and other traditional fields; however, in combining critical mobilities research with (post) colonial Caribbean studies it also generates a renewed appreciation of the making of transnational modernities and counter-modernities through the political struggles over who and what could or could not move through the Caribbean, and to whose profit. It is the relations between places, and among mobile trajectories of various kinds of actors, that emerge as significant drivers of differential forms of national and global modernity.

There are, moreover, urgent implications to this history. We cannot understand the encroachment of mining companies into present-day Haiti or the alleged involvement of Rio Tinto Alcan in supporting a parliamentary coup in Paraguay in June 2012, if we are not conversant with the government of Suriname’s violation of the lands and treaty rights of the Saamanka Maroons so that Alcoa could build the Afobaka hydroelectric dam to power an aluminium smelter in the 1960s, displacing thousands of people from their ancestral villages. Each incident is part of a national history, but is also a thread in the larger fabric of mobilities of capital, resources, and power across the Americas, which have had deep impacts on natural environments and human rights. The fact that the Saamanka finally won their case in the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in 2007, recognizing their collective land ownership and rights to self-determination (Price, 2011), is a decision that anthropologist

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Richard Price welcomes, yet admits is still in the fragile process of being implemented. While it might appear as an obscure legal battle by a barely known indigenous group, it is best understood as part of this wide historical sweep of twentieth century inter-American mobilities and counter-mobilizations of Caribbean peoples against the power of transnational corporations.

In sum, we cannot afford to study single national histories or even single area studies in ignorance of the global connections that span them, or better yet that shape their spatio-temporal form and drive disjunctive transnational development. Nor can we understand Caribbean histories if we think solely within national or comparative frameworks, or even within single imperial systems such as the British, French, Spanish, or Dutch Caribbean. We need a generation of historians, anthropologists, and social scientists, not to mention citizens, lawyers, and political leaders, trained in the critical analysis of transnational processes. And we need a transnational global studies that is cognisant of critical mobilities research, of Caribbean studies, and of their deep connections—for only then will we recognize their contemporary relevance to addressing pressing environmental and human rights crises across the world today.

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