Several accounts of the Baring crisis, 1890–7, are available.1 Among these is my own, chapter xiv of Britain and Argentina in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1960), based upon the Foreign Office papers in the Public Record Office, contemporary periodical literature and secondary works such as the now little-noticed classic, J. H. Williams, Argentine International Trade under Inconvertible Paper Money, 1880–1900 (Cambridge, Mass., 1920). My first purpose in exploring beyond the sources used forty years ago, in the archives of the Bank of England, Baring Brothers & Co., N. M. Rothschild, W. H. Smith and the Marquis of Salisbury, is to correct at least one error in my original work, and this unfortunately repeated by others. My second is to discover whether or not further study of archival material confirms, modifies or denies any of my first conclusions about the role of the Argentine government in the solution of the Baring crisis.

The principal error corrected concerns the form of Barings' involvement in Argentine affairs in the late 1880s. They did not get into difficulties because they underwrote a large loan to the Argentine government for the purpose of expanding the water supply and sewage system of Buenos Aires. The fact is that they promoted a private enterprise which took over the water and sewage system of Buenos Aires, and this failed for a number of reasons set out below.

As to my original conclusions about the Baring crisis, they have been confirmed by the archival material considered. The solution of the Baring crisis was made possible by the policies devised and enforced by the Argentine government.

Sir, is there to be no limit to our benevolence for these People? There is a point, beyond which, even parental bounty and natural affection cease to impose an obligation. That point has been attained with the States of Spanish America.1

Of course there was sympathy for the Spanish American rebels in the United States. How could it have been otherwise? The rebels were fighting Spain, long an object of hatred and contempt. This alone justified goodwill, as did the hope for increased trade and the prospect of a significant loss of European influence in the hemisphere.2 But how deep did this sympathy run?

In the Congressional debates of the period there was much more enthusiasm for the cause of the Greeks than that of the Spanish Americans.3 Similarly, the press referred frequently to private collections of funds (‘liberal donations’) for the Greek fighters – not for the Spanish Americans. This is not surprising. The US public could feel a bond with the Greeks – ‘it will become even quite fashionable to assist the descendants of those who were the bulwark of light and knowledge in old times, in rescuing themselves from the dominion of a barbarian race'.4 Unlike the Greeks, however, the Spanish Americans were of dubious whiteness. Unlike the Greeks, they hailed not from a race of giants, but – when they were white – from degraded Spanish stock.5 Some US citizens felt for them the kinship of a common struggle against European colonial rule; others agreed with John Quincy Adams: ‘So far as they were contending for independence, I wished well to their cause; but I had seen and yet see no prospect that they would establish free or liberal institutions of government.

The Quandary of 1492

The year 1492 evokes a powerful symbolism.1 The symbolism is most charged, of course, among peoples whose historical memory connects them directly to the forces unleashed in 1492. For indigenous Americans, Latin Americans, minorities of Latino or Hispanic descent, and Spaniards and Portuguese, the sense of connection is strong. The year 1492 symbolises a momentous turn in historical destiny: for Amerindians, the ruinous switch from independent to colonised history; for Iberians, the launching of a formative historical chapter of imperial fame and controversy; for Latin Americans and the Latino diaspora, the painful birth of distinctive cultures out of power-laden encounters among Iberian Europeans, indigenous Americans, Africans, and the diverse offspring who both maintained and blurred the main racial categories.

But the symbolism extends beyond the Americas, and beyond the descendants of those most directly affected. The arrival of Columbus in America symbolises a historical reconfiguration of world magnitude. The fusion of native American and European histories into one history marked the beginning of the end of isolated stagings of human drama. Continental and subcontinental parameters of human action and struggle, accomplishment and failure, would expand into a world stage of power and witness. The expansion of scale revolutionised cultural and ecological geography. After 1492, the ethnography of the humanoid other proved an even more central fact of life, and the migrations of microbes, plants and animals, and cultural inventions would transform the history of disease, food consumption, land use, and production techniques.2 In addition, the year 1492 symbolises the beginnings of the unique world ascendance of European civilisation.

After England began what came to be known as the First Industrial Revolution at the end of the eighteenth century, industrial technology quickly diffused throughout the nations of the North Atlantic. Within fifty years of the first rumblings of British industrialisation, the factory system had spread to Western Europe and the United States. Latin America, however, lagged behind. It was not until the twentieth century that manufacturing came to lead the economies of Latin America and that agrarian societies were transformed into industrial societies.

This article seeks to understand this long lag in Latin American industrialisation through an analysis of the experience of Mexico during the period 1830–1940. The purpose of the paper is to look at the obstacles that prevented self-sustaining industrialisation from taking place in Mexico, as well as to assess the results of the industrialisation that did occur.

The basic argument advanced is that two different types of constraints prevailed during different periods of Mexico's industrialisation. During the period from 1830 to 1880 the obstacles to industrialisation were largely external to firms: insecure property rights, low per capita income growth resulting from pre-capitalist agricultural organisation, and the lack of a national market (caused by inefficient transport, banditry and internal tariffs) all served as a brake on Mexico's industrial development. During the period 1880–1910 the obstacles to industrialisation were largely internal to firms. These factors included the inability to realise scale economies, high fixed capital costs and low labour productivity. During the period from 1910 to 1930 these internal constraints combined with new external constraints – including the Revolution of 1910–17, the political uncertainty of the post-revolutionary period and the onset of the Great Depression – which further slowed the rate of industrial growth.

This article looks at the beginnings and early development of the modern copper smelting industry in Chile. It analyses the factors which led to its occurrence, contrasting it with other countries where no smelting industry developed. It argues that the development of the Chilean smelting industry stimulated copper mining and reinforced the expansion of coal mining. Furthermore, it permitted the retention in the country of a larger part of the rent generated by copper mining than would have been the case had all the copper ore been exported, and was therefore an important factor in the development of the Chilean economy as a whole.

Until 1879 tne Chilean copper industry was the most dynamic sector of the economy of the Republic. During the period 1844—79 it generated exports of 341 million pesos (around £64 million), or 42.3 % of the total value of the exports of the country, and contributed 29 million pesos, or almost 10% of the ordinary fiscal income, through the export duty levied.1 Most of this copper left Chile in the shape of ingots of over 99% fine (that is pure) copper, bar copper of c. 96 % fine or regulus, a semi-processed form of copper of around 50% fine; only 12.1 % left in the shape of copper ores of different types.2 The smelting and, to an even greater extent, the refining of the copper ore in Chile permitted the miners to develop a wider variety of potential markets. It also facilitated the Luis Valenzuela is a Lecturer at the Centre for Development Studies, University College of Swansea.

The Central America of books, and indeed of our imaginations, does not have very many black actors. That is not because blacks have not been present in the unfolding of Central American history. It is because their participation has been selectively ignored. During the last decade there have been a few welcome exceptions to this trend; however, a lacuna still remains. This article focuses on the role played by the first generation of black British West Indian immigrants in the development of the Costa Rican and Honduran labour movements - an area of history in which blacks have been particularly ignored.

To this day the populations of black British West Indian descent living on the Atlantic Coast of Costa Rica and Honduras have remained outside the mainstream of political and cultural life in these two countries. It is not surprising, therefore, that they have also been neglected historically.

Nowhere is this tendency more glaring than in the literature on labour history – especially that concerned with the important banana exporting sector. With few exceptions, the role of the British West Indian workers in the early period of the banana industry is dismissed. Those that acknowledge their role minimise the workers' importance by arguing that they failed to act collectively in challenging their employers. In brief, this view argues that black West Indian workers are not important to a study of labour politics in Honduras and Costa Rica.

Historical evidence renders this suggestion invalid. The British West Indian workers who came to Honduras and Costa Rica during the last century in search of employment were neither indifferent to, nor totally accepting of, their situation.

The documented history of Mexican sugar in the twentieth century begins with the introduction of vacuum-pan technology between 1880 and 1910, subsequently chronicling the progressive expansion and concentration of the industry, and the creeping State intervention which eventually resulted in the nationalisation of most private sugar mills during the 1960s and 1970s.1 Small-scale, labour-intensive rural trapiches producing panela (an unrefined form of semi-crystalline sugar) have largely been left out of this history, despite the fact that trapiches were often predecessors to modern sugar mills and in many areas survived displacement by them. Surveying Oaxaca's Isthmus of Tehuantepec region in 1940, for example, Ybarra recorded three industrialised mills and 37 small, motorised, panela- producing trapiches.2 In 1947, according to Aragón Calvo and Vargas Comargo, panela accounted for an estimated 25% of Mexican sugar production overall, and consumption of panela exceeded that of refined sugar in the states of Veracruz and Guerrero.3Panela continues to be produced and consumed in Mexico today — albeit in reduced quantities. In Panama, Colombia, India and other nations, panela (or the local equivalent) is an even more important sugar source than in Mexico.4

Nationally the labour-intensive panela industry pales into insignificance next to the modern sugar sector. However, in particular regions and communities, as I shall attempt to demonstrate, it has been an important source of employment and capital, providing rural dwellers with their first experience of disciplined factory work and numerous small entrepreneurs with profits that were invested back into the communities to expand control over local land and businesses.

In Tlatelolco, in the symbolically laden Plaza of the Three Cultures, there is a famous plaque commemorating the fall of Tenochtitlán, after a heroic defence organised by Cuauhtemoc. According to the official words there inscribed, that fall ‘was neither a victory nor a defeat’, but the ‘painful birth’ of present-day Mexico, the mestizo Mexico glorified and institutionalised by the Revolution of 1910. Starting with the experiences of 1968 – which added yet another layer to the archaeological sedimentation already present in Tlatelolco – and continuing with greater force in the face of the current wave of indigenous movements throughout Latin America, as well as the crisis of indigenismo and of the postrevolutionary development model, many have begun to doubt the version of Mexican history represented therein.1 Yet it is important to emphasise that the Tlatelolco plaque, fogged and tarnished as it may be today, would never have been an option in the plazas of Lima or La Paz. The purpose of this essay is to define and explain this difference by reference to the modern histories of Peru, Bolivia and Mexico. In so doing, I hope to elucidate some of the past and potential future contributions of indigenous political cultures to the ongoing formation of nation-states in Latin America.

As suggested by the plaque in Tlatelolco, the process and symbolism of mestizaje has been central to the Mexican state's project of political and territorial reorganisation. By 1970, only 7.8 % of Mexico's population was defined as Indian, and divided into 59 different linguistic groups.

The dynamics of Brazil's transportation sector early in this century reveal much about how and why US industries conquered the Brazilian market and established a sound basis for investment. Especially during the 1920s, US companies responded to the transportation needs of Brazil's rapidly growing economy and won the major share of its automobile and truck markets. This was crucial because of the automobile's central role as a leading sector of the world's economy during this period. Sales and then direct investment by US firms in automobile assembly plants placed US business on a more secure foundation than British investment, prominent in a sector losing the vitality exhibited in the nineteenth century: railroads. Rail systems slowed their extension into the immense Brazilian interior while the automobile flourished, promoted by a powerful Brazilian lobby for automobilismo reinforced by efforts of US business and government. This process illustrates how the Brazilians' interpretation of their economic needs coincided with pressures exerted by US industry to create a permanent US presence within Brazil's economy. How Henry Ford replaced Herbert Spencer as the foremost symbol of industrialism in early twentieth century Brazil sheds light on the personal and political dynamics of international business competition.1

Rapid economic growth in the early twentieth century thrust a host of new local and regional demands upon Brazil's woefully inadequate transportation sector. Capital formation rose without interruption from 1901 onwards and reached very high levels immediately prior to World War I; more than 11,000 industrial firms producing over 67% of the economy's 1920 industrial output came into being between 1900 and 1920.

Recent literature on Latin American political economy appears to echo work of the 1960s and 1970s emphasising technical expertise in government. Sikkink and Geddes, for example, suggest that the role of technical experts and professionalisation of the bureaucracy explain Brazil's relative economic successes in the 1960s.1 Conaghan, Malloy and Abugattas focus on the role of technocrats in economic policy—making in the Central Andes.2 Following seminal work by Camp and Smith, Hernández Rodríguez presents the latest data on the role of technocrats in the Mexican political elite.3 To a large extent, this recent literature on technocrats in Latin America fails to address one of the main issues debated in the earlier literature: the political consequences of increasingly technocratic government. A second problem with recent work is that, when it does address causal issues, it tends to follow the functionalist logic of earlier literature. Using data on Mexican political elites, this article develops a new typology which carefully differentiates the new technobureaucratic elite from other elite groups. The aim is to shed new light on the debate over the implications of increasing technocratisation. Secondly, this study of the rise of a new elite emphasises the role of institutional changes within the government bureaucracy in addition to the state's functional response to changes in its politico—economic environment. This article begins with a brief discussion of earlier general — and Mexico—specific — literature on technocrats.

Some analysts of technocracy in the 1960s and 1970s saw technocrats as apolitical specialists whose growing role in society heralded ‘an end to ideology’ and increased efficiency in government.4

As I get older I give more importance to continuities, and try to discover them under the appearances of change and mutation. And I have reached the conclusion that there is only one great continuity: that of blood.

Class structure never entirely displaces other criteria and forms of differentiation and hierarchy (e.g. ethnicity, gender, lineage) in the constitution of social identities and in prompting collective action. Class as a concept and as a point of reference is linked to these other criteria; often it is subsumed in them, thus contributing to the definition of the different groups' forms of expression and of their insertion into the social totality. But class does not eliminate these other criteria nor the identities deriving from them, nor can it preclude the relative autonomy derived from their specificity, as they define loyalties and oppositions which frequently cross over class boundaries. The relevance of these criteria in Latin America is even greater since the society's class profile is less sharply defined because of the lower level of development of market relations and urban industrial capitalism.

Several studies have pointed to the importance of ruling families in shaping the socio-economic structure of Latin American countries, their political institutions and their cultural life. Prominent families have been considered the axis of Latin America's history from the last part of the colonial period until the beginnings of the present century – and until even more recently in some countries. Interestingly enough, these historical studies have contributed to a better understanding of one of the features most frequently discussed in today's sociological studies of Latin America: the weak or inchoate differentiation between public and private life and between collective and individual action.

Research into the economic structures established by Spain in the Indies, based on sources which allow at least an approximate reconstruction of reality, dates only from the last thirty or forty years. The advances made, despite the uncertainty still surrounding certain aspects of the processes of production, appropriation and distribution, enable us to abandon traditional conceptions of this economy as isolated, closed, rustic in its technology, archaic or ‘feudal’.

The dominant profile of the economic structures imposed on New Spain and Peru, especially during a fifty-year cycle the nature and timing of which will be discussed below, was shaped by the transfer of the European system of mercantile production, in terms of both its technological bases and the legal structure and methods of calculation which governed its reproduction. Thus, we retain the adjective ‘colonial’ for this modern economy, in as much as its development was conditioned by the need to maximise shipments of silver to the metropolis and, in pursuit of this aim, the indigenous population was subjected to severe oppression. Likewise, the metropolis maintained a high level of control over the internal economic dynamic of these regions and a monopoly of their foreign trade.

Towards the mid-sixteenth century the expression ‘conquista y población’ was frequently invoked to characterise Spain's dominion in the New World. ‘Conquista’ referred to the initial feat of arms, by which the papal right to grant lands to the Catholic monarchs (hitherto only valid within the order of European nations) was imposed on the indigenous kingdoms and domains of the Indies.

‘By studying political parties we imply that the party is a meaningful unit of analysis. Yet we go above the party as a unit, for we also study the party system. By the same token we can go below the party as a unit and study, thereby, the party subunits.’1 This statement by Giovanni Sartori, while published in 1976, might well have been a beacon for budding stasiologists of the early 1960s — certainly for those with a particular interest in Latin America. Following upon such Western European—orientated classics as the works of Maurice Duverger, Sigmund Neumann and Alfred Diamant,2 there seemed genuine intellectual impetus to produce significant scholarship on the parties of what were then customarily termed either the developing or the ‘non—western’ polities. For Latin America, the time appeared ripe for conceptual progress. To be sure, there was justification in remarking that the study of parties in the region was relatively new, while ‘methodo—logical accomplishments have been primitive’.3 Yet this condition was presumably transitory.

In the years to follow there were more serious exploratory efforts, and in time a modest number of case—studies began appearing.4 When the cyclical alternation of democratic and dictatorial regimes began to swing toward the latter by the early 1970s, however, scholarly interest dropped off. More generally, stasiological research went into decline.5 For students of Latin America, only the recent trend toward democratisation has stimulated a revival of interest in parties, campaigns and elections.6 Thus Lorenzo Meyer, for instance, described parties as institutions necessary ‘to channel the energies of social movements, labour unions, and other antiauthoritarian forces present at the beginning of the re—emergence of civil society’.7

Argentina's history has been profoundly influenced by the development of its agriculture. It was through the exportation of beef and grain that the country experienced spectacular economic growth between 1880 and 1930. Historically, agricultural and agro-industrial production have made up between 70 and 80% of export earnings.1 As a consequence, the sector's dominant interest group during that period, the Argentine Rural Society (Sociedad Rural Argentina – SRA) acquired enormous economic power, which led to political clout as many of its members went on to become presidents of the republic and to staff the most important ministries. Because of the political influence so attained the SRA was soon referred to as one of the key factores de poder, or power holders, along with the military, the Church and, later on, labour. This hegemony came to an end in the mid-1940s when industrialisation replaced agriculture as the main contributor to the nation's Gross Domestic Product (GDP), and when Peronism removed the landowning elite from control of the levers of power. The agricultural sector continued to take a backseat among the priorities of most of the administrations following Perón's downfall in 1955, because the future of Argentina was perceived to rest upon the promotion of import substitution industrialisation. Agricultural interest groups were never again able to gain the same kind of access to economic policy-making as they had once enjoyed. To make matters worse, the whole rural sector was forced to finance the state-led industrialisation process through a variety of direct and indirect government taxes.

This article describes the introduction of two social policy programmes aiming to provide adequate nourishment to poor families in Argentina between 1983 and 1990. They were called PAN (Programa Alimentario Nacional), and the Bono Nacional Solidario de Emergencia.

A study of the introduction of social policy measures during these years can help us to understand parts of the value-structure upon which Argentine society is built. Such a study also highlights some of the main social functions that welfare programmes perform in structuring the relationship between the political system and society. Finally, the management of the programmes and the political debate surrounding them illustrate some key features of the Argentine political system and its ability to formulate a coherent social policy project.

The debates concerning the organisation of social welfare schemes, in 1983 as well as in 1989, must be seen in relation to the general structure of the social welfare system in the country. Both by European and Latin American standards, Argentina's first ‘labour laws’ were passed at an early stage.2 However, Argentina never became a ‘Welfare State’ in the sense that all of the population was included. One of the reasons for this is connected with the impotence of the State. Several analysts have underlined the particular weakness of many Latin American States, a consequence of a pronounced corporative logic that dominates the implementation of public policies.3 In fact, the social impact of welfare policies reflects the overall power structure in society in a more clear-cut way than we see in most European Welfare States.4

The colonial state

Spain asserted its presence in America through an array of institutions. Traditional historiography studied these in detail, describing colonial policy and American responses in terms of officials, tribunals, and laws. The agencies of empire were tangible achievements and evidence of the high quality of Spanish administration. They were even impressive numerically. Between crown and subject there were some twenty major institutions, while colonial officials were numbered in their thousands. The Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (1681) was compiled from 400,000 royal cedulas, which it managed to reduce to a mere 6,400 laws.1 Thus the institutions were described, classified, and interpreted from evidence which lay in profusion in law codes, chronicles, and archives. Perhaps there was a tendency to confuse law with reality, but the standard of research was high and derecho indiano, as it was sometimes called, was the discipline which first established the professional study of Latin American history.

This stage of research was brought to an end by new interests and changing fashions in history, and by a growing concentration on social and economic aspects of colonial Spanish America. Institutional history lost prestige, as historians turned to the study of Indians, rural societies, regional markets, and various aspects of colonial production and exchange, forgetting perhaps that the creation of institutions was an integral part of social activity and their presence or absence a measure of political and economic priorities. More recently, institutional history has returned to favour, though it is now presented as a study of the colonial state.

The persistent instability and disorder of Spanish American polities in the post-Independence period was undoubtedly one of the most perplexing concerns of Spanish American elites in the nineteenth century. It has remained a subject of interpretive debate by twentieth-century students of the area. The following article sketches several general approaches to the problem among twentieth-century interpreters, compares contemporary nineteenth-century analyses with the salient twentieth-century interpretations, and offers a critical commentary on the various sorts of twentieth-century analytical frameworks.

The three salient twentieth-century interpretations of political disorder in the nineteenth century are: (1) those that emphasise deeply embedded characteristics of Spanish American culture as underlying causes of political instability; (2) those that attribute political disorder to structural problems, particularly to weaknesses in the economic structure or shifts in the social structure; (3) those that see political instability as a reflection of conflicting ideologies, economic interests, and/or the aspirations or fears of identifiable social groups.

The distinctive feature of cultural interpretations of Latin American politics is their common belief that cultural characteristics are indelible and more-or-less unchangeable. And, since such cultural interpretations emphasise what might be considered ‘negative’ aspects of Spanish or Spanish American culture in order to explain defects in Spanish American politics, their assumption that cultures do not change over time tends to imbue such interpretations with a certain pessimism about the future of Spanish American politics.

An early twentieth-century exponent of cultural approaches to understanding Spanish-American political disorder was Francisco García Calderón, who, thinking particularly of the phenomenon of caudillismo, emphasised Spanish authoritarian individualism.

Cocoa, coca, cotton, and sugar are of great interest. The development of any one of the four crops would bring about great relief to people's present miseries and would not hurt nearby provinces… The development of one province need not occur at the expense of another. (Francisco de Viedma, 1787).2

Brazilian specialists have long recognised the importance of the 1960 presidential elections, which set in motion a process that culminated in a 21—year military dictatorship. Only in 1989 did Brazilians witness once again the direct election of a president. Nonetheless, scholarly literature on this event is sparse and often tends toward the ahistorical view that the election of Jânio Quadros in 1960 was part of an inexorable process. Almost entirely ignored are the reasons why Brazil's largest political party, the Partido Social Democrático or PSD, nominated for president a weak candidate, Marshal of the Brazilian Army Henrique Teixeira Lott.1

Clearly, Lott himself was not part of a praetorian guard that imposed his candidacy. Indeed, the Marshal was a reluctant candidate, who offered to withdraw in October 1959 in favour of a ‘national unity candidate’.2 In my view Lott's nomination had much more to do with a complex series of manoeuvres carried out by Brazil's president Juscelino Kubitschek (1956–61) than with his own actions. For Kubitschek, the political parties and presidential aspirants in 1960 were merely pawns in his highly personalistic vision of the political process. Constitutionally barred from seeking immediate re—election, Kubitschek initially manoeuvred to induce his party, the PSD, not to run its own presidential candidate. When this effort failed, he displayed, at the very least, ambivalence regarding the fate of the party's candidate.

An analysis of Kubitschek's actions and motivations presents methodological challenges to the historian. Historians traditionally rely heavily on written documentation to support their analysis of actions and motivations.

A nation that demands from its government nothing but the maintenance of order is already a slave in the bottom of its heart; it is the slave of its wellbeing, and the man who is to chain it can arrive on the scene.