Tag Archives: colombia

Comienzos (¿y finales?) de la gran minería

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El domingo pasado se posesionó el nuevo presidente de Colombia, Gustavo Petro. A diferencia de la mayoría de los países vecinos, Colombia no tuvo un giro a la izquierda a principios de siglo, así que el de Petro es el primer gobierno de izquierda que ha tenido el país. Aunque la dolorosa historia del progresismo en Colombia aconseja cautela, por televisión se veía un optimismo desbordante en las plazas de ciudades y pueblos. Los pronunciamientos del nuevo gobierno han insistido en el liberalismo social y económico, procurando distanciarse del espectro del comunismo con que la derecha trató de asustar a los votantes. Sin embargo, hay señales reales de cambio, como la invitación a ‘vivir sabroso’ con la que la vice-presidenta Francia Márquez ha propuesto una interpretación local y gozona del ‘buen vivir’. Otra señal importante es el cuestionamiento del modelo extractivo.

Los nombramientos ministeriales han mostrado intenciones claras, reconociendo la necesidad de construir alianzas con el establecimiento, pero también con grupos indígenas y Afrodescendientes, así como otros sectores de la izquierda. También hay varixs académicxs, sobre todo mujeres de las universidades públicas, lo cual ya es significativo. La ministra de Minas y Energía es una filósofa y geógrafa ambiental que ha escrito críticamente sobre ‘la acumulación privada de capital mediante la explotación extranjera de recursos mineros’ (Velez-Torres 2014). En su discurso de victoria, Petro propuso una transición ‘de la vieja economía extractivista’ hacia una economía ‘productiva’ que centre la agricultura y el conocimiento, así como un diálogo con los países de mayores emisiones de carbono para exigir financiación para la protección ambiental. Esta intención declarada de alejarse del extractivismo marca una diferencia frente a otros gobiernos latinoamericanos de este siglo (cf Riofrancos 2020). A estos ‘progresistas latinoamericanos’ se dirigió Petro, pidiéndoles que dejen de depender de los altos precios del carbón y el petróleo para financiar sus proyectos de justicia social.

Cambiar el modelo extractivista no es tarea fácil. Así como los minerales y combustibles fósiles, la economía nacional también depende de agroindustrias como el café, flores, banano, caña de azúcar y palma de aceite. Si bien el petróleo es el mayor rubro, el año pasado Colombia exportó más de 60 millones de toneladas de carbón, posicionándose como el cuarto exportador global. Sin embargo, esta importancia del carbón es una historia relativamente reciente. A medida que se despliegan nuevos horizontes y retos, vale la pena entender cómo se estableció el modelo actual de extracción.

Un punto clave de esta historia es la mina de El Cerrejón, ubicada en el norte de Colombia en la península de La Guajira, compartida con Venezuela. En particular, El Cerrejón Zona Norte marcó un cambio significativo en la extracción de carbón a gran escala y generó intensas controversias en su momento, a principios de la década de 1980. Como escriben Corral-Montoya, Telias y Malz (2022), las narrativas y discursos son una de las fuerzas que actúan en la implantación (entrenchment) de políticas extractivas. Por tanto, el cine, el video y la televisión puedieron ayudar a introducir, legitimar, facilitar, pero también resistir el proyecto de El Cerrejón.

Revista Lámpara 93, 1984

El Cerrejón fue una empresa conjunta de tres mil millones de dólares, entre Carbocol (empresa del Estado) e Intercor (filial de Exxon). En su momento fue el proyecto de inversión más grande en la historia del país, y se pagó en gran parte con un gran endeudamiento público. Exxon había empezado a diversificar su portafolio en 1973 con la crisis del petróleo, y había firmado un contrato de exploración con la administración de López Michelsen, seguido por un acuerdo de explotación firmado con el gobierno Turbay en 1980 (Kline 2012). Los términos del acuerdo fueron fuertemente criticados por políticos como el senador liberal Luis Carlos Galán. En sus intervenciones en el Senado, así como en columnas de prensa, conferencias, y el libro Los carbones del Cerrejón, Galán argumentó que el contrato era desfavorable para el país. Las irregularidades en la valoración del carbón, de las regalías y de los costos de explotación, y la falta de transparencia de Exxon como operador único, también fueron denunciadas por economistas de Carbocol en otros dos volúmenes.

Un reportaje de televisión en tres partes, emitido en 1982 en la serie Enviado Especial, amplifica estas críticas. Presentado por Germán Castro Caycedo, uno de los periodistas más respetados del país, el reportaje se enfoca en la asimetría de las negociaciones entre Carbocol (una entidad diminuta con 15 empleados y donde no funcionaban los teléfonos ni los baños) e Intercor (parte de la corporación multinacional más grade del planeta). Los entrevistados también llaman la atención sobre un tercer actor en el proyecto, la firma constructora estadounidense Morrison-Knudsen. Aunque menos célebre, la Morrison-Knudsen tenía un papel crucial, siendo el subcontratista principal para todas las obras de infraestructura. La compañía, con sede en Idaho, recibió 1.7 mil millones de dólares para construir las instalaciones de la mina, el ferrocarril y el puerto. Castro Caycedo y sus entrevistados cuestionan sus prácticas y decisiones de contratación y compra, que no estarían creando las oportunidades de empleo e inversión dentro del país que habían sido prometidas.

Mientras tanto, la maquinaria de relaciones públicas de Exxon estaba en movimiento. Su brazo más visible era la revista Lámpara, que publicó artículos lujosamente ilustrados sobre La Guajira y El Cerrejón en casi todos sus números entre 1980 y 1986. Estos no siempre estaban dedicados únicamente a la operación minera, sino que también incluían recuentos históricos y arqueológicos, investigaciones sobre el medio ambiente, y artículos etnográficos sobre la población indígena Wayúu, principales habitantes de la región. (A finales de la década Exxon produjo también un esmerado corto documental, sobre el cual espero escribir en otra ocasión).

Algunos artículos de Lámpara en 1985

Puede sorprender que este aparente interés en las culturas y formas de vida indígenas está más presente en el material de Exxon que en el patrocinado por Carbocol, si bien reproduce miradas coloniales y en ocasiones condescendientes. Una de las maneras en las que Carbocol comunicó las promesas, justificaciones y contextos del proyecto Cerrejón en sus primeros años fue a través de la televisión educativa abierta. En programas de educación básica a distancia para adultos se explicaba el proceso de minería a cielo abierto y los beneficios que traería para el país y para La Guajira. Muchos de estos programas, realizados con poco presupuesto, reciclaban material patrocinado por Carbocol (en particular, un corto titulado Energía y calor de la humanidad). El metraje se remezclaba con distintos énfasis y narraciones, dependiendo de si se trataba de una clase de geografía, sociales, ciencias naturales o matemáticas. La ausencia de voces indígenas en estos contenidos enfatiza el centralismo del sistema de medios públicos, que refleja la concentración del poder para las elites urbanas blancas y mestizas. (Vale anotar que quizás el acercamiento más interesante y crítico al inicio del proyecto se encuentra en los dos capítulos al respecto de la serie Geografía Olvidada, de la programadora caleña Proyectamos TV).

En general, la televisión pública parece haber representado a El Cerrejón dentro de un modelo centralista de nación, en donde los argumentos macroeconómicos sobre la balanza de pagos, la necesidad de divisas, y la modernización de infraestructura tomaban prelación sobre los entornos de vida de la gente en la zona extractiva, y en particular de los pueblos indígenas. Como advierte el primer capítulo del volumen de Hallazgos y Recomendaciones de la Comisión de la Verdad, esta formación de centro y periferias internas se ha acoplado con la posición del país en los mercados internacionales, y ha sido motor del conflicto interno.

“La concepción de una parte de Colombia como un país que no importa más que como fuente de recursos naturales, ha llevado a la expansión de un modelo de desarrollo basado en el extractivismo y la implantación de políticas mediate la coacción y las armas” (71-72)

Así como han tenido su lugar en la implantación del modelo extractivo, los medios también han sido sitio de resistencia. Desde la Constitución de 1991 han florecido las iniciativas de comunicación, cine y video indígena y desde los territorios. La producción en La Guajira es sustancial y, sin haber hecho aún la investigación necesaria, no pretendo intentar ningún resumen. Algunos ejemplos incluyen el trabajo de David Hernández Palmar y el proyecto de La Guajira le habla al País, coordinato por CENSAT Agua Viva.

Trailer de Wounmainkat (Our Land, 2008). Película completa: http://www.isuma.tv/wayuu/wounmainkat-nuestra-tierra

Este acercamiento a la historia de las relaciones públicas y comunicaciones corporativas alrededor de El Cerrejón Zona Norte colinda algunas de las posiciones sobre nacionalismo de recursos (continuar la extracción pero nacionalizar una mayor parte de la ganancia), que otros países aplicaron en las décadas siguientes. Discusiones como la dada por Galán no cuestionaban la necesidad de extraer combustible fósil, solamente los términos económicos en los que se haría. Para ese momento, Exxon sabía que sus actividades estaban causando calentamiento global, pero presentan la minería de carbón a gran escala como un proceso con cuyos impactos ambientales son localizados y controlados. La zona de sacrificio resulta ser el territorio indígena, que se presenta como un desierto estéril. El pueblo Wayúu se representa apenas como un aspecto de la geografía, ‘parte del paisaje’, o posible beneficiario de asistencia e infraestructura. La tierra se entiende ante todo como recurso económico (y un obstáculo para llegar al valioso subsuelo), sin reconocer las relaciones tradicionales o incluso la propiedad legítima de los pueblos indígenas, Afro y campesinos sobre el territorio. Si estamos viendo tal vez el comienzo del fin de la primacía indiscutida de los combustibles fósiles, vale la pena repasar el papel que tuvo la imagen y la narrativa en la implantación del modelo extractivo, y las miradas diferentes a la tierra que proponen los medios indígenas e independientes.

Puede leer un informe preliminar sobre la investigación de archivo que he estado haciendo aquí: https://mediarxiv.org/u6qvh/

Broadcasting the beginnings (and endings?) of large-scale coal mining

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Last Sunday a new president took office in Colombia. In contrast to most neighbouring countries, Colombia did not have a ‘pink tide’ moment in the 2000s, and Gustavo Petro is the first left-leaning president to be elected for many decades. Expectations on the left are tempered by the painful history of progressive politics in the country, but there was an overwhelming optimism in the crowds that filled the squares of towns and cities. Petro’s campaign adopted vice-president Francia Márquez’s slogan of ‘vivir sabroso’, a take on ‘buen vivir’ that makes room for joy. While the new government’s statements have remained attached to liberal, growth-based economics, there are signs of change. One of this is the questioning of the extractivist model.

Vice-president Francia Márquez as a community organiser against illegal gold mining

Cabinet appointments have sent strong signals, combining coalition-building with establishment sectors but also with Afro-descendant and indigenous groups and more radical left representation. There are plenty of academics, mostly women from the public universities (which is in itself significant). The Minister for Mines and Energy is an environmental geographer who has written critically about ‘the private accumulation of capital through the foreign exploitation of mining resources’ (Velez-Torres 2014). In his victory speech, Gustavo Petro proposed a transition ‘from the old extractivist economy’ towards a ‘productive’ economy centring agriculture and knowledge, as well as a dialogue with carbon emitting countries (which can be read as a demand for carbon payments). This stated intention to move away from extractivism marks a difference from other left-wing governments of this century in Latin America (cf Riofrancos 2020). Petro addressed ‘Latin American progressives’ directly, asking them to stop relying on high commodity prices to fund their social justice promises.

Changing the extractivist model is no easy task. Agribusiness such as coffee, flowers, sugar cane and palm oil prop up the Colombian economy, as do minerals and fossil fuels. While the largest export by value is oil, last year Colombia also exported over 60 million tons of coal, which is expected to rise this year and places it as the fourth coal exporting country in the world. However, coal’s place in the Colombian economy is a relatively recent history. As new possible horizons and challenges open up in that direction, it is valuable to understand how current modes of extraction came to be.

Central to this story is El Cerrejón coalfield, located in the north of Colombia, in the Guajira region shared with Venezuela. In particular, Cerrejón North Block (Zona Norte) marked a significant shift in large-scale coal extraction and generated intense controversy at the time. As Corral-Montoya, Telias, and Malz argue (2022), narratives and discourses are an acting force in the entrenchment of such policies. Film, video and television thus had a role in introducing, legitimising, facilitating, and resisting the Cerrejón project.

Image from Lámpara 93, 1984

El Cerrejón was a three-thousand-million-dollar joint venture between Carbocol, which was the publicly owned coal mining body established by the Colombian government, and Exxon’s filial, Intercor. It was the largest investment project Colombia had undertaken at the time, and the country had to acquire a large amount of debt to fund it. Exxon had started to diversify into other fuels including coal during the oil crisis of 1973, and signed an exploration agreement with the López Michelsen administration, followed by the exploitation contract in 1980 during the Turbay administration (Kline 2012). The terms of that contract became hotly debated by politicians, most notably Luis Carlos Galán, who was a senator for the Liberal party. In his senate interventions, columns, and his book on the topic, Galán argued that the terms of the contract were disadvantageous for Colombia. The alleged irregularities in the valuation and negotiation of terms, plus the problematic position of Exxon as sole operator, were also raised by Carbocol economists in another book.

These debates were amplified by a three-part television reportage aired in 1982. The report, presented by Germán Castro Caycedo, one of the country’s most respected journalists, focused on the asymmetry in the negotiations between Carbocol (a tiny public entity with 15 employees at the time of signing) and Intercor (part of the world’s largest corporation). It also made visible the deal with Morrison-Knudsen, a less well-known but key actor in this project, as the infrastructure contractor. The Idaho-based company received 1.7 billion dollars to build the mine, railway and port. Castro Caycedo questions whether their procurement and hiring practices delivered the promised in-country investment.

Meanwhile, Exxon’s public relations machinery was in motion. Its most visible arm, Lámpara magazine, published lavishly illustrated articles about Cerrejón and the Guajira region in almost every issue between 1980 and 1986. These were not always narrowly focused on the mining operation, but also included historical and ecological accounts, as well as ethnographic articles about the majority indigenous population in the region, the Wayúu.

Some of the articles published in Lámpara in 1985

This apparent interest in the lifestyles and beliefs of the inhabitants of La Guajira is more present in Exxon’s materials than in the state’s efforts to explain and defend the project. Educational television on public service channels was central to Carbocol’s public relations in the early years of Cerrejón. Programmes intended to support adult distance learning for the basic school curriculum explained the process of open-cast mining and justified the benefits that it would bring to the country and to the local population. Many of them reused and remixed sponsored footage, changing the emphasis slightly depending on whether the item was about geography, natural sciences, social studies or maths. The absence of indigenous voices from these educational materials emphasises the concentration of power in the main cities by white or mestizo elites. In this centralist model of the nation, macroeconomic arguments about foreign currency and infrastructure modernisation are placed above the life worlds of people in the extractive zone.

As the first chapter of the Truth Commission’s ‘Findings and Recommendations’ report states, this core-periphery dynamic within national borders, coupled with global commodity markets, has been an engine of the decades-long internal conflict.

“Conceiving a part of Colombia as a country that only matters as a source of natural resources has led to the expansion of a development model based on extractivism, and to policy being imposed through coercion or at gunpoint” (p. 71-72)

The 1991 Constitution was a step towards democratising power through representation and rights, but the inertia of extractivism continues to destroy ecosystems and displace communities. In the last few years, the assassination of environmental defenders and community organisers has been particularly relentless. And yet, resistance continues to surge, on the streets as well as in independent media. A major shift in representation has taken place since the 1990s, with the proliferation of very successful indigenous media initiatives. It is fair to say that nowadays there is greater access to media self-representation, reporting, and advocacy by indigenous and Afro communities in extractive zones (examples in La Guajira include the work of David Hernández Palmar and the La Guajira le habla al País project).

Trailer for Wounmainkat (Our Land, 2008). Full film at http://www.isuma.tv/wayuu/wounmainkat-nuestra-tierra

This early history of public relations debates around El Cerrejón mine captures some of the arguments around resource nationalism that other countries transformed into policy in the decades that followed. The need to extract fossil fuels is never questioned, only the terms of the deal with multinationals. By this point, Exxon knew that fossil fuels were causing climate change, but their approach to environmental issues is to claim that pollution is localised and controlled. The sacrificial zone for this environmental destruction is indigenous territory, figured as a barren wasteland. To the limited extent that sponsored media or even critics of the project acknowledged the Wayúu, it was either by seeing them as an unchanging feature of the geography, or by debating the economic compensation or assistance families may get from the mine. Centralist and colonial understandings of the land (as first and foremost an economic resource) underpinned the government’s discourse as much as that of its critics, with no recognition of indigenous relationships to the territory. As we see perhaps the beginning of a move away from the unquestioned centrality of fossil fuel extraction, it is useful to remember the role of images and narratives in entrenching the model, and the potential opened up by indigenous media to find other ways of looking at the earth.

You can browse a summary of my ongoing archive research here: https://mediarxiv.org/u6qvh/

Watching and hoping

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Colombia is a hopeful country. Against our best instincts, after nothing but catastrophic disappointments and broken promises, people hope that the current peace process will come to something. This is not naive hope – even in the best possible scenario, the current agreement will only address one aspect (and one actor) in our historical clusterfuck. But there is no other option. It is either trying again or accepting that the world’s oldest ongoing conflict is a permanent feature. Even those who want to continue the war sell their militaristic programme on the basis of hope: for security and growth.

In Colombia people think about identities. Not just academics either; concepts from critical theory (‘the other’, ‘symbolic violence’) permeate journalistic and political discourse. This much attention given to cultural or ideological categories in a country with so much material inequality and physical violence may seem surprising. And yet, in 2015 Colombian film production hit a record high of 36 feature releases, while around 80 film festivals are active. This is an unprecedented scenario, and the hopes are also high. It is therefore an interesting moment for me to go back to Santa Fe de Antioquia, a festival I had not been to in almost a decade. Much has changed.

On the year the Festival started, 2000, only four Colombian films had been released, and there was no structure for state support of film production, after the collapse of the previous awards and tax credits system. A critic remarked that year on “the precariousness of our environment and the effective lack of a national film industry”.1 In 2015, the festival starts with a morning meeting of the National Cinematography Council, a body that includes representatives from all branches of the trade (except, as a vehement student noted, the universities). It was set up to oversee the execution of the 2003 Film Law, which established a tax on exhibition, distribution and production to be reinvested in the making and promotion of Colombian films. Nowadays, most Colombian films receive some support from this fund, as well as using other tax incentives for national and international production. Festivals like this one also apply for these public funds, in combination with an intricate mix of in-kind or cash support (the programme lists over 20 supporters, plus a dozen media partners and a longer list of local businesses).

Santa Fe de Antioquia, 2000

An image from the first Santa Fe de Antioquia Film and Video Festival, in 2000. Taken from Kinetoscopio.

While this ensures a professional organisation and smooth delivery, this festival is not aiming to compete with Cannes. It doesn’t have the same purpose. The aforementioned critic also described the event as “after all, a provincial festival”. This is still true, though the festival’s sense of locality has changed. Initially the explicit purpose of the festival was to reinvigorate film culture in a town that did not have a cinema. There was a focus on engaging the local audience, not only as spectators but also as budding filmmakers. The festival’s relationship with the municipality and schools is still strong, and many locals do attend. However, the audience has changed since the start of the festival, due to the increase of tourism in the region, and the nurturing of an audiovisually inclined milieu in the many Media and Communications university programmes in the nearest city, Medellin.

Located in the valley of River Cauca, some 35 miles north-west from Medellin, Santa Fe de Antioquia has long been a tourist town, due to its hot, dry weather and colonial architecture. However, since the opening in 2006 of a new tunnel that shortened the travel time from Medellin in half, Santa Fe’s appeal has increased considerably. Wealthy Medellin couples choose it for picturesque weddings, thrill-seekers find a variety of lightly regulated adventure sports, and the less well-off visit on day trips by motorbike or bus. The festival’s own crowd, however, is mostly students, who come as much for the parties as for the films. Many of them are more interested in making films than in watching them, or at least watching them while sober. I don’t know why, but many people here really want to make films, and the festival has found ways to show their work to an audience mostly of peers. The talks, panels and workshops take a practical angle, from independent film production to film acting and 3D animation. There are also a number of open-air panel discussions with filmmakers and actors, a festival tradition. The presence of well-known actors (likely to be familiar to the audience through their work on television) continues to create popular interest in the academic programme.

Throughout the day, the programme of screenings, talks and workshops is spread around various indoor spaces in the town, through agreements with the municipal theatre, the Chambers of Commerce, the state university, and other public and private entities that have appropriate venues. The free-of-cost and unticketed nature of most events is in the festival’s ethos, but it creates a variety of logistical problems. During the day, the small spaces available are not enough to accommodate the demand; people were turned away from many of the screenings I attended. Many film festivals wished they had this problem – keen audiences for films that are not necessarily brand new or exclusive. Screenings of shorts by young and emerging filmmakers are also full to capacity.

Open-air screenings start at about 6.30 or 7pm, after the sun has set, and face other issues. The presenters introducing each screening explain their censorship rating and try to persuade parents to take home their children if the film has more adult content, like the lyrically sexual Cheatin’ (Plympton, 2013) which opened the festival. In any case, there are plenty of unaccompanied minors who are unlikely to heed the advice. The efficacy of the four walls and single entrance of a cinema as a device for exclusion is obvious by comparison.

Light pollution affects projection quality, but the audience is patient

Light pollution affects projection quality, but the audience is patient

Walls are also rather good at keeping light and noise out, and a tourist town on a busy weekend is definitely not a quiet place. The light from street lamps and shops makes the darkest parts of a dark movie, Violencia, completely undecipherable. The three quiet, naturalistic, devastating stories distil the tragedies and dignity of thousands of victims and survivors, and commit them to memory. They deserve better than competing for attention with the party music blaring from the corner of the park, or the tuk-tuks racing down the cobbled streets. And yet, it was important to have this film there, and La Tierra y la Sombra on the following night. This town has its own history of violence, and the watchful eye of the paramilitaries is still an unspoken presence in these colonial squares.

Panel discussion at Jesus Nazareno square

Panel discussion at Jesus Nazareno square

On Saturday evening, people are leaving mass at the Nazarene church, and in the cosy, secluded square outside it, a conversation follows two shorts. Like other events in the festival, the panel includes film actors and the director of Violencia. But the event is organised by the National Agency for Reintegration (ACR) and the International Organisation for Migration, and one of the other participants is a demobilised guerrilla combatant. As she speaks plainly of how hard it has been to work alongside the people she once fought, I fear for her. Some of her old enemies may still be circling around on their motorbikes, I think. She is brave, and speaking of peace here is a courageous act, and peace is going to take a lot of courage.

Trailer for Jorge Forero’s Violencia:

 

1Braulio Uribe, “I Festival de Cine y Video de Santa Fe de Antioquia: Pueblito de mis cuitas”, Kinetoscopio No. 58 (2001), pp. 107-111.

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Cine Mejoral

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When I spoke to my dad (pictured above, with my uncles, trying to look cool) about my current interest in non-theatrical exhibition, he told me again about ‘Cine Mejoral’. This was a free film show, projected on a wall, which he remembers attending when he was growing up in a small town, Chinchiná, in Colombia’s coffee region. He remembers sitting on benches in a patio with his brothers and friends, watching Westerns and Mexican films. It was the early 1960s and the town had a fine permanent cinema, where they would often spend “social triple” on a Sunday afternoon, but Cine Mejoral was free, as it was sponsored by Mejoral, a brand of painkillers. My mother, from a smaller town not far away (Pácora), also remembers these free film shows in the village square, projecting on the walls of a wealthy family’s house.

I remembered this story when Richard McDonald mentioned that some of the cinema vans used by itinerant projectionists in Thailand were bought from pharmaceutical companies. Of course, health campaigners and educators had been using mobile film units for quite a long time. In Colombia, the Ministry of Education had cinema vans at the end of the 1940s. But as soon as we started Googling, it became evident that Cine Mejoral was part of something pretty big.

Mejoral’s promotional cinema operations spread across Latin America, sticking to the same pattern. A simple search brings up examples in Nicaragua, Guatemala, Dominican Republic, Mexico, El Salvador, and Peru. In Colombia, I find a mention from the North-East border with Venezuela and the cold, remote highlands of the South. The stories are all very similar: the Mejoral van would turn up in the village, using a loudspeaker to announce the evening entertainment (hence Quechua speakers in Peru dubbed it ‘the talking car’). They would choose a wall, usually the outside of a school or municipal building, on the main square. People of all ages would turn up, sometimes bringing their own rugs or stools, to watch Westerns, slapstick comedies, and Mexican action films. They would bring snacks, typically local products like corn parcels (humitas) in Peru, or ‘cuca’ biscuits and cheese in Colombia. The nostalgic remembrances of these outdoor cinemas talk of the excitement and fun that they brought to these rural audiences.

The apparent uniformity of Cine Mejoral throughout its thousands of local instances across a very large region is interesting. So what’s behind it? A market expansion drive coupled with an ideologically motivated project of Continental integration. A perfect storm of capitalist interests, neocolonial politics, and mass media. All this to sell painkillers?

From the 1948-1949 ‘Mejoral’ calendar for Argentina

It’s a story that goes back to the aftermath of the First World War, when the German company Bayer was forced to give up their Aspirin trademark in the US and sell up to Sterling Drug. A later agreement allowed Bayer to retain the Latin American market for aspirin. Bayer was part of IG Farben and deeply entangled with the Nazi regime from the 1930s. As the US entered the war, reclaiming the Latin American consumer pharma market for American companies became as much a strategic goal as a commercial opportunity. The film trade press Cine Mundial reported in 1942 on the start of the Mejoral marketing campaign:

Sterling has 29 offices and 13 factories in our America, which will manufacture, advertise and sell new medicinal products to counteract the influence of German drugs. The campaign, of course, has the full support of each national government. (Cine Mundial Feb. 1942 p. 96)

Continental unity through shared cultural expressions was one of the strategies of the Office of the Coordinator of Inter-American Affairs (OCIAA), headed by Nelson Rockefeller during WWII. The OCIAA had been lobbying Hollywood to change their usually offensive representations of Latin America, as part of the ‘Good Neighbour’ policy . By the time the US entered the war, the Rockefeller Foundation had already experimented with Pan-American Radio programmes for a few years. Radio was thus the first line of work for the OCIAA, which, as Jose Luis Ortiz Garza explains, had four main propaganda goals, one of which was promoting “hemispheric solidarity”. Content was broadcast on short-wave from the US, recorded on discs for local broadcasting, or scripted to be recorded locally, and it included music, variety shows, thriller serials, and historical programmes.

Broadcast, May 1, 1944

Broadcast, May 1, 1944: Marketing solidarity by river boat

Archive research by Ortiz Garza shows that Sterling Drug (the makers of Mejoral) made a deal with the OCIAA in 1942 whereby the pharma company would buy over US$335k worth of airtime and print, and give 10% of it for OCIAA messages. Sterling also agreed to broadcast the OCIAA anthem and play it on its loudspeaker cars. Beyond its efficacy as direct propaganda, the huge publicity budgets invested by US companies in Latin American media was a bribe, or at least an enticement to toe the Allied line. Writing about Mexico, Ortiz Garza argues that

Many companies, apparently pursuing commercial goals, became peculiar branches of the propaganda or foreign affairs ministries. This was clearly noticeable in the case of manufacturers and distributors of patent medicines (n.d., p. 7, my translation)

Bayer had already had mobile cinema vans in Latin America, so when Sterling sought to claim the aspirin market for Mejoral, they had to step up. Without proper research it is impossible to say when exactly ‘Cine Mejoral’ was born, and with what equipment, and how its intricate routes were traced, or what role it had after WWII (which is when my parents remember it). This is exacerbated by the fact that ‘Cine Mejoral’ became a generic name for free outdoor screenings, which were later organised by the Church or the municipality. But whoever takes this on as a serious research project will be entering the fascinating realm where geopolitics and childhood experience come together around a sheet on a wooden frame, and the Lone Ranger gallops into a village square deep into the Colombian mountains.

 

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