(1990–2014)
Beyond the fountain is the forecourt, divinely inspired, with a pavement of stone where they sell the shells to pilgrims that are the sign of St. James, and the wineskins, deerskin satchels, purses, laces, belts, and all kinds of medicinal herbs and other spices, and much more. The French street has money changers, hotel keepers, and other merchants. The forecourt is a stone’s throw long and wide.—Codex Calixtinus1
Frequently the main purpose of a dictatorship, or an oligarchy, or a junta, is to facilitate commerce for the benefit of the few, generally at the expense of the many, but oftentimes with full cooperation from the exploited nonetheless. An important corollary to this general principle is the coordination or control of labor forces, either with or without the support of trade unions. From the standpoint of capital, labor must be made readily available, disposable whenever necessary, and above all, as inexpensive as possible. The unprecedented globalized economy of the late 20th and early 21st centuries, a vision pioneered by Spain and its European competitors during earlier times but later taken to new heights of sophistication (or oppression, some would say) by the United States and Great Britain, put a strong emphasis upon the freedom of commercial activity to cross international boundaries with little or no restraint. Selective military force of course played an important role in this system as well, but by the 1990s naked aggression for its own sake had fallen out of political favor; moreover, it had become apparent by then that there were far more efficient and less expensive ways to enforce a New World Order in the economic sense. One of the most popular, at least among corporate decision-makers, would be to offer jobs and higher living standards to those needing these the most, typically people living in countries other than ones in which paying consumers of products and services resided. The new system has proven an effective way to make fast money for those able to best take advantage. It is also a system showing itself adaptable to almost any kind of enterprise, including the ancient business of servicing and maintaining religious shrine pilgrimage or tourism.
The 500th anniversary in 1992 of Christopher Columbus’ maiden voyage to the New World received far more mixed reactions and public commentary than foreseen by its boosters. Even those socioeconomic groups benefiting most from The Encounter seemed embarrassed to be reminded about it. Proposed world fairs and expositions of the type so successful in Chicago a century previous were disdainfully declined or expired in the planning stages. Would-be blockbuster films on the same subject matter tanked or were met with a mixture of indifference and hostility.2 In fairness to the memory of Columbus, the half-millennial anniversary of his achievement deserved far better than what the public relations industry was able to achieve for it.3 The religious fanatic from Genoa who originally sailed under the Spanish banner of Saint James the Greater did in fact accomplish his long-term goal, which was to convert the majority of the New World’s indigenous population to Christianity, or at least the majority of those who were able to survive. Refugee overflow from the other then-known continents also found temporary safe-haven. Competing claims from other parts of Europe or Asia that had in fact reached the New World before 1492 should be reminded that these prior events, real though they were, did little good to anyone else at the time. In truth, it took the Iberian spirit of conquest in the name of religion (i.e. Santiago Mayor) to make it a thing of true significance. As for the subsequent, dazzling rise of the United States as the last great superpower, only time will tell whether this was ultimately a good or bad thing for humankind. So far so good, at least. In the meantime, let us praise Christopher Columbus for all his extraordinary, one-of-a-kind accomplishments, as opposed to merely criticizing him for his obvious shortcomings.
That same year (1992), seemingly in response to unanticipated controversy over The Encounter, Rigoberta Menchú of Guatemala became the first Native American (Mayan) to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Six years later (in 1998), more impressively in some respects, Menchú was the recipient of the Princess of Asturias Award, a prize bestowed from the very cradle of the Spanish Reconquista, in acknowledgment of her efforts on behalf of indigenous American human rights. Some of the worst atrocities during Guatemala’s intermittent civil conflicts that Menchú helped bring to international attention were the 1990 massacres occurring in Santiago Atitlán, a city whose Spanish history extended back to the early 16th century (see Chapter 12). Atitlán’s notoriety had in fact been achieved nine years earlier in 1981 when the U.S.–born Roman Catholic priest stationed there, Father Stanley Francis Rother (1935–1981), was gunned down by paramilitary operatives. This was only a year after Archbishop Óscar Romero had been murdered under similar circumstances in nearby El Salvador (see Chapter 19).4 The widespread suffering, civil strife, and killing of innocent life throughout Central and Latin America in fact seemed to only escalate as more developed countries of the Northern Hemisphere prospered during the late 20th century. By the early 1990s, it became harder to resist the notion that profitable growth for some automatically translated into misery and desperation for others. One theory, or promotion rather, was that absolute freedom of international trade would allow the supposed miracle of capitalism to spread to these less fortunate societies and thereby reduce the number of outrages then playing out in a seemingly continuous pattern. One direct result of this thinking was the 1994 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) signed by the United States, Mexico, and Canada, thereby loosening trade (and labor) restrictions between these contiguous nations. An immediate by-product of NAFTA was the dramatic rise of Mexican maquiladora districts south of the Rio Grande River, such as the city of Matamoros (see Chapter 16). By the late 20th century, it seemed as if the old conquering ghost of Santiago Mayor had somehow resurrected, this time into a dominating commercial entity, spreading across the international landscape and largely fueled by unrestricted mobility of capital, combined with a limitless supply of cheap labor oblivious to the inconvenience of strong trade unions.
A happier, though somewhat isolated consequence of this same era resulting from labor without borders and cross-border commercial activity pertained to the performing arts. Interestingly, this prominent example had little or nothing to do with NAFTA, but rather with a slight thawing of cultural interchange between the United States and Cuba. In 1996, the American recording artist and impresario Ry Cooder found himself sent to Havana for a musical project that never materialized, but then decided to manufacture one on his own while staying there. The spectacular result was Buena Vista Social Club, named after the legendary but long-defunct local venue, a throwback Cuban all-star recording that, with little marketing effort, became a global best-selling album in 1997, then later in 1998, an acclaimed documentary film directed by Wim Wenders.5 Twenty years later, the venerable consortium continues to perform, although many of its original members, advanced in age at the time, have since passed away. While pre-revolutionary pop music in Cuba is a study unto itself, one of its key building blocks (as acknowledged by Cooder and others), was the son de Cuba (Cuban songs) originating on the east side of the island during the early 20th century, representing a classic fusion style of African and Spanish musical forms. One of its first and greatest recording exponents between 1925 and 1961 had been the Trío Matamoros, led by Miguel Matamoros (1894–1971) of Santiago de Cuba. After the 1959 revolution, however, tourist-based clubs like the Buena Vista and others mostly closed while their working musicians, for the most part, had to find other livelihoods, that is until Cooder’s offbeat project reunited many of the best surviving exponents during the late 1990s for a final flurry of creative activity.
The unpleasant dawning of the 21st century unleashed multiple disruptive phenomena against North and South American societies, but in truth these tensions and dissatisfactions had been building for a long time—for centuries, one might easily argue. The immediate impact of the cell-based terrorist attacks against the United States on September 11, 2001, was to shift the considerable energies of U.S. foreign policy away from Latin America (upon which it had been focused for more than half a century), with far more emphasis now given towards the Middle East. As Americans tried to wrap their heads around why Islamic extremism had lashed out against the U.S. without warning so violently and suddenly, one of the more bizarre yet revealing pronouncements came from the mouth of none other than Osama bin Laden. In an opening statement made to the media only a few days after the attacks, Bin Laden vehemently maintained that the “tragedy of Andalusia” would not be repeated in Palestine.6 In the New World (which had just been attacked), the proclamation was met mostly with incomprehension. Essentially, Bin Laden was saying that Islam would never be forced out of Palestine the way it had out of Spain back in 1492 (see Chapter 10). Thus, old resentments over the Iberian Reconquista seemed once again to force their way into the forefront of public attention, 509 years after the fact. Notwithstanding the insanity of the rationale, its earnestness seemed to be affirmed when other terrorist attacks later played out against European countries such as Spain, France, and England—nations that had actively participated in the Reconquista and Crusades more than half a millennium before. Another, perhaps even more destructive consequence of 9-11, was that the lion’s share of U.S. military and diplomatic resources were quickly transferred from nearby Latin America to far distant locales such as Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Persian Gulf, where the logistical expense (born as usual by the American taxpayer) increased exponentially and continues to do so as this is being written.
The United States, for its part, reacted to the homicidal extremism of 9-11 mostly with hysteria and more false assumptions about the world around it. Instead of focusing on breeding grounds for terrorist cells, it lashed out against old adversaries to settle scores, such as its former ally, the military dictatorship of Iraq, which had gone rogue in 1990 by attacking its defenseless neighbor Kuwait. Most of Latin America condemned the second U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003 or remained neutral, with the notable exceptions of Colombia, Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, and the Dominican Republic, all of which lent some support while receiving little or no credit in the process.7 Within its own hemisphere, the U.S. exhibited more bizarre behavior by establishing a terrorist detention camp on the doorstep of southeastern Cuba at Guantanamo Bay in 2002.8 This in turn led to widespread irrational associations of terrorist activity with the Marxist Castro regime, only slightly less removed from reality than the widely peddled notion that Iraq had been stockpiling WMDs prior to the latest round of hostilities. In truth, Guantanamo had been set up mainly to annoy Castro and reassure the American voting public that the terrorist problem was far removed from the homeland—yet another false assumption. No one talked much about the deeper psychology motivating the suicide attackers or their perceived grievances, most of these going back for centuries, and specifically aimed at almost everything represented by western civilization.
Meanwhile, finally left to its own devices after decades of foreign interference, Latin America displayed a surprising willingness to engage in commercial activity with the Far East—just as Christopher Columbus had striven to accomplish five centuries previously. For example, during the first decade of the 21st century, international trade between the Spanish-speaking New World and the Peoples Republic of China (PRC) burgeoned, with the latter quickly becoming Latin America’s second largest trading partner after the U.S. In 2005, Chile became the first Latin American country to sign a free trade agreement with the PRC, being ideally positioned for that role in terms of geography, capacity, and temperament. Thus, the capital cities of Beijing and Santiago became closely linked both through treaty and commerce. This was not exactly what Imperial Spain had anticipated back in 1492, but nonetheless represented a fulfillment of that old ambition. Three years later (in 2008), as the U.S. economy plunged into the Great Recession, the Union of South American Nations (UNASUR) was founded with headquarters in Ecuador and its own parliament in Bolivia, motivated in no small part by the limitless possibilities of foreign trade beyond that with the United States.9 Perversely, by that point in time illegal narcotics trafficking between the U.S. and south-of-the-border countries had skyrocketed, further fueling mutual suspicion and hostility.10 Simultaneously, a seemingly insatiable appetite had developed in the U.S. for all agricultural labor and produce originating from Latin America, whether these be legal or illegal in official status.
The plain fact of the matter was that by the dawn of the new century the U.S. economy, especially its agricultural economy, had become more dependent upon south-of-the-border labor supplies than ever before. Illegal labor was particularly desirable in that it was the cheapest, union-free, and completely devoid of government regulation. Nor was it stealing jobs from anyone else who wanted to do similar work (there being but few), although domestic political resentment was intensely felt nonetheless towards migrant workers, generating various myths about their use of taxpayer-funded public services, educational facilities, and even voter fraud. As the traditional patron saint of menial laborers, Santiago Mayor appeared to be invading the United States not as a warrior, but rather as a migrant worker. In the meantime, relationships between Spanish-speaking Americans and their Anglo counterparts continued to subtly change by increments. In 2008, Raúl Castro succeeded his demonized but still living brother Fidel as President of Cuba, after the latter had held power for nearly half a century. The ultimate result of this peaceful, orderly change was that long-strained U.S.–Cuban relations continued to improve gradually. On the mainland domestic front, Bronx-born and Puerto Rican–descended Sonia Sotomayor was appointed by President Obama in 2009 as the first Hispanic and Latina Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. By the end of the first decade of the 21st century, it had become abundantly clear to any objective observer that Spanish-speaking and bilingual culture had become an integral, essential part of American society whether one liked it or not. For American citizens to deny the all-pervasive Hispanic influence on their contemporary society had become as ridiculous as Spaniards trying to deny pervasive Moorish influence on their own—something the Spaniards themselves had long ago given up on trying to do.
One thing the Spanish had not given up on was the Camino de Santiago; indeed, the Way of Saint James appeared to be more popular than ever as a pilgrimage or tourism route, both for Christians and non–Christians alike. The burgeoning postwar revival phase of the religious tourism industry in Spain had in many respects begun in 1957 with the publication of Walter Starkie’s excellent travelogue, The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James. Over the next half century, infrastructure was improved, information made readily accessible, and promotional materials continued to pour forth from various multimedia sources. Arguably the highest profile of these came in 2009, when on-site shooting began for The Way, an independent film designed as a star vehicle for celebrity actor Martin Sheen by his son, the director-producer-writer Emilio Estevez. The movie was released in 2010 and was a modest critical and commercial success, although many of Sheen’s biggest fans have still never heard of it, mainly because of its offbeat, faith-based emphasis. In the immediate wake of this increased visibility, news broke in 2011 that the oldest surviving illuminated manuscript of the Codex Calixtinus (see Chapter 6) had been stolen from its keepers at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.11 By 2012, the valuable artifact had been recovered (and its convicted hijackers later imprisoned), but this disconcerting episode, taken in tandem with the recent motion picture by Sheen and Estevez, seemed to announce to otherwise disinterested observers that the Caminos were big business more than ever before. The same commercial forces that had thrived along these routes during the Middle Ages, including all the attached employments and labor support (see header quote), continued to stretch across the entire Iberian Peninsula into adjacent countries such as France and Portugal, and well beyond, even to other continents and hemispheres.
The (conjectured) 1200th anniversary year for discovery of the shrine at Santiago de Compostela in 2013 (see Chapter 4) was also marked by the election of Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio of Buenos Aires as Pope Francis I, the first Latin American to become head of the Roman Catholic Church. Although Pope Francis to date has shown little sign of being a devotee to the Santiago shrine, he did opt to name himself after the ever-popular Saint Francis who in fact visited Santiago de Compostela as a pilgrim during the early 13th century. In 2010, Pope Francis’ predecessor, Pope Benedict XVI, had made an official visit to the Santiago shrine, which was met largely with a combination of apathy or resentment by a Spanish society now increasingly suspicious of the church establishment, especially after the horrors of civil war during the late 1930s (see Chapter 18).12 As for Pope Francis, by contrast he within two years would visit Santiago de Cuba, the old launching pad for aggression in the New World, if one is to judge by the likes of Hernán Cortés, Theodore Roosevelt, or Fidel Castro.13 Like many of other Pope Francis’ shrewd public relations activities, his Cuban visit and homily was both surprising to hard-liners yet well-received by the majority of both Christians and non–Christians alike.14 The contrast in approaches towards the place name and memory of Saint James the Greater between the two successive pontiffs was notable. Whereas Benedict had preached and warned against the dangers of secularism from the ancient rallying point of the Reconquista, Francis urged mercy and mutual forgiveness from the revolutionary flashpoint of Latin America. Then again, as a native Latin American himself, albeit one of Italian-Argentine descent, Francis understood all too well where he was and to whom he was addressing his remarks.
During past and present times, the papacy has been headquartered at Vatican City in Rome, situated within the ancient capital but politically independent from the Italian state, strictly speaking. Aside from being itself one of the world’s leading tourist attractions and pilgrimage destinations, the Vatican has, since the 16th century, become symbolic of the Counter-Reformation itself, both in religious ideology and architectural style. Prominent among these physical symbols at the Vatican is the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran, the official seat of the Roman pontiff, and a church whose historical origins go back to the late imperial era. Within this iconic Baroque-Neoclassical structure are 12 striking statues of the apostles, including Saint James the Greater, the latter presented as a staff-holding pilgrim, but otherwise easily mistaken as a pagan deity of the type once worshipped long ago on this very same site. The artist was the noted Italian sculptor Camillo Rusconi (1658–1728), who executed four of the 12 apostolic figures at St. John’s, including the church’s namesake son of Zebedee (brother of Saint James), the evangelist Saint Matthew, and Saint Andrew (brother of Saint Peter).15 The statue of Saint James was reportedly the last of four completed by Rusconi himself, circa 1715–1718, based on an earlier sketch by the distinguished Italian artist Carlo Maratta (1625–1713). In this portrayal, the visage of the saint is directed upwards towards the heavens, but also looking sideways, as if for guidance or direction on a perilous journey—a fitting inspiration for any past or present-day Bishop of Rome.
Years later, the Rusconi St. James may well have been viewed by a young Austrian artist visiting Rome, Martin Johann Schmidt (1718–1801). Schmidt would go on to produce his own distinctive interpretation on a similar theme, the elaborate etching titled St. James the Greater Preaching, circa 1764, produced when the painter was in his mid–40s and today in possession of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, along with other valuable works by the same artist. Schmidt may have also come into contact with the famous (but later destroyed during World War II) cycle on the life of Saint James the Greater painted in Padua by Andrea Mantegna (see Chapter 19), which included another memorable depiction of the apostle as an evangelist.16 The episode is significant in that it presumably led directly to James’ martyrdom in Jerusalem (as recounted in Acts of the Apostles) and there is no reason to doubt its historicity. In any event, nearly all of Schmidt’s surviving work displays familiarity with and affinity for that of Rembrandt’s, another outstanding artist attracted to religious themes in general, as well as to those relating to Saint James the Greater (see Chapter 14). As such, Schmidt’s St. James is unique in that it combines technical elements both from Catholic Rome and Protestant Amsterdam, cohesively integrated into his own individual style.
Schmidt’s St. James the Greater Preaching places a statuesque apostle with outstretched arms haranguing a large surrounding crowd from atop an outdoor rock, likely symbolizing the gospel message. James’ former pilgrim status is denoted only by what appears to be a water gourd hanging from his belt. The crowd reaction in Schmidt’s portrayal is more diverse and varied than in Mantegna, where the response is exclusively that of fear and alarm. At the apostle’s feet in Schmidt are the half-naked destitute of society, including an impoverished mother and child. James’ admonitions appear to be primarily aimed at a wealthy listener on horseback, richly attired with a sun umbrella. A pet dog with the privileged bystander seems to be better cared for than the nearby human destitute, although at least the dog (unlike its master) glances in pity towards the poor. In the heavens above the scene, angels and cherubim give alms to another poor person seated upon a ledge. Others in the audience are curious, admiring, or suspicious. The entire episode likely alludes to the New Testament Letter of James, in which the author gives a passionate sermon in favor of good works over mere faith or belief. The artistic interpretation is based on the common misunderstanding that the Letter of James was written by the elder son of Zebedee, a notion today typically rejected by Christian scholars.17 Nevertheless, Schmidt’s dynamic portrayal is well in keeping with the Greater James’ reputation for intensity and lack of compromise, hence the nicknames given to him and his brother by Jesus as “Sons of Thunder” (see Chapter 1).
As the year 2014 closed, the winds of endless political change seemed to be yet again gathering strength across the Old and New Worlds. With borderless forces of labor and unrestricted mobility of capital came massive collateral damage, especially to the struggling or former middle classes of Great Britain and the United States.18 Unprecedented, vast fortunes had been accumulated by those able to fully exploit the new global order—not unlike the Spaniards of the 16th century—while everyone else was left to struggle through as best they could. The old cult of Saint James the Greater, whether presenting itself as irresistible conqueror, Camino pilgrim, preacher of the gospel, or otherwise, more than anything appeared, on the surface at least, to be mostly forgotten, even among those enthusiastically professing the Christian faith. Whether this was mainly the result of irreligious commercial trends, decline in conventional religious faith, failing public education, or all the above, we are not prepared to say. Notwithstanding all this, however, the cult remained entrenched within the collective memory, and in some more subtle respects, stronger than ever before. Iberian Camino traffic flourished, including well beyond Iberia itself. Prominent place names still bore the Santiago-Saint James moniker, and claimed the patronage of the apostle, from Jerusalem to Montreal, from Chile to the Philippines, and from Paris to Salt Lake City. In short, Saint James the Greater was far from disappearing anytime soon, even after everything that had transpired over the last 2,000 years.