Download Why Stop at Two

Why Stop at Two?
Greg Grandin
London Review of Books
October 22, 2009
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n20/print/gran01_.html
Leftovers: Tales of the Latin American Left edited by
Jorge Castañeda and Marco Morales
`The people of South America are the most ignorant, the most bigoted, the most
superstitious of all the Roman Catholics in Christendom,' John Adams, the second
American president, wrote in 1815. The notion that they could form a `confederation of
free governments', as the Venezuelan revolutionary Francisco de Miranda had proposed,
was as `absurd as similar plans would be to establish democracies among the birds, beasts
and fishes'. Until recently, scholars pretty much agreed. The region had plenty of
liberals, but a category that includes both Miranda - who corresponded with Thomas
Paine, participated in the American and French Revolutions and led Venezuela's break
from Spain – and Porfirio Díaz, Mexico's strongman for around 30 years at the turn of the
20th century, is as volatile as the politics that the term `liberalism' seeks to explain.
Historians tended to think that liberalism, which had no roots in the continent, masked a
colonial legacy of patrimonial royalism and Catholic monism which produced
authoritarians like Díaz and utopians like Miranda, a knight errant, Adams wrote, `as
delirious as his immortal countryman, the ancient hero of La Mancha'.
After the 1959 Cuban revolution, figuring out how to stop the swing between
authoritarianism and utopianism - and how to prevent the spread of Communism became a central preoccupation of social scientists in the US. Latin America served as a
testing ground for modernisation theory, a project aimed at shepherding developing
countries to democracy. In the early 1960s, the goal was to set up functioning welfare
states. The purpose of society, Walt Rostow wrote in Stages of Economic Growth,
published in 1960, is not `compound interest for ever'; human beings were not
`maximizing units' but `pluralist' beings who deserved to live in dignity. `The future of
the hemisphere did seem bright with hope,' Arthur Schlesinger Jr wrote after JFK
announced the Alliance for Progress, which promised `homes, work and land, health and
schools - techo, trabajo y tierra, salud y escuelas'. JFK `pronounced the Spanish
manfully', Schlesinger said, `but with a distinct New England intonation'.
By the mid-1970s, however, nearly all of South America was ruled by juntas and Central
America was convulsed by civil wars. Union members, peasant activists,reformist
politicians, priests and teachers were persecuted; hundreds of thousands were killed by
the security forces; more than a million people in Central America alone were driven
from their homes. Keynesianism had given way to neoliberalism, and Latin America was
now the laboratory for a more stringent form of modernisation. Samuel Huntington was
frank: `democracy,' he wrote in 1989, `is clearly compatible with inequality in both
wealth and income, and, in some measure, it may be dependent on such inequality.' By
the time the Berlin Wall came down that November, almost every Latin American
country had returned to some form of constitutional rule. Manuel Noriega held out in
Panama, but he was dispatched a month later by US troops in Washington's first postCold War invasion. There was still Fidel Castro, but Cuba was isolated, having lost its
Soviet Bloc trading partners. By June 1990, Bush páre could claim that a `rising tide of
democracy, never before witnessed in this beloved hemisphere' would soon make
possible a `free trade zone stretching from the port of Anchorage to Tierra del Fuego'.
Latin America's conversion to free trade was short-lived, however. In 1998, Hugo
Chávez was elected president of Venezuela, and Latin America began another
turn to the left. In one country after another, self-described socialists, from Luiz Inácio
Lula da Silva in Brazil and Michelle Bachelet in Chile to Evo Morales in Bolivia and
Rafael Correa in Ecuador, came to power. In April 2008, Fernando Lugo, a priest,
became president of Paraguay, ending more than six decades of one-party rule, 35 of
them under the dictatorship of General Stroessner. Morales broke through Bolivia's
political deadlock in August 2008 by submitting to a recall referendum, which he won
with nearly 70 per cent of the vote; he then presided over the ratification of a new
social-democratic constitution. A year earlier, more than 65 per cent of Ecuadorians had
voted for a new charter. In February this year, Venezuela's constitution was amended,
allowing Chávez to run for re-election when his term ends in 2012. And in March,
Mauricio Funes, of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front, was elected president
of El Salvador.
Surveying the resurgent Latin American left, policy makers and commentators tend to
divide it into social democrats whom Washington can work with, and demagogues who
must be contained. As Michael Reid, an editor at the Economist, puts it, it is `hard to
overstate what is at stake in this ideological rivalry, this battle for Latin America's soul'
between liberal democrats and a new generation of knights errant who have learned to
manipulate the rites of democracy - that is, elections - while hollowing out its substance.
The Mexican political scientist and former foreign minister Jorge Castañeda also divides
the left into two camps: pragmatists, forward-looking reformers such as Lula and
Bachelet, who have made their peace with a globalised world and the reality of US
power; and irreconcilables such as Chávez and Morales, nostalgists more than populists
who cling to `introverted and archaic' notions of sovereignty and anti-imperialism. `The
revolution, the assault on the Winter Palace,' he writes, `is still ever gently on their mind.'
But why stop at two lefts? Latin America's presidents embody distinct traditions: tradeunionism, indigenous peasant organisation and progressive military nationalism, in the
cases of Lula, Morales and Chávez; left developmentalism with Correa, who has a PhD in
economics, in Ecuador; middle-class social democracy with Bachelet and Tabaré
Vázquez, both doctors, in Chile and Uruguay; liberation theology with Lugo in Paraguay;
and Peronism in Argentina with Cristina Fernández, who along with her predecessor and
husband, Néstor Kirchner, has returned her party to its populist
roots after a disastrous embrace of neoliberalism. The insurgent New Left has its
standard-bearers in Raúl Castro and the still lingering Fidel in Cuba as well as the
tarnished Daniel Ortega in Nicaragua. The only current not represented is old left
Communism, though Communist Parties are part of the governing coalitions in Bolivia,
El Salvador and Uruguay.
Latin America's new leftists, led by Lula and Chávez, have brought about a significant
realignment of hemispheric relations, drawing even American allies such as Colombia,
Peru and Mexico into their orbit and coming close to achieving Miranda's wished for
`confederation of free governments'. Latin American governments met twice last year,
without Washington: they condemned Colombia's US-supported raid into Ecuador to
attack a Farc camp and supported Morales in the face of separatist attacks that left scores
of government supporters dead. On a range of issues - opposition to the war in Iraq,
normalisation of relations with Cuba and ratification of the International Criminal Court they have shown a degree of unanimity and an independence from the US that would
have been unthinkable just a decade ago.
In Mexico, Peru, Ecuador, Guatemala, Colombia and Bolivia, indigenous movements
have upheld social democratic traditions. In Peru, an indigenous protest recently forced
the revocation of laws aimed at opening up large swathes of the Amazon to foreign
logging, mining and oil corporations. There have been advances in gay and women's
rights, including access to abortion: Uruguay, for example, this year made it legal
for gay couples to adopt. Rights, it seems, have been expanding in Latin America at a
moment when they seem to be contracting elsewhere. Despite this, much of the
literature on Latin America continues to emphasise the fragility of democracy in the
region. This may sometimes be true of government institutions, but it's not true of social
movements and political culture, where the idea of democracy has proved remarkably
resilient.
#
Over the last two decades, social and intellectual historians have revised their
interpretation of Hispanic liberalism. The revitalisation in Europe of Thomist rational
natural law - one of the foundations of the notion of inalienable rights - has been traced
back to debates among the Dominicans about the brutality of Spanish conquest and
colonialism. Stuart Schwartz found an unexpected degree of religious toleration in
Iberian colonial society,* while legal theorists have come to appreciate the blend of
moderate French Girondism with an Anglo-American concentration on rights that defined
the first generation of independence leaders such as Miranda. Early 19th-century
republican constitutions and civil codes in Mexico, Argentina, Nueva Granada, Alto Perú
and Chile balanced the liberal imperatives of separate powers and limiting the role of
government with the ideal of promoting a virtuous society.
Yet liberalism did not generate stable and enduring governments. By the middle of the
20th century, Latin American countries had approved a total of 186 constitutions, an
average of just under ten per country. Venezuela alone had 24. `Treaties are scraps of
paper,' Simón BolÃvar said, `constitutions, printed matter; elections, battles; freedom,
anarchy; and life a torment.' One reason for this volatility was that, in the decades before
independence, profoundly illiberal societies had developed in South America in tandem
with export-based economies. Rather than spread power and wealth, Latin American
capitalism, which was based on seignorial estates and forced labour, concentrated
privilege. While demands for pure Spanish blood were relaxed, new forms of cultural
racism took their place. The United States is often the standard by which Latin America
is judged, but it's important to remember that Latin America didn't have a `north', a
region with a free labour system in which liberalism could develop. In Latin America,
every liberalisation was the result of violent social conflict, from the Túpac Amaru
rebellion in the Andes in the 1780s, the 1794 Haitian revolution and the insurgencies led
by the priests Miguel Hidalgo and José María Morelos in Mexico in the 1810s, to the
Cuban independence wars of the second half of the 19th century and the Mexican
revolution of 1910. These and dozens of lesser-known peasant and slave revolts not only
weakened the system of forced labour but infused liberalism's abstract promises of
equality with examples of collectivism in action.
Generations of conflict over labour and land rights made Latin America famous for its
revolutionaries, but less well known is its contribution to social democracy. In 1917
Mexico produced the world's most elaborate social democratic constitution, prohibiting
child labour, affirming the right to form unions and hold strikes, enacting land reform,
abolishing debt peonage, and mandating healthcare, pensions, unemployment and
accident insurance for workers. Every Latin American country followed suit, ratifying
ever longer constitutions with chapter-length sections on social rights and duties, labour,
education, family and economic order. Between 1944 and 1946, Latin America
experienced its first, forgotten `transition to democracy': nearly every country in South
America and most of those in Central America, along with the Dominican Republic and
Cuba, became a democratic state; those that were already democracies extended the vote,
strengthened labour rights and implemented social security programmes. Social
democracy became synonymous with modernity. `We are socialists,' Guatemala's first
truly democratically elected president, Juan José Arévalo, said in 1945, `because we live
in the 20th century.'
Latin Americans also pushed for reform abroad: 21 Latin American representatives - the
largest regional caucus - joined 29 others from around the world in San Francisco in 1945
to found the UN, pressing it to confront the problem of colonial racism and to adopt a
human rights policy. Chile and Panama supplied the draft charters on which the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights was based, and the Chilean academic Hernán Santa Cruz
served on the committee, chaired by Eleanor Roosevelt, which wrote the final text. A
well-heeled, Jesuit-educated socialist, and a friend of Salvador Allende, Santa Cruz was
the committee's most forceful advocate of social rights: the right to welfare, to work, to
unionise, to rest and leisure time, to food, clothing, housing, healthcare and free
education. Cuba inserted into the charter the right to an adequate standard of living, the
Dominican Republic included a provision on sexual equality, and Mexico had the phrase
`without any limitation due to race, nationality or religion' added to the clause
guaranteeing freely contracted marriages.
Latin American lawyers, notably the Chilean diplomat Alejandro Alvarez, also
challenged the assumptions of Great Power diplomacy. Alvarez argued that the `liberal
and democratic spirit of all the nations which compose the New World' provided an
opportunity to establish a new co-operative diplomacy. Washington had long
insisted on its right to intervene in its `backyard'. But Franklin Roosevelt, hamstrung by
the Great Depression and forced to extricate the US from a series of marine occupations
in the Caribbean basin, dropped this when he recognised the sovereignty of Latin
American nations late in 1933, his first significant foreign policy achievement. Legal
theorists in Brazil, Argentina, Chile and Colombia supported his Atlantic Charter, hoping
that it would lay the foundation for an international social democratic order. By 1943,
Roosevelt was holding up the `illustration of the republics of this continent' as a model
for postwar liberal multilateralism. Though he took credit for overcoming `many times 21
different kinds of hate' to `sell the idea of peace and security among the American
republics', the inspiration could just as well be traced to Bolívar's call in 1826 for the
creation of a confederation of American nations.
From 1947, though, the landed class, along with their defenders in the clergy and
military, took advantage of the Cold War to stage a counter-offensive. Within a few
years, a majority of Latin American countries were once again under military rule. The
US State Department supported this turn, believing that the region's `excessively rapid
trend towards the adjustment of social rights' had resulted in unacceptable levels of
`political instability' that threatened access to resources and paved the way for
Communist penetration. George Kennan, the theorist of containment, argued that
it was `better to have a strong regime in power' in Latin America `than a liberal
government if it is indulgent' to Communists. And Washington helped make sure things
stayed that way, funding and training security forces to disastrous ends in one country
after another. Kennan wrote in a long memo to Dean Acheson that the US should accept
that `harsh governmental measures of repression may be the only answer.' `South
America,' he added, `is the reverse of our own North American continent,' its geography
tropical, its mongrel people `unhappy and hopeless', and its history `unfortunate and
tragic almost beyond anything ever known'.
#
In the debate over what is and isn't different about US hegemony, little attention has been
paid to the most important factor in the rise of the US: Latin America. `South America
will be to North America,' an essayist wrote in the North American Review in 1821,
`what Asia and Africa are to Europe.' Not quite. Modern capitalist empires - France,
Holland and Great Britain in Africa, Asia and the Middle East - ruled over culturally and
religiously distinct peoples. Anglo-American settlers, by contrast, looked to Iberian
America not as an epistemic `other' but as a rival in a fight to define a set of nominally
shared values. John Winthrop urged the first generation of Puritan settlers to build a `City
upon a Hill', yet as they struggled to survive one freezing winter after another, their
thoughts turned to the rumoured `magnificence' of an already existing New
World metropolis - Americana Mexicana - so advanced it boasted `1500 coaches drawn
with mules', as Samuel Sewall wrote in his diary in 1702. While Cotton Mather taught
himself Spanish, Sewall elaborated what may be the earliest version of the shock
doctrine. Spotting a blaze in the night sky, he hoped the comet would strike
Mexico City and spark a `revolution' that would lead to a mass conversion. `I have long
prayed for Mexico,' he said, `that god would open the Mexican fountain.' Within a
generation of its independence from Britain, the US would begin to measure its progress
against the `deathlike sleep of Spanish dominion', aristocratic in its pretensions, indolent
in its industry and superstitious in its beliefs. `I hate the dons,' the future American
president Andrew Jackson wrote in 1806, while he was involved in machinations to
separate Florida and Louisiana from Spain; `I would delight to see Mexico reduced.'
Pan-American relations developed into an ideological contest over who best represented
common principles, which helps explain why Latin America remained social democratic
while US liberalism became missionary and evangelical. The very idea of `Latin'
America took shape after Washington's annexation of more than a third of Mexico's
territory in 1848. `They would concentrate the universe in themselves,' the Chilean
liberal Francisco Bilbao complained after William Walker's 1856 invasion of Nicaragua,
where he brought back slavery years after it had been abolished: `The Yankee replaces
the American; Roman patriotism, philosophy; wealth, morality; and self-interest, justice.'
When Washington attempted, at the 1889 pan-American conference, to strengthen the
Monroe Doctrine's `America for the Americans' clause – which Latin Americans tended
to interpret as `America for the US' - Argentina countered by proclaiming `America for
humanity'. As efforts to overcome the region's feudal past coincided with the US's rise to
global hegemony, a diffuse cultural anti-imperialism developed first into social
democratic non-interventionism, then into New Left militancy.
Washington's first experiences with foreign nation- building - a few decades after
Reconstruction in the South - were in Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Nicaragua
and Panama. But the `New Latin America' was as hard to build as the New South. While
it was easy to disparage the defeated Confederacy's manorialism and belief in white
supremacy, throughout the 20th century US diplomats found themselves in competition
with Latin American nationalists honed in struggle against their own agrarian lords over
who best represented progressive democracy. During the Cold War, this contest forced
Washington to respond to Communism and nationalism with social democracy, promoted
by modernisation programmes such as the Alliance for Progress. It was a tough sell, since
the US was simultaneously arming the region's landed class and its constabulary. Reagan
shifted emphasis, enlisting Bolívar, Augusto Sandino, José Martí and even the `Bolívarian teachings' of Miranda in the new right crusade for `political liberty': code, in part,
for unregulated capitalism.
It is in this context that the Washington Consensus – a term coined by the economist John
Williamson to describe the application of the neoclassical economic model adopted by
Chile to the rest of Latin America - needs to be placed, as the latest attempt to `open the
Mexican fountain'. The two-year-long, tight-money programme - run in the early 1980s
by Paul Volcker, the chair of the US Federal Reserve - greatly inflated the value of
dollar-denominated Latin American debt, leading the IMF to step in and order a structural
adjustment programme. In exchange for refinancing their loans, the IMF forced a
majority of Latin American governments to privatise industries and services, cut tariffs
and subsidies, deregulate finance and weaken labour law. Governments adopted ruthless
anti-inflationary regimes, slashing budgets, forsaking deficit-financed efforts to spur
industrial growth, and handing central banks over to technocrats who paid more
attention to the US Treasury than to their own people.
The success of this model depended on the creation of a new urban class of consumers
with access to cheap credit, who could make up for the decline in real wages. But this
worked only in a few urban areas in Mexico, Colombia and the southern cone. Between
1980 and 2000, a 9 per cent per capita GDP growth rate – not 9 per cent a year, but 9 per
cent over the whole two decades - badly affected the middle class and manufacturers.
Cheap agricultural imports destroyed peasant communities, reducing neoliberalism's
support base to a small transnational class. Deregulation led to financial meltdowns,
while the privatisation of everything from nurseries to pensions fostered an orgy of
corruption. A recent study by the Brazilian economist Carlos Medeiros reports that more
than $100 billion of Latin American state assets were sold off in the 1990s, resulting in a
vast transfer of wealth to foreign corporations and a new class of domestic superbillionaires, such as Mexico's Carlos Slim Helí, whose worth is equivalent to that of the
poorest 17 million Mexicans. The retreat of the Mexican state under Nafta led to a rapid
expansion of the drug trade. It's often said that narco cartels - which were responsible for
more than 6000 drug-related murders last year – have made Mexico ungovernable; even a
potential `failed state'. But in many places the cartels serve as an effective parallel
government, taxing legitimate businesses, providing employment, and funding such
basic infrastructure projects as phone lines, electricity and road-building. And drug
revenue ($23 billion a year) helps keep the country's deregulated banking system solvent.
#
The problems with neoliberalism encouraged the turn to the left among voters in Latin
American countries, and the record of populist and pragmatist leftwingers alike has been
impressive. Poverty and inequality have fallen in nearly all left-led countries, according
to a recent UN report, with Venezuela narrowing the gap most, by increasing the wealth
of the poorest by 36 per cent. Chile and Brazil's GDP has grown by 5 per cent annually
over the last couple of years, Argentina's by 7 per cent; even desperately poor Bolivia has
seen more than 4 per cent growth under Morales. Critics attribute Venezuela's pacesetting 8 per cent yearly increase to high oil prices, which makes one wonder why
petroleum-exporting countries such as Saudi Arabia and Mexico grew at only 3 per cent.
The answer is that Chávez's massive spending on public works, education, healthcare,
housing, co-operatives and small businesses has worked as a scattershot stimulus
package. Much of this expenditure may be wasteful, chaotic or corrupt, but the country's
unemployment rate has fallen from nearly 20 per cent in 2004 to 9 per cent, the fastest
drop in Latin America. As Keynes himself pointed out, the waste involved in public
works projects is infinitely less of a vice than the waste of intractable unemployment.
`Two pyramids', he said, are `twice as good as one'.
There is variation in style and policy among Latin America's new leftists, but it has more
to do with regional history than ideology. In the southern cone, civilian and military
dirigisme from the 1930s to the 1970s created complex, relatively diverse societies.
The neoliberalism introduced in the 1980s deepened inequality and generated new social
organisations - such as Brazil's landless workers movement - but there wasn't a complete
collapse of the old political order. In Chile, Bachelet is the fourth civilian president since
Pinochet left power in 1990, and has continued her predecessors' efforts to rebuild a
social safety net. Lula also rose within an established political system, and now presides
over Latin America's largest economy, with successful financial, agricultural, energy and
financial sectors. In the Andes, especially in Bolivia and Ecuador, where racism is more
entrenched, class power more extreme and foreign control more barefaced, privatisation
and deregulation stripped the economy to its core and destroyed the existing order. The
region's new leaders have established unapologetically fortified executive branches held
accountable by elections and a mobilised, socially diverse rank-and-file. They are more
willing to challenge the rules of the global political economy, to nationalise industries,
push land reform and negotiate higher royalties from petroleum and gas exports.
Critics such as Castañeda argue that populism is unsustainable, but Morales in Bolivia
and Correa in Ecuador are managing so far. From 1998 until Correa's election in 2006, no
president in Ecuador had completed a full term, as one after another was driven out of
office on corruption charges or by popular protests. Bolivia before Morales was rocked
by a series of `resources wars' over gas and water privatisation which led to the ousting of
two presidents. In Venezuela, after a raucous decade in power, Chávez's popularity
hovers around 60 per cent, and in regional elections last year his newly formed United
Socialist Party won about 54 per cent of the vote. It is true that plummeting oil prices
might threaten Venezuela's social gains, but Chile and Brazil are equally vulnerable to
this. Declining export revenue could, however, make it difficult for Chávez to broker the
demands of his different supporters. Chavismo is both a governing coalition and a social
movement: this diversity accounts for its vitality, but also limits it. The global downturn
might force a showdown between the new Bolivarian bourgeoisie, or `boligarchy', and
the activists who believe they are building `21st-century socialism'.
#
Along with Venezuela, Brazil has played a key role in establishing Latin America's
growing independence from Washington. When Brazil announced last September, after
Morales's right-wing opponents in Bolivia tried to destabilise his government, that it
would not accept a coup in South America, it was an act of solidarity as well as an
assertion of its own regional doctrine; Washington's silence was taken as a show of
support for the plotters but also an indication of the inattention of a declining superpower.
If Obama normalizes relations with Cuba, as Lula has been pushing him to do, Brazilian
and not US agro-industry is set to become the major developer of the island's sugar
economy, and will gain access to US markets. Lula has advanced his country's economic
interests in Bolivia, Ecuador, Paraguay and Uruguay - `Brazil's backyard', according
to the Uruguayan analyst Raúl Zibechi - while at the same time defending Morales,
Correa and Chávez, not just from Washington but from Brazilian investors threatened by
resource nationalism, land reform and higher taxes. The Brazilian president is as popular
abroad as he is at home, becoming the Third World's proxy at international financial
summits like the G20, a prominence just ratified by the International Olympic
Committee's decision to pick Rio over Chicago and Madrid for the 2016 games.
Washington will be paying close attention to Brazil's 2010 presidential election,
hoping that whoever wins will share Lula's moderation but not his charisma.
Castañda writes that any viable Latin American left will have to come to terms `with a
basic fact of life: the United States will not go away'. But, over the years, its refusal to
come to terms, its insistence on not just the rhetoric but the substance of sovereignty,
has served as a check and balance on US power. In the years since the Bush
administration supported the failed coup against Chávez in 2002, the Venezuelan
president has represented this historical stubbornness with antics that many think
befitting a `clown or a madman,' as the Argentinian novelist Luisa Valenzuela wrote in
2007. But `it's worth keeping in mind', Valenzuela went on, that a `very heady dose of
megalomania is a prerequisite for even dreaming of confronting a rival as
overwhelmingly powerful as the United States.' In addition to Brazil, a number of
South American countries are scheduled for elections that could scramble the political
landscape. At the end of October, it seems likely that Uruguayans will elect as their
president José Mujica, a 74-year-old former leader of the insurgent Tupamaros who spent
most of the 1970s and 1980s in jail as a political prisoner. In early December, Bolivians
will, it appears from current polls, overwhelmingly elect Evo Morales to a second
term. But later that month, the right might regain power in Chile. The Christian Democrat
former president Eduardo Frei is locked in a close election with the conservative
Sebastién Piñera; a third-party dissident socialist, Marco Enríquez-Ominami, is poised to
act as a potential spoiler.
Whatever direction Latin America's new left takes, the global economic meltdown might
just bring about the long-sought convergence between Latin America and the United
States, though not in the way that might have been imagined: `On bad mornings,' Paul
Krugman recently remarked, `I wake up and think we are turning into a Latin American
country.' As to the election of the first African American to the US presidency, Lula
called it an `extraordinary gesture', and hoped that Obama would transform it from one
exclusively for the `US people into a gesture for Latin America . . . respecting our
sovereignty and an equitable coexistence'.
[*] All Can Be Saved: Religious Tolerance and Salvation in the Iberian Atlantic World
(Yale, 352 pp., £30, July 2008, 978 0 300 12580 1).
Greg Grandin is the author of The Last Colonial Massacre: Latin America in the Cold
War and, most recently, Fordlandia: The Rise and Fall of Henry Ford's
Forgotten Jungle City