“Venezuela’s Magnetic Mountain”, Harry Chapin Plummer, Popular Mechanics, July, 1949

Prep time for this blog has had me looking through old journals and publications partly because I get a kick out of the more un-self-conscious, optimistic (exuberant?) mid-20th century reporting compared to today’s dour, blame-America-first, Chicken Little iterations.

Something else that impresses me upon reading this over 70 years after its publication, is how accurate it was in reflecting the plans being made in 1949. There were, of course, some changes to the plans, as there are in all good plans. However, these great American companies were pretty thorough in their operations.

Enjoy:

When the Conquistadores of old Spain explored the jungle country of eastern Venezuela four centuries ago, the native Indians told them tales of a strange mountain which attracted lightning. Later the Spaniards saw for themselves this magic mound which, when struck by a lightning bolt, game forth a spray of flashes. The Spaniards dubbed the mountain “El Florero” — the Flower Pot — because the lightning flashes looked like flowers growing from the peak.

Today that mound has been found to hold one of the world’s richest iron-ore deposits. 

Credit for that discovery goes to an alert Venezuelan mining inspector, Eduardo Boccardo. In 1926 he determined to penetrate beyond the superstitions of the natives and to find out why the mountain was one of the spots most frequently struck by lightning on the South American continent. What he discovered was a fabulously rich lode of iron ore which, by magnetic attraction, drew lightning to the mountain. The Spaniards, intent upon their quest for gold and silver, had passed up a deposit so valuable that even now its riches can be only estimated.

Surveys of that part of the mountain granted to Boccardo show that about 35,000,000 tons of mineral rich in iron underlay his concession. Assays have proved that this ore actually is 55 to 68 percent iron. Absolutely pure iron ore is made up of 72 percent iron and 28 percent oxygen. The iron content of Minnesota’s famous Mesabi range is about 57 to 63 percent. On this basis, the Flower Pot represents one of the most important discoveries of the century in the field of metallurgy.

Naturally, it didn’t take industry long to jump into this whopping mountain of ore. Today the Iron Mines Company of Venezuela, organized as a subsidiary of the Bethlehem Steel Company of the United States, already has a small army of employees in the jungles near the Orinoco. Their task is to form a modern mining industry in the heart of the forests. They are at work between El Pao, the ore site, and Palua, the loading point on the Orinoco.

The task of these workers is staggering. They must build the mines and the port, highway and railway — even their own homes in the wilderness. Already they have completed a highway more than 14 miles long which eventually will serve as the right-of-way for a standard-gauge railway, the vital artery from the mines to the river. This railroad will have a steep grade from sea level to the mines. 

When the harbor and dock installations, the roads and railways finally are completed, the ore will move by truck and train from the mines to the ships on the Orinoco. It then will travel aboard a fleet of ore carriers, especially built for the purpose, to the blast furnaces at Baltimore, Md. 

It is estimated that production will rise to 3,000,000 tons of ore annually from ore reserves that will last a quarter of a century.

Already rolling along the uncompleted rail line is a 1500-horsepower diesel locomotive. When the track is completed, the railroad will have four locomotives, 100 ore cars with a capacity of 70 tons each, eight boxcars, four tank cars and a crane.

Before the end of this year the ore will begin to flow from the mines atop the magnetic mountain. There crews especially trained for the job will perforate and excavate the rock and earth, which will be picked up by four gigantic electric shovels each capable of taking a huge bite out of the ground. The shovels will load the ore into trailer-trucks hauled by tractors. From there it will be taken to big ore crushers — one of them said to be the largest in the world. The fragments of crushed ore will be carried by an aerial cable arrangement to the waiting ore cars on the railway.

It is estimated that about 10,000 tons of the rich earth will be hauled down the mountainside every working day.

When the ore reaches the harbor, it will be dumped into a huge storage area. An ingenious series of chutes at the base of the area will drop each load into an underground conveyor installed in a tunnel. After passing through the earth, it will climb up a huge loading bridge which extends like a pointing finger over the waters of the Orinoco. The load will slide by toboggan into 4000-ton lighters. Tugs then will pick up six of the lighters form them into a train and haul them downriver to the Gulf of Paria. From there the new 24,000-ton ore carriers will take the ore by ocean to Baltimore.

This modern industrial system in the heart of the jungle is within the orbit of Ciudad Bolivar, the principal river port of the Orinoco and the administrative and financial center of the region watered by the river.

Almost due south of Ciudad Bolivar the United States Steel Corporation has been conducting explorations of another area that appears to have huge ore deposits. it seems likely that the same vein which crops out atop the magnetic mountain also appears in this new area [the author was correct: that ‘new area’ became known as Cerro Bolivar, one of the greatest ore finds ever].

Reports state that the mineral deposits found in this second area are of a high quality, satisfactory for smelting in open hearth furnaces.

These two ore strikes are the second great boon to Venezuelan national within the past half-century. The first was the discovery of petroleum around Lake Maracaibo. Huge investments in drilling and pumping equipment, pipe lines, railways, bridges, community settlements, hospitals, and schools have been made by the participating oil companies.

Venezuela has enacted a law which requires the oil companies, both foreign and national, to refine within the country a percentage of the crude oil that is recovered. The purpose, of course, is to have a supply of domestic oil. It is anticipated that similar legislation will apply to recoveries of iron ore, and that eventually there will be smelting operations within Venezuela [a major understatement, of course].

Such a development would place Venezuela in the forefront of South American nations which at the turn of the century were dependent upon agriculture — cattle, coffee, sugar, cacao, tobacco, and rubber growing.

Thus the magic mountain that attracts lightning may revolutionize the economy of a nation.

Ore Crusher (one of the largest, if not the largest at the time, in the world) in El Pao. Note the administrative (American) camp in the background.
Loading Bridge on the Orinoco River 
Mishap in building the right-of-way

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

The following is a post by Rafael Marrón González which is making the rounds in Venezuela. For a refresher on Puerto Ordaz (sometimes incorrectly referred to as Ciudad Guayana) refer to posts, Life in an American Camp and Mining II and Guayana: The Reverse Miracle.

I came to Puerto Ordaz in December, 1963, and here I stayed.

I have witnessed the rise and the fall of one of the greatest cities of Venezuela. In the era when I arrived, Puerto Ordaz was beginning to “see the world” and, in its intimacy, due to it’s noble call to lead the development of great swathes of the country, it generated the 20th century’s last harmonious, multi-racial community on the planet.

I saw, day after day, the wonder of its architectural growth, both commercial and industrial. In her bosom, arose the most significant and complex metallurgical industry of Latin America. In those days, to go to America from Europe was to board a ship or plane to Puerto Ordaz to seek one’s fortune. She was sort of a modern Babel, that wonderful Puerto Ordaz, composed of an adolescent population that persists in the memories of those of us who populated its streets with the dizzying dynamic of youth. How it hurts to see her today, prematurely aged, poorly bathed, and worstly dressed, with her depressed facades and her sidewalks burst through by unpruned trees with abandoned coronas infested with guatepajarito [parasitic bush: untranslatable].

Walking about the lonely streets, empty joints, closed malls, centers, and streets abandoned for fear as soon as the sun begins to set, I do not recognize that city that never used to sleep but rather led a loud and long night until sunrise. Her best views have been invaded by the misery severely imposed by demagogic powers. A city now disrespected in her privileged spaces. There is no limit to the degradation of her expected end. Chaos is her daily bread.

Begging for food is now ubiquitous and neighbors on street corners despair for any transportation. Ignorance imposes preferences of poor taste; long held cultural practices now abandoned; ancient crafts are gone; and foolishness is now dressed up, crowned with titles on the anemic social pages. The cretinism of the newly (and suspiciously) rich, is heard by their loud applause at trashy performances, as they demand another grilled meat with cassava in the flea market of gastronomic decadence.

Her once florid freeway gardens have withered and a swarm of bars shout out the uncertainty that life has now become. A city that in her day, not so long ago, gathered the best in thought and technical expertise, both national and international, now displays its toothless ruins in Matanzas [the site of the city’s teeming, massive industrial works], its enthusiasm now overwhelmed, shut down, and known by the flapping of bats’ wings in its giant industrial sheds. 

The ancient stacks that once announced prosperity, today herald diseases of the skin and lungs. Their toxic excretions poison the waters of the Orinoco. Children are born with aluminum inside their skulls; neurological effects camp nearby. 

Her basic enterprises, Venezuela’s pride, undulate — like a canoe in rough waters — between the impact of intermittently paid salaries, technological obsolescence, and dashed productivity. Her laboring class now become engrossed in parasitic sadness in the service of an empowered ignominy which has emptied it of any conscience. Her history hides that tab that once she ostentatiously paid for suits and parties but now cowers with the embarrassment of being a have been. A swarm of damnable, protected thieves imposes sentences against dignity and permeates what’s left of the night life with their nauseating presence, while those who labor and have labored for lifetimes, stand aside.

I am not sure if I have succeeded in manifesting my indignation.

What intolerable infamy! What ugliness! What filth! Dirt, grime, and grease are now the identity cards of “equality.” Mold is now the strident patina of false brotherhood. 

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz! Now a mere gibberish of yellow pages and abandonment. A site of processions of thugs and murderers; of rude and gross speculators and carpetbaggers all looking for quick and easy money, of misery rooted in deplorable suburbs. A city of late awakening and shortened evenings. Of crime imposed for any posible error of interpretation. Of dead traffic lights, announcing at top volume the irresponsibility of brutish governors who accuse those who challenge them for their strident ineptitude. Like the underworld, they cannot be called out. There is no real authority. Only a payroll that demands paid vacations.

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz! 

I have lived 53 years in her and refuse to exile myself. But when I drive its desolate streets, as I pass each corner or enter a long forgotten passageway, I oft recall the intensity of it’s snatched life. She did not deserve this assault of inmoral and inept rulers. This violent aggression of barbarians and savages in taxis, motorcycles, and trucks, all dubiously acquired. 

How much they hated a city that was on its way to being another Germany! Now reduced to a solitary shack, run over by caretakers focused on the furious selling and transportation of gems on gondolas carrying riches from the proud north of Brazil. Not only isolated, but dependent!

Alas! Alas! Puerto Ordaz!

One of the bridges crossing the Caroní River from San Félix (foreground) to Puerto Ordaz (background)
One of the many commercial/residential centers that began to dot Puerto Ordaz in the 1970’s and beyond.
Puerto Ordaz is in background, across the Caroní River, the “blueish”, darker color waters. San Félix is in the foreground, with Palúa, the Bethlehem Steel port, ships awaiting loading, in center of photo. The Orinoco is the “muddy” colored river. It runs about 200 miles from here to the Atlantic Ocean.
Through the early 1960’s, the Caroni was crossed to Puerto Ordaz via ferry. Photo shows Caroni River crossing from San Félix to the Puerto Ordaz site. Puerto Ordaz was, in effect, founded by the US Steel Corporation in 1952 for shipping ore from it’s operations in Cerro Bolivar to the United States. San Félix was founded in 1724. Both were “united” in 1961 to form Ciudad Guayana.
Puerto Ordaz began to rise in the 1960’s.
The owners of the jewelry store (with Omega signage) were very kind to us.
I do not know who this is. But I include the photo as an example of the type housing that US Steel built in the Puerto Ordaz area. Similar to 1950’s United States suburbs. Above photo is from the mid-1960’s.

The More Things Change, The More They Stay the Same

As a year ends and another begins, it is good to pause and look back at recent events and developments in Venezuela which have been alluded to in the blog.

Malaria is making a comeback in Latin America, with Venezuela earning the unfortunate distinction of leading in this revival. Refer to the August 17, 2019 blog post, “Clouds of DDT” https://thepulloftheland.com/clouds-of-ddt for a discussion of the phenomenally successful control of malaria in Venezuela in the 20th century (we don’t hear much about this because DDT is politically incorrect. Best keep quiet about that!). For an update on the return of malaria to the stricken land, refer to the Caracas Chronicles article, “Blame the Gold Rush: Malaria Keeps Spreading”, link below.

The December 13, 2019 blog post, “The Lost Children of Vargas” The Lost Children of Vargas tells of the terrible events precipitated by the rains of December 1999. For one account of that calamity, you might want to read another Caracas Chronicles narrative, “Only Two of Us Survived”, linked below. It is a heart-wrenching tale about the then-mayor of Vargas. Incredibly, politics intruded in this devastation. Assuming your heart is not made of stone, he will speak to you.

What about the elderly? Again, the redoubtable Caracas Chronicles has an interesting article about the demographic unit, the elderly, included in the millions who have voted with their feet, emigrating from the stricken land. The March 12, 2019 blog post, “Humanitarian Crisis” Humanitarian Crisis tells of this catastrophic migration. The Caracas Chronicles article about the older folks in the throngs is linked below.

You may have read recently about Juan Guaidó’s re-election as Speaker of the Venezuelan National Assembly. His breaking through the wall of Chavista soldiers a few days ago, might inspire hope. However, I’m afraid that hope will likely be dashed absent a true change of heart by Mr. Guaidó, wherein he sincerely rejects Socialism. Otherwise, all we’re talking about is a switch from leaded to slightly-less-leaded Socialism: both more of the same and both deadly. See the September 20, 2019 blog post, “Venezuelan Second Amendment?” for comments on this potential bait and switch A Venezuelan Second Amendment? 

Contra Caracas Chronicles, this blogger has little faith in Mr. Guaidó and his party, Mesa de la Unidad Democrática (MUD, no pun intended). First of all, do not put your faith in princes. So says the Good Book. Secondly, MUD and Guaidó may talk “big”, but their actions are sheer accommodation with the tyrannical regime. From gun control to submission to controlled elections, MUD and its supporters are no Founding Fathers.

And Founding Fathers are what Venezuela needs at this moment.

Pray for the land of my birth.

For the second year in a row, Venezuela emigration has been deemed by UN as a top migration issue in the world, second only to Syria’s.
The Vargas disaster continues to echo in modern memory twenty years later. 
Read it and weep

Christmas Sorrows

“Hey, why are all the Christmas lights off?” I had said to no one in particular one night. My mother and father were out. So I dutifully began plugging all Christmas lights back into their respective power outlets, fully expecting hearty congratulations the next morning, for having had the self-initiative to have covered my parents’ gross oversight in not having switched on the season’s bright and lively bulbs.

Reactions, congratulatory or otherwise, would not have to wait till morning.

As I was plugging in an old, petrified Orinoco bough laced sparingly with small, white lights — a lovely, natural Christmas-embellished furnishing with a place of honor in the front, enclosed porch from where it could be enjoyed by anyone passing by on the lower side of the block — my parents drove up.

I was stunned, expressionless, as they rushed in, unplugging every light they came across. “The Christmas lights are on!” my mother anxiously exclaimed as she reached to the nearest socket and pulled the plug. My father was outside, pulling the plugs there.

What on earth? Christmas season in the camp extended well beyond the 25th of December. Festivities lived on at least through January 6th, Día de Reyes Magos (Epiphany), and in many cases beyond, especially in the labor camp.

I looked outside, through the porch screens, and noticed that neither of our immediate neighbors had a single light on. I suppressed the urge to run outside to see if any lights were on in the entire block. I rightly suspected that none were.

Standing there, in the middle of the passageway between the porch and living room, my father’s voice explained the matter, “Son, I realize you were thinking we somehow forgot to turn on these lights tonight, but did you forget that Mr. Fuentes died today?”

Of course I had not forgotten. Mr. Fuentes was a corpulent, true-to-stereotype jolly man who delighted in greeting children at the club and elsewhere in the camp. A Spaniard who had left Spain for greener pastures in Venezuela, he was well-liked. His wife possessed a sharp wit and hearty laughter, yet retained that lighthearted femininity so characteristic of Spanish women. They had one young daughter.

He had suffered a heart attack as he drove a company pickup to the Otro Campo (labor camp). The vehicle had gone over a small cliff of about fifty feet. Mr. G____ had been driving behind him and raised the alarm. But, according to the camp’s doctor, he had expired before the pickup had crunched to a stop at the bottom.

Afterwards, as the weeks and months went by, every time I accompanied my father or mother to the Otro Campo, as the automobile approached and passed by the spot where Mr. Fuentes had gone over, I would look, conscious that no one paused. Cars came and went by that spot as if nothing had ever happened there; as if he had been forgotten as quickly as he had died. Life is for the living, and must go on.

But there is a time for sorrow and the entire camp was in mourning that Christmastime; it was understood no festive lights would be switched on for at least two days, if not three. Grief was a shared passion there. I now felt I had violated that shared spirit of compassion and felt utterly miserable. My father pulled me to himself, “I know you meant well, son. We should have told you clearly why we left the lights off.”

That was his way of apologizing. And my love and respect for him increase all the more.

That year, the block without any lights shining those nights was sorrowfully dark indeed. The joy of Christmas outweighed the sorrow, but did not erase it totally. The season was joyous, yet serious. Like the profoundly evocative Wexford Carol, it bade all to consider well and bear in mind its eternal as well as temporal import — after all, the world has never been the same since that first Christmas. This juxtaposition of joy and quiet seriousness may have appeared contradictory to more sophisticated, technically oriented observers, but not to me as a boy.

Paradoxical perhaps, but not contradictory.

So, still being within the twelve days of Christmas, I again wish you all a Merry Christmas and also a most prosperous new year. We may not know what the year brings, but we certainly do know Him in Whom all things consist, including every single day of our lives.

Venezuelan nativity scenes tended to be elaborate and memorable.